Among the most dramatic changes in ancient material culture was the widespread adoption of glass vessels for tableware and storage during the 1st c. B.C. and 1st c. A.D. As shown by the quantity of glass finds from occupation sites of the Imperial era, glassware was much more prominent in daily life than it had been previously. This shift occurred concurrently with the widespread adoption of glassblowing. This change in consumer behavior points to a complex process of experimentation, development, and gradual adaptation on the part of both producers and consumers. The transition from centuries-old technologies of core-forming, casting and sagging to blowing required a complete reconfiguration of every stage of glass production, from the increased supply of raw material to the development of new tools and workshop space, and in the training of craftsmen.

Un noto passo di Strabone (3.2.6),1 che potrebbe riferirsi al periodo in cui Posidonio (una delle sue fonti) si trovò nella valle del Baetis e a Gades, all’inizio del I sec. a.C., restituisce l’immagine di un’economia della Turdetania, la regione che dal 27 a.C. costituì parte della provincia della Baetica, già molto fiorente, in grado di alimentare esportazioni di generi alimentari — soprattutto grano, vino ed olio di ottima qualità (oὺ πoλὺ μóvov, ὰλλὰ καìκὰλλιστov), ma anche prodotti derivati dalla lavorazione del pesce . di notevole entità e varietà. Nel testo di Strabone questi flussi verso il mercato di Roma e dell’Italia centromeridionale sono materializzati dalle navi di grandi dimensioni in entrata nei porti di Dicearchia (Pozzuoli) e Ostia.

Building upon the previous work by F. Hueber and U. Outschar,1 this study offers new research on the Sebasteion’s significant architectural refinements, which can be defined as intentional design strategies resulting in minimal deviations from strict rectilinearity, verticality or squareness. The first part of this study identifies where the refinement of curvature is and is not used throughout the Sebasteion complex. A striking pattern of curvature corresponds to the well-documented shared patronage of the complex, demonstrating that the refinement was a choice, not an imperative, for its builders. We also report on a newly-excavated and remarkable example of curvature from the podium of the Sebasteion’s W façade, the Propylon, and for comparison’s sake, curvature in the earlier proskenion of the Theater. Using anastylosis, digital photogrammetry and 3D printing technology, the second part of this article presents new evidence for unprecedented refinements in the Propylon’s aedicular architecture. The plans of the two double-height aediculae and three internal staircases are not rigidly square or orthogonal, as previously thought, but deliberately deviate from having square corners using right angles. After detailed descriptions of these features, several options for their interpretation are presented. Overall, this work brings to light astonishing aspects of the architecture of the Sebasteion, a building already widely appreciated for its sculptures.

Since 2010, a team from the Tunisian Institut National du Patrimoine and the University of Oxford1 has been investigating Utica’s monumental centre, located at the tip of the promontory on which the city is built (fig. 1). The range and scale of architectural elements littering this area were remarked upon by most antiquarian investigators of the site. Nathan Davis, working at the site in 1858, noted that, despite the fact that it “had been ransacked for building materials”, this part of the city was covered with “marble and granite shafts, capitals, and cornices, of every order, size, and dimension”.2 Alfred Daux even observed that local residents referred to the largest building of the zone as the “Dar Es Sultan” (Palace of the Sultan), such was its magnificence.3 Aerial photographs commissioned by A. Lézine in the 1950s (fig. 2) show the area at the head of the promontory almost completely robbed out during and immediately after the Second World War, giving it a rather desolate aspect.

This article investigates production times, workforce, and materials involved in the creation of wall-paintings, applying figures obtained from pre-industrial building manuals and through experimental archaeology. This is a crucial yet — at least with regard to Roman wall-painting – unexploited avenue for research, one that has already been successfully applied to the study of ancient construction, stone-working, and mosaic production.1 The implications of this type of study are twofold: estimating labour figures allows us to assess painters’ working practices and workforce organization, yet it can also help uncover the burden sustained by patrons in both economic and personal terms, thereby providing a more realistic notion of what it meant to have one’s house decorated. Ultimately, this can lead to a better understanding of local markets and of the socio-economic implications of the wall-painting industry

Using a term drawn from economic anthropology1 and pushing the boundaries of this type of analysis, I would like to describe an attempt to trace in time and space the roots of the technical, stylistic and iconographic know-how that gave form to Roman painting. Considering the fragmentary nature of the evidence at our disposal, the argumentation set forth here cannot follow a linear path containing various steps that can all be neatly demonstrated. I believe that the time is right, however, to tackle Roman painting — and particularly painting in the domestic setting — with more conviction. Although understanding the rôle and nature of the patrons and painters remains an objective that is still far off, it is probably worth investigating the traditions that enjoyed some level of continuity in Roman painting and the concrete ways and contexts in which the process unfolded. The aim is to achieve a deeper understanding of the rôle that this artistic technique played in a society that made ample use of it during a fundamental phase of its history. In the 1st c. B.C. and 1st c. A.D., in the brief period that saw the transition from Republic to Empire, the domestic ideology of Roman society found expression in a decorative system marked by a continuous stream of innovations with respect to themes, schemes and ornament that were adopted consistently by a broad spectrum of patrons. Indeed, beyond simply protecting and covering the walls of dwellings, figurative painting — especially of such a complex nature as we are dealing with here — added a wide range of elements which I believe it is useful to investigate.

The rediscovery in the summer of 2017 of a large monumental tomb of unusual form outside the Stabian Gate at Pompeii caused an immediate sensation, and the swift initial publication by M. Osanna in JRA 31 (2018) of the long funerary inscription fronting the W side of the base, facing the road, has been welcomed gratefully by the scholarly community. The text — at 183 words, by far the longest funerary inscription yet found at Pompeii — records a series of extraordinary benefactions by an unnamed local worthy, beginning with a banquet held on the occasion of his coming-of-age ceremony and continuing, it seems, well into his adult life, up to the final years of the town when the monument was built. As Osanna and others have recognized, the inscription, which seems to allude to an historical event (Tac., Ann. 14.17), the riot between Nucerians and Pompeians around Pompeii’s amphitheater in A.D. 59, provides valuable if ambivalent new information relevant to the demographic, economic and social history of Pompeii that will require full discussion in a variety of contexts over time. The present collection of remarks, a collaborative effort, is offered in the spirit of debate and is intended as an interim contribution toward a more complete understanding of the text.1

The fleets are often neglected in consideration of the military forces of the Roman empire – indeed, some estimates of military strength have ignored them completely.1 Even more egregious is their omission in discussions of the rôle of the army in disseminating Roman citizenship, since the soldiers serving in the fleets benefitted from the same system of regular grants as did auxiliaries. When the fleets are included in inventories of the military, most scholars reckon them at either 30,000 or 40,000 men. In so doing, they are relying explicitly or implicitly on the work of C. G. Starr or M. Reddé, respectively. There has been no discussion of the discrepancy between them. Moreover, those who rely on Reddé tend to overlook the fact that he himself implied a strength of more than 50,000 men. This paper aims to draw attention to the significance of the large divergence between the two estimates and to offer a new one that takes better account of the uncertainties involved. It reviews the evidence adduced by Starr and Reddé but also draws on newer data from the archaeology of fleet bases and military diplomas. I conclude that the combined strength of the fleets was probably c.25,000 men, somewhat smaller than Starr suggested. Yet it is just as important to recognise that the margin of error remains large.

A multi-disciplinary research project has been begun in the fields next to the site of Tel Shalem (fig. 1), the locus of important discoveries since the 1970s (primarily the bronze statue of Hadrian). Recent geophysical prospections have detected the clear layout of a Roman fort and possibly even two successive forts. Two short excavation seasons carried out in 2017 and 2019, with a focus on the principia, resulted in finds that shed new light on the nature, history and identity of the site.

Ever since the discovery of a building inscription of a vexillatio of the legio VI Ferrata near Tel Shalem,1 it was clear that the area was a locus of Roman military activity. In the following years the vicinity of the Tel yielded the inscription of a Hadrianic arch whose letter-size is surpassed only by the lettering on the Pantheon and the Arch of Titus in Rome.2 Most recently, the headquarters complex of the fort (principia), and in particular the regimental shrine (aedes or sacellum), have been uncovered (see above). Within and in front of the aedes were found three inscriptions:3 a dedicatory inscription to Caracalla on a statue base in front of the building (no. 1), and two mosaic inscriptions inside, one at the entrance to the nave (no. 2), the other at its far end (no. 3). The fills covering the building produced stamped roof-tiles bearing three different formulae. The new inscriptions prove that the building was the aedes of the Ala VII Phrygum. The earliest attestation of its presence in Syria Palaestina is inferred from a military diploma of A.D. 1394 found at Apheka, not far from Tel Shalem. Assuming that the Ala Phrygum, attested without the number VII in the province of Syria up to A.D. 88,5 is the same unit as the Ala VII Phrygum of our inscriptions, its transfer to Iudaea is most likely to be associated with the suppression of the Bar Kokhba Revolt.6 The inscriptions published here provide the latest known date for its stay in Syria Palaestina, some 40 years after the latest date so far attested in military diplomas.7

A orillas de los ríos Guadalquivir (Baetis) y Genil (Singilis), en el triángulo formado por las capitales de tres conventus de la Bética, Hispalis, Corduba y Astigi, se extienden los restos arqueológicos de casi un centenar de alfarerías productoras de ánforas del tipo Dressel 20 (fig. 1). Durante los tres primeros siglos d.C., el aceite de oliva producido en el interior de la Bética se comercializaba con estas ánforas globulares que fueron exportadas masivamente a todo el Imperio romano, siendo particularmente abundantes en Roma y en el limes germano/británico.

This paper aims to present a set of painted marks and inscriptions on stone blocks from El Mèdol quarry (Tarragona), the limestone quarry which supplied the stone used to build most of the public edifices, including what is known as the Provincial Forum, in the nearby town of Tarraco, capital of Hispania Citerior. There are 16 marks in red paint and 3 written in charcoal, all linked to the phases of extracting and shaping the stone.

In the past two decades, the “archaeology of religion” has moved from the margins of scholarship to the center, led by the growth of postprocessual archaeological hermeneutics. 1 Such theoretical frames – whether the materiality of religion, objects as agents, the entanglement of humans and objects, or “thing theory” – demonstrate the centrality of the physical world and its archaeological correlates to religion. They offer new ways of posing questions about the construction of meanings for worshippers through materials.2

The ancient city of Plotinopolis lies on Aghia Petra hill which rises gently above the plain south of Didymoteicho (Thrace), not far from the Hebros river. Little information on the city, which was renamed by Trajan, has come down to us, although it features on ancient route maps and was mentioned by Ptolemy (3.11.3) and Procopius (Aed. 4.11.19).1 Few archaeological excavations have been carried out, and of the city itself few vestiges remain (fig. 1). In 1965, while the Greek army was excavating a trench at Didymoteicho, a gold bust of an emperor wearing a cuirass came to light.2 There is no documentation on its discovery, no report on the Greek army’s intervention, nor even any information on the follow-up excavation carried out by A. Vavritsas.3 Having initially been hidden by its discoverers, the bust narrowly escaped being melted down – the fate suffered by the majority of antiquities made of gold – for already in the days directly after the discovery one part of the edge of the cuirass was cut into pieces and sold off by the soldiers. This reckless action betrayed the bust’s discoverers and made it possible for the unit’s officers to recover the bust. Considering its extreme rarity, this type of object is important, not only for the questions it raises regard-ing its original purpose and dating, but also for our understanding of toreutics. Our interpretation of the piece, which is effectively without archaeological context, has to rely on a critical analysis of its technical, iconographic and artistic aspects, taking into account extant depictions of imperial busts and textual references.

In 2012, construction works at the traditional olive market at Tarsus, in Eski Ömerli district, revealed large-scale architectural remains of the Roman period; the construction works were halted and a salvage excavation was initiated by Tarsus Museum. The remains that appeared at the first stage of the excavations were interpreted as those of a reservoir from the Roman Imperial period, stretching along a N–S axis. On the E side, a structure projects from the E wall of the reservoir, containing a pool that collects water flowing from drainage pipes set in the reservoir’s façade. The pool was extended in two stages in late antiquity.1 Two metres north of this pool and 3 m from the E wall of the reservoir, the excavations revealed a mosaic pavement (9.73 x 5.05 m), apparently forming part of the floor of a building running parallel to the reservoir’s wall (fig. 1).

The eruption of A.D. 79 has long dominated archaeological discourse on Vesuvius. Other eruptions, both earlier and later, have received less attention but are no less valuable from an archaeological point of view.1 Those eruptions deposited distinctive volcanic materials often easily identifiable in the stratigraphic record, thereby providing dated termini ante quos, which can in turn offer a snapshot of life around the volcano in different periods. The eruption of A.D. 79 provides just such an horizon for 1st-c. A.D. Campania; the earlier ‘Avellino pumices eruption’ does the same for the Bronze Age.2 By tracking the volcanic deposits that can be tied to such events, the situation on the ground prior to the eruptions can be examined, as can the ways in which communities and landscapes reacted to, and recovered from, them.

Ancient Magdala is located at the foot of the E slopes of Mt. Arbel, on the shore of the Sea of Galilee (map ref. 7477/2478) (fig. 1). The Aramaic name Magdala or Migdal Nunayya (“The tower of the fish”), mentioned in Rabbinic sources of the Roman period, is preserved in the name of the Arab village of “el-Mejdel” that stood on the site until 1948. The identification is also confirmed by ancient sources that indicate Magdala was located on the main road a few kilometers from Tiberias. In 1877, Charles Wilson suggested identifying this site also with the toponym Tαριχέα (Taricheae, “factories/vats for salting fish”), which is mentioned only in Greek and Latin sources (Cassius Longinus in Cic., Ad Fam. 12.11; Plin., NH 5.71-72; Strab. 16.2.45, Josephus [see below], and Suet., Tit. 4.3), although they do not mention the name Magdala. It becomes evident from these sources that the town was located on the shore near Tiberias; Josephus’s explicit note, placing it 30 stadia (c.5.4 km) from Tiberias, exactly fits the site of el-Mejdel. Although some scholars raised alternative identifications, it has become widely accepted that the names Magdala and Taricheae are synonymous and that they should be identified with the Arab village of el-Mejdel.1

This issue of JRA includes a thematic section with 5 papers on new advances in the archaeology of the Roman conquest. They emanate from a session organised by the present authors at the Roman Archaeology Conference held in April 2018 at the University of Edinburgh. As editors of this section, we intend that the present article serves as a short introduction to the topic.

Over the centuries, Spanish historiography has attached great importance to the wars that Octavian launched at the start of the last third of the 1st c. B.C. against the population in the north of the Iberian peninsula. In this way he intended to bring an end to the long conquest of Iberia that had begun two centuries earlier in the hegemonic struggle with Carthage. Although the wars previously attracted the attention of European scholars, today they play little part in the historiography of the Early Roman Empire and even less in the biographies of Augustus, who suffered some of his worst military fortunes in this war, putting his very life in danger (Suet., Aug. 29.3 and 81.1; Hor., Carm. 3.14; Dio 53.25.5-7; Oros. 6.21.4). Even Departments of Ancient History in Spanish universities have failed to progress beyond well-worn exegesis of the written sources. This is because until just two decades ago all the information came from two historical sources: Florus and Orosius, on the one hand, and Dio Cassius, on the other (the relevant books of Livy being lost). Although they stress the importance of the conflict, these sources are excessively laconic; they have also been subjected to erudite speculations about place-names that have turned the military campaigns into a series of historiographic fictions.1