What did the Romans eat?

The Digging into JRA blog authors’ opinions are not necessarily identical to those of the featured JRA volume contributors.

What would you assume the Romans ate, pork? Not quite. When it comes to textual accounts about the diet in Roman Italy, pork is terribly overrated, claims Mamoru Ikeguchi. In his study “Beef in Roman Italy”, the scholar from Kurume, Japan, grapples with the best ways of measuring meat consumption, arriving at data that positions beef, rather than pork, as the meat most widely consumed by the Romans.

Map A
Mamoru Ikeguchi, 2017.

When making assumptions about the Roman meat diet, historians have mostly trusted available literary evidence, such as the famous Roman cookbook by Apicius De re coquinaria, which clearly presents pork as preferred over mutton, goat’s meat, and beef. Such reasoning is not scientific enough, Ikeguchi argues, as it limits the evidence to rather elitist sources, shedding little to no light on the diets of the middle and lower classes. The way to go, according to the scholar, is by turning to zooarchaeology, the study of dead animal remains:

“Zooarchaeological evidence, which has not been given enough attention by historians, helps fill the gap between texts and the reality.”– Mamoru Ikeguchi, JRA 30 [2017], p. 7.

But how do you quantify meat? More importantly, how do you measure all the meat consumed as far back as the 5th century B.C. in all of ancient Italy? Clearly, there is not only one answer. The two dominant methods for assessing the meat consumed so far have been through collecting data of NISP (Number of Identified Specimens, practiced for example by Tony King of the University of Winchester, UK) and MNI (Minimum Number of Individuals, practiced for example by Michael MacKinnon of the University of Winnipeg). Translated into plain English, what you do with NISP is count dead animal bones and then multiply them by the accepted ratios of meat weight between domesticates. This has its virtue in objectivity: there is obviously no human factor to counting bones. However, as the saying goes, sticks and stones can break anybody’s bones, especially those of dead animals, and bone fragmentation can significantly mess up the data. Therefore, counting NISP alone is a no go. With MNI, the procedure is to attribute the bones that have been dug up to particular species and then count up the species. But not only is this too complicated to do, the method is also rather subjective, as data will depend heavily on the human factor, meaning the methods employed in excavation on each site by each different faunal specialist studying the bones.

Since none of the existing methods of quantifying meat consumption is sensitive enough on its own, Ikeguchi’s solution is to combine both NISP and MNI counts while devising a normalizing unit between them: that of quasi weights (kg). Quasi weights are based on NISP by assuming the same meat weights as in the MNI-based weights. This way, the sample size of each data set, such as how many dead animal remains were collected in total at a particular site, is neither downplayed nor given excessive significance. The scholar further contextualized the meat data, dividing the whole meat weight of each species by the number of centuries to which they belong and then adding up all sites into a chronological progression, as well as mapping out the trends in meat consumption on a geographical basis. As you might well expect, that makes for a bunch of data: 6 sets of tables, 1 map, and 10 sets of graphs, as featured in the JRA article. And guess what all that data is saying? Pork has been unjustifiably overrated as a staple of the Roman meat diet, with beef displaying a far wider record of consumption, especially in the rural and suburban areas of Northern and Southern Italy.

Graph 1A-1B - Copy

Graph 1C-1D
Mamoru Ikeguchi, 2017.

Now what? Pork is overrated and beef is underrated–who cares? Well, raw data makes far more sense when inserted into its historical background. First and foremost, the prevalence of beef as a staple of the diet in the rural and suburban regions of the North and South accounts for its lesser presence in literary sources such as Apicius’ cookbook. While pig was raised for butchering alone and produced tender meat of high quality, cattle such as cows, as well as goats and sheep, were first kept around for their labor, for dairying, and for their wool, until they were so old and useless that they would be butchered. Needless to say, their meat would have become subpar by that time, and was thus cheaper than pork (12 denarii vs. 8 per Italian pound). It is no great surprise, then, that pork was preferred by the elites and was less accessible to the lower classes. Furthermore, we learn roughly how much of the population belonged to the beef-preferring class, which is more than 60% of all the studied sites in Northern and Southern Italy. Even in central Italy, 36% of the sites studied had a beef-eating pattern, in strong competition with the pork-oriented ones at 34%. Finally, the keen competition between pork and beef in the central regions of Roman Italy indicates that those were the better-off regions at the time. An interesting detail highlights a steep increase in rural beef consumption near the turn of the era, towards the end of the Republic and beginning of the Empire, when rural settlements are recorded to have shrunk, apparently leading to migration and the need to get rid of many cattle.

In short, Ikeguchi has a beef with beef consumption in ancient Italy. But he goes further, showing that by relying on the textual and visual sources alone historians risk significant bias in their results. After all, literacy in the past has a notorious correlation with socio-economic status. It is for this and other reasons that considering less conventional historiographies, such as that of dead animal remains, is of crucial importance for re-creating narratives of the past.

For access to the original charts, accounts of Roman herding systems along with contemporary attitudes toward the value of various domesticates, and even literary evidence (surprise!) supporting Ikeguchi’s beefy argument, follow the link to order M. Ikeguchi, “Beef in Roman Italy,” JRA 30 (2017) pp. 7-37, or even the whole volume 30 of JRA: http://journalofromanarch.com/order.html




When digging alone won’t cut it…

The Digging into JRA blog authors’ opinions are not necessarily identical to those of the featured JRA volume contributors.

Some things in history are clearly more challenging to figure out than others. We can, more often than not, identify the origin of a scientific invention, referring to available textual evidence and artifacts. We can also, without much changing the methods, deduce the political situation prevalent in a given country at a given time. And yet, when it comes to making an educated guess, let alone drawing firm conclusions, about the size of the entire Greco-Roman population between the 4th century B.C. and 6th century A.D., who do you turn to? “50:50”; “Ask a Friend”; “Switch the Question”? If this were “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”, scholars John Hanson and Scott Ortman of the University of Colorado would both be millionaires. Their answer is: Math.

With the growing interest in the urbanism of the Greek and Roman world over the last few years, scholars have reached a general consensus about some of its vital statistics, among them the sizes of various settlement populations and of the urban population overall, the urbanization rate, and even the total population (urban and rural combined). Walter Scheidel in the Cambridge Economic History of the Greco-Roman World, for instance, positions the overall urban population of the Greco-Roman world in the range between 7 and 9 million, with the urbanization rate at 10-15% and a total population of 59-72 million accordingly. Yet Hanson and Ortman won’t buy it, explaining: “Although the bare outlines of this summary are almost certainly correct, there is surprisingly little evidence for many of these statements.” While the estimates for Rome, Alexandria and perhaps Antioch are backed by relatively good evidence, the data on the rest of the settlements is largely unfounded. Before suggesting an alternative solution, however, the two scholars take their time to make it clear why we all definitely need one.

For starters, the most common forms of evidence used in estimating ancient settlement populations have been textual sources, inscriptions and papyri. Not only are those hard to use because they usually refer only to specific groups (council members, taxable citizens, the military), which by default discriminates against most women, children, slaves, foreigners and other non-qualified groups, but also because many of the numbers refer to both the settlement and its surrounding countryside. Other ways of procuring evidence include counting the number of individuals buried in cemeteries, the seats in entertainment structures, the amount of water supplied by aqueducts, and other so-called “archaeological proxies.” These, too, are not to be taken at face value: after all, we can never know how many people were cremated rather than interred, and how consistently grave goods are present as an indicator of a burial that has no longer survived. Neither can we tell how many of the visitors frequenting entertainment buildings like theaters were residents of the immediate settlement and how many were those of its nearest neighbors, or how much of the water supplied by aqueducts was used for non-domestic versus domestic uses and how much was obtained through other means, such as wells and cisterns. All in all, too much bias: Hanson and Ortman won’t buy it.

The only technique that the scholars do give some credit, and which Hanson even tried using in 2016, is the ‘area x density method’: “the only method that allows one to correct the existing bias towards the most well-known sites and for which there is sufficient evidence for a large enough sample to allow one to explore overall patterns and trends, such as the size of the overall urban population, the urbanization rate, and the total population.” While the idea was first suggested by the German historian J. Beloch in 1886, it has recently gained in popularity due to the increasing amount of information about inhabited areas generated by surface surveys, aerial photography and satellite imagery, in addition to the traditional practice of using only excavated areas. The process is to measure inhabited areas and multiply them by a range of population densities. “Range” here is key, as it enables one to play with quite an array of density figures for each settlement, exploring the upper and lower limits of what sounds like the most credible answer. Alas, this feature is as attractive as ‘area x density’ gets. All would be great, were there enough evidence for how concentrated the occupation of settlements actually was. But since there isn’t, Hanson and Ortman (surprise!) won’t buy it.

So why are population densities so sought after by Hanson and Ortman and what information do they provide us with? Apparently, a better understanding of population densities can tell quite a lot about settlement history, including what conditions people lived under, how close their homes were to one another, and how large their households (did they own any slaves?). Hmmm, would not those factors also directly influence the number of human interactions that occurred, and thus how much wealth, innovation and invention, as well as crime, pollution and disease, there was to be expected in each settlement? The correlation is real, and is explained by the role of cities as “social reactors”, implying that more human interactions will produce more output (such as wealth, innovation, invention, crime, pollution and disease) with less infrastructure (such as miles of roads per capita). In fact, the principle works wherever you apply it, whether it is the Basin of Mexico in the pre-Hispanic period, medieval Europe, or the modern United States. Magic! Now let’s turn it into simple math.

When Hanson and Ortman did, they found that the relationship between the area and the population of a settlement could be expressed as: A=aN, which claims that area is population multiplied by a constant coefficient (specific to the settlement), raised to the relationship’s exponent. Applied to 52 sites from across the entire Mediterranean between the 4th century B.C. and 6th century A.D., the equation shows that the population densities of ancient settlements increased as they grew, and at rates not so different from those obtained for other civilizations. Turns out that earlier scholars were just a tad bit far off, with Scheidel’s Greco-Roman population estimate of 59-72 million against the newly estimated 150 million, and an urbanization rate of 10-15% against the new 25-30%. As can be seen, where digging alone won’t cut it, math might solve the problem.

The real math is actually outlined in the original article, J. W. Hanson and S. G. Ortman, “A systematic method for estimating the populations of Greek and Roman settlements”, JRA 30 (2017) pp. 301-324, which you can order at: http://journalofromanarch.com/order.html.


Lost in plain sight

The Digging into JRA blog authors’ opinions are not necessarily identical to those of the featured JRA volume contributors.

When a Roman historical relief miraculously disappears, what are the chances it is actually just chilling in Russia? In the case of the “lost” Nollekens relief from Domitian’s Palace in Rome, chances are quite high. As John Pollini attempts to trace the fugitive artwork’s itinerary from its findspot and up to its present location, the scholar from Los Angeles ends up time-travelling through ancient Rome, 18th-century Italy, the Bolshevik revolution, and even World War II in Russia, only to discover the relief casually embellishing a Russian palace south of St. Petersburg. “The history of the relief and its supposed disappearance in the latter part of the 18th century are important for the history of collecting and the display of classical antiquities”, the scholar comments upon his return from that crazy ride.

It all started out clear as a day. Dug up from the Roman emperor Domitian’s palace on the Palatine Hill back in 1722, the relief acquired its Nollekens nickname after its first owner, the accomplished British sculptor Joseph Nollekens. Logical. Soon after, the relief attracted scholarly attention as it became known from two engravings and a pen-and-watercolor drawing. Possible narratives were discussed by Bianchini, the original excavator, followed by other historians. One of them was the famous classical archaeologist and art historian Johann Winckelmann who in 1767 was the first to discuss the relief and to note that it belonged to Nollekens. But all of a sudden, “although Winckelmann knew that the relief was in Nollekens’ possession in 1767, by 1776 he reports that its whereabouts was not known.” The Western world had “lost” a sensational work of art from the Roman empire: presumably for good.

Fig. 2_adj
Rossi’s engraving of the Nollekens Relief published in 1738 (Bianchini [infra n.5] pl. VI).
Fig. 4_adj
Pen-and-ink watercolor of the Nollekens Relief now in the Victoria and Albert Museum, London (courtesy museum).

What really happened? Could Winckelmann have missed out on a sale, resulting in a false alarm? While these sound like obvious questions to ask, they were surprisingly overlooked at the time. Later scholars took the “whereabouts not known” announcement quite literally, Gerhard Koeppel being one of them. Initially sharing Winckelmann’s view, at the last moment Koeppel examined a drawing of the relief by Nollekens, at the bottom of which he could read something approximating “was mine, gone to Russia”–evidence of the exact sale that Winckelmann had missed. After following that Russian thread, however, rather than awaken Western academia to the long-lost relief, Koeppel did little more than add to his long study of Roman historical reliefs a brief postscript (brief enough to be missed by other scholars), “indicating only that the relief was displayed in the White Hall of the Gatchina Palace c. 50 km south of St. Petersburg, […], badly damaged with the heads broken off and lost during the War.” That might have deserved more than just a postscript. Did Koeppel simply give up on the relief as being irreparable, or was there more than that to the “Russian thread”?

Pollini, who started his own investigation in St. Petersburg, might not be entirely unsympathetic with his predecessor’s despair. The thread of events he was exposed to (in Russian by Russians) makes one wonder how the relief survived till the present day at all. Supposedly purchased from Nollekens in 1769 by the Russian Academy of Fine Arts’ first president Shuvalov (on behalf of Catherine the Great), the relief not only remained virtually unharmed up until 1938, but had also appeared in a photograph in “an obscure Russian periodical” dating back to 1914. Frighteningly, at some point during the German siege of St. Petersburg, one of the bloodiest Russian phases of World War II, the Gatchina Palace was terribly bombed, the museum personnel unable to return to the palace until six days after Gatchina was liberated in 1944. Presumably as a result of economic hardship, there wouldn’t be an official order to restore the palace until the late 1970s. Meanwhile, the walls of the White Hall ended up falling away to reveal brickwork, with much of the ceiling collapsed and the floor gone, the fireplace suspended in mid-air. Believe it or not, it was precisely in this wrecked room that the Nollekens relief had been in hiding, mounted above a mantelpiece, several of the figures’ heads missing but largely unscathed (at least not yet). “Just chilling.”

In case you were thinking WWII damage is the worst fate that could possibly happen to an artwork, the relief would actually lose far more heads in the post-War years, especially prior to the roof’s “repair” around 1950. That was when the real damage happened, as the relief fell victim to extreme temperature changes, rains, and snow. The fragments that fell off or were broken off the relief during its stay at the Palace have miraculously disappeared. Were the missing pieces pilfered, or did they truly dissipate in space and time? One wonders about the prospects of its restoration. If now not “lost”, the Nollekens relief might end up effectively being so.

But before that happens, you have a great chance to access what might well, by the way, be the definitive article on this Roman relief. If you, too, fancy time-traveling through ancient Rome, 18th-century Italy, the Bolshevik revolution, and even World War II in Russia (only to discover the artwork casually embellishing a Russian palace south of St. Petersburg), follow John Pollini from USC who not only knows what to do when in Rome, but also how to do it as the Russians do when in St. Petersburg.

To purchase the full article, J. Pollini, “The “lost” Nollekens Relief of an imperial sacrifice from Domitian’s Palace on the Palatine: its history, iconography and date,” JRA 30 (2017) pp. 97-126 (which includes the scholar’s detailed discussion of the relief’s iconography), or the whole issue of JRA, go to: http://journalofromanarch.com/order.html

Have you done your recycling…of coins?

The Digging into JRA blog authors’ opinions are not necessarily identical to those of the featured JRA volume contributors.
Coin Recycle
Illustration by Tina Guo, 2017.

When a bunch of scholars interested in Roman coin recycling met up in Mainz in May 2014, they had a pretty productive time, publishing as many as 14 papers on the topic. Why did monetary reforms result in coin hoarding and copying? How did the length of circulation affect official coins and copies? What were the practical aspects of coin production? These are some of the questions raised in the volume reviewed by Richard Reece in “The production and recycling of coins in the Late Empire.”

Not that you should feel bad about not having done your recycling last week, but it turns out that everyone in the late Roman empire recycled (at least when coins and metals are considered). As proof, a paper by Chameroy provides maps, tables and diagrams describing patterns of coin circulation in what is present-day France, Luxembourg, Belgium, Switzerland, and Northern Italy. But locally-made coins were also found in places as diverse as Gortyn (Crete), Capernaum (Israel), Tournai (Belgium), and many others.

Technological progress has made studying coin recycling easier (surprise!). Markus Peter, whose main concern is later 4th-century coins, brings the good news that the search for coins has been considerably more successful since the invention of metal detectors and their employment in excavations. As Reece comments, “The smaller issues of A.D. 383+ suddenly come to the fore in the later years when metal detectors were used, so altering the chronological balance in the late 4th c.”

But what distinguishes a copy from an official coin and why on earth were copies even made? In other words, did coin recycling have its “rules of the game”? As demonstrated by F. Carla’s paper on the legal aspects of coin copying in the Later Empire, it actually did. In discussing the hoard of coins discovered at Llivia in a Spanish enclave in SE France, P.-M. Guilhard, O. Olesti, J. Guardia, and O. Mercedal make an interesting deduction that “with weights of less than 0.5 gram and diameters of less than 12 mm, most of the coins are obviously copies.” The researchers further link the dates, inscriptions, and imagery of the coins to the Byzantine reconquest of the 6th c., hinting at a connection between coin deposits and times of historical change. Reinforcing this theme is yet another coin hoard from Aquileia (Italy) described in the paper by M. Asolati, who traces the find’s origin to the troubled times after the attack by Attila in the 450s, which is when the hoard is thought to have been deposited in the chaos of an enemy invasion.

Yet not all hoards are a sign of misery, argues D. Wigg-Wolff, whose paper discusses coinage in 4th-century Trier. Although Trier’s coins of the 350s have been described by some sources as a sign of decline and collapse (namely, due to the invasions of the 350s), he points out that the copies suggest “a need for coinage: an economy at least in operation, if not flourishing, needs coinage which the official mint is unable for the moment to supply.” As the volume concludes, J.-M. Carrié examines the definition of copies of coin, asking “whether they are forgeries for gain or the production of temporary stop-gaps when regular issues are scarce”–a question yet to be answered.

If coin recycling sounds Greek to you, then by the time you finish this book, you will be Aristotle! (to borrow a line from Elle magazine). To discover the volume’s general ideas (as well as its very long title in German), check out Richard Reece’s review by becoming a JRA subscriber: http://journalofromanarch.com/order.html


Can money buy happiness…when you’re dead?

The Digging into JRA blog authors’ opinions are not necessarily identical to those of the featured JRA volume contributors.
Illustration by Tina Guo, 2017.

And what exactly happens when you die anyway? No worries, according to Peter Brown of Princeton University, the Romans didn’t know either. They knew for sure they were either going to paradise or hell, but the real question people asked at the time was whether money could secure one a spot in heaven, saving the trouble of going through all that Last Judgment divine bureaucracy. In “Changing Views of the Soul’s Fate in the Afterlife” (JRA 30 [2017], pp. 916-918), Jonathan Conant of Brown University reviews Brown’s monograph on the topic.

When Christianity first bloomed, its practices mostly concerned the middle class. Almsgiving was, therefore, a matter of solidarity between the living and the dead, bound to one another by the bonds of memory and piety. The dead were consciously honored with the hope that they would in turn remember the living, and there were numerous public events to support the tradition. This was true not just of powerful saints like Peter and Paul, who as martyrs were believed to have entered immediately into the presence of God, but also of ordinary Christians, whose souls were thought to spend the afterlife in a collective state of rest and anticipation of the resurrection.

Things changed as the church grew to include both the super-rich and the truly destitute from the 4th c. onward, almsgiving serving to bridge the social rift between the two and promising to expiate past sins. Around the same time, the popularization of Platonic concepts promoted the idea that not only martyrs, but also some elect believers, could go straight to heaven, skipping the dreaded Last Judgment. This did cause an intellectual overload, religious authorities like Augustine being besieged with questions about how things really worked, to which their answer was something along the lines of: “keep up the good work, but it’s still up to God to decide at the end of days.” No promises.

Almsgiving had local styles and variations that were quite differentiated and largely depended on who sponsored the church. In Late Roman Africa, Augustine insisted that since sins are humdrum and everyday, charity should also be routine, dependable, and affordable. In Late Roman Europe, however, where church wealth was founded on that of the local aristocracy, more radical deeds were expected, religious leaders consistently emphasizing the urgent need for repentance in the face of the terrors of God’s coming judgment. The monk Pelagius encouraged dramatic acts of giving as a means of taking a definitive break from one’s past sins and starting a new life. To those on the fence about donating, Honoratus offered his reassurance that church wealth was good wealth, since it was used for helping the poor. And if church lands were ever attacked, Gregory of Tours could denounce the villains as enemies of the poor who risked the wrath of God and his saints both in this world and the next. Sounds like a bad idea to mess with the church.

While Brown’s monograph is largely grounded in textual sources, that makes total sense to Conant, who comments that one cannot dig out of the ground the soul’s fate anyway. Or can one? According to Conant, burials in the countryside can actually reveal funerary rituals–and probably beliefs about the soul–that varied dramatically from those suggested by Christian texts, which tend to focus on the urban or monastic male elite. One might also expect to find children treated differently, suggesting that they were believed to have a different fate in the afterlife. In short, archaeologists, too, should have a say in this discussion that is only one part of the debate on how the world of antiquity slowly gave way to that of the Early Middle Ages.

To subscribe to JRA (preferably before your own soul passes into the afterlife), go to: http://journalofromanarch.com/order.html

When a major mosaic pavement is excavated, who gets to spread the exciting news?

Illustration by Tina Guo, 2018.
The Digging into JRA blog authors’ opinions are not necessarily identical to those of the featured JRA volume contributors.

Following the discovery of the elephant mosaic panel in a synagogue at Huqoq (Israel), the academic world was in need of a refresher, or even a clarifier, as scholars from many parts of the world set out to interpret the sensational find.

Before the excavation team members could publish their own findings and possible interpretations in a scholarly setting, a flurry of initial interpretations spread around the Internet (and the world) following an image of the mosaic that was briefly featured on the National Geographic Society’s website in the context of a publicity interview with Jodi Magness, the project director. It was at the start of May 2017 when Magness became aware of an academic article by Asher Ovadiah and Rosario Pierri, two scholars completely unaffiliated with the project, in which they offered their own interpretation of the Elephant mosaic panel based on the aforementioned image featured online. Well before that date, however, much discourse about the mosaic had already circulated in the news, on blogs, at conferences, and even in print publications in locations as remote from North America as Russia. Ever since a preliminary report on a section of the Elephant panel was published in JRA back in 2014 when the mosaic first began to be uncovered, Nina Braginskaya of the Russian State University for the Humanities has been persistently disseminating her research both in print and online. Her ideas were featured in at least 2 Russian anthologies and an unidentifiable number of conferences, some of them international. A number of Russian-Israeli blog and news websites have further voiced their views on what they considered the likeliest interpretations, alongside unauthorized images of the panel, quoting Braginskaya and other scholars such as Mikhail Korol.

S106cover 2
JRA S106 front cover, 2017.

These developments were the reason for JRA’s offer to publish the official Huqoq team’s report as soon as possible. It was with the aim of calling for a certain set of rules to ensure responsible behavior by scholars in the increasingly digitizing academic world that JRA consented to proceed rapidly with publication of the text in the form that its authors desired. As John Humphrey warns in JRA’s Editorial Preface to the Supplement “The Elephant mosaic panel in the Synagogue at Huqoq: official publication and initial interpretations”,

“If archaeologists working on a legal excavation have to be constantly on guard against unauthorized photographs being taken on site, or if they must decline to give initial information to the local department of antiquities or to share significant discoveries with bona fide news organisations, and must even seek to conceal important discoveries until their own scholarly publications have appeared in print, then the long-accepted norms under which excavations have always operated will be destroyed, access by visitors to ongoing excavations will be denied, and all those interested in the past will be the poorer for it” (JRA S106, p. 8).

With the intense digitalization of academic and non-academic spheres alike, establishing an “honour code” with respect to the publication of new discoveries can be particularly difficult:

“It would seem that the protocol for what other scholars may do with original material that somehow appears on a website, whether as part of a news release given to the press by those responsible for the discovery, a news release put out by the home university or other sponsoring institution of the project in question, or simply as a photograph taken on an archaeological site by a visitor without permission, has not been clearly delineated. With the demand for open access and the expectation for instant announcements of brand new discoveries, it may be time for the major archaeological bodies to draw up accepted rules of behaviour with respect to the publication rights pertaining to new discoveries” (JRA S106, p. 8).

Indeed, the line is very thin between uploading a picture online and “publishing” it, if the prevailing assumption is that once something is made publicly available, anyone is free to write his or her own academic article about it. Yet crossing this line implies threatening a long-observed principle:

“That principle is that the archaeologists engaged in an authorized excavation have both the responsibility and the exclusive legal right to provide, within a reasonable period of time, the first scholarly publication of their own discoveries.”

In the case of the brand new discovery of the Elephant panel, this principle was clearly violated.

In light of what has been occurring, JRA cynically anticipates that unauthorized parties will post a scan of the (copyrighted) supplement on the Internet as well. We ask those considering such a wrongdoing first at least to read the full version of our editorial preface, and then kindly to purchase the full book: http://journalofromanarch.com/order.

Food for thought:

  • What is your definition of a “published” image or text?
  • Is an image posted on social media to be considered “published”?
  • How can we protect the archaeologists’ rights against unauthorized photographs appearing online?
  • Is it better for archaeologists not to release photographs of their major discoveries until they have had them officially published?

Stumbling upon a treasure in the twenty-first century? Not a fairy tale.

The Digging into JRA blog authors’ opinions are not necessarily identical to those of the featured JRA volume contributors.

Ever dreamt of accidentally stumbling upon an ancient treasure? Well, these archaeologists carrying out a dig before the opening of a New Yorker clothing store in Croatia actually did!

Before construction of the store could begin in the town of Vinkovci, a team of archaeologists under Šime Vrkić conducted a rescue excavation during the course of which the world was greeted by a major hoard of Roman silverware sitting just 70-170 centimeters below the surface. Boasting a total of 48 items that add up to almost 34 kilograms in weight, the Vinkovci treasure compares with the largest hoards of 4th-century A.D. dining silver. Vinkovci’s counterparts include Germany’s lost Trier treasure (which weighed over 100 kg), the controversial Seuso treasure claimed by Hungary, Kaiseraugst (Switzerland’s 58 kg of silver objects), and Mildenhall (England’s collection of tableware which includes a single platter weighing 8 kg alone) – none as brand new as the Vinkovci treasure of A.D. 2012.

The Vinkovci hoard greatly complements our knowledge of Roman high dining culture, which was most sophisticated from at least the 1st century A.D. While most objects in the assemblage are meant for either dining or toilet purposes, a few of them display incredible silversmith artistry that transcends the needs of practicality–in particular, the Tantalus vessel. Completely unadorned on the outside, the vessel features an elaborate scene of a marine revel on its interior: an abundance of sea nymphs known as Nereids, naked or partially draped and wearing beaded necklaces and armlets, appear riding a variety of sea-creatures and interacting with Tritons (mythological sea messengers). The collection’s unquestionable highlight and the only known “greedy cup” from the ancient world, it is a technically sophisticated bowl that can never be filled to the brim because the liquid would “magically” disappear. Through a system of holes and tubes, the water or wine could never rise past a certain level and thus Tantalus’ perpetual punishment would continue. Inside on the bowl’s base is a sheet-metal figurine of Tantalus seated on a rock, whose mythical punishment – he was damned to spend eternity surrounded by water which would recede every time he reached down to drink – is turned into a joke because liquid, when poured into the bowl up to a certain level, would drain out through a hole in its base. Late-antique luxury dining was often expected to involve such amusements, with caprice at the expense of functionality serving to convey the host’s high status.

Pieces no less whimsical are a heart-shaped silver vessel with a dolphin handle (supposedly for serving flat fish such as flounder) and a platter with a scallop shell rim. The latter is notable not only for its 12 moulded shellfish recesses evenly spaced around the rim, but also for the loosely bacchanalian theme in the centre and other parts of the rim, featuring a hunter on horseback galloping over a dying lion, surrounded by round-eyed female busts, ferns, a standing panther, and leaping hares. What on earth does all this imagery have to do with a vessel for serving shellfish?  

As much as it is tempting to hypothesize who the treasure belonged to and why it was buried, there is not much that can actually be proven yet, unless one of the silver-gilt platters with a scene that includes a shepherd and a building is a Biblical allegory rather than a vignette of rural life. The silver-plate set was found buried in a stack, but intense building activity from the 18th century onward had resulted in the total destruction of the surrounding late Roman layers, which could have provided some context. The most credible narrative to account for what may be the first great treasure trove of the 21st century links its burial with the defeat of Valens, the Eastern Roman Emperor, by Gothic rebels in A.D. 378. For one thing, Vinkovci is where Valens was born and would have had many supporters, but also, more significantly, his defeat resulted in much unrest in this part of the empire around the Danube and Rhine. And when things go so sour, one had better hide the valuables.

Once conserved and restored, the treasure will be the jewel in the Vinkovci Museum’s displays. To gain a deeper insight into the contents of the treasure and for several photographs, see the JRA Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/JournalofRomanArch. To get access to the full scholarly article, see H. Vulic, D. Doracic, R. Hobbs and J. Lang,  “The Vinkovci treasure of Late Roman silver plate: preliminary report,” JRA 30 (2017) pp. 127-150, or to order the whole issue, go to: http://journalofromanarch.com/order.html

Food for thought: 

  • This vessel is incredibly elaborate in design as well as in the mechanism used to control the level of water. What does this elaborate vessel say about the economy at the time of its production? Can the economy of other periods in ancient or modern history be reflected in personal items such as dining vessels or toiletry objects?
  • What is your perception of this vessel? Can it be viewed as expressing both tragedy and comedy?
  • What is the significance of including Tantalus in this vessel?
  • One interesting aspect of this vessel is that the liquid “magically” disappears. This is caused by the hidden mechanism beneath the rock. Is this magical disappearance of liquid important to the observer of the vessel? Does this magical component better illustrate the punishment of Tantalus? Are there other items from antiquity or modern time that similarly incorporate a magical component?
  • How does the other marine-related decoration connect to this vessel and its function?