Community Formation in Iron Age Ionia: Experience and Practice in Comparative Perspective

by Catherine A. Steidl

A Dissertation Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World Brown University May 2018

© Copyright 2018 by Catherine A. Steidl

This dissertation by Catherine A. Steidl is accepted in its present form by the Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World as satisfying the dissertation requirement for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

Date Felipe Rojas, Advisor

Date Peter van Dommelen, Advisor

Recommended to the Graduate School

Date Christopher Ratté, Reader

Date Susan Alcock, Reader

Approved by the Graduate Council

Date Andrew G. Campbell, Dean of the Graduate School

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Curriculum Vitae

Catherine A. Steidl Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World Brown University | Box 1837 Providence, RI 02912

Education

2012-2018 PhD student, Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World Brown University, Providence, RI Advisors: Felipe Rojas, Peter van Dommelen Dissertation: “Community Formation in Iron Age Ionia: Experience and Practice in Comparative Perspective” Graduation date: May 27, 2018

2011-2012 Post-Baccalaureate student (non-degree), Classical Archaeology University of Tübingen, Germany

2007-2011 B.A., Archaeology (Honors) and German Studies Wesleyan University, Middletown, CT

Archaeological Fieldwork

2015-2016 Mazi Archaeological Project, Mazi Plain, Greece. Survey team leader

2014— Notion Archaeological Survey, Ahmetbeyli, Turkey: Quarry study leader, pottery collection and study

2013-2014 Thebes Synergasia Excavation Project, Thebes, Greece. Excavation team

2011 North American Archaeology Internship, American Museum of Natural History, New York, NY

2010 Proyecto Arqueológico Pucará, UCLA Cotsen Institute, Pucará, Peru. Excavation team

Academic Publications

Forthcoming “Quarrying at Notion.” In The Notion Archaeological Survey. Kelsey Museum publication, (vol. TBD). Ann Arbor, MI: Kelsey Museum of Archaeology.

2018 Review of Engelbert Winter, Vom eisenzeitlichen Heiligtum zum christlichen Kloster: neue Forschungen auf dem Dülük Baba Tepesi. Asia Minor Studien 84. Habelt-Verlag (2017) in Bryn Mawr Classical Review. Forthcoming.

Conference Papers

2018 Isn’t it Ionic? Community Formation and Flux in Pre-Classical West Anatolia

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(AIA Annual Meeting, Boston MA) (January 2018)

2017 Community Identities in Ionian Sanctuaries (ASOR Annual Meeting, Boston, MA)

2016 Quarrying at Notion: Urban Settlement and the Natural Environment (AIA Annual Meeting, San Francisco, CA)

2015 Archaeology Underfoot on College Hill: Education, Outreach, and Historical Archaeology at Brown University (Providence, Rhode Island) (with Alex Knodell, Linda Gosner, and Andrew Dufton; SAA Annual Meeting, San Francisco, CA)

Non-Academic Publications

2016 “‘Uncovering’ an Underground City Without Digging”. Dig Into History, February 2016.

2015 “Styrofoam Drones Help Map a City”. Dig Into History. August 2015.

Academic Fellowships, Honors, and Awards

2016-2017 Mellon Graduate Workshop Grant (Brown University) ($5,450)

2016 Brown International Humanities Travel Award (Brown University) ($3,000)

2015-2017 Joukowsky Summer Research Award (Brown University) (avg. $1,500)

2014 Joukowsky Institute Summer Research Award (Brown University) ($1,500)

2013 Graduate International Colloquium Fund (Brown University) ($5,000)

2012— Joukowsky Presidential Fellowship (Brown University)

2011 Phi Beta Kappa (Connecticut Chapter)

2011 Connecticut—Baden-Württemberg Exchange Scholarship (€4,000)

2011 Blankenagel Prize, Department of German Studies, Wesleyan University ($350)

2010 UCLA Cotsen Institute Summer Field School Scholarship ($1,000)

Organized Workshops and Colloquia

2018 Anatolia’s Melting Pot? Reassessing Cross-Cultural Interaction and Migration in the Early Iron Age. Co-organized colloquium, AIA Annual Meeting, Boston, MA, 2018 (with Jana Mokrišová and Emily Wilson)

2016-2017 Colonial Entanglement: Land, Economy, and Community (with Keith Fairbank)

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Andrew W. Mellon Foundation Graduate Workshop

2013-2014 Babylon@Brown: Past, Present, and Future in the Study of the Ancient Near East (with Felipe Rojas and Müge Durusu-Tanrıöver) November 2014-April 2014 Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World, Brown University (http://babylonatbrown.weeby.com/)

Teaching Experience

Primary Instructor

2015 ARCH 1900: The Archaeology of College Hill (Brown University)

2011-2012 Beginning English/Basic Level (A1), German-American Institute, Tübingen, Germany (course taught for employees of Joma-Polytec GmbH, Bodelshausen, Germany)

Teaching Assistantships

2018 ARCH 1630: Fighting Pharaohs: Ancient Egyptian Warfare (Brown University), Taught by Laurel Bestock

2017 ARCH 0730: Secrets of Ancient DNA (Brown University), taught by Katherine Brunson

2016 ARCH 1155: Cities, Colonies, and Global Networks in the Western Mediterranean (Brown University), taught by Peter van Dommelen

2014 ARCH 1900: The Archaeology of College Hill (Brown University), taught by J. Andrew Dufton

2013 ARCH 0770: Food and Drink in Classical Antiquity (Brown University), taught by Susan E. Alcock

Guest Lectures and Invited Talks

2017 “Peer Writing Groups”, Dissertation Writing Retreat, Brown University Writing Center

2016 “Ionia: Greeks in the East”, Greek Archaeology (Instructor: Linda Gosner), Clark University

“Ionian Foundation Myths”, Thunder-gods and Dragon-slayers (Instructor: Felipe Rojas), Brown University

2013 “Colonialism and Identity in Ancient Greece”, Food and Drink in Classical Antiquity (Instructor: Susan E. Alcock), Brown University

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Pedagogical Training

2016 Teaching Certificate IV: The Teaching Consultant Program, Sheridan Center for Teaching and Learning, Brown University

2013 Teaching Certificate I: Reflective Teaching, Sheridan Center for Teaching and Learning, Brown University

Service and Professional Development

2017— President, Archaeological Institute of America—Narragansett Chapter

2016-2017 Vice President, Archaeological Institute of America—Narragansett Chapter

2016— Member, Writing Center Steering Committee, Brown University

2015-2017 Teaching Consultant, Sheridan Center for Teaching and Learning, Brown University

2014— Writing Associate, Writing Center, Brown University

2014-2016 Treasurer, Archaeological Institute of America—Narragansett Chapter

2014 Outreach Program Facilitator, Brown-RISD Think Like an Archaeologist

Academic and Professional Societies

2017— American Schools of Oriental Research

2015— Society for American Archaeology

2012— Archaeological Institute of America, Narragansett Chapter

2011— Phi Beta Kappa

Languages

English (native) German (advanced reading, writing, and speaking) French (advanced reading, intermediate writing and speaking) Turkish (basic conversational and reading) Spanish (basic conversational and reading) Catalan (basic reading)

Ancient Greek Latin

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Acknowledgements

The Institute is a very special place, and it’s been an immeasurable privilege to be a part of it. From the moment I arrived, I felt swept up into this community of wonderful, brilliant, blessedly quirky people, and I have not once regretted my decision to spend the last six years here with all of you.

I’m very grateful to my committee for their support and mentorship over the last three years—and more. Peter arrived serendipitously when I did, and I truly don’t know how to characterize the magnitude of his impact on me as a scholar, because I don’t even remember how I thought about archaeology and the Mediterranean before taking my first seminar with him. I’m grateful to Sue for her willingness to stay involved in my project, and for her ability to sweep in and ask sometimes painful, always critical questions before someone else who won’t necessarily be on your side gets there first. I’m indebted to Chris for welcoming me onto the Notion team four years ago. He not only agreed to transport a kitten back from Turkey for me, less than two weeks after we’d first met, but he’s taught me so much about how we do archaeology well, and how we understand Western Anatolia as a whole. Felipe also began his permanent residency here at Brown when I arrived, and I am the scholar that I am because of his influence. He is the person who introduced me to Anatolia, and who brought me to Notion. He has supported me since day one, and only ever expressed belief in this project, even at the points when he didn’t quite understand what I was doing. He has ruthlessly edited everything I ever sent him, read things at all hours, and constantly pushed me to be clearer, to ask better questions, and to always think a step ahead and aim for the next level. I owe him an immeasurable debt, and perhaps above all for his friendship. John Cherry, our stalwart DGS, has given exceptional counsel since Day One. His words are always wise, his recipe suggestions reliable, and his experience invaluable. It’s been a privilege to be a member of the Joukowsky Institute community under his watchful and experienced eye.

In my time here, I’ve been fortunate to interact with and learn from a wonderful set of visiting scholars and post-docs. I’d like to particularly acknowledge those who have been here this year and offered wonderful support and advice in the end stages of this dissertation—Sophie Moore, Kate Brunson, Meg Andrews, Katia Schörle, and Carl Walsh. In particular, Eva Mol read numerous sections of various chapters as I wrote and re-wrote them, and I am grateful for her patience and counsel in this endeavor! I’ve also been grateful beyond words for the extraordinary community of graduate students. It’s been my privilege to sit in seminar with all of you, and to learn from the vastly different experience and expertise everyone brings to the table. I think I’ve learned even more from them outside of the office—at the GCB, over tapas, screaming 80s power ballads in the private karaoke room. I could spend another half hour talking about how wonderful my fellow grad students are, but there are a few I need to single out.

My cohort mates, Jen and Pınar, have toiled alongside me for six years, and I’m really proud of the work they’re both doing. My faux-hort, Ian Randall, Kathryn McBride, Andy Dufton, and unofficial member Paul Margrave, have supported me in every step of this process, and despite the fact that a PhD program is notoriously rather miserable, their

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friendship has made the last six years really wonderful, and so, so fun. Andy surprised me by showing up in my driveway yesterday, and, as always, said exactly what I needed to hear, at exactly the right time, as only he can. Kathryn finagled her schedule to attend this defense, too, and my heart is truly full to have them both here. Müge Durusu and Katherine Harrington have provided endless humor, love, and support both here in Providence and from afar. Emily Booker was a wonderful impromptu roommate, and continues to be one of the kindest and most caring friends I know. Evan Levine has kept me sane, and I’m grateful for his company in all the mundane things—dragging me to the gym, sitting at laptops in cafes—but especially for his mutual love of coffee subscriptions. Miriam Rothenberg, Darcy Hackley, Sam Lash, and Kelly Moss have been wonderful sources of commiseration, and are always checking in even though they’re absurdly busy themselves. Laura Chilson, Alyce de Carteret, Eve Dewan, Omar Alcover, Kim Lewis, and Nathan Lovejoy are my wonderful colleagues from other departments, and I’m grateful for their joy, general hilarity, and constant support. Maeve McHugh has provided encouragement and humor from afar. Jana Mokrişová and Emily Wilson have been delightful colleagues in Ionian archaeology, and encouraged me to keep pushing when I wondered if I wasn’t trying to do something a little crazy.

None of what we do would be possible without the support of Sarah Sharpe and Jess Porter. They don’t just handle all of the logistics of literally everything that goes on in the building, and on our travels, but they’re also a bright presence in the front office, even in the middle of a nor’easter, and even on the days that are rough. Sarah has provided many hours of counseling over the years, and I’m grateful for her ability to know exactly what someone needs, and to step in to provide it. Especially when it’s cheerleading.

Finally, my family has supported me in every way possible since long before I started this program. They never questioned my ambitions, they made an incredible education possible, and have facilitated my fieldwork through all means possible—including months of cat-sitting. I’m grateful beyond words for their love and support, and this dissertation is, of course, dedicated to them.

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Table of Contents Curriculum Vita….……………………………………………………………….……….………iv Acknowledgments .....…………………………………….……………………………………..viii Table of Contents .…….……………….……………………………………………………….…x List of Figures ...………………………………………………………………………………...xiii Abbreviations and Regional Chronology………………………………………………………..xvi Introduction ...... 1 0.1 Aims ...... 7 0.2 Structure of the dissertation ...... 9 0.3 Original contributions ...... 12 Chapter 1: History of the Problem ...... 15 1.1 What is Ionia? Why does it matter? ...... 16 1.1.1 What is Ionia? ...... 16 1.1.2 Why does Ionia matter? ...... 20 1.1.3 What did ‘Ionia’ mean to ancient people—the origins of the term ...... 22 1.1.4 What has Ionia meant to scholars? Who has studied it, and why?...... 25 1.2 The ‘Hellenization’ of Ionia ...... 31 1.2.2 Ancient perspectives ...... 33 1.2.3. Modern perspectives ...... 35 1.2.4 Colonial legacies ...... 40 1.2.5 Alternative approaches ...... 43 1.3 The Value of Comparison ...... 45 1.3.1 What is the Northwest? Why does it matter? ...... 45 1.3.2 Why compare? ...... 51 1.4 Approaching the problem ...... 53 1.4.1 Terminology ...... 53 1.5 Conclusion ...... 56 Chapter 2: Continuity and Community in Theory and Practice ...... 58 2.1 Community and continuity: against essentialism ...... 59 2.2 Defining ‘continuity’ ...... 61 2.2.1 Theoretical approaches beyond the Mediterranean ...... 63 2.2.2 Continuity and the Mediterranean ...... 68 2.2.3 Arriving at a definition ...... 74 2.3 Characterizing community ...... 75

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2.3.1 ‘Community’ in contemporary use ...... 75 2.3.2 ‘Community’ in scholarship ...... 78 2.3.3 Community scholarship in archaeology ...... 80 2.3.4 Arriving at a working definition ...... 85 2.4 Conclusion ...... 97 Chapter 3: Continuity Across the Bronze-to-Iron Age Transition in Ionia…………...…….99 3.1 Ionia in the Iron Age ...... 100 3.2 Ionia and the Question of Continuity ...... 104 3.3 Evidence for Bronze-to-Iron Age Continuity in Ionia ...... 109 3.3.1 Cult ...... 110 3.3.2 Architecture and Settlement ...... 124 3.3 Ceramics and Continuity of Practice ...... 138 3.4 Conclusion ...... 142 Chapter 4: Community Formation in Ionian Sanctuaries ...... 145 4.1 Physical Ties to the Past ...... 147 4.1.1 Ephesos ...... 147 4.1.2 Miletos ...... 150 4.1.3 Phokaia ...... 154 4.2 Archaism and Conservation ...... 155 4.2.1 Ephesos ...... 156 4.2.2 Miletos ...... 160 4.3 Communities of Practice in Ionian Sanctuaries ...... 162 4.3.1 Ephesos ...... 163 4.3.2 Miletos ...... 169 4.3.3 Phokaia ...... 172 4.4 Conclusion ...... 173 Chapter 5: A Comparison of Community Dynamics in Ionia and the Northwestern Mediterranean ...... 176 5.1 Introduction ...... 176 5.2 Laying out the comparison ...... 177 5.2.1 Theoretical underpinnings – in brief ...... 178 5.2.2 Characterizing two regions ...... 182 5.3 Community Formation and Dynamics in the Northwestern Mediterranean ...... 188 5.3.1 Emporion: The Palaiapolis and the Neapolis ...... 188 5.3.2 Lattara ...... 212

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5.3.3 Mas de Causse ...... 225 5.4 Discussion and Comparison ...... 229 5.4.1 Shared maintenance practices ...... 233 5.4.2 Shared ritual practices ...... 234 5.4.3 Shared social experience ...... 236 5.5 Conclusions ...... 237 Chapter 6: Discussion and Conclusion ...... 240 6.1 Communities defined: redux ...... 241 6.2 Communities in the Northwestern Mediterranean ...... 242 6.2.1 A mosaic of layers ...... 243 6.2.2 The strength of social experience ...... 244 6.3 Communities in Ionia ...... 246 6.3.1 Sacred ties? ...... 246 6.3.2 The strength of social experience ...... 249 6.4 Regional identities ...... 250 6.4.1 Ionians under pressure ...... 250 6.4.2 Whither the northwestern Mediterranean? ...... 253 6.5 Ionian community and Greek identity ...... 254 6.6 Contributions of the dissertation ...... 256 Appendix A: Archaeological Evidence in Ionia from the 12th-8th centuries BCE ...... 259 Figures…………………………………...………………………………………………………297

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List of Illustrations

Figure 1: Map of the Aegean, showing the position of Ionia on the western coast of Anatolia .. 297 Figure 2: The Northwestern Mediterranean, showing the location of the primary region discussed in this dissertation ...... 298 Figure 3: Map showing sites in Ionia with evidence from the 12th-8th centuries BCE ...... 299 Figure 4: Map showing the locations of data from cult, domestic, and funerary contexts in Iron Age Ionia ...... 300 Figure 5: Map showing the location of the village of Smyrna relative to the Artemision and the Ayasuluk Hill ...... 301 Figure 6: Plan of the sanctuary of Artemis at Ephesos showing the agglomeration of buildings from the 8th to the 4th centuries BCE ...... 302 Figure 7: Map showing the Archaic Temple of Athena at Miletos and its environs ...... 303 Figure 8: Illustration of the Kultmal at Miletos with its surrounding wall ...... 304 Figure 9: Rock-cut installations at the site of the Phokaian Temple of Athena ...... 305 Figure 10: Map showing rocky outcropping and location of Temple of Athena ...... 306 Figure 11: Remains of the Rock-cut Kybele sanctuary ...... 307 Figure 12: Plan from Klazomenai with overlapping construction layers...... 308 Figure 13: View from below of the fortress on top of the Ayasuluk Hill ...... 309 Figure 14: Plan showing locations of excavation trenches inside the fortification walls on the Ayasuluk Hill ...... 309 Figure 15: Map of Kolophon ...... 310 Figure 16: Map showing the locations of Miletos, Ephesos, and Phokaia on the Anatolian coast ...... 311 Figure 17: The relative locations of the Artemision at Ephesos, the Roman city (‘Ephesos’), and the Ayasuluk Hill on the outskirts of modern Selçuk ...... 312 Figure 18: Diagram showing the early structures within the sekos of the late Archaic dipteros ("Kroisos Temple") ...... 313 Figure 19: Re-construction of the "goddess with upraised arms" including the pieces of remaining terracotta ...... 314 Figure 20: Sanctuary of Athena at Miletos ...... 315 Figure 21: Remains of megaron-plan building below Temple of Athena at Miletos ...... 316 Figure 22: Ruined fortification wall from Miletos VI, upon which the "Kultmal" was built ...... 316 Figure 23: Miniature krater from Kultmal foundation deposit ...... 317 Figure 24: Map showing area of Temple of Athena at Phokaia ...... 317 Figure 25: Bammer’s proposed reconstructions of the un-roofed peripteros space ...... 318

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Figure 26: Reconstruction of Roman-period statue of Artemis Ephesia ...... 319 Figure 27: Reconstruction of columns from the Ephesian Artemision showing reliefs ...... 320 Figure 28: Distribution of diagnostic rim fragments form the Protogeometric assemblage at the Ephesian Artemision ...... 321 Figure 29: 5th century BCE chytra ...... 321 Figure 30: Map showing the location of sites discussed in the chapter ...... 322 Figure 31: Image showing the lagunal nature of the northwestern Med coast between Marseille and Barcelona ...... 322 Figure 32: Map of different indigenous groups in the Northwestern Mediterranean ...... 323 Figure 33: Map of language distribution in the Northwestern Mediterranean ...... 324 Figure 34: Bronze Age trade routes in the Mediterranean ca. 1500-1200 BCE ...... 324 Figure 35 (a): Maps showing locations of settlements and cemeteries at the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition in Catalunya (a) and southern France (b, c) ...... 325 Figure 35 (b): Maps showing locations of settlements and cemeteries at the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition in Southern France……………………………………………………………..…………………………….326 Figure 35 (c): Maps showing locations of settlements and cemeteries at the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition Southern France………………………………………………………………………327 Figure 36: Emporion, showing the locations of the Neapolis, Palaiapolis, and ancient coastline ...... 328 Figure 37: ‘Massaliot foundation’ houses showing the layout of part of the Palaiapolis ...... 329 Figure 38: Location of Vilanera relative to Emporion ...... 330 Figure 39: Images from cremation burials at Vilanera ...... 331 Figure 40: Structures from the first phase of habitation in the Archaic period at the Palaiapolis ...... 332 Figure 41: Aerial shot of modern village (Sant Martí d’Empúries) on promontory of the Palaiapolis ...... 333 Figure 42: Plan of Neapolis showing earliest habitation locations ...... 334 Figure 43: Plan showing location of the three units under analysis from Delgado and Ferrer….335 Figure 44: Distribution of domestic storage containers and their traditions of manufacture ...... 336 Figure 45: Illustration of lopas form ...... 337 Figure 46: Plan of Lattara ...... 337 Figure 47: Data distribution from Phase I of occupation at Lattara in Zones 1 and 27 ...... 338 Figure 48: Data distribution from Phase II of occupation at Lattara in Zones 1 and 27 ...... 339 Figure 49: Plan of structures from Phase II of occupation at Lattara in Zone 1 ...... 339 Figure 50: Plan of architecture from Phase III of occupation at Lattara in Zone 1……...…..….340 Figure 51: Data distribution from Phase III of occupation at Lattara in Zones 1 and 27……….340

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Figure 52: Mas de Causse—Pérols Hill…………………………………………………………341 Figure 53: Mas de Causse sanctuary plan……………………………………………………….342 Figure 54: Metals deposit from Mas de Causse…………………………………………………343 Figure 55: Map showing distribution of other delineating sites ...... 344 Figure 56: Map showing sited discussed in Curé 2015 ...... 345 Figure 57: Schematic showing overlapping layers of communities that articulate at major settlements ...... 346 Figure 58: Map of Ionia with sites discussed in Appendix A…………………………………...347 Figure 59: Topographical map of Phokaia………………………………………………………348 Figure 60: Topographical map of Panaztepe……………………………………………………349 Figure 61: Map of Smyrna-Bayraklı…………………………………………………………….349 Figure 62: Map of Smyrna’s densely occupied center... ………………………………………..350 Figure 63: Aerial view showing relative locations of Limantepe and Klazomenai……………..351 Figure 64: Map of Erythrai……………………………………………………………………...352 Figure 65 (a): Map of Chios, with sites discussed in Appendix A……………………………...353 Figure 65 (b): Map of Chios showing location of Psara………………………………………...354 Figure 66: Map of Samos, with sites discussed in Appendix A………………………………...355 Figure 67: General plan of the sanctuary at Klaros……………………………………………..356 Figure 68: Preliminary plan of Bademgediği Tepe ...... 357 Figure 69: Plan of Ephesos……………………………………………………………………...358

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Abbreviations and Regional Chronology

LH Late Helladic

MBA Middle Bronze Age

LBA Late Bronze Age

EIA Early Iron Age

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Introduction

The Dark Age curtain closed on a crumbling Aegean Bronze Age at the end of the 12th

century BCE; when it rose again some three centuries later, mainland Greeks were busy

setting up camp on the Anatolian coast, quickly ‘Hellenizing’ the region known as Ionia—

or so the story goes. Ancient literature is rife with references to this Greek expansion, and such well-known written testimony has given rise to the concept of the Ionian Migration.

The transition from the Bronze to the Iron Age, however, is not well understood archaeologically. Whereas the migration was once considered a straightforward explanation for a perceived dramatic shift in material culture, the scholarly community now questions the historicity of migration narratives and the magnitude of population movement. Nonetheless, many prevailing interpretations are still tinged by three problematic ideas that run as undercurrents beneath contemporary scholarship: the acceptance of material cultural change as the result of external forces; the implication of demographic replacement; and the application of essentializing ethnic categories to material culture and the people who used it.

The current mainstream understanding of the Ionian Iron Age is thus as follows: (1) the

Ionian Migration was no singular, massive event, but rather involved the emigration of small groups of people from mainland Greece over a long period of time; (2)

Protogeometric pottery reflects the import of taste and technique from mainland Greeks who brought it to Ionia; (3) in Ionia, Greek populations replaced their Anatolian counterparts at sites where prior occupation was known—such as Ephesos or Phokaia—or were already present in Mycenaean colonies at places such as Miletos; (4) when non-Greek

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material is found at Ionian sites, it is taken to represent the presence of small groups of

‘Anatolian’ people who were living among more recently arrived Greeks.

Because the notion of a small-scale trickle of migrants is incompatible with that of a full- scale demographic replacement, and because essentialist ethnic categories have been shown time and again to erase the meaning associated with objects and their use,1 the

current Iron Age narrative is still incomplete. The question remains: after centuries of

intense cultural contact and exchange, how did the Iron Age inhabitants of Ionia suddenly

become ‘Greek’? The reasons for scholarly difficulties in answering this question are both

substantial and legitimate: Iron Age evidence is sparse, and because it is a proto-literate

period, the written record that attests to it exists either in very small fragments or in sources

produced several centuries later. To better understand the Ionian Iron Age, we require

either more data or different questions.

In this dissertation, I have aimed to provide the latter. Instead of asking how Ionia became

Greek, and wrestling with the fundamental challenge of Greekness prior to the 5th century

BCE, I ask: how did the inhabitants of the central West Anatolian coast become

‘Ionian’ in the first place? One could argue that Ionia became ‘Greek’—adopted a shared

sense of Greek ethnicity—right along with the rest of the Greek-speaking Aegean in the

early 5th century BCE (cf. Hall 1997). But how the region took on a perceptible, shared

1 I define essentialism as a theory that sees identity categories such as gender or ethnicity as fixed, clearly bounded, and universal; see e.g. Gosden 2001; Liebmann 2008. See also Field (1999, 194) for a discussion of the abandonment of essentialism by practitioners of Anthropology, and the contrasting deployment of essentialism by individuals belonging to self-defined indigenous groups for the purpose of defending group identities, rights, or territorial claims.

2 identity—its ‘Ionian-ness’—is an equally important question. Without such a regional identity, it is unlikely that a series of independent settlements would have all simultaneously affiliated with the rest of the Aegean on ethnic grounds. Indeed, I assert that a communal regional identity would have been a necessary precursor to the adoption of a shared ethnic identity.

To answer this question, I have proposed a focus on the community. As an intellectual framework for interrogating ancient lived experience, the community brings a number of benefits to the study of identity. As I define them in Chapter 2, the application of a community lens to understand identity necessitates an emphasis on practices and interactions. In Ionia, such an approach eschews a reliance on any ethnic dichotomy between ‘Greeks’ and ‘Anatolians’, and instead allows us to consider material culture and its meaning from the perspective of apparent similarity and difference—not of form or style, necessarily (although these are not wholly irrelevant), but of the practices implied in its production and use. Communities also have the benefit of being multi-scalar, and thus they are an appropriate way to conceive of interactions and social experiences at many different levels of resolution—within the household, the settlement, the micro-region, the broader region, or within other social or economic institutions like an army, a network of tradespeople, or even a governing body. Finally, communities engender—and are engendered by—the unconscious practices and tendencies (habitus) that have been the subject of an enormous amount of archaeological and anthropological attention, not just in the Mediterranean but on a global scale. As a result, a study of Ionian communities is compatible with scholarly dialogues both around the Mediterranean and far beyond it, and

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therefore is relevant outside of Ionia itself. To re-phrase my initial question through the

lens of community: what kinds of practices and interactions engendered the formation

of Ionian communities?

In this dissertation, then, I have sought the presence of a plurality of communities at Iron

Age Ionian sites. I have proposed a concrete methodology to identify the existence of

communities in the archaeological record, and in turn, it also allows for more structured

comparison across different contexts. I also argue that the practices and interactions around

which communities are articulated are visible in three categories of daily life: shared

maintenance practices (such as the storage and preparation of food, or the production of

everyday goods like ceramic vessels); shared ritual practices (visible most clearly in cult

and burial contexts); and shared social experiences (less tangible aspects of daily life,

including interactions between people, places, and objects that take place in the course of

drawing water from the same well, or inhabiting the same neighborhood). This

categorization provides a useful heuristic tool to analyze types of practice and interaction within a comparative framework.

I have also aimed to address the other issue inhibiting study of Iron Age Ionia—scarcity of data. To do so, I have employed a comparison of Ionian communities with those in a similar area of the northwestern Mediterranean—the Franco-Iberian coastline running from modern Barcelona to Marseille. Because our current understanding of Iron Age Ionia has pegged it as a critical point of cross-cultural contact and co-presence, I sought out another region experiencing a similar contact scenario. I wanted one that had similar characteristics

4 to Ionia: a diverse population prior to any (ostensible) contact with new people (in this case, Greeks), a series of coastal port settlements, and strong ties running between the sea and inland regions. The northwestern Mediterranean fits this description well, and it has the added benefit of strong Ionian connections—the Greek settler-traders involved in a series of rich economic networks with Etruscans, Phoenicians, and indigenous peoples were broadly identified as Phokaian Greeks who had emigrated from Ionia at the end of the 7th century BCE and established a settlement at Massalia (Marseille).

Because Ionia and the northwestern Mediterranean started out as similar contexts but followed very different trajectories, they present an excellent opportunity for mutual illumination. The area of northwestern coast I have investigated never appears to have taken on a community identity on a regional scale, but Ionia did. Ionia was enveloped in the fold of the Greek cultural imagination, but the Northwest never was. Thus, this comparison allows me to investigate my initial question—why did Ionia become ‘Ionia’ in the first place—and to at least consider its subsequent follow-up—what made Ionia as important as it was for the Greeks?

In addressing these questions, I have chosen to focus explicitly on material evidence, and have confined myself to that which dates between the 12th and 8th centuries BCE. The rationale behind this is two-fold. With respect to categories of evidence, I have effectively sought to investigate the material cultural version of what can be seen in the later, 6th- century-BCE poet Hipponax and his audience—clear bilingualism among Ionian residents,

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who were comfortable with casual back-and-forth code-switching.2 In terms of

chronological scope, I have excluded data from the 7th century BCE and later because adds several complicating variables to the development of regional identity in Ionia, as well as the comparison with the northwestern Mediterranean. First, the mid-7th century marked the foundation of the Ionian League, which represents one of the earliest pieces of evidence for a collective, supra-regional identity shared by Ionian poleis. Because one of my goals was to understand how such a collective, supra-regional identity could have gradually come about, I chose to focus this initial investigation on material culture pre-dating the evidence for its presence. Second, the 7th century BCE also marked the flourishing and expansion of

Lydian power under the Mermnad kings. The growth of a major state power in Ionia’s backyard introduced a new element that would have significantly affected the region’s socio-political landscape. This complicating factor introduced a new element for which there was no known parallel in the northwestern Mediterranean, and this made the decision to stop my current discussion at the turn of the 7th century all the more prudent. Future work can—and will—extend this time frame substantially into the Archaic period.

My focus on pre-7th century material culture allows for a novel assessment of identity in

Iron Age Ionia. Without the wealth of slightly later evidence that comes in the form of monumental architecture, cult images, and—indeed—Hipponaktean bilingualism and familiarity with “Lydian” ritual practice, I have had as my primary corpus the much less monumental vestiges of the Iron Age. These are chiefly ceramic but also include other portable artifacts and some architectural remains from both domestic and sanctuary

2On Hipponaktean bilingualism and loan words, see Hawkins 2013, Chapter 4.

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contexts. By its very nature, this corpus of evidence focuses any investigation firmly on

individuals’ quotidian practices, and the habitus that would have been an honest reflection of how deeply ingrained—or not—different influences were in the lives of Ionia’s Iron

Age inhabitants. Such a picture provides important context upon which the investigation

of broader types of evidence from the 7th century and later periods can build.

This dissertation is thus about Ionia—its identity, and the dynamics of its early history that

are equal parts fascinating and poorly understood. It is also, however, a dissertation about

communities, and the Mediterranean more broadly.

0.1 Aims

In laying out this project, I had several aims:

First, I wanted to approach Ionian identity from a new perspective in the hope of

complementing current archaeological work in the region and squeezing more interpretive

potential out of the Iron Age data that has been published. Second, I sought to expand

Ionian relevance beyond the Aegean, and to bring together two rich regions of the

Mediterranean, each of which receives little attention from scholars working in the other.

Because Greek settlers in the northwestern Mediterranean arrived under the auspices of a

Phokaian identity, the Ionian connection is strong. Importantly, this comparison is not

about the Phokaian experience, however tempting it may be to draw such a connection.

Instead, it was motivated by what I see as intriguing similarities between the two regional

contexts that ultimately followed very different trajectories. In this particular case, the

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juxtaposition has allowed me to think differently about both Ionia and the Northwest, and

to understand the dynamics of each in new—and clearer—ways.

Such a comparison could, however, be undertaken between any Mediterranean regions affected by cross-cultural contact and exchange (and indeed, this qualifies nearly any coastal region). I have not identified any characteristics that I claim are truly unique to

Ionia or the Northwest—rather, I have tried to illuminate the intricacies of two specific socio-cultural contexts through some of the characteristics they must have shared with many Mediterranean settlements. In choosing these two regions, my aim was to make a case for wider-ranging and more radical comparisons in archaeology at large as one means by which to make our collective scholarly work more relevant and broadly conversant.

Finally, it was my aim to help reinvigorate archaeological study of the community in the

Mediterranean. Scholarship on communities has by-and-large been clustered in specific regions—the American Southwest, Mesoamerica, and Neolithic Europe. I see the study of communities as one valuable way to further eschew the vestigial influence of colonialism on studies of identity. By laying emphasis on practice and interaction, my approach to communities allows us to mobilize the visibility of similarities and differences in the archaeological record without needing to name or categorize them (e.g. as ‘Greek’ or

‘Anatolian’). The result is a better understanding of lived experience—and less reliance on essentialist paradigms—than has been achieved in current scholarship.

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0.2 Structure of the dissertation

The structure of the dissertation is as follows:

In Chapter 1, I present the history of the problem. In doing so, I introduce Ionia as a region,

why it matters, and the historiography of its Hellenization. I also introduce the area of the

northwestern Mediterranean with which I compare Ionia, and justify the value of

comparison for the questions I have asked.

In Chapter 2, I introduce the concepts of continuity and community, each of which is

central to this dissertation. I establish the importance of constructivist approaches to both

concepts, drawing on scholarship from both the new and old worlds. I then go on to present

my own definition for the community, specifically, building on a history of scholarly work

concentrated in the American Southwest, Mesoamerica, and Neolithic Europe. In doing so,

I propose an understanding of communities that incorporates an explicit directive for how

we might locate them in the archaeological record, and I introduce the heuristic categories

I have constructed for this purpose. By introducing these categories—shared maintenance

practices, shared ritual practices, and shared social experience—my aim is to enable more straightforward comparison of communities in archaeology across time and space.

I argue in Chapter 3 that, despite little synthetic discussion of this fact, evidence for

Bronze-to-Iron Age continuity at major sites in Ionia is substantial and continues to grow.

I offer a brief assessment of what Ionia actually looked like in the Iron Age—describing the distribution of settlements and their relationships to one another—and present the

9

clearest data for their character as well as for continuity of presence in their locations. This evidence is most easily seen at sanctuary sites, but is also visible in the form of domestic

architecture and other settlement data. The material I present in this chapter is

complemented by that in Appendix A, which provides a summary of published data in

Ionia between the 12th and the 8th centuries BCE.

In Chapter 4, I treat the question of community formation in Iron Age Ionia and its

visibility in the archaeological record. I argue that activity at Ionian cult sites was critical

for the perpetual formation and maintenance of community identities. Physical and enacted

connections between local populations and their predecessors played a vital role in

negotiating interactions among a diverse array of people. To demonstrate this phenomenon,

I argue two main points relative to the formation of communities in Ionian sanctuaries.

First, that a particular type of continuity is clear in data from at least three of the Ionian sanctuaries—Ephesos, Miletos, and Phokaia—suggesting that meaningful connections were being drawn between past actors and present communities within the same important spaces; and second, that evidence from the material assemblages and architecture at these sanctuaries demonstrates the simultaneous presence of multiple communities of practice.

Taken together, these examples demonstrate the importance of sites of cult practice for the articulation of Ionian communities.

I compare community dynamics and the processes of their formation in the northwestern

Mediterranean and Ionia in Chapter 5. Specifically, I discuss evidence from the first three centuries of co-habitation between Greek-speakers and other people in the Northwest (ca.

10

600-300 BCE), and relate it to that from the first three centuries of activity in Ionia after

the close of the Bronze Age (ca. 1050-750 BCE). After laying out the framework for

comparison itself, I argue for the visibility of different shared maintenance and ritual

practices (Chapter 2) in the archaeological record at the Emporitan Palaiapolis, the later

Neapolis, and at Lattara. My contribution in this chapter is a new analysis of richly

interpreted French and Spanish data—seldom brought together—through the lens of the community and what it means for our understanding of the region as a whole. I argue that the archaeological data from the immediate coastal area reveal a socially-intimate commingling of members of different communities at the household and settlement levels, and that this reflects the ability of shared social experience to supersede other community affiliations from which individuals had learned and maintained practices. Ultimately, I conclude that this specific type of community—confined primarily to trading settlements on the coast—reflects the same processes of community formation visible in Iron Age data from Ionian sites.

I close the dissertation with a discussion of the comparison and its implications for both

Iron Age Ionia and the Northwest in Chapter 6. After a recapitulation of my framework of community and findings from previous chapters, I argue that ultimately, the duration and intensity of contact with maritime trading partners—in this case Greek-speakers—as well as the presence (or lack thereof) or external and internal pressure played decisive roles in the different trajectories followed by Ionia and the Northwest. Nonetheless, shared social experience was a critical component of articulation for diverse communities on both ends of the Mediterranean. I close with a reimagined narrative for Ionian community formation,

11

and new thoughts on what this research may mean for thinking specifically about the

relationship between Ionia and Greek identity writ large.

0.3 Original contributions

This dissertation makes several new contributions to the study of Ionia and to

Mediterranean archaeology more broadly. In its scope, it speaks primarily to two different

audiences: specialists in Late Bronze and Iron Age Western Anatolia, and archaeologists

who study communities.

First, this dissertation contributes to ongoing conversations surrounding the origins of

Ionian identity. In this endeavor, I have built upon Jonathan Hall’s (1997) assertion that

the turn of the 5th century BCE was an important period for the development of a pan-

Hellenic ethnicity, and embraced Naoíse Mac Sweeney’s (2013) investigations of Ionian foundation myths and the revelations we might draw from them with regard to Ionian self-

perception. I advance this scholarship by tackling explicitly material evidence that dates to

before the 5th century BCE. In doing so, I provide a means to consider the identities of

Ionian inhabitants—and how they interacted with their material surroundings—without relying on the traditional lens of ethnicity. Furthermore, this dissertation builds on the assertions made by Jan Paul Crielaard (2009)—who has himself discussed the importance of local identities in 8th and 7th century BCE Ionia—by proposing how those local identities may have coalesced and been maintained in an environment characterized by diversity and interaction. In doing so, I provide a material counterpart to ongoing textual investigations like those offered by Mac Sweeney and Crielaard.

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Second, my application of a community-based approach to Ionia is also original, and indeed the directive I provide for identifying communities in the archaeological record is equally so for archaeology at large. With a community-based approach, I have increased the interpretive potential of the current published data, and posed new questions we might ask of it in the process. My work thus contributes to scholarly dialogue on the archaeology of communities in two ways. A community-based approach has been relatively absent in scholarship on the Mediterranean, with notable exceptions from Ian Haynes (1999),

Bernard Knapp (2003), and Naoíse Mac Sweeney (2011). In this dissertation, I propose a broader, more flexible definition of the community than has been previously deployed in the Mediterranean; this contrasts with Mac Sweeney’s more corporate approach that conceives of the community as a deliberate entity that must be acknowledged and actively maintained, and fits in well with Haynes’ and Knapp’s deployment of communities as nested social structures that—in Knapp’s work specifically—may be strongly tied to place and landscape.

Across all regions, however, there is to my knowledge no explicit directive for how one might actually locate communities in the archaeological record itself. Even where explicit definitions of the ‘community’ are provided in archaeological scholarship (e.g. Canuto and

Yaeger 2000; Harris 2014; Haynes 1999), those definitions have not yet provided clear methodologies for moving between material evidence and community-based interpretations. This dissertation’s value to scholars of archaeological communities working outside of the Mediterranean, then, is primarily methodological. It clearly

13 illustrates a replicable approach to the identification of communities in the archaeological record, and the means by which those communities can be used to understand social interaction and experience without relying on other identity frameworks. Ultimately, this allows for increased comparability across regionally and temporally disparate contexts and offers one means by which to break down the traditional barriers between regions where communities are studied (Mesoamerica, the Southwestern United States, Neolithic Europe, the Mediterranean, etc.).

Finally, my comparison between Ionia and the northwestern Mediterranean brings together data from these two regions for the first time, which enables my final original contribution: the proposal of a new narrative for the formation of a nested mosaic of Ionian communities that complements the excellent work already underway in the region—both the excavation and publication of materials from major sites, but also the interpretive work with regard to

Ionian identity, and specifically its roots in conflict (Crielaard 2009; Mac Sweeney 2013).

Appended to this dissertation, the reader will also find a synthesis of much of the published data for Ionian sites between the 12th and 8th centuries BCE. This synthesis does not contain original material, but does address an important lacuna in publications on Iron Age and

Archaic Ionia, where synthetic work is rare and indeed, in this case, non-existent. I have built on previous attempted syntheses by Alan Greaves—in his Land of Ionia (2009)—and

Rik Vaessen—in his doctoral thesis (2014)—with the addition of finer-grained detail, and data that has been more recently published.

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Chapter 1: History of the Problem

This dissertation proposes new means by which to bring together disparate ends of the

Mediterranean and tackle the question of Ionian identity, but the scholarly problems that drive it are long-standing. It is therefore necessary to establish the intellectual space it inhabits and to understand, in part, the history of scholarship that has driven inquiry in both

Ionia and the northwestern Mediterranean up to this point. In this chapter, I introduce Ionia as a geographic region and concept, and justify its importance to Mediterranean archaeology. I provide the background to the understanding of its Hellenization—why this is a question in the first place, how ancient writers and modern scholars have explained it, and where my own approach is situated relative to these. I then briefly introduce the comparison I conduct in Chapter 5—both its value, and its subject, a slice of the northwestern Mediterranean. This sets up the discussion for what follows in Chapter 2— an introduction to the concepts of continuity and community in theory and practice, and their applications within this research framework.

The ‘problem’ I address in this chapter is really two-fold: The first component is a tension between a rejection of the historicity of the Ionian Migration and the deep pervasiveness of reliance on the idea of demographic change within discussion of the region. The second component is the issue of data. The period I am primarily concerned with—the Iron Age— is still not well-understood archaeologically, and there are in many ways not enough data to convincingly articulate alternative explanations for Ionia’s cultural trajectory. In 1980,

Fritz Schachermeyr relayed the dismay he had experienced in the 1920s when, as a graduate student, his own research on the ‘period of migrations’ was inhibited by a lack of

15

data (Schachermeyr 1980, 20). The issue of data has persisted for over a century, and while the volume of evidence available to work with has increased exponentially, scholars are still hampered by its small quantity. This chapter, therefore, lays out the details of the current state of the field and clarifies for the reader why an alternative—comparative— approach can help overcome roadblocks to the interpretive process.

1.1 What is Ionia? Why does it matter?

1.1.1 What is Ionia?

Ionia is a small geographic region on the western coast of Anatolia (Fig. 1). Its size,

however, belies its position at the center of the cultural imagination of the Classical Greek

world. Its rough borders are described by Strabo (14.1.2) as running from Phokaia in the

north to Miletos and Didyma in the south, and it is defined on the interior by Magnesia and

Metropolis (Fig. 1). Also included are the offshore islands of Chios and Samos. While there

were some inland settlements, the majority of the known Ionian cities had their own harbors and thus lay directly on the coast3. The three rivers flowing through Ionia to the sea—the

Kayster, the Maeander, and the Hermos—rendered the land lush and fertile, and ancient

writers noted the mildness and particularly pleasant nature of the climate.4 These same river valleys also acted as conduits, facilitating mobility—and thus trade—between the coast and the inland plains of western and central Anatolia. Interspersed among the rivers, along the winding coastline, were the Ionian cities. Of these, the best known—

3 Changes in coastline over the intervening 3 millennia have had little impact on the size of the region itself, but the locations of some ancient cities have been affected. Miletos, Ephesos, Myus, Priene, and Teos are now all technically inland sites, with surrounding plains having been filled by alluvial sediments. 4 E.g. Herodotos 1.142; Pausanias 7.5.4; Hippokrates. op. cit. 12.

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archaeologically—belonged to the dodekapolis (or ‘Ionian League’), founded in the mid-

7th century BCE. These included Miletos, Myous, and Priene (which Herodotos reports

were part of Karia, and all shared a dialect); Ephesos, Kolophon, Lebedos, Teos,

Klazomenai, and Phokaia (all part of Lydia, and sharing a second dialect), Chios and

Erythrai (speaking a third), and Samos, speaking its own (Hdt. 1.142); Smyrna was later

incorporated as well (Hdt. 1.143), bringing the total to thirteen cities.

Herodotos’ description reflects Ionia’s close ties to its neighbors, as well as its linguistic

diversity. The region was bordered to the north and northeast by the Lydians with their

capital at Sardis, and to the southeast by Karia. Further inland to the east lay Phrygia, with

whom the Ionians shared a great deal of interaction, even if no direct territory. The

languages associated with these territories and their inhabitants were no doubt heard in

Ionia, spoken by travelers and local inhabitants alike. The Greek language itself is believed

to have been spoken in parts of Western Anatolia since at least the middle of the 2nd

millennium BCE, and the intermingling of languages in languages on the coast must have

had considerable time depth.5 It follows that population diversity in Ionia was also very high. With a lush and fertile landscape, convenient access to the sea and to the interior, and a multi-lingual, multi-cultural bevy of neighbors—throughout time—Ionia must have absorbed and retained influence from all directions.

5 Scholars of ancient linguistics seem to generally accept the arrival of Greek in the mid-2nd millennium (Fortson 2010, 555), which fits with the notion of possible Minoan and then Mycenaean settlements on the western Anatolian coast (see Chapters 3 and 4). See also Woodard 2008.

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In some respects, the land that would come to be known as Ionia has always been one of

the great borderlands. Or, if its technical classification as a ‘borderland’ might be contested,

it is certainly one of the most famous places ‘in-between’. In the Bronze Age, while it remained outside of Hittite control and sat beyond the periphery of the empire, the presence of rock monuments slightly outside Ionia proper (e.g. at Halkapınar, Akpınar, Karabel, and

Torbalı) suggests the region’s inhabitants were actively engaged in signaling their independence from the Empire—perhaps at times precariously (Glatz and Plourde 2011).

Ionia was also repeatedly the site of conflict between a number of political entities—

including Ahhiyawa, Arzawa, Assuwa, and the Seha River Lands—all accused in Hittite

records of causing trouble on the western edge of the Anatolian Peninsula (Beckman,

Bryce, and Cline 2011; Mac Sweeney 2010; Mellink 1983). Settlements tentatively

identified as Minoan and then Mycenaean anchored an Aegean presence onto the edge of

the Near Eastern landmass, helping to facilitate trade across the sea, and connecting inland

regions on both sides (Benzi 2005; Girella and Pavuk 2015; Mee 2008; Niemeier 2005b).

In the Geometric period, the region served as an important conduit for materials whose influence eventually coalesced into an ‘orientalizing’ trend in the decorative arts of the

Greek-speaking cultural sphere. At the end of the Archaic Period, it acted as an (ultimately ineffective) buffer zone between Athens and the Persian Empire.

By the time Herodotus was writing in the 5th century BCE, he would characterize Ionia as

firmly planted within the Greek world, referring to the Ionians themselves as the smallest

of all the branches of Hellenic stock (1.143.2). Despite this perception, and the region’s

incorporation into the Athenian Empire after the Ionian Revolt, as a people, the Ionians

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were still seen as fundamentally ‘in-between’; they were Greeks, but ancient writers also

characterized them as soft in character, and obsessed with luxury and pleasure—attributes

that were decidedly foreign and ‘eastern’.6 How it was that a region described, for all

intents and purposes, as being home to a population of Greeks neither strong nor

particularly impressive, came to have its numerous cultural contributions celebrated at

large was never explained. Nonetheless, the magnitude of Ionian influence on the legacy

of Greek culture in philosophy, natural science, history, geography, poetry, art, and

architecture was succinctly noted by C.J. Emlyn-Jones, who declared, “…we cannot

imagine the Parthenon without the stylistic influence of the sixth-century BC Ionian

temples, Greek tragedy without Homer, Sokrates and Plato without Anaximander,

Herakleitos, or Anaxagoras; or possibly even Herodotos without the Ionian geographers

and historians,” (1980, 5–6).

Our knowledge of Ionia comes from two sources—written accounts and archaeological

evidence. Both increase exponentially from the Classical period onwards, and the Iron Age and early Archaic periods, my primary concern in this dissertation, are not well-understood.

While Greek literature has its origins in Ionia, and the Homeric epics treat preceding

periods, the first properly contemporary accounts are represented by the likes of Herodotos.

Events before the 5th century BCE are recorded by later writers but must naturally be treated

as constructions that are primarily informative about the periods in which they were

composed. Archaeological evidence from the Iron Age and early Archaic periods is also

sparse in comparison to that from later centuries. This is due to a number of factors. The

6 E.g. Hippokrates, “Airs, Waters, Places”, 16

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large-scale excavations that have been underway at major sites since the end of the 19th

century CE (at Ephesos and Miletos, for example) have favored later, monumental

constructions over the less-enticing materials from the early centuries of the 1st millennium

BCE. Alluvial deposition is also quite intense in some areas of Ionia, and the propensity

for foundation of sites near the mouths of rivers (e.g. Ephesos, Miletos, Klaros, Priene,

Myous) has had an impact on the accessibility of archaeological materials. Finally, the

traditional interest in monumental structures and the ‘main’ poleis that were members of

the dodekapolis, and privileged in later histories, has meant that less is known of outlying sites and more minor agglomerations. As a result, the archaeological materials provide only a small window onto Iron Age and early Archaic Ionia.

1.1.2 Why does Ionia matter?

Ionia’s numerous contributions to the broader spectrum of Greek culture have proven to be

tremendously important. In and of itself, this justifies the value of understanding how a

small region on the western Anatolian coast became ‘Ionia’ in the first place. These contributions have been considered ‘Greek’ by modern scholars because they were absorbed into the rest of the Greek world. As I discuss momentarily, the traditional explanation for this was the fact that people were presumed to have come from the western

Aegean and brought their Greekness with them. Thus, in settling on the Anatolian coast,

their very presence was the cause of the region’s Hellenization. Subsequently, their cultural

contributions could safely be claimed as the result of Hellenic genius. The classification of

a region’s earlier periods as ‘Greek’ by later inhabitants and scholars, however, does not

make it so, and there is great value in understanding the actual social and cultural history

20 of the region that made the aforementioned contributions. In doing so, we can better understand the different elements that came together and constituted the Ionian culture in question.

Ionia is often held up as an early example of Greek colonization—whereas traditional narratives painted the Ionian Migration as an event more akin to a mass exodus, current interpretations align it far more closely with a series of colonial settlements.7 The details of this supposed process are poorly understood, however. The notion of a colonial event occurring at a proto-literate moment, when no contemporary written records exist for either specific incidents or the regional cultural milieu, is both challenging and exciting for modern scholars. Yet because the nature of actual events remains in question, Ionia cannot be successfully incorporated into comparative discussions of Mediterranean colonialism without sufficient problematization and intellectual scaffolding. It thus behooves us to more clearly define the circumstances of Ionia’s ‘becoming’ in terms of what is suggested by different categories of evidence, what knowledge has been accepted as true as a result of intellectual tradition, and what can be presumed true at the present moment after rigorous evaluation and assessment.

Perhaps an important second question is: in Ionia, why does understanding the Iron Age matter? The Ionian Iron Age was a (long) temporal moment that has been credited with a great deal of change, as well as influence over what Ionia would become (or rather, what

7 See Malkin (2009, 373) on the contrast between traditional views of the Ionian Migration by modern scholars, and ancient Greek myths and other written sources that used the language of colonization (e.g. events involving an οἰκιστής) to describe the foundations of Ionian cities.

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would become ‘Ionia’). If we are interested in better understanding the ‘stuff’ of Greekness,

then we must better understand the ‘stuff’ of one of its major contributors. Because so

much of our understanding of the Ionian Iron Age has been based on textual sources from

much later periods, with their accounts retrojected as fact—or as representative of at least

a kernel of truth—on the past, we only understand the period from a perspective that was

already firmly rooted in an overarching Greek identity. Thus, an examination of the Ionian

Iron Age rooted more firmly in the period itself provides important perspectives on the

lived experience of its inhabitants, and the socio-cultural origins of major contributions to a later, shared, Hellenic culture.

In sum, Ionia is a region that has long been taken for granted yet remains enigmatic. In order to better investigate the land—and the concept—it is first necessary to understand

what Ionia meant to ancient people, as well as what it has meant to modern scholars and

how they have studied it.

1.1.3 What did ‘Ionia’ mean to ancient people—the origins of the term

In a consideration of what Ionian meant to ancient people, it is necessary to draw a

distinction between the term and the geographic region. While the use of a series of related

names (and adjectives) that seem to be precursors to ‘Ionia’ or ‘Ionian’ is evidenced by the

Late Bronze Age, there is no reason to suggest that any of these terms referred to a

geographically specific location. Not until the 6th century BCE does there appear any

evidence for the assumption of shared consensus on where ‘Ionia’ and the ‘Ionians’ were.

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To begin with, the term ‘ijawone’ first appears in the Late Bronze Age on a Linear B tablet

found at Knossos (see Chadwick et al. 1986). In another 15th century context, the term

‘ijaunia’ appears in Egypt in a mortuary temple of Amenophis III at Thebes; there, was included as part of a list detailing a litany of subjugated peoples and places (see Haider

2008). In these early iterations, the specific locations to which the terms allude are not clear, and Naoíse Mac Sweeney has rightly pointed out that they may have actually meant different things to different people (Mac Sweeney 2017, 384). The place name ‘Yaman’ and the ethnic ‘Yamanaya’ were included in both Neo-Babylonian and Neo-Assyrian cuneiform sources that suggest a far-removed Aegean location for these people. Neo-

Assyrian texts specifically use this term to refer to raiders who terrorized the Phoenician and Cilician coasts. In this case, the ‘Yamanaya’ are indicated as hailing from somewhere in the midst of the sea (Luraghi 2006, 30–33; Mac Sweeney 2017, 385; Rollinger 2001;

2009; 2011); no indisputable location was given, and the implication is that the name could have just as likely referred to Greek-speakers more broadly as to a specific population.

In the Greek language, the first attestation of a word referring to Ionian people comes from

Homer, who famously wrote of the “Ionians with long tunics” (Il. 13.685); in this case, the poet implies a mainland location by including the Ionians in a list among Boiotians,

Lokrians, and Elians (Mac Sweeney 2017, 384–85).

The recognition of a specific location for Ionian people, however, may not be so straightforward. There seems to be general agreement that the term may in fact have referred to Greek-speakers quite broadly, including those from Cyprus and parts of

23

Anatolia (Mac Sweeney 2017, 385). Specifically, Emily Wilson has put forth the intriguing argument that the term ‘Ionian’ may have first referred to Euboean traders, and then subsequently been picked up by Phoenicians and others interacting with them as a term for

Greek-speakers more generally (Wilson 2018, forthcoming).

Relative to the geographic region that came to be known as Ionia, Mac Sweeney (2017) has made an invaluable contribution by compiling all references to its early terminology.

What is clear is that in terms of names that refer to this specific region of western Anatolia,

‘Ionia’ is a later adoption. The first known term that probably referred to it was actually

‘Aswiai’—‘Asia’—which also appears on Linear B tablets from Knossos, Pylos, and

Mycenae (Morris 2001). In the 8th century, the Greek form of the word appears in Homer, who wrote of the “Asian meadows on both sides of the Kayster River,” (Il. 2.461). His contemporary Hesiod also used it to refer to land beside the Hermos, which he called the

“seat of wheat-bearing Asia” (fr. 182 from Catalogue of Women) (Mac Sweeney 2017,

385). In the 7th century BCE, Archilochos described the territory of Gyges as “sheep- rearing Asia”, and shortly thereafter, Mimnermos used the term ‘Asia’ to refer to his own homeland, Kolophon (or Smyrna) (Mac Sweeney 2017, 383–84).

Finally, in the 6th century BCE, the first evidence appears for a direct association between people called ‘Ionians’ and the region itself. Sappho referred to “Ionia’s cities” while discussing events related to her home on Lesbos (Mac Sweeney 2017, 385–86)8. While

88 Here, Mac Sweeney does caution some skepticism. The beginning of the word ‘Ionia’ is missing in the text, with the original reading ‘…αονίας πόλις’. While some scholars have suggested this should be reconstructed as Ἰαονίας (“of Ionia”), others have suggested that it should, in fact, be Μαονίας (“of

24

agreement surrounding terminology seems to have become clear by the end of the 6th

century BCE among Greek writers, this was not the case across the board. The Persians,

for example, appear to have continued using the term ‘Yaman’ to refer to all Greek-

speakers more generally from the late 6th century BCE onwards (Rollinger 2009, 37–38),

and ‘Yunan’ is the modern Turkish equivalent. From an emic point of view, at least, it is

thus possible to say that before the 6th century BCE, there was no clear agreement—visible

in written sources—for the location of ‘Ionian’ people. After the 6th century BCE, however, the term represented a recognizable concept that drew an inherent association between the people inhabiting the central coast of western Anatolia and the land itself.

1.1.4 What has Ionia meant to scholars? Who has studied it, and why?

In modern scholarship, Ionia’s Hellenic identity was long taken for granted. Having been

identified as ‘Greek’ in the 5th century BCE, scholars had largely considered the region’s

identity to be unquestionable. The similarity between Protogeometric pottery on both sides

of the Aegean in the 9th and 8th centuries BCE, a style identified as Greek because of its

initial excavation in Athens (where it was presumed to have originated in the second half

of the 11th century BCE (R. M. Cook and Dupont 1998, 11), was presumed to reflect the

presence of the same people on both sides of the sea. This notion fit well with the narrative

relayed by a string of foundation myths and pieces of literary evidence (Mac Sweeney

2013; 2017), which reported that people had migrated from the Greek mainland to the

Anatolian coast at some point around the 11th century BCE (Fragkopoulou 2015; Kerschner

2006; Lemos 2007). The Ionian Migration was thus accepted as a straightforward

Maeonia”), a toponym for part of central Lydia to which Sappho may refer in this passage (Naoíse Mac Sweeney 2017, 386)

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explanation for the presence of settlements in the region that identified culturally with the

rest of the Aegean (e.g. see Boardman 1980; J. M. Cook 1962; R. M. Cook and Dupont

1998; Emlyn-Jones 1980; Georges 1994; Hurwit 1985, 37–39; Schachermeyr 1980). This is not to say that all scholars have denied the influence of non-Greek people on the formation of Ionian identity—I discuss this below. Rather, I mean that the overwhelming approach to thinking about Ionian identity has involved the notion of cultural and identity transfer facilitated by the movement of peoples.

In this vein, there is a long scholarly history of studying Ionia as ‘East Greece’—an integral part of the (geographically) extended Greek heartland and a major source of cultural practices and ideas. In the mid-20th century CE, a succession of authoritative articles and

books offered synthetic treatments of the qualities and magnitude of Ionian contributions

to Greek culture. R.M. Cook (1946) published a lengthy rebuttal of the concept of

Panionismus—the general embrace of Ionia as the cradle of Hellenic culture, civilization,

and socio-political precocity—which he feared was no longer explicitly espoused, but still

implicitly accepted by the scholarly community (R. M. Cook 1946). Two decades later,

J.M. Cook (1962) followed with a synthetic overview of Ionian contributions to Greek culture, attempting to sketch the image of a cohesive region whose social and cultural traits were reflected in Homeric epic. G.L. Huxley (1966) made his own synthetic contribution,

perhaps reflective of an avid interest in Ionia at that time. Like Cook three years earlier,

Huxley’s main focus was the Ionian contributions to Greek culture more broadly, and both

scholars made the case for Ionia as a special land set apart—neither belonging to the

mainland, nor comparable to the more mundane collection of Greek colonies. A third

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offering in this line of publications making the case for Ionia’s coherent and unique set of

cultural contributions came from C. J. Emlyn-Jones (1980), who continued to carry the torch celebrating Ionian importance into the last decades of the 20th century CE.

Slowly, alongside this trend, there has been development of a more skeptical approach to

the historicity of the Ionian Migration, as well as the full ‘Greekness’ of Ionia and its

cultural contributions. In fact, as early as 1958, Michel Sakellariou questioned the sense of using the term “migration ionienne” to describe what he argued must have been a series of small-scale moves that involved many non-Ionian actors; while his underlying premise

still saw the origins of Ionian Greekness in the movement of peoples, he did acknowledge the participation of “elements occidentaux” among the “population grecque d’Ionie”, along with a host of other participants (Sakellariou 1958, 3). In his discussion, the region is still clearly considered Greek, but the involvement of other non-Greeks from the East is readily acknowledged.

Sakellariou’s position reflects a growing trend in scholarship that, while still accepting the underlying fact that Greekness was brought across the Aegean by people, also acknowledges that other influences (and people) contributed to the development of what would eventually be characterized as Ionian culture. One surprisingly early volume which espoused exactly this notion was William Ramsay’s Asianic Elements in Greek Civilization

(1927). In a published series of lectures given between 1915-1916, Ramsay argued that the key to understanding Greek civilization was to understand Anatolia; that while the tendency was to see Athens as the “Eye of Greece, Mother of Arts and Eloquence”,

27

everything of actual importance came from the “Old Ionians” (Ramsay 1927). Some

seventy years later, Walter Burkert (1992) made a similar argument, detailing a series of

observations and analogues that could not be explained through universally shared cultural

characteristics or beliefs, but rather must have been the result of direct influence through

military expansion, economic exchange, and intensive interaction. Both of these texts take

an unusually hard line on the issue of influence, which was long unmatched.

With few notable exceptions, through the late 20th century CE, scholarship on Ionia was primarily concerned with the region in its role as the coherent and culturally rich East

Greece. It was viewed as largely homogeneous, more-or-less fully Hellenic (despite less than favorable assessments made by ancient authors of how well the Ionians represented their Greek brethren), and easily explicable—its incorporation into the Greek world was naturally accepted as the result of a Late Bronze or Early Iron Age migration.

Archaeological evidence was primarily discussed in relation to its support for ancient texts, which were accorded explanatory primacy. The influence of this long history of positivistic approaches to ancient texts has meant that archaeological efforts and their resultant data have often been matched to historical interpretations (cf. Greaves 2009, 30). Because of its historical importance, Ionia has been as much a prime target for research as Athens or other areas of the central Aegean. Several of the region’s key sites—all poleis of the dodekapolis or related sanctuaries—have undergone extensive excavation since the turn of the 20th century CE, and much of this work continues to the present day.

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In terms of Ionian material culture, then, what we are most familiar with is that which comes from the Greek poleis or their associated sanctuaries and has thus been classified as

‘Greek’. Research in Ionia has historically been site-specific, and has focused almost entirely on Classical, Hellenistic, and Roman periods. While work now often extends into the pre-Classical past, it often remains focused on individual sites (as opposed to synthetic work on the region as a whole). Published exceptions that buck this trend include Alan

Greaves’ The Land of Ionia: Society and Economy in the Archaic Period (2009), Naoíse

Mac Sweeney’s Foundation Myths and Politics in Early Ionia (Mac Sweeney 2013), Jan

Paul Crielaard’s “The Ionians in the Archaic Period: Shifting Identities in a Changing

World” (2009), and Rik Vaessen’s doctoral thesis, Cultural Dynamics in Ionia at the End of the Second Millennium BCE: New Archaeological Perspectives and Prospects (2014).

Within the extensive pool of Ionian publications, however, such examples are scant.

Where seemingly synthetic volumes have been published, these are often compilations of single-site discussions that relate within similar themes and are the result of conference proceedings. Most of these have come about in the last 20 years; Frühes Ionien: Eine

Bestandsaufnahme (2007), “Troianer Sind Wir Gewesen”—Migrations in der Antiken

Welt (2006), along with Stadtgrabungen und Stadtforschung im Westlichen Kleinasien

(2006), and Die Ägaïs und Das Westliche Mittelmeer: Beziehungen und Wechselwirkungen

8. Bis 5. Jh. V. Chr. (2000). Save Frühes Ionien, none of these are focused exclusively on the region. Nonetheless, they include important Ionian sites within the context of broader western Anatolia.

29

The publications for individual sites are, by contrast, numerous and highly detailed. Much

attention has been focused on Ionian cult sites (e.g. at Ephesos, Miletos, Samos, Didyma,

Phokaia, Klaros, etc.), as well as the poleis of the dodekapolis, and discussion has more

specifically addressed architectural details, sculpture, and the typologies, chronology, and

now in some cases production of ceramics.9 An example of the breadth of such publications is the Forschungen in Ephesos series, comprised of monographs covering subjects from excavations at the South Gate of the Tetragonos Agora (Gassner 1997), to bronze finds from the Ephesian Artemision (Klebinder-Gauss 2007), to the Mausoleum at Belevi

(Ruggendorfer 2016). What this host of publications makes clear, however, is that more attention has been paid to periods that book-end the Iron Age and Archaic; the Bronze Age has long tantalized excavators for its associations with the heroic era of Greek epic, the

Mycenaeans, and the Minoans. Similarly, the vestiges of the Classical, Hellenistic, and

Roman periods comprise impressive monumental remains that researchers have been loath to remove. A combination of inability to locate evidence due to alluviation, disruption from later building periods, and a historical lack of interest in the less-inspiringly-decorated ceramic wares of the Iron Age in particular, have meant that the archaeological material dating to this critical period is not well-understood.

As is perhaps already clear, the nature of much of Ionian publication has also resulted in

discussion that often emphasizes a high level of descriptive detail over broader

interpretation, thematic discourse, or comparison. Such thorough documentation and

9 Recent work on the provenience of raw materials and ceramic production includes (Akurgal et al. 2002; Aslan, Kealhofer, and Grave 2014; Kerschner 2014; Kerschner and Mommsen 2005; Kerschner et al. 2002; Villing 2010)

30 publication is, of course, invaluable, and it is exactly this kind of work that is now allowing some scholars to discuss questions related to identity in the region and the nature of its

‘Greekness’. Nonetheless, the explanatory force of the Ionian Migration reigns supreme.

While few scholars would profess much belief in the ‘historical kernels’ at the heart of foundation myths, a consistent adherence to the idea that people brought Greek material culture and practice with them from elsewhere is visible in publications, and often goes unproblematized (see e.g. Aytaçlar 2004, 17; Boardman 1999, 25–26; Ersoy 2004, 43;

2007, 151; Kerschner 2006, 371; Marek 2016, 117). This can only be explained through an understanding of the various explanations for Ionia’s Hellenization that have been offered by ancient authors and modern scholars.

1.2 The ‘Hellenization’ of Ionia

The issue of Ionia’s Hellenization is perhaps one of the longest-standing questions in the field. If Ionia did indeed make significant contributions to Greek culture, how did it become part of the Greek cultural sphere in the first place? For questions of regional identity in the ancient world more broadly, the standard explanatory options are usually autochthony or migration; additionally, more recent scholarly conversations about acculturation, hybridity, and post-colonial approaches to interaction and definitions of cultural groups themselves have added nuance to traditional interpretations (e.g. Gupta and Ferguson 1992; Liebmann and Rizvi 2008; Loomba 1998; I. Morris 2003; van Dommelen 2011; van Dommelen and

Rowlands 2012)

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For Ionia, one of the first issues that must be tackled in proposing any kind of explanation

is the task of arriving at a definition of ‘Greekness’ in the first place. Jonathan Hall (1997) has cogently argued for the development of a sense of collective Greek identity—an

ethnicity—in the 5th century, related in part to the colossally disruptive events of the Persian

Wars. In the 5th century, then, Ionia was part of the cultural fold that took on the collective

mantle of ‘Greekness’. For that to happen, however, circumstances must have been such

that the inhabitants of the region saw themselves as sharing a sufficiently similar cultural

identity to Greek-speakers around the Aegean, and vice versa. Despite the fact that a

collective sense of Greekness did not exist until the 5th century BCE, the concept of an

ethnic Greek identity has still been used to characterize people and their cultural materials

in the Iron Age and the Archaic period.

Part of the challenge is that while terms like ‘Greek’, ‘Luwian’, ‘Karian’, ‘Lydian’, and

‘Phrygian’ are all used as ethnic monikers (with the latter four often lumped together as part of the catch-all ‘Anatolian’), they carry other meanings as well. In this case, each of the terms also refers to a clearly attested language. Some of these languages were evidenced in inscriptions as early as the 16th century BCE (Luwian), whereas Lydian and Phrygian

were well-established in inscribed or written form by the 8th century BCE, and Karian has

been confidently identified by the 6th century BCE (see Woodard 2008). It goes without saying that none of these languages appeared out of thin air, and they were likely an active part of the linguistic landscape of Anatolia and its socio-economic networks well before the Iron Age. It follows, then, that these terms did apply to groups of Iron Age people insofar as they could be identified as speakers of a shared language. As scholars, however,

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when we use them to refer to people, we quickly run up against a problem: the lack of

clarity between ethnic and linguistic implications. In discussion of ‘Greeks’ and ‘Karians’

at Iron Age Miletos, for example, do we mean Greek and Karian speakers? Or are we implying a sense of ethnic or cultural belonging tying them to other people much farther afield? The crossover with ethnic monikers often yields ethnic implications, even for an early period where—as Hall has demonstrated—they may not be appropriate.

In this same vein, if the concept of a shared ethnic Greekness did not yet exist, what does it mean that we have also identified characteristics of material culture that we associate with users we presume to have been speakers of specific languages, and/or inhabitants of

specific regions? For example, as previously noted, Protogeometric pottery was long assumed to have originated in Athens,10 and was therefore a style associated with Greek-

speakers, who were presumed to have been the city’s inhabitants. But how far can this

equation take us in a discussion of who is using, or producing, which kinds of material goods in Iron Age Ionia? How can we talk about Iron Age people without becoming mired in anachronistic or essentializing categories? I address these issues—and outline my own

approach to terminology—at the end of this chapter. Suffice it to say for the moment,

however, that the concept of Hellenization here is a fraught one.

1.2.2 Ancient perspectives

The origins of discussion surrounding Ionian Hellenization stem—perhaps

unsurprisingly—from ancient sources themselves. Naoíse Mac Sweeney has done an

10 This idea has come under fire in recent years, and is being systematically dismantled—see Mokrišová 2017 for in-depth discussion of relevant evidence from Western Anatolia.

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extremely thorough review of sources that discuss the Ionian Migration in her most recent

article, and I refer the reader to her detailed analysis of references, authors, and attributions

of identity for further information (Mac Sweeney 2017, 402). Suffice it to say that her

research has made clear several different categories of ancient reference. While the Ionian

Migration is the most oft-referenced explanation by modern scholars, the ancient sources

were in reality quite divided over the narratives they chose to record. In fact, one of the

more revealing outcomes of Mac Sweeney’s survey is the frequency with which multiple

narratives were reported by the same author (52 out of 113, or nearly half). The full

complement of foundation narratives for the Ionian cities included the Ionian Migration,

the migration of non-Ionian Greeks, indigenous origins, Cretan migration specifically, or

Near Eastern origins (Mac Sweeney 2017, 402).

Importantly, while 113 individual writers in Latin and Greek make references to the

foundations of Ionian cities (Mac Sweeney 2017, 401), there are no surviving recorded

perspectives on the Hellenization of Ionia—or indeed extant at all—that date to within

roughly three centuries of its ostensible ‘colonization’. Furthermore, Mac Sweeney has

convincingly shown that the several spikes in popularity existed for the Ionian Migration

story specifically—between the 5th and 3rd centuries BCE, then again in the 1st century

BCE, and in the 2nd century CE (Mac Sweeney 2018, pers. comm.). The earliest references

to Ionian foundations are found in Greek epic poems—the Iliad, as well as fragments from the Nostoi and the Epigonoi, roughly dating to between the 8th and 6th centuries BCE; these

are allusions, however, and not direct explanations of the foundation processes themselves

(Mac Sweeney 2017, 401). Rather, the earliest reference to the Ionian Migration,

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specifically, does not appear until the 5th century BCE in Panyassis’ fragmentary Ionika

(Mac Sweeney 2013, 161), part of the first ‘spike’ in the myth’s popularity. Additionally,

only three authors provide a detailed narrative. Herodotos (1.145-147) records a narrative

of Achaian origin; Pausanias argues an Achaian origin with a departure point of Athens

(7.1; also 5.1.1, 7.6.1, 7.18.5, 7.19.1); and Strabo argues the same but specifies an actual

Athenian origin for the Ionian settlers (8.1.2, 8.3.9, 8.5.5, 8.7.1-4) (Vanschoonwinkel 1996,

115–17). Of fundamental importance is the fact that, while references to the Ionian

Migration have been emphasized by modern scholars, numerous other accounts and foundation myths exist.

1.2.3. Modern perspectives

In terms of comprehensive, synthetic studies of this data in the last fifty years, two

impressive contributions stand out. The first is that from Friedrich Prinz, who provides an

excellent characterization of opinions on, and approaches to, Ionia’s Hellenization at the

end of the 1970s. In his Gründungsmythen und Sagenchronologie (1979), Prinz addresses

myths for colonies founded by Greek states, for Greek states preceding the famous era of

colonization, and for non-Greek states who preceded this as well. Offering an overview of

modern scholarship, Prinz openly states his desire to counteract the tendency of modern

interpreters to look for the historically reliable kernel of truth, and to make transparent for

the reader the ‘logic’ behind the construction of narratives that were ultimately creative

works (1979, 14). Included as part of this discussion is an entire section devoted to the

Ionian foundation myths. Among these, Prinz argues that two groups existed—those dealing with individual cities, and those dealing with the foundation of the 12 members of

35

the dodekapolis as a whole (the Ionian Migration) (1979, 371). His characterization of the

contemporary debate among scholars paints it as a discussion no longer considering the

possibility of Ionian autochthony, but rather exclusively occupied with the timing of a

migration that was a generally accepted fact (1979, 316).

At this point in the historiography of the Ionian Migration, the myths actually under

discussion represented three different narratives: a Pylian origin, an Achaian origin, and an

Attic origin (Prinz 1979, 218, 371). While Prinz rightly cautions that the ancient repertoire of references is not homogeneous, his meaning is really that the references differ in their opinions about specific details of a fundamentally true narrative of migration, rather than different narratives proposing non-migratory origins for Ionia’s population(s) (Prinz 1979,

371).

In more recent contributions from the last decade, Mac Sweeney’s (2013; 2015; 2017) aforementioned work, specifically, has shifted the study of ancient foundation myths to a more constructivist perspective. In her approach, Mac Sweeney also questions the idea of a ‘kernel of truth’ lurking within the narratives themselves and urges us instead to shift our focus on foundation myths to view them primarily as important artifacts reflective of a creative process of production. In so doing, her own discussion of heterogeneity among the myths refers to foundation stories that either do not credit a migration with the presence of

Ionia’s population, or credit migrations involving participants who we would not consider

‘Greek’ from the perspective of modern scholarship.

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In terms of an overarching intellectual trajectory, then, through the late 20th century CE,

the Ionian Migration was readily accepted. In recent decades, scholarly consensus has

settled on a lack of historicity for the actual stories themselves. It is generally accepted that

narratives purporting an Athenian origin for Ionian migrants began to appear in the 5th

century BCE because it was at that point advantageous for Athens to play up an Ionian

connection to justify its expansion of power (Lemos 2007, 714; Mac Sweeney 2013, 162;

Vanschoonwinkel 1996, 124). Unsurprisingly, however, there has been some disagreement. On one end of the spectrum, Alexander Herda has stated that, “Die

Historizität der sogenannten Ionischen Migration nach Westkleinasien steht außer Frage,” and asserts that what remains to be clarified in finer-grained detail is the processes of acculturation and ethnogenesis of Greek ‘Ionians’, indigenous Luwians, and Karians

(Herda 2009, 27). Jacques Vanschoonwinkel (1996) also holds up the fundamental truth of the migration narratives. On the other end of the spectrum, Justus Cobet rejects the notion of the migration outright, arguing that we must rely only on the archaeological evidence to understand the early history of Ionia (Cobet 2007); Alan Greaves takes the same line (2009,

222–24); and Jan Paul Crielaard (2009) seems to reject the validity of a notion that Ionian culture resulted from an overwhelming influence by incoming people. Somewhere in the middle are theories espoused by those like Irene Lemos (Lemos 2007), who has argued for a slightly earlier Greek-speaking presence in western Anatolia dating to the Bronze Age.

Generally speaking, however, the idea that demographic movement or migration was the source of cultural change still runs as a firm undercurrent beneath contemporary discussion.

37

It is precisely that undercurrent that I refute in this dissertation. While I do not categorically

deny any movement of Greek-speakers across Aegean in the Late Bronze or Early Iron

Age—and, indeed, I embrace the notion of a period characterized by small-scale mobility at the turn of the Iron Age (cf. Mokrišová 2017)—it is no longer productive to carry on in tacit acceptance of the idea that people brought Greekness with them and spread it rapidly throughout the region. The scholars named above who push back against the wholesale acceptance of a migration narrative provide a critical foundation for my discussion. In her work on foundation myths, Mac Sweeney has advanced fundamental arguments for a constructivist approach to the literary evidence available for Ionia (and, by extension, at large). While Cobet’s call to ignore text in the quest to understand early Ionian history sidelines an important category of evidence, Mac Sweeney’s tempered, critical deployment of preserved written sources treats them as the important resource that they are for understanding Classical and later perceptions of Ionian origins and identity from different political and geographical points of view. She rightly emphasizes the importance of local identities—highlighted in the plurality of diverse foundation myths for individual cities— which Crielaard espouses as well, and both focus on the 7th century BCE Meliac War as an

important event for our understanding of a more regionally-based Ionian identity, reflected

in collective Ionian action and the formation of a political alliance (the Ionian League).

Their suggestions for the important role played by violent conflict and martial activity

(Crielaard 2009, 59; Mac Sweeney 2013, chapter 7).

Alan Greaves (2010) has approached the question of Ionian Hellenization from a different

angle, applying an Annaliste perspective that considers landscape, history, and archaeology

38

in an integrated fashion. His intention, to discuss Ionian cultural characteristics and

identity, building a picture of Archaic economy and society “from the ground up” (Greaves

2010, 39), is an admirable one, as his call to do away with a reliance on textual evidence

that borders on literary positivism (Greaves 2010, 43). Despite an insistence on the

problematic nature of privileging ‘Greek’ over ‘Anatolian’ materials and cultural traits,

Greaves’ discussion nonetheless relies fundamentally on the juxtaposition of the two

categories of material and practice against one another. In a sense, this fails to truly build

an assessment of Archaic Ionia from the ground up, because it relies on ethnic categories

that have been retroactively projected into the past.

Furthermore, though Greaves has set up his discussion in the language of the Annaliste framework, including attention to the longue durée of Ionian history, he barely acknowledges archaeological evidence for Bronze Age activity in the region, and certainly does not factor the relationship between Bronze Age populations and their descendants— or later counterparts—into his discussion of Ionian culture.11 An understanding of Ionian

history in the Archaic period cannot simply begin in the Archaic period—such an approach

ignores the continuity of human presence that is becoming increasingly well-attested at the

same Archaic poleis Greaves treats in his own overview (see Chapter 3 in this dissertation).

Furthermore, while it succeeds in acknowledging the possible influence of people and

practices that were “non-Greek”, it effectively treats Ionian culture as the result of

11 In his summary of major Ionian cities, for example, Greaves mentions only in some cases—and always briefly—that Bronze Age materials have been discovered. These are cited in passing at Klazomenai and Ephesos, the latter of which finally receives some discussion in his chapter on cults, but no mention is made there of Bronze Age material (or proposed history) at Miletos or Samos (Greaves 2010, Chapter 5).

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implantation from two sides (“Greek” and “non-Greek”)12, at or just before the start of the

Archaic period, instead of as a dynamic, home-grown entity in its own right that resulted from continuous presence, activity, and interaction.

Modern scholarship thus offers a diverse array of approaches to Ionian Hellenization.

Among the most promising are those that treat the question of Ionian identity by deploying all available evidence—material and textual—to get at the origins of a supra-regional identity and references to it. Perhaps because regional textual evidence begins in the 7th

century BCE, most attention has been focused on Ionian identity in the periods that post-

date its appearance (cf. Crielaard 2009; Greaves 2010; Mac Sweeney 2013). Where a

lacuna remains, then, is in a scholarly understanding of intra-settlement dynamics (in all periods) and the means by which influences from interactions in all directions—not just toward the Aegean—were reflected in material culture and daily life prior to the emergence of a collective, supra-regional Ionian identity. In other words, among scholars who deny the historicity of the Ionian Migration, who was living in Ionia, with whom were they actively engaging, and how did they develop a shared sense of ‘Ionian-ness’?

1.2.4 Colonial legacies

One of the key issues related to study of Ionia has been the aforementioned long-standing

question of the relationship between migration and cultural change (c.f Childe 1950).

While theoretical archaeological approaches to migration readily abandoned this equation

12 See, for example, Greaves’ discussion of the presence of “Greek” and “non-Greek” cult sites in Ionia (2010, 172), and his reference to “pre-Greek cult activity” (2010, 190), which implies the presence of two chronologically separate cultural elements.

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in favor of a focus on internal social dynamics (Adams, van Gerven, and Levy 1978;

Anthony 1990; van Dommelen 2014), the positivistic approach to Classical archaeology

that espoused the matching up of excavated materials with written historical sources meant

that Mediterranean migration narratives were often upheld until proven questionable (e.g.

Rose 2008). Additionally, the importance of Hellenization and the notion of the spread of

‘civilization’ on the part of Greek peoples (Boardman 1980, 198; I. Morris 1994; Shanks

1996; van Dommelen 1997) ultimately encouraged the idea that Ionia’s sophisticated

contributions to Greek culture could only have been explained through the transplantation

of Greek peoples to its shores; the ‘barbarian’ (the East), in other words, could hardly be

seen to have made meaningful contributions to the cultural development of Greece (the

West).

The complex interplay between the ancient Mediterranean and more modern scholarly

approaches to it runs deep. Seemingly the originators of the taxonomic separation of groups

and the binary notion of ‘the West’ and ‘the Other’ (Malkin 2004, 342; Said 1978, 57),

ancient Greece and the Mediterranean more broadly—or at least their study and perception

in modern scholarship— have historically suffered from an overly simplistic and ultimately taxonomic evaluation of their inhabitants. More nuanced notions of identity, ethnicity,

cross-cultural contact, and indeed culture itself, have taken firm hold in the last forty years

(see also Jones 1997b; Shennan 1989), but some vestiges of these constructs, whose

perpetuation was firmly rooted in 20th century colonialism still remain.

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One of these holdovers is the classification of material culture along ethno-cultural lines, which remains prevalent around the Mediterranean. There are reasonable arguments to be made for the heuristic utility of categorizing material goods—pottery especially—on the basis of traditional cultural affiliations, associated production techniques, and decorative motifs (Read 2007; Wylie 2002, Section 2). This system of knowledge production is so long-standing that, were scholars to jettison it now, the repercussions would be immense.

Moreover, the careful and critical use of this taxonomic system can be both possible and productive. Some more detrimental impacts, however, have not been fully mitigated. For example, the original designations on which these categories were based are part of an empirical framework that was structured around the notions of cultural superiority and the very possibility of clear categorizations. These presumed that something, or someone, could be either Greek or Anatolian, that ‘pure’ categories of culture—and people—existed, and moreover, that they could be easily discerned. No one working in the field today would argue that this is the case, but we must nonetheless be wary of the inadvertent implications of the processes by which we create and categorize data. One means by which to address this issue is the use of complementary forms of analysis, and I believe there is value in a consideration of Iron Age identity, specifically, that eschews a reliance on assigning labels tied to ethnic categories.

While I have already asserted that the true coloniality of Iron Age Ionia is in question (and

I address this at greater length in Chapter 2), post-colonial theory still offers many benefits for considering this situation. Because we are dealing with an intellectual framework that has placed ‘local’ Anatolians opposite ‘Greek’ settlers within a perceived unequal power

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dynamic, a pseudo-colonial situation has been constructed for the ancient past based in a

very real colonial dynamic in the recent past and present.13 We thus face a need to

reconsider possible scenarios for interaction, identity, and the meaning of indigeneity or

Anatolian-ness in new ways, and post-colonial theory’s emphases on these very concerns

in archaeological contexts make it an excellent framework through which to approach early

Ionian history.

1.2.5 Alternative approaches

This dissertation contributes to a growing body of work in recent years that seeks to take

different perspectives on the published data that exists for the region. Recent contributions

to this work include those from Rik Vaessen (2014; 2015; 2016) and Jana Morkisová

(2016; 2017), who advocate a re-assessment of ceramic evidence that orients the

conversation away from impacts of Aegean influence, and towards local innovation by

well-connected craftspeople. Naoíse Mac Sweeney’s synthetic treatment of evidence

surrounding the Ionian Migration, which I have already drawn from at length in other

sections of this chapter, is another significant contribution to a re-orientation of scholarly

dialogue. Aiming to highlight, as Mokrišová also does, the role of small-scale mobility and

its complex patterns in Late Bronze Age and Iron Age western Anatolia, Mac Sweeney has

13 I argue for this perceived power dynamic because a wholesale population replacement, or at least a significant and overwhelming demographic shift, would have necessitated the removal of people already living in Ionia (and indeed, some foundation myths do reference the driving out of local populations). In order for this to occur, there must have been some kind of unequal power dynamic between incoming settlers and prior inhabitants, and for this to be effected across a full region, the factor of inequality cannot have simply been the number of people involved. Ergo, a power dynamic based on some kind of cultural superiority or sophistication is implied.

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urged an approach to early Ionian history that takes critical notice of all relevant evidence—

literary, linguistic, and archaeological.

My own work in this dissertation seeks to build on these more recent regional

conversations, and is strongly influenced by several trends in scholarship: the enormous

body of post-colonial theory and its applications to archaeology in the last three decades;

archaeologies of identity, and in particular ethnicity; Greg Woolf’s well-known

contribution to the Romanization debate and the notion of ‘becoming’; and investigations

of connectivity that complement previously-noted contributions from Ramsay and Burkert, which ultimately center the importance of Ionia’s social and economic relationships to its environs on all sides. Finally, the influence of an archaeology of communities on my work has been tremendous, and I discuss this in Chapter 2.

I classify my own work as another alternative approach, because I seek to once again re- orient the disciplinary conversation. Instead of seeing Ionia as a place ‘in-between’ whose identity is based solely on the tension between its similarity and dissimilarity to both the

East and the West, I propose that it should be viewed as possessing an identity in its own right, existing in its own space, and well connected to the regions on either side. Instead of centering conversations of Ionia’s Iron Age identity around the concept of ethnicity, I propose to focus them around the concept of community. This better accounts for the diversity of peoples who must have been present there, highlights the importance of interaction and practice in our understanding of the social experience of being—or

‘becoming’—Ionian, and accommodates the fact that the body of published data is

44 comparatively small, and the understanding of Iron Age material culture has been based primarily on the binary juxtaposition between ‘Greek’ and ‘Anatolian’ categories.

In pursuing this approach, I presume along the lines of Mac Sweeney, Cobet, and Crielaard that textual attestations to the Ionian Migration make up a valuable category of evidence that can primarily be used to understand constructions of identity after the turn of the 5th century BCE. With Vaessen and Mokrišová, I accept the overwhelming likelihood that the strong—but gradual—shift in material culture so often credited with an influx of Aegean

Greeks actually represents a series of local innovations and west-looking associations.

From this standpoint, I ask: How did a region that had experienced contact and exchange with both the East and West for centuries coalesce under a shared ‘Ionian’ identity? As a final, critical strategy to negotiate the lack of comprehensive Iron Age evidence, particularly from domestic and burial contexts, I turn to a comparative framework that draws in data from the opposite side of the Mediterranean—the coastal settlements from the northwestern Mediterranean in modern France and Spain.

1.3 The Value of Comparison

1.3.1 What is the Northwest? Why does it matter?

In this dissertation, I use the term ‘northwestern Mediterranean’—or ‘the Northwest’—to refer to the adjacent areas of modern southern France and northeastern Spain. In Strabo’s writing (2.5.28), this area of the Mediterranean was called one of the ‘Galatic’ Gulfs (the other being the modern Bay of Biscay); the term has not caught on in modern scholarship,

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however, and this area of the Mediterranean coast is rarely treated as a regional whole. In

fact, interaction between scholars working in southern France and northeastern Spain is

quite rare, and only recently has a single volume been published that treats ancient material

culture on both sides of the modern geopolitical border (Gailledrat 2014).

Geographically, this area includes the provinces of Provence, Languedoc-Roussillon, and

Catalunya, stretching roughly from Marseille to Barcelona (Fig. 2). While the region is relatively geographically cohesive, there is some variation in its landscape. The Spanish coast is characterized by a relatively narrow strip of fertile land, bordered to the north and west by the Pyrenees. On the French side of this mountain range, which defines the modern border and cuts down to join the sea, the coastal plains are slightly more expansive. On both sides of the Pyrenees, however, the coast is full of marshy inlets, and the land is dotted with hills that divide it into valleys and easily separable micro-regions. The nature of this landscape is closely tied to its settlement history in the first millennium BCE. The scattered hilltops provided advantageous locations for settlements—some which were later fortified—being easily defensible, offering a favorable view of the surrounding area, and being easy to see from some distance away. The riverine inlets and coastal marshes also made convenient locations for settlements, allowing for access to both the sea and the interior, and thus to wide-ranging communication and trade.

The Northwest was a destination for traders on both the Atlantic and Mediterranean coasts.

Its rich metal resources made it an attractive partner in commerce and, beginning with

Phoenician involvement by at least the 8th century BCE, presence from non-local

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Mediterranean traders—Phoenicians, Etruscans, and Ionian Greeks—steadily increased, as did their interaction with a diverse array of local indigenous populations (Dietler 2010, 78); this ultimately involved the well-documented establishment of a number of trading colonies—including the colony established at Massalia by Phokaians from Ionia—which complimented the largely-indigenous settlements that were also primarily occupied in facilitating exchange. In later periods, the Northwest was incorporated into the Roman

Empire as the provinces of Hispania and Gaul, the latter of which has been received sophisticated analytical treatment from Greg Woolf (1998).

Unlike Ionia, this area of the northwestern Mediterranean was historically not studied as a single unified cultural area. It comprises a strip of continuous coastline running from modern Marseille to Barcelona, and one could argue that, with the exclusion of (modern) political boundaries, even though the Pyrenees dip down to the coast along the French-

Spanish border, there should be no division real division between portions of the coastline.

Nevertheless, no easy, all-encompassing term exists for this stretch of the landscape, and even today the international border often divides the data within publications. This is not to say that archaeologists working in southern France and Northeastern Spain have ignored one another, their sites, or their data, and Éric Gailledrat’s most recent book that treats the region at large is an exception to past trends in scholarship, emblematic of a growing interest in synthesis and thematic inquiry (Gailledrat 2014).

One reason for this may be that less historical documentation exists for the indigenous populations of the northwestern Mediterranean than for the pre-Greek populations of

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Western Anatolia, and thus the region has primarily been studied as a colonial resource for

first Greece, and then Rome. Most of the scanty evidence for their identity comes from

records related to language, and it is clear that speakers from Celtic, Iberian, and Ligurian

groups lived in the region (Dietler 2007b, 244). Archaeologically, it is impossible to

associated identity-based names with settlements and sites. However, the indigenous inhabitants of the northwestern Mediterranean at the time of initial recorded colonial settlement are better understood than those in Western Anatolia in the period associated with the narrative of migration.

In the mid-20th century, the Greek presence in the northwestern Mediterranean was being

studied primarily from the perspective of its influence on local art and architecture. This is

not surprising, given the propensity for scholars at the time to take the same approach to

any kind of colonialism study (e.g. Actes Du Colloque Sur Les Influences Hélleniques En

Gaule. (Dijon, Les 29-30 Avril - 1er Mai 1957) 1958; Jully 1982; Lagrand 1963). These

discussions within the academy relied heavily on the comprehensive cataloguing of

ceramic finds from southern France and northeastern Spain, producing an entire genre of

publication for the region. Catalogues of sites were another common trend (e.g. Rouillard

1991), as were monographs on individual key settlements like Massalia (Clavel-Lévêque

1977). Monique Clavel-Lévêque’s work exemplifies a contemporary interest in the role of

trade and exchange in Greek-indigenous interaction in the region, and also places the 6th

century BCE expansion of Hellenic influence over the Massaliot chora in the larger context

of its later relationship to Rome. Seeing Greek colonization in the region as part of a long

trend that ended in the final ‘Romanization’ of southern Gaul is, of course, nothing new

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(Jones 1997a; Versluys 2014), but in this case it reflects further lack of interest in studying indigenous people and material in the region for their own sake.

The beginnings of a shift toward consideration of interaction was continued in work by

John Boardman—his The Greeks Overseas was first published in 1968 and most recently edited in 1999. Finding something of a middle ground, Boardman offered what is really a

descriptive catalogue of sites that have yielded archaeological finds related to Greek

colonies (as well as those known in literature which have produce no real material

evidence). This includes a very brief section on the Greeks in France and Spain, in which

he wonders at “just how thorough the Hellenization of South France was in the sixth

century, and the variety of wares which are clearly of East Greek inspiration or origin,”

(Boardman 1999, 217). Despite a casual interest in the question of interaction, with a focus

primarily centered on the impact the Greeks made, and not any impact they felt, Boardman

typifies the very traditional view that use of material culture implies a correlating wholesale

acculturation of indigenous people in colonial situations.

This traditionalist view was, however, beginning to change. The last 25 or 30 years have

been marked by scholarly publications that address the specific question of colonial relations—not just colonial impact—in the northwestern Mediterranean. In Anglophone

scholarship, Michael Dietler is well-known for his contributions to this body of literature

(e.g. Dietler 1989; 1997; 1998; 2005; 2007; 2009; 2010), and his work incorporates the

interactions between the indigenous populations of Mediterranean France and the

Etruscans, Greeks, and Romans who made their way to Lattara, in particular, as colonists,

49 migrants, or traders. His focus on selective consumption, in particular, exemplifies the re- framing of discussion of the colonial encounter from a one-sided, dominating affair, to an encounter defined by active participation and personal agency on all sides. The group of scholars questioning the kinds of interactions that took place between indigenous people and Greek and Phoenician colonists in the northwestern Mediterranean, and seeking to understand these interactions—and their more symmetrical impact—from an indigenous perspective, is substantial (e.g. Aquilué et al. 2010; Belarte 2009; Cañete and Vives-

Ferrándiz 2011; Delgado Hervás 2016; Delgado and Ferrer 2007; Dominguez 2013; Hodos

2009; Sanmartí 2009; Santos Retolaza and Sourisseau 2011; van Dommelen 2005; Vives-

Ferrándiz 2012).

The presence of somewhat more contemporary historical documentation for these encounters is one contributing factor that promotes discussion on such varied topics, and I discuss these accounts more at length in Chapter 5. The richness of the published archaeological record, however, is another significant cause. Ceramic evidence from funerary and domestic contexts is well-studied (for Emporion, see e.g. Gailledrat 1995 on the necropolis; Miró i Alaix 2006 on red-figure ceramics; for Lattara, see e.g. Belarte,

Gailledrat, and Roux 2009; and Dietler et al. 2008 on domestic contexts; Gailledrat 2009 on amphorae), and this has yielded greater opportunity for theoretically well-informed discussion and interpretation. The result of this is that our understanding of the relationship between human practice and the material record is simply better understood.

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1.3.2 Why compare?

Looking at the historiographic trajectories of these two regions is highly informative. We

can see clearly the distinction between the position scholars have afforded each with

respect to the rest of the Greek world. Ionia was ‘special’, not a case of colonialism but

rather migration and something of a massive shift that took part of the center of the Greek world and expanded it to the West; in contrast, the northwestern Mediterranean represented later and far-flung Ionian Greek colonial foundations, intended to secure a trading foothold

in a region dominated by Phoenician and Etruscan commerce with indigenous populations.

The degree of ‘Hellenization’ in this region has been debated, but the influence of

Phokaians coming from Ionia has been, until the last 25 years, considered substantial.

While scholars in both regions have now begun to consider the reciprocal impact of Greek and non-Greek inhabitants of these regions on one another, we continue to treat Ionia and the northwestern Mediterranean as two very different kinds of places. As a result, it has been challenging to bring them together in comparison, and this has affected the way that archaeology has been done on both sides of the sea.

Laying aside the thorny question of Greek identity and its scholarly perception, however, in favor of a focus on community formation, dramatically increases these regions’ comparability and mutual relevance. Relative to demographic contexts, frameworks of contact, and environmental characteristics, they are actually quite similar, and I lay the details of these similarities out in Chapter 5. Broadly speaking, each region was home to a diverse array of people and groups, and each also initially came into contact with Greek- speakers from the western Aegean through trade and exchange. Both were also

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demonstrably home to pre-existing, occupied settlements that experienced the settlement

of—at least a small number of—Greek-speakers in the first half of the 1st millennium BCE;

these include Emporion in the Northwest (Chapter 5) and a number of major cities in Ionia

(this chapter; Chapter 3). Finally, both regions were home to a number of harbor

settlements that were actively engaged in maritime trade, and both were characterized by

riverine conduits that facilitated the movement of goods to inland populations from coastal

ports. Thus, we have a pair of case studies for community formation and dynamics in highly

connected, diversely-populated regions, characterized by sea-facing port settlements that

were frequented, and ultimately at least partly populated, by Greek-speakers.

Whereas our archaeological understanding of the Ionian Iron Age and early Archaic period is incomplete, however, a much larger quantity of data exists for the period of initial contact in the Northwest (the 6th and 5th centuries BCE). The distribution of data in terms of its find contexts is different as well—while much of the Ionian data comes from sanctuary sites or a scant number of domestic structures associated with major poleis, data from the

Northwest is comparatively abundant in domestic and even some funerary contexts. Given the degree of similarity between these two contexts, this comparison ultimately helps prompt new avenues of consideration for the interpretation of Ionian materials. It also allows us to ask more of the Ionian data that has been published in an effort to reconsider how the central West Anatolian coast developed an overarching regional identity. Because the northwestern data provide higher resolution on domestic assemblages in particular, an analysis of community formation processes there is able to include a more nuanced view of daily practices surrounding maintenance of households and daily life. This complements

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the emphasis on ritual practices in Ionian data and helps to sketch out the range of possible

interactions that may have helped engender and maintain community affiliations in diverse,

highly connected coastal settlements.

1.4 Approaching the problem

1.4.1 Terminology

I have already discussed the necessity of archaeological heuristics to make sense of the

artifacts and the people who used them. This allows us to quickly relate objects to one

another, but it also constructs artificial boundaries—between things, between people, and between practices. One area in which this has caused particular difficulty is the discussion of cross-cultural encounters. Even in dealing with people who belong to one loosely

defined cultural group (e.g. ‘Greeks’), the application of such identity labels creates a false

sense of simplicity and homogeneity. When we are discussing members of multiple loosely

defined cultural groups (e.g. ‘Greeks’, ‘Lydians’, ‘Karians’), especially their interactions,

the question of differentiation and the implied meaning behind it becomes even more

fraught. By necessity this dissertation deals with interaction and heterogeneity. It is

impossible to eschew the use of loosely defined labels altogether, and so it is critical to

define some of these terms up front for the sake of clarity. The common human

denominator in this research is ‘the Greeks’—and specifically the Ionians. But I have

established the challenges involved in using terminology with ethnic implications to

discuss a period before that ethnicity held any salience. What, then, does the term ‘Greek’ mean when applied to pre-5th century BCE contexts, and how can it be used effectively in

diachronic discussion?

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In this dissertation, I use the term ‘Greek’ to refer to people who themselves originated—

or whose ancestors originated—from the Aegean region. I also use it to refer to the material

culture and cultural practices that originated from that region, which have traditionally been

associated with Greek-speaking peoples. In contexts outside of the Aegean, then, I refer to

artifacts and practices as ‘Greek’ when they are traceable in their origin to the Greek

Aegean region, as when pots have been clearly imported. I refer to artifacts, specifically,

as ‘Greek-style’—when they have not been imported from the Greek Aegean but are

characterized by traits that do come from this region (e.g. a locally produced cooking vessel

that replicates one coming from the Aegean in style and form). In many cases, I will simply

use more specific provenance adjectives, like ‘Massalian’. When people, artifacts, or other

characteristics of material culture are associated with the mainland Greek Aegean but

originate themselves from coastal Anatolia, I refer to these as ‘Ionian’ or ‘Ionian-style’

respectively. I refer to people as ‘indigenous’ when their biological origin, and that of their ancestors, is presumed to have been in the region under discussion itself, and I have thus defined ‘indigenous’ objects or practices as those that exclusively possess characteristics which come from the region in which they are found. In contrast, I use the term ‘local’ to

refer to practices, artifacts, and people that are specific to a locale, without any single ethnic

or other identity-based connotations. These may include practices or material objects that

reflect the influence of multiple cultural origins. Central to this dissertation are those people

who might identify with descendants from many places, and thus be able to choose between

them. In their case, the concept of locality and its emphasis on present state—not

background—is especially important.

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One issue must be noted, which arises out of the temporal breadth of my comparison. In

the Ionian Iron Age, Greek ethnicity was not a salient concept. In the Archaic period in the

Northwest, however, after the settlement of Massalia at the beginning of the 6th century

BCE, it was on the brink of becoming so. Certainly, in slightly later periods, which are

discussed in this dissertation, one important component of Greek identity was a sense of

unified ethnicity. Thus, while I argue in Chapter 4 that ethnicity is not an effective lens

through which to conceive of identity in the Iron Age, I cannot make that same argument

for the later Archaic northwestern Mediterranean. As a result, the concept does come into

question, and I elaborate on its implications for considering local northwestern

communities in Chapter 5. The issue of ethnicity is highly relevant to this dissertation, but

in terms of the comparison I undertake, the specific question of Greek ethnicity is generally not. This is because, while one of the questions I seek to explore is that of the adoption of

Greek identity in different regions, the more fundamental question—and the one I seek principally to answer with this dissertation—pertains to the formation of overarching community identity itself (irrespective of ethnicity). Thus, at the comparison’s core, I am not juxtaposing the formation of a Greek ethnic identity—or lack thereof—in two separate regions, but formation processes of communities and the associated human practices.

A second issue that arises is that of time-depth and the categorical ‘purity’ of any of the people or ideas being sorted under identifying terms; that is to say, the degree to which it might be implied that there has been no external influence on a population and its cultural traits before a certain point in time (e.g. indigenous northwestern populations prior to

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contact with Phoenicians). By providing definitions based on the biological origin of a

person or their ancestors, or the commonly-recognized origin of a specific style or type of

artifact, for example, I must clarify that I am not suggesting that those people are (or were)

ultimately autochthonous, or that the traits possessed by a style or type of artifact are

entirely unique to the culture to which we attribute them. This would clearly be a false

claim—one cannot say that Greeks, Phoenicians, Karians, Lydians, Celts, Indiketans, or any other group labeled under a single term existed in complete isolation before moments

of contact identified in the archaeological record. Likewise, we cannot make the same

claim about an artifact, a style of construction, or a cultural practice. Thus, the question

becomes, how far back in time should one go to draw the line of ‘origin’? I deliberately

avoid advocating a solution to this issue—it is both impossible, and unnecessary for engagement with the fundamental questions I pose in this dissertation. Instead, I use the terminology outline above as the most straightforward means to communicate complex

concepts identity that are understood within the discipline of archaeology.

1.5 Conclusion

In this chapter, I have offered an introduction to the history of Ionian scholarship, and the

interpretive challenges faced by scholars investigating the development of Ionian identity

in the Iron Age and Archaic period. While Ionia’s Hellenic identity was long taken for

granted, a dismantling of the historicity of the Ionian Migration, and the adoption of more

sophisticated theoretical approaches to consider early Ionian history, have ushered in new scholarly dialogue that problematizes preconceived notions of the region’s socio-cultural

trajectory in the early centuries of the 1st millennium BCE.

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In order to address some of the remaining challenges presented by the rootedness of

Classical archaeology in colonial traditions, I have proposed the use of a comparison between Iron Age Ionia and the early Archaic northwestern Mediterranean. This comparison is also designed to take the discussion of Ionian history one layer deeper, and to ask not about Greek identity, but about the formation of a regional community identity.

To lay the groundwork for this comparison, I closed this chapter with a brief background to the Northwest, which will be explored much more extensively in Chapter 5. In the next chapter, I present the framework for my comparative approach, which draws heavy influence from the archaeology of communities, and proposes the community as a lens to understand Ionian identity formation without the necessity of applying binary, ethnic categorization to people or their material culture.

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Chapter 2: Continuity and Community in Theory and Practice

This dissertation is centered around the concept of community and is predicated on the argument that community is a productive lens through which to view the social processes and interactions at work in Iron Age Ionia. It has the potential to nuance our understanding of Western Anatolian populations, and specifically to re-people Ionia with a more inclusive, dynamic, and realistic approximation of its ancient inhabitants. Of similar importance to the debates over Iron Age Ionian events is the concept of continuity. Because the notion of cultural change as a result of demographic replacement has long influenced study of early Ionian history (Chapter 1), the ability to demonstrate continuity at key Ionian sites is becoming a prominent factor in reassessments of the region’s Iron Age history and identity. Moreover, a shift from a notion of continuity focused on objects to one focused on practices is critical to reassessing the meaning of Ionian material culture. A clear understanding of what continuity is—and what it means—goes hand-in-hand with the consideration of people’s relationships to their neighbors and surroundings, and ultimately of their community dynamics and identities.

As concepts, continuity and community are inherently tied in to the idea of culture. It is unsurprising, then, that they have been subject to essentializing definitions and discourse, as well as more recent constructivist re-evaluations.14 Therefore, I begin this chapter with a brief discussion of essentialist versus constructivist understandings of behavior and

14 Here, again, I define essentialism as theory that sees identity categories such as gender or ethnicity as fixed, clearly bounded, and universal. In contrast, I define constructivist approaches as those that view identity categories as flexible, constantly negotiated, and discursively constructed. See e.g. Gosden 2001; Liebmann 2008.

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culture, including community and continuity. I follow it with a discussion and definition

of continuity, pulling in examples from outside the Mediterranean, which itself is home to

little theoretical literature on constructivist approaches to continuity. I then turn to

community and explore the relationship between our implicit understandings of the idea in

contemporary daily life, and their relationship to different conceptions of the community

in sociological, anthropological, and archaeological scholarship. In doing so, I specifically

address the need to include contemporary social understandings in an archaeological

definition of community, while avoiding the politicizing implications that often come with

current usage of the term. Finally, I conclude with my working definition for community—

which builds on the previous scholarship discussed throughout this chapter—and introduce my framework for locating communities in the archaeological record.

2.1 Community and continuity: against essentialism

The history of essentialism in anthropology and archaeology relative to the concept of

culture is well-known. V. Gordon Childe’s notions of culture history and bounded groups

that could be identified by their material characteristics long girded archaeological research

and our understanding of the past (Childe 1940; 1950). Traditional approaches to identity

foregrounded the specific notion of cultural identity, and subsets thereof, like gender and

status, which were conceived of as objective, inherent, and primordial. This reflected a

belief in the idea of the collective directing and structuring individuals’ actions, and

excluded more complex notions of the role of agency, behavior, and practice in

engendering culture and other forms of individual identity that were subjective and

contingent (cf. Díaz-Andreu and Lucy 2005; Jones 1997; Sahlins 1999). The

59 deconstruction of essentialism has been achieved in no small part by contributions from postcolonial studies, which have emphasized the importance of social interaction in the discursive construction and negotiation of identities (Barth 1969; Liebmann 2008, 73).

That trajectory of scholarship and the tension between essentialist and constructivist approaches to culture matter for the discussion at hand, because they have had serious impact on how both continuity and communities are viewed. While definitions of culture itself have moved on decisively from the constraints of essentialism, such views of continuity and community (and even sometimes ethnic identity) repeatedly sneak in to archaeological discourse. For example, it is widely accepted that ‘pots are not people’

(Hodder 1989; Hodder and Hutson 2003), and that if their meaning is not inherent, it must be created and negotiated through practice. Nonetheless, Ionia is still considered ‘Greek’ because of its material culture, and the gross classifications we apply to pottery can be taken too seriously at face value—as signifiers of identity instead of form or style. Changes in the types of pottery found in Ionia are thus believed to reflect changes in cultural identity of the region’s inhabitants. Yet, adequate consideration has not been given to the full variety of practices that might have been associated with vessels in Ionia and the impact they would have had on how people experienced their pots and other possessions. The question of cultural continuity has therefore been assessed without attention to the possibility for continuity of practice.

Essentialist definitions are problematic for studies of community as well, because they attach fixed cultural labels, and frame communities as bounded entities; the result is that

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the role of human practice and agency in their formation and maintenance is minimized,

and they are treated as collectives that act unilaterally and uniformly (Isbell 2000). In what

follows, I therefore outline the constructivist re-evaluations of continuity and community and define the roles they play in this dissertation.

2.2 Defining ‘continuity’

In archaeology, the term ‘continuity’ is generally used in two ways: either to refer to

uninterrupted occupation or activity on the part of humans, reflected in the continuous

presence of material remains and other archaeological data over a given period of time; or

to refer to an unchanging commonality in the practices of a cultural group. The latter of

these uses is challenging at best and problematic at worst, in that it requires the user to

grapple with the question of how much change can occur without leaving the bounds of a

defined ‘culture’, and therefore with the line between essentialist and constructivist notions

of culture itself. I return to this issue momentarily.

In Ionia in particular, continuity of occupation, and its inverse—abandonment and

subsequent rupture—are critical for an archaeological understanding of the Iron Age. This

is because the most traditional aspects of the migration narrative rely on the idea that the

establishment of a number of new Greek settlements was responsible for the region’s

Hellenization (Chapter 1). If one were to accept this migration as the means by which Greek

language, practices, and materials from the western Aegean came to be so prevalent in

Ionia, one would expect to see evidence either for the establishment of new settlements, or

for the addition of large quantities of new and different material culture (in this case a proxy

for large numbers of Greek-speakers) to already extant settlements, thereby overwhelming

61 the material cultural signatures of their earlier inhabitants. The former scenario would be evidenced by a lack of occupation continuity at many—if not all—sites, representing numerous foundations of Ionian settlements on virgin soil. The latter scenario, conceived in its traditional form, would imply a lack of cultural continuity—or rather a cultural rupture—between pre-migration settlements and their post-migration counterparts, reflected in a rapid, all-encompassing change in the material record.

Continuity of occupation and activity is a straightforward question; one means by which to better understand the Ionian Iron Age is a synthetic assessment of evidence for it across the traditional Bronze-to-Iron Age transition, when migration was proposed to have occurred. I provide just such a synthesis in Chapter 3, which demonstrates the growing body of evidence for continued presence of people at a number of well-known Ionian sites in this period.

In contrast, cultural continuity is a more difficult issue to grapple with. As I asserted in

Chapter 1, the historicity of a wholesale replacement of populations by a large, coordinated migration has been almost unilaterally rejected, and those scholars who remain in favor of a migration do not propose a demographic event on an order large enough to summarily replace the populations of extant settlements. Therefore, the question of cultural continuity comes down to the issue of internal vs. external forces driving innovation and change, complicated by the traditional reliance on essentializing cultural categories in

Mediterranean material culture. To explore these issues further, I turn first to theoretical developments that deal with continuity in North American historical archaeology.

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2.2.1 Theoretical approaches beyond the Mediterranean

For a concept that has played such a key role in archaeological research, continuity has

received less theoretical exploration than other related topics. This is particularly true in

scholarship on the ancient Mediterranean, where cross-cultural interaction, hybridity, and various facets of identity have received much discussion, but the question of continuity itself has not been explored in-depth. The sole clear example that contradicts this is Lara

Ghisleni’s discussion of continuity and change relative to the Early Roman period in

Dorset, England. She argues compellingly that a Roman : native dichotomy is reinforced

when continuity and change are treated as ontologically separate processes, and that in

order to reconceive of the two processes as mutually compatible, it is necessary to redefine

the past as an array of “unfolding possibilities” (Ghisleni 2018, 153).

To tackle the continuity issue in the Mediterranean, then, it is necessary to turn—as

Ghisleni has also done—to other regions where dialogue has flourished more actively in

the last decade. Its roots however, extend farther back. One area of scholarship where this

is the case is North American historical archaeology. This is due in large part to the fact

that the practicalities for, and implications of, cultural continuity have been played out in

the modern American legal system, primarily in cases related to rights to federal recognition and land on the part of Native American tribes.

In the fight for federal recognition, tribes are required to meet certain qualifications, which fall under the categories of “demonstrable biological relationships and continuities in categories including social and political organization, residence in a particular geographical

63 location, and to a lesser degree, material culture,” (Panich 2013, 117). This process, and the relevance of concepts of continuity for it, have been discussed at length, raising questions about what the term means within the current understanding of culture as necessarily constituting both conservation and change (Clifford 1988; Lightfoot, Martinez, and Schiff 1998; Panich 2013; Silliman 2009; Silliman and Witt 2010; Voss 2015).

In short, theorization on cultural continuity from North American archaeology offers the following: clear illustrations of the damage done by essentialist definitions of cultural identity; an understanding of what continuity really means in situations involving cross- cultural contact and colonialism; and evidence for just how problematic the process of categorizing artifacts by cultural attribution can be. The North American example is thus relevant to the Mediterranean, addressing key issues that affect discourse on the ancient world as well.

The importance of a more critical definition of continuity is evident in James Clifford’s

The Predicament of Culture (1988). Among a host of issues, Clifford dissects the belabored

1976 court case between the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribal Council, Inc. and a group of collective defendants known as “New Seabury et al.”. In this case, the plaintiffs sought to prove that as the Mashpee Wampanoag, they did in fact constitute a tribe, and that they were descendant members of the same tribe that “had lost its lands through a series of contested legislative acts” in the mid-nineteenth century (Clifford 1988, 277). In order to petition the government for a land claim, as a number of other tribes had done in the 1960s and early 1970s, the tribe first had to prove their legal status.

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From a vantage point some forty years removed, it is clear that Clifford was witnessing a

situation wherein the authenticity of a tribe and the validity of their collective history was

predicated on their ability to demonstrate—through their practices, inherited knowledge,

and system of beliefs, as the subsequent questions from the defense attorneys make clear—

that they had retained a collective identity. The reason why they struggled to do so in the

eyes of the jury was that public understanding of Native American cultures is plagued by

the idea that they are static and incapable of change; this misconception remains evident

today (Silliman 2009, 214).

The idea now widely accepted among scholars, that identity is something people do, and

that both continuity and change are inherent to it (Díaz-Andreu et al. 2005; Insoll 2007;

Voss 2015, 657), was critically lacking in the development of legal frameworks, and

remains so to this day.15 In the last twenty years, however, a number of scholars have proposed new ways to bring together more complex understandings of identity with the archaeology of colonial America, the interests of native communities, and historical material culture, which is of great relevance to archaeology in the Mediterranean (Cobb and Depratter 2012; Field 1999; Lightfoot, Martinez, and Schiff 1998; Panich 2013; Peelo

2011; Silliman 2009; Silliman and Witt 2010; Voss 2008; Voss 2015). One point of useful transfer is the conclusion that archaeological studies of colonialism have relied too heavily on uncritical, overly rigid cultural categories for classifying and understanding artifacts,

15 As Les Field wrote in criticism of the legal process for federal recognition, Native American tribes seeking such status must undergo a process “based on some of the most egregious and rigid essentialist discourse anthropology has ever produced,” (Field 1999, 195).

65 and overlooked the importance of practice, memory, and the interrelationship between continuity and change when considering cross-cultural contact (Silliman 2009).

In North America, the result has been too strong a focus on comparison with pre-contact material culture and practice as a baseline to which data and materials from later periods is compared. In the homes of European settlers, change in material culture and practices is considered part of the normal passage of time, but in the homes of native peoples, those trends were marked as a sign of cultural rupture and discontinuity (Silliman 2009, 217,

222).

Another key takeaway from this body of scholarship pertains to archaeologists’ cataloguing and interpretation of artifacts. Too often, researchers are quick to sort finds into rigid categories—in this case, native, European/colonial, and perhaps ‘hybrid’. However, this ignores the fact that context is often missing, and excludes the possibility that the user’s perception of an artifact would have been the primary means by which they identified with it as something associated with their own cultural identity or with an ‘other’ (Silliman 2009,

222). This is well illustrated by Rodney Harrison’s (2002) work in Australia. In recording found artifacts, Harrison had categorized metal match tins on Aboriginal sites under the heading of European goods. Through oral historical records, however, it was made clear to him by members of the aboriginal community that they considered the match tins to be a normal part of their own material repertoire, and therefore aboriginal artifacts (Harrison

2002, 72). In this scenario, both designations were correct from the point of view of the

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objects users, but what archaeologists must concern ourselves with is exactly how that

meaning of an object might defer depending on who is interacting with it.

When mutual influence occurs, especially in the adoption of material goods—like match tins—that adoption may only be registered as the use of an item belonging to the ‘other’ in the single generation making the change. Individuals who grow up using any given item in their daily lives are likely to perceive it as being consistent with their own identities, regardless of its origins (Silliman 2009, 223).

In terms of continuity, the frameworks with which one chooses to investigate it have a significant impact on the definition that is implied. One must be careful to avoid the essentialist categories through which similarity and difference are often recorded in the archaeological record, re-seating objects in their original contexts of practice (as Silliman has shown); alongside this, it is also necessary to acknowledge the interrelated nature of continuity and change, and critically assess what kinds of changes are—or are not—taking place on a structural level (cf. Voss 2008; 2015).

One final point of applicability for a consideration of continuity in the Mediterranean comes from Lee Panich (2013), who proposes an archaeology of persistence as one path for future discourse. This entails a focus on the—sometimes dramatic—cultural changes of the colonial period as a single part of the much longer, dynamic histories of native communities. With an emphasis on practice, context, and identity, Panich demonstrates the importance of this re-framing for deconstructing the “terminal narratives” (Wilcox 2009,

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11–15) that are often applied to native cultures, characterized by “conquest, disease,

assimilation, and loss” instead of persistence (Panich 2013, 106).

The concept of persistence carries over in scholarship to the ancient Mediterranean—

primarily North Africa and Sardinia—where it has been used to better explain and understand the relationship between Punic inhabitants, their material culture, and their

Roman neighbors in colonial settlements (Bénabou 1976; McCarty 2013; van Dommelen

1998). This example represents one of the few tangential (or perhaps parallel) treatments of the question of continuity and its meaning for ancient peoples experiencing colonialism.

In the next section, I discuss the implications of the theorization of continuity for the ancient Mediterranean, and in Ionia specifically.

2.2.2 Continuity and the Mediterranean

Second millennium CE North America and first millennium BCE Anatolia are doubtless

temporally and geographically far-removed. Nonetheless, a number of similarities ring true between the two contexts, and their study has been interrelated. In particular, the overwhelming influence of modern Euro-American colonialism on scholarly conceptions of ancient colonialism and cross-cultural contact resulted in the transposition of those

“terminal narratives”, characterized by rupture, assimilation, and disappearance onto the ancient world. While concepts like hybridity and creolization (Cañete and Vives-Ferrándiz

2011; Hitchcock and Maeir 2013; Hodos 2005; Jiménez 2011; van Dommelen and

Rowlands 2012) have also made their way into Mediterranean archaeology, some of the more terminal narratives remain where regions associated with contact or colonialism are

68 not well-understood archaeologically (as in Ionia). Together, the approaches to the question of cultural continuity I have discussed here make several important contributions to a study of Iron Age Ionia (and indeed ancient colonial contexts more broadly):

1) The assignation of artifacts to overly rigid cultural categories, when the context of

their use is unknown, has the potential to dramatically misdirect contact narratives

(Harrison 2002; Silliman 2009; Silliman and Witt 2010; Van Oyen 2013). The idea

that even objects that appear in their manufacture to belong clearly to a single

category may have transcended any associated concept of identity for their users

might be fruitfully applied in Ionia to help broaden the spectrum of interpretive

possibility for the extant archaeological record. This is especially true given that

much of the categorization of materials is based on the teleology of the migration

narrative. That is to say, Greek speakers are presumed to have brought with them

Greek pots, and any pots that look Greek are therefore associated with a migration-

based imposition of material culture. The tendency to center too much meaning on

the typological labels given to ceramics has grown out of the persistence of

essentializing approaches to the relationship between material culture and identity,

and classificatory terminology should be used with care in discussing ceramics and

other artifacts.

2) The consideration of agency and preference relative to consumption in colonial

encounters has been critically important for understanding cross-cultural

interaction across the board in the Mediterranean. Two factors must be borne in

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mind, however. First, the complex interplay between individuals’ simultaneous

membership in different communities, and their activities within communities of

practice, can have strong impacts on both the production of goods and modes of

social differentiation within broader communities (Peelo 2011). Second,

individuals living within oppressive colonial structures may not be acquiring goods

in the kind of open market that allows for “pure” consumption (Silliman and Witt

2010). Relative to continuity, even outside of colonial contexts, these factors

remind us that the relationship between production, consumption, and identity is

complicated, and that the dynamics of interaction do not just affect practice and

meaning in the use of an artifact, but also in its production (Cobb and Depratter

2012).

3) Archaeologists should re-consider the notion that “change and continuity comprise

two different outcomes that are recognizable, if not measurable, through material

remains and applicable to cultural groups or to components of them,” (Silliman

2009, 211). In Ionia, this carries over to not just to the content of Iron Age

assemblages, but also what they mean for a site’s inhabitants. The direct

implications of this are discussed in Chapter 4.

Furthermore, this comparison raises an important question: Given the fact that Ionia’s true coloniality is in question (Chapter 1), in what ways is post-colonial theory most relevant

(and indeed critical) to grappling with understanding the region, and which aspects of the broad body of theory are less appropriate or require greater care?

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I argue that the application of post-colonial theory is both appropriate and necessary.

Because Ionia has been traditionally characterized by a migration narrative, it has been

subject to the same narratives of acculturation as later episodes of Greek colonization.

Regardless of the historicity of any larger-scale migration, the diversity of Western

Anatolia makes a framework of cultural contact entirely appropriate for interpreting archaeological and historical evidence. That said, the difference between cross-cultural contact and colonialism is important to emphasize.

Peter van Dommelen and Michael Rowlands have proposed a scale of ‘degree of intensity’ of interaction, as opposed to a typology of definitive varieties. This rightly highlights the critical need to consider power and inequality as key criteria for classifying contact scenarios, as well as “physical co-presence and immediate juxtaposition of both people and objects,” (van Dommelen and Rowlands 2012, 24). Most helpfully, this scale puts the

emphasis of definition, as it were, on practice and interaction, as well as on the impact that

living in a given scenario had on all individuals involved. Therefore, the closer a context

gets to the end of the spectrum characterized by differential power, high inequality, and

long-term physical co-presence and juxtaposition, the more likely it is to be an example of

colonialism. In contrast, a scenario characterized by a relatively equal power dynamic and

intermittent or short-term co-presence would be classified as one involving a very different

type of cross-cultural contact.

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Put more explicitly, at the very end of this contact intensity scale, I take the term

colonialism to refer to “the presence of one or more groups of foreign people in a region at

some distance from their place of origin (the ‘colonizers’) and the existence of

asymmetrical socio-economic relationships of domination or exploitation between the

colonizing groups and the inhabitants of the colonized region (van Dommelen 1997, 306).

Critically, in the case of Ionia, I argue that archaeologists cannot claim that the region and

its inhabitants were experiencing colonialism. Regardless of one’s stance on the presence

of migrant populations, there is no evidence to suggest the existence of asymmetrical socio- economic relationships of any kind. While it is impossible to know the exact socio- economic circumstances of individuals living on either side of the Aegean at the Bronze

Age – Iron Age transition, there are no known parameters from which such an imbalance could be inferred. In terms of socio-political dynamics, both the eastern and western

Aegean were inhabited by people living in settlements within what was likely a partially dismantled network of trade and exchange, and also an environment with social structures that had shifted after the decline of Late Bronze Age powers (Morris 2006; Snodgrass

2000). They were also all living within a sphere that had previously been defined by strong interconnection and communication (see e.g. Moran 1992 on the Amarna Letters).

While prominent Aegean powers like the Minoans and Mycenaeans had arguably

established settlements at Iasos, Miletos, Samos, Ialysos, and other sites on the Anatolian

coast and its neighboring islands (Niemeier 2005b; Raymond et al. 2016), there is no sign

that they even attempted to subjugate or exploit peoples already living there; if they did

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attempt this, there is at least no evidence for any success. Perhaps no exploitation occured

because there was no desire to do so, or perhaps because such an effort would have been

too difficult. In either case, there is no record of it here.16 While the heart of the Hittite

Empire lay to the east on the central Anatolian plateau, and historical records do suggest

back and forth armed conflict between powers scattered between the plateau and the sea,

there is no evidence that peoples of Western Anatolia as a broad region were ever Hittite

‘subjects’ (Bryce 2011; Glatz and Plourde 2011; Mac Sweeney 2010).

Conflict may have abounded in the Late Bronze Age, and some powers were certainly greater than others, but no overwhelming inequalities existed between historically known

peoples of the eastern Mediterranean that would account for a truly colonial situation in

Ionia. The only way to accomplish such an overwhelming takeover would have required

the arrival of enormous numbers of people all at once, or the prior decimation of the local

population by some other means (e.g. disease, natural disaster, etc.); scholarship has

generally agreed that the former did not occur (Chapter 1), and there is no evidence for the

latter. Thus, even in the wake of crumbling Late Bronze Age power structures on both sides

of the sea, there is no reason to presume an Ionian scenario analogous to the colonialism

of the second millennium CE.

16 One thing we do have evidence for is the presence of groups of workers in Mycenaean palaces identified by ethnonyms, some of whom may have come from Anatolia (Olsen 2014, 87, 96). We must therefore consider the possibility that people wound up in such situations against their will, and their hypothetical captivity would have been achieved through violence and subjugation. If this was the case, however, the phenomenon of enslavement or capture between enemies was not unknown elsewhere in the Mediterranean, and I do not think we can say a scenario like this implies the kind of systemic power imbalance seen in colonial situations.

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Ionia is not an example of colonialism, but is post-colonial theory appropriate to address

it? Categorically yes. Because colonial language is regularly used to discuss it, and because

of the roots of Mediterranean archaeology in colonial and neo-colonial structures, it

remains necessary to decolonize discourse around it. It is, however, important to be mindful

of the language that we use in doing so, particularly as we attempt to re-construct narratives

of early Ionian history. Because Ionia is a place ‘in-between’, hybridity is a tempting term

to apply to its inhabitants. However, it implies a dichotomy—the idea of two bounded

entities meeting—which is perhaps appropriate for scenarios of first contact between

disparate peoples, but not for a place like Ionia that had been consistently interacting with

its neighbors for so long. Therefore, while post-colonial theory is important for a study of

Ionia, the language borrowed from it must be chosen carefully.

2.2.3 Arriving at a definition

Two types of continuity are important to a discussion of Ionian community formation:

continuity of activity (or presence/occupation), and continuity of cultural practice. The

first is demonstrable in an unbroken stratigraphic record that testifies to the relatively

uninterrupted presence of human activity. This is an important issue in Iron Age Ionia

because of the traditional migration narrative and subsequent demographic change, which

relies on the idea of rupture, and therefore a lack of continuity of human presence in

settlements across the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition.

The second variety, cultural continuity, is defined here relative to practice. Specifically, I adhere to the notion that cultural continuity as viewed through the archaeological record

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is determined not by a lack of change in the style and type of materials found, but rather

by the persistence of ways in which people interacted with those materials—that is to say,

the practices they undertook in using them. This is an important distinction, because it

attends to the mutual compatibility of the overall processes of continuity and change, and

highlights the culturally contingent nature of the meaning assigned to material objects. I

expand on the importance of practice and meaning for my archaeological investigation of

communities later in this chapter (section 1.3.4).

2.3 Characterizing community

2.3.1 ‘Community’ in contemporary use

One of the reasons ‘community’ can be so hard to define is that the term comes up

frequently in contemporary daily life, and various components of social identity, social

interaction, and social reproduction are all inherent in its use. When the term is used, these

aspects of community and the roles they play in social dynamics can be recognized by the speaker (and the listener) without any need to agree on a lexical definition of the term.

Following Anthony Cohen’s (1985, 12) exhortation to focus not on this lexical meaning,

but instead on use, I begin with an examination of community in modern daily life.

The term ‘community’ is frequently used in contemporary society to denote any group of

people who share a particular facet of their identity, often, but not always, within a larger

group; this is clearly exemplified by demographic groups within a larger municipality—

e.g. ‘the Latinx community’, ‘the Francophone community’, ‘the Sikh community’. The

term can also refer to a group of people within a larger whole who share a common

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interest—e.g. ‘the fencing community’, ‘the knitting community’, ‘the astronomical

community’. Furthermore, it is also commonly employed whenever one speaks on behalf

of, or to, the membership of a group bound by location or affiliation with an organization

or corporate entity—the students and employees of a university, or the employees of a large

company—or, perhaps most commonly, when one is referring to the inhabitants of a shared

neighborhood, a town, or a city. How, then, does one draw a line around what constitutes

a community at any given time? Perhaps the best way to arrive at this answer is to ask

another question—what is not a community, or rather, what is the difference—if any—

between a community and a group?

In considering examples of a group, we might include something with a more temporary

designation. A tour group, for example, that spends a few hours following a guide around

a new city would probably not be termed a community by anyone who stopped to consider

their identity as a collective. So, too, might we dismiss the occupants of a train car or a

plane cabin as a community, even on a long-haul flight from Los Angeles to Hong Kong,

but this collection of people could certainly be referred to as a group. Given the breadth of

examples to which people instinctively apply the term community, it is clear that size is

not generally a limiting factor, nor is physical co-presence an absolute necessity; after all, we might refer to a group of people who regularly interact online as a community—e.g. the community of Star Trek fans—or even to a global community or diaspora. Taking our instinctive use of the term as a guide, then, I argue that the difference between a community and a group is that, while the latter is simply a collective of individuals who can be associated on the basis of something as simple as fleeting shared presence in a space, a

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community is a group with a sustained level of interaction, either directly (in person) or

through a shared set of interactions with things and spaces, as well as a mutual awareness

of one another. This differentiation allows for the inclusion of both people living in the

same municipality, and what Benedict Anderson (1983) called an ‘imagined

community’—people who might never meet in person but are nonetheless aware of one

another and consider themselves as sharing some aspect of identity or interest. This

differentiation between a group and a community makes an important clarification; the

identification of a group of people as a community is predicted on the idea of interaction, not only with people, but with things and places they share in common.

A timely example of our contemporary understanding of communities can be found on the back of a bag of coffee beans, which I recently received as a gift from a kind friend.17 The

copy reads,

“Here, local artisans serve up today’s coffee experience through small-batch roasting and meticulous preparation. The beans we use are sourced from unique regions around the world, where we invest in relationships with the farmers, ensuring a sustainable future for them and us. At every stage, collaboration is key and many hands are involved to craft a coffee that is the best it can be. So, gather around the beans, we’re creating community from seed to cup.” (Allegro Coffee, Berkeley, CA)

This description highlights a number of characteristics of communities that have been

identified in scholarship, derived from both essentializing and more constructivist

17 I wish to express my gratitude to Evan Levine for the provision of these beans. They were no doubt chosen without attention to their packaging, as his discerning palate always accords primary emphasis to the roast, quality, and flavors we both enjoy. They were nonetheless timely for their perfect illustration of the concepts discussed in this chapter, and they yielded an excellent cup of coffee. Should the reader desire to sample these beans and ‘taste’ the community for themselves (notes of red fruits, butterscotch, and grape juice came through faithfully), I recommend they acquire the ACR Colombia Orgánica Cooperative from Allegro Coffee Roasters, and brew in a Chemex at a 1:14 ratio.

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approaches, about which I elaborate in the subsequent section. The community is being

used to advertise these coffee beans, and the copywriters are relying on the consumer to

inherently understand several things: communities are about interaction; they are

fundamentally built upon face-to-face interactions between people, but can also involve

those between people and things (like coffee beans!); they are inherently good; they elicit

feelings of quaint rurality and social intimacy; they revolve around shared values; and they

are layered and nested within one another.

2.3.2 ‘Community’ in scholarship

In an effort to sketch out a working definition for a ‘community’, I have thus far relied on

observations of how we use the term in modern society. Now, I focus primarily on its

discussion in the archaeological literature. Unsurprisingly, this has grown out of the study

of communities in the field of sociology, and for a thorough overview I direct the reader to

Naoíse Mac Sweeney’s (2011, Chapter 2) work on the topic. Important to note is the near

complete politicization of the concept of community from the inception of its study. It

emerged in the midst of the Industrial Evolution with Ferdinand Tönnies’ Gemeinschaft

und Gesellschaft (1887) (Mac Sweeney 2011, 9). Surrounded by the ongoing mechanization and rapid urbanization in Germany and across Europe, Tönnies was concerned for what he saw as a direct threat to traditional ways of life and the close ties found in rural settlements. He considered the social organization of smaller, traditional, rural agricultural communities to possess an inherent morality, and believed them to be the natural means of human organization, producing a Gemeinschaft (“community” or

“collective”) that itself possessed a “real, organic, life,” (Tönnies 2001, 17). This stood in

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his mind in direct contrast with a society at large—the Gesellschaft—that was a “purely

mechanical construction, existing in the mind,” (Tönnies 2001, 17). For Tönnies, then, the

community was a natural unit with several different levels (of blood, of place, and of spirit),

the last of which represented “what makes a truly human community in its highest form,”

(Tönnies 2001, 28).

Tönnies’ primary concern with a contrast between community and the state has remained

a component of more contemporary, essentialist definitions of the concept, as has his

emphasis on the traditionally rural nature of communities, which brought with it a sense of

primitiveness, social intimacy, and all-encompassing involvement (Cohen 1985, 22). This

is still visible in quotidian use of the term, particularly in the way that people often ascribe

an inherently positive character to the idea of community—something that must be built,

that provides for its constituents more reliably than the state and is therefore more reliable

and ‘real’, and that reflects a sense of tradition and nostalgia for ‘simpler times’.

Earlier sociological approaches to the community also emphasized their static and

homogenous nature, emphasizing the identity of the group over the individual. The shift

towards urbanization that Tönnies blamed, in part, for the loss of community at the expense

of the society at large was also seen as the cause for the fragmentation of people’s social

lives—and really their social identities. Instead of living their full lives in the company of

others who knew them completely, people were seen to exist in a series of specialized roles,

and only to be known as their (very limited) roles (e.g. bank-teller, mechanic, baker, etc.) to those with whom they interacted in different places. The only exception was in the home,

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and perhaps in the surrounding neighborhood (Cohen 1985, 23; see also Park, Burgess, and

McKenzie 1925).

While these characteristics underlined many of the earlier approaches to studying the

community, it is worth noting that at no point was there general consensus on an actual

definition of the term; scholars have constantly struggled with producing one, and this

phenomenon is not new. In a 1955 study, George Hillery famously documented 94 different

definitions for the term ‘community’ in sociological scholarship, and the only point of

consensus among them (excepting the “radical deviants” among certain ecologists) was

that communities were founded upon social interaction (Hillery 1955, 119).

An alternative approach to communities has unsurprisingly developed in modern

scholarship. Broadly, it assigns them an inherently dynamic, symbolically constructed, and

historically-contingent nature, often going so far as to embrace Benedict Anderson’s idea

of the ‘imagined community’, which can exist in the mind and requires no face-to face

interaction (Anderson 1983, 6). Anderson himself was interested in modern nationalism and conflict and interaction on a global scale, and it is easy to see how such a definition of community can lend itself well to studies of migration, diaspora, and the interplay between ethnic and national identities.

2.3.3 Community scholarship in archaeology

These two broadly-defined approaches to community in sociological and anthropological scholarship have been mirrored in archaeology as well. The term can be challenging to

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understand, specifically because it has both been used as a casual descriptor with an

inferred definition—the inhabitants of a single settlement—as well as a carefully theorized

social concept that is studied in its own right. As Cohen himself noted,

“‘Community’ is one of those words – like ‘culture, ‘myth’, ‘ritual’, ‘symbol’ – bandied around in ordinary, everyday speech, apparently readily intelligible to speaker and listener, which, when imported into the discourse of social science, however, causes immense difficulty,” (Cohen 1985, 11).

What is perhaps the most prevalent use of ‘community’ within archaeology, wherein the term lacks theorization and acts as shorthand for a group of settlement inhabitants, aligns relatively well with the late 19th-century conception of the community as natural and

organic. Beyond this, study of communities has followed much the same trajectory as that

of culture and identity; they were initially viewed as fixed and natural phenomena whose

characteristics were inherent and unchanging, and later determined to be socially

constituted and contingent social structures (for a more detailed summary of this

historiography, see Varien and Potter 2008b; Yaeger and Canuto 2000)

In Mediterranean archaeology, communities have not been widely studied (the few

exceptions include Attema, Nijboer, and Zifferero 2005; Gosner 2016; Harris 2014;

Haynes 1999; Knapp 2003; Mac Sweeney 2011); New World archaeologists and those

working on Neolithic and Iron Age Europe have been far more prolific18. Oliver Harris

(2014) has conducted an excellent overview of archaeological approaches to the

community, and I point the reader to his careful discussion. Here, I offer only a short

18 In the New World, see e.g. (Houston et al. 2003; Minar 2001; Sassaman and Rudolphi 2001; Varien and Potter 2008a; Voss 2008; Yaeger 2000). In Europe see e.g. Fowler 2004; Harris and Sørensen 2010; Moore 2007; Neustupný 1998; Whittle 2003; Whittle 2005.

81 summary of the characteristics he has collated that I consider necessary for an understanding of communities, and which have been most impactful on my own definition.

The primary characteristics of communities, and their place in study of the ancient

Mediterranean, are as follows. Bernard Knapp, Mark Varien, and James Potter have all argued that the study of communities through material culture is essential to our understanding of the experience of the human past (Knapp 2003, 570; Varien and Potter

2008a, 2). This is no doubt reflected in the consistent use of the term by archaeological scholars—even when it goes without explication; I would argue that it reflects our experiences and conceptions of the community as an essential component of social life.

Archaeologists have consistently agreed with the early sociological theorists that, at its core, community is predicated upon interactions (Cohen 1985, 17; Yaeger and Canuto

2000). Many would say those interactions are limited to human beings, but some have also argued that communities are engendered by interactions between people, places, animals, and things (Harris 2014, 90–92). These interactions are part of the routine engagements of everyday life, and a set of shared understandings that contributed to individual habitus

(Yaeger 2000, 129–30; Whittle 2005, 66). This understanding has also been contingent upon the importance of space and place; face-to-face interactions between people are not specifically required for the engendering and maintenance of a community, in that communities can exist across space in time in the manner described by Anderson, but co- presence within a space (be it a structure, settlement, or landscape) is one of the primary

82 facilitators of the face-to-face interactions that effect so many of the bonds that engender the community in the first place.

Communities are also multivalent. As Cohen argued (1985, 108), they exist at many different levels, and people can belong to multiple communities at one time. Communities are thus mutually-dependent, cross-cutting, and nested within one another through their individual constituents (Canuto and Fash 2004; Evans and Knight 2001; Knapp 2003;

Preucel 2000; Watts 2006). As I asserted above, some of these communities might be specific to a location or space, and some of them might be broader and less reliant on co- presence (cf. Anderson’s imagined communities).

A third important component of communities is that they are sites of learning (Lave and

Wenger 1991; Wenger 1998), and an important idea in the archaeological study of communities—predicated on that learning—has been the community of practice. One notable characteristic of these types of communities are that they facilitate the transfer of knowledge and specific forms of practice, and that the inclusion of new individuals involves the teaching of that knowledge and pracitce by people who are already members.

Such teaching occurs when children learn practices or specific skills from parents and family members, but also when individuals elect, or are selected, to join a community of practice based around an occupation or specific role (e.g. learning an artisanal craft, joining a specific profession, or otherwise taking on the responsibility of specialized tasks). This notion of communities of practice has been mobilized to explore the relationship between

83 material culture, production, learning, and identity (e.g. Minar 2001; Roddick 2009;

Roddick and Stahl 2016; Sassaman and Rudolphi 2001).

Another subsidiary category of communities that has received some attention in the literature is that of the ‘moral community’. This arises from the notion that “values, ideas, ideals, and emotions…constitute a vital part of ‘structures’ within which agents act,” and which play a vital role in how people live and interact together in the world (Whittle 2003,

13). This characteristic of communities ties in with a final important factor that has received particularly marked attention in study of the European Neolithic—the role of emotion and affect. George Whittle has rightly argued that emotional bonds are created by daily routines and the choreography of living, farming, herding, etc. in the European Neolithic (Whittle

2005, 66). Oliver Harris has recently built on the idea of emotion, and he turns instead to affect for its ability to encompass interactions between humans, animals, things, and places, and avoid the anthropocentric nature of communities with which he takes issue (Harris

2014, 90–91; Harris and Sørensen 2010). He asserts that affects “are the engagements with the world associated with all forms of substance,” and illustrates their impact on our understanding of community through the example of Grooved Ware, found both at henge sites and in domestic contexts in Late Neolithic southern Britain. This pottery type acts, he claims, “not only as the symbolic referent for the imagined community…but [as] an active member of communities that operated at multiple scales, through the way it disclosed affective relations,” and that ultimately, “The presence of Grooved Ware allowed these scales of community to intersect in a manner which would simply not have been possible without it,” (Harris 2014, 91).

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One notable question about the community—sometimes directly debated, sometimes left unaddressed—has been whether or not people need to be conscious of their affiliation for it to exist. Mac Sweeney (2011, 18) has argued that they must, and that communities only exist when it becomes expedient for a collective identity to supersede individual identity;

Harris (2014, 89) counters that such a requirement implies a problematic level of human exceptionalism. I take the position that communities are engendered through interactions and affects, and that people do not need to actively name or identify a community to which they belong for it to exist.

2.3.4 Arriving at a working definition

This dissertation builds on many of the characteristics outlined above in its treatment of the community. As a working definition for the term, I have adopted that provided by

Canuto and Yaeger, who write that a community is,

“an ever-emergent social institution that generates and is generated by suprahousehold interactions that are structured and synchronized by a set of places within a particular span of time. Daily interactions rely on and, in turn, develop shared premises or understandings, which can be mobilized in the development of common community identities,” (Canuto and Yaeger 2000, 5).

This definition has the benefits of clarity and concision and allows for enough flexibility to be compatible with the characteristics I discussed in the previous section. In this dissertation, however, I build on Canuto and Yaeger’s definition by adding parameters by which communities can be identified in the archaeological record. Many of the studies discussed in this chapter do not lay out how one might go about this task; instead, they provide (valuable and interesting) case studies for the social or political roles played by

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communities at specific sites or within defined regions. If, however, as Knapp suggests,

the investigation of communities through material remains is a crucial task, then I argue it

is also necessary to denote how they can be seen and located archaeologically. In doing so,

the comparison of communities in the past is made feasible, which helps us further

understand “possible interpretations of the prehistoric past,” (Knapp 2003, 570), and also discuss ancient and modern communities together. When two or more studies of community can be brought together, all contexts involved can be further illuminated. Here,

I propose a framework for doing so.

If it is the affect elicited by day-to-day interactions and shared values (as in ‘moral communities’) that binds together the constituents of a community, then it must be for the material vestiges of those interactions (and the values that elicit them) that we look. Within my framework, I distinguish between ‘practices’—interactions between people, places, animals, and things that do leave material traces—and ‘experiences’—those interactions that do not leave material traces but might still be inferred indirectly from the archaeological record.

A focus on practice is especially productive for re-evaluating interaction and the formation of communities in Ionia. An understanding of the region’s identity has long been predicated on classifications of material goods. The appearance of new pottery types, in particular, has been held up as evidence for cultural change. As scholarship on practice theory (e.g.

Bourdieu 1977; Giddens 1984) and its applications to archaeology has made clear, however, practices structured by habitus are those most closely tied to cultural identity and

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are deeply rooted in communities as sites of learning (Lave and Wenger 1991; Wenger

1998).

While material objects both structure contexts for interactions and take part in them, it is

often the case that changes made to objects traditionally labeled ‘hybrid’—those that were

judged on the basis of formal characteristics to combine attributes from two cultures—

were often the products of conscious choices on the part of their producers (and consumers)

(cf. van Dommelen and Rowlands 2012, 28). The same is true for new goods that were

adopted within contexts of cross-cultural contact; rather than representing the adoption of

new cultural practices, the only certain process they imply is some degree of use of different

objects—the type of practice undertaken may have very well been the same, as is clear

from contexts in Iron Age Sicily (Hodos 2000; 2006, 129–42). A characterization of Ionia

that centers around rupture and wholesale change can therefore be discarded. Instead, a

new focus on practice facilitates the consideration of exactly the kinds of interactions that

would have structured—and been structured by—people’s identities and experiences, and allows us to investigate processes of community formation and flux.

For heuristic purposes, I propose the division of practices into two broad types: shared maintenance practices and shared ritual practices. I also propose the addition of a third category, which deals with the aforementioned aspects of interaction that do not leave direct material vestiges but can nonetheless be inferred from the archaeological record: shared social experience. Rough as these divisions are, they reflect commonly shared categories within communities that one could identify in contemporary globalized society

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(ergo they are relevant to considerations of living communities today), and they also reflect

three of the key characteristics of communities outlined above—repeated daily tasks,

shared values (as in the idea of the ‘moral community’), and the experience of direct

interaction between people, animals, things, and places in shared physical space(s).

These categories are defined as follows: shared maintenance practice includes daily

activities—related to the acquisition, storage, preparation, and consumption of food; the

construction and use of domestic and other structures; and the production of ceramics,

tools, and other items for regular use—that were performed by individuals for the upkeep of households and the basic maintenance of human life. I have chosen the term

‘maintenance’ instead of ‘domestic’ because of the limiting nature of the latter. Originally, however, the impetus to categorize separate ‘maintenance practices’ comes from a body of feminist scholarship that was explicitly concerned with identifying and exploring those activities primarily carried out by women in many cultures and therefore broadly ignored in earlier archaeological research (Conkey and Gero 1991; Tringham 1991; Hendon 1996).

These include “all activities related to feeding and food processing, basic clothing and

weaving, care giving, raising and socializing children, and fitting out and organizing related

spaces,” and are “fundamental in regulating and stabilizing social life, and in guaranteeing

the group’s cohesion through the strengthening of its basic bonds,” (Montón-Subías and

Hernando 2017, 7–8). I have therefore broadened the set of activities included under the

category of maintenance, and I use it in this dissertation without specific implications for

gendered division of labor.

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Shared ritual practice refers specifically to actions—distinguished from concepts like belief

or myth, which inform them—that are routinized or habitual physical expressions of

“logically prior ideas,” and serve ultimately to integrate thought and action (Bell 1992, 25–

26). While ritual—and the beliefs it integrates into action and practice—can infiltrate all aspects of daily life, the practices that are most distinguishable as being identified with it are visible in funerary and cult contexts. Therefore, I limit my discussion of shared ritual practices to those evidenced by materials from funerary and cult assemblages.

Shared social experience refers to those components of community that involve interaction with objects, places, space, and other humans that do not leave direct material traces. Thus, shared social experiences can be engendered by the passage of individuals in the street, the act of drawing water from the same well, or habitation in the same area or neighborhood of a large settlement. These experiences modify, and add another dimension to, the categories of maintenance and ritual practice, and we must use the data within them to infer the existence of social experiences themselves. For example, two communities practicing different traditions of burial for their dead can be seen through evidence for those different practices in the material record (e.g. cremation and interment in ceramic vessels vs. inhumation in pit graves); shared social experience, however, can be inferred by the fact that different burial styles are found side-by-side within a shared cemetery space. If burials were undertaken at the same time, certainly the living members of the communities would have interacted with one another through co-presence in the cemetery space. Even without simultaneous co-presence, however, their shared interaction with the space itself and the

89 other (deceased) people and objects in it would have served as a shared social experience that created emotional and affective bonds.

There is certainly overlap between these categories. As I have just stated, ritual practices are reflective of shared ideas or values held to be commonly true by members of a community, and those ideas and values can impact virtually every aspect of people’s daily lives, including how they undertake maintenance tasks and interact with one another and their environments. As another example, shared social experiences are routinely engendered in the course of maintenance or ritual practice—it is the act of participating in them together that results in the social component. In some of these cases, distinctions can be reasonably made, and in others it is more challenging to do so, but ultimately the value of the heuristic holds. If the goal is inter-context comparison, then the division of practices represented in the material record into broad categories allows us to speak with slightly more specificity about the human social experience of community.

I have established that interaction is a necessary component of the formation and maintenance of a community. Understanding what happens when members of different communities come together, and how dynamics change, or new communities are formed, is thus not just about identity, but about how identity is experienced and communicated in interactions with other people, places, and things. My heuristic division of types of practice and experience is helpful because it distinguishes between different spheres of interaction related to different components of identity. While the actual formation of communities in the world cannot be fit neatly into defined processes, a heuristic is nonetheless required to

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make sense of it in the archaeological record. Here, I illustrate the value of the framework

I have proposed with an example from more recent history, which shows in greater detail

how the complexities of these interrelated processes function. I begin with identification

of the three categories of practice and experience, before clarifying the value in their

separation.

For this example, I use the context of a late 19th century tenement building on Manhattan’s

Lower East Side. A building such as this this would have been home to more than a dozen

families, many of them immigrants from different regions across Europe—Germany, Italy,

Ireland, Russia, etc. They would have also likely represented a cross-section of birthplaces—parents would have likely been born and raised outside of the U.S., but children would have ranged from those born in similar situations to those born as American citizens in New York. This means that at any given time, the residents in the building would have represented a broad array of identities and membership in communities of people who shared them (national identity and native language are two obvious categories that serve as examples here), and they would have also been sharing extremely tight quarters that necessitated intense, daily interaction with one another and their surrounding environment.

A clear example of maintenance practices in this context would have been those related to food preparation and consumption. Families initially would have maintained many of these practices when they arrived because parents would have been socialized with them since childhood. Archaeologists wouldn’t necessarily be able to distinguish those practices on the basis of vessel types for preparation, however—kitchen accoutrements would have

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probably comprised a combination of what was available in New York, as well as possible

special items that had been brought over by the families, or their relatives or friends. There

is thus no guarantee that they differed dramatically between families or apartments.

It is also possible that practices surrounding consumption may have been influenced by religious beliefs (e.g. the celebration of Shabbat by Jewish residents), but in this case, I would still qualify those practices as ‘maintenance’ because of the challenge of differentiating them. In the case of Shabbat, for example, some meals might have included close friends or neighbors who did not share the same religious beliefs or traditions, but who participated with the family in the communal act of consumption for social reasons.

Because food preparation or consumption informed by religious belief cannot necessarily be materially distinguished, but because it still always reflects regularly repeated tasks for

the purpose of sustaining life, it is thus most clearly representative of maintenance

practices.

Ritual practices would have been most clearly visible in the realm of the church or

synagogue, as well as in cemeteries and burial traditions. For example, Jewish residents of

the tenement might have buried their dead in Jewish cemeteries along with other members

of the broader Jewish community in the city (or individual boroughs), and would have also

taken part in the rituals—e.g. visiting a family sitting shiva—surrounding death and

mourning. This is true for Christian residents of different denominations of the tenement

as well.

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The social experience of living together within such a cramped building, however, would

surely have bound together residents in some kind of shared sense of community. Many

children would have entertained themselves en masse in and around the building, mothers

and older daughters would have interacted in the course of maintenance tasks like laundry,

caring for younger children, cleaning and maintaining space within the building, acquiring necessary produce and supplies from the same shops and markets, or even childbirth and the sharing of tasks in support of a recently delivered mother. As children born in the tenement grew up, their identification with one another as Lower East Siders and immigrants living in New York may have been just as strong as (or stronger than) their sense of difference on the basis of belonging to originally separate cultural communities or diasporas.

Despite the overlap visible here, the heuristic value in separating these practices and

experiences into categories is a resulting ability to think more clearly about how people

experienced their identity in the context of interaction in different realms of their daily

lives.

Children playing together in the halls of a tenement building represents an experience

specific to a shared space and time. The interaction is predicated solely on their physical

co-presence and does not need to rely on their sharing any other aspect of identity (or even

a language). The same is true for women undertaking laundry in a courtyard; even if they

accomplish the task in slightly different ways, the social act of sharing the experience of

tiring labor together in the same space at the same time on a regularly repeating basis

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articulates a sense of belonging among those physically present in those moments.

Furthermore, the importance of temporal and spatial factors in the formation of new

communities is compounded by the role objects play in this process. Within the constraints

of new spaces and places, and with different resources available, people must necessarily

adjust their practices to accomplish the same tasks—using substitute ingredients to prepare

a desired dish or making do with inadequate kitchen space and supplies to produce the same foods. Negotiating these constraints is also a form of shared social experience, and results in a new set of shared practices—those required for negotiation—among all residents of the building.

In contrast, families’ preparation and consumption of foods associated with the cultures

(and places) of parents’ birth and childhood involves an interaction that relies on identity and practice carried to the present from the past. Two families from Germany living in the

same building, for example, might identify with one another over a shared desire to acquire

the same ingredients, and their preparation and consumption of the same types of meals. If

other neighbors are invited to share that food with them in commensality, it contributes to

a sense of community on the basis of shared social experience, but it still reflects a different

type of belonging to that shared by the two German families. For the adults, at least, their

association is predicated on a similarity of practices into which they were socialized in their

homelands as children. Even if they expose other neighbors to those practices by sharing

food, that act involves the decision to share a part of one’s identities with an ‘other’—it is

different than the formation of a new community through shared social experiences that

draw only repeated co-presence.

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Finally, practices associated with ritual—in the case of the tenement, religious belief— need to be distinguished because, at least for some people, they represent a facet of identity that has a different source. Like food preparation, the primary impetus for participation in ritual practice for some people could simply be familiarity with repeated action—it may just be what is ‘done’. But for others, ritual participation is directly informed by deeply- held belief and those “logically prior ideas” to which Bell refers (1992, 25-26). In the case of the tenement, because we cannot distinguish between a person attending worship services, or burying their dead a certain way, out of pure habit and out of a belief in its fundamental necessity and importance on religious grounds, I argue it is better to distinguish them from other practices as part of the same ‘ritual’ category. This is because in terms of the actor’s interaction with others, the performance of those tasks is still associated with the religious belief it identifies; a Catholic resident identified by a smudge of Ash on Ash Wednesday is still communicating that belonging to those they interact with, regardless of the grounds on which they participated in the ritual.

The importance of distinguishing between types of practices and experiences, then, lies in the spheres of interaction in which they take place, and the relationship between the person doing the action and those other people witnessing and experiencing it. The context of daily life in which the practice or experience takes place affects the way it is mobilized by all involved to relate to one another—as an articulation of immutable difference, of similarity contingent on the present moment, of a life-long internalized sameness, or as a gesture of invitation to embrace and share in aspects of difference on the basis of other familiarity.

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The practices and experience that persist in articulating communities over the long term

thus reflect how people saw themselves, how they saw others (and how others saw them),

and ultimately which aspects of identity enacted in daily life were most critical to maintain

in which scenarios.

As this example has illustrated, categories for shared maintenance practices, shared ritual

practices, and shared social experiences are not intended as essentializing and immutable

classifications for the aspects of social life that are represented by specific materials.

Rather, they are freely recognized as inclusive and overlapping subsets of practice and experience that help identify non-exclusive associations between material remains and the interactions associated with them. Identifying these associations facilitates the creation of rough categories of evidence, which then allow for more effective communication and comparison of human behavior across archaeological contexts, even when they are geographically and chronologically disparate. Throughout the rest of this dissertation, I also refer to these different categories as ‘points of articulation’; this is because they serve as loci of interaction around which the affective bonds of community can be seen most easily, and thus as places in the material record where we can see the interaction—or articulation—between different communities and their constituents as well.

Because of the heavy focus on practices I have outlined here, the ‘community of practice’ plays an important role in my discussion moving forward. When I use this term, I am referring to the group of people who undertake the same practice in question in the same manner. I have denoted them as members of the same community on the basis of the

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assumption that they learned to perform the same practice in the same way as a result of

their belonging to said community. Therefore, when I specifically discuss the presence of

different communities of practice within the same space, I do not mean that people

performing generically different practices (throwing pots vs. threshing grain) were present

at the same settlement or site at the same time—this fact is a given assumption. Rather, I

am referring to the fact that material evidence suggests the same task—like the cooking of

a staple grain for consumption or the attachment of a handle to a pot—was performed in more than one way, with more than one different ‘version’ of the same material—in the same space.

2.4 Conclusion

In this chapter, I have laid the groundwork for an understanding of continuity and

community, and the important roles they can play in an investigation of regions like Ionia—

diverse and highly-connected places that acted as loci for cross-cultural contact. Drawing

from the archaeological literature of colonial and contact-period North America, I clarified

the critical difference between occupation continuity and cultural continuity, and argued for a more careful investigation of the latter.

Similarly, I situated the archaeological study of the community within the trajectory of the concept’s intellectual history and established the importance of several key components in its successful definition. These are: communities are engendered by interactions that take place in daily life—not just among people, but also animals, places, and things—and these interactions form the affective bonds that help tie the community together; they are

97 multiple, layered, and nested, and constituents can belong to more than one community at once; they are sites of learning; they can be engendered through shared values and ideas; and they need not be actively acknowledged or perceived to exist. Finally, I provided heuristic categories to assist archaeologists in locating different types of evidence for communities in the material record, as well as their locations: these were materials reflecting shared maintenance practices, shared ritual practices, and shared social experiences.

I explore continuity and community in the subsequent chapters, beginning with an establishment of Ionian occupation continuity in Chapter 3, and moving on to discuss the visibility of Ionian communities, their dynamics, and their formation in Chapter 4. In

Chapter 5, I compare a series of archaeological contexts across Ionia and the Northwestern

Mediterranean, and illustrate how the evidence categories I have outlined in this chapter can aid in our understanding of community formation and dynamics across both regions.

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Chapter 3: Continuity Across the Bronze-to-Iron Age Transition in Ionia

Traditional understandings of the development of Greek identity in Ionia have relied upon

the Ionian Migration as a narrative of wholesale or moderate scale population replacement,

bringing with it a western Aegean—and ultimately Hellenic—identity. While the

historicity of the migration has been generally rejected, the cultural change that ultimately

took place in Ionia is still often explained as a result of demographic replacement (Chapter

1).19 Given the persistence of such a narrative, one might expect the archaeological record to show clear evidence for either chronological gaps in settlement at major sites, or some form of destruction or conflict between the end of the Bronze Age (ca. 1150 BCE) and the start of the Archaic period (ca. 800 BCE). Neither of these phenomena is to be found,

however. Furthermore, the incompatibility between accepted explanation and perceived

outcome in terms of regional identity—which I introduced in Chapter 1—suggests that a clear demonstration of continuity is one of the strongest arguments for a reassessment of

early Ionian history. In this chapter, I demonstrate that the evidence for continuity of

occupation is strong at a number of Ionian sites, and argue that, taken together with new

ceramics research, these data may also represent a significant degree of continuity of

practice (i.e. cultural continuity).

Overall, the sites that have yielded the most comprehensive evidence for Iron Age Ionia

are Ephesos, Miletos, Limantepe/Klazomenai, Phokaia, and Smyrna-Bayraklı. These

appear to have been part of a broader settlement landscape comprising a collection of small

19 I draw a clear distinction between demographic interaction that would have resulted from a high degree of small-scale mobility (which probably characterized the Late Bronze-to-Early Iron Age transition) and demographic replacement, the implication of which is a substantial turnover of people living on the Western Anatolian coast in a short period of time.

99 but influential regional centers scattered throughout, joined by a series of prominent cult locations. Intensive survey has not been conducted in many parts of the surrounding landscape, but it is quite possible that larger settlements and cult sites were accompanied by a number of outlying villages (Büyükkolancı 2000, 43).

More isolated data do also come from other sites, however, and a comprehensive overview of published materials that attest to continuity can be found in Appendix A. In this chapter,

I present the strongest examples from among the full set of data and have grouped it by type: those from cult contexts, and those from domestic (or more ambiguous) settlement contexts. As I demonstrate, archaeological evidence for continuity of occupation comes primarily from two categories: architectural remains and ceramic materials.

3.1 Ionia in the Iron Age

While the term ‘Dark Age’ has fallen out of favor, much about Ionia in the early 1st millennium BCE remains in the shadows, as it were. The history of Ionian archaeology has meant that many (though not all) of the sites known to scholars are those that were also occupied in later periods, and our evidence from the Iron Age is often very patchy; this is due to a combination of several factors, including the privileging of research on periods both earlier and later (the Bronze Age and the Classical to Roman periods), and the accumulation of alluvial deposits, which complicate attempts to locate sites not found immediately below later structures (Chapter 1). Because no full archaeological synthesis exists for this period in Ionian history, it can be challenging to gain a picture of the regional

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social and material landscape in the period between the Bronze Age collapse and the

appearance of a number of Archaic poleis.

A synthesis of published data from Ionian sites between the 12th and 8th centuries BCE

(Appendix A) reveals that a significant number of major settlements were, indeed, occupied in this period (Fig. 3). Moreover, it is clear that the majority of these sites have also yielded data that attest to Bronze-to-Iron Age continuity from cult contexts, domestic contexts, or both (Fig. 4). Through this exercise, a clearer picture emerges of Ionian settlement patterns during a period that is often written off as transitional, understudied, and too poorly understood to merit substantial discussion.

The maps in Figures 3 and 4 suggest that the Iron Age Ionian settlement landscape comprised a series of small sites, some walled, with a mix of coastal harbor and hilltop locations. This network of key sites is punctuated by important cult locations at Ephesos,

Miletos, probably Klaros, and possibly Didyma.20 While very little survey work (extensive

or intensive) has taken place in Ionia, it is difficult to say what the distribution of smaller

villages, hamlets, or farms might have looked like.21 Ephesos may serve as an example,

however. While the Roman city appears to have subsumed all earlier areas of nearby

20 Klaros has yielded evidence for Late Bronze Age and early Iron Age activity, and I presume its likely importance because of the known later presence of an oracle, and the duration of continuous cult activity here. This importance is not certain, however. Similarly, Didyma has also yielded Late Bronze Age materials, but our understanding of the site at that date, and in the early Iron Age, is quite poor. Because of its great importance in later periods, however, I have suggested here that it was possibly also important in the early 1st millennium BCE. 21 Combatting this trend, Elif Koparal and colleagues hav been engaged in exciting survey work in the chorai of Klazomenai and Teos. Their ongoing work with the Klazomenai Survey Project is awaiting full publication, but promises to have a substantial effect on the understanding of the landscape of settlement in this area of Ionia in the Iron Age, Archaic period, and beyond. For preliminary results, see Koparal et al. 2017.

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habitation, the Iron Age and early Archaic inhabitants were more sparsely distributed

around its vicinity. The small village of Smyrna dates at least to the late 8th century BCE,

and was probably associated with the more significant settlement at Ephesos that may have

still been centered around the Ayasuluk Hill and the Artemision (Fig. 5).22 Smyrna was

located approximately 2.7 km southwest of the Ayasuluk, and was but one of a number of

smaller villages that have left traces of evidence in the Ephesian environs (Kerschner et al.

2000). This is only one example of outlying villages, but it seems likely that other

significant centers, like Ephesos, were surrounded by smaller settlements as well.

In its settlement patterning, Ionia is therefore different from its neighbors, Lydia and Karia.

Lydia was characterized by a single center of power in the early 1st millennium BCE, at

Sardis, which is clearly not present in Ionia. Karia comprised more densely scattered settlements along the coast and the lowland hills, the latter of which Anne Marie Carstens and Pernille Flensted-Jensen suggest were conducive to the pastoral lifestyle that probably characterized much of the Karian peninsula at the turn of the Iron Age (Flensted-Jensen and Carstens 2004).23 There is certainly some influence of geography contributing to differences in settlement patterning between regions, affecting the practicality and logic of different distributions of inhabitants within the landscape. Karia, for example, is limited in

its inland extent by large mountains that skirt the coastline. This is not the case in Ionia,

however, and yet the majority of settlements were still located on the coast, and indeed

22 The village of Smyrna at Ephesos should not be confused with the larger Ionian city of Smyrna located approximately 60 km north (as the crow flies). 23 The rationale for this suggestion also extends to the types of structures found in these settlements— which were circular, multi-room buildings with open central courtyards for animals—as well as the fact that they are not found in lower-lying areas conducive to agriculture, or at sites directly on the coast (Flensted-Jensen and Carstens 2004, 113–19).

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many were located on small peninsulae. This suggests that in terms of social organization

and connectivity, these sites were largely independent socio-political entities—they may

have been equally, if not more, concerned about contact with people traveling by water

than they were about contact with one another. Such an organizing principle certainly fits

with the emergent political geography suggested for the Archaic period, when literary

reports, at least, attest to conflict between Ionian cities that resulted in the Meliac War and

the destruction of the Ionian city of Melite in the mid-7th century BCE (Mac Sweeney 2013,

178).24

In terms of understanding the Iron Age Ionian settlements, the most extensive evidence for

habitation comes from Ephesos, Miletos, Limantepe/Klazomenai, Smyrna, and Phokaia.

These sites all share a characteristic importance in later Archaic and Classical periods that is recognized in scholarship, and thus their location and the relatively equitable distribution of social power seems to have been retained as well. While some sites are recognized as having wielded particular power at the end of the Bronze Age (Ephesos and Miletos, in particular), there remains no single center where it was concentrated. At most, it is possible that a hierarchy of power existed between settlements, with some possessing greater wealth, access to resources, or larger populations—and Ephesos and Miletos might be examples of these. Nonetheless, it is unlikely that the other major settlements would have been reliant on or subject to them.

24 The notion that conflict between cities may have been one of the general unifying principles of an Ionian identity has been put forward by Naoíse Mac Sweeney (2013) and Jan Paul Crielaard (2009).

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Had this occurred, I argue it is unlikely that we would see the degree of situatedness for

independent, outward-looking contact that we do in Ionia—and I speak here specifically

of the cities’ consistent locations in harbor-friendly sites on the coast. What is more, in

terms of production and economy, ceramic evidence suggests relative independence as

well. Many of the Ionian centers supported ceramic production industries in their own right,

and as a result, they all made primary use of their own goods in the Archaic and early

Classical periods (Kerschner and Schlotzhauer 2005); there is no reason to think that a

more unified ceramics industry existed in the early Iron Age. Our picture of early Iron Age

Ionia may be fragmented, but the evidence that exists does not suggest a network of unified

settlements relying on one another for economic exchange, nor a resultant coherent

regional identity. Thus, the relatively independent nature of Ionian settlements across the

Late Bronze-to-Early Iron Age transition, and a lack of any clear uneven geographic

distribution of power or control, seems to have characterized Ionia in the early 1st

millennium BCE.

Having now established a schematic map of Ionia ‘before’ its Hellenic transformation, and

a sense of what the landscape of residential communities there might have looked like after

the collapse of the Late Bronze Age socio-political framework, we are well-situated to examine the evidence for continuity at these sites.

3.2 Ionia and the Question of Continuity

I discussed the perceived ‘Greek’ identity of Ionia in the Classical and later periods in

Chapter 1. As I have established, a subtle but influential narrative persists in scholarship

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on ancient Ionia that suggests that this ‘Greekness’ was the result of a fundamental cultural

shift, and that such a shift was caused by a substantial change in population. The manner

of such a replacement is seen either as the dual process of abandonment and re-foundation of key sites, or, as it is more often depicted in ancient Greek sources, as the expulsion of

Bronze Age populations or their immediate descendants by migrants from the western

Aegean (Büyükkolancı 2000; Marek 2016; Mariaud 2012).

In Chapter 2, I established the importance of a constructivist approach to the notion of continuity, and the reasons why the continuity of both cultural practices and occupation are critical for an interrogation of early Ionian history. In my synthetic overview of published evidence dating from the 12th-8th centuries BCE in Ionia (Appendix A), however, these don’t exist. On the contrary, one strong trend that emerges from the data is evidence for continuity of activity—and in many cases consistent human occupation—straight through

from the Bronze Age to the end of the Iron Age; this is exactly the period when rupture

would have ostensibly occurred. In other words, if Ionian cities were ‘founded’ during the

period traditionally associated with a migration—the 11th century BCE (Chapter 1)—this

increase in western Aegean presence occurred at already occupied settlements.

The fact that a total or even substantial replacement of populations in Ionia is inconsistent

with the archaeological evidence is also supported by comparanda from around the

Mediterranean and beyond. Indeed, the myth of wholesale replacement or foundation on

unoccupied lands in colonial situations has been thoroughly debunked and recognized as

the result of modern colonialist discourse and practice. This is evident, for example, on

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Sardinia (van Dommelen 1998a; 1998b), in North Africa (Bénabou 1976; McCarty 2013),

Catalunya (see Chapter 5), and in Australia (Banner 2005; Borch 2001). One should

therefore be skeptical of the idea of large-scale demographic change not just on the basis

of the material data, but also on principle.

Despite emerging evidence, the rupture narrative has been hard to dismantle. The reasons for this are threefold. First, a long scholarly bias towards later periods has meant that research on the Iron Age has been sparse, and even now it is slow to pick up; the early 1st

millennium BCE has received a great deal of discussion, but excavation of Iron Age

contexts has been infrequent because they are a) hard to find, and b) not known for the

artistic or monumental value of their material remains. Second, Iron Age chronology in

Ionia has proven challenging. Local ceramics—both coarsewares and some finer wares—

that fall outside the traditional ‘fineware, painted’ categories are not well understood. Even

those sherds that are recognized as looking ‘Greek’ or ‘Lydian’ in style or influence can be

identified as similar to known wares, but remain challenging to date precisely on stylistic

grounds.

This ties into the third issue, which is that knowledge about different ceramic types is very uneven. The high number of individual production centers in the region means that the

Ionian ceramic record is rich and quite variable from site to site (Kerschner and

Schlotzhauer 2005), and the historical identification of Ionia as ‘East Greece’ has meant

that materials automatically assumed to be ‘Greek’ were heavily privileged over other local

(i.e. ‘Anatolian’) products—at least those that could not be subsequently identified as

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‘Lydian’ or ‘Phrygian’.25 One of the more recent developments that has had a great impact

on our understanding of Ionian ceramics is the use of archaeometry to study the provenance

of various fabrics (see section 3.3 for further details). Excellent results have been obtained

and this is a promising avenue for research—still, there is more to be done, and the limits

of what the scholarly community can achieve have more or less been reached with the data

that currently exists in Ionia (Posamentir 2016, pers. comm.)

These new developments relative to continuity have strong implications for the way we

conceive of population dynamics in Ionia during the Late Bronze-to-Early Iron Age transition. Firstly, the persistence of the ‘rupture and migration’ narrative continues to have a substantial impact on discourse, even if the magnitude of the migration has been watered down. Conducting analysis within the framework of latent ideas of population replacement has serious consequences for the assumptions made about archaeological finds—the

ramifications of this were made clear in my discussion of North American comparanda in

Chapter 2. For example, Protogeometric pottery has long been considered a style with

origins in Athens and its environs, and its appearance in Ionia is credited as a strong sign

of presence of individuals with ties to Attica. It was thus automatically labeled ‘Greek’,

and subsequent materials have been interpreted in the same vein.26 As I discuss later in this

25 Because of long-term work at Sardis and Gordion, knowledge of the Phrygian and Lydian material record (at least with regard to fineware ceramics and other luxury goods) is better than those for other Anatolian traditions of production. Thus, Lydian and Phrygian artifacts have been routinely identified and made objects of study by archaeologists working in Ionia (Cahill 2008; Greenewalt 2012; Gürtekin-Demir 2002; 2014; Kerschner 2005; Roller 2011; Voigt 2012). 26 Examples of this can be seen in interpretive work by Michael Kerschner (e.g. 2006; 2011) and Yaşar Ersoy (e.g. 2004), both of whom have acknowledged the quantity of evidence in favor of continuity at Ephesos and Klazomenai respectively, but who also refer to the period after the Bronze-to-Iron Age Transition as ‘Greek’. The same phenomenon is visible in Alan Greaves’ recent book (2010?), which maintains the dichotomy between Greek and non-Greek influences despite an interest in re-thinking the identity of Archaic Ionia outside the framework of the migration narrative.

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chapter (section 3.3), new examination and interpretation of Protogeometric pottery

suggests that, in fact, its variants in Ionia show strong continuity from the end of the Bronze

Age, and that it may very well represent an entirely local development, perhaps influenced by centuries of contact with the rest of the Aegean, but not directly reliant on Athens or

mainland Greece (Mokrišová 2017; Vaessen 2014). In this case, it is clear that a history of

top-down analysis—based on frameworks constructed within the context of a migration

narrative—has created a substantial bias in archaeological interpretation.

Secondly, new developments in our understanding of Ionian continuity suggest that the

lived experiences of Ionian inhabitants at the transition between historical periods mirrored

that of many other people living through similar transitions—a scholarly periodization may

have ended with the Bronze Age, but people themselves carried on from one day to the

next. This statement may seem an obvious one, but is important to make here for its very

real consequences; if people carried on, but archaeological evidence suggests a change in

their material culture or practices over the course of several centuries, then a gradual shift

must have been experienced in real time by communities whose members maintained a

semblance of continuity. Under these circumstances, some sense of what had come before

(at least in the previous one or two generations) in terms of daily language and practice

must have been maintained; habitus is not simply erased and re-built under normal

circumstances (Bourdieu 1977, 72; Jones 1997, 88–92). In this context, people may have

‘become’ one thing (here, ‘Greek’), but it is unlikely that they ceased to be another (‘non-

Greek’)—rather, they remained straightforwardly themselves while incorporating new

means—material, linguistic, etc.—to interact with their neighbors. Under generic

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circumstances this would read as a logical course of events, and I argue that we can, in fact, see evidence for it in the archaeological record.

Continuity and change must therefore be recognized as mutually compatible processes. In the remainder of this chapter, I present the clearest evidence for continuity of presence, illustrating where people persisted in living across the Bronze-to-Iron Age divide, and what the material evidence for that continuity looks like. This sets up the basis of discussion for

Chapter 4, addressing communities in the Ionian material record and the role cultural continuity plays in understanding their formation and flux.

3.3 Evidence for Bronze-to-Iron Age Continuity in Ionia

The sites that have produced the most comprehensive data sets for the 12th-8th centuries

BCE—and comprehensive is here a relative term—are Ephesos, Miletos,

Limantepe/Klazomenai, Phokaia, and Smyrna-Bayraklı. These have all yielded evidence for Bronze-to-Iron Age continuity, and that evidence comes from multiple categories.

Other places with less substantial data sets, but which nonetheless show evidence for continuity across this transition are Metropolis-Bademgediği Tepe and Kolophon.27 What is clear from the synthesis of 12th-8th century BCE data in Appendix A is that evidence for

continuity is most strongly visible in cult contexts, domestic contexts, and other settlement

evidence.

27 Several more sites have not been fully published, but have nonetheless yielded exciting initial results with regard to the demonstration of continuity. I do not include them here for the sake of clarity, but they include the site of the Heraion and Pithagorio on Samos, Panaztepe, and Kuşadası-Kadıkalesi (see Appendix A)

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Examples from cult contexts come from Ephesos, Miletos, Phokaia, Phanai (Chios), and

Klaros, demonstrating sustained presence at sites spread all over the region. At Phokaia,

Limantepe/Klazomenai, Ephesos, and Smyrna-Bayraklı, architectural evidence from

domestic settlement contexts attests uninterrupted occupation through the direct

superposition of structures and their repeated re-use and modification in the same

residential and production areas. The ceramic record—not itself the subject of my own

independent analysis, but deftly discussed by other scholars in promising re-analyses (e.g.

Mokrišová 2017; Raymond et al. 2016; Vaessen 2015)—suggests that the continuity of

specific production practices into the Iron Age represents the heavy influence of local traditions on Protogeometric pottery, previously seen as conclusive evidence of West

Aegean presence in the East.

3.3.1 Cult

Common among the sites discussed in this chapter is a trend in continuity specifically in

the area of temples and sanctuaries. This is primarily visible through the presence of

architectural elements and ceramic materials, and can be detected definitively at four major

sanctuaries, with high likelihood also at a fifth. At Ephesos, Miletos, and Phanai, continuity

is visible for both human presence in general, as well as the type of activity taking place—

in all three cases, evidence for some kind of cult practice is reasonably clear. At Klaros and

Phokaia, evidence for cult practice specifically is less conclusive, but the finds from the

Bronze Age periods at both sites are at least fully compatible with a cult interpretation.

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3.1.1.1 Artemision at Ephesos

Despite a paucity of surface remains, deposits from the temple site have provided some of

the clearest structural and ceramic evidence for a sequence of continuous activity at

Ephesos. This evidence is bolstered further by ceramic finds from the fortified Ayasuluk

Hill, discussed later in this chapter (Büyükkolancı 2000). The single visible column

standing on the surface and the structure in the plan provided to modern site visitors both

date to the Classical period, but trenches placed within the confines of this building have

revealed the earliest known structure on the site, a small peripteros dating to the late 8th or

early 7th century BCE (Bammer 2005; 2008; Kerschner 2011, 19; Weissl 2002, 321), which

is also the best preserved of the early Greek peripteral temples (Kerschner 2011: 19) (Fig.

6).

Below the peripteros, although a high water table has thus far impeded excavation, coring

has identified anthropogenic materials dated to the Bronze Age (Kerschner 2003, 246).

Additionally, Kerschner and others have argued for the origins of the site as a

Mycenean/Bronze Age ‘Naturkultmal’(Kerschner 2012; Muss 2001, 32). The presence of a spring somewhere on site has been speculated, though never attested (Kerschner 2012,

189)28, as it has been at Klaros and Didyma, but twin dried stream beds filled with early

7th century BCE sherds suggest that originally, water ran by the temple on either side

(Weissl 2002, 324); and the association between flowing waters and purifying properties

has been suggested (Kerschner 2012, 188).

28 A likely spring sanctuary has, however, been identified on the northern slope of the Ayasuluk Hill. It has been tentatively dated to the Bronze Age (Bammer and Muss 2007).

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The earliest excavated deposit at the Artemision dates to the Iron Age and is the largest closed context of Protogeometric materials known in Ionia (Forstenpointner, Kerschner, and Muss 2008, 33). It was found sealed under a fairly water-tight layer of clay and ash, and contained fragments of over 1000 ceramic vessels of predominantly Iron Age date, but also a small quantity of Bronze Age material (Kerschner 2006, 369; 2011, 19). Above was a layer of fill that was laid down to even out the ground surface, which sloped towards a riverbed to the east, for construction of the peripteros; this levelling fill contained Late

Geometric and Subgeometric pottery, with the latest fragments coming from the second quarter of the 7th century BCE. These materials provide a terminus ante quem for the sherds below based on stylistic and formal attributes (Kerschner 2011, 19–20).

As far as continuity is concerned, the stratigraphic superposition of the Iron Age deposit over further anthropogenic materials dating to at least the Late Bronze Age (if not earlier), clearly indicates continuity of human activity at the site of the Artemision. Great effort was expended to sustain this presence, given the substantial framework of retaining walls, leveling fills, and other infrastructure used to build up and maintain solid ground in a very watery environment (Bammer 1990, 142; Kerschner 2003, 246). Consistent with the idea of continuity, then, the Artemision’s history as an important place is unquestionable, and its cultic importance seems to have extended far back across the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition.

The Early Iron Age deposit is discussed at length in Chapter 4, but several aspects of its associated ceramics are important to note here. Of the 913 diagnostic sherds excavated

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from this context (Kerschner 2011, 23), the vast majority were related to the cooking or

consumption of food and drink. A high number of cooking pots (35% of the total), as well

as a large quantity of skyphoi and small cups, suggest that these may represent individual

sets for eating and drinking in a larger-scale, feasting setting (Kerschner 2011, 24). While feasting need not serve a cult function (cf. Dietler and Hayden 2010; Fox 2012; Jimenez,

Montón-Subías, and Romero 2011), this assemblage does imply that the site of the

Artemision served as an important gathering place (see Chapter 5). Additionally,

arguments for its function as a Naturkultmal coupled with its later status as a preeminent

sanctuary, as well as the presence of demonstrably cultic (e.g. elite, votive) artifacts and

structures from the late 8th century BCE onwards (see e.g. Klebinder-Gauss 2007; Muss

2008), strongly suggest this evidence for large-scale consumption was related to cult practice.

The other Geometric finds I noted above, dating to shortly after the Early Iron Age deposit, and found within the temple cella beneath which the deposit was discovered, included

miniature vessels, an ivory anthropomorphic figurine, terracotta figurines, and burned

animal bones (Forstenpointner, Kerschner, and Muss 2008, 38). This is further support for

the unbroken nature of cult activity across the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition, if the

stratigraphy is any indication. Furthermore, the presence of a stratum containing mixed

Mycenaean, Submycenaean, Protogeometric, and Early Geometric pottery (Bammer 1990,

142) underneath the Early Iron Age deposit suggests the possibility that Bronze Age materials may have been used in later practice. At the very least, their presence in both the mixed fill and the Early Iron Age deposit suggests that their stratigraphic relationship was

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close enough that they were easily dug up together for fill, supporting the idea of

continuous deposition of materials.

3.1.1.2 Temple of Athena at Miletos

One of the major cults within the city of Miletos was that centered around the Temple of

Athena, which has periodically undergone systematic investigation since 1899 (under the

auspices of first the Austrian and then the German Archaeological Institutes). Relative to

demonstrating continuity, the sanctuary contains the remains of a number of superimposed

structures dating from the Bronze Age to the Archaic period. One of the most notable

features is the Bronze Age fortification wall, which was destroyed at some point toward

the end of the 13th century BCE (Niemeier 2007; 2009)29. The so-called Geometric

‘Kultmal’ was built directly on one of the ruined bastions; this is an installation without clear comparanda—it appears to have possibly even been a Late Bronze Age construction that, in either case, preceded any monumental temple in the sanctuary. Around 620 BCE

(Held 2000, 27), the first monumental Temple of Athena was constructed right next to the

Kultmal, running alongside the ruined fortification wall. Crucially, the Kultmal was preserved, and even refurbished with a new surrounding wall (Held 2000, 5–11).30 The

juxtaposition of the temple and the Kultmal with architectural remains from lower strata,

in combination with the challenges of dating some of the activities that took place here,

29 This has been called both ‘Mycenaean’ and ‘Anatolian’ in various publications (Held 2000, 5; W.-D. Niemeier 2007, 15–16), presumably on account of assumptions based on chronological designations and stylistic features respectively 30 It was originally thought that there was more than one Kultmal, as noted by Coldstream in his overview of Geometric Greece: “Much in evidence are a number of oval structures, each consisting of a stone or clay platform within an enclosing wall. The excavators explain them as shrines built by the Carians living within the Ionic city, the descendants of the Carians who had occupied the site before the arrival of the first Ionic settlers around 1050 B.C.” (Coldstream 1977, 260)

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make for a series of possible scenarios that are both rich and complex (see Chapter 4).

What is clear above all is that continuity of activity here is demonstrated here from at least

the LBA.

The earliest architectural remains found directly underneath the temple are dated to the

Mycenaean period at Miletos (see Ch. 2), and it is on these grounds that Mycenaean origins

for cult here have been considered (Niemeier 2005b). These remains have been attributed to a ‘megaron’-style building, which excavators have tentatively identified as a cult structure on the basis of the associated finds, including colored wall plaster, clay figurines, and ‘cult cups’ (Held 2000, 5). Some variability among interpretive theories should be noted, however. It has been suggested that this ‘megaron’ structure could also have been a

wealthy house (Held 2000, 5), and it has also been argued that the ‘megaron’ may have

been re-used at a later date; a layer of clay and shell containing geometric ceramics was

found in the northeast corner of the structure, and the relevant argument suggests that this

may have been part of a cult building erected over the Mycenaean foundations (Held 2000,

9; Mallwitz and Schiering 1968, 118). The argument for identification of the ‘megaron’

structure as a wealthy house is not particularly sound (see section 4.1.2), but despite the

implications of a muddled origin for the cult temenos, it is clear that the immediate

superposition of structures dating back to the Late Bronze Age attests to continuity of

activity at the site of the Temple of Athena. Though they date beyond the scope of the 12th-

8th centuries BCE I focus on here, it is notable that in the immediate vicinity of the temple, architectural remains dating back to the Early Bronze Age have been found, as well as

Chalcolithic materials (Niemeier 2005b).

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The aforementioned Kultmal has particularly important implications for continuity of

practice, specifically, at the Temple of Athena. I discuss this at length in Chapter 5, but

establish here the details of the structure itself and their proximity to the temple. The

Kultmal sits just north of the ‘megaron’ and Archaic temple, less than 2 m away from its outer wall (Held 2000, 12) (Fig. 7). Despite careful excavation, this installation is still

rather poorly understood, largely due to a dearth of finds.31 The excavated remains consist

of an oval stone setting, approximately 2 m long and 1.6 m wide, of which five layers

remain (Fig. 8). The upper edge of this setting sits just 15-20 cm above the Geometric floor

level (Held 2000, 6). Surrounding the stone setting is an irregularly formed wall,

approximately 50 cm wide, of which three layers remain in the northeast and two remain

in the northwest. An 80 cm-wide entrance is preserved on the southeastern side (Held 2000,

6). When the Archaic temple was built for Athena, the Kultmal was preserved but it

received a new, rectangular surrounding wall, whose foundations were constructed more

or less directly on top of the Geometric wall socle (Held 2000, 11).

The dating for the structure is based on the location of Geometric and Late Mycenaean

ceramics under the stone settings for both the Kultmal itself and the surrounding wall (Held

2000, 9). The absence of any ashes, traces of burning, pieces of bone, or other materials

related to the offering of sacrifice suggests that Kultmal would not have served as an altar,

but Held argues nonetheless that the oval structure must have undoubtedly served as the

31 Held notes that the cult character of the installation is ostensibly attested by the discovery of bronze votives within, and also to a certain extent by it close proximity to the Temple of Athena. Details of the former are not given, however (Held 2000, 35).

116 origin of cult activity here that eventually resulted in the construction of the Temple of

Athena.32

3.1.1.3 Temple of Apollo at Phanai

Located on the southwestern edge of Chios, a coastal island with close proximity to

Erythrai, the sanctuary of Phanai has yielded evidence for Bronze-to-Iron Age continuity.

The original dating of the sanctuary had placed its foundation in the Late Geometric period

(Coldstream 1977, 257) on the basis of rich votive offerings found during the 1930s

(Beaumont 2011, 222). However, new excavations in the southwest quadrant of the

Archaic sanctuary, directed by Leslie Beaumont, have extended the reach of activity at the site back into the 2nd millennium BCE. The deposits—unfortunately mixed fill from the 7th century BCE construction of a stairway—contained small finds from the Early and Middle

Geometric periods, the Protogeometric period, and the Late Bronze Age (LH IIIC)

(Beaumont 2011, 222). Beaumont argues, on the basis of the votive nature of the finds and their association with a large quantity of burnt animal bone, that they represent a mixed context of sacred material, attesting to a cult function for the site by the LH IIIC period

(Beaumont 2011, 224).

While the LHIIIC materials include “marked variety”—painted pottery, bovine figurines in terracotta, marble pommels for swords and daggers, and a faience scarab seal, the ceramic materials in particular mirror those found elsewhere on the island at Emporio and appear to be locally made; their shapes include kylix, kalathos, krater and amphora, all

32 In fact, he states, “Dass die ovale Steinsetzung gewissermassen die Keimzelle des Athenakultes ist, steht dabei ausser Frage,“ (Held 2000, 35)

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associated with storage, mixing, and consumption of wine (Beaumont 2011, 223). This

trend at Phanai runs from the LH IIIC to the Geometric period; it is a reasonable indicator

of cult activity when taken together with the other evidence alluded to by Beaumont, but

certainly at least attests to communal consumption.

Ceramics are the only evidence from the sanctuary at Phanai that dates to the

Protogeometric, Early, and Middle Geometric periods, but they, too, contained krateres and numerous drinking cups. In the Late Geometric, the number and quality of artifacts increased again, and the rich assemblage shows the same array of ceramics, with close parallels on Samos and at Smyrna, as well as artifacts in materials that would have made fine votive offerings—these include metal, amber, and ivory and steatite seals (Beaumont

2011, 223). Beaumont’s assertion that this series of assemblages represents continuous cult activity is a reasonable one. It is also particularly notable at Phanai, because occupation at some other sites on Chios appears to have ceased in the Late Bronze Age (most notably at the substantial, relatively nearby settlement of Emporio (Hood 1981; 1982).

3.1.1.4 Sanctuary of Apollo and Artemis at Klaros

Evidence for the two, standing, on-site temples and associated altars at Klaros suggests the earliest iterations of those structures dated to the 7th century BCE (Vaessen 2014, 29). In

the last decade, excavation has yielded earlier finds that suggest people were active there

from at least the Bronze Age, as well as into the Protogeometric and Geometric periods

(Şahin et al. 2008, 438–40; Şahin et al. 2009, 116–17). Ceramics from trenches placed

around the Klarian altar to Apollo suggest activity during the transition from the Iron Age

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to the Archaic period; these include three skyphoi and fragments of an oinochoe dated to

the 10th century BCE, and another skyphos dated to the 8th century BCE, as well as

fragments of a 7th century BCE oinochoe and further Geometric sherds (Şahin et al. 2008,

438). Additionally, earlier materials from a sondage running between the Temple of Apollo

and its altar revealed in its lowest stratum a mixture of Protogeometric, Geometric, and

th th Orientalizing pottery dating between the 10 and 7 centuries BCE (Mitchell 1990, 99).

A second sondage running between the temple and altar dedicated to Artemis revealed comparable finds, with Protogeometric and Geometric pottery dating from the 10th to 8th

centuries BCE (Mitchell 1990, 100). In addition to these ceramic vessels, more than 40

terracotta figurines have been found (Şahin et al. 2008, 439), as well as various metal

artifacts, including five bronze arrowheads in a style that dates as early as the 8th century

BCE (Şahin et al. 2008, 440). Many of these finds have come from stratified contexts, and

a continuous stratigraphic sequence has been established from at least the 8th to 5th centuries

BCE, with the aforementioned mixed 10th to 8th century BCE fill (or flooding) context

coming from the strata directly beneath.

In excavations under the Temple of Apollo itself, Archaic architecture has been discovered

around the wellhead, which displays a different orientation to the extant temple and attests

to continuity of the temple’s oracular nature (Moretti et al. 2014). Critically, further

Protogeometric and Geometric finds have also been found, as well as materials dating to

between the late 13th and 11th centuries BCE (LH IIIB-’Submycenaean’ period); these include figurines, animal bone, and bronze artifacts (fibulae and arrowheads) and, most

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notably, the first ceramic finds dated to the Late Bronze Age (including an LH IIIB kylix)

(Şahin et al. 2010, 251; Şahin 2011, 154–55). Şahin and colleagues argue that the presence

of ceramics supports literary references to the foundation of the sanctuary by Manto in the

Mycenaean period (Şahin et al. 2010, 251). Regardless of the circumstances surrounding

its origins, archaeological finds at Klaros are at least becoming progressively more

consistent with memory narratives surrounding the site. They suggest that this important

oracular sanctuary has a history of activity that was likely continuous from at least the 13th

century BCE and, critically, across the Late Bronze-to-Early Iron Age transition.

3.1.1.5 Temple of Athena at Phokaia

The Temple of Athena at Phokaia sits atop a hill overlooking the modern (and ancient)

harbor, and continues as a site of religious practice to the present day—not one, but three

mosques are located on its terraced slopes. Walls and fallen blocks, rock-cut installations for wall foundations, and various installations that appear to be associated with production

(Fig. 9) attest to continued use of the site into what may have been the Byzantine or early modern period, if not later.33 Nevertheless, ancient activity dating as far back as the 3rd

millennium BCE has been attested at the temple site, and while continuity of activity cannot

be definitively shown, the evidence for early activity at the temple—taken in the context

of other settlement evidence at the site—certainly suggests its possibility. However, further

research will be needed to illuminate the exact nature of the relationships between Bronze

33 The number of cuttings into the bedrock is very high, but given the notorious difficulty of dating such installations, a precise date for each would be difficult to achieve. Nonetheless, continued use of the site—which now houses an old school building and a parking lot—suggests it has been constantly occupied by people more-or-less since the temple sat upon the hill.

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Age, Iron Age, and Classical cult practitioners, and the possible implications of these

relationships are the subject of Chapter 4.

The earliest known activity at the site of the Temple of Athena is indicated by Early Bronze

Age ceramics, and a second obvious intervention on the part of the inhabitants of local

settlements came with the construction of the monumental Temple of Athena in the 6th

century BCE (Özyiğit 2006b, 349), This temple is the most prominent cult structure from

later periods, and was built on a rock-cut, terraced outcropping that abuts the sea on the

interior eastern edge of the harbor (Fig. 10). More precisely, architectural fragments

suggest that the first iteration of the temple building was erected in the first quarter of the

6th century BCE (Özyiğit 2003, 112), when part of a fortification wall was constructed

around the top of the outcrop as well. When this Archaic phase of the temple was put in,

the builders cut directly through an oval structure which contained the aforementioned

Early Bronze Age ceramics (Özyiğit 2006b, 249), and has been dated by its excavators to

the Protogeometric period (Özyiğit 2007, 349). Fill used in the construction of the Archaic

temple also included a mix of Bronze Age and Protogeometric ceramics together,

suggesting that there was activity in the immediate vicinity in the 11th and 10th centuries

BCE as well (Özyiğit 2006a, 74–75, see drawings 1-4).

Located just below the Temple of Athena, on the northern face of the outcrop (Özyiğit

2003, 118), is more evidence of engagement with a different cult altogether. There, some of the rock was quarried away to create a flat, vertical face and a large platform (Fig 11).

Five niches were cut into the rock face, with two smaller niches to their left and right,

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which have been interpreted as spaces for hanging lanterns. The large niches are

approximately 210 cm x 102 cm in size. Underneath these niches is a channel on the

ground, some 13 cm wide, running east to west, dated to the construction of the Archaic

wall in the early 6th century BCE, and pottery finds corroborate this estimate (Özyiğit 1995,

427–31).

The rest of the sanctuary includes an array of carved features. It is notable, however, that the platform sanctuary area is very poorly preserved, and its current state makes the original nature of some of these rock-cut features hard to discern. Near the niches is a recessed rectangle cut into the bedrock, described as some kind of pool (Fig. 11), and measuring approximately 240-270 cm x 170 cm with a 60 cm depth. A small channel allows water to enter from the sea, and another channel exits to the pool to the west. Northeast of the pool are small, circular carvings in the bedrock, roughly 30-35 cm in diameter and linked together with small channels; these have been interpreted as some kind of installation for filtering liquids. Finally, a set of stairs lead down into the sea from the niche platform, and to the right of these is a bowl-like depression cut into the rock. Özyiğit notes that this is recognizably similar to installations in the temples from Urartu and in Phrygia (1995, 428), though does not offer details as to why. On the basis of the form and nature of the rock-cut sanctuary itself, parallels can certainly be drawn, but a connection between other attributes like the bowl-like depression and related aspects of practice is uncertain.34

34 A fair bit is known about Phrygian cult, and the primary point of comparison here is the rock-cut nature of the sanctuary. Such a form was common to the goddess Matar—known as Kybele in Greek—and included a rectangular frame and a door-like niche that could either contain an rock-cut image or be presented as empty, presumably so that a portable deity could be added. These carved facades were often—but not always—decorated with carved geometric patterns, and were frequently located in spaces that marked boundaries between settlements or other groups (Roller 2011, 570–72). These two latter

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More pottery was found buried underwater just in front of the sanctuary. This includes a

series of roof tiles from the 6th century BCE—the earliest known from Phokaia—as well

as a range of other materials that appear to have been dumped from the Temple of Athena.

Additionally, a number of Protogeometric and Geometric ceramics were found, but

hypotheses as to their origin are not made clear in reports (Özyiğit 1995). While the date

given for this sanctuary is around the middle of the 6th century BCE, the evidence for some

kind of activity on the hill above in the (Early) Bronze Age and the Iron Age could explain

the presence of Protogeometric and Geometric pottery in the ‘Harbor Sanctuary’ as

materials that were cleaned out of the temple and dumped. It is also possible, however, that

this sanctuary pre-dates the 6th century and was itself the source of the Iron Age pottery found in the harbor.

The rationale behind the 6th century BCE date for the sanctuary is its presumed relationship

to the Archaic fortification wall. Özyiğit has suggested that the rock used for the wall above

the harbor was quarried when the sanctuary was cut into the rock face below (or vice versa).

No particularly conclusive evidence has been provided, however, and I argue that an earlier

factors are notable. While the façade at Phokaia does not show any evidence for carved décor, it is also very poorly preserved to the naked eye, and thus I am not convinced it would be possible to determine its original appearance. The matter of location, at the boundaries of “communities” (Roller 2011, 572) is worth considering in the context of this sanctuary’s location at Phokaia, on a rock-cut wall facing the harbor that would have been visible to those entering its port from the sea. The location of the two other possible Kybele sanctuaries on offshore islands (see Chapter 4, section 4.3.3) seems to fall similarly into the category of ‘borders’. Urartian cult shares more or less the same similarities with the Phokaian rock- cut sanctuary—the prevalence of door-like niches can be seen in their shrines, which also sometimes contained steps leading up to the niches themselves (Roller 1999, 54–60). This point about steps is notable for the presence of steps at Phokaia leading up from the water, but the practicalities of accessing the harbor-side sanctuary in the past are uncertain, and thus I caution against reading too much into the presence of the stairs.

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Archaic or Iron Age date for the sanctuary cannot be ruled out—especially with the

presence of Iron Age pottery in the harbor. Additionally, given the importance of Kybele

across several regions of Western Anatolia (Roller 1999; 2011) it would be reasonable to

infer that people were worshiping the goddess prior to the mid-6th century BCE at the site.

If that were the case, it is possible either that the sanctuary is older than the 6th c., or that worship of Kybele was taking place on the rise above the harbor where the Temple of

Athena and the unidentified cult structure were also located.

Regardless of the specific date for the rock-cut harbor sanctuary, activity around the site of the Temple of Athena at Phokaia was relatively consistent. Unbroken continuity cannot be certain, but a combination of ceramic and architectural evidence suggests occupation in the

Early Bronze Age, and then again from the Iron Age into the Classical period and beyond.

Given the clear presence of a Late Bronze Age settlement at Phokaia, which I detail in the next section, I argue that Bronze-to-Iron Age continuity at the Temple of Athena is a reasonable, if unproven, hypothesis.

3.3.2 Architecture and Settlement

This category of evidence refers to materials not found within distinctive (or likely, based

on subsequent use) cult contexts, but which comprise structures and associated materials

that appear to have otherwise been part of settlements. I have avoided the term ‘domestic’

since the nature of use for all structures discussed is not clear. Continuity within this

category is visible in two different ways. The first, which is also the clearest,

archaeologically speaking, includes those places where we see the physical remnants of

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commingled structures that are highly suggestive of continuity in occupation; in Ionia, this

usually means structures built directly on top of one another or the close physical proximity of phases of settlement that are generally considered distinct. This indication of continuity is strongest and most straightforward, and is thus given primary emphasis here. A second

type of attestation of continuity, however, is represented by the broader presence of

settlements where we see people continuing to live over the long term. Among these latter

cases are a number of sites where there are at some point apparent breaks in continuity for periods of varying lengths; I argue, however, that the continued use of specific locations is important regardless of this fact, and the examples serve as a secondary, smaller set of relevant data, with the timing and context of disuse given careful consideration.

It should now be clear that the continuity of habitation at individual sites is especially significant in the context of Ionia’s migration narrative, and the importance of continuity attested through settlement evidence (architectural and non-) is thus two-fold: the former demonstrates the fact that habitation at known later sites was, indeed, unbroken between the Bronze Age and the Iron Age, and the latter helps to clarify a possible link between populations at certain sites despite any potential break in continuity of physical settlement or other activity itself.35 Architectural continuity is most clearly demonstrable at

Limantepe/Klazomenai, Phokaia, and Smyrna, with additional evidence for continuity of

35 A trend of overall continuity and lack of population replacement does not, of course, preclude the abandonment or disuse of a site for any number of reasons, and I do not suggest that examples of discontinuity are impossible in Ionia. Additionally, there are several sites where Bronze-to-Iron Age continuity looks quite probable but cannot be definitively proven. Thus, I explain here the value of data for probable continuity to my argument, and to a broader discussion of community formation (Chapter 4).

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settlement at Ephesos. Continuity in settlement patterns more generally can be seen in the area around Kolophon, as well as in the vicinity of Metropolis-Bademgediği Tepe.

3.1.2.1 Limantepe/Klazomenai

A straightforward and direct superposition of structures is visible at

Limantepe/Klazomenai, with several successive levels of new and modified buildings

discovered possessing clear stratigraphic relationships. At Limantepe specifically—the

area of oldest habitation at the site—recent work has confirmed the construction both of

LH IIIC buildings directly on top of their predecessors, and of Protogeometric structures directly on top of those from the final Late Bronze Age strata. Additionally, fieldwork

reports published in the Kazı Sonuçları Toplantisi describe at least one instance of the re-

use of LBA walls in structures dated to the Protogeometric period (Erkanal and Aykurt

2008, 225; Mangaloğlu-Votruba 2015, 660; Vaessen 2014, 21). The overlapping of the

construction of these buildings and the incorporation of Bronze Age walls in

Protogeometric spaces is clearly visible in the plan provided (Fig. 12) (Erkanal and Aykurt

2008, 238).

Much of the stratified Bronze Age material was heavily disturbed by construction work in

the 1950s, but the LH III material was still intact enough during excavations in 2006 to

enable the study of a series of structures and their accompanying settlement infrastructure.

What their excavation made clear is that Limantepe/Klazomenai was home to a substantial

and well-established settlement by the turn of the 1st millennium BCE. The settlement’s

remains included a series of buildings, streets, and pottery kilns; a well, paved areas, and a

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storage silo; and accoutrements possibly related to wine production (grinding stones and a

spouted basin), which all belonged to LH IIIA and B (Erkanal and Günel 1995, 264; 1996,

307; 1997, 232–33; Vaessen 2014, 21). From the LH IIIC phase, the first period falling

into the primary 12th-8th century BCE scope of this investigation, a series of rectangular buildings were found, as well as one curvilinear structure (Vaessen 2014, 21). In addition,

ceramic finds included a large number of gray slipped sherds, as well as fragments of

vessels identified as imported Mycenaean wares (Erkanal and Aykurt 2008, 227).

In subsequent levels, at least three curvilinear buildings have been found that date between

the early 11th century and the Geometric period. The oldest of these structures must predate an Early Protogeometric child burial in a skyphos, the deposition of which destroyed part

of the building’s foundations (Bakır et al. 2004, 103). The second structure revealed two

phases of occupation with a possible gap in between them. Based on associated ceramics,

the first building has been dated to the late 11th/early 10th century BCE (Aytaçlar 2004, 24;

Vaessen 2014, 22), and it has been suggested that the space may have been used for textile

production on the basis of the presence of 24 spool-like objects (Aytaçlar 2004, 22);

evidence associated with the second building has proven too inconclusive to make any

certain chronological determinations (save that there was likely very little time between

their use) (Aytaçlar 2004, 24). The third building, located nearby, dates to the Late

Protogeometric and Geometric periods (Bakır et al. 2004, 102–3). A storage magazine with mid-10th century Protogeometric jars and several jar burials was also found, dating to the same period (Erkanal and Aykurt 2008).

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Inhabited strata at this particular domestic area on Limantepe end in the Geometric period, firmly establishing continuity of presence on the part of Limantepe/Klazomenai’s inhabitants. Habitation continued off of the Limantepe mound, however, in Klazomenai’s broader footprint. These data, including a particularly rich burial record, push continuity of habitation at Limantepe/Klazomenai into the Roman period and beyond. 36 Most importantly, however, the architectural evidence surrounding the turn of the 1st millennium

BCE builds one of the strongest cases for continuity across the Late Bronze-to-Iron Age divide.

3.1.2.2 Phokaia

As with Limantepe/Klazomenai, the continuity evidenced across the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition at Phokaia occurred in a settled space with well-established roots. The earliest building with any recoverable plan is an oval house dating probably to the 14th century

BCE (Özyiğit 2006b, 310), which comes from the slopes of the Değirmenli Tepe, the site of the Hellenistic theater (Özyiğit 1993; Vaessen 2014, 14) (Fig. 10). Nearby, excavators

36 Klazomenai is a rare case of extensive funerary evidence in Ionia from this period, where the burial record is notoriously sparse. From the Protogeometric and Geometric periods are specifically concerned, evidence from other Ionian sites is truly minimal. On Chios, one grave from Chios Town has been published that is dated to the mid-9th century BCE (Ulusoy 2010, 56). At Smyrna, some intramural pot graves have been found underneath Geometric domestic structures; these were mentioned in the Kazı Sonuçları Toplantisi report from 2008, but no further details were given (citation; (Ulusoy 2010, 56)). From Ephesos there is one published grave dating to the Geometric period, which was found on the slopes of the Ayasuluk Hill and has been dated to the late 8th c. BCE (Ulusoy 2010, 56–57). On Samos, three Geometric graves have been noted, but not fully published (Ulusoy 2010, 57), and at Miletos—where substantial structural and ceramic evidence exists from the Protogeometric and Geometric periods (double check this)—no burial evidence has been discovered whatsoever (Ulusoy 2010, 57). One discovery outside of Klazomenai, although not well-published, is of particular interest, and is discussed later in this chapter, a tholos tomb found in the environs of Kolophon.

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uncovered the remains of a blacksmith’s workshop, the oldest known in the world, which

itself lies under two more oval houses that were constructed directly over its foundations

(Özyiğit 2006b, 310; Vaessen 2014, 15). The second set of oval houses was likely built in

the late 11th or early 10th century BCE on the basis of associated ceramics, and the

occupants of the smithy were using ceramic vessels that are stylistically consistent with

noted ‘Submycenaean’ styles, confirming the likelihood of its proposed date. Under its

foundations, sherds were found dating the LH IIIA1-IIIC (Özyiğit 2005; Vaessen 2014,

15). This series of superimposed structures and closely associated ceramics suggests that

Phokaians were consistently building and living in this part of the site from at least the 14th

century BCE through the beginning of the 10th century BCE. North of the two, 11th/10th

century BCE oval houses, a ‘megaron’-style house was found, dated to the 7th century

BCE (Vaessen 2014, 15), suggesting that occupation here had either continued or resumed

by that point in time.

This sequence of structures at the Değirmenli Tepe does not currently attest to activity

between the 10th and 7th centuries BCE. However, it does confirm continuity across the

turn of the 1st millennium BCE and the critical Bronze-to-Iron Age juncture. When taken in conjunction with the materials from the Temple of Athena outcrop, namely the

Protogeometric/Geometric sherds found both in the fill of the Archaic temple and the harbor, as well as the oval structure cut by the temple foundations, the suggestion that there was unbroken continuity of habitation at Phokaia is not untenable and deserves further attention as more evidence comes to light.

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3.1.2.3 Smyrna-Bayraklı

Smyrna has revealed a sequence of structures that show varying plan, like those at Phokaia,

and re-use of walls, as at Limantepe/Klazomenai. Based on the available, published

evidence however, Smyrnaean remains from the turn of the 1st millennium BCE are far more substantial in volume and much higher in resolution; this reflects the character of the site overall, which is a relatively-densely built space sitting atop a large tell mound.

Evidence for activity there has been dated to the first half of the 3rd millennium BCE, but the site’s mid-20th century excavators designate the first clear phase of settlement as

beginning much later—no doubt because their primary interest was ‘Greek’ Smyrna.

Ekrem Akurgal classified this ‘first’ phase as the ‘Aiolian’ settlement, of which the most substantial remains belong to the walls of a rectangular house and an assemblage of ceramics in a primarily monochrome Gray Ware style (E. Akurgal 1983, 22). R.V. Nicholls

reported, however, that 7m of “Monochrome occupation” was found beneath

Protogeometric strata (Nicholls 1958/1959, 39), and thus I would caution that the exact

extent of this initial ‘Aiolian’ settlement is unknown. Its uppermost stratum has not been

securely dated, but the ‘second’ phase at Phokaia is attributed to ca. 1000-875 BCE on the

basis of a large quantity of Protogeometric pottery (E. Akurgal 1983, 16–19).37 This

settlement phase comprised slightly more extensive material than the first, including an

oval house, a rectangular house, and a horseshoe-shaped hearth (E. Akurgal 1983, 16–17).

37 Gray Ware is challenging with respect to dating and chronology because it has not received a great deal of attention (despite its long history in Western Anatolia). This fact lends further weight to my assertion that we should not take the EIA date provided by Akurgal at face value, and should reconsider the possibility that his ‘Aiolian’ settlement layer represented Bronze Age occupation, as well as continuity with the earlier phases of the tell mound. On Gray Ware, see Bayne 2000; Grave et al. 2013; Hertel 2007; Pavúk 2010.

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Vaessen has noted that the oval house is similar to those found at Phokaia, as well as

Limantepe/Klazomenai (Vaessen 2014, 19; see also Mangaloğlu-Votruba 2011), and

Nicholls has proposed that in this early stage, the settlement on the tell was already surrounded by a fortification wall (Nicholls 1958/1959, 120).

The Geometric settlement shows evidence for continuous occupation between the so-called

Aiolian strata and the development of what excavators have interpreted as a large house complex that included storage and barn-like tholos structures. Two aspects of this development are noteworthy for a discussion of continuity. First, the continued use of the same space is evidenced by the direct superposition of construction between strata (E.

Akurgal 1983, 16). All structures of which there is record are confined to essentially the same area (E. Akurgal 1983, Abb. 3), which appears to illustrate a densely built space (the whole tell is roughly 1.75ha). Second, in subsequent strata, structure foundations are reused and their interiors are adjusted, repurposed, or recombined to make new spaces, further suggesting the direct continuity of activity within.

While the original characterization of the earliest habitation here, and the associated Gray

Ware, is 10th century BCE Aiolian in nature, it is quite possible that continuity of habitation

extends to an earlier period, particularly in light of the enormous quantity of evidence for

prior settlement on the site within the tell itself. Given these factors, I propose that

occupation of the Smyrnaean tell, while it cannot be definitively proven, may have very

likely been continuous across the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition.

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3.1.2.4 Ephesos

Ephesian settlement evidence for the Late Bronze and Iron Ages includes very little architecture, but the ceramic record from the site overall makes the continuity of activity and occupation there clear. While the majority of the evidence for Bronze and Iron Age activity at Ephesos comes from the site of the Artemision, other material has been uncovered on the Ayasuluk Hill, as well as from its near environs.

Few structural remains now exist on the Ayasuluk, due in large part to the large Byzantine fortress that sits atop it (Fig. 13). However, trenches dug up against the inside of the fortress’ fortification wall (Fig. 14) did reveal part of its Bronze Age predecessor, which

Büyükkolancı prefers to identify as ‘Hittite’ (or ‘Arzawan’) rather than ‘Mycenaean’

(Büyükkolancı 2000: 39). These trenches revealed ceramics dominated by Archaic,

Geometric, and Late Mycenaean period sherds, which Büyükkolancı interprets as the first evidence to suggest continuity of settlement on the Ayasuluk hill from the Early Bronze

Age through to the Hellenistic period. Other ceramic finds from the hill included Early and

Middle Bronze Age materials, and work at the so-called ‘Gate of Persecution’ (outside of the Byzantine fortifications) in 1960 revealed ‘Mycenaean’ ceramics dated to LH IIIA1-2

(the 14th century BCE) (Kerschner 2006, 367). Inside the wall, more ‘Mycenaean’ sherds were found, which Hans Mommsen has identified as a mix of vessels imported from mainland Greece and from nearby Miletos; these are, however, in the minority, as the larger portion of Bronze Age ceramics found on the Ayasuluk belong to styles associated with

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West Anatolia (e.g. Red Wash Ware and a light-paste, micaceous ware used to make thin-

walled table wares) (Kerschner 2006, 368).38

This evidence sits well in the context of both the identification of Ephesos as the important

Bronze Age site of Apaša, as well as the attestation of continuity at the associated

Artemision site. With its ancient seaside location and strategic hilltop setting, continued

use of the site after the dissolution of the strong, Bronze Age polities would be a logical

act on the part of local inhabitants. Therefore, despite the lack of clear stratigraphic

sequences displaying continuity in Ephesian settlement contexts (as is visible at the

Artemision), ceramic material from the Ayasuluk hill clearly demonstrates uninterrupted

activity across the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition.

3.1.2.5 Metropolis-Bademgediği Tepe and Kolophon

Most of the Ionian cities that were members of the dodekapolis have associated foundation

narratives that relate some kind of history for the settlements rooted in the Bronze Age, or

even earlier in mythological time (Mac Sweeney 2013). In many of these cases,

archaeological evidence has independently attested the presence of people in the Bronze

Age or Chalcolithic, and as I have shown in this chapter (see also Appendix A), a number of these sites have yielded archaeological remains that attest continuity between at least the

12th and 8th centuries BCE, if not far longer.

38 On Red Wash Ware see Mellaart and Murray 1995, 12:21; B. Niemeier and Niemeier 1997, 228; Niemeier 1998, 33.

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In two cases where continuity remains unconfirmed, at Metropolis-Bademgediği Tepe and

Kolophon, there is still important evidence relative to settlement history that impacts our understanding of continuity and community. Each of these sites stands out as bucking the trend for the seemingly standard location of major Ionian cities—coastal sites located on peninsulae, promontories, or at the edges of important harbors. While the issue of continuity is still debatable, hints of human presence that was at least regularly repeated, extending back into the Bronze Age, may be one part of the explanation as to why they were important settlements in the Archaic and later periods.

At Metropolis, the earliest archaeological evidence dates to the Late Chalcolithic period, with subsequent settlement phases reported from the Early, Middle, and Late Bronze Ages

(dating as late as the 12th century BCE). These ceramics have come out of sondages on the acropolis (Meriç 2006; 2007, 29), where more recent excavation has revealed sherds dating to the Protogeometric and Geometric periods. The excavators have not confirmed the quantity of sherds in reports, however—the overall number of ceramic artifacts from the

acropolis excavation in the season in question was 800, but the percentage of these

ceramics that belong to the Protogeometric and Geometric periods is unspecified (Aybek,

Öz, and Ekin Meriç 2010, 204). If all 800 sherds dated to the Early Iron Age, then this

would indeed be substantial evidence in favor of Late Bronze-to-Early Iron Age continuity.

In the absence of corroboration of continuity from other areas of the site, however, or interpretive suggestions from the excavators themselves, I include Metropolis under the category of ‘tenuous continuity’ here. Nonetheless, the suggestion that it may have been inhabited across the turn of the 1st millennium is a promising one.

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The site’s strategic location not only between Smyrna and Ephesos, but also along East-

West connections between the Aegean coast near Notion and the Torbali Plain, and between the Karabel Pass, Hypaipa, and Sardis (Meriç 2007, 29), makes it easy to see why

a continued presence here would benefit local inhabitants. Nearby Bademgediği Tepe, with

a proposed identification of the Arzawan city Puranda (captured by Murşili II) (Meriç

2007), has also yielded at least 600 painted ceramic sherds of the Protogeometric and

Geometric periods (Aybek, Öz, and Ekin Meriç 2010, 204). With apparent occupation on

and off between the MM III and the 12th century BCE, a brief re-occupation in the

Geometric period seems to have been the end of activity there (Vaessen 2014, 29), although this last phase is suggested to have been substantial (Aybek, Öz, and Ekin Meriç 2010,

205). Bademgediği Tepe’s cyclopean fortification wall (Meriç 2007, 30) attests to the

probable importance of the site and its control over the crossroads it inhabits.

While the evidence for continuity at Metropolis awaits confirmation, it is all the more

compelling when taken together with the data from Bademgediği Tepe. Even a

conservative interpretation of Metropolitan data suggests the repeated return of settlement

to the acropolis between the Bronze Age and the Byzantine period, and its close proximity

to Bademgediği Tepe—which saw correlating activity through the Geometric period—

means the relationship between the two sites must be better understood for a full evaluation

of continuity and its meaning in the area.

Similar repeated activity, implying possible but unconfirmed continuity, is visible at

Kolophon. Heavy looting has dramatically affected the visibility of surface remains, but

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the acropolis is known for the structural traces of both private and public structures dating

to the Hellenistic period (Bridges 1974, 264). The original excavations in 1922 extended

to several surrounding cemeteries, which were identified as containing burials of

Mycenaean, Geometric, and Hellenistic date; on the basis of these finds, the excavators

concluded that the site had been “inhabited from prehistoric through classic times,”

(Holland 1944, 94). Holland’s summary of the excavations—which were never completed due to the political upheaval of the 1920s—does discuss some evidence beyond the

necropoleis, however. In the excavation of the structure known as the West House, located

on Street D northwest of the Metroön (Fig. 15), he describes ceramics from the lowest level

as “early pottery, Geometric and Lydian ware”, which is dated to the 7th-6th centuries BCE

in recorded diagrams and shown as corresponding stratigraphically with the wall of a

structure (Holland 1944, 141).

Though these materials were lost and thus never fully published, some details were also

recorded about a Bronze Age tholos tomb, which was investigated after it had been

reportedly plundered by clandestine digging. There appears to have been some debate as

to the Minoan versus Mycenaean characterization of the original burial (Hetty Goldman

identified it preliminarily as Mycenaean, whereas A.J.B. Wace described it as “being of

the Third Late Minoan period,”). However, G.L. Huxley reported that Goldman’s more

careful examination of the materials narrowed down a date range of LH IIIB or C, and so

this has been taken as the most accurate identification (Bridges 1974, 265). Coldstream

(1968, 262) and Cook and Dupont (1998, 6) also report the presence of a tholos tomb containing a mix of ceramics, with the earliest shreds dating to the Mycenaean period,

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and subsequent deposits including heavily burnt Geometric sherds, as well as sherds from

4th century BCE vessels. The specific location of this tomb is not specified, and it is not

stated whether this re-used tholos is the same as that reported by Goldman and Bridges.

In either case, however, the outcome is the same for the purposes of a consideration of

continuity. Despite some chronological gaps in the archaeological record, and the lack of

comprehensive stratigraphic sequences, ceramics from the surrounding necropoleis suggest that Kolophon was at least used repeatedly, if not continuously, between the Late

Bronze Age and the Hellenistic period. People were repeatedly active in the city’s environs across the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition, and in at least one case where there is evidence—at the tholos tomb—this return took place in exactly the same locus of activity as before.

The continued presence of human activity in the areas surrounding Kolophon has important implications for a discussion of continuity. This site in particular, not fitting the prevalent geographical—and perhaps economic niche—trend of Ionian cities, is sometimes

considered an outlier in this sense. Whereas other cities’ locations are explicable based on

their proximity to the sea, their convenient provision of connections between the Aegean

and far inland settlements, and their easily defensible position on peninsulae, the choice of

location for Kolophon requires us, as scholars, to consider different motives. One possible

explanation is the idea that its location was based on a relationship with earlier settlement

activity in the surrounding environs, and indeed I argue that the evidence above supports

this as firmly plausible rationale.

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While continuity in the vicinity of Metropolis-Bademgediği Tepe and Kolophon remains

unconfirmed, the presence of Archaic Ionian cities on sites that were geographically

anomalous deserves further attention. Based on the assessments provided here, I argue that

the presence of Bronze Age activity may have played a role in these city locations, even in

the event that they were not simply the result of uninterrupted presence. At Metropolis-

Bademgediği Tepe, the strategic importance of the location for communication, mobility, and trade routes is undeniable, and its ability to oversee movement along both cardinal axes would have benefitted the movement of goods (or people) between Ionian cities and their

‘neighbors’ near and far. At Kolophon, the advantages of locating a fortified city across three inland hilltops is less immediately clear. Nevertheless, the recurring presence of activity in the area is notable, particularly where burials were repeatedly used in subsequent—but technically discontinuous—periods. The role of histories of settlement for these locations should therefore not be overlooked, and the relationship between these cities’ inhabitants to their predecessors (whether demonstrable or perceived by the inhabitants themselves) bears further interrogation.

3.3 Ceramics and Continuity of Practice

The evidence discussed thus far in this chapter has been primarily concerned with

continuity of occupation or activity. I have relied on the details of temporally continuous

stratigraphic sequences and the direct superposition of architectural remains to demonstrate

the prevalence of uninterrupted human activity across the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition in

Ionia. The next step in the discussion of continuity, however, involves the question of practice, and is therefore inextricably linked to the issue of cultural continuity itself. While

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they play an important role in the dating of stratigraphic sequences—and therefore the

establishment of continuity of occupation—ceramics are also one important, detailed

indicator of practices.

In Ionia specifically, ceramic study has yielded a body of evidence that is both promising

and frustrating; in it, we can see some of the strongest and clearest evidence for the legacy

of migration narratives. In mainland Greece, it was assumed that the Protogeometric style

represented a break with the past and the beginning of a new age, so to speak, which began

in Attica and was transferred to other parts of the Aegean (Cook and Dupont 1998;

Desborough 1952). Historically, research on Iron Age ceramics has thus been dominated

by the narrative of borrowing from Athens, and Protogeometric ceramics themselves have

been used as a key piece of evidence to support the presence of incoming populations from

the western Aegean (Chapter 1). In recent years, however, new studies are changing the

way Ionian ceramics from the Late Bronze-to-Early Iron Age transition are viewed.

One key aspect of this shift in research is the application of Neutron Activation Analysis and other archaeometric methods of provenience study. Their ability to give clues as to the origins of clay and local production of ceramics has allowed more specific investigation of

the origins of individual sherds and certain vessel types, and cast much brighter light on

the details of both production and trade within and beyond Ionia (M. Akurgal et al. 2002;

Aslan, Kealhofer, and Grave 2014; Kerschner 2014; Kerschner and Mommsen 2005;

Kerschner et al. 2002; Villing 2010). Two notable outcomes of this work are the fact that the diversity of vessels produced at individual production centers was much higher than

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had been previous imagined (Villing 2010), and the revelation that clay sources tested at

Miletos remained unchanged between the Bronze Age and the Archaic period (Niemeier

2007; Niemeier 2009). Critically, these attest to the simultaneous production of multiple

(quite different) styles at individual centers, as well as continuity of practice related to at least one part of the ceramic production process—sourcing of materials—at Miletos.

Re-evaluations have also been under way on the subject of Protogeometric innovation,

questioning the necessity of external Athenian influence to explain the production of this

new style of pottery in Iron Age Anatolia, and probing the origins of its characteristic traits

within local ceramic repertoires. Specifically, Jana Mokrišová (2017) and Rik Vaessen

(2014) have argued in their doctoral dissertations that Protogeometric ceramics in Ionia

and its neighboring regions merit a more detailed approach, and that the sherds themselves

actually demonstrate a reasonable amount of continuity in production between the Late

Bronze and Early Iron Age.

Mokrišová’s argument specifically suggests that prior assumptions about the adoption of

the Protogeometric style have clouded perceptions of what the specific characteristics seen

on pots really mean. For example, she argues that by the end of the Late Bronze Age, the

production of Mycenaean-style and other local vessels—in both fine and coarse wares—

had been mutually active for over 200 years (Mokrišová 2017, 280). Vessels in Western

Anatolia that would originally have been classified as ‘Submycenaean’ actually possessed

a combination of features known from LH IIIC and PG, representing an intermediate stage

of production by individuals familiar with local techniques of both Aegean and non-

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Aegean style (Mokrišová 2017, 280). Additionally, ceramics from the earliest phases of

the Early Iron Age show local Anatolian characteristics without much of any visible Attic

influence, supporting the idea of well-established, prominent traditions at individual

production locations. Furthermore, Mokrišová argues, many of the similarities originally

noted between ceramics produced in Anatolia and on Euboea—traditionally seen as

representing a Euboean koine or influence from Attica—in fact have stronger parallels with

other sites in their home regions (Mokrišová 2017, 280).

Vaessen takes a slightly different approach but reaches similar conclusions. He, too, has

emphasized the problematic designation of ‘Submycenaean’ strata, which always appear

to mix vessels bearing LH IIIC and Protogeometric characteristics (Vaessen 2014, 212).

He therefore suggests that the presence of so-called Submycenaean vessels may have resulted from the confluence of issues related to production training and consumer demand, and furthermore, that the fluorescence of painted pottery and decrease in Red/Gold Wash

and buff wares may have resulted from the need to produce pots of reasonably high quality

at a faster rate in major production centers like Klazomenai and Ephesos (Vaessen 2014,

216). The addition of concentric circles may also have been attractive to potters because of an ability to quickly and neatly apply them, and to mimic motifs seen on metal vessels,

enhancing a skeuomorphic quality perhaps desired by consumers (Vaessen 2014, 217).

Together, these recent approaches to West Anatolian pottery dramatically impact our

understanding of continuity of practice within the region. The fact that Milesian clay was

continuously sourced from the same locations between the Late Bronze Age and Archaic

141 period clearly implies continuity of collection practices and the importance of learned knowledge that would have been passed on to facilitate that continuity; changing of clay sources does not preclude continuity of practice, but in this case, their maintenance certainly weighs heavily in its favor. Second, if one accepts Mokrišová and Vaessen’s arguments for the innovation of Protogeometric styles within local Late Bronze and Early

Iron Age production practices, then the presence of Protogeometric pottery in Western

Anatolia must no longer be immediately linked to the influence of practices from Attica and Euboea. Instead, the production of that pottery in local workshops becomes compatible with the notion of continuity of practice.

3.4 Conclusion

This chapter has demonstrated that evidence for continuity across the Late Bronze-to-Early

Iron Age transition in Ionia is both present and persuasive. Given the clear examples currently available in published data, I have little doubt that—were the resolution of the archaeological record stronger—we would see yet more evidence come to light. Due to myriad factors, a substantial increase in this resolution may never be possible. Nonetheless, the continuity demonstrated by the evidence discussed in this chapter has important implications and potential for a discussion of community in its own right and deserves careful attention.

The most comprehensive data for individual sites in Iron Age Ionia comes from Ephesos,

Miletos, Limantepe/Klazomenai, Phokaia, and Smyrna-Bayraklı, though important contributions are made from other sites as well, including the sites of Apollo sanctuaries at

Klaros and Phanai. Taken together, these data evoke a regional landscape that consisted of

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a number of relatively independent—though highly connected—settlements, all with

occupation history dating back to at least the Bronze Age.

The most prominent types of data are those from cult locations and those pertaining to

architecture and broader settlement contexts. Together, they demonstrate a continuity of

human presence across an important moment that has traditionally been associated with

large-scale demographic change and cultural rupture. New interpretations in ceramic

analysis, however, have further questioned this characterization. In contrast, they allow

that ceramic evidence from these contexts is actually fully compatible with the idea of

continuity of practice, and therefore—crucially—with cultural continuity as well. This

necessitates a re-evaluation of Iron Age Ionia as a broader regional context, and has

important implications for the interpretation of excavated ceramics as they relate to

community identity and interaction.

The appearance of Protogeometric and LH IIIC characteristics in mixed Submycenaean assemblages has two implications. First, that techniques and motifs associated with

Protogeometric pottery were present in Western Anatolia at precisely the same time as— if not before—their appearance in Attica and Euboea. This timing in and of itself calls into question the idea of an Athenian development of the style and subsequent influence on

Anatolian production. Second, it subsequently suggests that the production of

Protogeometric pottery in Western Anatolia followed in a line of unbroken, though naturally changing and innovating, practice of production. This means that, if

Protogeometric pottery in Anatolian contexts belongs to a style that developed locally out

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of Bronze Age and Submycenaean production practices and stylistic trends, it no longer

needs to be characterized as ‘Greek’, and therefore indicative of import—or even direct

influence—from the mainland.

These ‘mixed’ Submycenaean assemblages are in fact part of a broader trend of plurality,

whereby production and consumption of diverse ceramic wares were present

simultaneously, and this continues—as has been made clear by NAA and other provenience

studies—beyond the Iron Age. This diversity does not imply that the practices in which

pots were used differed, but it does tell us that consumers were present who were willing

to make use of different types of vessels.

With the ultimate goal of investigating points of articulation for community identity and

formation, the ability to locate continuity of practices in the material record is critically

important. The identification of sites yielding strong evidence for continuity of occupation

is the first step in this process, and the re-evaluation of ceramic evidence has dramatically changed the possible interpretations for materials excavated there. The relationship between these sites of continuity and the formation of Ionian communities is the subject of the next chapter.

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Chapter 4: Community Formation in Ionian Sanctuaries

In the previous chapter, I introduced the clearest examples of Bronze-to-Iron Age

continuity in Ionia. Because scholarship on Ionia often does not discuss it directly, my goal

was to demonstrate just how much evidence there is in support of continuity in this period,

and to lay out exactly what it looks like in the archaeological record. I also established the

importance of re-evaluating the context for Ionian data in light of the high prevalence of continuity in the region, and clarified why, within this updated context, community—and not ethnicity—is the most effective framework for conceiving of Ionian identity.

This chapter takes the next step, and places that continuity evidence into a framework of community. Conceiving of this data as evidence for communities achieves two things.

First, it centers a focus on practice, which enables the reconstitution of sites and their

inhabitants without characterizing them along ethnic lines. This achieves a bottom-up

approach to identity and interaction, grounded firmly in the material record. Second, it

takes steps toward shedding some of the lasting impacts of historical colonialism that

impact Mediterranean archaeology more broadly (Chapter 1). This has traditionally

emphasized the dichotomy between east and west, and the role of cultural superiority

presumed in the Hellenization of Ionia.

By disentangling some of its vestiges from investigations in—and proposed narratives

for—Ionia, (Chapter 1), a more realistic view of life on the ground can be achieved. All of

this makes it possible to extract further meaning from the extant Ionian data, and to

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conceive of an updated narrative of Iron Age dynamics without the publication or

excavation of new materials.

In the following sections, I argue that activity at Ionian cult sites was critical for the

perpetual formation and maintenance of community identities. Physical and enacted

connections between local populations and their predecessors played a vital role in

negotiating interactions among a diverse array of community members. To demonstrate

this, I argue two main points relative to the formation of communities in Ionian sanctuaries.

First, that a particular type of continuity is clear in data from at least three39 of the Ionian

sanctuaries—Ephesos, Miletos, and Phokaia—suggesting that meaningful connections are

being drawn between past actors and present communities within the same important

spaces; and second, that evidence from the material assemblages and architecture at these

sanctuaries demonstrates the simultaneous presence of multiple communities of practice.

Taken together, these examples demonstrate the importance of sites of cult practice for the

articulation of Ionian communities.

39 While it has not yet been published in full, there is particularly extensive evidence for this same type of continuity and physical, structural interaction at the Samian Heraion. The situation at the Heraion appears to be similar to that at Miletos, with Minoanizing and Mycenaeanizing phases coming in continuous succession, followed directly by Iron Age settlement (Niemeier 2017, pers. comm.). I have not included the Heraion here as a primary case study, as the presentation of the relevant data comes largely from a public lecture given by W.-D. Niemeier at the American School of Classical Studies at Athens on January 26th, 2017. This particular site receives more cursory discussion in the final section of this chapter, along with more supplementary evidence from other cult and domestic contexts, but should be noted here for its richness and strong degree of support for the trend of growing visibility of communities of practice in sanctuaries.

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4.1 Physical Ties to the Past

Three major sanctuaries in Ionia have revealed particularly clear evidence for direct,

meaningful relationships between Iron Age—and Archaic—sanctuaries and their Bronze

Age counterparts (Fig. 16). At Ephesos, Miletos, and Phokaia, the direct superposition and physical interaction between successive layers of architectural construction and activity attest that actors were knowingly—and deliberately—maintaining the historical locations of their sanctuaries. With the addition of emerging evidence for archaizing practices and the conservation of local influence in cult traditions, I argue that this direct, physical interaction with past phases of these sanctuaries reflects the importance of long-term ties to these spaces for the articulation of Ionian communities.

4.1.1 Ephesos

The first evidence for such continuity comes from Ephesos. While the site has been

excavated extensively, a combination of substantial alluvial deposition and a history of

interest during later periods has made finds that date to the Late Bronze Age, Iron Age, and

Archaic period comparatively scarce (see Appendix A). A fortunate exception to this is the

material from the Artemision; the sanctuary has provided some of the oldest and most

comprehensive evidence of pre-Classical activity at the site. While the Ayasuluk Hill has

yielded fortification walls that may date to the Bronze Age40, as well as Mycenaean

ceramics (Büyükkolancı 2000, 39), the association of Bronze and Iron Age pottery with specific structures in closed deposits at the Artemision makes the evidence even more valuable for an understanding of the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition at the site. Furthermore,

40 M. Büyükkolancı identified these fortifications as having belonged to the Hittite-period settlement Apaša (Büyükkolancı 2007), which was the seat of power for Arzawa (Özyiğit 2006, 310). M. Kerschner has recently reported the re-dating of these walls to the Hellenistic period (Özyiğit 2006, 310).

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the close proximity of the temple to the Ayasuluk Hill (roughly 600 m) (Fig. 17) supports

the idea of a long history of connection between the fortified hilltop and the temenos.

As I noted in Chapter 3, the earliest known structure on the site is a small peripteros dated

to the late 8th or more likely the early 7th century BCE (Kerschner 2011, 19; Weissl 2002,

321).41 The Bronze and Iron Age materials from the sanctuary come from directly under

this peripteros (Fig. 18). The earliest stratum that has been investigated contained a mix of

sherds that have been characterized as Mycenaean, Submycenaean, and Protogeometric; of

these, the earliest painted pottery dates to LH IIIB/C, putting it firmly toward the end of

the Bronze Age (Bammer 1990; Bammer 2005; Forstenpointner, Kerschner, and Muss

2008; Muss 2005). Above this was another mixed deposit, sealed by alternating layers of ash and clay, that dates to the Iron Age. The ceramics were produced between the 11th and

early 9th centuries BCE, placing them in the Protogeometric period (Kerschner 2011, 20),

and the assemblage also contained miniature vessels, an ivory anthropomorphic figurine,

terracotta figurines, and burned animal bones (Forstenpointner, Kerschner, and Muss 2008,

38). If a direct relationship between this deposit and the peripteros weren’t already strongly

suggested by the physical relationship of the remains, the contents of this assemblage, and

their cultic nature, strengthens that suggestion.

Further Bronze Age finds have come out of excavations near the peripteros, including a

bronze double axe and a large terracotta head, of which the former has been dated to the

Early Bronze Age and the latter to the Late Bronze Age (Bammer 1999; Muss 2005).

Notably, the terracotta head, which is made of local clay, was the subject of re-engagement

41 See Chapter 3 for an elaboration on the dating controversy.

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in the Geometric period. This head was “buried” under a limestone block (Muss 2005,

136), probably in the 8th century BCE, and has been interpreted as belonging to a statue of

a goddess; this is based largely on the grounds of its size, the means of its secondary

deposition, and the fact that three body fragments from a large female statue, which appear

to belong to the “goddess with upraised arms” type, were found together in a context of

comparable date to the head (Forstenpointner, Kerschner, and Muss 2008, 38–39; see also

Muss 2001) (Fig. 19 ).42

As the plan of the sanctuary (Fig. 6) makes clear, the temenos is characterized by a dense

layering of successive temple structures, nearly all of which have their cellae centered over

the Archaic peripteros and the two early deposits I have just discussed. The Protogeometric

deposit likely resulted from one of the periodic overflows of river water that swept sand

over top of a floor level covered in the build-up of cult offerings and on-site activity

(Kerschner 2003b, 45), and the mixed nature of the sherds underneath suggests that their

deposition, too, may have resulted from a similar event. This does not imply a lack of

interaction between practitioners and their remains, however. Rather, the overflow event

would have prompted the reconstruction of any cult structure(s) or installation(s) on top.

While interaction with these deposited sherds themselves might not have been an active

part of the reconstruction process, this should not preclude the idea of long-term

connections to the site in the collective memory of the communities active there. The

continuous physical centering of structures over top of one another, and the dogged

42Forstenpointner, Kerschner, and Muss note that the thickness of these body fragments is smaller than that of the head, consistent with this statue type, and that the type of tapered waist that appears on this statue is only thus far known from Crete. They also observe that this statue is the only known example of its type and size in Western Anatolia (Özyiğit 2006, 310).

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persistence of cult here, even in the face of increasing challenges posed by marshy ground

and a high water table (Chapter 3), suggests a retained sense of the fundamental importance

of the space across the Late Bronze Age – Early iron Age divide and into much later periods.

4.1.2 Miletos

Miletos was home to a number of sacred precincts, and the Temple of Athena was the

center of one of the city’s most important religious cults. Like the city itself, the temple has

undergone extensive archaeological investigation and is continuing to reveal a long history

of Bronze Age activity (Chapter 3 and Appendix A). It is located on the western side of the

city, and the precinct abuts and partly overlays the remains of the fortification wall from

the phase known as Miletos VI, destroyed at some point around the turn of the 12th century

BCE (Fig. 20) (Niemeier 2007, 14).

The earliest architectural remains found underneath the Temple of Athena are dated to the

Milesian Mycenaean period (see Appendix A). These have been attributed to a “megaron”-

style building (Fig. 21), which has variously been interpreted as cultic or domestic in

function (on the former, see Held 2000, 9; Mallwitz and Schiering 1968, 118; on the latter,

see Held 2000, 5).

While this implies a slightly muddled origin for the cult temenos, any debate over the

megaron’s designation as wealthy house versus cult structure is not as problematic for an

understanding of the temple site as it might seem. On the Greek mainland and throughout

150 known sites on the islands, it was not uncommon for Early Iron Age cult evidence to come from larger-than-average structures that also produced significant quantities of domestic materials, including spindle whorls and cooking wares (Fox 2012, 69). The key outcome of these findings has been the assertion that in a period of social upheaval and change that likely followed the collapse of the Bronze Age palaces at some sites, the ideology behind feasting and cult shifted as well, and some of these communal activities were moved into the houses of emerging community leaders (Fox 2012, 67–69). At Miletos, it is not clear what the extent of domestic materials discovered in the megaron was, but it is important to note that its origin as a wealthy residence does not preclude its importance as a cult site, nor does it have significant implications that change its attestation of cult continuity and importance here in the temple temenos. In either case, one of the site’s most recent directors of excavation, Niemeier, has confirmed his belief in the megaron’s ultimate function as a cult space, based on ongoing work (awaiting publication) at the site (Niemeier 2017, pers. comm.).

Having established the likelihood of the megaron’s cult function, it is possible to turn to the stratigraphy itself; here, it is clear that there is active interaction between structures, and that the re-construction of buildings over top of previous structures was both repeated and prevalent (see e.g. Held 2000; B. Niemeier and Niemeier 1997; Niemeier 2009b;

Weber 1999). In fact, the likely return of activity to the megaron structure indicates exactly the type of direct interaction between Iron Age practitioners and earlier iterations of the cult space that I have in mind here.

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Another important component of continuity at the Temple of Athena relates to the so-called

‘Kultmal’, which is located just north of the megaron structure and later monumental

temple (Fig. 8) (Held 2000, 12). This is an enigmatic, oval-shaped installation, surrounded by a small protective wall, that was physically separate from the temple itself. Whatever specific activities it was used for, its character seems to have been maintained over the passage of time—the construction of a monumental temple in the 5th century resulted not

in the Kultmal’s destruction, as one might expect, but rather in its provision with a new

surrounding wall, directly on top of the earlier socle (Held 2000: 11). Most importantly,

the Kultmal was constructed directly on top of the bastion of a destroyed Bronze Age fortification wall from Miletos VI (Niemeier 2009a, 21) (Fig. 22). Excavation has revealed

the footprint of the original structure, but only a few finds emerged from these

investigations, including Geometric ceramics from within its ruins (Niemeier 2009a, 22).43

In addition to its place within the sanctuary, the cultic nature of the Kultmal is further

evidenced by what Wolf-Dietrich Niemeier has interpreted as a foundation deposit for this

structure (Niemeier 2009a, 22). Underneath the Kultmal, sitting directly on top of the destroyed fortification wall, was a nearly complete, miniature krater from the 12th century

BCE (Fig. 23); the only other published find from this context was the shoulder of an LH

IIIC jar or amphora (Niemeier 2009a, 22). Winfried Held also alludes to the discovery of bronze votives within the structure (Held 2000, 35). On the basis of the dating of the destruction of Miletos VI, and the stylistic characteristics of the ceramics, Niemeier has

43 These consist of an oval stone setting, approximately 2 m long and 1.6 m wide, of which five layers remain. Surrounding the stone setting was an irregularly formed wall, approximately 50 cm wide, of which three layers remain in the northeast and two remain in the northwest. An 80 cm-wide entrance is preserved on the southeastern side (Held 2000: 6).

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assigned the construction of the installation to the 12th century BCE. No residual evidence

suggests use of the Kultmal as an altar, and its shape, having no known comparanda, also

seems to disqualify its use as a statue base (Niemeier 2009a, 22). Notably, Nicholas

Coldstream reported that the Kultmal’s original excavators considered it to be a cult installation built by and/or for Karian inhabitants of Miletos who were descended from the original, pre-migration population of Karians inhabiting the site (Coldstream 1977, 260).

This was based primarily on Milesian foundation myths, which provided a convenient excavation for a seemingly inexplicable installation inside an otherwise ‘Greek’ sanctuary.

This explanation, based on essentializing categories of ‘Greek’ and ‘un-Greek’ material culture, is unlikely to represent the reality of the early sanctuary environment. Nonetheless, the Kultmal’s origins remain unclear and the implications of this will be discussed later in this chapter.

Despite a lack of concrete evidence for the function of the Kultmal, the Temple of Athena at Miletos is another example of a sanctuary characterized by the dense overlay of structures across the Late Bronze-to-Early Iron Age divide. While not fully understood, the direct overlay of the Kultmal on the rubble of the Miletos VI wall may have more significant implications than are currently understood, and the consistent layering of cult structures under the monumental temples of the Classical period suggest much the same scenario as can be seen at the Ephesian Artemision. Intentional interaction with vestiges of prehistoric practice was taking place at the Temple of Athena, and the importance of that interaction lasted beyond the Iron Age.

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4.1.3 Phokaia

Phokaia is the northernmost Ionian city, and the third example of a particular kind of direct

interaction with the Bronze Age past in its sanctuary. Presence at the settlement in general

is well attested in the Bronze Age. The earliest activity is evidenced by Early Bronze Age

ceramics, accompanied by architectural remains and ceramic materials dating also to the

Middle Bronze Age (Özyiğit 2006, 310). The inhabitants of that settlement appear to have

been active at the location of the later Temple of Athena, where they also left ceramic

remains (Özyiğit 2007, 349) (Fig. 24). While the first monumental temple appears to have

been built in the first quarter of the 6th century BCE (Özyiğit 2003, 112), it was not the first iteration of a cult structure on the site.

Those earlier remains comprise an oval structure that dates to the Protogeometric period,

overlain by the foundations of the Archaic temple. In its rubble, however, were found

ceramics dating to the Early Bronze Age (Özyiğit 2007, 349). As I established in Chapter

3, this does not concretely attest continuous activity on the site of the Temple of Athena.

However, coupled with an impressive array of domestic structures that span the period

from the 14th to the 7th centuries BCE (see Chapter 3), it strongly suggests both that

continuity of cult activity on this hill site is quite possible, and that the builders of the

monumental 6th century temple were aware of activity from at least several centuries earlier

under their foundations.

The presence of activity around the site of the temple hill is further bolstered by ceramic

finds from the harbor directly below. In the shallow water, excavators revealed not only a

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series of roof tiles from the 6th century BCE—the earliest known from Phokaia—but also

a range of other materials that appear to have been dumped from the temple. In addition,

although their affiliation with a temple structure cannot be confirmed on account of their

earlier date, a number of Protogeometric and Geometric ceramics were found in harbor

waters as well (Özyiğit 1995, 432). This further suggests that, while the date given for this

sanctuary’s monumental temple is around the middle of the 6th century BCE, the evidence

for activity on the terraced hill above includes the Early Bronze Age and the earliest years

of the Iron Age. In addition, it is notable that the means of dating of the circular structure

cut by the 6th century temple are not specified clearly in reports. Given the propensity for

dates to be assessed based on correlations with the Ionian Migration44, it is not implausible

that this structure could have earlier origins, placing it in the Middle or Late Bronze Age,

and securing a stronger record of continuity.

4.2 Archaism and Conservation

An understanding of the full complement of evidence for archaizing practices in Ionia is

heavily dependent on the current state of publication. Only a few clear examples are known,

largely because our understanding of local practices that were not associated with ‘Greek’

cultural tradition is incomplete. The baseline of comparison for past practices is therefore not clearly defined, and it can be difficult to discern when practices at ‘Greek’ settlements were making deliberate references to their predecessors. Examples of conservation—the

44 This seems to have been the case at Miletos, where the Kultmal was originally dated to the Geometric period on the basis of associated finds. W.-D. Niemeier has since re-dated it on the basis of the foundation deposits, arguing for the Geometric period sherds as providing a useful terminus post quem for activity there, but not actually representing the period of its initial construction (Niemeier 2017, pers. comm).

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maintenance of practices and influences that in this case go back at least to the Bronze

Age—are more strongly attested. This is particularly evident at the Ephesian Artemision, but also seems to be attested at Miletos. Taken together, these examples deserve attention for the implications they have for our understanding of deliberate references to the past in the sanctuaries discussed in this chapter.

4.2.1 Ephesos

At Ephesos, the structure and form of the Archaic peripteros appears to reflect one instance

of such archaizing practice. Anton Bammer has argued that the peripteros would have had

an un-roofed central space, open to the elements (Fig. 25).45 He also notes the unusual

nature of its rectangular footprint in comparison with other contemporary peripteroi, which

are known only as apsidal or oval in plan. On the grounds of both architectural

characteristics, he suggests the construction of the peripteros in this manner reflected a

deliberate decision to recall the megaron form of “Mycenaean” ritual spaces in the 7th

century BCE Artemision (Bammer 2005, 110). If this was the case, there are two possible explanations for its significance. On the one hand, this may reflect a longer-term trend of archaizing style in the sanctuary—in this case, incorporated into otherwise innovative construction practices. As I discuss later in the chapter, aspects of Iron Age practice at the

Artemision are somewhat anomalous, and one explanation for this could be their roots in earlier, local cult tradition. On the other hand, this decision to recall Mycenaean ritual space could also reflect a punctuated moment at which an even clearer notation of much earlier practice was considered necessary or preferable. In either case, Bammer’s interpretation of

45 For Bammer’s reconstructions of the peripteros and preceding earlier structures, see Bammer 2008.

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the peripteros fits with the suggestion of long-term, continuous activity in the temple

precinct.

In addition to providing evidence for archaizing, the Artemision also displays evidence for

the conservation of practices rooted in local tradition, stemming from before the Bronze- to-Iron Age transition. The strongest examples of influence from prehistoric Anatolian practices in traditions conserved at the Artemision are skillfully argued by Sarah Morris

(2001), who demonstrates the plausibility of such origins through key features of the best- known cult statue, dating to the Roman period (Fig. 26). In Artemis’ wearing of a polos,

her close association with bees, and her clutching of strands of wool, Morris sees ties to

the Near East, and specifically to Hittite cult. She notes the appearance of the polos on

reliefs at Yazılıkaya, the importance of bees in Hittite texts such as the story of the god

Telipinu, and the use of wool in Hittite and Luwian magic and purification rituals (Morris

2001, 139). These connections also contribute to her re-interpretation of the famously

enigmatic chest decoration sported by the cult statue, which she suggests represent kurša—

bags made of leather, whose contents reflected the concept of a cornucopia-like Füllhorn, representing longevity and prosperity (Morris 2001, 143). This explanation stands in stark contrast to popular alternatives, including the statue’s possession of many breasts, representing her fecundity and maternal powers, or of an array of bull’s testicles suspended from cords46. Equally compelling, if not more so, is Morris’ analysis of the goddess’ name.

Early attestations of the name Potnia Aswiya (‘po-ti-ni-ja a-si-wi-ya’ in Linear B) come

46 Morris explains that this has been specifically disproven by a paucity of bones belonging to male bovines among animal remains at the Artemision, as well as an absence of regulations regarding the sacrifice of bulls (Morris 2001, 142) (see also Bryce 2012, 2).

157 from a tablet designating the destination of a large quantity of oil stored at Pylos, referring to a deity associated with an area that corresponds quite closely to Ionia.47 Much later names used to refer to Ephesian Artemis explicitly include ‘Lady Upis’ (in Callimachos’

Hymn to Artemis III. 239), presumably referring to Ephesos’ proposed Bronze Age name,

Apaša (Morris 2001, 137)48. In sum, compelling evidence for origins of the goddess worshipped at the Artemision abound; these are further supported by architectural evidence for archaizing practice there.49

In addition to the aspects of the goddess noted above, the form of the 6th century BCE

“Kroisos temple” has been characterized as having its origins in Lydian and perhaps other

Anatolian cult architecture. While the building’s masonry shares traits—and certainly patronage—with Lydian architecture (Ratté 1993), the impact of other Anatolian cult influence specifically has been suggested as an explanation for several of the temples seemingly ‘un-Greek’ features. Based on the veritable forest of marble columns that adorned the temple, the small size of the naiskos, and its lack of roof, Gottfried Gruben has argued that its structure was heavily influenced by styles originating in Anatolia (1993).50

47 See Chapter 1, section 1.1.3 for details on the appellation ‘Asia’ for the region generally corresponding to Ionia and its environs. 48 See also Hanfmann 1962. 49 The associations Morris makes between Bronze Age Ephesos and the Hittites are supported by evidence for interaction between the Hittites and the people of Arzawa, which comes primarily from texts at the Hittite capital of Hattuša. First mention of Arzawa appears in the second half of the 17th c. BCE, under the reign of Hattušili I, and they continue to appear as a military opponent of the Empire through the mid-14th c. BCE, when they may have come close to eclipsing it as the dominant military and political player in western Anatolia (Hanfmann 1962). See also (Hanfmann 1962). Additionally, there is some evidence for activity related to Hittites at the sanctuary in the form of a small statuette that G. Hanfmann characterized as a “Hittite priest”. This comes from a group of bronzes found during the Second World War which was determined to be “wholly un-Greek”, and which Hanfmann believes attests to the presence of a Bronze Age settlement at nearby Koressos (see Appendix A) (Kerschner 2011, 24). 50 Gruben discusses the various attributes of temple architecture on the Ionian islands in this article, but touches only briefly on examples from Ephesos and Miletos. Personal communication with Christopher

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Additionally, the figural reliefs that surround the lower drums of some of the temple’s

columns (Fig. 27) have been argued to represent influence from Mycenaean, Hittite, and

other Eastern architectural traditions. W.R. Lethaby (1917, 1) compared the décor to friezes adorning “the lower parts of crude brick walls” in Mycenaean palaces, and Assyrian,

Persian, and Hittite “slabs” of similar architectural sculpture. This question of ‘Anatolian’ influence has not received a great deal of discussion. In a discussion of figural representations in Archaic Greek temples, Clemente Marconi does refer to the specifically

“local tradition of an open sekos,” (Marconi 2007, 21). In Marconi’s view (which agrees with that of Bammer [2017]), the construction of the enormous Archaic temple was intended to make a political statement on behalf of Kroisos, and to help unify ‘Lydian’ and

‘Greek’ inhabitants at Ephesos. With this intent in mind, he argues that “the reliefs on the lower drums of the columns made reference to the neo-Hittite tradition in southern Anatolia and northern Syria of orthostates decorated by reliefs and of animal bases supporting

columns,” (Marconi 2007, 24). Marconi also argues that this reflects the union—perhaps

for the first time—of the local descendants of Ionian Greek settlers and their Anatolian

counterparts. I suggest that, instead of representing an effort to effect this unification for

the first time— however political the construction of the temple may have been—the

incorporation of traditions hailing from farther to the east and south attests not to the

deliberate merger of east and west, but rather reflects the deep-seated connections between

Artemis Ephesia and earlier traditions rooted elsewhere in Anatolia.

Ratté (2017) has revealed Gruben’s declaration of the above opinion in public discussion at the conference associated with the cited volume.

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4.2.2 Miletos

At Miletos, the foundation deposit for the Kultmal represents another act that has been

interpreted as a deliberately archaizing practice. Niemeier’s publication of the miniature

krater identifies its formal and decorative characteristics as implying somewhat disparate dates. While its overall form and decorative style fit closely with a date of the late 14th/early

13th century BCE, the vessel possesses a distinctive carination in its body, which does not appear in the ceramic record until the 12th century BCE51. This latter date is also more

consistent with the destruction of the Miletos VI fortification wall and subsequent

construction of the Kultmal. The deliberate choice to decorate the pot with an earlier motif recalls the period right around the shift from Miletos V to Miletos VI, which at some point coincided with the construction of the wall itself.52 The specific nature of this connection

is unclear, but it may be of significance that the foundation deposit for the Kultmal alludes to the same temporal context as the original construction of the very ruins it sits directly upon.

Of additional interest in the sanctuary is the conservation of the megaron shape in re- occupation of the site in this same period. The Kultmal was not the only new construction in the temple precinct in the 12th century BCE—a megaron-style building was re-

constructed over several fine layers of burnt material, which has been dated to the late 12th

51 Specifically, the form characterizes a krater of the LH IIIA2-B, and the “multiple stems” decorative motif that appears on the vessel matches this as well; in contrast, while the carination in the walls first appears in the LH IIIC Middle, the “multiple stems” motif was no longer commonly used at that time (W.-D. Niemeier 2007, 15). 52 Construction of the Miletos VI fortification wall has been dated to some point between ca. 1300 and 1200 BCE (W.-D. Niemeier 2007, 15).

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(or even early 11th) century BCE by ceramic finds within.53 The retention of a preference

for this architectural style firmly rooted in earlier periods at the site suggests either the related identity of those people constructing the buildings, or the importance of maintaining architectural traditions.

These examples of archaizing practices, in particular, are scant in number, but nonetheless important. If, as I argue to be the case, communities in Ionia are articulating themselves around long-term ties to sanctuary sites, we might expect to see more such physical and practical references to the materials (and practices) associated with those periods. One reason, however, that not much archaizing practice has been identified may be our lack of comprehensive understanding of the nature of local cult activities at these sites in the

Bronze Age. This dearth of knowledge is compounded by the limited quantity of Bronze

Age cult materials available from many sites more broadly, which prohibits illuminating comparisons of activities across periods. The same issues hold true for the identification of conservation—if local practices are not thoroughly understood, it is hard to identify them as the roots for any activities evidenced in the Iron Age. The several instances I have described here are worth taking into consideration; their relevance may increase with the addition of future data, but within the context of community articulation around sanctuaries, they are meaningful as standalone examples of archaizing and conservation from key Ionian sites.

53 These finds comprised a monochrome cup, a fragment of a krater, and a three-footed cup with fish and bird decoration (Niemeier 2009, 21).

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4.3 Communities of Practice in Ionian Sanctuaries

I have established that a very specific type of continuity is found in major Ionian

sanctuaries, which directly implies the interaction between Iron Age cult practitioners and

the materials and spaces left behind by their Bronze Age counterparts. The final category

of evidence that informs an understanding of community formation in Ionian sanctuaries

comes from the types of materials in the associated assemblages themselves. These, I

would argue, have produced some of the strongest evidence for the presence of multiple

communities of practice at these sites, and are suggestive of their critical significance to

community articulation. Specifically, this articulation is visible when material evidence suggests that the same practices were undertaken either by different means, or with

different types of goods, and is predicated on the notion that people sharing different

versions of the same kind of practice would have learned them as a result of their

membership in different communities.54

It must be noted that the preponderance of evidence for communities at sanctuary sites may be somewhat biased by the fact that they have produced a significant portion of Ionia’s

Bronze and Iron Age evidence more generally. Nonetheless, I believe this evidence suggests that shared practice at Ionian sanctuaries was at least one important means of articulation for the communities active there and living in their environs. Taken in the context of Ionia’s position within the wider Aegean and Anatolian regions (Chapter 1), this

makes sense: these sanctuaries exist at coastal locations with easy access to inland sites.

Evidence for ties with these sites is abundant in later periods, and interactions at these

54 Refer back to Chapter 2—and especially Section 2.3.4—for greater detail.

162 sanctuaries may have been the catalyst for the establishment of economic ties between mobile actors based to Ionia’s east and west, as well as to its local population(s).

4.3.1 Ephesos

The Artemision offers some of the most high-resolution and compelling evidence for an assemblage-based analysis of the presence of multiple communities of practice. This is in large part due to the richness of its Iron Age cult material. Returning to the Protogeometric assemblage I introduced earlier, more detailed ceramic analysis has produced significant evidence for the presence of multiple food preparation practices within the sanctuary.

Because these two traditions are reflected in the presence of different types of locally-made cooking pots, I argue they very likely represent (at a minimum) two different traditions of potting practice as well, and therefore a second instance of multiple communities articulating around different versions of the same type of practice.

Michael Kerschner has provided a detailed breakdown of the Protogeometric assemblage, visible in Figure 28, and it has some notable characteristics. In terms of vessel shapes, nearly half of the diagnostic sherds were rims (438 rims of 913 total sherds) (Kerschner

2011, 23), which allowed for identification of general vessel type. Of these, 56% were classified as open shapes, and the remaining 44% as closed. Kerschner reports that this slight prevalence is commensurate with trends also seen at Lefkandi, Isthmia, and Minoa on Amorgos (Kerschner 2011, 24). Unlike assemblages seen at other Iron Age sites around

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the Aegean55, however, this assemblage contains an especially high number of cooking

pots—approximately 35% of the total deposit. In a later, 7th century BCE deposit from the

Artemision, cooking pots make up only 3% of the overall assemblage (Kerschner 2011,

24).

A second notable characteristic of the assemblage concerns the cooking pots themselves; differences in their manufacture indicate that multiple production techniques were employed by Ephesian potters. Most of the overall assemblage at large comprised wheel- made vessels painted in what Kerschner identified as the ‘Greek Protogeometric’ style, but

23% of the sherds came from handmade wares (Fig. 28). Of the handmade vessels, 79%

(18% of the total assemblage) were one-handled cooking pots, seen regularly around the

Aegean in both this period and much later. These are known as chytrai (Fig. 29), and are found both in contexts on the Greek mainland and elsewhere in Western Anatolia

(Kerschner 2003b, 248), as well as at sites associated with migration from supposedly

‘Greek’ sites in Ionia (e.g. Philistia [Ben-Shlomo et al. 2008; Yasur-Landau 2005]). In contrast, the other 21% of the handmade wares (4.8% of the total assemblage) consisted of

“shapes, types and/or decorations that have no parallels in mainland Greece or on the Greek islands, but in Western and Central Anatolia (e.g. Troia, Gordion, Boğazköy/Hattusa.),”

(Kerschner 2011, 25). These non-chytrai pots were made of local clay, and thus not imported, and Kerschner rightly points out that, whereas the formation of cooking pots by

55 Kerschner compares these proportions to those from assemblages at the sanctuaries of Poseidon at Isthmia, those of Demeter and Kore at Corinth, and that of Zeus at Olympia. The only sanctuary noted as having a similarly high percentage of cooking pots is found at Kalapodi in northeastern Phokis (Raymond et al. 2016). Kalapodi is also the site on the Greek mainland with some of the clearest evidence for continuous cult practice between the Bronze Age and the Iron Age (Muss 2000; Klebinder 2000; Klebinder-Gauss 2007; Klebinder-Gauss and Pülz 2008).

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hand makes practical sense on the basis of the particularly coarse fabric of the available

clay, nothing about the fabric of the non-chytrai wares would have necessitated hand

formation. Rather, he presents this as evidence for potters “continuing a familiar tradition,”

(Kerschner 2011, 25). While Kerschner has argued that this data may mark the presence of different ethnic groups (‘Greeks’ and ‘Anatolians’) (Kerschner 2011, 25)—a community- based evaluation of the evidence takes our understanding of interactions here several steps further.

Instead, what these analyses reflect is that at the Artemision, between the 11th and 9th

centuries BCE, there were at least two different production traditions at work for cooking

pots. Either the same potters were going to the trouble of forming two different types of

pots, with stylistic correlates coming from completely different geographic regions, or two

different communities of potters were at work simultaneously. In either case, the implication is that there was enough demand to support two different traditions of potting

practice. The question is, were those practices rooted in everyday domestic food

processing, or solely in ritual practice at the temple, or both? Put another way: do these

vessels reflect the way people were cooking in their everyday lives in their homes? Or were

they conserved traditions related only to the sanctuary? Without more data from domestic

contexts at Ephesos, it is hard to know, but I think both scenarios are possible.

What this means for Ephesian communities is that there are at least two different layers of

identity visible at the Iron Age Artemision, and perhaps even three. One was probably

articulated around the shared practice of stewing meats, feasting, and performing other

rituals at the Artemision. Another was probably articulated around production practices.

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Either there was a single community of potters there, producing all of the cooking vessels,

or there were two different communities of potters making different pots from different,

local fabrics. Finally, another community may have been articulated around daily cooking

practice. Especially if these cooking pots reflected daily, in-home use—and by that, I mean if people were simply using the same pots, or types of pots, from their homes in a ritual context—then shared daily practices surrounding food preparation would have articulated at least two separate communities visible here as well.

Even if the pots reflected traditions only conserved within ritual practice in the sanctuary, multiple communities are still visible in the ceramic evidence. This would simply imply that the evidence reflects the historic presence of more than one community articulated around different cooking practices, whose value for the performance of identity was only conserved in a ritual context. The complexity of this scenario is clear, and many explanations might account for its possible occurrence, but the impact remains the same; multiple communities of practice are still visible within the sanctuary of Ephesian Artemis.

As this example shows, instead of viewing the population of actors at the Artemision as simply members of two ethnic groups, one ‘Greek’ and one ‘Anatolian’ as has been the previous tendency (e.g. Kerschner 2011, 25), it is possible to envision a much more complex series of interactions and overlapping identities.

Returning to the assemblage itself, one certainty among the results from the ceramic analyses is that the practitioners active at the Artemision were stewing an unusually high quantity of meat and other foods. I am in agreement with Kerschner that the large volume

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of cooking pots probably indicates a high level of importance for food preparation in rituals

dedicated to Ephesian Artemis in the Early Iron Age. The dramatic decrease in the number

of pots in the 7th century BCE is also accompanied by finds of iron and other metal pieces that were perhaps part of roasting spits or grates, which may indicate a method of meat

preparation that replaced the pots (Kerschner 2003a). The makeup of the assemblage has

implications for an understanding of consumption as well. In terms of the smaller open

vessels found within the assemblage, these consist of 30% cups and 23% skyphoi. If the

skyphoi are considered not just for drinking but rather as more multi-purpose vessels that

could also have been used for eating—which Catherine Morgan (1999) has suggested—

then I agree with Kerschner (2011, 24) that these finds may together represent individual

sets for food and drink in a ritual context.

In the context of a complex series of overlapping communities, all articulated on an

overarching level around their presence and practice at the Artemision, the large quantity

of cooking and personal feasting ware may have even further implications. If the

Artemision was, as I suspect, an Iron Age site that attracted a diverse range of Ionia’s

contemporary inhabitants, it would be logical that large-scale, shared rituals were one

means of structuring social relationships (Dietler and Hayden 2010; Jimenez, Montón-

Subías, and Romero 2011). In this case, the large quantity of vessels in the assemblage

dedicated to the cooking and consumption of food and drink may reflect the importance of

collective feasting and ritual on a larger scale.

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As I previously noted, the non-chytrai cooking pots find comparanda at sites such as Troy,

Gordion, and Hattuša, suggesting that whoever was producing them had some kind of social or practical ties to those sites or their environs more broadly. Alternatively, this type of pot may have been more widespread than our understanding of the extent of its range suggests; in this case, the Ephesian potters would have been tied into a broad network of producers around Western Anatolia. Regardless, in later periods, ties to these sites are well documented at Ionian sanctuaries—including Ephesos (Kerschner 2014, 110–16). In the

Protogeometric deposit, for example, while a large portion of the painted pottery was produced locally (Forstenpointner, Kerschner, and Muss 2008; Kerschner 2014, 118), there were also imports. These came primarily from Euboea and Attica (Klebinder-Gauss and

Pülz 2008)56. A few examples of other artifacts, found at the temple in later periods, that

attest to external contacts include gold and ceramics displaying Lydian influence, Phrygian

bronzes, giant clam shells from the ‘Cypro-Phoenician’ region, ivory displaying Cypriot

and Egyptian carving, Cypriot terracottas, ceramics displaying Cretan motifs, and a great

deal of Aegyptiaca left as votives (Klebinder-Gauss and Pülz 2008). While the large portion

of these artifacts date to the Archaic and Classical periods, their presence nonetheless

attests the long-term trend of extra-Ionian contacts at the sanctuary.

The relationships resulting from mutual participation in large-scale rituals at the

Artemision may have been economic as well; after all, Ionia sits at a primary point of

contact between the Aegean and the inland regions of Western Anatolia and beyond. Thus,

well-attested trade relations may have, in part, been crystallized through either direct social

56 Some skyphoi and amphorae have bene traced directly to Athens—on these, see Kerschner 2006, 479; Akurgal et al. 2002 for specific results from Neutron Activation Analysis.

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interaction at major sanctuaries like the Artemision, or through more disparate contact

facilitated by interaction with material goods that became more and more familiar to local

inhabitants and their contacts in the Aegean.

These are, of course, only speculative suggestions. Nonetheless, they illustrate the new

levels of questions and discourse that are prompted by shifting our conceptions of Ionian

identity from a basis in ethnicity to one centered on community.

4.3.2 Miletos

Returning again to Miletos, some evidence for pottery production suggests the similar

presence of multiple communities of practice. Within this broader context, I advocate for

a similar interpretation of data from the Temple of Athena. I previously noted that at

Miletos, there is a shift from phases that display a modicum of influence from Minoan

traditions; to those attesting a more significant presence of Minoan and then Mycenaean

material traditions; to those in the latest phases of Bronze and Iron Age occupation that

show much more evidence for a high degree of acculturation—or assimilation57—and

adoption of Mycenaean practices. From the 14th century BCE, when the city was home to

large-scale ceramic production, a total of eight kilns have thus far been found (Niemeier

2009a). On the one hand, in their form and function, these represent firing traditions known

from both Crete and inland Anatolia, and on the other hand, they were producing both

57 See Raymond et al. 2016 for more discussion on the particulars of evidence for Minoanizing and Mycenaeanizing influence, as well as local Anatolian coastal influence, at Miletos.

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‘local’ and ‘Mycenaean-style’ ceramics, seemingly within the same physical spaces

(Niemeier 2009a).

This is significant because it suggests that whether these vessels were produced by separate groups or the same artisans, they were all part of a community of potters engaging in their tasks in a shared space. As a result of this and accompanying domestic data in the 13th c., as well as subsequent settlement phases after the destruction of Miletus VI, the

‘Mycenaean’ character of the settlement has been explained in two ways—as the result of either cultural assimilation on the part of its ‘Anatolian’ population (e.g. Özyiğit 2003,

118), or the establishment of a Mycenaean colony (Roller 1999). Regardless of where one comes down in this debate, it is clear that Milesian evidence displays something of a tension between different cultural influences and material practices that cannot be entirely explained by any single model alone. In all likelihood, then, it probably represented a context full of diverse actors with varying levels of association to the different attested traditions.

It was in this context that the Kultmal, which I introduced before, was constructed. This cult installation has proven enigmatic to modern scholars because no parallels are known from the Aegean (Greaves 2009, 97). As I explained, it has previously been interpreted as part of Karian cult practice, or some other form of ‘local’ tradition. In either case, the

Kultmal represents something of an unknown that must have made sense to whatever combination of local actors erected it. In the 12th century context just described, I suggest the combination of practices originating in different traditions would not have been out of

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place at Miletos. It is thus plausible that the Kultmal’s lack of comparability with other known cult installations reflects the particularly localized nature of its sensibility and function.

The maintenance of the Kultmal in much later periods suggests that it played a role separate from that of the monumental temple itself, and was associated with its own suite of practices. Had it been an earlier iteration of the locus of cult practice that was entirely replaced by the temple, there would have been little need to preserve it. Of course, it is not entirely impossible that the Kultmal and the temple were used in the same practices, and that the Kultmal was preserved because its association with the distant past made it important. In either case, however, its preservation has firm implications for ties to past practice at the sanctuary, and for the presence of multiple communities of practice at

Miletos more generally.

If the Kultmal was maintained because it fulfilled a unique function in cult activities, then it represents the continuity of practice between its installation and the construction of the monumental temple. Not only that, but it attests the enactment of different practices in parallel at the temple site. If the Kultmal were maintained but no longer used for its original purpose, such a scenario still implies the construction of social narrative and importance around the installation, and demonstrates the perceived importance of ties to the past, even if the associated practices themselves were no longer an active part of cult rituals. As this example has demonstrated, this plurality of communities is not only connected to the

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Kultmal and the sanctuary, but also to maintenance practices in the form of ceramic

production.

4.3.3 Phokaia

A return to Phokaia provides a third example of the presence of multiple communities of

practice in cult contexts. This example is slightly less secure, primarily because of the

uncertainty of the dating of features involved. Nonetheless, it deserves attention here, and

in the future as more information may come to light, for its relevance to the conservation

of traditions and the development of localized cult practices.

Located just below the Temple of Athena, on the northern slope of its terraced hill (Özyiğit

2003, 118), practitioners were engaged with a second form of cult. This sanctuary (Fig.

11), which consists of a number of niches and rock-cut features (section 3.1.1.5), has been attributed to the “Hellenized” Phrygian goddess Kybele (Kerschner 2015, 348).58

As I suggested in section 3.3.1.5, given the importance of Kybele across several regions of

Western Anatolia (Forstenpointner, Kerschner, and Muss 2008, 39), it would be reasonable to infer that people were worshiping the goddess prior to the mid-6th century at Phokaia.

If that were the case, it is possible either that the sanctuary is older than the 6th c., or that

worship of Kybele was taking place on the rise above the harbor where the Temple of

Athena and the unidentified cult structure were also located. There are other similar

niches—interpreted as Kybele sanctuaries—found on nearby islands (Orak Adası and Incir

58 These niches are rarely published, but others have been found at Ephesos, Erythrai, Priene, and possibly Myous (Greaves 2009, 195)

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Adası) (Büyükkolancı 2000, 39; Özyiğit 2003, 118). If, therefore, one does accord a 6th century date to the harbor sanctuary, it is possible that these were earlier sanctuaries used by communities at Phokaia, and the harbor sanctuary represented a new installation. If the harbor sanctuary is earlier in date, then these may have been contemporary installations in use at the same time by those coming and in and out of Phokaia for commercial business.

Given the location of the Temple of Athena directly on top of what was likely an Early

Bronze Age cult site, and the presence of the sanctuary to Kybele on the rocks below, it is likely that Archaic communities made a deliberate decision to tie themselves and their cult practices to those of earlier communities living at Phokaia. If Archaic communities considered themselves direct descendants of Bronze Age communities, then this may have simply been the natural continuation of worship at a sacred location. If they did not consider themselves direct descendants of the Bronze Age communities, then this likely represents a conscious choice to draw a connection between their worship and that of their predecessors. In the latter case, the worship of Kybele proves even more interesting, because it represents the decision to carry on a cult practice that likely belonged to earlier communities at Phokaia in parallel with those that were introduced later. If the harbor sanctuary was really a new 6th century BCE installation, it also represents a decision to bring together two cults and concentrate sacred space at a single, historical location.

4.4 Conclusion

The primary goal of this chapter has been to illustrate the efficacy of a community-based approach to Ionian identity over more traditional approaches rooted in ethnic designations.

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As I have shown using data from Ephesos, Miletos, and Phokaia, within a record of

continuous occupation at these sites, it is possible to also see the presence of a particular

type of continuity—one that involves the explicit interaction with either physical or

practical vestiges of previous activities within a sanctuary space. With the repeated

superposition of buildings, the necessary demolition or cleaning required in constructing

new ones (either after unintended destruction or intentional removal), and in some cases

the repeated use of architectural forms, I argue that it is unlikely that Iron Age inhabitants

were active in these sanctuary spaces without direct prior knowledge of previous cult

presence there. Taking this idea one step further, I have posited that the explicit

maintenance of activity at these sites suggests that for Iron Age communities, connections

to Bronze Age cult places were an important factor that helped articulate their identities.

The evidence I have discussed for the presence of multiple practices that achieved similar

ends—such as the production of pottery, cooking of food, or other practices related to

worship—suggests the presence of multiple communities of practice at these sites. That is,

it suggests the presence of different communities articulated around different sets of shared

practices, all present within the same ritual context.

This, in turn, supports the idea that overarching shared practices—worship within a sanctuary more broadly, for example, or the shared social practice of being in the same ritual space with one another—were important points of articulation for even higher order communities, such as the occupants of settlements at Ephesos and its environs. These people might differ markedly in other sets of practices, and they might be categorized by modern scholars as belonging to different ethnic groups under another framework of

174 identity. Within a community-based approach, however, it is possible to eschew such a top-down designation, and to consider the layered nature of their interactions in what was just one aspect of their daily lives.

The evidence I have discussed in this chapter does not represent the only data from Ionia that fits well within a community-based framework for identity. Rather, I have chosen here three of the sites with some of the more substantial examples. In turn, sanctuaries are not the only place where the articulation of Ionian communities is visible—they are merely home to one category of activity that appears to have been particularly important to these processes. What is demonstrable in the evidence discussed here, however, is that conceiving of identity as predicated upon communities expands the interpretive potential of the material culture to which we currently have access, and allows for a more nuanced— and I argue realistic—understanding of the experience of being Ionian in the Iron Age.

In the next chapter, I expand my dataset to include the northwestern Mediterranean, and explore the visibility of the articulation of communities at coastal sites populated by a diverse array of permanent residents, traders, craftspeople, and other itinerant, mobile people. Bringing these data into a comparative framework with those from Ionia allows for an expanded discussion on community identities, layers of interaction, and the roles played by different points of articulation and shared practices across variable contexts.

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Chapter 5: A Comparison of Community Dynamics in Ionia and the Northwestern Mediterranean

5.1 Introduction

In this chapter, I compare community dynamics and the processes of their formation in the

northwestern Mediterranean and Ionia. Specifically, I discuss evidence from the first three

centuries of co-habitation between Greek-speakers and other peoples in the Northwest (ca.

600-300 BCE), and relate it to that from the first three centuries of ostensible Greek

occupation of Ionia after the close of the Bronze Age (ca. 1050-750 BCE); surrounding

periods are, however, employed in discussion to provide context. This comparison brings

together two regions not often discussed in concert, but which nonetheless hold great

relevance to one another. It was Ionians from Phokaia who were credited with the first

permanent, recorded Greek settlement in the northwest at Massalia, and it was Massalians

who dominated trade networks involving Aegean and local goods after the middle of the

6th century BCE. A study of community dynamics in the Northwest helps to inform

interpretations of the more limited dataset in Iron Age Ionia, and demonstrates the

applicability of the methodology I have set out for communities in the archaeological

record.

I begin by laying out the framework for comparison itself, establishing points of similarity

between the two regions and the contexts under discussion. Then, building on a rich body

of published interpretation from scholars working in this region, I argue for the visibility

of different shared maintenance and ritual practices (Chapter 2) in the archaeological

record at the Emporitan Palaiapolis, the later Neapolis, and at Lattara (Fig. 30). Settlements

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in France and Spain are often not brought together in discussion, and my contribution in

this chapter is a new analysis of their collective data through the lens of community

interaction. Finally, drawing on further supporting evidence from an array of other regional

sites, I argue that the archaeological data from the immediate coastal area, specifically,

reveal a socially-intimate commingling of members of different communities at the

household and settlement levels. Furthermore, I argue that this reflects the ability of shared

social experience to supersede other community affiliations from which individuals had

learned and maintained practices. Ultimately, I argue that this specific type of

community—confined primarily to trading settlements on the coast—reflects the same

processes of community formation visible in Iron Age data from Ionian sites.

5.2 Laying out the comparison

The rationale behind this comparison is two-fold (Chapter 1), and I recapitulate it here.

First and foremost, the Ionian data are limited, and I predict they will remain so for some

time. Making use of a second region for comparison expands the context within which the

Ionian data can be interpreted. Furthermore, using a region with a larger, higher-resolution data set—as I have done—also permits more informed hypotheses about what the missing swathes of the Ionian puzzle might look like. Second, this comparison also increases the scope of research impact beyond Ionia itself. In bringing two far-flung regions into dialogue and centering the primary questions around not just Ionian identity, but human behavior more broadly, I aim to increase Ionia’s relevance to the Northwest, but also to expand the relevance of the Mediterranean beyond its geographic boundaries and traditional interlocuters. Such a comparison is only possible if it has been carefully constructed around like types of data within analogous contexts. Next, I explain how I have

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done this before moving on to discuss community formation in the Northwestern

Mediterranean.

5.2.1 Theoretical underpinnings – in brief

Christopher Wickham (2007) has argued for the essential nature of comparison. He has

emphasized that geographical comparison is perhaps the most crucial form, because it

allows us to ask why things happen in different ways in different places (Wickham 2007,

2). Wickham proposes that comparison can act as an important preventative measure

against cultural solipsism, avoiding the belief that any single type of historical development

is the norm (Wickham 2007, 2). The act of comparison is not without difficulties, however,

and he identifies the following challenges. First, he notes, it is hard to identify the actual

subjects of comparison themselves—especially if the source materials and types of

evidence are too different.59 Secondly, he notes that differences in historiographical

traditions mean that when conducting a comparison, we are required to go ‘straight to the

source’ (Wickham 2007, 6). In other words, historiographic context might cause the same

evidence to be treated very differently between regions, and it is thus critical to assess data

and its suitability for comparison at the source. Finally, Wickham argues that it can be

difficult to determine which relevant data are alike enough to compare—because after all,

‘like’ must be compared with ‘like’ (Wickham 2007, 10).

59 Wickham illustrates this with an example from the western European land market in the middle ages— much of the evidence from southern Europe came from documents registering the direct sale and price of parcels of land, whereas that from England and Germany came from seigneurial records that dues taken by lords from sale (which he describes as “much more mediated and indeed problematic”) (Wickham 2007, 5).

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Drawing inspiration from Wickham’s careful prescription, my methodology explicitly addresses these issues, with an eye to creating a successful analytical framework for discussion of analogous processes in two temporally and geographically different contexts.

With regard to the first point, my own framework divides archaeological evidence into three heuristic categories, therefore establishing a set of parameters by which to define said evidence. In this case, the broad type of evidence—material culture—is the same.

However, I have developed the aforementioned categories to ensure that the same types of practice represented by the evidence are being compared as well. To that end, as I discussed in Chapter 2, data are allocated to the category (or categories) that they most straightforwardly represent: maintenance practices, ritual practices, and/or social experience.

I address Wickham’s second challenge—that of differences in historiographical traditions—by returning to the evidence itself; in this case, the excavated archaeological materials. Finally, I address his third challenge, the establishment of points of contact similar enough to compare, by using Wickham’s own recommendation: the application of

Carlo Ginzburg’s concept of the spia, or clue60 (Wickham 2007, 12) to set up the comparison. Specifically, I have chosen as my spie the different categories of practices, which we can then investigate for the ways in which they interact with other, changing aspects of social reality.

60 Ginzburg’s original development of this idea came from an article on the semiotic paradigm used by the likes of Freud, Morelli, and Holmes and taken from the deductive procedures of medical diagnosis (see Ginzburg 1989). Wickham translates this idea to history, arguing that the spie are not just ‘clues’ but also ‘spys’ or ‘informers’ (alternative meanings in the original Italian), and therefore ‘spyholes’ or ‘peepholes’ through Which “we could look to pinpoint elements of social reality,” (Wickham 2007, 12).

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On the surface, this particular comparison might seem unconventional. Data from the two ends of the Mediterranean are not often brought together, or even discussed by the same scholars. Nevertheless, I maintain that it is a sensible and indeed productive exercise. (The issue under discussion is, after all, human behavior.) Students of the past are well versed in the broad similarities between humans and their behavior across space and time, and I argue below that in fact, these two contexts—Ionia and the northwestern Mediterranean— are actually sufficiently similar so as to make this exercise a valuable one. Moreover, the

Ionian connection between both regions—it was Phokaians who settled at Massalia—has stirred up scholarly interest on both sides.61 As of yet, there is no published work that brings data from the two regions into dialogue together. The comparison I conduct here does just that. It identifies a mutually relevant theme—the dynamics of identity and human interaction through the lens of community—and makes available and accessible the relevant data from disparate sources in the bodies of literature of each region.

Ultimately, this comparative discussion will have the potential to illuminate questions of

Ionian-ness more broadly. In the east, the trajectory of western Ionian identity is relevant because it highlights which characteristics of that identity were most salient for individuals, which were more fungible, and how those may have changed over time. Changes in the

61 A conference was held in Ampurias—ancient Emporion—on the 26th-29th of October to address precisely this interest. Organized by Marta Santos Retolaza, Dirce Marzoli, Gocha Tsetskhladze, and Adolfo Domínguez, “Ionians in the East and West” offered an excellent opportunity for scholars working in the Republic of Turkey, France, and Spain to familiarize one another with their respective research and regional data. The forthcoming publication will no doubt be a valuable resource and jumping-off point for future work that attempts to bridge the geographical and temporal divides between the two regions. Given logistical constraints, however, papers at the conference itself were confined to reports and individual offerings addressing the theme of Ionians and Ionian-ness, leaving a fruitful opportunity for future work that engages both sides in dialogue.

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meaning, experience, and expression of Ionian-ness in the west are important because they reflect back on the identity context from which they emerged when Phokaians left for

Massalia at the turn of the 6th century BCE. Accordingly, understanding the trajectory of

Ionian identity in the west provides another line of evidence for understanding what it

meant to be Ionian in Ionia before the turn of the 6th century

For those scholars working in the west, a more detailed understanding of the experience of

being Ionian in Ionia proper is equally relevant. By treating Ionian residents not as default

Greeks, and instead interrogating individual components of their collective identity—as

Mac Sweeney and Crielaard have begun to do, for example—scholarship in the east can

offer more nuanced social context for those people who settled at Massalia. Whereas the

current Ionian narrative effectively presumes that the most important relationship to

understand is the one between Ionia and the Greek mainland, the approach I take here—

and propose for future research—focuses on the interactions between people living in Ionia

and beyond it without any regional emphasis or discrimination. The result is a less

Hellenocentric model for Ionian identity in the Iron Age—when the term itself is

anachronistic—that considers the inhabitants in the region without subordinating their local

identities to any perceived cross-Aegean connections.

Finally, Wickham has noted that one important function of comparison is to help us

examine scenarios where multiple, opposing outcomes are all thought of as ‘easy’ to

explain (Wickham 2007, 19). In a sense, the Hellenization of Ionia has been considered

just such an easily explicable process, but the lack of Hellenization in the Northwest has

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also been taken as the logical outcome of regional dynamics. As I argued in my

Introduction, if we want to investigate these two trajectories, a more fundamental question

must be answered first: why did Ionia become ‘Ionia’ in the first place, and why is no emic

regional identity attested in the Northwestern Mediterranean? Both outcomes have been

treated as ‘easy’ to explain, and we must ask why.

5.2.2 Characterizing two regions

To begin with, the geographic settings of both regions are quite comparable. As I have

previously stated (Chapter 1), Ionia is a fairly narrow strip of coastline, characterized by a fertile hinterland, and connected to the Anatolian interior by three major river valleys that acted as conduits for travel and trade. The portion of the northwestern Mediterranean that

I am considering also comprises a relatively narrow strip of coastline (the settlements under discussion were all ports sites), and its immediate environs are characterized by ponds and lagoons that form something of an intermediate landscape between land and sea (Gailledrat

2014, 62) (Fig. 31). The land was inhabited from at least the Chalcolithic period onward

(ca. 2500-1800 BCE) by people living in small, often seasonal settlements; these reflected an agro-pastoral approach to subsistence capitalizing on the variable terrain and rich resources available in the coastal river valleys, and requiring regular movement that resulted in a kind of ‘unfulfilled sedentism’(Gailledrat 2015, 27). The transitional nature of the coastline yielded a number of small offshore islands—today part of the mainland— which were frequently used by indigenous inhabitants (Gailledrat 2014, 62). After the 7th

century BCE, they were also popular sites for emporia and other installations associated

with communication and trade. In this way, the Northwest and Ionia also share the

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characteristic importance of offshore islands, a high degree of connectivity and mobility

between them and the mainland, and a blurred line at the division between land and sea.

From a population perspective, the northwestern Mediterranean and Ionia also share

several similarities. The diversity in the Northwest is attested by data from texts, toponyms,

and coin legends (Dietler 2007b, 244; J. Sanmartí 2009, 49). Although much of this

evidence was recorded in later periods—and by non-indigenous authors62—it still reflects

a snapshot of a moment in time when the region comprised a mosaic of people speaking

languages in at least three different families, and calling themselves by different names

(Dietler 2010, 78) (Fig. 32). The use of Iberian, Ligurian, and Celtic languages is all

represented in these data, and these languages correlate roughly with the region east of

Massalia (Ligurian), modern western Languedoc, Roussillon, and the coast of Spain

(Iberian), and the lower Rhône basin (Celtic). Celtic, however, also appears to have been

more generally widespread as far as representation in the data is concerned, spilling into

other zones (Fig. 33) (Dietler 2007b, 244).

Because of the need to constantly exploit new agricultural land (Gailledrat 2015; J.

Sanmartí 2009, 58), the resulting small-to-moderate scale mobility would have likely meant a significant amount of interaction, or at least contact, between people belonging to different language groups. Thus, we can posit that the diversity of northwestern inhabitants

62 These included Herodotos in the 5th c., then even later sources who arrived with the Carthaginians in the 3rd c. BCE, Polybius in the 2nd c. BCE, and, finally, a series of late Hellenistic writers who visited the region after it had been incorporated as Roman Hispania, many of whose ideas were ultimately preserved by Strabo (Domínguez 2012, 172)

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is similar to the situation—in so far as we can estimate it—in Late Bronze/Early Iron Age

Ionia (Chapter 1, section 1.1.1).

With regard to connectivity and interaction, the arrival of Phokaian colonists in the

Northwest was preceded by the presence of Phoenician and Etruscan merchants, the former of whom had already established trading settlements much further south along the coast at places like La Fonteta (J. Sanmartí 2009), Cerro del Villar (Delgado and Ferrer 2007),

Almuñecar, Morro de Mezquitilla, Malaga, and Huelva in southeastern Iberia (Aubet 2001;

Ruiz-Gálvez 2014), (see Fig. 30). Trade networks between the Aegean, the Italian

peninsula, and the far western Mediterranean are evidenced at least as far back as the mid-

2nd millennium BCE by the presence of glass-paste beads and Mycenaean pottery

(Gailledrat 2014, 14). Thus, these developing connections were already rooted in pre-

existing webs of linked sea routes (Fig. 34). By the start of the Iron Age in the Northwest

in the mid-late 8th century BCE, goods coming from the eastern Mediterranean were

already present at some settlements, including Huelva, in the vicinity of Málaga, and at

sites like Tonnerre (near Mauguio and Lattara), in the late 8th century BCE (Py 2009, 17),

with their acquisition facilitated by trade with the aforementioned Phoenicians (Miró and

Santos 2014, 10). Consequently, when Phokaian trader-settlers established Massalia, locals living near the coast would have already been familiar with some of the types of goods they brought with them, particularly wine-filled amphorae (Dietler 2009, 353).

This situation differs from that which existed in Ionia, where a lengthy history of connectivity and exchange had characterized the region. Nonetheless, locals in the

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Northwestern Mediterranean would have certainly been familiar with the concept of people

bringing goods from the East, and with using them selectively for their own purposes. This

kind of prior contact, while shorter in its duration and less extreme in its intensity, still

contributed to a situation not wholly unlike that in Ionia, however. Wine-bearing traders from the East were not a new concept and, as in Ionia, settlements that specialized in facilitating trade up inland, riverine conduits already existed. This baseline similarity is important because it helps to establish a pre-existing familiarity, and it confirms that we are not investigating a situation of ‘first contact’ per se, and certainly not one that would have involved any great shock at sudden interaction for those involved.

The similarity in settlement locations in Ionia and the Northwest has considerable implications for this comparison. Firstly, the preponderance of settlements on the coast is notable for the impact it would have had on trade. Among scholars working in the

Northwest, it is a commonly held belief that a shift in settlement location and type in the early first millennium BCE coincided with—though was not necessarily directly caused by—the arrival of Phoenician traders, and an increase in maritime activity (Belarte 2009;

Dominguez 2009; Gailledrat 2014; J. Sanmartí 2014; J. Sanmartí 2009). The beginning of the Iron Age (ca. 750 BCE; see chart in Chapter 1) is also associated with this change in social organization. This is characterized by a shift from small-scale, stateless societies to more complex social and economic entities (Gailledrat 2015; J. Sanmartí 2009). While the specific locations of many settlements are unknown, changes in pottery, the development of more hierarchical traces in funerary practice (including some of the first Mediterranean imports), and a larger network of cemeteries suggested that the population density in the

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region was growing over the course of the 10th-7th centuries BCE (Gailledrat 2015; J.

Sanmartí 2009) (Fig. 35a, b, c).

Effectively, Phokaian merchants and settlers were getting involved in a pre-existing landscape of connectivity, situated within developing structures of power and an emerging network of elites (Ruiz-Gálvez 2014). One can envision a similar situation for Iron Age

Ionia. After the close of the Bronze Age, populations—and thus to a certain extent power— seem to have been concentrated at the same sites, insofar as we can see through the material record. But what was certainly at least a partial breakdown of Bronze Age power structures would have likely meant a re-shuffling of some social networks and frameworks of power more generally (Dickinson 2012; Knapp and Manning 2016).

The important difference to note between the two regions, however, is the duration and intensity of the preceding contact in question. In Ionia, cross-Aegean mobility and exchange dates at least as far back as the Middle Bronze Age (Knappett, Evans, and Rivers

2008, 1010). This means that already in the Late Bronze Age, Greek-speakers were residents of Ionia (the inhabitants of likely Mycenaean settlements, but probably also small concentrations of residents in harbor towns, if not more broadly along the coast) (Fortson

2010, 555; Mountjoy 1998; Mee 1998; Niemeier 2005b; 2009). Some of them may have considered themselves longstanding locals, if not indigenous residents, and been seen as such by other local residents and travelers alike (cf. Chapter 4; Dietler 2010, 77). In contrast, it is highly unlikely that there had been any substantial presence of Greek- speakers in the northwestern Mediterranean, although it is impossible to account for the

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presence of individuals active on trading ships or in small settlements along the coast that

facilitated all of this commerce (Dietler 2010, 138–44). The particular duration and

intensity of cross-Aegean contact in Late Bronze/Early Iron Age Ionia will be an important

factor later in this chapter.

In sum, with regard to geographic setting, population diversity, settlement location, and

emerging power structures, the northwestern Mediterranean and Ionia were regions sharing

reasonably similar characteristics in the respective periods discussed in this chapter. In

terms of connectivity and mobility, each region was characterized by pre-existing networks of trade and exchange, and a high degree of regular, small-to-moderate-scale movement.

Where they differ in this respect, however, is the duration and intensity of that connectivity, trade, and exchange. In the northwest, although trade networks had connected both sides of the Mediterranean, at least indirectly, since the mid-2nd millennium BCE, direct contact

between traders from the far eastern Mediterranean and the coastal populations of the

northwest was a phenomenon that did not really kick off until the 8th century BCE. In

contrast, in Ionia, while some shrinking of trade networks has been posited in the period

after the Bronze Age collapse, direct cross-Aegean connectivity had been a long-standing and consistent phenomenon, dating back at least to the middle of the 2nd millennium BCE.

Given the similarity of these conditions, the comparison that follows offers an assessment

of responses from individuals and communities to the ensuing cross-cultural contact.

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5.3 Community Formation and Dynamics in the Northwestern Mediterranean

As in Ionia, the archaeological evidence from the Northwest attests the importance of

ritual practice in the articulation of communities, as well as the presence of multiple

communities of practice within the shared spaces where rituals were conducted. Unlike in

Ionia, however, where a paucity of evidence from domestic categories in particular has

meant that our understanding of non-ritual evidence is rather poor, in the Northwest,

domestic and funerary evidence for the period surrounding the first demonstrable cross- cultural cohabitation is abundant. Where it is thus possible to paint a fuller picture of daily life and interaction, the data suggest the co-presence of multiple communities of practice at coastal settlements such as Emporion and Lattara. Additionally, data from other regional sites—including Mas Castellar de Pontós, Saint-Pierre-lès-Martigues, Le

Castelet, and Theline/Arles—make it clear that a phenomenon of particularly socially intimate commingling of practices is specific to coastal settlements whose primary focus was trade.

5.3.1 Emporion: The Palaiapolis and the Neapolis

Emporion is a large diachronic site located in the well-protected Gulf of Roses, just south

of where the Pyrenees intersect the Mediterranean Sea. It is well-known from historical sources as first a Greek and then a Roman trading port, and its name alone indicates the perception of the city’s original function—this was a trading emporion founded by settlers from Massalia in the mid-6th century BCE, a few decades after its own foundation across

the Gulf of Lyon by Ionian Phokaians (Dominguez 2013; Miró and Santos 2014). This

settlement began on an off-shore island—known as the Palaiapolis—before ultimately

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moving to the permanent location of the larger town on the mainland—the Neapolis. This

traditional narrative belies a much more complex history of interaction between indigenous

locals, trader-settlers, and others who became locals. I demonstrate how the clear co-

presence of diverse communities can be seen in the rich material record that has been

published by Spanish and Catalan scholars.

5.3.1.2 The Emporitan foundation narrative

The archaeological data from both the Palaiapolis and the Neapolis do support the general narrative of Emporion’s origins, at least insofar as the chronological order of settlements is concerned. What is more, they suggest that an indigenous settlement actually existed first on a small offshore island, that the settlement there was expanded—coming to be known as the Palaiapolis—and that finally, a permanent base for trade was founded on the mainland, known as the Neapolis (Fig. 36). According to the original narrative, it would have been Greek traders from Massalia who settled at the already-occupied Palaiapolis, and then also later moved to the mainland to establish a more permanent colony. In much later literary sources, indigenous and Greek inhabitants are said to have lived alongside one another in the Neapolis, and Strabo reports the incorporation of all people within a fortification wall, who were then further sub-divided into indigenous and Greek neighborhoods by a second, interior wall. He wrote,

“The city is double, being divided by a wall, for in past times some of the Indiceti dwelt close by, who, although they had a separate polity to themselves, desired for the sake of safety, to be shut in by a common enclosure with the Grecians; but at the same time that this enclosure should be two-fold, being divided through its middle by a wall. In time, however, they came to have but one government, a mixture of Barbarian and Grecian laws,” (3.4.8).

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The idea of co-existence that is reflected in narrative accounts of the city is therefore firmly supported by the archaeological data, which I discuss in the coming sections of this chapter.

Whereas Strabo reports that two polities had eventually come together by the 4th century

BCE, however, (when evidence attests the construction of a fortification wall [Miró and

Santos 2014, 13]), the archaeological evidence suggests that the sharing of settlement space

extended much farther back in Emporion’s history. Instead, from the earliest phases of

habitation at the Palaiapolis, it is clear that there was a strong indigenous presence at the

site. Furthermore, the co-habitation at the Emporitan Neapolis was not that of two hastily

incorporated, distinct groups, but it rather entailed very close social interactions between

the settlement’s inhabitants.

5.3.1.3 Indigenous origins of the Palaiapolis

To start with, despite the narrative’s suggestion of a Greek foundation, a firmly indigenous

occupation of the off-shore Palaiapolis island is reflected in the archaeological record. The

earliest evidence for habitation there dates to the end of the Bronze Age—the 9th and 8th

centuries BCE (Aquilué et al. 2008, 172; Aquilué et al. 2002, 306). This consists primarily

of ceramic sherds, but also includes the traces of a foundation for a hut, the structural

remains of hearths, and several wells. Additionally, a deposit of bronze blades and other

tools was found in later excavations, and determined to be a cache of metal objects meant

for re-melting (Aquilué et al. 2002; Aquilué et al. 2010, 66). Towards the end of this phase,

in the second half of the 7th century BCE, the first imports began to appear in small

quantities, including Phoenician and Etruscan wine amphorae, and Etruscan bucchero nero

cups (Aquilué et al. 2002, 307).

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5.3.1.1 An expanding community?

Occupation levels dating to the 7th and 6th centuries BCE—around the time of the ostensible

arrival of Massalian trader-settlers—contained more robust evidence. Situated on the

highest point of the promontory, they show the existence of ‘sub-rectangular’ houses, built

of mudbrick on stone socles, that abutted one another to form insula-like blocs of domestic

space, interspersed with communal areas (Fig. 37) (Castanyer et al. 1999, 105–14; Aquilué

et al. 2010, 67; Aquilué et al. 2002, 306–7). Incineration burials that date to the 7th and

early 6th centuries BCE at the closest known cemetery of Vilanera—located roughly 2 km

away (Fig. 38)—are contemporary with this phase of settlement at the Palaiapolis (Aquilué

et al. 2010, 67; Aquilué et al. 2008, 178).

The Vilanera burials contained a variety of materials, including both handmade local

ceramics known from indigenous traditions, as well as Punic imports (Aquilué et al. 2010,

68); (Aquilué et al. 2008) (Fig. 39). While these imports accounted for only 5% of the

ceramic finds, they did make up the entire assemblage of wheelmade wares, and were

attributed to 9 of the 58 burials—15% of the total interments (Aquilué et al. 2008, 181–82;

Agustí et al. 2004, 111). Notably, it has been argued that they were also used to help

demarcate individuals of higher status in more richly furnished burials, reflective of the

growing changes in social organization in this period, and the interplay between social

change and broader Mediterranean trade networks (Aquilué et al. 2008; J. Sanmartí 2009).

The presence of imports at both the Palaiapolis and Vilanera confirm the spread of commerce in this period, from the southern end of the Iberian Peninsula up through the

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Gulf of Lyons and suggest the settlement and the cemetery may have been frequented by the same, outwardly-connected population.

A second component of the Palaiapolitan foundation narrative supported by material evidence is continuity. No break appears in the archaeological record, but a shift in material culture has been noted by excavators and repeatedly characterized as a ‘rupture’ (Aquilué et al. 2002, 309; Aquilué et al. 2010, 67). In contrast to the high predominance of indigenous ceramics in the earlier stratum, a progressive drop in the percentage of these local forms began in subsequent phases, correlating with an increase in both imported and locally-made Massalian-style vessels (Aquilué et al. 2010; Aquilué et al. 2008; Aquilué et al. 2002). Notably, several small kilns have been found that were used for the production of an on-site, Phokaian-style grey monochrome ware, as well as small quantities of painted vessels and mortars (Fig. 40) (Aquilué et al. 2010; Aquilué et al. 2002).

The appearance of mortars in large numbers in northwestern settlements, where indigenous local correlates were not known (Curé 2015, 193), has been suggested to correlate with the arrival of large quantities of Etruscan and Greek wine, likely serving as a tool with which to prepare other ingredients that would have been mixed into the beverage (Curé 2015,

200). I argue that production of these ceramics on-site suggests that sufficient demand existed to facilitate such industry. Furthermore, because production of local, indigenous-

style ceramics appears to have continued as well, this early level of occupation at the

Palaiapolis clearly attests the presence of multiple communities of practice making

different demands on resident artisans.

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Finally, while an overall increase in the proportion of imports was observed for this period,

the record shows a dramatic decrease in the quantities of observable imports from

Phoenician sources, specifically, in the second quarter of the 6th century BCE (Aquilué et al. 2010, 68). Overall, this series of changes has been attributed to the foundation of a

Phokaio-Massaliot trading settlement at the Palaiapolis. The identity of the settlement, however, and that of its inhabitants, is somewhat less clear. What is certain is the fact that new structures were built at the start of the 6th century BCE, that the import of Massaliot

and Aegean goods began to increase, and that the import of goods arriving in Punic

amphorae began to decrease. With regard to the meaning of changes in the architectural

record, however, there is much uncertainty.

Based on the foundations of houses and apparent organization of space, a shift appears to

have occurred from simple, multi-purpose, single-room structures, sharing collective outdoor space, to more complex, multi-room dwellings that began to appear around the

third quarter of the 6th century BCE (Aquilué et al. 2002, 313; Aquilué et al. 2010, 70). The

presence of similar architectural styles, and means of domestic organization, visible in

other colonial Greek sites, had traditionally been used as justification for the identification

of these early 6th-century structures with settlers from Massalia. More recent, detailed

analysis, however, has underwritten the fact that structures—and the associated

organization of space—of this type are also present in indigenous contexts throughout parts of Iberia and southern France63.

63 The buildings styles in question, which include mudbrick have been seen nearby on the Puig de Sant Andreu at Ullastret and at Mas Castellar de Pontós, where there is also evidence in this period for

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Regardless of combined local and foreign influences on Palaiapolitan architecture, the

archaeological record does seem to indicate a substantial increase in connectivity with the

Greek Aegean and its representatives in the western Mediterranean. It would not be an

unfounded assumption that, coincident with a drop in Punic imports and the presence of a

Phokaian colony at Massalia, across the Gulf of Lyon, connectivity was facilitated by

Greek merchants themselves from the late 6th century BCE onward. It is also reasonable to

propose that some kind of physical, more permanent presence helped to facilitate that trade.

Thus, the co-habitation between merchants and their indigenous counterparts would be the

natural outcome. Given the evidence, however, it is not clear whether the 6th-century BCE foundation at the Palaiapolis was necessarily a new period of occupation, spearheaded entirely by Massalians, or whether it simply marked a phase in the (continuous) life of the settlement’s occupants, that included the adoption of trade relations with Massalia and perhaps the incorporation of Massalian merchants.

This scenario at the Palaiapolis recalls quite closely similar trends seen at Ionian Smyrna

(Appendix A), where a gradual decline occurred in ceramics made in traditions pre-dating the ostensible arrival of new inhabitants. At Smyrna, the site had been dominated by grey monochrome ware—deemed ‘Aiolian’—prior to a new phase in the settlement that has been associated with destruction and takeover by Ionians from the south (see Chapter 3).

Publications cite a gradual, but ultimately significant, decrease in the quantity of grey monochrome ware relative to vessels made in the ‘Ionian’ style. However, none has

rectangular, multi-room houses that included small porches or antechambers, at least in what are presumed to be elite spaces (Aquilué et al. 2010, 70–73)

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specified the actual disappearance of gray monochrome sherds from the record, likely

because a preponderance of ceramics categorized as ‘Ionian’ fit well with the pre-existing narrative of migration and replacement at Smyrna, and thus little else was deemed worth questioning. Could a re-analysis of the ceramics at Smyrna reveal a different picture—one

whose interpretation would skew more towards the long-term co-existence of different

traditions of practice and the communities who enacted them? Already, this comparison

prompts fruitful possibilities for new analysis of Ionian data.

5.3.1.2 Community dynamics at the Palaiapolis

Such an analysis is possible at the Palaiapolis, and we can extrapolate further as to what that interaction might have looked like. Given the size of the settlement’s footprint, and

thus the necessarily close proximity of its inhabitants, the question of shared social

practices as a point of articulation of at least one broader community must be discussed.

The promontory is small—just over 1 hectare. This fact is immediately clear to any visitor

to the modern village (Saint Martí d’Empúries), which consists of stone-built medieval structures crammed around a small square (Fig. 41). It is without question that individuals living within the settlement at the Palaiapolis would have interacted with one another on a daily basis. The fact that the houses abutted one another likely means that central, shared spaces were used for activities like the processing of grains and other food products

(Aquilué et al. 2010, 67; Belarte et al. 2016), which offers a window onto a part of daily and seasonal routines that fall at the confluence of shared maintenance and social practices.

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On the one hand, methods used to process grains and other foods are one kind of daily

maintenance practice around which a community might articulate; technology used to

winnow and grind grain, the production of different types of vessels to store it, and the

processes followed to prepare and cook it for consumption all would have reflected learned

maintenance practices that individuals retained over the course of their lives, either from a

childhood spent in the settlement, in the region, or from farther afield (Bats 1988; Belarte

et al. 2016; Dietler 2007a; Dietler 2010; Sanmarti 2014). With the public undertaking of

these tasks in a shared, outdoor space, it would have been readily apparent to all inhabitants

of the Palaiapolis whether or not they practiced the same traditions of processing and

preparation, or whether there was variability within these necessary maintenance tasks.

I argue that this yields numerous possible implications for our understanding of shared

practices, interactions, and community dynamics. Perhaps the processing and preparation of grain was undertaken as a collaborative activity by an array of inhabitants on behalf of the settlement at large, and these shared maintenance practices were one means by which the full complement of inhabitants was brought together in the effort to accomplish necessary, shared tasks. As has been suggested for indigenous settlements in the region

(Belarte et al. 2016), perhaps the early stages of grain processing were undertaken together, but then individuals removed their own share to complete these tasks independently, and traditional variations would have marked out the presence of members of different communities of practice among the residents. The presence of a variety of indigenous-style and locally-made, Massalian-style coarse wares at the Palaiapolis attests to exactly this kind of diversity of practice; if people were making multiple types of storage jars on site,

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either because they preferred them or because they simply had specific, narrow production

repertoires, then the correlation is clear. If they were being produced because interested

markets existed for multiple types of storage jar/coarse ware that fulfilled the same

function(s), then this speaks to the presence of multiple communities as well.

Finally, the question of a specific purpose for, or niche filled by, the Palaiapolis settlement is an important one to address. As I have noted, traditional narratives suggest that Massaliot merchants settled here for the express purpose of conducting trade. Whether or not this was the case, changes in the material record certainly suggest that the beginning of trade with

Massalia did coincide with the early 6th century settlement phase. The location of the site,

on a near-offshore island, would also be consistent with a function as a point of contact between sea traders and mainland communities; this is clearly visible in a number of Punic foundations (e.g. La Fonteta, Cerro del Villar, Huelva, Cádiz, etc.), and consistent with settlements elsewhere along the Gulf of Lyons that were located in marshy environment, accessible from the sea by boat (Gailledrat 2014). Whether or not the purpose of settlement on the Palaiapolis was always trade is uncertain, and given its early start in the 9th c., it is

unlikely that its presence was entirely related to contact with Phoenician traders.

Nonetheless, it likely took on the function of a trading waypoint, and so it is plausible that

most of the inhabitants there were involved in the trading economy—either directly as

merchants or producers of goods, or as individuals involved in their subsistence and the

maintenance of the settlement population. The question of shared social practices as a point

of articulation for a broader, pan-Palaiapolitan community (comprised of inhabitants from

unknown origins) is thus without a clear answer, but nonetheless important.

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What the available evidence does make clear is that a variable set of practices for daily

maintenance, production, and construction are visible at the Palaiapolis, shifting over the

course of two centuries. We can infer that the site’s inhabitants were engaging in

increasingly intensive trade relationships with Phokaians originating at Massalia, and thus

that some of the practices visible in the material record at the Palaiapolis were directly influenced by those relationships, either in the form of human presence, or in the transfer of some drinking and dining practices.

5.3.1.3 Expanding to the mainland

In the second half of the 6th century BCE, a corollary settlement—the Neapolis—was set

up on the mainland, roughly 700 m (as the crow flies) from the Palaiapolitan promontory

(see Fig. 36). Only 3-4 hectares in size, the settlement’s primary purpose seems to have been economic in nature, and its earliest domestic structures have been found close to the modern waterline (Fig. 42) (Delgado and Ferrer 2015, 214). As I noted previously, the

traditional narrative records the Emporitan Neapolis as a colonial Greek foundation, and a

Hellenic cultural and demographic dominance has been presumed for the settlement and

its inhabitants (Delgado Hervás and Ferrer 2015, 213). Recent work by Ana Delgado and

Meritxell Ferrer, however, has confirmed a scenario not unlike that brought to light at the

Palaiapolis—Emporitan residents embodying a complex series of identities in their daily lives.

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Having conducted careful analysis of domestic assemblages dating to the early phases of

the settlement—between 525 and 400 BCE—Delgado and Ferrer call into question the

traditional interpretation of the city as a primarily ‘Greek’ foundation consisting of separate

Greek and indigenous neighborhoods. Subsequently, my own consideration of the data

through the lens of community makes it clear that here, too, ethnicity is not the most

effective means by which to understand the identities of Emporion’s inhabitants.

Furthermore, it is clear that shared maintenance practices reflect the presence of multiple

commingling and overlapping communities of practice in the settlement.

5.3.1.4 Communities in the kitchen

Three domestic areas have been the subject of ongoing critical analysis, though only one

has as yet been published—all are consistent with the patterns discussed here, however

(Delgado and Ferrer 2017, pers. comm.) (Fig. 43). Critically, two of these contexts come

from the area that had originally been designated as an extramural indigenous

neighborhood located at the foot of a possible sanctuary at the southern end of the city

(Delgado Hervás and Ferrer 2015, 215; E. Sanmartí et al. 1986). Data from the published

area has been further subdivided into two excavation contexts: the first, N-7019, most likely represents the interior floor surface of a domestic room, and also includes the infilling and levelling of a natural depression in the ground. Remains from N-7019 included primarily domestic materials such as storage vessels, those relating to commercial activity, and even some manufacture activities, in addition to a large quantity of organic remains that included fauna, mollusks, charcoal, and seeds (Delgado Hervás and Ferrer 2015, 216).

The second context, N-7033, represents an exterior area that was likely a courtyard of

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contemporaneous date with N-7019. Its associated finds were also primarily domestic in

style, including a number of cooking pots and three clay installations in the ground that

have been interpreted as structures for cooking, as well as the storage of water and other

household materials (Delgado Hervás and Ferrer 2015, 217). The materials analyzed thus included wares divisible into cooking and preparation vessels (including transport amphorae), tablewares, and domestic storage vessels.

The analysis of these assemblages has been revelatory with regard to foodways and domestic practices in the early stages of settlement on the mainland at Emporion. While the original assessment of this areas as an ‘indigenous quarter’ was primarily based on the

aforementioned passage from Strabo, the materials found here do suggest the presence of

practices that share strong commonalities with indigenous settlements in the surrounding

Iberian regions. They also reflect the influence and incorporation of culinary practices often associated with other parts of the Mediterranean, however, which ultimately suggests that

the inhabitants of Emporion, at least those in these households in the southern portion of

the city, were engaging with a complex series of practices of diverse origins. More data

from other domestic quarters of the city, particularly those in the north, will be revealing

on this score, but an ethnic categorization of the city’s inhabitants, as has been the

traditional approach, is unhelpful and would likely have not been very meaningful. Rather,

in accordance with Delgado and Ferrer, I argue for the presence of an Emporitan population

that was mixed in its immediate origins and comprised members of a number of

overlapping communities correlating with any number of economic roles, spoken

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languages, traditional practices, and levels of social status. This can be clearly seen in the

following evidence.

Several aspects of these two assemblages stand out (Fig. 44). The first is a predominance of handmade cooking pots that share morphological and technological characteristics with those known from other northeastern Iberian sites. In N-7019, handmade pots of the regional indigenous style make up 91% of the cooking wares, and 85% of these same wares in N-7033. Wheelmade cooking vessels make up just 9% (N-7019) and 14% (N-7033) of these respectively. Of these wheelmade vessels, the majority are of Iberian manufacture, but a small group with provenance that is harder to determine may represent Punic,

Etruscan, or other Mediterranean manufacture (Delgado Hervás and Ferrer 2015, 217).

These cooking wares are characterized by a shape that would have been ideal for a boiled preparation of their contents (they have an S-shaped profile, thick walls, and a flat bottom), and are quite homogenous from a technical perspective, which Delgado and Ferrer argue may indicate manufacture in the same local surroundings, and perhaps even at Emporion itself (Delgado Hervás and Ferrer 2015, 218). A heavy emphasis on the consumption of boiled foods has been demonstrated in northeast Iberia more generally (Belarte et al. 2016,

177; Dietler 2010, 236) and this fits with the characterization of these pots as having been manufactured in a local, indigenous tradition.

An additional factor in the make-up of the assemblages’ cooking wares is the complete lack of chytrai, the workhorse of Archaic and Classical Greek kitchens, and commonly found in domestic assemblages in settlements characterized as Greek colonies (Belarte et

201 al. 2016; Ben-Shlomo et al. 2008; Dietler 2010, 233; Kerschner 2003; Yasur-Landau

2005). Chytrai, with their rounded bottoms, were used as dual saucepans and kettles

(Dietler 2010, 233), whereas the primary vessel for boiling in the indigenous batterie de cuisine was a flat-bottomed urn (Dietler 2010, 237). Given their general shape, the two different vessel types might have been technically interchangeable, but the overall ubiquity of chytra is what makes its absence here a profound gap in the material record.

What has been found, however, is a small number of lopades (Fig. 45)—casserole-style dishes that were common in houses and taverns in Greek and Punic settlements, and began to appear in different regions around the Mediterranean between the mid-6th and early 5th centuries BCE (Delgado Hervás and Ferrer 2015, 225). Associated with the preparation of meat- and fish-based, high-temperature stews, the lopades are infrequent or even absent from known Emporitan domestic assemblages, which tend to favor the jattes—a flat- bottomed counterpart known from indigenous kitchens in the region. In N-7019, the sherd of one lopas body and the remains of lids that may have been associated with this form were found, whereas in N-7033, four lopades (three of Greek manufacture and one of

Punic) and two lids (both of Punic manufacture) were recovered (Delgado Hervás and

Ferrer 2015, 226).

What might the presence of a small number of lopades mean as part of a broader assemblage reflecting practices associated with indigenous foodways? One argument is that the preparation of ‘exotic’ or ‘other’ dishes may have been used in consumption contexts to assert non-ethnic aspects of social identity—particularly status ore prestige

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(Delgado Hervás and Ferrer 2015, 227; Dietler 2010, 187); this suggestion is furthered in

the discussion of mortars found in the N-7000 assemblages. The ubiquity of mortars around the Mediterranean for the preparation of sauces and other condiments that would have complemented grain-based liquid and porridge-like foods suggests that this practice was widespread across a number of culinary traditions; while I noted previously that no specific mortar-type item was known from indigenous contexts, the importance of boiled preparation of grains means that some tool must have served such a function. In these

Neapolitan contexts, specifically, the large number of mortars found in N-7019 and 7033, as well as the diversity of their manufactures, fit with the broader suggestion of widespread trade of cooking implements in the archaic Mediterranean (Delgado Hervás and Ferrer

2015, 222).

The large number of imported mortars contrasts with an assemblage that appears to have been dominated by local ingredients. The vast majority of domestic storage contained reflected local, indigenous-style manufacturing practices, whereas only a small quantity of these were sourced from elsewhere: Massaliot products accounted for just 8% of vessels in

N-7019, and 4.73% of vessels in N-7033, whereas vessels of Punic manufacture accounted for just 1.61% and 2.38% respectively. Overall, this leaves a picture of a pantry populated largely by local, Iberian ingredients, but punctuated with the addition of ingredients imported from other parts of the Mediterranean (Delgado Hervás and Ferrer 2015, 219–

22). This may, of course, help to explain the role(s) played by the mortars, and correlate with the specific use(s) of the lopades in these Emporitan kitchens.

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I argue that these findings are important for a consideration of communities in Emporion,

and they reveal several things. First is that in this southern area of the settlement, there

were households using almost exclusively local cooking wares made in the indigenous

Iberian tradition. Even wheelmade vessels—a technology adopted after contact with Punic

and other traders—were mainly of Iberian manufacture, as opposed to being imports, and

reflect the local indigenous repertoire of shapes. Transport amphorae fit this trend as well

(see Fig. 44)—80% of those in N-7019 and 70% of those in N-7033 were Iberian, suggesting heavy use of local ingredients in cooking practices in these spaces. The presence of lopades and mortars, however, imply that cooking wares could be—and were being— acquired from trade sources, and the presence of a small amount of cooking wares from

Massalia reflects this connection, attributed with Emporion’s original foundation.

What is clear is that the Neapolis was not a foundation characterized by homogenous practices, and especially not practices dominated by traditions associated with the Greek

Aegean. Rather, the spaces discussed here illustrate a household (or households) making primary use of traditions associated with indigenous Iberians, and accented with the addition of products, probably locally acquired in a marketplace, that had their origins in external cooking traditions. The preparation of sauces and condiments in mortars would have enabled any number of ingredients—local or imported—to be incorporated into dishes, which could have easily bridged a divide between different preparatory traditions.

Equally so, the lopades may have been used to prepare dishes unaffiliated with indigenous cooking traditions that either reflected the personal taste of their consumers, or they may have acted as markers of status or identity among those partaking in them.

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If these phenomena are visible at what appears to be the level of the household, and it is

generally agreed that the household is the basic social unit of any settlement (Ashmore and

Wilk 1988; Douglass and Gonlin 2012; Kramer 1982; Wilk and Rathje 1982), then I argue

it follows that identity based on belonging to a household supersedes identity based on

belonging to communities with which one shares one’s traditions of practice. If this is true, then I would take things one step further and suggest that the intensive shared social experiences that bring people into contact with one another on a repeated and regular basis would also be able to supersede those facets of identity predicated on belonging to other communities. Thus, in these settlements—characterized by diversity and by engagement in trade-specific enterprises, enclosed by fortification walls—like little circumscribed microcosms of the Mediterranean—I argue that a facet of identity based on specific belonging to the community that comprised members of the settlement could—and in these cases, would—have superseded other affiliations (ethnic, linguistic, geographic, etc.)

5.3.1.5 Communities in the necropolis

One final backdrop for shared social experience is visible in the material record of the

Emporitan necropoleis, which attests to the co-presence of multiple communities

articulated around shared burial practice. In a number of spaces around the city and its

environs, it is possible to see both the conservation of practices for treatment of the human

body, and the adoption of new ones relative to the interment of grave goods and, perhaps,

the associated activities. Furthermore, the presence of burials incorporating different

practices within some of the same necropoleis allows us to infer the social experiences that

might have been shared between members of communities as they buried their dead.

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A series of nine necropoleis within and around Emporion have been located and excavated;

these date from between the 6th and 2nd centuries BCE (Gailledrat 1995, 32). Éric Gailledrat has published an analysis of the materials from these burials and categorized each of the nine separate necropoleis as either ‘indigenous’ or ‘mixed Greek/indigenous’ on the basis of the cultural associations for the various practices they evidenced. What these designations reflect, however, is the presence of both cremation and inhumation burials by the inhabitants of the city. As Gailledrat’s classification indicates, cremation was a practice known at other sites in the broad surrounding region, and inhumation was recognized as an intrusive, non-indigenous practice that has been associated with the Greek-speakers presumed to be living at Emporion; the associated grave goods, at least in the earlier centuries, have been taken to support the binary differentiation above.

Of these nine necropoleis, three contained exclusively cremation burials, and the remaining six contained a mix of cremations and inhumations within the same shared spaces. Over time, despite this shared use of space, there is evidence for the preservation of distinct practices for treatment of the body by these two different communities of practice, and thus a distinctive continuity. This continuity cannot be clearly visible in all aspects of burial, however, and this is particularly apparent in the interred grave goods. For example, cremation burials included handmade cinerary urns until the 3rd century BCE; alongside these, evidence indicates the regular presence of personal items like fibulae and knives, as well as the occasional inclusion of weapons. In inhumation burials, vessels for drinking and for perfumed oils maintained an important role, as did the inclusion of coins and small shells (Gailledrat 1995, 35–36).

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There are also examples of changes, however, that include the adoption of new practices.

Notably, drinking vessels associated with Greek design and manufacture begin to appear in some cremation burials where they had not been seen before, as did vessels for perfumed oils that are also identified as specifically ‘Greek’; to reiterate, these were categories of grave goods that had previously been found only in inhumations, and began to appear with cremations as well. Of course, such selective incorporation of new types of vessels is not unusual (cf. Dietler 1997; 2007a; Hodos 2006; 2010). In this context, however, it does confirm for us that the people burying their dead in these necropoleis were at least engaged in some kind of economic interaction, if not more regular social interaction. The likelihood of this was already quite high based on the co-presence of these burials, especially in the context of other interactions I detail in the following sections—nonetheless, it is a helpful archaeological attestation that those interactions affected this sphere of life as well.

It is clear that the goods and practices involved in the treatment of Emporitan dead were both rooted in tradition, and also susceptible to a degree of flexibility. What might the evidence from the city’s necropoleis mean for an understanding of shared ritual practice and community identity? I argue that we have two possible interpretations before us

(broadly speaking). On the one hand, the Emporitan evidence may illustrate the adoption of new forms of material culture to accomplish firmly established practices. On the other, it might also reflect the adoption of a new practice from the same source that introduced the aforementioned drinking vessels. Without knowing the full extent of practices surrounding cremation, it is not possible to say precisely whether drinking vessels and perfumed oils already played a role in the interment of cremated individuals. Late Bronze

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Age funerary evidence in this region is not abundant (Aquilué et al. 2012), and much of

what is known comes from places like Vilanera, which I discussed earlier in this chapter

(section 5.3.1.1). It is possible to say, however, that the physical inclusion of those vessels

in the cremation burial itself was a new addition to the process of burial. Thus, the addition

of imported and locally-made ‘Greek’ drinking vessels into cremation burials either reflects

a) the slight adjustment of the execution of extant practices, or b) the incorporation of an

entirely new element to burial, which could indicate the adoption of new ideas surrounding

funerary practice and the needs of the deceased.

In scenario ‘a’, the implication would be that the importance of drinking rituals was shared

across two communities of practice; perhaps these were similar enough so as to aid in the

articulation of a new shared identity for members of a funerary and residential community,

sharing spaces for burial and habitation. It has been suggested that Phoenician wine was

incorporated into pre-existing indigenous practices using other types of alcohol (J.

Sanmartí 2009, 61), so drinking ritual was not foreign to the region; in fact, indigenous

populations may have already been producing their own wine by the beginning of the 6th

century BCE (J. Sanmartí 2009, 65). In other words, the data may reflect the recognition of common ground in practices and ideas that helped a new community cohere as it grew out of separate ones—local indigenous inhabitants and foreign merchants moving to the mainland from the Palaiopolis.

In this scenario, I do not suggest that the inclusion of drinking vessels in all burials necessarily reflected an active, collective choice to perform a unified identity, but rather

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that the emphasis of those practices in regular, repeated interactions, rituals, and on other

occasions, might have resulted in their natural inclusion in burial rites as well. Returning

to Silliman’s arguments about generational change (Chapter 2), the experience of a practice

as novel is short-lived—perhaps a generation, maybe two—and so the heightened importance of drinking rituals and its subsequent inclusion in burial could have been internalized as a significant marker of a local Emporitan identity fairly quickly.

Another possibility is that the inclusion of drinking vessels acted as a marker of mercantile

identity, practiced most regularly by those people who participated in the active trade and

exchange of goods around the region, and thus were routinely interacting with people of

various communities and origins—locals and other merchants from Pech Maho, Lattara,

or Massalia up the coast, who might have been speakers of Celtic, Iberian, Etruscan, or

Greek, living locally or traveling from around the Mediterranean and the inland regions of

France and Spain. In either case, one possible interpretation is that this data reveals the

coalescence of a new shared community identity, comprised of individuals with different

sets of practices for the treatment of their dead, but fundamental shared practices in their

daily lives that carried over into the funerary realm.

In scenario ‘b’, involving the adoption of entirely new practices, one possible explanation

might be that the importance of drinking rituals for one community lead to their regular inclusion in important or official ‘diplomatic’ interactions between both communities,

which would have facilitated trade, or other forms of interaction necessitating mutual

agreements and decision-making. The regular inclusion of such practices in their shared

209 interactions might have acted as a catalyst for the gradual adoption of drinking habits, and the associated vessels, across members of both communities. Ultimately, this may have resulted in the inclusion of those vessels in both communities’ burials as well. Naturally, the outcome in scenario ‘a’—a shared sense of importance for drinking practices as a critical element, deliberate or not, of pan-community articulation—may have been an outcome scenario ‘b’ as well; it simply would have resulted from a different series of interactions and events. Permutations of these scenarios are limitless, and the element of human agency makes it impossible to place a finger on the precise sequence of interactions and events that unfolded in the necropoleis of Emporion. The primary conclusion, however, is that two communities of practice existed in a shared space, and despite their interaction, each community maintained at least some important components of its burial practices.

A third important point underscoring all of this is the fact that while cremations are found grouped in several necropoleis, making up spaces of homogeneous practice, this does not occur with any of the inhumation burials that have thus far come to light. The use of a shared space, and the interaction—both in and around death—that would have resulted, suggests that the people being interred, and those interring them, likely interacted with one another across the boundary of burial practice in everyday life. If they did not, they were at least likely comfortable interacting with one another in rituals surrounding death.

The co-presence of different burial practices in the same necropoleis also has implications for our understanding of indirect interaction and social experience. Even if they never

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entered the space at the same time, people interring (or visiting) the dead would have

interacted with the same funerary landscape and the same physical environment. Thus, the

experience of feeling similar emotions and having the same interactions in the same shared

space would have yielded a shared social experience. This lends credence to the proposal

that a broader community of local inhabitants, articulated at least around the daily, shared

social experience of living in the same settlement and engaging in trade and exchange,

probably existed at Emporion. This broader umbrella community comprised at least two

communities of practice, illustrated above, and probably many others.

It is therefore possible to see evidence for at least two separate communities of ritual

practice articulated around burial traditions in the 5th century BCE at the Emporitan

Neapolis, and that there also appears to have been some blurring of the practical lines between these communities over the course of the subsequent centuries. Critically, I do not believe this illustrates a lack of general interaction between two monolithic communities, followed by gradual commingling. Rather, in the long-term retention of methods for treatment of the bodies of the deceased, I argue these data represent the presence of communities articulated around at least two distinct traditions, for whom certain aspects of burial practice may have been more fungible, and thus less critical to the maintenance of their ties to one another and their respective identities. Alternatively, it may also reflect shared points of contact for the articulation of a new, broader community, which included all of the users of a particular necropolis (or necropoleis), likely correlating with residents of Emporion or certain parts of its environs. Most crucially, it further demonstrates that the population of the Emporitan Neapolis was not just a monolithic community of new settlers.

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5.3.1.6 The full complement of Emporitan communities

In sum, I argue that a consideration of the Palaiapolis and Neapolis settlements at the site of Emporion demonstrates the visibility of community articulation across all three categories of evidence—shared ritual practice, shared maintenance practice, and shared social experience. As a trading emporion, the site is an excellent example of a space that must have been at least briefly visited, and concurrently transited, by a highly diverse range of people. The examples I have discussed in this section strongly support the idea that a similarly diverse range of individuals made Emporion their permanent home. Its characteristic economic function must have played a key role in producing the diversity of shared practices visible in the archaeological record, and it was not the only such site located around the broader gulf. In the next section, I discuss a similar situation at the site of Lattara, which helps to further illustrate the role played by shared social practices in tying together a community of diverse constituents belonging to myriad others.

5.3.2 Lattara

Lattara is another coastal trading site (Fig. 46), characterized primarily by its economic function (Gailledrat 2008, 152). While the site’s exact nature in its earliest phases of occupation is not fully understood, primarily because its lowest strata have only been reached in two areas of the settlement, excavation has revealed materials commensurate with a heavy emphasis on the trade and exchange that was developing along the coast in the mid-1st millennium BCE (Sanmartí 2009). Along these lines, the site has been interpreted as a possible Etruscan foundation (Gailledrat 2015; Janin and Py 2008; Py

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2009). The earliest Lattaran strata reveal strong evidence for the presence of multiple

communities articulated around shared maintenance practices, and the importance of

shared social practices for the articulation of a new, constantly evolving broader

community, comprising residents at the site and their regular interlocutors.

Over the course of the 5th century BCE, the settlement at Lattara appears to have undergone three major shifts in occupation and overall character, while maintaining the presence of compelling evidence for economic activity on the part of its inhabitants. This includes the destruction and sudden abandonment of settlement on at least part of the site, which had evidenced some form of regulated spatial organization, as well as contacts with the

Etruscan sphere to the east. What followed was the re-establishment of a series of structures on the site that appear to have been laid down in a much more haphazard, piecemeal fashion, before a move towards a more planned form of urbanization in the third quarter of the 5th century BCE, which brought with it even stronger evidence for commercial trade

and a firmly economic niche occupied by Lattara’s inhabitants.

I detail the associated data here, which illustrate the visibility of multiple communities of

practice at the site—both simultaneously and successively over a period of roughly

seventy-five years. Ultimately, I argue that what we are able to see at Lattara is a site where

an overarching sense of community-belonging on the basis of shared social, and in some

sense maintenance, practices, would have likely superseded other community identities. In

other words, rather than seeing themselves primarily as members of Etruscan, Phokaian,

Massalian, Greek, or other levels of indigenous communities, I argue that the inhabitants

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of Lattara would have seen themselves first and foremost as active members in the

community of local residents, with a shared economic focus on trade and commerce, or the

support of those industries through other maintenance and production practices.

5.3.2.1 Neighboring communities of practice

The early phases at Lattara, dating to approximately 500-475 BCE, are known from only

two locations at the site, Zone 1 and Zone 27. Built inside a contemporarily erected rampart

on this peninsula, bounded by branches of the Lez River, they show evidence for a series

of different maintenance practices related to the preparation of food and construction of domestic spaces, which has led to the suggestion that in this period, Lattara may have been

an Etruscan foundation (Py et al. 2006; Janin and Py 2008; Py 2009), and thus perhaps a

small trading settlement. In Zone 27, the known structures were built of earthen walls on

stone socles (Belarte 2008, 93), and the associated materials were dominated by Etruscan

wares (Fig. 47). Furthermore, the assemblage itself is dominated by amphorae (90% of the

total fragments) (Gailledrat 2015). Among the remaining vessels, Etruscan styles make up

roughly 93% of the common wares, Massalian styles dominate the fine wares (19%

bucchero nero, 2% Attic, 79% Massalian), and non-wheel-thrown pottery (of both local

indigenous and Etruscan style) makes up roughly one third of the non-amphora vessels;

Etruscan-style vessels, specifically, make up 34% of the total cooking assemblage

(Gailledrat 2008, 153). Additionally, some of the wares of Etruscan manufacture displayed

graffiti in the Etruscan language (Dietler 2010, 97; Gailledrat 2008, 152; 2015, 41). In this

case, I argue that the application of graffiti is more likely to have been done by the item’s

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user, and thus that this indicates the presence of Etruscan speakers at Lattara in this period.

on the part of the item’s user.

In contrast, the architecture of Zone 1 has been described as “Mediterranean” in character

(Gailledrat 2015, 41); this suggests that it, too, was dissimilar from construction methods

known from local indigenous contexts. The associated ceramic materials are more mixed

in terms of their style affiliations and the traditions of manufacture they represent (see Fig.

47). Amphorae comprise only just over half of this assemblage (52%), and are just over

two thirds Etruscan and just under one quarter Massalian, with the remainder from other

(or unidentifiable) origins (Gailledrat 2015, 42). The rest of the vessel sherds are dominated

by indigenous non-wheel-thrown pottery (nearly two thirds at 63%), followed next by

Massalian-style fine wares (24.5%), and then containing a mix of small quantities of Attic,

Etruscan, and other common and fine wares (Gailledrat 2015, 42).

Overall, these two assemblages are notable for several reasons. The large quantity of

amphorae, especially their particular abundance in Zone 27 (90%), suggests the acquisition

of items for redistribution—certainly in Zone 27, and perhaps also in Zone 1. The large

proportion of Etruscan amphorae relative to others also indicates a heavy emphasis on interactions spheres connecting Lattara’s inhabitants with the prolific traders to the east.

Gailledrat and others (Janin and Py 2008; Py 2009; Py et al. 2006) have gone so far as to suggest that the buildings in Zone 27 were home to Etruscan traders themselves. On the basis of the associated graffiti, as well as the strong proportion of Etruscan-produced common wares and presence of bucchero nero, this suggestion is not unreasonable. Of

215 note, however, is the substantial presence of handmade pottery, which conforms with local, indigenous styles of production of cooking wares. This suggests that, despite the high degree of connectivity on the part of individuals living or working in the household, practices related to the storage and preparation of food are firmly rooted in much closer traditions.

While it is impossible to assert an ethnic (let alone a comprehensive linguistic) identity for the inhabitants of Zone 27, it is certain that they possessed a large quantity of Etruscan materials at the time they abandoned the premises ca. 475 BCE, and that it was a much larger quantity than the inhabitants of Zone 1 had in their own possession. Both areas displayed roughly the same proportion of Massalian fine wares (allegedly all drinking wares), which is consistent with the fact that, across the region in this period, the first— and one of the only—types of vessels fully adopted from Phokaian producers at Massalia was exactly these finewares related to drinking (Dietler 2010, 253). This suggests, then, that these inhabitants are participating in a broader community of wine consumption, likely related to important mechanisms of economic exchange, and perhaps also of social hierarchization (Dietler 2009). Similarly, the presence of handmade coarsewares reflecting local indigenous production practices—a category (excepting mortars, which I discussed earlier in this chapter) that was unlikely to have been amassed for trade across any significant distance—suggests that the inhabitants of these two zones also shared maintenance practices related to the preparation of foods.

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However, the fact that shared practices exist within—and between—the two contexts does not mean that the full complement of practices was uniform. The Etruscan imported cooking wares I noted earlier, which made up 34% of the full assemblage of cooking wares in Zone 27 (Gailledrat 2008, 153) are a perfect example of this. Etruscan imports in general were low in this period—and often only associated with drinking wares—and the few examples that do exist come in small numbers from nearby sites like La Cougourlude,

Martigues, and Massalia (slightly farther afield) (Curé 2014, 228), suggesting very constrained distribution. The fact that one of the cooking pots in the assemblage was made in local fabrics and techniques to imitate and Etruscan style (Curé 2014, 228) confirms the fact that they were probably not being made locally, and indeed perhaps hard to come by.

The combination of cooking vessels found in this phase at Zone 27 is thus a curious one, but the explicit emphasis on securing Etruscan wares—even if they had to be re-created using local techniques, gives pause. While on principle the mix of vessels suggests these come from domestic units in which different individuals were best versed in different traditions of food preparation—or perhaps one individual was versed in multiple—their complementarity questions this. Ann-Marie Curé has pointed out that the Etruscan imports and local indigenous wares filled out a complete batterie de cuisine without much overlap—the former were well suited for boiling and simmering, for grinding, and for individual consumption, and the latter comprised vessels like jugs for serving liquids and bowls for mixing (and cooking). The only ‘redundant’ forms, she argues, are seen in some cups and handmade urns, which might have been acquired to fill out an insufficient batterie

(Curé 2014, 228). It seems that whoever the people were who were cooking in Zone 27,

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their preferences skewed substantially towards Etruscan forms. Furthermore, Etruscan wares infiltrated into almost all aspects of the full cooking and dining assemblage, only complemented by other varieties. but the implication is they were specifically importing

Etruscan wares, and therefore preferred them. In all cases, however, the assemblage attests firmly to the presence of multiple communities of maintenance practice at the settlement, or at the very least in the close vicinity.

Dietler (2010, 253) has suggested that the conservation of indigenous cooking practices in

Massalian households lasted for several generations after the foundation of the colony, and supports the notion of Phokaian settlers taking local wives. Women would have prepared foods in the vessels that they preferred to use and were familiar with, and then served foods in/on the types of vessels and dishes that their husbands were accustomed to eating with. I will not dispute this as a plausible interpretation. If we want to discuss interaction and identity outside the bounds of ethnicity, however, and focus solely on community for the sake of comparability with Ionia, then the implication here is that whomever is living within Zone 27 either cohabits with others who belong to a different community of practice, or was regularly interacting with them outside the walls of their home(s) in the broader settlement.

In either case, the implications for a Lattaran social fabric, at least in this zone of the site, are that there was interaction on either a household level, or perhaps just beyond it, between members of different communities who shared their own maintenance practices. This, in turn, suggests that a social cohesion existed among members of another, broader

218 community, which may have superseded those bounded by differences in cooking practices. Stated otherwise, I argue that what we can see here in Zone 27, in the first quarter of the 5th century BCE, quite intimate coexistence between individuals who belonged to different communities that shared their own, different cooking practices. Sharing a domestic space, and likely also a cooking space (Belarte et al. 2016), these individuals would have represented domestic social units whose constituents brought with them experience with, and preference for, practices rooted in different maintenance and culinary traditions.

I argue that, if such intimate coexistence was happening in Zone 27, it probably reflects the possibility for this throughout the rest of the settlement, as well as the potential for a broader community articulated around shared social practices that extended to the settlement’s other inhabitants. If we extend this vision to Zone 1, then the differences in fineware, in particular, suggest that we are looking at members of yet another community, articulated in part around shared consumption practices—they appear to be consuming their meals using a larger quantity of Attic pottery, and much (much) smaller quantity of

Etruscan pottery, than those living in zone 27.

5.3.2.2 Connected communities

The second phase of habitation at Lattara, ca. 475-450 BCE, displays a markedly different character from the first, and suggests both an even stronger presence of maintenance practices rooted in indigenous traditions, and a more balanced connectivity between

Etruscan and Phokaian trade networks (Fig 48). Lattara’s ostensible re-foundation appears to have involved a re-occupation of the site after events involving signs of fire in Zone 27

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and sudden abandonment in Zone 1 (Gailledrat 2015, 41). This has been posited as a re- assertion of Massalian control in the region, which may have resulted in the ‘eviction’ of,

or abandonment by, inhabitants with Etruscan trading connections (Aquilué et al. 2006; Py

et al. 2006, 601). In Zone 27, more loosely arranged huts of wattle and daub (or cob)

construction replaced the tightly arranged, abutting houses on stone foundations from the

previous period (Gailledrat 2015, 43). These are all characteristics of known indigenous

architectural traditions in Languedoc, and were accompanied by an assemblage rich in

handmade tablewares (71%), some Massalian-style, light paste fine wares (15%—all

vessels associated with drinking), and a small assortment of other fine and common wares

(including 2% sherds of Attic manufacture) (Gailledrat 2015, 44).

More recent findings from Zone 1 corroborate this image—one of a settlement with less

premeditated planning and distinctive influence from local indigenous traditions in terms

of both architecture and material culture. Zone 1 contained small annex buildings,

enclosures and cattle shelters, but also a few more complex structures and, of special note,

a double-apsidal house built of cob walls on stone foundations (Fig. 49) (Gailledrat 2015,

43). This more substantial domestic structure also yielded a female protome of Ionian style, comparable to the terracottas of seated females found at Massalia (Santos Retolaza and

Sourisseau 2011, 239; Gailledrat 2015, 43). The associated ceramic assemblage is relatively similar to that from Zone 27, with roughly half the sherds coming from amphorae and half from other vessels. Of these other vessels, handmade ceramics account for 64%,

Massalian-style fine wares make up 25%—a proportion slightly higher than that from Zone

27—and Attic finewares (drinking vessels) account for 4% (Gailledrat 2014, 44).

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Apsidal buildings are known from both slightly earlier, Archaic Greek and local indigenous

contexts, and so it is difficult to trace any specific connections associated with this

structure. It is notable, however, that the building is more substantial, and perhaps

permanent, than those in zone 27. Furthermore, the Massalian-style protome reinforces the notion of direct connections between the inhabitants of Lattara and the Phokaian colony to the east. Whether or not it speaks to actual practices enacted by inhabitants of the building is impossible to say, especially in light of the breakdown of amphorae, which were 41%

of Etruscan manufacture, 47% of Massalian manufacture, and 11% of Iberian manufacture

(Gailledrat 2015, 44). These are well-connected people, economically engaged with a number of different actors from a number of disparate communities, which is also true of the inhabitants of Zone 27 in this period. Their assemblage of amphorae (63% Etruscan,

32.5% Massalian, and 2,5% Iberian) (Gailledrat 2015, 44) suggests a lower degree of storage of local products, but an equally high degree of diverse economic connections.

What we see in this second phase of the site, then, is a re-foundation under different

circumstances—at least, employing different construction techniques—and perhaps with

slightly less centralized planning involved. Across the board, however, inhabitants of both

Zones 1 and 27 are engaged with practices involving local, handmade cooking and

coarsewares, are themselves using, and perhaps also facilitating the trade of, Massalian

drinking-related finewares, as well as a very small quantity of Attic fine wares, and are

trading with, or receiving goods from, both Etruscan and Massalian merchants. This

implies a population that is familiar with an array of goods produced and used in different

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practical traditions, which could be divided along aspects of daily life; the preparation of

food, and indeed at least some—if not much—of its consumption, was firmly ensconced

in traditions rooted in indigenous cultural practices, whereas the consumption of drinks—

probably wine—was firmly rooted in cultural practices initially disseminated by Etruscan

and then Massalian merchants.

5.3.2.3 A fully-fledged economic community

The third shift occurs at Lattara between roughly 450-425 BCE. In this phase, we see the

proliferation of sturdy, stone foundations topped with mud-brick and cob, and a major

reorganization of space that involves the construction of multi-room structures carefully organized around narrow walkways (Fig. 50) (Janin and Py 2008; Py 2009). Such multi- room structures are not known from elsewhere in Eastern Languedoc in this period

(Gailledrat 2015, 45), reflective of the fact that this is probably not a normal, domestic site.

Rather, one of the buildings in Zone 1 suggests its character. Not only has the excavated portion of this part of the site revealed a potter’s workshop, but it also contained as part of one of its architectural units a large room with a central hearth, ringed by a platform stamped or incised with geometric motifs known from indigenous contexts in the region, and a series of symmetrically arranged pits that held jars and amphorae. This has been interpreted as a living area that included a space for the storage of goods that could be exhibited to potential buyers, and where economic transactions could have been arranged

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before they took place in other locations on site—or indeed in other ports elsewhere in the

purchasing and transporting process (Gailledrat 2015, 45).64

The ceramic assemblages in both Zones 1 and 27 (Fig. 51) display their primary changes

in the origins of associated amphorae; a distinctive increase in the proportion of Massalian

is visible, wherein they make up 78% of the Zone 1 assemblage, and 68% of the Zone 27

assemblage. Etruscan amphorae are still found (13.5% and 27% respectively), but this is a

noted decrease from the second phase of the site’s occupation discussed above. This

appears, then, to be a population that shares characteristics related to construction practices

and economic engagements, as well as a continued participation in shared practices

involving the consumption of wine in Massalian-style finewares, and the production and preparation of foods in indigenous handmade wares (Gailledrat 2015, 46).

5.3.2.4 The ties that bind

Taking stock of the Lattaran material across all three phases of settlement discussed here,

it is evident that we are looking at a site with a specific economic purpose, re-founded in the same space after a destruction, which is probably indicative of the fact that it was an advantageous location for such a space. Indeed, the larger agglomeration at La

Cougourlude was located just 1.2 km away (Bagan, Gailledrat, and Jorda 2010; Bel and

Daveau 2008; Py 2009), and its abandonment coincided with the third phase of settlement at Lattara. In terms of social and economic drinking practices, these appear to be shared

64 Gailledrat notes that such activity is not wholly unknown from indigenous practice, but that it also recalls the deigma—the practice of sale based on a sample—that was carried out in the context of Greek emporiae (Gailledrat 2015, 45; see also Bresson 2007, 104)

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across both excavated parts of the site, evidenced by the consistent proportion of Massalian

finewares. Cooking practices, too, were roughly shared, though with some internal

differentiation between indigenous- and Etruscan-associated vessels and practices.

The site’s economic ties to Massalia grew stronger over the course of 50-75 years—after skewing heavily toward Etruria in phase 1, trade connections appeared to first balance out in both locations before shifting their emphasis toward Massalia. Fundamentally, the population visible here displays an intriguing combination of practices shared across contexts, and those that differed both between and within them. Despite this, I suggest that the fact that the settlement remained physically enclosed by an earthen rampart (which received repairs in the second phase of habitation (Gailledrat 2015, 43) would have helped

to reinforce a sense of—admittedly permeable—social delineation as well. In creating a visible boundary and thus defining the village’s space, the rampart would have helped to set Lattara off from its surroundings as a separate physical unit. It would have also served

as a visual reminder of the collective effort required to construct and maintain it, perhaps

signaling a further sense of belonging (through responsibility and labor) to those people

living within it.

I propose that the intensity of these shared social and economic connections, and the

intimate entanglement and cohabitation implied by people whose practices were rooted in

different communities (especially relative to maintenance practice), suggests that overall

the community may have been characterized by just this, and would likely have shared a

communal identity articulated primarily around these shared social experiences. The fact

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that other differential practices were conserved suggests that maintenance practices, in

particular, were an important factor of articulation for other communities to which people

maintained a sense of belonging—and perhaps ties within the village.

5.3.3 Mas de Causse

The delineation of specific space for activities related to interaction and commerce is

brought to the fore by another nearby site—the sanctuary of Mas de Causse, located at the

foot of the Pérols Hill (Fig. 52).With its proximity to sites like Lattes and La Cougourlude, as well as its relationship to other conspicuous material deposits in the landscape, Mas de

Causse prompts important questions about the negotiation of interaction, as well as social

and economic dynamics between different communities in the region. Furthermore, it

supports the notion that the physical demarcation of landscape associated with an ‘other’—

or designated in some way as exceptional—near the coast may have created space in the

region’s dynamic social and cultural web for tightly-knit communities of diverse

constituents.

5.3.3.1 Negotiating dynamics between local communities

The sanctuary is located near the former entry point to La Cougourlude, which has been

characterized as the initial major trading site in the area, predating the shift of Lattara’s

status to that of specialized trading center (Gailledrat 2015, 32; Py 2009). It comprises a

terrace—not unlike an extramural example known from the 5th century BCE at Emporion— as well as a large ditch running parallel to it, an average of roughly 3m across (Fig. 53)

(Gailledrat 2015, 33). Underneath the terrace, a large deposit of metal objects was found

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in a secondary context, having likely been washed down the Pérols Hill itself (Fig. 54).

This deposit contained more than 300 bronze discs with patterned rims, as well as some

small cups interpreted as either perfume burners (thymiateria) or miniature votive

offerings, rings, bracelets, and fibulae (Gailledrat 2015, 34). In addition, the site is littered

with pits, concentrated almost exclusively (17 of 21) on the side of the ditch opposite the

terrace (Gailledrat 2015, 33). Gailledrat has argued that the sanctuary’s position on the western slope of a large hill would have made it a prominent feature of the landscape, visible from the mouth of the Lez and the nearby lagoon (Gailledrat 2015, 35). This

prominence, as well as its position relative to major sites of trade like La Cougourlude and

Lattara, have raised the question of its function as a ‘sanctuary of borders’. In this capacity,

it would have served as a kind of shared space used to articulate the juncture between

multiple cultural worlds (Gailledrat 2015, 34).

Adding to this system of demarcation and articulation, Gailledrat has also argued that a series of deposits and burials located within a few kilometers of the coast were used to mark a 1.5-2 km radius around Lattara. These include the tomb at La Céreirède (an isolated cremation interred along a pathway along the Lez that lead to the major site of Sextantio, containing an Etruscan amphora, an iron dagger, bronze cup, and strigil), a deposit several

hundred meters from Mas de Causse at Soriech (containing Etruscan bronze bowls), and

the funerary remains at Chemin de Saint Pierre, in addition to the sanctuary at Mas de

Causse (Fig. 55). The strategic deposition of these burials and items as possible territorial

markers, Gailledrat suggests, reflects “a double logic of integration and exclusion that

shows the complexity of the relations between the different co-existing communities,”

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(Gailledrat 2015, 35–36). While people appear to have routinely shared both domestic and

broader settlement space, there may have been a perception on the part of people not living in coastal trading communities that such cross-cultural mingling was a) exceptional, and b) confined to a specific landscape conceded for the practice of trade.

In this context, it is important to note that even when the inhabitants of La Cougourlude appear to have left—perhaps for Lattara as it developed an identity as the primary trading settlement in this area—the sanctuary at Mas de Causse continued to be visited, and the pits found on the eastern side of the ditch date from between the early 6th century through

the 4th century BCE (Gailledrat 2015, 34). Why does this matter? Although the population would have only shifted roughly 1 km further south, their continued activity at the site nevertheless underlines its importance. The delineation of space of which Mas de Causse may have been a part is, if uncertain, still implied by a conspicuous pattern of deposition.

To further interrogate the idea of meaningful spatial negotiations, a recent study of the distribution of Greek cooking wares in southern Gaul is helpful (Curé 2015).

Anne-Marie Curé’s work in southern Gaul underscores a trend in the available data toward a very narrow distribution for instances of co-existence of practices rooted in different traditions. Her analysis demonstrates that among those sites considered to be indigenous settlements, cooking wares representing Phokaian/Greek forms have been found at just eight, six of which lie directly on the coast, and two of which are situated on the Rhône or a nearby tributary, directly accessible from the water (Fig. 56). At only a single one of these sites do Greek-style cooking vessels, specifically, represent more than 2% of the sherds

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associated with kitchen and cooking wares; this is the site of le Moulin, where at the very

end of the 4th century BCE, they accounted for 10% of the recorded repertoire of these

wares (Curé 2015, 199).

These sites have all been characterized as indigenous on the basis of ceramics, architectural

data, and other materials—this is of course the default assumption for sites displaying little

to no intrusion of wares produced in Greek, Etruscan, or Phoenician traditions. Some of

the sites have also been interpreted as trading settlements (Theline/Arles, Lattes, Béziers,

and Pech Maho), where one might expect that a diverse population of people was

interacting on a regular basis—some permanent residents, some habitual participants in the socio-economic networks there, and others transient visitors. Theline/Arles yielded

assemblages with overwhelming quantities of imports from Massalia, and others were

characterized by a majority of local, indigenous-style vessels across the spectrum of functional categories, but in all of them, local productions of shapes known from the indigenous repertoire predominated by 90% or more.

On top of the case studies I have discussed from Emporion and Lattara, these data suggest

that the infiltration of vessels associated with non-indigenous traditions of practice was extremely limited in its geographic and spatial scope. What might explain the presence of these vessels at sites where they do appear, but only in minute quantities? Presumably they were either brought with or by people who identified with and participated in those practices, or they were used by individuals who had experienced contact with those practices (and vessels), of either a prolonged or intense enough nature that they chose to

228 make use of them themselves for certain purposes. Perhaps this would have been related to the preparation of specific dishes, either manipulated as a means of signaling status, identity, or other types of practice-based connections, or it was a personal aspect of a person’s identity, connected to practices with into which they had been inculcated, that they continued either as habitus or active preference.

Ultimately, Curé’s analysis lends support to the idea that the co-existence of maintenance practices, and specifically those associated with Phokaian and indigenous traditions, was in the first place very limited, and in the second place, very limited within the immediate reach of trade and the coast. Even among the settlements identified as key sites of trade, quantities of non-indigenous materials could be very limited. Thus, the idea of demarcated spaces where intensive co-presence was—and was not—normal gains further traction.

5.4 Discussion and Comparison

I have discussed only a portion of evidence available from the Northwest and, notably, some data with compelling potential (e.g. further domestic materials from Emporion) is still forthcoming in publication. What the materials discussed above demonstrate quite clearly is that the commingling of practices associated with different cultural traditions

(and origins) is occurring in some places at the household level. Ultimately, I argue, this reflects the intimate social interactions between members of different communities of practice, who were brought together—through intermarriage or otherwise—under a broader social (and to some extent, maintenance) community, predicated on their involvement in daily settlement activities related to trade and exchange.

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It has been routinely suggested that trade with interior regions farther afield was controlled

by elites (Gailledrat 2014, 123; J. Sanmartí 2009). At Mas Castellar de Pontós (see Fig.

30), for example, a site approximately 17 km inland and well-known for its impressive quantity of grain storage silos, the massive quantity of Attic imports discovered associated with a large house (later covered by the town’s fortification wall) has been interpreted as a representation of just such elite control over the process of trade (e.g. Asensio et al. 2014).

On the coast, however, the evidence I have discussed in this chapter suggests that, on the contrary, trade and exchange was a settlement-wide affair. Whereas traditional narratives have suggested that Massalian trader-settlers moved in, set up settlements, and (literally) went about their business, more recent evidence from both the Palaiapolis and the Neapolis at Emporion suggests otherwise. Instead, domestic assemblages there call into question the narrative of new, ground-up, entirely Greek foundations. At the Neapolis specifically, the domestic assemblages analyzed by Delgado and Ferrer (Delgado Hervás and Ferrer 2015) evidence the presence of people who were engaged with the practices of different communities living under the same roof. Whether those practices were represented by different individuals, or by the same person who was acquainted with multiple traditions, the implication for a certain prolonged social intimacy is the same; if a person learned an equal preference for and familiarity with two distinctive sets of cooking practices, for example, it is unlikely that would have occurred in a short span of time. Thus, such a commingling between purportedly different settlement inhabitants is happening at the household level.

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Given this evidence from Emporion, one question that arises is whether or not there is any

tension between the notion of socially intimate, intra-household entanglement of different

community members evidenced there—as well as at Lattara—and the apparent importance

of a sanctuary site like that at Mas de Causse. With its interpretation as a ‘sanctuary of

borders’ (Gailledrat 2015, 34), the implication of strongly-defined physical boundaries

between communities in the region does seem to contradict this idea of intimate social

entanglements. Before Lattara’s foundation in the late 7th or early 6th century BCE, the nearby site of La Cougourlude65 was probably the major local trading settlement. Whether

or not the aforementioned entanglements between communities existed there is uncertain,

but the known archaeological evidence does not clearly suggest it. Michel Py has

interpreted the population as a culturally indigenous community on the basis of ceramic

finds from the site; locally made, indigenous-style, handmade vessels comprised between

70 and 86% of the excavated contexts, whereas wheelmade imports accounted for between

15 and 30%, and amphorae a further range between 27 and 47% of the latter (Py 2009).

Anne-Marie Curé’s study does not suggest the presence of any Phokaian-style cooking ware, however, and thus we must ask what types of vessels were represented by the wheelmade imports mentioned above; drinking wares, other table wares, or perhaps still something else?

Even if this diverse blending of other communities could be seen at La Cougourlude, we should not consider that social ethos as antithetical to the presence of a highly structured

65 Michel Py (2009) has noted that excavations at La Cougourlude were relatively superficial, and Éric Gailledrat (pers. comm. 2017) has characterized the work there as a rescue excavation. It is thus quite likely that an even smaller portion of the full picture is available for the site than one might usually expect from archaeological activities. For this reason, my comments here are decidedly non-definitive.

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space used for facilitating more formal interactions. Indeed, the construction of the terrace

at Mas de Causse, a practice quite foreign to the non-monumental ritual traditions known

in Western Languedoc, together with the deposition of Etruscan and local materials, and

the construction of a large ditch, imply the use of collective labor and likely some form of

social agreement over use of the space. Would this sanctuary have been part of a landscape,

as Gailledrat suggests, of divided territories ceded to merchants? Or would it perhaps have

delineated a coastal zone that was considered ‘free’ or not subject to control by growing

local polities? Are the settlements in question—those at Lattara and Emporion—part of a

designated space that is necessarily seen as ‘in-between’ with respect to local landscapes of power? Or do they reflect a sense of ‘cosmopolitan’ regional identity that extends beyond the immediate coastline?

I argue that Emporion and Lattara are two examples of cosmopolitan settlements within a narrow coastal region that may have been perceived as set apart from its environs. They may indeed have been free of control from growing regional powers, and there is also no evidence to suggest that this ‘other’ status accorded to them—and any other similar settlements—would have bound them to one another with any sense of shared belonging or identity. Rather, the overriding sense of shared belonging, insofar as it can be inferred from the archaeological record, existed at the level of the settlement. This interpretation of community dynamics in the northwestern Mediterranean has important implications for an interpretation of the same processes in Ionia. Here, I close the chapter with a discussion of each of the categories of shared practices, bringing each together with correlate Ionian scenarios.

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5.4.1 Shared maintenance practices

The articulation of communities around shared maintenance practices, and the corollary

presence of multiple communities identified by differences in their shared maintenance

practices, are clearly visible in the archaeological record of the Northwestern

Mediterranean. Across the examples discussed in this chapter, people seem to maintain

certain aspects of their maintenance practices over lengthy periods of time. This was visible

in the preference of different types of cooking and storage vessels in domestic structures at

Lattara, as well as at Emporion, as well as in the use of distinctly imported materials for

drinking wares. Michael Dietler has discussed at length the preference for vessels made in

indigenous traditions for cooking and food preparation, and a contrasting preference for

vessels made in Greek traditions for the presentation and consumption of food (see Dietler

2010, Chapter 7). His explanation has been the possible presence of ‘mixed’ households,

inhabited by domestic units comprised of Massalian traders and local, indigenous wives

(Dietler 2010, 253). This is certainly a viable proposal, but ultimately the specific ethnic

identities of the inhabitants in question is irrelevant. The fact remains that within certain domestic structures, people were present who maintained their practices associated with different cultural traditions, and that those traditions seem to have been bounded by different aspects of maintenance—food preparation versus food consumption, for example.

We can also see evidence for the incorporation of new practices, which correlate with new

or borrowed vessel forms; the primary example of this is, of course, the consumption of

wine. The overall sketch of this situation—one wherein people tended to prefer to use the

daily vessels, and maintain the same daily, domestic practices, to which they were

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accustomed is not a surprising one. Studies of ancient cross-cultural contact and

colonialism have clearly shown that people do not just pick up new practices, materials,

and goods willy-nilly without some kind of logical rationale or forced use (see e.g. Dietler

1997; Hodos 2009; 2010; Silliman 2001; van Dommelen 2002; 2005; Vives-Ferrándiz

2012).

Expected as this may seem, it should have important implications for our conceptions of what was going on in Ionia. Having determined that a population replacement does not make sense within the archaeological record, that a depopulation of the coast also makes little sense within the logic of the ancient circumstances, and—as is clear here—that a rapid

“Hellenization” of extant populations through a significant shift in material culture is an unfounded expectation, we must accept that something else was going on—but what? I return to this question momentarily.

5.4.2 Shared ritual practices

The articulation of communities, and presence of multiple communities articulating around

shared ritual practices, is also visible in the material record of the northwestern

Mediterranean. It is somewhat more challenging to see these practices in sanctuary contexts, primarily because indigenous sanctuaries tended not to be monumentalized, as

Phokaian sanctuaries were, and were also often not only extramural, but removed from the vicinity of settlements altogether (Brunaux 2000). Thus, it is harder to locate all of the ritual spaces in question in the landscape. Some form of—admittedly anomalous—cult space can be seen at the sanctuary of Mas de Causse, however, and it appears to have been

234 an important point of articulation between communities. Did it also help to bind together an overarching community through facilitation of shared social practices, as I have argued was the case in Ionia? It may not have done so in exactly the same way; there is no clear, direct evidence for commensal activity in the form of wares related to feasting, for example.

However, the Ionian sanctuaries I have discussed fulfilled this role in two different ways— they served as spaces deeply rooted in time, through which community associations with predecessors acted as an important point of articulation for a living population, and they also facilitated the sharing of social practices, through broader interactions at and around the sites, which helped to articulate new communities of diverse constituents. This latter phenomenon is visible in the Northwest, and thus Mas de Causse may have helped to facilitate some of these dynamic processes.

At Emporion, evidence for shared cult practice comes from the funerary record, and we can see the evidence of co-present shared practices from the very beginning of settlement at the Palaiapolis. What does this mean for the fact that funerary traditions in later periods appear to remain more-or-less separate in terms of fundamental practices (e.g. inhumation vs. cremation, grave goods, etc.)? This suggests that funerary rituals may have been an important aspect of community articulation that was retained over time, even with the commingling of practitioners in other aspects of their lives. This is not an unexpected phenomenon (Durgun 2018; Morris 1992; Preston 1999), and the combination of entangled social lives and partially divergent ritual lives (at least in terms of funerary practice) may have even contributed to a prolonged sense of ‘cosmopolitanism’ in the city by maintaining the visibility of cultural differences. This idea of distinctive boundaries is reflected in

235 literary accounts, as I noted in my brief discussion of Strabo. At both Lattara and Emporion, in fact, the circumscription of a settlement by fortifications seems to have physically defined a community within a space, even if the social boundaries of that community remained permeable.

5.4.3 Shared social experience Perhaps the outcome of this analysis with the strongest implications for understanding community dynamics is the importance of shared social experiences. In the Northwest, despite the conservation of different sets of shared practices in ritual and maintenance categories, their close physical proximity and apparent social intimacy suggest that something else was binding the people who enacted them together in broader communities in these spaces; that something was the sharing of social experiences.

With evidence for coexistent shared practices in Ionia, coming primarily from sanctuaries, is it possible to see the same thing happening? From the archaeological data currently available, one cannot go so far as to say that this was the case. Circumstantially, however,

I argue that it very likely was. In the Northwest, the shift from the foundation of trading settlements to the appearance of data reflecting the situation described above took place fairly quickly. Furthermore, it appears to have been predicated on the fact that different people were all present in the same space, engaged in the same ‘industry’ (trade) as a means of economic subsistence. In Ionia, I would suggest that the degree of familiarity and similarity between the various individuals in question was much higher than in the

Northwest; this is primarily because the duration of general cross-cultural contact prior to cohabitation at port sites was much longer, and it had also been more intense. Thus, in a

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region with high population diversity and a number of settlements located in advantageous

areas that seemed devoted, in part, to enabling trade between the Aegean and inland

Anatolia, we could expect the same outcome in Ionia as in the Northwest—that diverse

peoples were active in these ports, and engaging in socially intimate entanglements across

the boundaries of prior communities, which ultimately may have lead to the establishment

of settlement-wide community identities.

In the case of Ionia, one key question has revolved around how exactly diverse populations

within a coastal landscape would have eventually come together under a sense of shared,

regional identity. The idea of shared social practices explains this quite well. Ionia

comprised a number of settlements where there existed a collective interest in trade and its facilitation, and as I have argued, in those settlements, active participation in trade as a means of economic subsistence would have been an important component of shared social practices within the settlement. It is logical, then, that the inhabitants of these different settlements, could—and would—have been able to articulate even more broadly, on a

regional level, around the necessity of protecting access to the secure conduct of trade in

the face of mounting pressure from other regional powers. This idea fits nicely with the

timing of Jonathan Hall’s proposed coalescence of a shared idea of Greek identity, which

I discuss in the next chapter.

5.5 Conclusions Overall, this comparison has accomplished two things. First, it has provided supplementary

data from another region, which complements the categories of practices that are less well- represented in the material record of the Ionian Iron Age. Second, it has helped to

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illuminate the overarching importance of shared social experience in the structuring of

community dynamics. Returning to the start of this discussion, it has also become possible

to answer the questions I posed at the beginning of this chapter: How is it that two opposing

outcomes could both be considered ‘easy’ to explain? Why did Ionia develop a collective regional identity in the first place, when the northwestern Mediterranean did not?

The answer, I suggest, lies in the key point of regional difference I identified at the start of

the comparison—the issue of time-depth and intensity of prior connectivity between the regions in question. As a secondary factor, external pressures from regional powers also ultimately played a role as well. In Ionia, the resultant level of familiarity and similarity probably would have meant that newer communities came to articulate more quickly, fueled in part by a longer history of shared linguistic capabilities. Then, as a result, when pressures from growing Lydian and Persian powers encroached from the interior, a strengthening of ties that were already firmly incorporated into individual communities, centered at coastal settlements, would have made for a smoother—and probably fairly

undisruptive—westward shift in any kind of perceived ‘official’ socio-cultural affiliation.

I develop this idea further in the next chapter.

The ‘becoming’ of Ionia, then, was secured by external pressures; but the sense of

belonging to communities rooted in the central and western Aegean, which had always

overlapped with a sense of belonging to communities rooted in Anatolia, had always been an important component of the dynamics of communities that were themselves rooted in

Ionia. What an analysis of the northwestern Mediterranean has made clear, is that such

238 distinctive—and geographically contained—community identities are not a unique phenomenon. Discourse on Ionian dynamics should thus not be subject to a sense of exceptionalism, but rather should be part of a broader Mediterranean (and extra-

Mediterranean) conversation on communities at large.

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Chapter 6: Discussion and Conclusion

In the preceding chapters, I have laid out a framework for understanding communities that

facilitates geographic and temporal comparison (Chapter 2); established the strength of

evidence for Bronze-to-Iron Age continuity in Ionia (Chapter 3); argued for the importance

of Ionian sanctuaries and ties to the Bronze Age past in local community formation

(Chapter 4); and assessed the processes of community formation visible in the higher-

resolution archaeological record of the northwestern Mediterranean littoral (Chapter 5). In doing so, I have established the particular importance of practices and interactions for an understanding of ancient community dynamics. I have also argued for the necessity of re-

evaluating Iron Age Ionia in the context of new assessments of Protogeometric pottery and

its compatibility with continuity of practice and culture at the turn of the 1st millennium

BCE.

Having laid out these data and framework, it is now possible to return to the initial question with which I began this dissertation: what kinds of practices and interactions engendered the formation of Ionian communities, and why did these processes ultimately result in a pan-regional community when one never coalesced in the Northwest? If we seek to better understand why Ionia became ‘Greek’, we must ascertain why it ever became ‘Ionia’ in the first place.

In this final discussion, I bring together the contents of previous chapters to reconsider the narrative of Iron Age Ionia through the framework of community, giving due attention to the input provided by comparison with the Northwest. I begin with a brief recapitulation

240 of my definition of communities before turning to the formation processes I have identified in each region, and the implications of this study for a reconceptualization of Ionian identity and its origins.

6.1 Communities defined: redux

In this dissertation, I have borrowed from Marcelo Canuto and Jason Yaeger’s succinct and effective definition of the community:

“[The community is] an ever-emergent social institution that generates and is generated by suprahousehold interactions that are structured and synchronized by a set of places within a particular span of time. Daily interactions rely on and, in turn, develop shared premises or understandings, which can be mobilized in the development of common community identities,” (Canuto and Yaeger 2000, 5)

In addition, I have drawn on several characteristics of communities that have been identified in broader archaeological scholarship (see Chapter 2 for more detailed elaboration). Thus, I accept as part of their definition that communities engender, and are engendered by, interactions that take place in daily life—not just among people, but also animals, places, and things—and that those interactions form the affective bonds that help tie the community together. Communities are also multiple, layered, and nested, and their constituents can belong to more than one other community at any given time. Furthermore, they are sites of learning, and certain community memberships often define—and are defined by—practices shared by their members (communities of practice). Communities can also be engendered through shared values and ideas (moral communities). While some communities are actively recognized and named by their constituents, they do not need to be consciously acknowledged in order to exist.

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Finally, I have discussed material evidence for past communities as representing practices

that fall into three broad categories. The goal of this has been to help archaeologists locate

communities in the material record, and to subsequently compare community formation

and flux effectively across time and space. These categories are: shared maintenance

practices, shared ritual practices, and shared social experiences (Chapter 2, Section 2.3.4).

6.2 Communities in the Northwestern Mediterranean

From the preceding chapters, it is clear that the coastal settlements of the northwestern

Mediterranean shared a number of characteristics in common—they were facilitators of

trade, inhabited by diverse groups of individuals, and in constant contact with a similarly

diverse consortium of itinerant merchants (Etruscan, Phoenician, Greek, etc.). As I argued

in Chapter 5, Emporion and Lattara were each home to heterogeneous populations for whom shared social experiences were the most important means of engendering a settlement-wide community. This is visible in the close proximity of different communities of practice. The presence of multiple cooking and dining traditions reflects the heterogeneity of the population as a whole, but their co-presence within the same domestic spaces—and walled settlements—suggests that those practices and experiences shared by all inhabitants of the settlement would have had to be the points of articulation for their mutual affiliation.

These emporia were intensively connected with the network of other coastal sites, merchants, and inland trade routes, but there is no evidence to suggest that they ever took on a collective regional identity. An etic label was arguably designated for (parts of) this

242 region when Roman expansion brought war to Gaul in the 1st century BCE, but its borders still cut a line along the Pyrenees. The possibility of a pan-Celtic ethnicity—and hypothetical implications for Roman perceptions of Celtic peoples—is questionable at best

(Nash 1976; Tierney 1960). Nevertheless, we have no written evidence of an emic understanding of community on a broad regional scale, let alone in the more geographically contained portion of the Gulf of Lyon discussed in this dissertation. The question thus remains—why did this (not) transpire? A closer look at the mosaic of communities intersecting at these settlements clarifies possible answers.

6.2.1 A mosaic of layers

Each of these coastal settlements can be visualized as a community in and of itself, comprising individuals who belonged to a series of other communities, and acting as a center from which still broader communities radiated out (Fig. 57). For example, at the lowest of these levels, individuals living within shared domestic spaces may have learned practices of habitus as children socialized within different communities. However, the fact that those individuals shared household units, and the fact that walled settlements like

Lattara and Emporion themselves comprised any number of equally heterogeneous households, suggests that a settlement-wide community identity predicated on daily interactions within that shared physical space was compatible with the disparate community affiliations originally held by individuals. In other words, not everyone living at Lattara or Emporion was born in those settlements, nor would they have been raised speaking the same language(s), but that did not stop them from forming a diverse

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community within these Mediterranean trading sites. These settlement-wide communities

can be seen as an intermediate level.

Interactions were not confined by the walls of houses or settlements, however. At the broadest level, inhabitants at Lattara or Emporion would have also interacted with individuals belonging to other different communities on a regular basis—merchants and traders who were repeatedly transiting through their towns or villages. These interactions indicate the likelihood that Lattara and Emporion were also the centers of progressively broader communities. For example, merchants, traders, or craftspeople who routinely visited the settlements and interacted with the same individuals and spaces may or may not have been considered ‘locals’ by intramural inhabitants. Nonetheless, their repeated presence—punctuated by periods of absence, but still long in its overall duration—would have engendered a series of supra-settlement communities that extended beyond its immediate environs.

6.2.2 The strength of social experience

Taking into consideration the role played by animals, things, and places in the perpetual engenderment of communities, we can then also see how indirect interactions between individuals would have been facilitated by direct actions with other non-human constituents of the community, creating shared social experiences. For example, members of the households in Zone 1 and Zone 27 at Lattara (Chapter 5) lived in residences on opposite sides of the settlement—roughly 150 m away from one another. Even if they never interacted face-to-face, they would have interacted directly with the same spaces and fellow

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Lattarans. They would have shared the experience of being enveloped by the same noises

and smells that come with seaside living, of acquiring their household goods from the same

merchants, and collecting water from the same sources.

These were all aspects of the same social experiences that were shared by Lattara’s inhabitants at large. The affective and emotional bonds engendered by those shared interactions and experiences would have been strengthened by the presence of Lattara’s rampart. It is notable that the wall existed even in Lattara’s early, second phase, despite its reoccupation by people living in less permanent structures ca. 475 BCE. As a physical delineation of space, the wall would have circumscribed the community of resident

Lattarans with a permeable boundary. Visitors to the port could enter, and those who did so on a regular basis might have been viewed as members of a slightly broader community of ‘Lattarans’ as well. However, they would still not have belonged to the ranks of those who resided there permanently and for whom the town and its environs provided the majority of the background to their outside world.

I have just described how trading settlements and their neighbors on the northwestern

Mediterranean coast were awash in layered communities, which came together in rich mosaics at major hubs. But why did these complex networks of shared interactions not engender a broader sense of community among the constituents of those situated around the major hubs? At least insofar as anything was recorded in the written record? Turning to Ionia can help untangle possible answers. Ultimately, it suggests that the duration and intensity of contact with maritime trading partners—in this case Greek-speakers—as well

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as the presence (or lack thereof) or external and internal pressure played decisive roles in

the different trajectories followed by Ionia and the Northwest. Nonetheless, shared social

experience was a critical component of articulation for diverse communities on both ends

of the Mediterranean.

6.3 Communities in Ionia

As is now clear, the initial situation in Ionia was not dissimilar from that in the Northwest.

The settlements that were included under the broad regional ‘Ionian’ designation in the 5th

century BCE share similar characteristics to their northwestern counterparts: they were home to diverse and multi-lingual inhabitants, (nearly all) located directly on the coast with

active ports, and were involved in trade through economic networks running between the

marine interface and inland Anatolia.

6.3.1 Sacred ties?

In Ionia, the close proximity of different communities of practice is also visible in the

material record. Evidence for this plurality of communities is most clearly visible in major

sanctuaries. This emphasis may in part be due to the bias in excavation that has favored

sanctuary sites, but I have argued that this does not negate their importance. Rather, the

data reflect the importance of shared social experiences—and perhaps in some cases shared

ritual practices—for the formation of new communities in Ionia, both within and beyond

the immediate space of known settlements (Chapter 4).

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At Miletos, the Kultmal not only suggests the plurality of communities, but it also

represents continuity of practice over time. Even if the installation was conserved while

falling out of active use, as a result of the importance of narratives constructed around its

history or meaning, its maintenance still represents the continuity of meaning and

importance of the original associated practices, and therefore, continuity of cultural memory. In this case, I argue we could equate continuity of cultural memory with cultural continuity itself; it simply implies the inclusion of change within that continuity. The

Kultmal was constructed around the turn of the 12th/11th centuries BCE, but this does not

preclude the prior existence of the practices for which it was built. While we cannot be

certain of their antiquity, the maintenance of the Kultmal either reflects the importance of

their age, of their difference, or of both.

At the Ephesian Artemision, the presence of different types of cooking pots within an Iron

Age feasting assemblage prompts new questions on the importance of shared ritual

practices versus shared social experience. I have argued that these pots represent the

presence of different communities of practice—this much is certain. Those communities

articulated around cooking practices, but probably also the actual practices involved in

producing the cooking pots in question. It is not clear, however, whether different pots

were used in the sanctuary to enact the same ritual practice—i.e. whether the vessel types

were being used interchangeably within the same collective acts at the sanctuary, or

whether different pots were used specifically because the types of cooking practice they

enabled were different, and therefore of specific importance to the people using them.

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If the cult practices were effectively the same and the cooking practices employed to

achieve them mattered little, then it is possible to say that shared ritual practice was an

important means of community articulation at the Artemision. In contrast, if heterogeneous

cooking practices were maintained because they played different roles in the cult practices

of different people, then shared social experience would have been the driving force

behind community articulation at the Ephesian sanctuary. This uncertainty is hard to

resolve without further data, but more comprehensive knowledge of local cooking practices

in the future would have a sizeable impact on our ability to disentangle the meaning behind

different vessels at the Artemision. Even in the case of commonly held ritual practices,

however, the importance of shared social interaction within the sanctuaries cannot be

disentangled from them in the formation of affective bonds.

If shared ritual practices were playing a role in community formation at the Artemision,

this would likely indicate the presence of a broadly defined moral community active at the

site. The prevalence of syncretism in the ancient Near East and the Mediterranean (Malkin

2004, 250) supports the idea that common ground in both ideology and practice could have been found among otherwise diverse communities. In other words, people were going

about their own practices with their own materials, but the intent of the practices would

have been recognized as by-and-large the same, and thus people could have experienced them as mutually inclusive ritual activities shared between a range of participants.

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6.3.2 The strength of social experience

While the clearest evidence for co-presence of multiple communities comes from cult sites, we must acknowledge the likelihood that some of their members were also neighbors living in close proximity around or within the same settlements. A situation like that at Emporion or Lattara is not visible in the scant domestic record as it stands, but some evidence does point toward its high probability. At Early Iron Age Smyrna, for example, the shift from

Gray Ware to Protogeometric ceramics was originally interpreted as both sudden and decisive (Chapter 3; Appendix A). No complete disappearance of Gray Ware is ever noted, however, and the shift in prevalence from one style to the other appears to have actually taken over a century, if not two. Thus, in effect, people using different materials to achieve the same practical end were living together in the same settlement, and we cannot rule out the idea that they may have also lived within the same households. Without closer analysis of the Smyrnaean data, it is not possible to determine the likelihood that material change correlated with any change in composition of the settlement population (indeed this may not be possible at all). Despite this fact, the possibility of co-presence of practices exists in the record, even though it has often been glossed over as a full-scale replacement of people and goods.

The diversity of co-existing pottery types coming out of major ceramic production centers like Klazomenai, Teos, Ephesos, and Miletos—which extended well beyond the Archaic period—suggests that we should perhaps be less quick to relegate to the side those non-

Protogeometric (or otherwise unidentified) sherds found in earlier excavations. Preference for vessel style was clearly wide-ranging in Ionian settlements, because individual centers

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had cause to take on the production of multiple varieties for local consumption. This further

disabuses the notion of uniformity of practice (or preference) on a local level in Ionia.

6.4 Regional identities

6.4.1 Ionians under pressure

In Ionia, then, two factors seem to have helped delineate a regional space with an

overarching community identity. The first was the fact that as far as coastal communication

or trade were concerned, the primary interlocutors were a well-known cast of characters

who shared a set of overlapping linguistic and cultural characteristics. No shared ethnic

identity bound together the landscape of Aegean Greek-speakers in the Iron Age, but they

did share among themselves a series of practices—including spoken language—that fell

along a defined spectrum. That is to say, where there were variations, they only diverged

so much. By and large, the settlements that would be subsumed within the supra-regional

Ionian community were nearly all port cities with strong economic ties oriented toward inland Anatolia and the sea. They shared familiarity with, and active use of, the Greek language (among others), and they upheld long-standing ties with settlements around the other edges of the sea. These interactions with the same types of people and things could have served as shared social experiences—and here I take ‘social’ to include all human and non-human constituents of a given community.

The second factor was the presence of external pressures from surrounding regions. While

Persian aggression has been credited with the coalescence of a recognized, shared Greek ethnicity, they were not the first powerful entity to flex its muscles in Western Anatolia. In

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the mid-7th c., the Lydians began to expand their control out from Sardis (Greenewalt

2011), and some of the initial references to “Ionia” date to the turn of the 6th century BCE— shortly thereafter (E.G. Sappho’s “Ionia’s cities”) (Chapter 1). The mid-7th century was

also ostensibly the point at which the Melian War was fought, the city of Melite was

destroyed by its fellow Ionian poleis for the arrogance of its citizens, and the Ionian League was born. There is some disagreement among ancient authors on this subject, and it has

also been reported that Melite was actually a Karian settlement of unruly neighbors who

had until that point been intermarrying with their Greek-speaking counterparts (Mac

Sweeney 2013, 178–80). In either case, however, narratives constructed and preserved in local Ionian memory, through the Archaic and Classical period, recalled the active recognition of a regional social unit as a moment spurred by some kind of pressure—either internal tensions that needed to be resolved (because someone was acting in a manner outside the norms accepted by their peers), or external tensions from people remembered

as a partially-incorporated ‘other’. Effectively, the narrative recalls the coming together of

Ionians to protect their own interests. The fact that further renditions of the story hint at

more complex, inter-city tensions does not change this overriding fact: tensions that needed

to be resolved resulted in a recognized unification of those parties who had been involved

in the conflict(s). Internal tensions would persist, and indeed the Ionian League may have

been a collective mechanism to help keep members in (relative) check at any given time

(Mac Sweeney 2013, 196).

The historicity of migrations and foundation myths may be in question, but the overall

themes they share in common are held to represent the essence of real situations: diverse

251 origins, repeated contact with peoples from surrounding regions, and the presence of multiple traditions of memory (and practice). Here, too, I suggest that the essence shared by the different narratives for the Melian War may be taken somewhat more seriously— tension and conflict brought together the surviving parties involved. This is not a kernel of truth to be sought, but rather shared social memory of interactions that affected how people perceived their own belonging to the broader community some 100-plus years after the

‘fact’.

A schematic, simplified narrative of regional Ionian identity thus looks like the following:

(1) Settlements in (proto) Ionia were similar to those in the Northwest at the turn of the

Iron Age—home to diverse populations living in ports and interacting with sea-going traders at the maritime interface; (2) Some of these traders were settled or settling in proto-

Ionia in small numbers, and still more were regularly transiting through them—they were primarily Greek-speaking, and this contrasts with the situation in the Northwest; (3) The first level of community formation took place at the level of the individual settlements, articulated around the shared social experiences of their inhabitants and their engagement in a shared way of life (surrounding trade); (4) Micro-regional communities probably developed at the next step up in scale. Interaction around the extraction of resources, movement of goods, and co-presence within shared valleys or bays would be the clear facilitator of affective bonds between inhabitants of different settlements. Co-presence at major sanctuaries may represent the interaction between members of communities at this scale as well; (5) By the 7th century BCE, broader communities that encompassed the members of micro-regional affiliations may have been recognized by their constituents as

252 well. I suggest this as an intermediate step largely because of the events that came next, which I argue would have been more likely to occur with broader micro-regional communities already in place; (6) Some kind of pressure—internal, like that indicated by the Melian War, or external, like that indicated by growing Lydian power and expansion— pushed the people of Ionia to official characterize themselves as members of the League.

6.4.2 Whither the northwestern Mediterranean?

Some possible reasons why no apparent regional community ever coalesced in the

Northwest thus come into focus. The northwestern settlements in question may have made up a region ‘in-between’, but it was a relatively recent development—at least insofar as the entities in question were concerned. There was also no generally similar ‘other’ on the maritime side of the interaction—Greeks, Phoenicians, and Etruscans formed a patchwork of coastal traders. Thus, interactions with them may have varied significantly and prevented any sense of shared experience on the part of land-dwelling interlocutors.

Similarly, the level of diversity among the ‘others’ who settled among already-local inhabitants was probably quite high, and this would have further impeded a sense of shared demography between settlements’ inhabitants. Finally, there is no evidence for significant pressure from either the interior or the maritime interface that might have pushed trading settlements to act on the basis of shared interest. As a result, the locus of most impactful shared interests was at the level of the individual settlement, and these remained the primary supra-household community units.

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In effect then, the combination of long duration of prior contact, relatively unified direction

of prior contact, and external pressure meant that in Ionia, people were bonded on the basis

of shared practices, shared social experiences, and in the end, specifically shared concerns

(which I would categorize under shared social experience). In the Northwest, contact was

much newer, partners in trade were numerous—contact was oriented in several different

directions with regard to relatively new ‘others’—and there was no clear pressure of which

we have evidence. These are then the most likely factors I propose to explain the different

trajectories in Ionia and the Northwestern Mediterranean relative to their regional

community identities.

6.5 Ionian community and Greek identity

Having proposed a narrative for the coalescence of a regional identity in Ionia, it is then

fruitful to return to the question of Greekness. In brief, I would propose a very simple

answer to the question ‘why did Ionia become Greek?’. It developed a sense of shared

ethnic identity with the Greek-speaking Mediterranean because as a regional community

it already felt comfortable associating with them; when it made sense to codify their mutual

belonging, the choice was not a hard one. I do not mean to suggest that individual agency

played no role in this process. Strictly speaking, if Ionia ‘became’ Greek, it must have been

because communities at the local level made decisions to orient themselves toward the

Aegean. In this particular scenario, I would argue that those local-level orientations occurred not at any one moment in the 5th c., but rather over the long few centuries that preceded it. Communities centered around—and articulating in—settlements and micro-

regions on the Ionian coast collectively engendered close bonds with the Greek-speaking

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Aegean through the intensity of their interaction with people who belonged to Greek-

speaking Aegean communities. They also maintained close ties to inland inhabitants, and

for a long time, there was no clear ‘winner’ in any contest of wills or power by the entities

with whom they shared their environs. When conflict came to a head between Greece and

Persia, however, and the likelihood of Greek triumph became clearer, it was no great stretch

for the constituents of the dodekapolis and its outlying settlements to reach out to their long-standing, Aegean ties. Therefore, while a cultural codification of those ties came in the 5th c., the intimate bonds they relied upon were engendered on an individual level over

the course of many centuries.

What, then, of the embrace of Ionia by the Greek cultural imagination? How indeed was it

that a region sometimes maligned for being truly unexemplary in its Greekness came to

make cultural contributions that were so warmly embraced by their critics?66 This question

is harder to answer, but I would emphasize the fact that interactions have at least two sides,

and I have only here discussed their experience on the part of people living on the Anatolian

coast. What of the merchants traveling to Ionia? People receiving and using Anatolian

goods who lived in the western Aegean? Or those same people who may have interacted

with traders, travelers, and emigrants from Anatolia? This connectivity must have moved

in both directions, but our picture of Anatolians on mainland Greece and the islands is still

very blurry. In any case, the experience of strong bonds must have also been strong on the

part of the west Aegean in this equation. While criticisms of the Ionians by Hippokrates

and others may reflect common rhetoric, they would not have necessarily reflected

6666 See Chapter 1, section 1.1.1

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sentiment and practice. Here, too, the time depth and intensity of cross-Aegean interactions

may have engendered a sense of familiarity and ‘belonging-ness’ that made the embrace

of contributions from Ionia part and parcel of a subconscious understanding of the Aegean

sphere.

6.6 Contributions of the dissertation

In the hope that I have achieved my aims, this dissertation makes several contributions to the existing study of Ionia, cross-cultural contact in the Mediterranean, and communities at large. First, I have used a new framework and new questions to extract greater interpretive potential from the Iron Age Ionian data without increasing its quantity. In doing so, I have built on the conversation already surrounding Ionian identity formation, and proposed a new narrative to explain the coalescence of a regional identity prior to

Ionia’s incorporation under the umbrella of shared Greek ethnicity in the early 5th century

BCE.

I have also brought together two ends of the Mediterranean that are rarely discussed in

tandem, but which nonetheless should be of relevance to one another for the long temporal

thread of their cultural connections. Even within the Northwest itself, data from France and

Spain are rarely treated together,67 and this dissertation marks a double union between

regions that are seldom combined. The major role accorded to Phokaians in the settlement

of Massalia end the conduct of trade after the middle of the 6th century BCE, however, has prompted mutual scholarly interest between both regions (see Chapter 5). With this

67 Éric Gailledrat (e.g. 2015) is one notable exception to this trend.

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dissertation, I introduce a thematic subject of mutual relevance—the dynamics of

communities and their role in the formation and maintenance of identities—which lays the

groundwork for future investigations of the different trajectories of Ionian identities. This

is relevant to any scholars who remain interested in collaborative dialogue surrounding

Ionians in the east and west.

With this dissertation, I have also aimed to reinvigorate the study of communities within

the Mediterranean. To do this, I have introduced a specific, archaeological component to

the study of communities so that productive comparisons—bringing together ‘like with

like’—might be conducted between geographically and temporally disparate contexts.

Building on the definition provided by Canuto and Yaeger (2000), and incorporating a

number of attributes recognized as characteristic of communities by scholars working in

other regions (see Chapter 2), I have proposed a heuristic framework for the discussion of

practices and experiences around which communities articulate in the material record. To

my knowledge, no such explicit directive exists, and by offering it I have sought to advance

work on communities that has abated since the early 2000s and remained quite regionally

confined. As both a result of this confinement and a proponent of it, there is little

comparison that takes place within community studies—the nature of publications tends toward regional compilations of case studies or regionally insular conversations (e.g.

Neolithic Europe). By introducing a framework for evidence attesting the practices and experiences that engender communities and their identities, I have taken steps to increase our ability to perform comparisons in future (and shown the value of their impact for Ionia).

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This contribution is thus relevant to any scholar working on an archaeology of

communities, regardless of their region or period of study.

In the end, the goal at the heart of this dissertation was a new Ionian narrative. I do not suggest that what I have proposed definitively answers The Ionian Question as it has long stood—why did Ionia become Greek? Rather, I have provided one possible narrative that takes an explicitly constructivist approach to practice, identity, and meaning in the region, and aimed to demonstrate the scope of new possible answers—and questions(!)—it brings to research. In proposing an explanation for the mechanisms by which Ionia became a regional community in the first place, I have hoped to bring us one (or two) steps closer to understanding the lived experience of its Iron Age, and the impact its dynamic population had on the much later lived experience of Greekness writ large.

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Appendix A: Archaeological Evidence in Ionia from the 12th-8th centuries BCE

Phokaia Panaztepe

Smyrna Chios Erythrai Klazomenai

Metropolis- Bademgediği Tepe Kolophon

Klaros Ephesos

Kadıkalesi Samos

Miletos

Fig. 58: Map of Ionia with sites discussed in Appendix A

This appendix offers a survey of the archaeological evidence from Ionia between the 12th and 8th centuries BCE. I present here a brief introduction to the sites and they data they have produced. The aim is to provide the kind of synthetic overview that is currently missing from publications on Ionia, and which will help elucidate the trends I detail in the main body of the dissertation.

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Phokaia

Background

Phokaia, modern Foça, is the northernmost of the major Ionian cities (Fig. 59). It is located at the mouth of the of the modern Gediz (ancient Hermos) River, and ancient remains have been found within the settled center of the modern city, as well as on its outskirts and in the surrounding countryside. The first archaeological research here was begun by Felix

Sartiaux in 1913, and continued in 1914 and 1920 before it was interrupted by war.

Between 1952 and 1957, Ekrem Akurgal and Hakki Gültekin undertook further reconnaissance and excavation, and a few seasons of work were also done around 1970

(Özyiğit 2003, 109–10). Finally, in 1984, and then from 1989 until the present day, Phokaia has been excavated in an effort to clarify activity at the site brought to light by Akurgal’s original work (Özyiğit 2003, 114–15).

Settlement

Phokaia is a site with evidence for continuity of activity and habitation from the 12th

through the 8th century and into the Archaic Period, which was the period of both its most

intensive and extensive settlement (Özyiğit 2006b, 306). The earliest evidence for activity

dates to the 14th century BCE (Özyiğit 2006b, 310). In terms of settlement size, recent location of the Archaic settlement on the mainland (as opposed to the peninsula, where it

was previously thought to be located) and remains of its fortification walls suggest that

they were somewhere between 5 km and 8 km in length; these have been dated to ca. 590-

580 BCE (Özyiğit 2006b, 308). This construction date obviously falls outside of the 12th-

8th century range that is the primary focus of this overview, but the indicated size of the

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settlement at the end of the 7th century BCE is nonetheless relevant for considering earlier occupation here, and indicates that the city may have also been a significant (and large) settlement by the end of the 8th century BCE. Of particular note in terms of overall settlement evidence is the presence of the world’s oldest smithy, found between remains of 14th and 11th century BCE houses (Özyiğit 2005; 2006b, 310). Ceramic evidence has been used to tentatively date this workshop to the late 12th or early 11th century, with second

millennium pottery found under its foundations that included Mycenaean sherds from the

LH IIIA1-IIIC (Özyiğit 2005; Vaessen 2014, 15). On the workshop floor itself, an in situ

amphora was discovered that adheres stylistically to the ‘Submycenaean’ style (Özyiğit

2005; Vaessen 2014, 15; Yalçın and Özyiğit 2013, 241). Vaessen offers a detailed analysis

of this amphora, clarifying the possibility of a mid- to early-11th century date for use of the

workshop (Vaessen 2014: 15).

Domestic Evidence

The earliest known settlement at Phokaia was located outside of the Archaic fortifications

on a slope to the south of the city. An oval house found here—the earliest building with a

known plan at the site—probably dates to the 14th century BCE (Özyiğit 2006: 310).

Pottery belonging to the EBA was found, along with (unspecified?) architecture and

pottery dating probably to the MBA. Özyiğit reports that ‘Mycenaean influences’ are

seen starting in the second half of the second millennium, both in terms of imported

wares and ‘many local ceramic imitations’ (Özyiğit 2006: 310). Nearby the 14th century

house are the remains of a late 12th/early 11th century BCE blacksmith’s workshop

(mentioned above), and directly on top of this were two more oval houses, both dated to

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the late 11th/early 10th century BCE through associated ceramics and their spatial relationship to the workshop (Özyiğit 2006: 310; Vaessen 2014: 15). A 7th century BCE

‘megaron’ house is located in this same vicinity, just north and east of the two oval

houses (late 11th/early 10th century BCE (Vaessen 2014: 15), and Özyiğit notes a second

‘megaron’ plan building located inside the area of the Archaic fortifications, in addition to the one without, near the blacksmith.

Cult Evidence

The most well-known, substantial remains related to cult practice at Phokaia belong to the

Temple of Athena. This temple is the most prominent cult structure from later periods, and was built on a rock-cut, terraced outcropping that abuts the sea on a protruding piece of land in the middle of the modern harbor (Özyiğit 1995, 426). It’s remains consist of numerous architectural fragments and evidence for a podium wall that is believed to belong to the first phase of the earliest temple, built in the first quarter of the 6th century BCE

(Özyiğit 2003, 112). Here, Protogeometric sherds have been found mixed together in fill

with second millennium sherds (Özyiğit 2006a, 74–75) and evidence for a

Protogeometric/Geometric oval structure was also found in the stone fill of the temple’s podium (Özyiğit 2007, 349). This structure has also been referred to as a ‘tower’ (cite

Vaessen 2014: 16), but the only consensus seems to be that it was ‘probably a sacred place’

(Özyiğit 2007: 349). The structure was cut through, with a resulting destruction of its western side, when the Archaic temple podium was built on top of it. This structure contained associated ceramics that date to the Early Bronze Age, suggesting that,

262 coinciding with the earliest ceramics in the first settlement which date to the Early Bronze

Age, cult activity on the hill also extends back to this period (Özyiğit 2007: 349).

Located just below the Temple of Athena, on the northern slope of its terraced hill (Özyiğit

2003: 118), people were engaged with another cult. The rock outcropping was quarried away there to create a flat, vertical face and a large platform (Fig. 11). Five niches were cut into the rock face, with two smaller niches cut to the left and right. These have been interpreted as spaces for hanging lanterns (Özyiğit 1995: 427). There are similar niches found on two nearby islands (Orak Adası and Incir Adası) (Büyükkolancı 2000, 39; Özyiğit

2003; 2006: 309).

The easternmost niche is the largest, measuring 210 cm high by 102 cm wide and approx.

92 cm deep— Özyiğit suggests this was the location of the cult statue. The smallest of the niches measures 60 cm high, 66 cm wide, and 58.5 cm deep; the excavators suggest the four smaller niches were probably also reliefs of the god. Underneath the niches, there is a channel, 13 cm wide, running east to west, which appears more or less identical to another channel that runs below the Archaic fortification wall on the outcropping above. This similarity is the basis for one argument for the date of the sanctuary (Özyiğit 1995, 427), and pottery finds corroborate this estimate with a suggested date of at least the early 6th century BCE (Özyiğit 1995: 431).

The rest of the sanctuary includes an array of carved features. A set of stairs descends from the niche platform down to the ocean, though the sea level today is higher than it would

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have been when the sanctuary was in use (Özyiğit 1995: 428). Near the niches is a recessed rectangle cut into the bedrock, described as some kind of pool, and measuring approximately 240-270 cm x 170 cm with a 60 cm depth. A small channel allows water to enter from the sea, and another channel exits to the pool to the west. Northeast of the pool are small, circular carvings in the bedrock, roughly 30-35 cm in diameter and linked together with small channels; these have been interpreted as some kind of installation for filtering liquids. Finally, a set of stairs lead down into the sea from the niche platform, and to the right of these is a bowl-like depression cut into the rock; this is recognizably similar to installations in the temples from Urartu and in Phrygia (Özyiğit 1995: 428).

In addition to the rock-cut installations, more pottery was found buried underwater just in front of the sanctuary. This includes a series of roof tiles from the 6th century BCE—the

earliest known from Phokaia—as well as a range of other materials that appear to have

been dumped from the Temple of Athena, sitting on the rise above the harbor. Additionally,

a number of Protogeometric and Geometric ceramics were found, but hypotheses as to their

origin are not made clear in reports (Özyiğit 1995: 432). While the date given for this

sanctuary is around the middle of the 6th century BCE, the evidence for some kind of

activity on the terraced hill above in the Early Bronze Age, as well as for Bronze Age

habitation on the site, has interesting implications for the presence of Protogeometric and

Geometric pottery in the ‘Harbor Sanctuary’.

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Burial

The earliest known burials from Phokaia come from the Archaic period. The city’s

necropolis is unfortunately located in a third class archaeological zone, cut by a major urban thoroughfare, which has prevented further excavation and reconnaissance.

Construction revealed some terracotta sarcophagi in 1977, and in 1998, sewage work

revealed further remnants of burial in this period (Özyiğit 2003: 119).

Panaztepe

Background

The site of Panaztepe (Fig. 4) is currently located 10km inland on the delta of the modern

Gediz (ancient Hermos) River, but in the Bronze and Iron Ages, its location would have

been an offshore island (Nazli Çınerdalı-Karaaslan 2012, 124). Under the direction of

Armağan Erkanal, excavations have been ongoing since 1985 (Vaessen 2014: 16) and have

produced evidence of continuous occupation at Panaztepe from the Early Bronze Age to

the Classical Period (Çınerdalı-Karaaslan 2008; 2012: 125; Erkanal-Öktü 2002, 190; 2005,

53). The site is located on a hill, with evidence spread over several areas, including the

acropolis, the ‘Seaport Town’ or ‘Harbor Town’, and the necropolis (Çınerdalı-Karaaslan

2012: 125).

Domestic Evidence

The acropolis remains are concentrated in the Middle Bronze Age, Archaic, and Classical

periods (Günel 1999: 168-169), whereas the remains on the eastern slope of the hill, known

as the ‘Harbor Town’, reflect habitation during the Ottoman, Late Roman-Byzantine,

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Archaic, Geometric, and Late Bronze Age periods (Çınardalı-Karaaslan 2008 :57). On the

acropolis, the Archaic and particularly the Classical buildings, as well as natural erosion,

have done heavy damage to the architectural remains of the Bronze Age. It is worth noting

that structures exist here from two separate building phases, however, that the ceramics

represent both ‘local’ and ‘Minyan’ types, and that there is strong evidence for a ceramic

workshop (Günel 1999, 168–69). The ceramics and roof tiles of the Archaic and Classical

occupation layers suggest the earliest structures date to the end of the 6th century BCE

(Günel 1999: 168).

Excavations at the Harbor Town have revealed six building levels for the Bronze Age, two

building levels for the Geometric period, and at least one for the Archaic period (Çınerdalı-

Karaaslan 2008: 59). The two latest levels of Bronze Age structures have the potential to fall within the 12th-8th century range, dating roughly to LHIII B-C. Level 2 remains include

a multi-roomed building with a well and paved courtyard. Associated with the building

were a number of pithoi, as well as other LBA-characteristic wares, and a collapsed kiln.

The dating for these materials straddles the transition between LHIII B and C (Çınerdalı-

Karaaslan 2008: 64). Finally, Level 1, sealed with a sterile alluvial fill, contained a series

of walls that comprised, among other structures, what appears to be a roughly rectangular

six-room building, an unidentified circular platform, and a series of trash pits. Level 1 also

produced remnants of a workshop, and a number of in situ pots, including vessels (hand-

and wheelmade) with parallels from Troy (level VI-VIIb) and ‘buckel’ ware (Çınerdalı-

Karaaslan 2008: 62-63), but full publication of these results is still awaited.

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Cult Evidence

At this time, no known cult evidence has been published or alluded to from Panaztepe.

Burial Evidence

The primary burial evidence at Panaztepe comes from the western burial site. This covers

approximately 5,000 m2, and together the two cemeteries there represent not only the most

extensively excavated burial site in Western Anatolia, but also that which contains the largest number of tombs (Çınerdalı-Karaaslan 2012: 125) for a total of 114 burials containing 231 individuals (Erkanal-Öktü 2008, 73). Burials here date to the second half of the second millennium (Erkanal-Öktü 2008: 70; Erkanal-Öktü and Çınerdalı-Karaaslan

2010; Vaessen 2014: 16). The LBA burials consisted of 66 pithoi, 20 tholoi, 16 pots, 12 cists, 3 composite burials, 2 boxes, 2 urns, and 1 small tholos chamber and 1 rectangular burial chamber (Çınerdalı-Karaaslan 2012: 125). Pithoi, urns, boxes, cists, composite burials and small tholoi with stone platforms make up the group dated to the 12th and 11th

centuries, and tholoi and cist graves make up the group dated to the 14th-13th centuries BCE

(Erkanal-Öktü 2008; Çınerdalı-Karaaslan 2012: 125). The burials contained ceramics, as well as more than 5,000 other items made of various rocks and minerals, terracotta, gold, silver, bronze, lead, frit, faience, glass, bone, and amber, many of which were imported

(see Çınerdalı-Karaaslan 2012), and a 12th century BCE Egyptian scarab from the latest of the chamber tombs (Erkanal-Öktü 2008: 74). Of the ceramic finds in the pithos burials,

Gold and Silver (Wash?) wares are particularly notable, with similarities to wares found at

Liman Tepe from the Early Bronze Age through the 7th century BCE (Erkanal-Öktü 2008:

78).

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Smyrna

Background

Located about 4 km north of modern Izmir (Bryce 2009, 658), Smyrna, sits on a large tell

at the end of a marine inlet (Fig. 61). In antiquity, Akurgal asserts that the settlement hill—

known as the Bayraklı mound—was a rocky hill on the northeast corner of Smyrnaean Gulf

that hugged the coast, with its southern side open to the sea and a secure hinterland provided by Mt. Sipylos in the background (E. Akurgal 1983, 13). Indeed, Cook reported

the discovery of sand and water-worn pottery and boulders at the foot of remains of the

Archaic city wall on its east side, suggesting that the sea may have abutted the wall at high tide (‘sea-girt’) (J. M. Cook 1959, 11). Joint Turkish-British excavations were run from

1948 to 1951, with Ekrem Akurgal focusing on the Protogeometric through Archaic strata;

John M. Cook working at the Temple of Athen; and Richard Nicholls working on the early

9th century BCE fortification walls, the fill of the city wall from the supposed Ionian settlement, the so-called Fountain Building (late 7th century BCE) and the city’s

necropoleis (M. Akurgal 2006, 373–74). Ekrem Akurgal recommenced excavations himself in 1966 (M. Akurgal 2006: 374), and since 1993 work has continued under the

direction of Meral Akurgal.

Settlement

While its first millennium BCE strata have received the most attention, Smyrna is a tell site

over 7m in height with a series of what R.V. Nicholls described as “monochrome

occupation”—a reference to the presence of Grey Monochrome ware, which had been

infiltrated by Protogeometric pottery in the early centuries of the first millennium (Nicholls

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1959, 39). The best-known layers date to the first millennium, however, on account of an emphasis by early excavators like Akurgal, Nicholls, and Cook on the ‘Greek’ periods of occupation at the site. Smyrna appears to have been already substantial—or at least important—by ca. 850 BCE (or the ‘Middle Geometric period’), when a fortification wall was constructed atop the tell. There is, however, evidence for earlier fortifications that

Nicholls tentatively dated to the end of the Bronze Age (Nicholls 1959, 122). Occupation at the tell is evidenced as far back as the first half of the 3rd millennium BCE through the excavation of test trenches and other excavation soundings. Materials were characterized as being similar to those found at Troy in levels II and VI, and suspected imports from central Anatolia were dated to the first half of the 2nd millennium BCE (Akurgal 1983, 13).

The peninsula on which the tell sits appears to have been quite small at the turn of the 1st millennium BCE, owing to the location of trenches where successive levels of occupation and activity were found (Cook 1959: 9). In addition to ‘sea-girt’ nature of the wall, the extent of the edge of the peninsula on the east side is further suggested by a stepped ramp, dated to the Classical period, which may have led down to a landing stage or beach (Cook

1959: 11). Cook has suggested a ‘great expansion’, perhaps in the early 7th century, with scattered surface pottery found off the peninsula on the neighboring coast. These data fall primarily outside of the 8th century bounds set for this appendix, but nonetheless may indicate that actual habitation was confined to the peninsula before the 7th century, and that the city wall ca. 850 may represent the bounds of the city through the end of the 8th (Cook

1959: 15).

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Domestic Evidence

Smyrna has produced quite a volume of evidence for domestic architecture at the turn of the 1st millennium BCE (Akurgal 1983). Continuous occupation strata are layered over one another in the northeastern area of the excavated portion of the site, spanning from the beginning of the so-called ‘Aiolian’ settlement (dated by Akurgal to ca. 1000 BCE)

(Akurgal 1983: 15) through the 4th century BCE (Fig. 62). This sequence contains the remains of dozens of individual buildings and rooms belonging to what were possibly larger residential and social complexes. These structures show a consistent shifting in the popularity of different architectural forms, beginning with remains of an oval house in the

‘Aiolian’ settlement ca. 925-900 BCE, followed by a shift to rectangular buildings around

875-750 BCE, and then a reversion back to oval construction again in the Late Geometric period (ca. 750-650 BCE) (Akurgal 1983: 31). Evidence does exist for the simultaneous use of both types, with remains of rectangular and oval structures appearing in the

‘Protogeometric’ settlement, however (Akurgal 1983, 17-22; M. Akurgal 2006, 374).

At the time of publication, the Geometric houses found at Smyrna represented the earliest examples of multi-celled structures, as well as of buildings based around a courtyard, in

Ionia and the Greek world more broadly (Akurgal 1983, 32). The areas with evidence for habitation can be divided up into several phases. The first settlement (often referred to as the ‘Aiolian settlement’ consists of the walls of a rectangular house and primarily monochrome gray ceramics (Akurgal 1983: 22). The second settlement, more securely dated to ca. 1000-875 BCE yielded a substantial amount of Protogeometric pottery

(Akurgal 1983, 16-19), a well-preserved oval house (Akurgal 1983: 17-18)—which

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Vaessen (2014: 19) notes is not unlike those from Phokaia and Limantepe/Klazomenai (see

Mangaloğlu-Votruba 2011)—the walls of a rectangular house (Akurgal 1983: 22), and a

horseshoe shaped hearth (Akurgal 1983: 16-17).

Domestic evidence from the various strata of the Geometric settlement (ca. 875-650)

comprise a number of large, multi-celled houses, many of which were organized around

central courtyards and included auxiliary structures that perhaps served as barns or exterior

storage spaces. Additionally, one particularly large structure—Raum C—that was oval or apsidal in plan, has been dated to the end of the 8th century BCE and interpreted as a

potentially important space for gathering; this is largely on the basis of its size, the presence

of very fine plastering, and perhaps even its position (partially) underneath a large double- megaron from the early 7th century BCE (Akurgal 1983, 28), one of the earliest examples

of this new house form (Akurgal 1983, 44), and perhaps the residence of a high-status

family.

Cult Evidence

Meral Akurgal notes that the temple is believed to be the earliest ‘Greek’ temple in Anatolia

(M. Akurgal 2006: 374). This first phase has been dated to the Geometric period, ca. 725-

670 BCE, and its remains consist solely of a 5m-long wall and ramp that were found underneath the Subgeometric podium—no naos or naiskos is thus attested. The earliest remains of a cella and other supra-podium architectural elements come from the mid-7th

century BCE (Akurgal 1983, 119).

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Burial Evidence

No burial evidence is known prior to the Archaic period (cf. Akurgal 1983; M. Akurgal

2006).

Limantepe/Klazomenai

Background

Limantepe/Klazomenai is a harbor settlement located near the modern town of Urla, on the southern coastline of the Gulf of Izmir (Fig. 63). It is located between the Hermos (modern

Gediz) and Kayster (modern Küçük Menderes) river valleys, placing it conveniently between two major routes from the Aegean coast to inland Anatolia. The site has been occupied since the Neolithic period (Moustaka et al. 2004), and several teams have been working toward a better understanding of this long occupation, including that lead by Yaşar

Ersoy, working at Klazomenai proper in the more southern area of the site, another lead by

Hayat Erkanal, working on the older settlement nucleus at Liman Tepe (located in the northern part of the site, closer to the coastline), and an underwater team, working in the modern harbor (since 1999), (Erkanal and Artzy 2002; Erkanal, Artzy, and Kouka 2003;

2004; Erkanal et al. 2010), and a group working to reconstruct the ancient coastline

(Goodman et al. 2009).

Settlement

Bronze Age and earlier remains have been damaged by modern development, but substantial, stratified remains have come to light starting in the LH III period (Erkanal and

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Aykurt 2008; Mangaloğlu-Votruba 2011). The first phase (LH IIIA2), though falling

before the 12th century starting point for this overview, provides important context for later finds; these levels yielded streets, five buildings, four kilns, and a well (reaching 1.75m below sea level) that held both local Western Anatolian and Mycenaean wares (Erkanal and Günel 1995, 264; 1996, 307; 1997, 232–33; Mangaloğlu-Votruba 2015, 652; Vaessen

2014, 21). The next phase (LH IIIB) yielded more limited remains, but they did include the streets, part of one building (known as the ‘pithos building’), and a probable storage silo and paved area; Vaessen (2014: 21) notes that the presence of five grinding stones and sherds from a spouted basin in the area have suggested it functioned as a wine workshop like the LBA workshop found at Çesme-Bağlararası (Mangaloğlu-Votruba 2015: 655; cf.

Erkanal et al. 2009; Şahoǧlu 2007, 314–15). The final phase (LH IIIC) yielded structures built directly on top of their predecessors; buildings were rectangular, except for one oval or curvilinear example; the aforementioned ‘pithos building’ remained in use, and a hearth structure was found to its east with “numerous examples of so-called “Aegean style” cooking pots, with either single or double handles (Mangaloğlu-Votruba 2011; 2015,

657),” (Vaessen 2014: 21).

The majority of LBA pottery found at Klazomenai-Liman Tepe is local, and in terms of stylistic groups and forms, shows similarities with other sites both neighboring and farther afield, including Troy, Panaztepe, Bademgediği Tepe, Kadıkalesi, Beycesultan, and Çine

Tepecik. The predominant pottery styles in the LBA period are either red-buff fabric with reddish slip, or Gray Ware, but locally-manufactured examples of Mycenaean style pottery have also been found, with cream slip over the same red-buff fabric as other local varieties

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(Mangaloğlu-Votruba 2015: 648-9; notably, however, Mycenaean pottery in general

makes up less than 10% of the total pottery assemblage (Mangaloğlu-Votruba 2015: 660).

No city wall has ben attested before the Archaic fortifications, which have been dated to

the early 7th century BCE (Ersoy et al. 2009; Ersoy et al. 2010; Ersoy, Güngör, and

Cevizoğlu 2011).

Domestic

Continuity of occupation has recently been confirmed at Klazomenai with the construction

of Protogeometric structures directly over top of those from the LBA, and in one case the

incorporation of LBA walls in new building efforts (Erkanal and Aykurt 2008, 225;

Mangaloğlu-Votruba 2015, 660). From the early 11th century through the Geometric

period, at least three curvilinear structures have been found, and earliest predates an Early

Protogeometric skyphos that was used for a child burial, which partly destroyed the

building (Bakır et al. 2004, 103). The second structure revealed two phases of occupation

with a possible gap in between; the first likely dates to the late 11th/early 10th century BCE,

based on associated ceramics (Aytaçlar 2004, 24; Vaessen 2014, 22) (textile use with lots

of spool-like objects?), but evidence associated with the second has proven too

inconclusive to make any certain chronological determinations (save that there was likely

very little time between their use) (Aytaçlar 2004: 24). The third structure, located nearby,

dates to the Late Protogeometric and Geometric periods (Bakır et al. 2004: 102-103). A

storage magazine with mid-10th century Protogeometric jars and several jar burials was also found, dating to the same period (Erkanal and Aykurt 2008).

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Burial Evidence

The burials at Limantepe/Klazomenai were most recently treated in detail in 2010.

Research is ongoing and awaiting publication, but at that point, a total of 43 burials were known from the 11th-8th centuries BCE. Thirty-five of these date to the 11th and 10th

centuries, and comprised a mix of cremations and inhumations in either cists, or pots both

handmade and wheelmade. Grave goods were present in some, but not all, of the burials,

and they included either ceramic vessels of varying types, or sometimes small bronze

objects like fibulae or other adornments. No burials have been associated with the 9th

century BCE, and eight have been dated to the 8th century These demonstrate the same characteristics as those described above (see Ulusoy 2010).

Erythrai

Background

Erythrai sits on the coast inside a large bay on the Karaburun Peninsula, facing the island

of Chios (Fig. 64. Ekrem Akurgal conducted excavations at the site between 1965 and

1984, and subsequent work was begun in 2003, first by Coşkun Özgünel and Kutlamış

Görkay, and then the under the direction of Ayşe Gül Akalın (Akalın 2008; Vaessen 2014,

23). The site is not particularly well understood in terms of published material, and the

earliest—published—excavated remains come from the Temple of Athena, dating to the

8th century BCE. Akurgal (1975), Cook and Blackman (1965, 40) and Mellink (1968, 134;

1976, 281) have reported Protogeometric sherds from both the site and the surrounding area, as well as a possible LBA settlement, but none of this has been properly published or confirmed (Vaessen 2014: 23).

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Domestic Evidence

No domestic evidence at Erythrai is known for the 12th-8th centuries BCE.

Cult Evidence

The Temple of Athena at Erythrai has been dated to the 8th century BCE (Kerschner 2013,

2495), but no detail has been published as to the archaeological finds associated with it.

Burial Evidence

No burial evidence from Erythrai is known for the 12th-8th centuries BCE.

Chios

Background

Chios itself is an island just off the coast of mainland Ionia (Fig. 65a), roughly 7 km from

its westernmost peninsula, in the westward-facing bay of which Erythrai sits. There are a number of sites on the island, but the best known in the Late Bronze and Iron Ages are

Chios Town, Emporio, and Phanai. Emporio is located at the southern coast near the modern village of Pirgi—the only proper location for anchor or landing on the southern and eastern coasts; Phanai (Kato Phana) sits roughly 12 km further west, on the island’s

southwestern edge, around the island’s southernmost tip. Emporio was excavated by the

British School at Athens from 1952 to 1955, unearthing remains dating from the Neolithic

period to the Late Bronze age. Since 1997, the Temple of Apollo at Phanai has been under

investigation by Lesley Beaumont and Aglaia Archontidou-Argyri (Beaumont 2007, 138).

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Settlement

Late Bronze Age materials are known on Chios from Emporio—where Mycenaean materials attest occupation through the LH III, and in the northern portion of the island,

Mycenaean surface finds at Leukathia and Nagos also suggest settlements there. A small kylix stem of Mycenaean type was also found at Chios Town, but the presence of the modern city has limited the extent of excavation that could be conducted there. Finally,

Late Bronze Age materials have been found at Kato Phana at the site of the Temple of

Apollo (see below). Late Geometric material is abundant at Emporio and Kato Phana

(details), and sparsely attested at Chios Town as well.

Domestic Evidence

An extensive village with houses, a circuit wall, and a ‘megaron hall’ was found on the slopes of the Prophetes Elias hill, just north of the harbor at Emporio. The megaron hall and the earliest houses have all been dated as likely belonging to the 8th century BCE

(Boardman 1967, 34–37). On the slopes of the hill, more than 50 houses have been found, divided into two architectural types (megara and ‘bench houses’). Boardman argues that the former are the earlier dwellings, and that the town was ‘peacably abandoned’ at the end of the 7th century BCE. On the basis of the dating of the Temple of Athena and the wall fortifying the acropolis above, Boardman has suggested that the houses were occupied in the 8th century BCE as well (Boardman 1967, 40). These dates are notably unconfirmed by clear finds evidence, however.

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Cult Evidence

At the Temple of Athena on the Prophetes Elias Hill, while the more substantial

architectural remains date to the 7th-4th centuries, there is a small quantity of pottery

attesting cult activity as early as the 8th century BCE (see above; Boardman 1967, 5), and

some sherds of early Geometric pottery have also been found in the so-called Harbor

Sanctuary at Emporio as well (Boardman 1967, 53). Primary cult evidence from Chios,

however, comes from the site of Phanai. Located on the southwestern edge of Chios, a

coastal island with close proximity to Erythrai, the sanctuary at Phanai has yielded

evidence for Bronze – Iron Age continuity in recent years. Originally thought to have been

founded in the Late Geometric period (Coldstream 1977, 257) from which rich votive

offerings had been discovered during initial excavations of the 1930s (Beaumont 2011,

222). More recent excavations in the southwest quadrant of the Archaic sanctuary, directed

by Leslie Beaumont, have extended the reach of activity at the site into the Bronze Age.

The deposits, unfortunately mixed fill from the 7th century BCE construction of a stairway, contained small finds from the Early and Middle Geometric periods, the Protogeometric period, and the Late Bronze Age (LH IIIC) (Beaumont 2011: 222). Beaumont argues, on the basis of the votive nature of the finds and their association with a large quantity of burnt animal bone, that they represent a mixed context of sacred material, attesting the cult character of the site by the LH IIIC at the earliest (Beaumont 2011: 224).

They trend running through evidence from the LHIIIC to the Geometric period is the preponderance of vessels related to the preparation and consumption of wine—a strong

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indicator of cult activity. While the LHIIIC materials include “marked variety”—painted

pottery, bovine figurines in terracotta, marble pommels for swords and daggers, and a

faience scarab seal, the ceramic materials in particular mirror those found elsewhere on the

island at Emporio and appear to be locally made; their shapes include kylix, kalathos, krater

and amphora, all associated with storage, mixing, and consumption of wine (Beaumont

2011: 223). Ceramics are the only attestation of the Protogeometric, Early, and Middle

Geometric periods, but they too contained kraters and numerous drinking cups. The rich

Late Geometric materials shows the same array of ceramics, with close parallels on Samos

and at Smyrna, as well as artifacts in materials that would have made fine votive

offerings—metal, amber, and ivory and steatite seals (Beaumont 2011: 223). Beaumont’s

assertion that this series of assemblages represents continuous cult activity is a strong one,

and it is particularly interesting on an island where known occupation in the LBA appears

to have ceased at other sites (most notably at the substantial, relatively nearby settlement

of Emporio.

Burial Evidence

Burial evidence from the 12th-8th centuries is sparse. On Psara (Fig. 65b)—an offshore island that was home to a significant cemetery—one Mycenaean cist grave has come to light (Beaumont 2011, 221), as well as a number of graves dating to the 10th and 9th

centuries BCE (Archontidou-Argyri 2005, 137; Beaumont 2011, 221). Additionally, several Late Geometric burials have been found at Agios Ioannis Prodromos.

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Samos

Background

Samos itself is an island off the coast of mainland Anatolia, where its eastern end tucks

into the gulf that is home to Lebedos, Klaros, Ephesos, and Kadıkalesi. The best-known

sites from relevant periods on the island are the Temple of Hera and the Archaic settlement

at Pithagoreio (Fig. 66). After some initial, brief, work in the 18th, 19th, and early 20th

centuries CE, excavations have been more-or-less ongoing (with a break from 1939-1951)

under the auspices of the German Archaeological Institute (DAI) (Vaessen 2014: 33-34).

Settlement

The two main sites with evidence between the 12th and 8th centuries BCE on Samos are the

Temple of Athena—outside of modern Pithagoreio to the southwest along the coast—and

Pithagoreio itself. At Pithagoreio, the earliest settlement evidence dates to the 4th

millennium BCE, and comes in the form of ceramics, tools, and obsidian. At both the

Temple of Hera and Pithagorio, however, a continuous human presence is attested since at

least the second half of the 2nd millennium BCE (Tsakos 2007, 189–90). At the Heraion in

particular, excavations from the last decade have revealed the continuous presence of

human settlement since the Late Chalcolithic period, including a number of domestic structures, larger communal buildings, and extensive fortifications walls dating from the

Early to the Middle Bronze Age (ca. 3200-1700 BCE) (Kouka 2013, 576; Niemeier 2017,

pers. Comm.). The earliest iteration of the monumental Temple of Hera dates to the Archaic

period, although recent work by Niemeier has focused on EBA remains in the vicinity of

the temple, and further work is currently underway under the direction of Jan-Marc Henke.

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Niemeier has argued that the earliest sanctuary evidence dates from the 17th century BCE

in the form of successive layers of stone paving, clay altars, incense burners, and a large

assemblage of conical, ‘cult cups’ found associated with them, and in at least stratum,

deposited en masse upside down, as is known from several Minoan sanctuaries.68 Of great

interest is also a ‘prehistoric settlement’ discovered by Milojčić (1961), and Jarosch (1994)

has reported evidence for 10th century BCE cult activity.

Domestic Evidence

While their exact findspots and nature have not been detailed, Tsakos reports the

excavation of walls dated to the Geometric period, some of which may belong to domestic

structures that were incorporated into later buildings. Protogeometric settlement is attested

by fineware sherds and more complete vessels, with a noticeable increase in the Middle

and Late Geometric periods (Tsakos 2007, 190).

Cult Evidence

Cult evidence dating between the 12th and 8th centuries BCE still awaits publication, but a

catalogue of 1,179 ceramic figurines dating between the 10th and 7th centuries BCE attests

to an active cult presence on the site in those periods (Jarosch 1994). Furthermore,

Niemeier has confirmed that evidence exists for continuous cult activity at the sanctuary,

arguing for ‘Minoan’, then ‘Mycenaean’ activity in the Late Bronze Age, with subsequent

68 These results await full publication but were reported by Niemeier in a lecture at the American School of Classical Studies at Athens on January 26th, 2017. They were also confirmed in personal communication with the author.

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Iron Age practice that extended through to the known monumental structures from the

Archaic and Classical periods (Niemeier 2017, pers. comm.).

Burial Evidence

Two burials are known from Pithagoreio, one of an infant and one of an older child, both

dated to the Geometric period. There is also nekropolis—located near the Hellenistic

gymnasium—that included a tumulus with burnt offerings dating between the 9th and 7th

centuries BCE (Tsakos 2007, 191).

Klaros

Background

Klaros is located on the central Ionian coast, approximately 15 km northwest of Ephesos

as the crow flies (Fig. 67). It sits in the valley of the Büyük Menderes River, whose mouth has silted up to such a degree that the site is now 1.6 km from the sea; while the extent of

the original coastline is not known, it is possible that the harbor reached all the way to the

sanctuary itself. Klaros is home to a sanctuary of Apollo—an important regional cult site

with evidence for activity dating back at least to the Bronze Age—which would have had

intimate ties in antiquity to its closest urban neighbors, Kolophon and Notion (later named

Kolophon-on-Sea). Kolophon sits 13 km up-river, and Notion is located directly on the

coast at the mouth of the river. Excavation at Klaros has been ongoing since 1950, with a

great deal of work done under French teams led by Louis Robert and Juliette de la Genière.

Since 2001, the site has been excavated by a Turkish team lead by Nuran Şahin (Vaessen

2014, 29).

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Domestic Evidence

No clearly domestic evidence exists from Klaros, consistent with its clear identification as

a sanctuary site.

Cult Evidence

The sanctuary houses a temple to Apollo, located over an oracular spring, whose

foundational structure still stands in situ, as well as a smaller temple and altar of Artemis

(Schwaller 1992, 65). Many of the monumental column drums from the temple are still on-

site, and have been laid out in the surrounding temenos area. Remnants of monumental

Archaic statues are also still found on the site, and these have been partially reconstructed

by French teams, along with a series of fractured votive offerings from the Archaic and

Classical periods (see de la Genière 1992). French and Turkish teams (under the direction of Louis Robert, Juliette de la Genière, and Nuran Şahin) have undertaken extensive documentation of the temple, its surrounding buildings, and the associated finds.

Vaessen dates the first temple to Apollo to the 7th century BCE (Vaessen 2014: 29), but earlier ceramics have been found in trenches placed around the site’s altar to Apollo. These included three skyphoi and fragments of an oinochoe dated to the 10th century BCE, and

another skyphos dated to the 8th century BCE, as well as fragments of a 7th century BCE

oinochoe and further Geometric sherds (Şahin et al. 2008, 438). In addition to these pottery

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examples, approximately 40 anthropomorphic terracotta figurines have been found that

publications date to the “earliest period” (the specific meaning of this is unclear) (Şahin et

al. 2006: 439), and among them was also an 8th century BCE libation vessel. The assemblage of metal artifacts from these trenches includes five bronze arrowheads in a style that dates as early as the 8th century BCE. Although Vaessen has reported a 7th century

BCE date for the temple’s construction, it is clear that the altars—or activity in the vicinity

of the altars—either dates to earlier periods or includes use of objects from earlier periods.

Further work with the (largely Turkish) sources on the most recent excavations will help

clarify these points.

Protogeometric ceramics, figurines, bronzes, and animal bones have been excavated from underneath the temple by Şahin and her team that date to between LH IIIB and the

Submycenaean (late 13th-11th centuries BCE) (Vaessen 2014: 29). In acropoliss undertaken

by Robert in the late 1980s, a clear stratigraphic sequence of materials was found that dated

from the 8th century BCE to the first half of the 5th century BCE (Mitchell 1990, 99). Some

‘Mycenaean’ pottery, as well as numerous examples of Protogeometric, Geometric, and

‘Subgeometric’ pottery have been found from other excavations in the vicinity of the

temples and altars (Şahin et al. 2008), as well as other artifacts that include, among other

items, a Submycenaean fibula, a Mycenaean (bronze?) arrowhead, and a bone arrowhead

(Şahin et al. 2008b: 251). While the temples at the site have undergone numerous

renovations, and the current temple remains date to much later phases of occupation on the

site, there is evidence for this reconstruction and re-use of the very early ritual structures

and accoutrements. A 7th century BCE altar block was used as spolia to construct the

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northern façade of the current, rectangular altar (I believe to Apollo) (Şahin et al. 2008b:

249). Of the most recent buildings, the altar and temple of Artemis were constructed in the

2nd century AD, and the temple and altar to Apollo date to the first half of the 3rd century

BCE (Mitchell 1990: 99).

Burial Evidence

No known burial evidence exists at Klaros between the 12th and 8th centuries BCE.

Metropolis and Bademgediği Tepe

Background

Bademgediği Tepe and Metropolis are two nearby sites, located on the western side of the

highway between Izmir and Aydın near the modern village of Yeniköy (Fig. 68).

Bademgediği Tepe is a fortified site roughly 6 km north from Metropolis, cut by the

highway itself. It has been under excavation since 1999 under the direction of Recep Meriç

(S. Aybek, Öz, and Meriç 2009; Meriç 2003; 2006; 2007; Meriç et al. 2006; Meriç et al.

2007; Meriç et al. 2008).

Settlement

At Metropolis, the earliest material evidence dates to the Late Chalcolithic, and subsequent

settlement is attested in the Early, Middle, and Late Bronze Ages. These materials were

recovered from the acropolis (Meriç 2006; 2007, 29), where some Protogeometric and

Geometric shreds have also been found, although not confirmed in number (Serder Aybek,

Öz, and Ekin Meriç 2010, 204).

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Stratified remains dating from the MM III through the 14th century BCE have been

discovered, as well as 12th century deposits that suggest a brief re-occupation after 13th

century BCE abandonment. Brief occupation in the Geometric period yielded the latest

finds on the site before activity there seems to have ceased (Vaessen 2014: 29-30).

At Bademgediği Tepe, the earliest attested occupation dates to the Middle Minoan III

period, and extends into the 14th century BCE. After short-lived abandonment, the site was re-occupied in the 12th century—attested by locally made, ‘Mycenaean’ pottery (Meriç and

Mountjoy 2002)—with subsequent appearance of Protogeometric and Geometric pottery

prior to apparent complete abandonment. Finds for the 12th century occupation (and the

later pottery) are almost entirely ceramic, however, and architectural remains are limited

to the fortification walls (Vaessen 2014, 30).

Domestic Evidence

The materials discussed above have not been fully published, and thus cannot be firmly

divided into domestic or other contexts for either site.

Cult Evidence

No explicitly cultic evidence is known from Metropolis or Bademgediği Tepe between the

12th and 8th centuries BCE.

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Burial Evidence

No burial evidence is known from Metropolis or Bademgediği Tepe between the 12th and

8th centuries BCE.

Ephesos

Background

Located near the modern town of Selçuk, Ephesos sits approximately 5.7 km inland from the sea it once abutted (Fig. 69). The site has a lengthy history of occupation, ending in the

15th century AD, and has yielded a scattered, but not insubstantial, quantity of material from the Archaic and Geometric periods, as well as the Iron and Bronze Ages. The major sources of these early materials are the Ayasuluk Hill (lying approximately 2.5 km north

of the ancient city), and Late Geometric and Archaic materials are also to be found in large

quantities from the area occupied by the Ephesian Artemision (lying between the ancient

city center and the Ayasuluk Hill) and the settlement under the later Tetragonos-Agora.

Additional, scattered sources for Late Geometric and Archaic materials come from the slopes of the Panayirdağ (the hill into which the theater is built) and under the Roman

Agora (Kerschner 2007, 221). The Ayasuluk has been tentatively identified with the

Bronze Age site of Apaša, known from textual sources and considered the capital of the

Arzawa—a formidable foe of the Hittites and sometime-ally of the Ahhiyawa (likely

Mycenaean—or Achaean—Greeks) (Büyükkolancı 2007, 21). Pottery dated to the 2nd

millennium BCE has been found from the Ayasuluk Hill, as well as on prehistoric mounds

east of the Magnesian Gate and along the modern road to Kuşadası (Bammer 2005, 109)

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(see below). Additionally, Late Neolithic and Bronze Age settlements have been surveyed

in the surrounding areas.

Settlement

“Village-like” settlements are attested in the area around the Ayasuluk, including on the

hill itself, as well as on the nearby Çukuriçi Höyük, Arvalya Höyük, and Havatçulu Höyük,

and range in date from the Late Chalcolithic to the Early Bronze Age (Büyükkolancı 2007:

25). On Ayasuluk itself, the settlement evidence has been dated from the Early Bronze Age

to the Hellenistic period on the basis of ceramic finds and architecture (Büyükkolancı 2007:

24). The original Ayasuluk excavations began in 1900, and six strata were identified, with

the latest containing a 3m-thick fortification wall (Büyükkolancı 2007: 21). Originally

identified as Mycenaean, later evidence from ceramics and study of the wall construction

have led to an amended identification; the team has since credited construction of the wall

to the (possibly Arzawan) inhabitants of Bronze Age Apaša (Büyükkolancı 2007: 23).

Lower levels of excavations on the Ayasuluk (between 2 m and 3.3 m) are dominated by

Archaic, Geometric, and Late Mycenaean ceramics (Büyükkolancı 2000: 39). Kraters of

“fine quality” have been excavated and dated to the 9th-8th centuries BCE, as well as other

Orientalizing and Archaic sherds that have parallels in the materials excavated at the

Artemision. On the grounds of ceramic assemblages, Büyükkolancı has postulated

continuous occupation from Early Bronze Age through the Hellenistic period

(Büyükkolancı 2000: 39-40). Of note, the excavated area on the hill has also revealed a layer characterized by fire damage, holding ceramics that are analogous to Middle Bronze

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Age forms at Liman Tepe, Aphrodisias, Chios-Emporion, and Troy III-IV (Büyükkolancı

2007: 22).

Domestic Evidence

Off of the Ayasoluk hill itself, Archaic settlement dating to the late 8th-early 7th centuries

BCE has been attested in what was the western portion of the Tetragonos Agora in the

Hellenistic-Roman city landscape. This settlement has been linked with Strabo’s reference

to the village Smyrna (Kerschner et al. 2000, 45), and includes evidence of short-lived

structures built of wooden posts, followed by rectangular, one-room houses on stone socles

(right? Since they specified the earlier ones had wooden posts?) and an oval house from

the same late 8th century BCE period (Kerschner, Lawall, Scherrer, et al. 2000: 45). After

a destruction involving fire some time before the middle of the 7th century BCE, rebuilding commenced almost immediately, at which point the oval house with central pit hearth was replaced by a multi-roomed, rectangular structure. Settlement appears to have continued in this area until the middle of the 6th century BCE, when rising groundwaters were likely the

cause for a re-location of the village (Kerschner, Lawall, Scherrer, et al. 2000: 45).

Cult Evidence

At the Artemision, a number of smaller sanctuaries and shrines have been found lying

underneath the temple, as well as between the temple and the associated altar. These are

believed to date to the 7th and 6th centuries BCE, and were in use until the construction of

the Archaic temple in the mid-6th century (Muss 2007, 211). There is also evidence for a

ca. 8th century BCE peripteral- style temple within the cella of the 6th-4th century temple

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that dominates the architectural remains (Bammer and Muss 1996, 33). Excavations on the

ancient temenos have yielded a large quantity of finds from the use-periods of these smaller temples, as well as earlier activities from the “Mycenaean Period” (Muss 2007: 211). Of the corpus of finds, 190 are terracotta figurines (105 of which are human) largely dated to the Geometric and Archaic periods; 700 are amber finds from the 8th century, found inside

the peripteros; 2000 are bronze objects from the 8th-6th centuries, and largely items for

jewelry or other adornment, although some are relief decorations of animals (37); 589 are

ivory objects from the 7th and 6th centuries, 19 human figurines and 16 animals; 642 are gold artifacts from the 7th and 6th centuries, including 16 figurines with 6 human examples; and a number of clay bovids have also been found that are dated to the 11th and 10th

centuries (Muss 2007: 213). The “unique” quality of these items is stressed, and it is noted

that many of these finds simply don’t have parallels at other Ionian sanctuaries (Muss 2007:

218). Muss suggests that the gold could come from Lydian sources, that the ivory has been

attributed to an Ephesian workshop with outside contacts (Syrian, Assyrian, Phoenician),

and that many of the statues show late-Hittite and Phrygian elements, suggesting that either their dedicators were clients of such craftsmen, or that those craftsmen were resident in the city (Muss 2007: 218).

Burial Evidence

One 8th century Geometric burial was found on the slopes of the Ayasuluk Hill (Ulusoy

2010, 56-57). Additionally, a nekropolis associated with the village Smyrna was found in

close proximity (Kerschner, Lawall, Scherrer, et al. 2000: 47).

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Miletos

Background

Miletos is now located inland but was originally situated directly on the Aegean coast (Fig.

71). The city sits at the ancient opening of the mouth of the Maeander river, directly across

the inlet from Priene. The site has been the subject of relatively consistent excavation since

work begun by Theodor Wiegand in 1899 (Niemeier 1997, 3).

Settlement

The earliest evidence for activity at the site dates to the Late Chalcolithic, consisting of

settlement evidence under the Heröon III and west of the bouleuterion (Niemeier 2007, 4;

Kaiser 2009, 22) but significant quantities of material have turned up that begin in the EBA, some of which are located in the same areas as earlier Chalcolithic evidence (Niemeier

2007: 4-6; Kaiser 2009: 22). Originally, Minoan and Mycenaean ceramics were recognized in the early 20th century CE excavations at the Temple of Athena (Kaiser and Zurbach

2015, 559), and more recent work by Barbara and Wolf-Dietrich Niemeier has produced far more material for the earliest phase, which they claim already shows contact with the

Aegean region (Kaiser 2009: 22). Miletus III, the succeeding phase, allegedly shows the first Cretan and Cycladic imports (e.g. Kamares wares) but the character of the site is still described as ‘Anatolian’ (Niemeier 2007, 8-10), with mostly red-slipped ceramics and

‘Anatolian’ vase shapes (Kaiser 2009: 22). The gradual transition from Miletos II to

Miletos IV—evidently more of a stylistic characterization than necessarily a change in occupation—resulted in the “overall character [becoming] truly Minoan,” (Kaiser 2009:

22). It is important to note that there has been a great deal of pottery as a result of

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excavation, but thorough publication of the entire corpus is ongoing; in fact, there is some

debate over the reports of relative ‘Antaolian’ and ‘Aegean’ ceramics (cf. Ünal 1991;

Niemeier 2009). A series of Archaic kitchen wares were recently published (Aydemir

2005), which broadens scholarly understanding of the range of coarse wares in use for food

preparation and processing at the site.

Domestic Evidence

A Mycenaean-style corridor house was found as part of the strata from Miletos VI, dating

to the 13th and 12th centuries BCE (Niemeier 2007, 15; B. Niemeier and Niemeier 1997), and Late Geometric ceramics have been found in newly-excavated lower strata of the

Archaic settlement on the southern slope of the Kalabaktepe, along with traces of associated walls (Senff 1995, 208). A change in orientation between the house walls of the

Late Geometric and Late Archaic period suggest a shift to planned grid layout of the neighborhood at some point in the intervening centuries (Senff 1955, 210).

Cult Evidence

In terms of cult material, the site of the Temple of Athena is located in close proximity to a defensive wall that has been various called both ‘Mycenaean’ and ‘Anatolian’ (cf. Held

2000, 6; Niemeier 2007: 15-16). In this area were also found one so-called ‘Kultmal’— ovular stone setting roughly 2 m x 1.6 m, built right on top of a bastion of the ‘Mycenaean’ wall (Held 2000: 6). Coldstream reports that excavators believed them to be cult installations built by Karian descendants of the original, pre-Minoan inhabitants

(Coldstream 1977, 260). The earliest architectural remains at the site of the temple belong

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to a ‘Megaron’-identified building that has been dated to the Mycenaean period (the second

half of the 15th or 14th century BCE) (Niemeier 2007, 13) and is located immediately

beneath the Archaic temple (Held 2000: 5). Arguments have been made for continuity of

cult in this space, and finds from the so-called Megaron included wall decoration, clay

‘idols’ and numerous cups (Held 2000: 5). The Megaron appears to have been re-used in

the Geometric period, and then the Athena sanctuary was subsequently ‘re-built’ (or built

in its known temple form) in the Archaic Period (Held 2000: 11). The ‘Kultmal’ was also

preserved into the Archaic period, but a rectangular surrounding wall replaced the ovular

circular surrounding wall, with foundations set more or less directly on top of the

Geometric wall socle (Held 2000: 11). The location of the altar is unknown, but it is

presumed that the Classical altar would have been located directly on top of its Archaic

predecessor (Held 2000: 27).

Burial Evidence

Eleven chamber tombs containing ‘Mycenaean’ grave goods were found on the western slope of the Değirmentepe, and these have been dated to the period of Miletos VI (the 13th

and 12th centuries BCE) (Niemeier 2007, 15).

Kuşadası-Kadıkalesi

Background

Kadıkalesi is the modern name of a Byzantine castle located directly on the coast 8 km

south of Kuşadası, which controlled the channel between Samos and mainland Anatolia.

The mount underneath the castle was primarily built up during the Bronze Age, measuring

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roughtly 250 m in diameter and 23m in height (Vaessen 2014: 33). Zeynep Mercangöz and

Engin Akdeniz have directed survey and excavation there since 2001, revealing strata dating to Ottoman/Byzantine, Greek and Roman, and Bronze Age periods (Akdeniz 2006,

7). While there are no known architectural remains from the LBA or Early Iron Age, there

is a substantial amount of pottery (Akdeniz 2006: 7-10)—red ware, grey ware, gold wash

ware, local and imported Mycenaean pottery, as well as Protogeometric, Sub-

Protogeometric, and Geometric wares (Mercangöz 2003, 128). Excavation reports are

forthcoming, but continuous occupation here between at least the 12th and 8th centuries

BCE seems likely (Vaessen 2014: 33)

Kolophon

Background

Kolophon is one of the Ionian cities with an unusual inland location. Spread over three

hilltops encircled by fortification, the city sites roughly 13 km into the Hales river valley

from its port city Notion. The site was first excavated in 1922 under the auspices of Hetty

Goldman and Carl Blegen, who undertook exploratory work on the acropolis as well is in

surrounding areas where tombs of Mycenaean, Geometric, and Hellenistic date were found

(Vaessen 2014: 27).

Settlement

Kolophon has been disturbed by heavy looting, and work in the 1920s was disrupted by

political upheaval, which resulted in the loss of excavated materials. The site is known,

however, for its extensive domestic architecture in particular, with surface layers dating to

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the 3rd century BCE. From the relevant Early Iron Age periods, little settlement evidence exists. However, Holland reported the discovery of “early pottery, Geometric and Lydian ware”, which he dated to the 7th-6th centuries BCE, but may in fact belong to the 8th. The

publication is not explicit, but the wall of an earlier building may correspond with these

ceramics, which were found under a domestic structure dated through successive,

continuous periods as late as the 3rd century BCE (Holland 1944, 141).

Domestic Evidence

The only possible domestic evidence known are the sherds—not fully published—dated to

the Geometric period and found under ‘West House’, mentioned above.

Cult Evidence

No known cult evidence exists at Kolophon between the 12th and 8th centuries BCE.

Burial Evidence

Several cemeteries have been found in the Kolophonian environs, and these contained

burials identified as Mycenaean and Geometric (as well as Hellenistic). The excavators

thus determined that the site had been “inhabited from prehistoric through classic times,”

(Holland 1944, 94). A Bronze Age tholos tomb was also investigated by Heddy Goldman,

who identified it as belonging to the LH IIIB or C periods (Bridges 1974, 265). Other reports come of a tholos tomb—which may be the same one—that contained a mix of ceramics dating to the Mycenaean period, with subsequent deposits from the Geometric period and 4th century BCE (Coldstream 1968, 262; R. M. Cook and Dupont 1998, 6).

295

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Figures

Figure 1: Map of the Aegean, showing the position of Ionia on the western coast of Anatolia

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Figure 2: The Northwestern Mediterranean, showing the location of the primary region discussed in this dissertation

298

Figure 3: Map showing sites in Ionia with evidence from the 12th-8th centuries BCE

299

Figure 4: Map showing the locations of data from cult, domestic, and funerary contexts in Iron Age Ionia

300

Figure 5: Map showing the location of the village of Smyrna relative to the Artemision and the Ayasuluk Hill (after Kerschner et al. 2000, 46)

301

Figure 6: Plan of the sanctuary of Artemis at Ephesos showing the agglomeration of buildings from the 8th to the 4th centuries BCE (Muss 2008, 12)

302

b

a

Figure 7: Map showing the Archaic Temple of Athena at Miletos (a) and its environs—the Kultmal (b) is visible just north of the temple above the outline of the destroyed fortification wall, and the footprint of the Mycenaean megaron is visible below it (after Held 2000, 27)

303

Figure 8: Illustration of the Kultmal at Miletos with its surrounding wall (Held 2000, 7)

304

Figure 9: Rock-cut installations at the site of the Phokaian Temple of Athena that show evidence for production and processing (photos: author)

305

Figure 10: Map showing rocky outcropping and location of Temple of Athena relative to harbor, Bronze Age Houses/Hellenistic theater, and modern city of Phokaia (Image: Google Earth)

306

Figure 11: Remains of the Rock-cut Kybele sanctuary, and ‘pool’ visible in lower left. The fortification wall (and site of the Temple of Athena) are located just behind (photo: author)

307

Figure 12: Plan from Klazomenai with overlapping construction layers (Erkanal and Aykurt 2008, 238)

308

Figure 13: View from below of the fortress on top of the Ayasuluk Hill (photo: Wikimedia Commons)

Figure 14: Plan showing locations of excavation trenches inside the fortification walls on the Ayasuluk Hill (Büyükkolancı 2007, 22)

309

Figure 15: Map of Kolophon showing location of Street D and excavations relative to the Metroön (Holland 1944, Plate IX)

310

Phokaia

Ephesos

Miletos

Figure 16: Map showing the locations of Miletos, Ephesos, and Phokaia on the Anatolian coast

311

Figure 17: The relative locations of the Artemision at Ephesos, the Roman city (‘Ephesos’), and the Ayasuluk Hill on the outskirts of modern Selçuk (Image: Google Earth)

312

Figure 18: Diagram showing the early structures within the sekos of the late Archaic dipteros ("Kroisos Temple"). The find spot for Bronze and Iron Age materials was directly under the peripteros, here labeled “NAOS 1”, shown in blue (after Kerschner and Prochaska 2011, 74)

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Figure 19: Re-construction of the "goddess with upraised arms" including the pieces of remaining terracotta (Dewailly and Muss 2008, 21)

314

Figure 20: Sanctuary of Athena at Miletos showing successive construction through the Bronze Age and the location of the Archaic temple (Niemeier 2005a, Pl. 1)

315

Figure 21: Remains of megaron-plan building below Temple of Athena at Miletos (Held 2000, 17)

Figure 22: Ruined fortification wall from Miletos VI, upon which the "Kultmal" was built (Niemeier 2009, 20)

316

Figure 23: Miniature krater from Kultmal foundation deposit (Niemeier 2009, 23)

Figure 24: Map showing area of Temple of Athena at Phokaia (Image: Google Earth)

317

Figure 25: Bammer’s proposed reconstructions of the un-roofed peripteros space, with his “sekos and baldachin” on the left and hypaethral solution on the right (Bammer 1990, 160)

318

Figure 26: Reconstruction of Roman-period statue of Artemis Ephesia in the Selçuk Museum (photo: Wikimedia Commons)

319

Figure 27: Reconstruction of columns from the Ephesian Artemision showing reliefs (Ohnesorg 2008, 271)

320

Vessel Type Percentage of Assemblage (n = 438) Cooking pots 35% Cups 30% Skyphoi 23% Pouring vessels (jugs) 4% Storage vessels (hydriai, amphorae, stamnoi, 3% pithoi) Serving vessels (dishes, plates, bowls) 2% Other, or unidentified 2% Kraters 1% Figure 28: Distribution of diagnostic rim fragments form the Protogeometric assemblage at the Ephesian Artemision (after Kerschner 2011, 27)

Figure 29: 5th century BCE chytra from the British Museum, 1864,1007.1937 (Fikellura)

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Figure 30: Map showing the location of sites discussed in the chapter (Curé 2015, 191)

Figure 31: Image showing the lagunal nature of the northwestern Med coast between Marseille and Barcelona (Gailledrat 2014, 51)

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Figure 32: Map of different indigenous groups in the Northwest, shown here in the late 4th century BCE (Source: Wikimedia Commons)

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Figure 33: Map of language distribution in the Northwestern Mediterranean (Dietler 2010, 80)

Figure 34: Bronze Age trade routes in the Mediterranean ca. 1500-1200 BCE (Gailledrat 2014, 14)

324

Figure 35 (a): Maps showing locations of settlements and cemeteries at the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition in Catalunya (a) and southern France (b, c) (Gailledrat 2014, 82, 64, and 66)

325

Figure 35 (b): Maps showing locations of settlements and cemeteries at the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition in Catalunya (a) and southern France (b, c) (Gailledrat 2014, 82, 64, and 66)

326

Figure 35 (c): Maps showing locations of settlements and cemeteries at the Bronze-to-Iron Age transition in Catalunya (a) and southern France (b, c) (Gailledrat 2014, 82, 64, and 66)

327

Figure 36: Emporion, showing the locations of the Neapolis, Palaiapolis, and ancient coastline (after Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya, Delgado Hervás and Ferrer 2015, 212)

328

Figure 37: ‘Massaliot foundation’ houses showing the layout of part of the Palaiapolis (Phase IIIe, 450/425) (Aquilué et al. 2010, 71)

329

Figure 38: Location of Vilanera relative to Emporion (the Palaiapolis is labeled as ‘Sant Martí d’Empúries’ and the Neapolis is labeled as Empúries) (after Agustí et al. 2004, 100)

330

Figure 39: Images from cremation burials at Vilanera (Agustí et al. 2004, 106, 109)

331

Figure 40: Structures from the first phase of habitation in the Archaic period at the Palaiapolis, with plan showing the excavated kilns and an example of the grey monochrome ware produced (Aquilué et al. 2010, 68)

332

Figure 41: Aerial shot of modern village (Sant Martí d’Empúries) on promontory of the Palaiapolis (Image: Google Earth)

333

Figure 42: Plan of Neapolis showing earliest habitation locations (Aquilué et al. 2002, 318)

334

Figure 43: Plan showing location of the three units under analysis from Delgado and Ferrer. The N-7000 units discussed in this chapter are located at number 2 (Delgado and Ferrer 2015, 214)

335

Figure 44: Top: Distribution of domestic storage containers and their traditions of manufacture (MNI); Bottom: distribution of amphorae and their traditions of manufacture (MNI) (Delgado Hervás and Ferrer 2015, 221)

336

Figure 45: Illustration of lopas form (after (Dietler 2010, 234)

Figure 46: Plan of Lattara (Gailledrat 2015, 40; after L. Damelet, CNRS/CCJ)

337

Figure 47: Data distribution from Phase I of occupation at Lattara in Zones 1 and 27 (after Gailledrat 2015, 42)

338

Figure 48 Data distribution from Phase II of occupation at Lattara in Zones 1 and 27 (after Gailledrat 2015, 44)

Figure 49 Plan of structures from Phase II of occupation at Lattara in Zone 1 (after Gailledrat 2015, 44)

339

Figure 50: Plan of architecture from Phase III of occupation at Lattara in Zone 1 (after Gailledrat 2015, 46)

Figure 51: Data distribution from Phase III of occupation at Lattara in Zones 1 and 27 (after Gailledrat 2015, 46)

340

Figure 52: Mas de Causse—Pérols Hill (Gailledrat 2014, 191)

341

Figure 53: Mas de Causse sanctuary plan (Gailledrat 2014, 188)

342

Figure 54: Metals deposit from Mas de Causse (Gailledrat 2014, 190)

343

Figure 505: Map showing distribution of other delineating sites (Gailledrat 2015, 36)

344

Figure 516: Map showing sited discussed in Curé 2015 (pg. 191)

345

Figure 527: Schematic showing overlapping layers of communities that articulate at major settlements

346

Figure 58: Map of Ionia with sites discussed in Appendix A

347

Figure 59: Topographical map of Phokaia (after Özyiğit 1994, 78)

348

Figure 60: Topographical map of Panaztepe (after Çınerdalı-Karaaslan 2008: 59)

Figure 61: Map of Smyrna-Bayraklı (Akurgal 1983, Abb. 2)

349

Figure 62: Map of Smyrna’s densely occupied, fortified center, with the upper most levels on the mound dating to the 4th century BCE (after Akurgal 2006, 375)

350

Figure 63: Aerial view showing relative locations of Limantepe and Klazomenai (after Erkanal, Şahoğlu, and Tuğcu 2014, 44)

351

Figure 64: Map of Erythrai (after Bean 1966, 155)

352

Agio Gala Nagos

Chios Town

Kato Phana

Emporio

Figure 65a: Map of Chios, with sites discussed in Appendix A

353

Figure 65b: Map of Chios showing location of Psara

354

Pithagoreio

Heraion

Figure 66: Map of Samos, with sites discussed in Appendix A

355

Figure 67: General plan of the sanctuary of Klaros (after de La Genière 2007, 181)

356

Figure 6538: Preliminary plan of Bademgediği Tepe (after Meriç and Öz 2015, 591)

357

Figure 69: Plan of Ephesos (after Kerschner, Kowalleck, and Steskal 2008, Tafel 1)

358

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