Part IV: The Construction of Communities

7 Public Values

Some of the most conspicuous ruins in the cities of Roman Syria and the Near East are also among the most homogeneous: the colonnaded streets, the theatres, agoras, arches and nymphaea. They suggest a culture which was equally homogeneous, but these buildings may reflect the aspirations and desires of a small sector of the population. In chapter 3 we looked at city states as part of the framework of Roman rule in the Syrian region; in chapters 5 and 6 we considered the importance of the city for the organization of production and the management of consumption; here we look at the urban spaces and the social and political forces that shaped them. 
The monumental phase is characteristic of the early empire. While there was some monumental architecture in Syria before and after, there were no phases of construction on quite such a comprehensive scale, encompassing all of the major public spaces, or with quite the same intentions. In spite of their scale and spectacular nature we have only a general idea about what went on in these very public cities - the processions and religious festivals, the civic meetings and public acclamations. The theatrical appearance of the monuments was accompanied by a certain theatricality in public life.

The Theatre of the Public
Cities are artefacts created by the societies which use them, and therefore urban development ought to track changing ideals; in this case the ideals of the civic elites whose values dominated city life. The popular image of the Graeco-Roman city is one of monumental public buildings: fortified walls, colonnaded streets, temples, agoras, basilicas and hippodromes, aqueducts and baths. Between the first and third centuries AD most Syrian cities acquired the ‘set’ of such classical public buildings, so that in their architecture the Syrian cities came to resemble not only one another but also cities in other parts of the Roman east. The monumental structures were not imposed by Rome, and some were not even particularly Roman in inspiration; instead most were built by local elites, at their own expense, over several decades. The buildings reflect the shared values inculcated in the elites of the Syrian cities through a common system of education (see chapter 8). 
Piecemeal construction should not disguise the determination with which the model or ideal was pursued by these elites. But what was that ideal, and what did they think they were achieving by investing in extremely elaborate stone structures? It is easy enough for us to see this pursuit as beneficial: the goal being the city as order and amenity, and as a magnificent cultural, political and religious focus for its rural hinterland. Some motives behind the public city, however, may have been less altruistic.
‘Public’ implies something useful to the community as a whole, and yet public buildings and spaces may benefit certain sections of the population more than others, and may even work to exclude or marginalize certain sectors of the population. In public spaces the individual can be made highly visible, and can be controlled by prohibiting or enforcing certain activities and movements. Monumental settings constrain behaviour, prompting the citizens to act in certain appropriate ways, and the monumental space is defined by what activities are expected to occur in it. 
To enter or live in the city is to accept certain restrictions, and to acquiesce to the laws and traditions governing its spaces. The city often makes demands, social and financial, on those who belong there. The citizen of a modern city can live fairly anonymously, but anonymity was not so easy in the smaller, close-knit communities of the past. To be a fully qualified member of civic society often required participation in public events which helped to affirm communal identities and the social order, and required contributions, financial and otherwise, in support of the community. The citizen’s worth and self-esteem was gauged by public activity; his peers, superiors (both natural and supernatural) and inferiors constituted the audience. Pageants and ceremonies conducted in grand architectural settings could assert the superior status of the elite participants, and for the largely uneducated lower classes religious processions, festivals and other events in the civic calendar provided a sense of belonging and structure to their world.
The transformation of most, if not all, of the public spaces of a city into monumental settings is a defining moment in the history of the ‘Graeco-Roman’ or ‘classical city’ in the Syrian region. The monumental city was an instrument through which the elites expressed their status and their importance to the community. It set in stone their position in the social hierarchy and their adherence to a particular way of life. The classical city of Syria was a ceremonial space celebrating the ideals, permanency and power of the civic elites.

The Pursuit of Attention
A model for the Syrian cities was the Greek polis. The polis was the communal property of its citizens, and an institution in which they could lead the good life. The economic ideal of the polis, dating back to the time of the autonomous city states of archaic and classical Greece, was self-sufficiency. At that time cities had supported themselves on revenues from rents and taxes, and any other resources which they controlled. From the late fourth century BC cities began to lose their autonomy, and external domination by Hellenistic kingdoms and, later, the Roman empire, diverted revenues from the city to the central government. The result was that the cities could no longer support themselves on revenues alone, and had to turn increasingly to benefactions from wealthy members of their communities. The classical city had always demanded participation of its citizens, but now the generous support of its elites was also embedded in the idea of a city.
The ideal of the self-sufficient city continued to thrive under Roman rule. To the Roman government this ideal was certainly convenient, and to be encouraged, to minimize any burden on imperial finances. The city was to maintain peace, order and prosperity for Rome and for itself, and to cover its expenses as well as paying taxes to Rome. Its citizens and its lands should provide for its upkeep: paying or providing labour for public works, covering salaries of teachers, rhetors, doctors and others on the public payroll, the costs of fuel and heating for the baths, of sending embassies to the provincial governor or emperor, of holding festivals and public banquets, and of maintaining and subsidizing the market, among other things. Some money was obtained through tolls and taxes on goods entering the city territory, special poll taxes on foreign residents, rents from public land and civic estates bequeathed by generous individuals (some of these lands might lie in the territory of another city, or even in a different province), or exchange rates on foreign currency, to name but a few sources of revenue. However, these revenues were insufficient to cover the expensive and ambitious building programmes of the first to third centuries. These were funded mainly by rich citizens.
The classical city had always been a communal project, a public stage where private individuals could be seen participating in the ideal. When restrictions on the political life of the city were few, political activities were attractive to rich citizens, advancing their power as well as their honour and prestige. But the Hellenistic kings and Roman emperors did not encourage the civic elites to continue in this vein. Cities were to be self-governing within their territories, yet were not expected to involve themselves in interstate political affairs without imperial sanction. With opportunities for power curtailed, the elites turned to less risky demonstrations of their status. In a state like the Roman empire civic architecture was a relatively safe arena in which to compete for glory with one’s peers. These demonstrations of elite power turned inwards, focusing on the city itself.

Government and Citizenship
To be a citizen was an honour, and inspired patriotism. Not all of the people living in the city belonged to the citizen body (demos). Large sections of the population might be excluded, particularly resident foreigners, freed slaves and country peasants. The citizen body was divided into tribes, which might be based along genuine lines of kinship or, in the case of new foundations or tribes added to the existing citizen body, might be artificial creations. The governing body of the city was divided between the popular assembly (ecclesia) and the council (boule). The boule was normally composed of the wealthier citizens, who had membership for life. There was also a tendency for members of the boule to be drawn from a small number of powerful families within the city. However, in the larger cities the number of councillors might run into hundreds, which allowed some of the less wealthy individuals entry into this important element of civic government. Annual magistrates were elected by popular vote, although by the third century members of the boule were commonly choosing magistrates from among their colleagues. Magistrates proposed projects for approval by the boule, and those approved were put to the popular vote in the assembly. In this way the role of the majority of citizens in the decision-making process was constrained, but the assembly still played an important role in local politics with its right to veto and its enthusiastic acclamations of candidates for magistracies, particular proposals or those responsible for them. The burden for the magistrates, though, was often high, since they were expected to finance their activities from their own resources while in office - paying for a building project, or financing a civic festival, for example. Some money might be available from the civic treasury, but in general magistrates were obliged to draw on their own resources. 
A city might also benefit from voluntary donations offered by wealthy individuals who were not holding office, but who acted out of their love for the city and for the prominent public profiles such acts could provide. Generosity gave them greater status and honour, and demonstrated their deep involvement in the high culture of the Greek city. Public opinion was important: it conferred honour on the individual through approval and acclamation. Nobody appreciated parsimony from the elite, and in these communities, where public life was transparent, everybody knew the details. Magistrates, particularly the less wealthy ones, might negotiate with the public in an attempt to avoid outlays that were damaging to their personal finances, but shame would prevent them from reneging on their obligations altogether. The donor or magistrate aimed at achieving something that would endure in the public consciousness, and this did not always require the construction of a physical monument. The nymphaeum or colonnaded portico petrified the act of generosity to serve as a permanent reminder, but benefactors and magistrates might instead choose to pay for grain distributions to citizens, or finance the import of foodstuffs from abroad to keep prices low in times of shortage. Collective recollection of the generous act was their monument. The financial obligations of office could be a serious burden, or even ruining, and the ambitions of the city might exceed the abilities of local donors to pay for everything. In the search for rich benefactors a city might turn to members of the imperial family, or a ‘client’ king, persuading them to hold office in absentia, or taking advantage of their generosity. Even those who were without full civic rights, such as foreigners or women and children of the rich families, might hold office, or a wealthy temple might cover expenses, with its god or goddess effectively serving as benefactor.
Benefactors had the opportunity to immortalize their acts by setting up inscriptions on their buildings, explaining who they were and what they had achieved. The concept of a ‘monument’ included monumental writing as well, and inscriptions could help to immortalize the generous act. An inscription of the early second century AD, thought to have been placed in a bath house at Apamea, outlines the liberality of a certain Lucius Julius Agrippa. This was probably typical of the activities expected of the wealthy citizen. It tells us that Agrippa, who was descended from Dexandros, the first high priest of the provincial imperial cult under Augustus, and whose ancestor’s name was inscribed on bronze tablets on the Capitoline hill in Rome as a friend and ally of the Romans, performed his duties as a magistrate and as a donor to the city, that he was a priest, that he was overseer of the markets and that he spent a noteworthy sum of money in this post, that he was civic secretary, an officer of the peace and the official civic grain distributor, that he financed part of an aqueduct and built the baths with a basilica and a stoa (presumably a section of the northern part of Apamea’s grand colonnade: fig. 83), decorating the baths with bronze statues. The text tells us why we are supposed to be impressed by him - because of his contributions to the civic life of Apamea (even though, as the inscription relates, he was officially exempt from such obligations), and because of his ancestry, which confirms ancient family ties with Rome. Aside from bearing inscriptions, monumental buildings set up by such elite figures could also be fitted with statues - of the donor, or other worthy and honourable individuals, or, depending on the setting, mythical figures or deities. The monuments with their honorific statues and inscriptions not only celebrated the donors and various worthies; they also reminded other wealthy citizens what was expected of them.
Fig. 83. The northern end of Apamea’s grand colonnade, part of which was built by Lucius Julius Agrippa after an earthquake in AD 115, showing the portico and the façade of the shops (on the left) that lay behind the columned frontage.
	All citizens, even the poorer ones, were expected to contribute to civic life, by providing funds for small-scale civic expenditures or physical labour on civic estates and building projects, particularly on essentials like the building or repair of city walls. A canal constructed at Antioch in AD 73-4 was undertaken by citizens, organized by their city blocks. Owners of properties might also be responsible for providing street lighting at night. But the participation of humble citizens is likely to have been very much subordinated to the demands, desires and tastes of the elites.

Problems and Solutions
This self-financing system was not without problems. Where building projects were concerned, there was sometimes little interest in building structures that nobody could see, such as underground aqueducts. Over-ambitious projects might never be completed. Governors could intervene to see that civic funds were channelled into essential infrastructure works rather than grand public edifices, but competition between cities to have the most admirable buildings, or peer competition between the great families within a city, could leave urban centres with superfluous monuments. By the late first or early second century the erection of public buildings using civic funds had to be sanctioned by the emperor, and during the second century emperors began appointing curators to oversee civic finances. Imperial supervision may have helped to homogenize the urban landscapes, by approving the erection of buildings and styles deemed suitable. Buildings erected with private funds were another matter, but from the early second century there were attempts to ensure that pledges to build were fulfilled, if not by the original donor, then by his heirs.
As we have seen in chapter 3, the original classical cities of Syria were colonies. The Seleucid kings had founded and promoted cities - Antioch, Seleucia, Laodicea, Apamea, Zeugma - but from the moment of their foundation these cities had been dependent on the king. They were not truly independent states. Whatever the elites of these cities were doing in the third and second centuries BC, they do not appear to have been investing in monumental buildings on any grand scale - or at any rate very little survives to attest to monumental buildings. It would seem that the Seleucid city was designed as a central place for administering the villages and countryside which formed its territory, providing services such as markets and a focus for cult activity, and that few of these functions required the erection of monumental structures. However, archaeology may change this picture. Excavations at Apamea have revealed a large, two-storey colonnaded portico extending outside the northern gate of the city, dated to the late second century BC. Monumental structures clearly were possible, but because our knowledge of Seleucid cities is so limited we cannot say how typical the Apamea portico was. The southern half of the Near East, which was dominated by the Ptolemies of Egypt until the beginning of the second century BC, is likewise poorly understood. Some monumental buildings are known (fig. 7), but, as in the north, there is little in the way of monumental civic buildings. For the moment it would appear that the Hellenistic cities of Syria, although populous and prosperous, were not places where the elite placed a great and monumental emphasis on public life, although further investigations may alter our views. 
Substantial public buildings began to appear in cities in the first century BC. A phase of monumental enlargement of religious sanctuaries, starting in the first century BC to first century AD, was followed in the later first and second century AD by a phase in which monumental buildings were extended to most of the public spaces of cities in the region. Restructuring and refurbishing continued in the second century, but by the end of that century there are signs that the drive towards monumentalization was slowing down. This cannot be simply because the cities had now acquired the ‘full set’ of monumental structures, because peer polity rivalry demanded regular improvements to the civic form: wider and grander colonnades, more magnificent religious sanctuaries, additional theatres and so on. There are signs that the elites were turning to other ways of expressing civic ideals.
	Regular festivals incorporating athletic, literary and musical competitions were, like public buildings, a matter of intense civic pride, and an alternative way of demonstrating one’s munificence was to endow such an event. International ‘sacred’ festivals, drawing competitors from all over the Greek world, needed imperial consent. They were organized to fit into a regular concourse for the convenience of professional athletes and artists who did the rounds of these events. There were also local festivals, although these were obviously not as desirable and prestigious. (Gladiatorial combats and wild beast hunts were features associated with celebrations of the imperial cult or with the Roman army, and were not normally combined with the activities of the Greek civic festivals.) We know of only two cities in the Near East which had Greek festivals during the Hellenistic period: Sidon and Tyre. In the first century BC Herod had given his foundation at Caesarea a festival, the Sebasteia. Precisely when later festivals were created is not always clear; our main sources of information are civic coins and inscriptions, so we are at the mercy of the material. For example, we know from textual sources that Antioch had various festivals, including an Olympic Games established under Commodus, but Antioch’s coinage never once refers to any of them. On third century coins of other cities references to festivals are commonplace. It is assumed that coins celebrate only the more prestigious ‘sacred’ games, rather than local ones, and faulty though it is, the evidence does point to a considerable increase in the number of cities holding such festivals from the late second and third centuries. In other words, the rise in civic festivals appears to correspond to the decline in building activity. Third-century civic coins record a ‘Sacred Capitoline Games’ at Laodicea, a Helia Pythia at Emesa, a ‘Sacred Capitoline Oecumenical Iselastic Games’ at Heliopolis (fig. 84), a Sebasmia at Damascus (which by the mid-third century was the Olympia Sebasmia), a Dousaria Actia at Bostra, and an ‘Iselastic Oecumenical Isolympic Games’ at Gaza, to name some of them, and show that Tyre’s Hellenistic Heracleia had become the Actia Heracleia, in honour of the battle of Actium. These festivals were a celebration of Greekness (though sometimes honouring ‘Roman’ events like Actium), and it may be of some cultural significance that cities like Palmyra and those in the southern part of the province of Arabia do not appear to have held them. 
Fig. 84. Reverse of a bronze coin of Heliopolis, reign of Valerian (AD 253-60). Three prize crowns containing victor’s palm branches are arranged in a row; beneath, the inscription ‘Sacred Capitoline Oecumenical Iselastic Games’, which advertises the fact that the competitions were international and that the victor had the right to a triumphal entry in his home city. BMC 27.
It is not clear why civic building projects became rare in the third century. One explanation assumes that endowing a festival was cheaper than paying for buildings, and that the choice reflects an impoverished elite or a reluctance on the part of the rich to continue the levels of funding seen in the second century. Whatever the case, the end of the monumentalizing phase seems to mark an important change in the nature of the cities of Roman Syria (see end of chapter).

The Dangers of Political Expression
Civil wars provided cities with rare opportunities for independent political expression. Support by a city for one imperial contender or another might be dictated as much by the disposition of a rival city as by any other consideration. Such declarations could be extremely hazardous for the civic elites, but in the long term they rarely affected the position of the cities in the pecking-order. When Antioch supported Pescennius Niger in 193, its rival Laodicea was quick to adhere to the cause of Septimius Severus. Sacked by the troops of Pescennius, Laodicea was elevated in honours when Septimius Severus eventually proved victorious, at the expense (temporarily) of Antioch. A similar rivalry may be noted between Berytus and Tyre in the same conflict. Sidon won honours under Elagabalus, presumably for having stayed faithful to him during a military rebellion by the legio III Gallica. It was awarded with the title ‘Loyal’ and promoted to a colony and metropolis, whereas its rival Tyre, which had been implicated in the revolt, temporarily lost colonial and metropolitan status.

The Roman Colonies: an Alternative to the Greek Polis?
Roman colonies were originally designed to accommodate soldiers retiring from the legions. Colonial foundations on the site of existing cities need not have benefited the original inhabitants, who might be dispossessed of land and rights in favour of army veterans or, at the very least, would have to compete with the newcomers over such things. The major phase of veteran settlement outside Italy belongs to the time of Julius Caesar and Augustus. In the western empire, where cities were rare or absent before the Roman conquests, colonies have been viewed as tools of the Roman state, little islands of Romanitas or urbanization implanted in a sea of ‘foreign’ habits. But how different were the Syrian colonies from neighbouring cities? A degree of cultural allegiance with Rome can be discerned among the early, ‘true’ colonies inhabited by veteran soldiers: Latin is commonly used as a public language, and the two chief civic magistrates are called duovirs, a characteristic of the Latin west. Their civic coinages tended to use Latin rather than Greek, accompanied by specific colonial symbols (fig. 85). The first colony to be founded in Syria was Berytus, under Augustus. This was settled by veterans from two Roman legions, the legio V Macedonica and legio VIII Gallica, and was granted ius italicum, meaning that for tax purposes its land was considered Italian (Italy being exempt from land tax). It is not clear what happened to the indigenous population of Berytus. During the following two centuries three other colonies were founded in the region: Ptolemais (under Claudius), Caesarea Maritima (under Vespasian), and Jerusalem (using the name Aelia Capitolina, under Hadrian). Ptolemais seems to have had veteran settlement and perhaps ius italicum, but Caesarea probably had neither, although the city’s inhabitants appear to have been exempted from the poll tax. Caesarea was therefore an early example of a city acquiring colonial status as an honour, and it stands in the vanguard of a new trend in granting colonial status to cities that had won imperial approval, rather than as a way of rewarding retired soldiers. Aelia Capitolina seems to have been one of the last ‘true’ Roman colonies ever founded, with settlers brought in from elsewhere after the original population had been driven out. The legio X Fretensis was based there, and its veterans may have been settled in the city. But little is otherwise known of the colony. 
Fig. 85. Colonial symbol: a priest ploughs the first furrow to delineate the city walls according to Etruscan rite- a symbolic representation of the foundation of a new Roman colony. This image comes from the reverse of a bronze coin of Berytus issued under Augustus. The historical reality of the scene can be doubted; Berytus was already a city at the time of the foundation and there is no evidence that any major alterations to the urban plan occurred at the time. BMC 54.
It was once thought that the colonial settlement in Berytus involved replanning the city, but what can be discerned of urban plan seems to be an extension of an earlier Hellenistic and Iron Age city layout. It is not yet certain whether the city had axial main streets rather than a main north - south thoroughfare leading to and from the city’s harbour. Evidence for two forums and a western-style capitol are tenuous in the extreme, but like many other Syrian cities Berytus had a large monumental bath building, several other baths, a nymphaeum and a hippodrome, and literary sources mention a theatre. It acquired vast territories at the time of the colony’s foundation, stretching over the Lebanon range to the eastern side of the valley of Massyas (Bekaa), which may have been a deliberate attempt to make the city the economic equal of its powerful neighbours, Sidon and Tyre. The veteran soldiers appear to have been Latin-speaking, with Roman citizenship. They were enrolled in the Roman tribe Fabia, and their descendants formed the civic elite. Veterans were also settled in the countryside. At Niha on the western edge of the Bekaa valley there was a country district of colonists, called the pagus Augustus. Heliopolis, with its great temples, seems also to have been a sort of rural colonial settlement in the territory of Berytus, until it achieved independent city status under Septimius Severus (see chapter 3). The widespread use of Latin inscriptions in the Berytus countryside, even in fairly remote locations such as Yammoune, a temple site also in the western Bekaa, suggests that for a while at least Latin was the dominant language in Berytian society and permeated the entire territory. The use of Latin has been employed to help determine the extent of the territory of Berytus (see p. 000). Finds of imported goods from Italy suggest strong Italian connections for the first generation of colonists (see p. 000); but thereafter this trade drops off. The colonial images on coins of Berytus (fig. 85) resemble those issued by other colonies in the Roman world. Inscriptions attest to the cults of Roman deities, some of which would have been quite exotic in this context, such as Proserpina or the obscure goddess Mater Matuta. These imply some sort of transmission of Roman or Italian identity into the local cultural environment (the female dedicant to Mater Matuta is a Roman citizen with a mixed Greek and Semitic name). But these dedications should also be set against others, to Jupiter Heliopolitanus, to Jupiter Baalmarcod (the ‘Lord of Dances’ whose sanctuary lay in the hills above Berytus), and to Atargatis, the Syrian Goddess, which suggest the survival of local cults or the import of regional ones. The strict colonial character of the early coins becomes diluted in the second and third centuries with the appearance of ‘local’ types referring to city deities and pre-Roman myths connected with the origins of Berytus, and by late Roman times Greek had replaced Latin as the main language of inscriptions. But the Latin character of Berytus remained in late antiquity: the city was a centre for the study of Latin literature and, from the third century at least, Roman law. It had produced the eminent Latin grammarian and specialist in Latin literature, Marcus Valerius Probus, in the first century AD. By the fourth century it was drawing large numbers of students from all over the Roman world, who came to study Roman literature and law in the schools established there; this was the principal cultural legacy which the Augustan foundation bequeathed to late antiquity. Of the four early colonies, Berytus is the only one where veteran settlement can be seen to have had a major and long-term impact on civic culture, but in terms of its architecture and urban plan it may not have been significantly different from its neighbours.
Fig. 86. The Niha valley (the pagus Augustus), with the Bekaa and the Antilebanon beyond. The temple of Hadaranes (see p. 000) can be seen among the trees in the middle distance.
The second phase of colonial grants begins with Septimius Severus, and it coincides with the proliferation of civic festivals and imperial grants of other city titles. These colonies were not created for veteran settlers. Colonia was now a coveted epithet, like metropolis, and was one more reward that emperors could use to manipulate the hierarchy of Syrian cities. The Severan emperors gave colonial status to Laodicea, Antioch, Seleucia, Emesa, Heliopolis, Palmyra, Damascus, Arca, Sidon, Tyre, Sebaste, Bostra and Petra; probably also to Dura Europus. Some, such as Laodicea, were granted ius italicum; others, such as Antioch, were not. But this extraordinary number of cities elevated to colonies under the Severans is not a phenomenon found in neighbouring regions of the eastern Mediterranean, except in Mesopotamia. By the reign of Philip, Neapolis and Philippopolis had also acquired colonial status. It is not absolutely clear whether Philippopolis had this status from its foundation (c. AD 244); an inscription dated ‘year one’ of the city does not mention it, and the issue of civic coins which bear the title were struck no earlier than AD 246/7 (the date of Philip’s son’s elevation to the rank of co-emperor). With the end of civic coinages and a decline in the ‘epigraphic habit’, our evidence for colonial grants becomes scarce. There is some evidence that Gaza, Ascalon, Gerasa and perhaps Gadara also became colonies at some point in the third century, although when is not known. However, it is fairly clear that grants of colonial status ceased in the late empire, and the existing colonies rarely continued to advertise the title. Whatever advantages there had been in having colonial status no longer adhered in the fourth century and beyond.
There is a fairly strong correlation between imperial interests and grants of colonial status in this second phase. Emesa, Arca and Philippopolis were all home towns of emperors or places with which they had strong connections (Caracalla and Elagabalus with Emesa, Severus Alexander with Arca, and Philip with Philippopolis), and were hardly in the first rank of cities. Laodicea, Sidon and Tyre were rewarded for their support of an emperor during a time of crisis or rebellion. Heliopolis is thought to have gained both civic and colonial status from Septimius Severus as a consequence of Berytus having supported his rival, Pescennius Niger. The punishment meted out to Berytus was the loss of territory to a new rival city. Similar motives are thought to have prompted Severus’ grants to Laodicea, Tyre and Sebaste in Samaria. Others cities granted colonial status, such as Antioch, Damascus, Bostra and Petra, were among the first cities of their respective provinces, and in rewarding them with colonial status the emperors may have been responding to the pressures of peer polity rivalry.
Whereas the old colonies adopted some Latin features, these new colonies do not seem to have changed their character as the result of grants of colonial status, suggesting that colonia was just one of several titles which a city might hope to acquire. Some opted to use Latin on their coins, but others continued to use Greek. Where Latin was employed it was not always used with confidence. Laodicea’s coinage compromised by using Latin letters to write in Greek. Thus the use of Latin, which had formerly been a distinguishing mark of colonies, did not necessarily signify fluency or competency in the language in these later colonies. The use of colonial symbols was likewise irregular. Some of the new colonies alternated images of priests ploughing the first furrow (fig. 85) or military standards with traditional civic designs, but others ignored colonial designs altogether. A figure of the satyr Marsyas (fig. 87) is found on coins issued by many, but not all, colonies in the region during the third century. This is thought to recall a statue of Marsyas that stood in the forum in Rome, providing an iconographic link with the centre of power. It is not clear whether the images on coins represent the statue at Rome, a reproduction at different colonies, or whether the image is purely symbolic. The precise meaning of this image is lost, and it is not found on the early coinages of the ‘true’ colonies. Nevertheless the use of Latin and colonial symbols suggests that many of the new colonies aspired to special connections with Rome. 
Fig. 87. Reverse of a coin of Berytus issued under Elagabalus (AD 218-22), showing the figure of the satyr Marsyas in a monumental setting. The architectural backdrop strongly suggests that the figure is a statue, but the nature of the monument cannot easily be determined. It looks like a tetrapylon with a curved court behind, but some have read these as the vault and supports of a monumental arch. BMC 194.
The colony of Philippopolis, founded c. AD 244 at the north-western end of Auranitis, might seem to provide an example of Roman influences in a late colonial foundation. The city probably enjoyed imperial patronage, if only briefly, as the birthplace of the emperor Philip I (AD 244-9). It conforms more or less to the ‘ideal’ Graeco-Roman city: roughly rectangular in plan, and with colonnaded axial main streets meeting in a tetrapylon. It contained various monumental buildings typical of such cities: a bath house, a theatre and a piazza. There are traces of imported veneers in the bath building, but otherwise the stonework is mainly local basalt. However, a survey conducted at the turn of the twentieth century emphasized the Roman nature of elements such as the bath building, supplied by an aqueduct drawing water from a source to the east, and the use of rubble and mortar domes and vaults in construction. It was suggested that Philip might have employed western architects for his new city.
Fig. 88. A general view of the site of Philippopolis in northern Auranitis. The city is situated at the foot of a volcanic cone (visible on the left).
	Other elements of Philippopolis seem less ‘Roman’. The monumental piazza on the western side of the city presumably functioned as the city’s administrative and economic heart, but the buildings that surrounded it were not typical of forums or agoras elsewhere. The large building on the eastern side might have been a basilica, but its function, like that of the other buildings in the piazza, remains enigmatic. The tall structure on the western side seems to have been a monumental setting for statuary, presumably of the imperial family, and was perhaps a sanctuary of the imperial cult. It is sometimes called a kalybé, but is rather different from a class of religious structures which are referred to by that name (see chapter 9). Structures probably for display like that at Philippopolis are known in other cities of the Hauran, for example, Bostra. On the southern side was a square building, the so-called ‘Philippeion’, which housed statue groups of Philip and his family (fig. 89) and was presumably a temple to the imperial cult. Nearby, on the northern side of the decumanus, was a temple-like building with a six-columned portico and an apse at the rear. Rather than being a good example of the influence of Rome, the whole city would seem to be a successful imitation, using mainly local materials and perhaps employing expertise drawn from a wider area, of the great cities found in other parts of the Near East, combined with more local elements.
Fig. 89. The so-called ‘Philippeion’ at Philippopolis. Brackets for statues of the emperor’s father Julius Marinus stand proud either side of a large doorway (the small entrance is a modern feature). The equally austere interior contains large niches for statues and a staircase allowing access to the roof. This building, and an adjacent structure, were given over to statues of the emperor and his family. The rectangular piazza onto which these buildings faced is interpreted as a forum or agora.
	In general terms, it would seem that most colonies were not distinct, monumentally or culturally, from the neighbouring Greek cities. If the ‘true’ colonies differed significantly from other cities immediately after their foundation and veteran settlement, these differences did not persist. Only Berytus retained any traces of its Latin character into the late Roman period.

The City Defined
	The problems of distinguishing a city from other sorts of settlement have been mentioned in chapter 5. Civic status had to be recognized by the Roman state, which used the administrative apparatus of the city to maintain order and to collect tribute. Each city had a territory, which was as much a part of the polis as its urban area, incorporating the city’s agricultural resources, rural shrines and temples and subordinate villages. These territories were rigorously defined, although it is often difficult to follow their boundaries now. Some clues are available to us. Occasionally we are lucky enough to find explicit boundary stones between cities, such as that between Emesa and Palmyra, found at Qasr el-Heir el-Gharbi (ancient Heliarama?), but such chance finds are rare, and other approaches have to be adopted to define city territories. Many Syrian cities had their own system of dating (see chapter 4), and each era was exclusive to the territory of the city which used it and would not be employed by a neighbouring city, suggesting that the civic eras were often important facets of communal identities. The use of city eras within the territory of a city can help to define the extent of that territory, if there are enough dated inscriptions in situ, and provided that neighbouring cities used eras which were sufficiently different. Dated buildings from the villages of northern Syria define the boundary between the territories of Antioch and Apamea (fig. 90.1). In the case of Berytus, the territory has been fixed largely through the use of Latin inscriptions (fig. 90.2). Berytus, as a Roman colony, adopted the use of Latin for monumental public writing, which made it distinct from its neighbours Sidon and Byblus. This does not mean that Greek was never employed, but that what makes Berytus distinct is its use of Latin. Although Berytus had its own civic era, the Latin tradition tended not to employ it, and it is known mainly through Greek coins issued before the colony was established, and inscriptions dating from the late Roman period (when Greek returned to common use in Berytus as a language for inscriptions). Other possible methods for defining territories, whose potential as yet lies largely untried, include distributions of city coinages and locally-produced amphoras, which may in some cases conform to civic territories (see chapter 6).
Fig. 90.1. Boundary between the territories of Antioch, Apamea and other cities, according to dated inscriptions from the villages of northern Syria. 90.2. Distribution of Latin inscriptions in the Bekaa valley, believed to delineate the territory of Berytus there. Heliopolis achieved independent city status only under Septimius Severus (AD 193-211), and prior to that time it appears to have been in the territory of Berytus.

The City Imagined
	A common symbolic definition of the city in Syria was expressed by the image of the city Tyche, the ‘fortune’ or guardian spirit of the city. Most of these imitated an original model, which was the one commissioned by Seleucus Nicator for his new foundation at Antioch. The colossal bronze statue showed a female personification of the city, dressed in a veil and heavy drapery, wearing the walls and towers of the city on her head. She was seated on a rock, supposed to represent Mount Silpius, the steep slope of which dominates the city, and held in her hand corn ears, a symbol of the fruitfulness of her territories. At her feet swam a naked male figure, representing the River Orontes. The statue combined significant natural and man-made features with a divine image. That the walls should be selected as the architectural feature defining the city may indicate how few other monumental structures Seleucid Antioch possessed, but the image of the city defences was itself a powerful sign of civic autonomy. The Tyche frequently appears on Antiochene coins, and seems to have been recognizable throughout the Roman world as a symbol of Antioch. Various copies of the statue are known in a variety of media and sizes (fig. 91), and sometimes they occur in conjunction with personifications of the three other great cities of the Roman world: Rome, Constantinople and Alexandria. 
Fig. 91. Late fourth-century-AD silver statuette of the Tyche of Antioch, from the treasure found on the Esquiline hill in Rome in 1793. It was one of four figures personifying the main cities of the Roman world: Rome, Constantinople, Antioch and Alexandria; all were perhaps originally fittings for a chair.
Other Syrian cities adopted this image, but sometimes changed the details to provide local references: on coins of Laodicea the river god holds up an image of the city’s famous lighthouse, or, if the coins show only the head of Tyche, the light house is depicted within the city walls on her head (fig. 93.1). Another variant, commonly used by coastal cities, and especially those of the south, was a standing city Tyche wearing the short dress of an Amazon, with one breast exposed. The most famous ‘Amazonian’ city Tyche is that of Caesarea, known not only from coins but also from a marble statue found in the city and from an inlaid bronze cup of late Roman times. She also wore the city walls on her head, but carried a sword in a scabbard over her shoulder, and held a sceptre or ship’s rudder in one hand and a small bust (an image of the emperor or the city’s founder, King Herod?) in the other (fig. 93.2). A relief found at Dura Europus in the so-called ‘Temple of the Gaddé’, which belongs to the final years of Parthian rule, shows three figures: one is the dedicant, making an offering before a male figure labelled in Palmyrene as the Gad (Tyche) of Dura; the other is the city’s founder, Seleucus Nicator, crowning the Gad (fig. 92). 
Fig. 92. Drawing of a relief made from Palmyrene limestone found in the ‘Temple of the Gaddé’ at Dura Europus. It shows Hairan son of Maliku (on the left, wearing a Palmyrene priest’s hat and holding a palm branch) making an offering on an altar before the Gad of Dura, who is crowned by Seleucus I (on the right, holding a spear and wreath). The Gad resembles Zeus; he holds a sceptre and ears or a sheaf of corn, and is seated between two eagles. The Palmyrene inscriptions underneath the figures read (from left to right): ‘Image of Hairan bar Maliku bar Nasor’; ‘The Gad of Dura, made by Hairan bar Maliku bar Nasor. In the month of Nisan, year 470 (AD 159)’; ‘Seleucus Nicator’. Seleucus had his own cult and priesthood at Dura. Another relief from the same temple showed Hairan before the female Gad of Palmyra.
These images represented the spirits or fortunes of their respective cities and were worshipped as such. Apamea’s temple to its Tyche lay close to the heart of the city, between the agora and the great colonnaded cardo (see p. 000), and civic coin issues from various mints depict temples to their respective city Tyches. An inscription from Balanea records a certain Antiochus who constructed a temple and set up a statue of Tyche, presumably on behalf of the city. (Villages too might have such buildings, it would seem: a Tychaion was consecrated at Aere (Sanamein) in the Hauran by a Roman centurion in AD 191.) A city Tyche was the symbol of the city, but not necessarily of its inhabitants, who might be considered to have a separate, collective Tyche of their own (fig. 93.3). 
Fig. 93.1. Reverse of a silver tetradrachm of Hadrian (AD 117-38) from Laodicea ad Mare, dated year 172 of the city (AD 124/125) and showing a bust of the Tyche of Laodicea wearing a mural crown. Her tresses are adorned with bunches of grapes (a reference to Laodicean wine?) and the city walls on her head encompass other monuments, most notably the city’s famous lighthouse, which can just be discerned at the rear. 93.2. Reverse of a civic bronze coin of Caesarea of the reign of Trajan (AD 98-117), showing the city-goddess in a temple, holding a sceptre and portrait bust and armed with a short sword. The small male figure at her feet is thought to represent Herod’s great harbour of Sebastos. BMC 41. 93.3. Reverse of a civic bronze coin of Antioch, of Severus Alexander (AD 222-35). The Tyche of Antioch is shown seated at the centre, with a small male figure representing the River Orontes swimming at her feet. The standing figure on the left-hand side is another Tyche, thought to represent the fortune of the citizens of Antioch. The identity of the standing male figure on the right is less certain. He wears military dress and crowns the Tyche of Antioch with a wreath; he may be the emperor, but equally he may be the city’s founder, Seleucus Nicator (see fig. 92 for a parallel). BMC 483.

Icons of Civic Form
Competition between the elites of a city was not the only factor contributing to the drive towards monumentalization: rivalry between different cities was also important; and both of these factors are likely to have been responsible for architectural homogeneity through the imitation of influential models and styles. In order to keep up with rival cities some existing schemes were upgraded, although not all were completed. But the citizens - or at least those elites whose writings have come down to us - took pride in the beauty and utility of their civic monuments, those iconic buildings which helped to define their self-constructed communities modelled on the ideal of the Greek polis. 
The great monuments of the city were often visible from afar, competing with nature for domination of the skyline. Among these landmark symbols of civic identity the walls would have been prominent, but in many cases the pre-eminent structures were temples, which were frequently placed on podiums or at high points within the city. In his Description of the World the late Roman poet Avienus described the great temple of Elagabal at Emesa as ‘higher than the peaks of Lebanon, … with which it jealously competes’. In the monumental polis of the first to third century the holy and the public were given precedence over private interests.
	The approach to the city, however, is likely to have been peppered with a curious mix of the public and private, monumental and humble, in contrast to the emphasis on public interests within the city walls. The roads leading to the city gates were lined with tombs, the dead being relegated to their own residence, the necropolis, situated outside the walls to keep the urban space free of the pollution of death (though note the arrangement at Palmyra: fig. 97). Large public structures for entertainment (such as hippodromes and amphitheatres), judged too big to place within the city walls, were often located in the same areas, perhaps partly motivated by a similar desire to keep the city clean of death and human bloodshed as well as concern for the damage that riots (which often started in such places) might cause if the buildings lay inside. Outside the walls we might expect to find the hovels and lean-tos of the destitute, dumps for refuse, places for displaying the bodies of executed criminals, and industrial areas. Monumental gates might mark the approach, leading on to colonnaded streets and a suite of architectural forms which symbolize the ‘classical’ or ‘Graeco-Roman’ city.
Fig. 94. The Hadrianic arch at Gerasa, built in AD 129-30. It was a symbolic entrance, for it stands over 450 metres (1/4 mile) south of Gerasa’s city walls, next to the hippodrome.
The magnificence of the monumental city gave it the aspect of a vast palace, and it is possible that some of the inspiration for the monumental city derived from palaces. The great Hellenistic palaces had included public buildings and courts, religious sanctuaries and banqueting halls, and those at Antioch, Alexandria and Pergamum are acknowledged as having a strong influence over early Roman imperial architecture - particularly in the palaces at Rome, but also in the private dwellings of the elites, their tomb architecture, in public buildings such as the façades of theatres, monumental portals and gateways, porticos, banqueting halls and basilicas. Are the monumental cities, with their interlinked complexes and separate buildings for specific functions, their open spaces, arches, tetrapylons and porticos, attempting to create palatial-style public spaces, in the same way that the great palaces came to assume public as well as residential functions? A recent study of Hellenistic palaces concludes that one of the distinctive features of these complexes was that they ‘gradually took upon themselves many of the functions of the polis’. With the decline of Hellenistic royal power in the first century BC, perhaps the cities took it upon themselves to ‘palatialize’. It is perhaps no coincidence that client kings like Herod (a notable builder of elaborate palaces) were prominent donors in the initial phase of this civic palatialization.

The Urban Plan
	The plan is as much an icon of civic form as the buildings within it. Distinctions are sometimes drawn between planned cities and those that grow ‘organically’, but however irregular or accidental-looking a city plan might appear, its form is usually dictated by the organized structure of old property boundaries, social and political topographies, and a contest of private and public desires. In these contests power - which is concentrated in the hands of those who control the urban land - is crucial in negotiating the design of the city. A city founded on virgin ground, or appropriated from a disenfranchised population, can be planned anew. However, few cities were founded in the Syrian provinces during the centuries of Roman rule. Most either existed already or were elevated from village to city status. In their plans the cities of Roman Syria were largely inherited ones, reflecting the strategies of those that had gone before. To understand the urban plans of the Roman cities we have to examine the schemes of the Hellenistic dynasties of the Seleucids and Ptolemies. 
	The regular grid-like plans of many Hellenistic cities are said to be ‘Hippodamian’, and this form is usually seen as evidence of Greek influence. And yet there is nothing peculiarly Greek about the grid. Although we know relatively little about the ideas of the fifth-century-BC urban theorist and planner Hippodamus of Miletus, one thing we do know is that the grid was not his idea and that it had existed for centuries before him. Some have looked instead to non-Greek traditions to explain the origins of the ‘chequer-board’ pattern of streets and blocks found in the Roman cities of Syria. Yet, as the most premeditated of plans, the grid hardly requires the support of any tradition. It can be seen as the very antithesis of tradition: making little concession to what has gone before, the grid either begins with no tradition or obliterates it. As the architect Spiro Kostof has noted, the grid is ‘by far the commonest pattern for planned cities in history. It is universal both geographically and chronologically’. The motivation that produces the grid may be very different from one place to another. It allows colonists to be given regular and equal parcels of land. The pattern of rectilinear streets also permits easy surveillance. The Hellenistic Seleucid cities of Syria – for example, Antioch, Seleucia, Apamea and Cyrrhus - were all dominated by a high acropolis which served as a military garrison. The panoptic effect of the grid and its military citadel may be unintended, but they serve to remind us that the strategic positioning of an acropolis, and perhaps the layout of the streets, do not necessarily represent the interests of the citizens. The urban plan may be a reflection of the movement of the heavens: we use the Roman terms cardo (north - south axis) and decumanus (east - west boundary line) to describe the axial streets of a Graeco-Roman city. The imposition of a grid on what was previously a more irregular layout may reflect social ideals, engendering a sense of improvement, of creating greater order. The design has multiple intentions and meanings: religious, strategic, social and practical.
Where the details are known, the Seleucid cities appear to have been designed with two axial main streets, so that at places like Apamea, Laodicea and Cyrrhus one could almost talk in terms of the cities having a decumanus maximus and cardo maximus - except that these are Roman terms and perhaps a little inappropriate for the Hellenistic period. At Antioch, Laodicea and Apamea the dimensions of the city blocks are strikingly similar, indicating that one could have provided a model for the others or, more probably, that they were the product of the same planners. The correspondence in alignment of Antioch’s city blocks with field systems around the city indicates that the two were planned together, and both were probably intended for colonists. But not all Syrian city grids were Hellenistic in origin. Before the conquests of Alexander Berytus consisted of a settlement on and close to its Bronze Age tell, and there is evidence to suggest that the lower city was laid out on a grid, or at least using a rectilinear pattern, and that the expansion of the city under the Seleucids merely extended this existing plan. This in turn dictated the layout of the early Roman city (see above).
Some plans seem to have been dominated by a single main street crossing the city along its longest axis. Smaller streets led off the main one at right angles, but none of these seems to have formed major transverse axes. Examples include Hippus (Qalaat el-Husn), Gadara (Umm Qais), Philadelphia (Amman), Capitolias (Beit Ras), and perhaps Abila (Tel Abil). In the cases of Hippus, Gadara and Capitolias the city itself occupied an elevated acropolis. The location of these examples in the south has been taken as a possible indication that this is a Ptolemaic design, although a similar single main street was employed in Herodian Sebaste. It is of course possible that this plan predates Herod, or that Herod was influenced by Ptolemaic models. 
Other cities are dominated by a single main street, but this does not cross the city from one side to the other. Instead the street ends at a monumental arch, which gives on to a large religious sanctuary. This design is vividly apparent at Bostra and Petra, and so it has been viewed as a ‘Nabataean’ city plan, although precise dates for the final forms of these layouts remain unclear. The emphasis is on a processional way, leading to the cities’ main cult complex. At Bostra the colonnaded ‘decumanus’ leads from the western gate to a sacred precinct at the eastern end of the city (fig. 95). At Petra the main colonnaded street leads to the religious sanctuary of the Qasr al-Bint (fig. 96). In these cases the design is driven by the need to accommodate a particular form of religious and social activity.
Fig. 95. Bostra. The Nabataean arch, standing at the end of the main thoroughfare. The capitals on the engaged columns are typically Nabataean.
Fig. 96. Petra. The Qasr al-Bint sanctuary with its great temple, which lies at the end of the city’s main street.
Regional traditions are therefore apparent in this most elementary icon of civic form, and in the majority of cases the Roman phases are enlargements or improvements on what already existed. The notable exceptions are some villages which achieved city status in the early Roman period, such as Philippopolis, discussed above, or its neighbour Dionysias (see p. 000). But local topography also constrained the plans of cities regardless of traditions: Philadelphia’s streets followed valleys, and the urban plan of Canatha, though very poorly known, must have been dictated in a large part by the irregularities of the terrain.

Walls: the City Circumscribed
More than any other structure, the walls and their towers defined the city. As noted above, each city Tyche wore a mural crown; only rarely were any of the monuments within represented (fig. 93.1). This emphasis on walls is not surprising. They were a sign of civic autonomy. Walls helped demonstrate that the settlement was a city and provided a clear boundary between the urban core and its territory. It seems that not every city possessed them from the outset, although they might strive to acquire these costly structures. The imperial authorities did not always approve of cities having walls, and sometimes insisted that they be demolished - a sure sign that these edifices signified, in a very real way, the autonomy of the community. Although the wall was usually built of local materials (preferably stone rather than mud brick), it was the largest and most expensive public monument a city could possess, and was probably beyond the financial resources of some of the smaller cities. Walls often enclosed areas greater than their built-up areas, either to allow for expansion, to create protection for gardens or to take advantage of the most easily defensible natural features. In most cases the Roman-period defences followed the earlier ones, helping to preserve the urban layouts described above. The walls of Apamea are about 7 kilometres (4 1/3 miles) long, encompassing the plateau on which the city sits. Sondages there confirm that the Roman-period defences were constructed on Hellenistic foundations. At Palmyra, however, the circuit of city walls underwent several modifications, resulting in dramatic changes to the size and scope of the defended area. The fortifications were originally conceived on a grand scale (fig. 97), although their height may have been relatively modest. Constructed of mud brick on a stone foundation, the extensive southern rampart probably stood 2 metres (6 1/2 feet) high. The northern rampart is less well preserved (a simple embankment of clay and mortar was all that archaeologists could detect). These defences are perhaps of the first century BC and were probably in use when Aurelian took the city. The smaller circuit of dressed stone (colour plate 12), often reusing building materials from tombs and other structures, is sometimes dated to the reign of Zenobia, although it is most commonly associated with Diocletian, who stationed a legion there (see chapter 10). This later wall enclosed only the monumental zone of Palmyra, and was defined on its southern edge by a wadi which had formerly run through the city. It also changed the focus of the city somewhat: the great sanctuary of Bel now faced away from the main part of the defended area, and one cannot help wondering whether the layout of the new defences helped to marginalize what had once been a significant part of ancient Palmyra to the south. 
Fig. 97. The defences of Palmyra. The early wall encompassed a large area to the south of the later fortified zone. The tower on the Jebel Muntar (bottom left) housed a temple to the god Bel Hamon. The darkly shaded areas represent areas of Hellenistic and early Roman settlement. The area enclosed by the late Roman wall is lightly shaded. Note that the early ramparts enclose the cemeteries of the city.

The Streets
Streets, as the basic unit of urbanism, are easily taken for granted, but without them there would be no city. Because they provide access they are important public spaces, but because of their very public nature they can also be used to constrain the movement and behaviour of the inhabitants. Everyone has to use them, and therefore they are perfect places for political displays, providing a stage on which the activities and rituals of the community are acted out. The main streets of the Graeco-Roman cities could be used for religious processions and civic ceremonies, a purpose suggested by the prominent position and orientation of many important temples and sanctuaries with regard to the thoroughfares. Their builders clearly had more than mere circulation in mind.
Fig. 98. The broad main street at Apamea.
A prominent feature of cities in Roman Syria is a long colonnaded street. It may be perfectly straight, as at Apamea (fig. 98); or an articulation of several straight sections, with the changes in direction being both marked and concealed by monumental structures such as tetrapylons, as at Palmyra (fig. 35). The expenditure and effort lavished on these streets suggests that they were very important to the civic elites who built them. They were often constructed in sections over several decades, as is evident from the rebuilding of the cardo at Apamea following the great earthquake in northern Syria under Trajan (AD 115). The citizens began erecting their new monumental colonnade, which was aligned precisely north - south, immediately after the earthquake. The task was enormous, as the road, which crosses the plateau of Apamea, extended for 2 kilometres (1¼ miles), and the street itself was to be nearly 21 metres (69 feet) wide, with 7-metre- (23-foot)-wide porticos behind. Various styles of column and architrave were employed in the different sections of colonnade, marking the successive phases of building. Construction appears to have begun at the northern end with Lucius Julius Agrippa’s contribution (fig. 83). Fifty years later work was still under way, when two brothers of another important family, the Appii, dedicated statues of Antoninus Pius, Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus on a section of spiral fluted colonnade opposite the east entrance to the agora (fig. 99). The city’s nymphaeum to the south has features which the excavators date to the same period or slightly later. This, together with other epigraphic evidence, indicates that the elites of Apamea invested in the rebuilding of their cardo for about a century.
Fig. 99. Spiral fluted columns opposite the entrance to Apamea’s agora.
In spite of the effort that went into their construction, a number of these main streets were periodically redesigned and enlarged, presumably to keep up with building schemes in other cities. The original Seleucid street at Antioch, 13 metres (42½ feet) across, was altered round about the time of Augustus to include rows of shops. While this widened the entire ensemble to 27.5 metres (90 feet), the street itself was narrower than its Seleucid predecessor. By the early second century it had been provided with 9-metre- (29½-foot)-wide colonnades plus shops, extending the scheme to 36 metres (118 feet), but the street itself remained fairly modest at 9 metres (29½ feet). By the end of the first century AD Gerasa had been equipped with an Ionic colonnaded cardo, 15 metres (49¼ feet) wide (including sidewalks), but during the second century the main, southern section of this street was widened to nearly 20 metres (65½ feet) and given larger Corinthian columns. The old Ionic columns were re-employed in monumental cross-streets. 
Palmyra’s grand colonnade is one of the most famous, but it is also one of the least well integrated into the monumental urban landscape. A number of major monuments face away from the colonnade rather than on to it. Most of these are oriented towards the wadi to the south-west of the monumental zone (fig. 35). These include the Damascus Gate and its monumental street with an oval piazza, the Tariff Court, and the sanctuary of the god Nebo. The focus appears to be on the Hellenistic settlement, which lay to the south of the wadi and the monumental zone, outside the later city walls (fig. 97). The grand colonnade stretched for about 1200 metres (3/4 mile), from the Sanctuary of Bel, located to the south-east, to meet a monumental street leading from the Damascus Gate on the north-western side. A number of tombs occupied this latter area, indicating that this was formerly the edge of the city. The street leading from the Damascus Gate was under construction in the early second century, and the initial phase of the grand colonnade may have begun at the north-western end at about this time. This section of the grand colonnade is also the longest (500 metres/546 yards), and it points directly at the entrance to the great sanctuary of Bel on the other side of the city. However, extending it in this direction would have meant demolishing important buildings, most notably the first-century-AD temple of Nebo. As a result, the grand colonnade was forced to skirt around this area, changing direction twice in order to reach the Bel sanctuary (colour plate 12). A tetrapylon marks the first change in alignment, and the point where another monumental colonnaded street coming from the south met the grand colonnade. If the theatre is earlier than the colonnade, as has been proposed, the second section of the street may have been guided by its alignment. Even this arrangement meant cutting through the northern edge of the sanctuary of Nebo, which suggests that the street’s builders were influential enough to negotiate such alterations to sacred space. Immediately beyond the Nebo sanctuary the street was free to turn south-east to meet the propylaea of the Bel sanctuary. This is the widest part of the grand colonnade, but how it met with the Bel sanctuary is still unclear as this section seems not to have been completed. The dating of the whole colonnade remains fragile; dedicatory inscriptions on statue brackets attached to the columns are often the only clue, but these were sometimes added at a later date than the colonnades themselves. The unfinished state of many columns, particularly evident on their bases, where often only the guidelines for the mouldings have been marked out, suggests that many features of the street date to the third century. 
In all of the cities that had them, the colonnades normally supported a roof, providing covered walkways or a portico in front of shops which lay at the back (fig. 83). Some columns were set on podiums, while others were placed directly on a stylobate. A noteworthy characteristic of the Palmyrene colonnades is the stone brackets jutting out from the columns (fig. 100); they once supported statues of local and imperial dignitaries. These devices were occasionally employed elsewhere, such as on the spiral fluted colonnade at Apamea, but only at Palmyra do they proliferate.
Fig. 100. Part of the grand colonnade at Palmyra. Note the brackets for statues, located halfway up each column.
The origins of these grand colonnaded streets remain speculative. They are a feature of cities in southern Asia Minor as well as Syria, so a local origin may not be the solution. The dating of many of them remains imprecise. It used to be thought that the earliest monumental street in Syria was the one at Antioch, paid for by King Herod, but, as noted above, excavations at the north gate of Apamea have brought to light a late second or early first-century-BC precursor to the colonnaded cardo that was rebuilt in the second century AD, suggesting that some cities could have acquired such structures under the Seleucids. In overall appearance the civic colonnades are similar to the stoas which bordered the agoras of classical Greek and Hellenistic cities, and indeed this is what inscriptions call them. This suggests a possible origin, for stoas too had colonnaded porticos and shops or booths at the back. Like stoas, the street porticos are seen as practical solutions to the climate, affording shade to pedestrians in hot weather and shelter from the rain. Porticoed shops extended the marketplace into the main thoroughfares, prompting the suggestion that an oriental souk or bazaar is the underlying model. These functional explanations are valid, but they do not explain why the streets took such costly and elaborate forms, or why certain features were rather impractical or in some cases apparently pointless. In late Roman times there was a trend for paving porticos with mosaics, yet the frequent repairs and repavings suggest that these floors were not always well suited to everyday traffic. Some colonnaded streets did not link the main public buildings of the city: at Sebaste the temples, theatre and agora are all located at higher elevations some distance away from the colonnade, which skirts around them at the bottom of the steep slope to the south. One stretch of colonnade at Gerasa, close to the quadrifons (see below), supported only an architrave. There was no roof and no building behind it, as if the colonnade were purely ornamental. The same seems to have been the case with the main colonnades at Philadelphia (Amman). One rather radical suggestion is that in such cases the street itself was roofed. Another, less radical, is that the colonnades were erected first, with the intention of constructing buildings behind it later. However, rather than the columns being merely a practical, if decorative, support for something else (roofs, porticos), might it not be the case that the colonnade itself had an important symbolic function?
The street is a space where public and private interests struggle for control. The public strategy is to keep it open, to provide access; the private strategy is to appropriate it for one’s own use. On a main thoroughfare all façades, whether public or private, are given a modicum of public presence by virtue of their position. The colonnade, however, is a screen that denies a presence to private buildings and activities. The grand colonnaded street creates a public space along its entire length, hiding private interests behind the architectural curtain of columns. In this way, rather than functioning merely as an extended economic zone of shops and markets, the colonnaded street also becomes a medium for ceremonial assertions of power by a highly co-ordinated social hierarchy. It is one extreme version of the public strategy overcoming private ones. Not that the ideal was necessarily always observed in everyday life; the cities were likely to gain from renting space in the porticos to vendors, and their wares might obstruct the walkways or even spill into the street itself. But such impediments could be cleared away on festival days.
Visual continuities were provided by the repetitive patterns of the columns, which sometimes concealed irregularities behind them. The presence of significant buildings might be marked by changes in ornament, changes in column size or the use of different coloured stone, or by projecting porticos (colour plate 3). The streets were made eventful through the use of special monuments: arches, votive columns, tetrapylons, tetrakionions, nymphaea. These monuments, particularly the arches and tetrapylons, divided the street into enclosed units or vistas. They also concealed, or made features of, awkward changes in street alignment.
Arches provided symbolic gateways and boundaries, outside the city, at its entrance, or within the city. City gates of the first century BC and first century AD seem more designed for defence, usually having one entrance and projecting towers either side, but some had decorative facades. From the late first or early second century structures modelled on the Roman triumphal arch, with columned facades and a large central entrance flanked by two smaller ones, were employed for a variety of purposes. The form, and the date of its introduction, suggest that it could have been inspired by similar structures in Italy. Some of these structures were true commemorative arches. They could celebrate Roman domination (an arch in honour of Trajan was erected at Dura Europus during Rome’s brief occupation of the city in the early second century); or a city could erect one in honour of an emperor as a symbol of loyalty to the regime. The form, however, had other uses. An arch could be inserted into the city walls, forming a gateway, and might be flanked by defensive towers (as at Gadara), or not (as at Gerasa). It could demarcate the boundary between a sanctuary and the rest of the city (as at Bostra and Petra). In the countryside freestanding arches might mark the boundary of a province or city territory, or of imperial or large private estates. (However, arches are not always what they seem: the so-called Bab el-Hawa, ‘Gate of the Winds’, appears to be an arch spanning the road between Antioch and Beroea in a gap between the Jebel Barisha and Jebel Halaqa. It was once thought to have been connected with the estate of a certain Hormisdas mentioned in a nearby inscription; but the ‘arch’ has now been identified as part of a destroyed church.)
Other arches spanned the main street. Probably the best known of such arches is that at Palmyra, which accommodates a change in the grand colonnade’s direction. Its plan is V-shaped, with two monumental triple-arched facades meeting in the western corner (colour plate 13).
Fig. 101. Tetrakionion at Palmyra (heavily restored; the columns are not originals), which stands in a circular piazza marking the junction of another street with the grand colonnade.
Major junctions or crossroads within the city were often marked by a class of monuments called tetrapyla, ‘four gates’. There are two main forms of tetrapylon: the quadrifons or ‘four fronts’ (specimens can be seen at Laodicea and Gerasa; there was also one employed at the junction of the axial streets found within the camp of Diocletian at Palmyra); and the tetrakionion or ‘four columns’. The latter was often located in a circular piazza (examples can be found at Palmyra, Bostra, Gerasa), although a tetrakionion at Antipatris in Palestine marked the junction of the city’s cardo with its agora.
Junctions of side streets with the principal colonnaded avenue were sometimes marked with arches, punctuating the porticos. Various examples can be seen at Apamea and Palmyra. The ‘Gate of the Lantern’ at Bostra is an unusually elaborate example, with its triple arched façade, and resembles the triumphal arch-like structures that spanned the main streets in other cities (fig. 102). 
Fig. 102. The so-called ‘Gate of the Lantern’ at Bostra. This marks the junction of another major colonnaded street, leading to the theatre, with the decumanus.
The main thoroughfare normally hosted the city’s nymphaeum (fig. 103). The term was originally applied to sanctuaries of the nymphs, set up around water sources. Civic nymphaea were artificial sources, and usually formed the terminal point of an aqueduct. An ornamental pool was backed by an elaborate architectural wall (often decorated with niches and statuary) through which the conduit poured its waters. The structures were often roofed or provided with a semi-dome, and given a columned façade and pediment. A retaining wall in front of the pool usually contained channels or waterspouts from which people could collect water for their homes. The excess simply poured into the city’s drains. At Apamea a public latrine lay directly behind the nymphaeum, no doubt located to take full advantage of the water supply. The building of a nymphaeum presupposes the city’s appropriation of some adequate water source. Nymphaea were ostentatious monuments and, although expensive to build, they could provide their donors with an excellent opportunity for self-advertisement. 
Fig. 103. The nymphaeum at Gerasa.
Water from the nymphaeum, sewage from public latrines, and water from rooftops was carried away in substantial drainage channels, located either along the edges of the thoroughfare or down its centre. Although the climate of the region is dry and warm for much of the year, rainfall can be torrential and without drains the streets could easily have flooded. Stone inspection covers gave access to these for cleaning and maintenance. The only significant exception to these arrangements seems to have been at Palmyra, where the main street of the grand colonnade seems never to have been paved (the earth surface may have been kinder to camels’ feet). Perhaps the city’s location in the dry steppe made drainage installations of this sort unnecessary.
The excavations and reconstruction at Gerasa provide us with a particularly good collection of street monuments (fig. 104). Two Hadrianic arches of similar plan and decoration marked the southern entrance to the city: one lies to the south of the city walls, in the necropolis and next to the southern edge of Gerasa’s hippodrome (fig. 94). The other, in the southern city wall, may be a little earlier in date. After passing through the latter gate one reached the entrance to the sanctuary of Zeus and the oval piazza (see below), and, crossing the piazza, gained access to the main cardo through another arch. A short distance along this first section of the street, four large columns on the left broke the monotony of the portico to announce the presence of Gerasa’s macellum. Beyond this, a tetrakionion marked the intersection of the cardo with the southern decumanus. Further along the cardo, again on the left, one reached the monumental heart of the city, with the entrance to the late Roman cathedral, the nymphaeum and the entrance to the great sanctuary of Artemis. Another street, leading from the eastern part of the city, joined the cardo opposite the entrance to the Temple of Artemis. In design this latter street looks like a processional way leading west to the sanctuary, ending in an elaborate architectural piazza just before the cardo. The cardo itself continues north to a quadrifons which marks the junction with the city’s north decumanus, and from here the street leads to the city’s northern gate, dated to Trajan’s reign.
Fig. 104. Plan of Gerasa.
It is important to stress the fact that colonnades continued to be erected long after construction of many other typically ‘classical’ buildings had ceased, and must have remained important to the ideal of a city in late Roman times. The substantial colonnaded cardo in Jerusalem, which was 22 metres (72 feet) wide, is considered to be a creation of the sixth century, improving on the earlier Roman street, which lacked columns. Recent work at Apamea has revealed the foundations of a Justinianic tetrakionion erected on the cardo. A major thoroughfare in Berytus had a late Roman phase, combining columns and capitals from different sources. These late creations might sometimes reuse old materials, but were attempts to maintain the grandeur of the public street.

Open Spaces
At the centre of the ideal Graeco-Roman city, preferably at or near the junction of the main streets, lay the agora or forum, the marketplace and principal public space of the city. Typically it would be an open area surrounded by colonnades fronting shops, and by civic buildings and temples, where administrative and commercial business was carried out. The position of such spaces within the Syrian cities varied, and in some cities there might be more than one. Apamea’s Antonine agora was an elongated rectangular space, 45 by 150 metres (50 by 164 yards), west of the city’s cardo, directly behind the temple to the city Tyche. For such a large city it was comparatively small, and the shops of Apamea’s huge porticos may have compensated. At Sebaste in Samaria a rectangular colonnaded agora was placed about 100 metres (109 yards) away from the main street, on a slope to the north. The so-called forum at Antipatris, however, lay directly on the city’s cardo maximus. The large agora at Philadelphia, identified as such by an inscription, was trapezoidal in shape, forming a monumental ensemble in the heart of the city along with the theatre and the odeum. Palmyra’s monumental agora was positioned south of the grand colonnade, and now lies up against the late Roman city wall, and at Damascus the agora is thought to have occupied an area in the north-eastern corner of the city, close to the northern gate (the modern Bab Touma) (fig. 105). Locations close to the city wall may have had a practical purpose, allowing animals to be corralled outside the urban area, near to the market but not within the city itself and without blocking the main thoroughfares when they were herded in for sale or slaughter.
Fig. 105. Plan of Damascus. Note the position of the agora, relative to the main streets and the principal sanctuary.
Palmyra’s agora is among the best preserved. It is a rectangular space, approximately 70 by 50 metres (76 by 54 yards), demarcated by a high wall fronted by colonnades. The columns bore statue brackets honouring Roman and Palmyrene officials, merchants, caravan leaders, military officers and senators. In the south-western corner is a rectangular room opening off the portico which either served as a ritual banquet hall or perhaps a bouleterion. At the back of the room is a niche, probably for the statue of a deity, and an altar.
South of the agora, and sharing a wall with it, was a long rectangular enclosure now known as the Tariff Court. It was originally entered through a massive porticoed vestibule on the south-western side, but with the construction of the later defensive wall this imposing entrance was blocked off. A direct link with the agora was provided by three monumental doors and eight windows piercing the common wall between them. It was from the entrance to this complex that the famous Palmyra tariff was recovered in the nineteenth century, and whence the space earned its name. The court lacked porticos, and it is perhaps through the monumental entrance that animals were led and civic taxes collected.
Sometimes the purely commercial activities such as the buying and selling of foodstuffs were given separate spaces. A good example of a market pavilion or macellum of this sort is to be found at Gerasa, lying just off the main cardo. The structure is rectangular, about 65 by 50 metres (71 by 54 yards). Booths flank the main entrance at the back of the colonnaded portico, and the main open space is octagonal, surrounded by a colonnade and with exhedras on four sides.
Open spaces provided opportunities for elaborate display, such as the monumental setting for sculpture on the western side of the agora at Philippopolis (above, p. 000), but they could also be used to provide a change of environment within the urban framework. At Petra a series of courts or open spaces lie to the west of the city’s main street. Three of these used to be interpreted as markets, an upper, middle and lower, but exploration of the lower market revealed a large pool with a pavilion at its centre. The current interpretation of this space is that this was a paradeisos, a park or garden in the heart of the city, probably connected with a palace complex. Gardens and parks were often associated with palaces, and there was a tradition of granting the public access to such spaces - at least for special occasions.
Other open public areas are more enigmatic. Oval spaces, fringed by colonnades, are known at Palmyra, Bostra and Gerasa. In all three cases they are located close to one of the city gates, at the beginning of a colonnaded street. Gerasa’s is the largest and best-known of these oval piazzas (fig. 106). It is more than 90 metres (98 yards) long by 80 metres (87 yards) wide and surrounded by an Ionic portico. A limestone podium nearly 10 metres (33 yards) square originally stood at the centre and probably supported a statue. The piazza’s form is in fact irregular: the eastern colonnade is not a perfect curve and to the south the space is truncated slightly by the terrace of the city’s sanctuary of Zeus. Nor is the pavement level, as it rises slightly to the north. While it is large enough to have served as a market or public meeting place, it does not appear to have functioned as one. A macellum stood a short distance to the north, along the main colonnaded street (see above). Some think that the piazza’s function may have been primarily aesthetic: it provided a suitably impressive open space before the sanctuary of Zeus and disguised a change of direction in the city’s main street (fig. 104). Its pavement covered a broad natural depression in the terrain, and this correction of topography may also have helped to influence its size and shape. A similar function may be posited for the much smaller and more regular example at Bostra, which also helped to disguise the fact that the city’s western gate and the main street were not perfectly aligned. The oval piazza at Palmyra stood just within the Damascus Gate in the south-western corner of the late city wall. The piazza, which is about 40 metres (40 yards) wide, does not help to correct any misalignment. The street that led from it is at more or less a right angle to the grand colonnade, and much shorter, but somewhat wider. Some sort of functional link between the gateways and the open spaces behind them is quite possible, and that link is reinforced by the discovery of a paved open area inside the Damascus Gate in Aelia Capitolina (Jerusalem), which is depicted on the mosaic map from Medaba (see chapter 8). This too, however, may have helped to disguise the angles of the streets that met it. Whether these spaces were erected purely for aesthetic reasons and optical effects or whether they also had some practical purpose remains uncertain.
Fig. 106. The oval piazza at Gerasa, seen from the Temple of Zeus. The great altar in the sanctuary of Zeus lies in the foreground. Beyond the piazza the cardo leads northwards; the macellum complex can be seen to the left of it, and beyond that, in the distance, the great Temple of Artemis.
Chief among the enclosed public spaces, often adjacent to the main open public space of the city, was the basilica. This was a covered public hall, a Roman adaptation of the Greek stoa. The earliest attested in our region is the Caesareum, built at Antioch under Julius Caesar, but nothing of this structure has been uncovered. The basilica at Sebaste is typical of such buildings. It is probably Severan, but is thought to have replaced an earlier structure, perhaps also of the first century BC. Measuring about 68 metres by 33 metres (74 by 36 yards), it was a rectangular building divided into a nave and two aisles by two rows of columns, with an apsidal platform containing seats at the eastern end of the nave. Basilicas functioned as courts of justice, offices for magistrates and places for commerce, but the term came to signify any large public hall with a roof. In late antiquity its meaning became more specific when the common basilical plan was adopted for Christian churches, and basilical halls erected during pagan times were sometimes converted into churches in the late Roman period. This is what appears to have happened to the elaborate complex called the ‘Seraya’ or ‘Seraglio’ at Canatha. Two second-to-third-century basilica structures, variously identified as meeting halls, a praetorium, or temples, were arranged around a colonnaded court so that the whole complex resembled an L. The larger of the two structures had a complex history, probably beginning in the third century AD when it consisted of a long colonnaded courtyard entered through a portico on the northern side. An apse and two flanking chambers were subsequently built at the southern end, though for what purpose is unknown. In the fourth or fifth centuries the courtyard was divided in two by a tall and elaborately decorated wall pierced by three doorways. The southern section was roofed and converted into a church, with the altar and a semi-circular bank of seats for the clergy being placed on the eastern side. To the north, the remaining unroofed part of the colonnaded courtyard was retained as a forecourt, and the smaller of the two ‘basilicas’ lay to the west of this. It too had an entrance porch on the north and an apse on the south, and like its larger counterpart was converted into a church and reoriented with an apse built on the east and a new entrance on the west. A third-century basilical hall at Bostra was likewise converted into a church, but as the building was already oriented east - west such drastic changes were not necessary.
Fig. 107. The ‘Seraya’ at Canatha. The dividing wall which partitioned the courtyard.

Entertainment and Assemblies
The spectacles of mimes and pantomimes, athletic and artistic competitions, chariot races and animal hunts did much more than entertain. In the theatres, stadia and hippodromes grand festivals celebrated the city, Greek culture, or Rome and the emperors. The buildings in which such events took place were also places in which the social order of the polis was affirmed. They were where officials like provincial governors hoped to win acclamations, and where the masses could demonstrate their approval or disapproval. Special seats were reserved in them for the prominent members of civic society, or for guild members, and means of entry to the buildings, as well as seating, was often divided according to class. 
Fig. 108. The basalt west theatre at Gadara, which could accommodate 3000 spectators.
Monumental theatres do not appear to have existed in Syria in Hellenistic times, even in the Macedonian foundations like Antioch or Laodicea, although a Hellenistic period stadium (running track) is known at Marathus. The lack of Hellenistic theatre buildings is surely of some cultural significance, but caution is required: those theatres partially cut into the hillsides in ‘Hellenistic’ fashion, such as at Seleucia Pieria or Apamea, may have had Hellenistic antecedents. However, there is as yet no evidence for them. Theatres could take up a lot of space within the urban fabric, and they are not uncommonly relegated to a peripheral position, particularly if the local landscape incorporated a slope which could usefully accommodate such a building. In general there is thought to have been a correlation between theatre size and the population of a city, although some cities seem to have unusually large ones in proportion to their urban area. Apamea’s is the largest known in Syria, with a cavea 139 metres (152 yards) in diameter, and is positioned on a slope on the western edge of the city. Free-standing theatres, built on level ground and with the cavea raised on vaults and arches in the ‘Roman’ tradition, were often only slightly smaller. The well-preserved example at Bostra had a cavea 102 metres (111 yards) across (colour plate 17), and the small coastal city of Gabala’s was 90 metres (98 yards; fig. 109). The theatre at Philippopolis is one of the more modest examples at 40 metres (44 yards). 
Fig. 109. The theatre at Gabala, a port city south of Laodicea. The building could seat about 7000.
Odeum is a term usually reserved for a smaller, theatre-like building, which was commonly roofed over. These were used for events like poetry recitals, or they could serve as a bouleterion (chamber for council meetings). In some places, such as Dionysias (Suweyda) or Philadelphia (Amman), the distinction between theatre and odeum was made clear by having two distinct structures, one large and one small. At Palmyra a small building close to the Tariff Court and the theatre contains a semi-circular tier of seating, and is thought to be the city’s council chamber. But in other places the distinction is not so clear. A theatre could serve as a bouleterion and also accommodate the people’s assembly, and small theatre-like buildings were sometimes attached to temple complexes. At Dura Europus a small, theatre-like structure in the Temple of Artemis may have served as a council chamber, but was probably also used for religious functions (Fig. 110). The unusual case of the theatre-like building inside the so-called Petra Great Temple is examined in chapter 9. Less unusual, but instructive nonetheless, is the north theatre complex at Gerasa (colour plate 19), the history of which demonstrates how ambiguous the distinction between theatre and odeum might be. The original building was an odeum, constructed in the reigns of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus (AD 161-9). The seats were inscribed with the abbreviated names of the voting tribes represented on the city council. In the reign of Severus Alexander (AD 222-35) the cavea was enlarged, doubling its capacity. But this transition from odeum to theatre does not appear to have been very successful, as external buildings had begun to encroach on it by the middle of the third century, and by the fifth it had ceased to function altogether.
Fig. 110. A small, theatre-like structure, part of a complex added in Roman times to the Parthian period Temple of Artemis at Dura Europus.
Other theatre-like buildings may been constructed for more specific purposes, such as Gerasa’s so-called festival theatre, built outside the city walls next to the reservoirs and probably used during the aquatic Maiuma festival. A similar function has been suggested for the curious rectangular ‘arena’ at Tyre (fig. 111). It is surrounded by cisterns and water pipes, and one suggestion is that the arena could be flooded for the Maiuma. However, the building does not show signs of adequate waterproofing, so it is difficult to see how this could have been achieved.
Fig. 111. The rectangular ‘arena’ at Tyre.
Theatres could accommodate gladiatorial shows and wild-beast hunts, but some cities had amphitheatres constructed for the purpose. An early multi-purpose building, more like a stadium than an amphitheatre in shape, has been identified as the ‘amphitheatre’ which, according to Josephus, King Herod built at Caesarea, although a later oval arena was constructed outside Caesarea’s walls. More common than amphitheatres are hippodromes for chariot racing, but in general only the more important cities had them. Some cities, such as Caesarea and Bostra, possessed a theatre, amphitheatre and hippodrome, in keeping with their pre-eminent positions in the provincial hierarchy. Others were endowed with more than one building of the same type: Gadara had two theatres within less than 200 metres (219 yards) of each other; Gerasa had three. Given that the populations of the cities were not always very great compared to the capacity of these structures, we might wonder whether some of them were superfluous. Many no doubt reflected the importance of the festivals that their cities hosted. Cities that were centres for the imperial cult, or those that celebrated major international festivals, would draw crowds and pilgrims from much further afield than the city and its hinterland. But we may suppose that civic benefactions sometimes led to the construction or enlargement of buildings which were unnecessary. The north theatre at Gerasa is a case in point.
Fig. 112. One of a pair of domed caldaria (hot rooms) of the so-called South Baths at Bostra. The walls are of masonry but the dome is made of rubble and mortar. The baths were constructed in the second century but extensively remodelled and enlarged in the early third.
Bath buildings were not always so visible within the urban landscape (they were appreciated for their interior rather than their exterior), and yet they were among the commonest public buildings of the Roman east, being found in villages as well as cities. Even in places like Kifrin on the middle Euphrates, where the Roman presence may have lasted less than two decades, we find a Roman bath, probably constructed for use by soldiers. The plans and features of these baths in Syria are typical of such buildings all over the empire. There may have been a trend towards a greater emphasis on sweat rooms at the expense of pools in late antiquity, but it is difficult to be sure whether this is a cultural change or a consequence of ease of access to available water resources. Many baths built in the early empire remained in operation into late Roman times, and even beyond. Provisions for plunge pools and hot water immersion are common in city baths, whose water supplies were assured by aqueducts. In those places where water was scarcer (the marginal zones, which were more densely occupied in late Roman times than earlier) architects had to adopt designs that were more sparing with water supplies. The beautifully preserved example from the village of Serjilla, a simple but monumental bath house dated to AD 473 (colour plate 25), had only modest water installations, and seems to have relied more heavily on sweat rooms, rather like Turkish baths. There were no aqueducts supplying the villages of the limestone massif, and water was obtained from a large cistern adjacent to the bath building.
The buildings of the monumental public city were a reminder of who controlled it, and who had the right to compete for attention in its society. Monuments gave their builders, as individuals, a place in the collective memory of the community which they helped to construct, and affirmed their importance in the social hierarchy. The monumental architecture of the Syrian cities was propagandistic in that it glorified not only the city but its builders too, and demonstrated their commitment to the elite cultural ideal of the Greek polis, a society in which all citizens were expected to perform their public duties. That the architecture could also be used to glorify the emperors was an added attraction, linking the donors and their city to the highest source of honour and power. With its emphasis on monumental public amenities the Graeco-Roman city might seem to express collective will and collective ideals, but it was really an environment celebrating the aspirations and social power of a relatively small proportion of the population. Yet excavation in Syria and the Near East has brought to light other notions of the ancient city which deviate from the public ideal, and which were the product of different social circumstances. We might therefore question whether the monuments represent the Roman city, or merely one of several alternatives.

Alternatives 
Dura Europus
Dura Europus was founded by Seleucus I. It was planned on a grid pattern, and like other Seleucid foundations had a prominent citadel, in this case on the side closest to the Euphrates (into which part of the citadel collapsed in the first century BC). The defences utilized the natural topography of the site, following a cliff overlooking the river and bordered to the north and south by deep wadis, so that only one side, which faced the desert, had to rely solely on man-made fortifications (fig. 17). The Seleucid city had an open agora at its centre, which by the time of the Roman occupation had become almost completely filled with shops (fig. 112b). The Romans appear to have turned the north-western part of the city into a military camp, a process which presumably involved dispossessing the inhabitants who lived there. A large palatial structure, with rooms arranged around two colonnaded courts, was built on the northern side of the city, overlooking the river. It is thought to have been the administrative centre for a Roman military official called the dux ripae (see chapter 10). Dura had no theatre, although an amphitheatre had been constructed over earlier buildings by AD 216, in connection with the Roman military camp established in the northern part of the city. There were no colonnaded streets (apart from one built along the main street of the Roman camp), but one feature of the Roman period was the erection by locals of short colonnades in front of their shops or around an open market in what remained of the Seleucid agora. Occupation by Rome did not lead to the construction of major public buildings (though bath houses were a Roman addition). By the time of the Sasanian sack in c. AD 256 the entire city of Dura was filled with buildings, mainly houses, and there were few open spaces within its walls.
Fig. 112b. Plan of Dura Europus.
Why did Dura Europus fail to acquire monumental buildings of the sort outlined in the preceding pages? Because it was not incorporated into the Roman empire until the 160s? This was the heyday of the monumental phase elsewhere. Because it was a small commercial ‘frontier’ city? Because it was ‘Oriental’? Something might be made of its social structure, which seems to have been rather heterogeneous. Dura had a Greek constitution, but it is possible that the councillors did not acquire the dominant role that they did elsewhere, and that the social hierarchy of the city was too fragmented for one group to achieve dominance. This was perhaps a city in which private strategies overcame the public. Without the relevant organizational capacities and a common driving force the Durenes constructed a city that served the needs of the individuals and groups within it rather than a monumental public one which exalted the ideals of a small group of highly educated councillors. In this way Dura perhaps retained the spirit and character of a Seleucid city of Syria into Roman times. The struggle for ownership of public space did not end there.

The Late Antique
Studies of the late Roman empire often draw a distinction between cities of the fourth, fifth and sixth centuries and those of the early empire. There are good reasons for doing so, because a discontinuity in civic life between the early and late Roman periods can be detected across the empire. Construction of civic monuments by local notables declined dramatically in the third century. In the eastern provinces, production of civic coinage declined and died out at about the same time. Contemporary with these developments was a disruption of long-distance trade. Some blame can be placed on the specific political and economic circumstances of the third century, but that is not the whole story. The Roman state itself seems - wittingly or unwittingly - to have contributed to a major cultural shift that eroded the old civic ideals of self-government. 
Though gradual, the evolution of the Syrian cities away from the Greek model of the polis is difficult to trace in detail. Many factors seem relevant to the slow degradation of the old civic ideals and the emergence of new senses of community. The pace and nature of change varied from place to place, but some general explanations for the change can be advanced.
The decline of the traditional forms of civic government was an important factor in the transformation, and this process began long before the fourth century. In the second century the Roman state, mindful that competition could result in over ambitious or superfluous projects, sought to control civic expenditure by appointing officials to oversee city finances. This may have curtailed the enthusiasms of civic elites, giving them fewer opportunities for self-advertisement. In addition there are signs that the old mode of civic finance through competition by civic elites and magistrates had become unsustainable by the later second or early third century. Providing for the cities had always been a burden on councillors, but wealthy citizens were becoming less and less enthusiastic about undertaking expensive projects, and both the poorer and some of the richer councillors now sought to escape their obligations. Certain citizens were legally exempt from holding office - in particular, senators, army veterans, civil servants and athletes - and others might try, however fraudulently, to join their ranks. Teachers and doctors were also exempt, but their number per city was limited by law. A conflict arose between the Roman authorities (who wanted the old system maintained) and the citizens (who were reluctant to hold office). The provincial governor might become involved, proposing candidates for the offices himself. The state recognized the problem, and legal rulings by emperors in the second and third centuries often increased the obligations, or changed the rules of eligibility to include people who had previously been exempt, in an attempt to maintain the fabric of civic life. When, in the early third century, a native of Byblus resident in neighbouring Berytus sought a ruling from the emperor Caracalla about his obligations, Caracalla overturned established procedure by stipulating that he was eligible in both cities. But increasing the obligations (and consequently the chances of punishment for defaulting) without increasing the honours hardly provided incentives. The onerous responsibilities of the civic elites to the empire included collecting taxes, recruiting for the army, and maintaining the roads and the public postal service. They paid for civic festivals and kept the baths running, and bought foodstuffs for the city. Building or repairing monuments still figured among the list of duties, but it was clearly an alternative that was turned to less frequently by the mid-third century. Opportunities for escape from these costly or tiresome obligations were seized upon. Imperial civil servants were exempt from their civic obligations, and many sons of the councillors went to study Roman law in centres like Berytus in order to gain entry to the civil service. This leakage of councillors from the cities was viewed as undesirable by the imperial government, which took various steps to curtail it, to the extent of introducing restrictions on their movements outside the city. 
During the fourth and fifth centuries the political power of the boule declined in some of the major cities, as the very people who had gained exemption from their obligations - natives who had acquired senatorial rank, and imperial officials - began to exercise their influence informally. A developing system of patronage, where powerful individuals offered ‘protection’ to weaker groups and individuals, subverted the traditional power structure of the city. These grandees used their connections to sway governors and other powerful figures, further disrupting the framework of self-government, and the Roman state seems to have acquiesced or even encouraged this development. The state accorded the grandees more and more political rights in their home cities, but they often had no specific spheres of responsibility in civic government. Their place in the administration was informal and ill-defined, but by the later fifth and sixth centuries these informal groupings, rather than the councils, appear to have been accepted by the state as the representatives of the cities. The presence among the grandees of other dignitaries such as bishops enhanced the standing of these informal groups. Gradually the Roman state introduced new offices to replace the traditional magistracies. These functionaries were usually locals and might be chosen by the councils, but they were not responsible to the councils. Instead they looked to the provincial governors, and over time the selection of officials devolved to the grandees, the bishops and Roman administrators instead of the councillors. By the early sixth century Anastasius appears to have taken measures to deprive the city councils of some of their important functions, including the collection of taxes, leaving them with various other unrewarding obligations. Between the third and sixth centuries the city councils sank from being the driving force of civic life to being an adjunct to it.
In one sense, nothing had changed, in that civic government still rested with the wealthy, but in other significant ways it had. The number of grandees was much smaller, and these very powerful people were more resistant to state coercion than the old councils had been. Because the grandees had no specified duties or obligations, there was no requirement for them to maintain their cities in the old manner. The drive towards monumentality could be maintained as long as civic power and wealth remained with the competing elites who were investing in a communal ideal, but it seems that the late Roman grandees did not necessarily share that ideal. Wealth was more often lavished on private residences, enhancing the status and dignity of the individual, rather than the community. Although public appearances were still important, some high-ranking officials did not have to appear in public if it was thought that the occasion would impinge on their high status. There are also signs that the imperial government was beginning to find cities and their councils less crucial to the fabric of power. As the responsibilities of councils declined, new arrangements had to be found for running the cities and the raising of state revenues. For their part, the grandees who constituted the government did not need a monumental city to bolster their identity and prestige: they did their most important business out of the public eye, behind closed doors, in the reception rooms of one of the high officials.
During the early empire the cities had funded themselves by traditional means: civic liturgies; revenues from civic estates; and local taxes, customs duties, various endowments and the interest on them. The civic estates were an important source of income, and their revenues, like other civic taxes, were administered by the city council. Nevertheless emperors were concerned that cities spend their revenues in an appropriate manner, and even in the early empire permission from the emperor or provincial governor often had to be secured before undertaking important works with civic funds. In the fourth century many of these estates were appropriated by the Roman state, which claimed two thirds of the revenue from them. These revenues might be spent on the relevant cities, but control of the money lay in the hands of the state, not the city councils. Other sources of civic income were treated in the same way. This seems to be an attempt by the state to regulate civic spending more carefully by taking the matter into its own hands. It would appear that any building projects undertaken by the cities using the third of the revenue that was left still had to be approved by the provincial governor, whose priorities might differ from those of the city councillors. Governors might spend money on new buildings, but equally they might show little interest in completing a building initiated by the previous holder of their office (although completed buildings presented current governors with opportunities for self-advertisement by having their names inscribed on them, regardless of who initiated the project). Constraints of this sort no doubt circumscribed civic pretensions to monumentalize, even though money from the provincial treasury was also available for approved civic building programmes (however, there may have been a tendency for state money to be directed towards provincial capitals at the expense of other cities). In the later fifth century it was decreed that the third due to the city was to be given to its civic curator or ‘Father of the City’, one of the new classes of officials, who was appointed to administer civic finances. New regulations evolved, which specified the areas of expenditure on which various civic revenues could be spent. For example, some revenues could be used only for restoring existing structures. This fairly inflexible system gave the cities greater control over their spending without increasing the revenue. Various other attempts to supervise the collection of civic revenues were instituted in the sixth century, but these seem to have been piecemeal and it is impossible to generalize from the evidence available.
The Greek civic festivals, which had been an important element of civic pride, died out during the course of the fourth century, along with gladiatorial shows. This left mimes, pantomimes and chariot races as the main forms of entertainment. These shows tended to be concentrated in the provincial capitals and larger cities, with the provincial governor presiding. They provided the masses with an opportunity for making their grievances and feelings public, and in this way provided a sort of replacement for the old people’s assembly of the polis. Because of the highly political nature of these assemblies, during the fifth century the Roman state took over responsibility for public entertainment, and what had formerly been a celebration of civic identity became an assertion of imperial rule. Even the few surviving great festivals, such as the games given by the Syriarch (originally the president of the imperial cult) or the Olympic Games of Antioch, were transferred to the care of imperial officials in the fifth century. All shows began with praise of God, and acclamations of the emperor, the governor and other officials, including the bishop. Complaints against emperors or officials were duly noted and sent to Constantinople. For an emperor, acclamations by the people became as important as those by the army, if not more so. The contracting organizations or factions that supplied the performers became state institutions, and their personnel became state employees. The two main organizations, named after the colours of popular circus teams, were the Blues and the Greens, and these had branches in most of the cities. In the theatres and hippodromes the two factions led the acclamations and formed the principal focus of civic politics for ordinary civilians. These factions evolved into powerful political forces in the empire, like the Church or army. They had no consistent political positions, but they could be manipulated by emperors, usurpers and grandees, and provided a potential source of opposition to established rule. Yet they could not be controlled, and were a cause of increasing civil unrest and violence during the sixth century. At the beginning of the seventh century opposition from the factions helped to bring down the emperors Maurice and Phocas. Supporters of the Blues in one city felt identity with Blues supporters in the other cities, creating empire-wide allegiance to the faction rather than a sense of identity with a polis. This does not mean, however, that individuals no longer identified with their cities, but the factions were important institutions competing with civic allegiances.
Fig. 113. The hippodrome at Tyre. A building adjacent to it on the western side contained a bath and belonged to the Blue faction; it may have been a ‘club’ house. Another similar building on the eastern side is thought to have belonged to the Greens.
Physical evidence for the transformation is easy to find. Monumental centres remained, and were repaired, remodelled, or built anew, but most investment was spent on city walls, roads and churches, and occasionally on colonnaded streets. Baths and aqueducts were maintained and sometimes new ones were constructed. Donations of public buildings by wealthy individuals were not unknown, but increasingly the church came to benefit at the expense of the city. Individuals sought to win the approbation of heaven, surrounded as they were by evidence that not even the greatest monuments could assure the benefactor a permanent place in the memory of the community. Some of the old monuments and public spaces became irrelevant, and were put to entirely different uses (fig. 114). Theatres and hippodromes often remained important, and some of the new cities of the period had theatres (for instance, Elusa), but council chambers and agoras might go out of use, and Christianity encouraged the abandonment and sometimes the destruction of temples. 
Fig. 114. Late Roman reuse of civic space: a public latrine, blocking the monumental entrance to the agora of Apamea. Communal seating once ran around the walls, above the channel which carried away waste.
Even the remodelling and reworking of public monuments suggest a discontinuity in collective memory between the monumental public city of the early empire and the late Roman city. Superfluous features were pulled apart and used to repair public and private buildings. At Apamea memory of the second-century benefactor Lucius Julius Agrippa was dishonoured in late Roman times when the inscription describing his benefactions was re-employed as a lintel for a window in the wall of his portico. The same went for another dedication to Julius Agrippa, the base of which was found reused as kerb stone in the cardo, following repairs to the stylobate at an uncertain date. The monument donated by the benefactor might prove ‘more lasting than bronze’, as Horace put it in his epitaph to his third book of Odes, but there was clearly no guarantee that posterity would remember the builder, who had not reckoned on a future change in society.
Private spaces within the city became more monumental as wealthy elites invested in sumptuous town houses. Eloquent testimony to this trend was unearthed in Berytus, where from the fourth century large residences with opus sectile and mosaic floors began to replace the smaller dwellings and workshops of earlier times. Equally striking is the use of mosaic pavement for public spaces (which might be inscribed with the name of the donor), as if décor once appropriate to interiors were appropriating the streets. Private interests began to encroach on public spaces, particularly in the second half of the sixth century and beginning of the seventh, suggesting no formal control of the civic form and an abandonment of the classical ideal. Even public structures began to deform the earlier schemes. In the later sixth century a church was built in Apamea’s cardo. At Scythopolis old colonnades came to be occupied by small shops and workshops. In some cities abandoned areas were converted into gardens and began to take on a rural aspect. All cities and their monuments suffer decay, but without formal instructions for upkeep or interventions by an organized civic authority or the imperial government, inhabitants found their own solutions. Regional diversity began to emerge once more from behind the homogeneous monumental façade of the Graeco-Roman city.
The mid-sixth century seems to have been a turning point. The literary sources show the late antique cities of the east as centres of Hellenism during the fifth and early sixth centuries, but it is unclear whether a formal Greek education continued to be highly desired among the elites after the mid-sixth century (see p. 000). Whether the cities ‘declined’, in that the populations decreased, before c. 600, is still debated, and it is difficult to find criteria by which one can effectively detect decline. Dated inscriptions show many buildings being erected between the later fifth and mid-sixth century, followed by fewer buildings in the second half of the sixth century. Nevertheless there is some evidence of new public buildings, and reconstruction work following earthquakes or Persian sackings, during this period. None of this, however, is an accurate gauge of urban growth or decline. In northern Syria the combined catastrophes of plagues, earthquakes, Persian invasions and mass deportations of populations are possible factors contributing to decline there, but the south was less heavily affected by some of the disasters that occurred during the course of the sixth century. In spite of this, similar patterns of urban change are found there too. At Gerasa rural-style houses came to occupy parts of the city, suggesting a dwindling population. Small buildings were constructed in the great oval piazza, and the city’s hippodrome was reduced in size and the abandoned sections were given over to habitations and other private uses, before the area was deserted altogether c. 550.
Cities that developed in late Roman times may give us a better idea of those things society considered essential than the old urban centres, whose landscapes and points of reference were still partly dictated by the decaying monuments of the past. In north-eastern Syria, where some of the best surviving examples of late cities or large settlements may be found, the emphasis is clearly on fortifications. This accords with the account of the historian Procopius, whose work On the Buildings describes many of the cities and fortifications of the region, attributing them to Justinian. Procopius’ attribution of so many projects to Justinian needs to be read with some scepticism, and archaeological studies indicate that instead it is earlier emperors like Theodosius II, Leo I and Anastasius who deserve the credit for many late Roman city walls in Syria.
Fig. 115. Plan of the walls of Sergiopolis (Resafa).
Sergiopolis (Resafa), a major centre of annual pilgrimage for many Syrians, became a city in 431. It owed its fame to the tomb of the local Christian martyr Sergius, executed during Diocletian’s reign. Where once there had been a fort for auxiliary cavalrymen a fortified city now developed. Procopius states that Resafa’s walls were of mud brick until the reign of Justinian, but this claim seems improbable. The city had been renamed Anastasiopolis in honour of one of Justinian’s imperial predecessors, and it is likely that Anastasius was responsible for a part, if not all, of the defences, which perhaps replaced some earlier, less substantial structure. The walls were constructed of gypsum and preserve an extraordinary array of towers: circular, rectangular, pentagonal and horseshoe-shaped (fig. 115). They followed a slightly irregular rectangular plan of about 550 by 400 metres (600 by 437 yards), and arcaded galleries ran along their interior, supporting a walkway along the parapet. There were four gates, each located along one of the four sides, but these do not appear to have linked axial main streets. The northern gate led on to a paved street (without colonnades), but the corresponding gate in the southern wall was offset from this, lying further to the east. Deep, vaulted underground cisterns occupied the south-western corner of the city (fig. 61). There are two large basilical churches. The smaller of the two was probably built in the late fifth century, but was subsequently extended to accommodate increasing numbers of pilgrims. It may have housed the remains of the city’s patron saint. The larger basilical church, which stands in the south-eastern corner of the city, was dedicated to the Holy Cross in the reign of Justinian (colour plate 27). There is also a smaller tetraconch church, similar in plan to those at Seleucia, Apamea and Bostra, which is thought to have been a martyrium to which St Sergius’ remains were transferred following an earthquake which damaged the smaller basilica. The city became an important centre for the Ghassanids and, after the Muslim conquest, it was patronized by the Umayyad Caliph Hisham, who was buried in the city.
Fig. 116. The walls of Zenobia, seen from the citadel, with the Euphrates beyond.
The nearby fortress of Zenobia (Halebiye), situated at the southern end of a gorge on the Euphrates, resembled a city but did not have full city status. The settlement is thought to have been located at the site of an earlier Palmyrene fortress, and received its name from the Palmyrene queen. Although there are a few typically Palmyrene tower-tombs to the north and south, what survives of the fortress is all late Roman. It was roughly triangular in shape - 385 by 550 metres (421 by 600 yards) - with its massive gypsum defences rising to a point on a high citadel; a three-storey structure identified as a guard house or praetorium stands just below the citadel in the northern section of the defensive circuit. These impressive fortifications are likely to belong substantially to the reign of Justinian. There was apparently an elaborate breakwater along the river, but this has been lost. Zenobia’s streets conformed to a grid pattern where the terrain permitted, and had an axial main cardo and decumanus. There are traces of short colonnaded porticos, but the streets were not provided with forests of columns in the fashion of the older monumental cities. Within the settlement were at least two churches, an open square identified as a forum, and a large bath building containing a palaestra. Thus Zenobia was indistinguishable in its monuments from other sites which had civic status, and scarcely much smaller. This seems to suggest that the physical distinction between settlements with and without civic status was even more blurred in late Roman times than it had been previously, and that the icons of civic form - walls, axial streets and so on - were no longer the preserve of places legally constituted as cities.
	The end of the ancient city in Syria and the Near East cannot be attributed to the Muslim conquest. The cities had already changed by the first half of the seventh century. Change was brought about from within, as the Roman state tried to regulate the political structure on which it relied so heavily for the collection of tribute and the maintenance of order. The councillors once provided the dynamic for the polis, and emperors still regarded it as the duty of councillors to provide for their cities, but their influence in civic affairs was increasingly overtaken by others whose responsibilities were less clearly defined. The imperial government found an alternative to councils in the wealthiest and most socially prominent residents, who might be persuaded to step in and assist in the running of their cities. But while the role of the grandees has been seen as an important factor in the revitalization of cities observed in the second half of the fifth century and running into the first half of the sixth, the very power of these individuals could constitute a challenge to imperial control. Furthermore, certain cities prospered or developed in the fifth and sixth centuries for reasons that had little to do with the old pecking-order of provincial cities. The presence of Christian shrines was sometimes a factor. Sites in Palestine received imperial support and benefactions because of their religious significance. The tendency to divide up the provinces into smaller units led to more cities gaining prominence as administrative centres. Provincial governors controlled much of what remained of civic finances and were often generous to the cities in which they resided. But the idea of controlled, monumental spaces gave way to what might be termed the anarchy of user sovereignty, just as the relationship between power and public performance or activity was severed when civic government passed to the grandees who operated out of the public eye. By the time of the Muslim conquest the classical city was already dead.
The excess of visibility generated by the classical moment of the Graeco-Roman city was the product of a climate peculiar to the Roman empire, in which the ideals of the Greek polis and the needs of the Roman government converged. Its manifestation in Syria was particularly spectacular, and is a demonstration of how useful Greek ideals were to the rule of both the local elites and Rome. As we will see, those ideals spilled over into other areas of social life as well.

8 Impure Genres

The social importance of Greek language and culture in Syria and the Near East during the period of Roman rule is undeniable. Although the greater part of the population of the Syrian region did not originate from Greece or Asia Minor, the majority of inscriptions are in Greek, mosaics and frescoes depict scenes from Greek myths, and writers from the area generally wrote in Greek on subjects which were common to the intellectual milieu of the empire. Greek culture, expressed in a wide variety of ways (communal life within a polis, literature, monumental architecture and inscriptions, religious imagery), is encountered practically everywhere. Under Rome, Syria became part of a broader Greek world. The extent to which this was the consequence of Syrians voluntarily adopting Hellenism rather than the wilful imposition of Greek culture by Rome is debated. The process of Hellenization had begun under the Seleucids and Ptolemies, but Rome’s use of the Greek polis as a tool for domination is likely to have had a profound effect as collective identities were reorganized around the new structures. The success of Roman rule depended on the degree of assimilation of local elites, and most elites adopted a strategy of collaboration with the imperial power. In the eastern empire the culture of assimilation was Greek, so in one sense becoming Hellenized was a way of becoming Romanized for these people. A cultural heritage based on the myths and literature of Greece was a loosely binding force providing the eastern empire with a common identity and symbolism.
Fig. 118. Palmyrene funerary portrait, inscribed ‘Aqmat, daughter of Hagagu, descendant of Zebida, descendant of Ma’an. Alas!’ She wears a cloak as a veil over her headdress. Late second century AD.
Yet when we turn to the material culture, not everything that we find is recognizably Graeco-Roman. The portraits of deceased Palmyrenes (fig. 118) contain numerous non-Greek elements, including short inscriptions in Palmyrene. Why did they choose to depict themselves in this way? With what culture or cultures did they identify? Which language was their mother tongue? Would they have described themselves as Syrians, Arabs, or just Palmyrenes? Or would they have considered themselves as Greek as people in Ephesus or Athens?
Some of these questions can be answered, albeit tentatively. It was possible for individuals from different cities to identify themselves as Syrian, as the funerary epitaphs of people from places as diverse as Ascalon and Nisibis demonstrate, but whether the term had any precise cultural meaning is less clear. Although Greek and Roman writers could describe certain people and their habits as ‘Syrian’, it is difficult for us to discern whether this means there was any universal ‘Syrian’ or ‘oriental’ culture. Strabo defined the Syrians by geography, as those ‘who extend as far as the Cilicians and the Phoenicians and the Judaeans and the sea that is opposite the Aegyptian Sea and the Gulf of Issus’. However, there ought to have been something characteristic of ‘Syrians’ other than geography for non-Syrians to ascribe this identity to them, even if Syrians did not consider themselves to share a common identity. Ascriptions by ‘outsiders’ are not without consequence, particularly if they are negative. In Roman literature Syrians and Syria were sometimes identified as a malignant or corrupting influence over the virtuous. Antioch, with its sundry pleasures, was frequently blamed for ruining the morals and sapping the energy of soldiers stationed there. Tacitus’ description of the death of Germanicus has a sinister Syrian setting, and Juvenal’s picture of Syrians as bawdy musicians and prostitutes suggests stereotypical ascription at work among the literate classes in late first- and early second-century Rome. For outsiders there were clearly ways of identifying ‘Syrians’, but we cannot say what the criteria were, just as insiders could use the term of themselves, but we do not know why they chose to do so.
Further uncertainty is furnished by the fact that the term ‘Syrian’ seems to have been interchangeable with ‘Assyrian’, and the two were used to describe people living on both sides of the Euphrates river, in both Mesopotamia and Syria proper. In the fifth century BC Herodotus could make a distinction between the two, but other writers did not. Lucian of Samosata (second century AD) refers to himself alternately as ‘Syrian’ or ‘Assyrian’, Philostratus (early third century AD) could call Antiochenes ‘Assyrian’, and the geographer Strabo associated what he knew of the Neo-Assyrian empire with ‘the Syrians’. He also reminds his readers that ‘Syrian’ could be used in a specific sense, in terms of the geography outlined above, and in a more general sense, meaning peoples in Mesopotamia and Cappadocia as well. This seemingly indiscriminate use of the two terms would appear to emphasize both the vagueness of a general Syrian identity as well as confirming the cultural and ethnic links between what the second-century historian Appian called ‘Syria this side of the Euphrates’ and another Syria to the east of the same river. But the possibility that ‘Syrian’ had specific meaning(s) cannot simply be brushed aside.
	Equally problematic is the term ‘Arab’, which often seems to have been used to mean ‘nomad’. Whether it also meant that the people in question were speakers of Arabic is not at all certain, though the use of personal and topographical names which have close affinities with Arabic in regions identified as ‘Arab’ may provide a clue. The rulers of Hatra in Parthian Mesopotamia were called ‘king of ‘Arab’ or ‘king of the Arabs’, and Greek sources sometimes refer rather vaguely to the region as ‘Arabia’. The title may simply refer to the lifestyle of the majority of the peoples over whom the Hatrene kings ruled, but that does not preclude a more profound ethnic, linguistic or cultural interpretation of ‘Arab’, where the rulers considered themselves to be Arabs. However, Hatra lies outside our region. At Palmyra and in its territory there are many Arabic personal names in the inscriptions, even though place-names are Aramaic or Greek, as are the languages used for the inscriptions. The deities worshipped in Palmyrene territory and in the city include several thought to be typically Arab. It is presumed that there were large numbers of Arabic speakers among the population of Palmyra and its hinterland, but that this language was not a written one. The Palmyrenes did not call themselves Arabs; like all good citizens of a polis, they were known collectively by the ethnic of their city, as Palmyrenoi. A similar situation may have prevailed among the Nabataeans. They wrote in Aramaic, but they are thought to have spoken Arabic. While there is no clear evidence that they called themselves Arabs, after the dissolution of the kingdom Nabataea became the Roman province of Arabia; perhaps, like the region around Hatra, because of the lifestyle of many of its people, but perhaps also because the inhabitants identified with the term. At its vaguest, the term ‘Arab’ was perhaps a term like ‘farmer’ or ‘merchant’, indicating the manner in which the people lived, rather than an ethnic and linguistic ascription, but it is worth recalling that folk taxonomies often revolve around ascription of a particular occupation or lifestyle to an ethnic group. And it was possible for someone to identify himself or herself as an Arab together with their polis, as in an epitaph erected on the Aegean island of Thasos by a man who identified himself as an ‘Arab’ from Canatha. As with the term Syrian, there seems to have been no one context for the use of ‘Arab’ in the Roman world, and consequently its meaning or meanings are difficult for us to divine.
Ancient writers often defined peoples by objective criteria: language, dress and customs and, normally, the assumption that a people could be associated with a particular space or territory. In this way they came close to some modern conceptions of ‘ethnicity’. This approach also allowed ancient writers to chart the survival or disappearance of peoples over time. A similar approach to culture has sometimes been used in modern times, assessing cultures and identities in terms of whether they fulfil a sort of ‘shopping list’ of criteria, but there are so many ways of thinking of culture and identity that we might wonder what purposes are served by conceiving of them in this limited fashion. People find varied ways of making themselves different: through language, dress, religion, art and architecture, use of domestic space, death rituals, landscape, food and traditions of dining, and attitudes to ‘dirty’ and ‘clean’ activities (to name some of the more prominent), so that no one set of criteria is likely to prove a general tool for analysis. The institutions through which identities are organized might be termed ‘cultures’, but individuals can belong to more than one institution (religion, city state, guild and so on) and thus can identify with more than one set of codes and symbols (on this, see below).
	The three principal geographical zones of Syria and the Near East - the densely populated coastal regions, the more sparsely settled interior beyond the mountain ranges, and the steppe and desert - correspond roughly with the three zones of material culture. It is not hard to see why this should be so. The coastal region, where contacts and imports were easiest, is the most Hellenized, sharing much of its material culture with neighbouring regions of the east Mediterranean littoral. The second zone shares many forms with the first, but local styles and genres are more prominent. The presence of the Roman military also seems to have a stronger impact on the cultures of the interior. Finally, in the steppe and desert zone, the material culture retains many Graeco-Roman traits but also looks east, extending beyond the frontier of the Roman empire. 

Hellenism as a Source of Social Power
Greek cultural imperialism was already evident in the Hellenistic period, with the renaming of cities and Greek appropriation of other people’s histories. (The Jewish historian Josephus wrote in the first century AD that the Greeks were able ‘to make even the glory of the past their own’.) Under Rome this process of reconfiguring memory to suit Greek tastes continued, and many manifestations of local culture appear to have been subsumed, although some cultures, most notably the Jewish, were maintained through varying degrees of resistance. 
Just as the polis was a crucial element in the organization of administrative power in Roman Syria, so Greek culture was crucial to social power. Deprived of independent political expression by Rome, the elites turned to Hellenism as an expression of cultural independence. This was partly expressed by the civic institutions and buildings discussed in the preceding chapter, but Greek culture was also a highly literary one. From approximately the mid-first century AD to the mid-third century, the educated elites found a way of creating a common culture for themselves and at the same time distancing themselves culturally from the masses, who spoke either uneducated Greek or Semitic languages. The name given to this cultural movement or institution, which became a unifying force among Greek-speaking elites in the Roman empire, is the Second Sophistic. The term was coined by Philostratus (c. AD 170-249), one of its greatest proponents. The Second Sophistic tried to imitate the literary standard of Athens in the fifth and fourth centuries BC. To speak and write Atticizing Greek required a lengthy education, which ensured that only the elites could participate in the movement, and speakers of languages other than Atticizing Greek were excluded as inferiors. It was a kind of cultural club open to all who could demonstrate their paideia, their ‘education’ or ‘culture’, which necessarily meant Greek education and culture, particularly training in classical literature and morals. Elites of non-Greek origin could participate, as long as they adhered to the social and cultural norms of the movement, and the less well-educated could aspire to share its values. Even though they lived in the Roman empire, these elites looked to the Greek past for their cultural and intellectual life. It was a means of preserving a special identity in a world dominated by Rome. Because it was a way of life, the movement was highly influential on other forms of art apart from literature, as we will see. 
The Second Sophistic cannot be considered anti-Roman, because Greek culture was highly regarded by the centre of power. The movement profited from Philhellene emperors and flourished in the prosperous environment of the empire in the late first and second centuries. Atticizing Greek was used in a variety of elite activities, from civic laws and decrees to literary, technical and philosophical works, and to public speaking, where one’s performance would be judged by one’s peers. Rhetoric was extremely important, not only for display of one’s learning, but because the best speakers would be sent on embassies to governors or emperors where, if their performances proved suitably impressive, they could win honours and benefits for themselves and their cities. Eloquent speakers could hope to tour cities, giving speeches, for which they were rewarded with money (the second-century Syrian novelist Iamblichus, author of A Babylonian Story, is supposed to have gained his paideia for the purpose of making a living). They might win privileges such as citizenship of other cities, and could hope to enter the service of powerful Roman officials or even the emperors. At home, the sense of cultural superiority helped elites maintain administrative and economic power over the cities. Although they looked to the past as a source of authority and inspiration, the Second Sophistic’s proponents were concerned mainly with preserving their cultural and political hegemony, not with conjuring up a pre-Roman fantasy world.
The colonial movement of the Hellenistic period gave many Syrian cities a legitimate Greek past, though this might not be as ‘pure’ as the histories of cities in Asia Minor or Greece itself. Even so, it was not only the highly Hellenized cities of the coastal regions that produced writers of the Second Sophistic. Samosata in Commagene was the home of the essayist Lucian, and two novelists are associated with Emesa: Iamblichus, mentioned above, and Heliodorus, author of An Ethiopian Story. Greek ancestry was not as important as Greek education. Nevertheless the Greek-speaking elites of these non-Greek cities might labour under the stigma of barbarism in the eyes of ‘purer’ Greeks. There are hints in his writings that Lucian, although very learned, may have failed to satisfy the highly sophisticated Greeks of Asia Minor and Greece itself, and instead found fame and fortune in the western, Latin-speaking half of the empire, particularly in Gaul. There are enough bitter statements in his satirical writings to suggest that his Syrian background was an impediment in ‘old’ Greece, and that his performance was not quite sufficient for his peers there to recognise him fully as one of their own. Philostratus snobbishly stated that he felt like laughing when Caracalla honoured an ‘Arab’, Heliodorus (who may be the novelist of that name). 
Hellenism can hardly be regarded as a superficial ‘veneer’ disguising a native substratum. It dominated the elite system of values, at least from the mid-first century AD onwards, and was an identity elites could adopt among peers and social inferiors. Hellenism’s most prominent manifestations - civic architecture and coinage, and literary works - are all examples of elite culture. That the elites identified with the dominant culture of the empire should not surprise us, given the importance of status in the formation of identity. Studies of encounters between other imperial powers and local elites have shown how co-operative elites commonly adopt the traits of the external authority, sometimes leaving the majority, the ‘subdominant’ or ‘subordinate’ group, culturally or ethnically invisible. Here, however, it was ancient cultural authority of Greece rather than the contemporary political dominance of Rome that provided the inspiration.
Some scholars have suggested an even more aggressive policy on the part of Rome itself, involving the active suppression of native cultural institutions in favour of civic Hellenism. In northern Syria, the most Hellenized region, Greek is always the dominant language in the Roman period, perhaps suggesting that any suppression will have occurred in Hellenistic times, but in the south we can see cultural and linguistic changes taking place during the Roman era, and these do indeed coincide with significant political changes. The Babatha archive covers the transition from the Nabataean kingdom to the Roman province of Arabia. This shows that Nabataean was the dominant language until the Roman annexation, and thereafter the dominant language was Greek (although a number of the post-annexation documents are in Aramaic). In Judaea the papyrus documents show that Aramaic remained in common use in Judaea down to the end of the Bar Kokhba war, but thereafter Greek becomes predominant in what was the new province of Syria Palaestina. At Palmyra the deliberate use of Aramaic script for monumental inscriptions in a Hellenizing civic environment was a distinct cultural practice that remained vigorous right down to the fall of the city to Aurelian in 272. A few documents can be dated to the period immediately after the fall, but within a generation everything that was distinctive about Palmyrene civic culture seems to have vanished. There is something to be said for the view that this was the result of deliberate suppression and the ‘political imposition of Hellenism’, rather than evidence for the frail nature of Palmyrene culture. After centuries of Palmyrene control on behalf of Rome, the steppe now came to be occupied by regular Roman troops, and Semitic inscriptions in the steppe, in Palmyrene, Safaitic and the Thamudic scripts of northern Arabia, all appear to decline and disappear following Palmyra’s defeat.
The case of Judaea in the first and second centuries, where we have an unusually full record, illustrates some of the complex tensions that might be produced when imperial Hellenism met a local non-Greek culture. The Greek cities had welcomed Pompey as a liberator from Hasmonaean rule, and the Romans had generally supported the development of poleis in the region. The positions taken within Jewish society with regard to Hellenism varied greatly, and it was difficult in the context of the Roman empire to avoid or reject it altogether without opposing Roman rule. The distinction was in large part class-based, with the wealthier Jews tending to be more receptive to Hellenism. Herod was a great Hellenizer and founder of cities (although Greek cities also petitioned the emperor for their right to freedom and autonomy from the kingdom). He instituted Greek festivals, in which Hellenized Jews competed, but at the same time other Jews sought to maintain clearer cultural boundaries by criticizing or rejecting various aspects of Hellenism, which sometimes brought them into conflict with the authorities. The problems in first-century Judaea cannot be reduced to the simple opposition of Judaism and Hellenism, but imperial support for Hellenizing elements of the population, and Greek support for Rome, exacerbated the situation. In Caesarea under Nero a debate over sovereignty led to rioting, the Jews claiming the city was Jewish because the founder was a Jew, and the pagans pointing to its Greek pagan monuments as evidence that it belonged to them. The Hellenizing Nero ruled in favour of the pagans, which led to further rioting which preceded the Jewish revolt. Hostilities between Jews and gentiles spread, leading to wholesale massacres. In the Jewish revolt the groups opposed to Graeco-Roman influence created an independent Jewish state, minting coins with Palaeo-Hebrew inscriptions and non-Greek designs (fig. 181.1), and using their own era. Their successes against the Roman state encouraged most of the Jewish elites to throw in their lot with the rebels, although the polis of Sepphoris, whose population appears to have been mainly Jewish, opposed the revolt, issuing coins calling itself Eirenopolis (‘Peace-city’) Neronias Sepphoris, leaving no doubt about where its sympathies lay. The Roman destruction of the Temple, the focus of Jewish worship, and the transfer of the Temple-tax to Capitoline Jupiter, was a manifest act of physical and symbolic violence on the part of the state against the Jewish faith. Galilee then became the centre of Judaism, but during the second century its main cities, Sepphoris and Tiberias, issued Greek coins with Hellenized pagan images. In the opposition between the heavily Hellenized cities and a predominantly Jewish countryside during the first centuries BC and AD we appear to have a classic case of dominance and resistance, but the interplay and conflicts between Hellenism, Roman imperialism, Judaism and local paganism were extremely complex. On the positive side, aspects of Jewish culture and religion could be expressed in terms comprehensible to Hellenism, and Greek literature could influence Jewish. The great first-century historian Josephus used Greek to describe Jewish history and culture to an educated, non-Jewish audience. The wall paintings of the third-century synagogue at Dura Europus are an interesting blend of Judaism and Hellenism, as are the mosaics from several late Roman synagogues (see below). But we might wonder how strong Greek influence in Judaism would have been if Judaea and Palestine had not been part of the Roman empire.
Consequently it is difficult to disentangle the adoption of Greek cultural traits from Hellenistic and Roman imperialism. However, some see Hellenism as a more deep-seated cultural force, which bound peoples of diverse origins together, even in late Roman times, after many of the traditional expressions of Hellenism (Greek cultural festivals, monumental buildings) had declined or disappeared. Greek elite culture was closely connected with pagan cult, so that by the fourth century Hellenism had come to be equated with pagan beliefs, and because of this there was much less imperial support for Greek cultural and intellectual life in a Christian empire. Greek-speaking Christian inhabitants of the empire came to call themselves Rhomaioi rather than Hellenes. In spite of this, a literary education and reference to pagan myths remained the mark of a cultured person in Christian times and, because the church did not offer a schooling in grammar and rhetoric, elite education was still provided by ‘Hellenes’. The mosaics of Medaba, mostly of the sixth century, include images of Aphrodite and Adonis, Achilles and Heracles, and a procession of Dionysiac revellers, and the sixth-century mosaics from Sarrn in Osrhoene in Mesopotamia depict figures from Greek myths. Such images could perhaps be read as allegories for Christian themes and morals (descriptions of paintings and sculpture had long been used to illustrate moral virtues), and pagan imagery could be deployed in public speech by learned Christians, evidently divested of any religious meaning. In his World Chronicle the sixth-century Antiochene writer John Malalas set himself the task of integrating Biblical events, Greek myth and Persian, Greek and Roman history into a continuous narrative, where Greek myth was reinterpreted and incorporated into a new, ‘Byzantine’ view of the past. Hellenism could provide a symbolic framework in early and late Roman times, bonding diverse elements of Syrian culture together, and allowing Syrians of different backgrounds to recognize and interpret those facets of culture which were not their own, but this symbolic framework was largely constructed in the service of power. When Roman rule came to an end in the seventh century, the loss of most of these Greek cultural traits was rapid, as the inhabitants aligned with different symbols of power. Indeed, there are signs that Hellenism was already in decline within the Roman world by the later sixth century, as Justinian and his successors introduced more and more laws against paganism, including forbidding ‘Hellenes’ to teach.
The benefits of a classical education are summed up in the figurative panel of an early fourth-century mosaic from Philippopolis: the personification of Euteknia (Having Fair Children) seated between Philosophia and Dikaiosyne (Righteousness). If you wanted your children to count among the beautiful people of the Roman east, you had to give them the right sort of education. The message was perhaps all the more significant here, at the northern edge of the Hauran, not far from the eastern steppe and desert where nomads had once taught themselves a south Arabian script and scribbled graffiti on rocks to pass the time (see below), seemingly oblivious of the high culture of Hellenism.

In Search of Syrians and Near Easterners
A criticism of the interest in Hellenism is that it tends, by concentrating on literature and texts, to privilege aristocratic high culture and its traditions over the ‘people without history’. In the elite environment of the early empire the people without history are indeed difficult to see, except when they are mentioned in passing or when they excited the attention of those engaged in brief characterizations of peoples and places. But people without history are not people without culture, unless we claim that their cultures were comprehensively obliterated by Hellenism. What sort of Hellenism, if any, might we credit to the people living in Mesopotamia and by the Euphrates, identified by Strabo as ‘Arabian Skenitai (tent-dwellers), who are separated into small dynasties in places barren through their waterlessness, who cultivate either not at all or little, and are nomads having all sorts of livestock, especially camels’? What traditions did they have, and what past(s) did they look to? Strabo’s description is of a non-agrarian culture very different from his own, and which perhaps looked more to the east, to Mesopotamia, and south, towards the Arabian peninsula, than to the Mediterranean world. And was the public use of a Semitic language at Palmyra, and non-Greek modes of dress there, merely a veneer for an otherwise thoroughly Hellenized civic culture, or do these speak to us of a profound, non-Greek consciousness? In late antiquity a stratum of lower-class speakers of Semitic languages becomes more visible, and Christianity seems to have given country folk and non-Greek speakers a chance of social advancement which Hellenism had denied them. Various figures, even including a few bishops, were non-Greek speakers, or at least they preferred not to be seen speaking Greek. Does this fact vindicate the view that Hellenism was inextricably linked with social elitism? 
The criticism that much of the evidence privileges high culture is partly true, but not wholly accurate. The Greek language and Greek cultural forms and practices penetrated beyond the high culture of the cities into rural environments as well, and in such places it is difficult to assert that in every case we are looking at the activities of an educated elite. In many instances we may be looking at cultural choices made by individuals within a Hellenizing framework of power relations, with cities acting as a focus for a corporate, Hellenized identity, but that is rather hard to argue in the case of personal letters in Greek, such as those from the Euphrates archive. The spread of cultural conformity among the elites of the Syrian region could affect the masses. However, resistance to Hellenism might be implied by the continued use of Semitic names for villages, and the persistent identification of villagers with these villages (chapter 5). But if Greek became the common language of inscriptions in the villages and at rural religious sites, does this imply a fuller and deep Hellenization of the rural populations, and the successful imposition of a dominant culture and identity at the expense of others? It is very difficult to answer such important questions, given the current limited state of the evidence.
The population of the Roman Near East was predominantly Semitic. The descendants of Macedonian settlers and other Greeks who colonized Syria are likely to have formed an important component of the ruling class in certain cities, but not in the cities which were constituted under Roman rule. In the case of Dura Europus, a Seleucid foundation, the late second-century-AD annexation of the city to the Roman empire may even have changed the demographic composition of the ruling class of the city in favour of Semitic people, although it may not have affected the Hellenized nature of the corporate governing body itself. Documents show that under Parthian rule the city was controlled by a Greek-style civic elite with Greek or Macedonian names, who styled themselves Europaioi (Europaeans). Following the Roman annexation, and with the presence in the city of Roman soldiers, the Semitic name for the settlement, Doura (‘Fortress’), starts to appear in documents, and people with Semitic names appear among the civic elite of Europaioi. The fact that we cannot be certain what this change means, whether it was encouraged by Rome, or whether it signifies the assertion of local culture detectable in other parts of the Euphrates region during the later second and early third centuries, illustrates some of the difficulties encountered while searching for Hellenizing and non-Hellenizing influences.
The evidence for non-Greek cultural traits varies from region to region, and across time. The north-west was highly Hellenized, and there is little evidence of any distinctive non-Greek traits there in the early empire. Some sort of communal identity among the Commagenians of the first three centuries AD might be implied by the use of the Greek term ‘of the Commagenians’ on royal and later civic coins of the region, but it in far from clear whether this identity was expressed in any other ways, still less that there was a distinct Commagenian culture. Across the Euphrates in Mesopotamia there are stronger indications of non-Greek cultures and identities, and in the writings of Lucian there are hints that people from the other side of the river really were ‘barbarian’ for most Greek-speaking elites of the Roman world. The material culture of Palmyra mixed Mesopotamian, local and Greek more visibly than some other cities. In the south Hellenism seems to have been weaker than it was in the north, at least until the second century AD. The Decapolis cities provided a Hellenized environment in the south, but even there other expressions of identity have been detected. The patterns change through the centuries. Attempts by some communities to recollect an ethnic or non-Greek cultural past could be survivals, or revivals, or even inventions, but often the nature of the evidence does not allow us to be sure. For reasons that are not at all clear, coins of the small city of Caesarea ad Libanum, at the northern edge of the Lebanon mountains, chose to identify the city with its Ituraean past, even after it became a Roman colony in the third century AD. The continuity or revival of a Phoenician identity, for which there is more evidence, will be examined below. 
	Any search for Syrian and Near Eastern cultures runs up against the more general problem of defining what culture is, how identities are formed, and what we intend by terms like ‘Hellenization’, ‘Graeco-Roman’, and ‘non-Greek’ (which imply meaning through the deployment of specific styles or languages). Are cultures to be regarded as mutually exclusive collectives, each defined by unique sets of traits, or are they muddled, ‘impure’ genres? We tend to celebrate cultural integrity and difference, rather than undifferentiated hybrids, but cultures often refuse to be pigeonholed so easily. Identity and culture are clearly not the same thing, so being able to distinguish one does not necessarily reveal the other. People may identify themselves with more than one culture. The individuals that constitute a particular community may assume many different identities, cultural, political, social and ethnic, even to the point of contradiction. They commonly belong to more than one institutional or corporate body (for example, city, tribe, cult). Inscriptions and literary texts include statements by individuals about their identity, but much of this evidence does not lend itself to any coherent analysis. Self-ascriptions or self-categorizations are acts of legitimation within a specific context, which means that statements of identity by a single individual can vary depending on the situation. Thus the self-ascription of an individual cannot be taken at face value; the context must also be recovered and understood. Without their contexts subjective statements of this sort are poor raw materials for objective analysis. Also we must never underestimate the role of authority in constructing identity. Imposing common ways of thinking and acting and common viewpoints are ways of limiting deviant behaviour and ensuring continuity of established social norms. Conformity and continuity may be the symptom of a rigidly controlled or even oppressive social structure. Because of this some oppositional identities may rarely be given opportunity for material expression.
	Social structure is an extremely important generator of identities, individual and communal. Without identities, there are no communities, and political communities are important institutions for organizing a sense of belonging. So too are religious institutions. One of the most powerful communal forces at work in the region was the Greek-style city state, in which citizenship might be organized with or without regard to ethnicity. Citizenship required the suppression or subordination of other identities which might compete with a sense of belonging to the city. But this does not mean that a new citizen automatically lost all other identities, or that other identities might not come to the fore outside the context of civic duties. A communal past could be created to provide appropriate origins for both cities and other groupings of people, and methods of transmitting a sense of belonging could be instituted through systems of instruction, celebrations and pageantry. Links with central powers such as Rome or the emperors gave the identity of the institutional community a wider value and legitimation. For most groups there was nothing to be gained in constructing the identity of the community entirely in opposition to the dominant culture, but there were ways of affirming a regional or local distinctiveness by appealing to various other institutions that lay outside the framework of the dominant symbolic system. 
If Hellenism was truly allied to social power, and widely adopted by the ruling classes of the cities, any expression by civic elites using non-Greek symbols must be significant. A clear example is that of Palmyra, where monumental inscriptions in the Palmyrene script were commonplace and a highly visible proclamation of difference from other cities. Numismatists have drawn attention to the numerous designs on civic coinage which give prominence to non-Greek deities and images, most of which coincide with the period of the Second Sophistic. Is this nothing more than the product of intellectual ‘antiquarianism’ and curiosity about quaint local religions, or a way for the elites to use religious institutions to subvert Hellenism? Rather than discussing the question here we will return to it in chapter 9; instead it is worth devoting a little space at this point to how the elites of the Syrian cities used coin types to recall their different pasts, not all of which were Greek. 
Fig. 119. Reverse of a coin of Geta (AD 208-11), from an uncertain Decapolis city (Abila?). Alexander the Great and Seleucus Nicator shake hands.
The designs on coins often convey to us the same sorts of information as monuments, and some would like to see coin types as monuments. A recurring theme is one celebrating the origins of the community, which from our point of view may be either ‘mythical’ or ‘historical’. In Syria, as elsewhere, this might mean depicting the appropriate founder, particularly a Greek or Macedonian one, even when the city had a history extending back before the Hellenistic period. Seleucus Nicator, who founded many cities in the region, appears to have been the focus of various civic founder cults; Alexander the Great was another choice. One Decapolis city opted for both Alexander and Seleucus (fig. 119): there is no need to suppose that the image on the coin, of the founders shaking hands, reflects any real historical moment. Some see the neglect of any pre-Greek history as evidence that it had been forgotten, but it may be deliberate rejection of a known past which did not serve the interests of the Hellenized citizen community. What is interesting is that some communities did choose to depict a pre-Greek or non-Greek past. The Phoenician cities of Berytus, Sidon and Tyre issued types which refer to a time before the Macedonian conquest, back to the age of Aeneas, the ancestor of the Romans, and the Phoenician Dido. Given that Berytus was a centre for the study of Latin letters, such types might even be seen as a snub to Hellenism; the Roman descendants of the Trojan Aeneas were, after all, the conquerors of the Greeks. Even after the elevation of Tyre to the status of a Roman colony, we are reminded of a distant past: the Ambrosial Rocks from which the islands of Tyre formed; the discovery of the purple dye of the murex snail; Cadmus founding Thebes, or giving the alphabet to the Greeks; Dido in a galley, or founding Carthage; or her brother and enemy Pygmalion, identified as such not by a Greek or Latin inscription, but by one using Phoenician letters (fig. 120). Even if Phoenician was no longer spoken, the lettering was presumably recognizable as a symbol of Tyre’s non-Greek origins. These images, of course, understand Tyre’s Phoenician past in terms of Greek and Latin legend (except perhaps the image of Pygmalion, which remains unexplained), but this need come as no surprise. History is always being rewritten to serve the interests of the present. We do not have to reject these Graeco-Phoenician images as inauthentic because they are hybrid, or because they do not refer to a ‘real’ past. They reminded the citizens of the Phoenician cities of their difference from others, even if they used ‘the powerful lens of Hellenism’. The Phoenician ‘historical’ types on coins begin to multiply at about the time that Philo of Byblus wrote his work the Phoenicica (late second century). This description of Phoenician cultural institutions supposedly drew on an ancient text in the Phoenician language by a certain Sanchuniathon. Philo’s work contains so many Greek elements that his veracity on this point may be doubted, but authenticity is not as important to us as the interest expressed on the part of a Greek-educated individual in the pre-Hellenic culture of his homeland. The elites of the Phoenician cities found a way to stay or become Phoenician within the framework of Rome and Hellenism. The conscious display on coins of a Phoenician past in the second and third centuries is also particularly significant, when most cities looked to a Greek or Macedonian past if they could.
Fig. 120. Coin of Gordian III (AD 238-44) from Tyre. The reverse shows Pygmalion, the brother of Dido, with a group of four stags, identified by an inscription beneath in Phoenician letters. The choice of language and design evokes a pre-Hellenic past, but although written in Phoenician characters the name Pygmalion is a Greek version of the Phoenician name Pumiathon. The use of the Greek version here suggests that Phoenician was no longer a spoken language at this date.

Signs of Culture
Rather than trying to define cultures by sets of unique characteristics, or ‘shopping lists’ of criteria to be fulfilled, an alternative approach is to view them as codes and rules for using those codes. This has the advantage of drawing together archaeological notions of material cultures with broader definitions. Cultures are about making the world meaningful in particular ways, and doing particular meaningful things, so to study culture is to study the conveyance of meaning, and cultures can be defined by the different ways they give meaning to the world. Thus cultures are distinguished not so much by the different things they produce as by the way in which the things are ‘read’ by both insiders and outsiders. Readings may not be identical, and therefore there is no single meaning for a thing. The code is a set of cultural signs and the rules for using those signs. Codes incorporate objective criteria: language, customs, landscape, objects and dress, controlling the way the cultural signs are received and which significations are given priority (and therefore given most meaning). Seen like this, the Second Sophistic is a culture which made itself distinct from the cultures, Hellenized and otherwise, of the masses, and which adopted a particular position within a social framework through the deployment of specific codes governing meaning. To understand the meaning of a sign is to claim expert knowledge of that culture, to be able to read its codes, the systems of signs and symbols which the culture employs. It is not a claim to be made lightly. Signs which properly belong to the realm of the aesthetic or social can have multiple meanings, and the temptation to treat them as if they were logical, with a single, denotative meaning, should be avoided. It has been suggested that the more meanings a sign has, the more powerful it is. Multiple readings permit the readers to find what is important for them about the sign. But meanings must be shared among readers for the sign to be communicable, and institutions/cultures help to create and supervise shared meanings. 
	The use of characteristically ‘Graeco-Roman’ or ‘Hellenising’ things in Syria does not automatically imply assimilation (that is, the things had precisely the same meanings in Syria as they did elsewhere), still less a total loss of any other identity by those who adopt them. A cultural sign may be appropriated from one culture by another. In this case the sign is acquired, but the meaning is changed. If the Romans could manipulate Syrian cultures, Syrians might have been able to manipulate Graeco-Roman symbols. It has been suggested that such a process may be at work in the images of the third-century Syrian usurper Uranius Antoninus, who issued coins at Emesa c. AD 253-4 (fig. 121). Although Uranius is portrayed with imperial regalia, it is suggested that these symbols of power were not intended as a challenge to the legitimate emperor, Valerian. Instead Uranius appropriated them to emphasize his importance on a local or regional scale. This interpretation is not secure, and it may well be that Uranius intended his symbols of power to mean ‘emperor’, but the idea does illustrate the concept of sign appropriation rather well, and in this case it could have been a particularly hazardous form of appropriation. Misunderstanding is a symptom of sign appropriation; the fate of Uranius Antoninus is unknown, as is Valerian’s reading of the imagery (the obscurity of Uranius’ end could perhaps be read as evidence of Valerian’s reaction). 
Fig. 121. Coins of Uranius Antoninus, usurper in Syria, c. AD 253-4. 121.1. Gold aureus. The obverse shows Uranius wearing a laurel wreath, but the Latin inscription simply gives his names, without imperial titles. However, the reverse, which shows the sacred baetyl of Elagabal between two parasols, reads ‘Preserver of Augustus’. It is likely that this refers to Uranius as Augustus rather than Valerian. 121.2 Silver unit (‘post-reform tetradrachm’). The obverse of this coin gives Uranius imperial titles in Greek. The reverse type, showing a camel with a saddle, is particularly enigmatic. The camel was used as a symbol of Arabia on some coinages, but here it might refer to a Syrian camel-riding god.
It is also possible to combine cultural signs to create new meanings. In such cases it may be pointless to argue about whether one set of signs is a ‘veneer’ and the other ‘real’. Consider the Temple of Bel at Palmyra (fig. 122), which is sometimes considered to be a good example of a Hellenized veneer masking an indigenous form. It has a portico of Corinthian columns and triangular pediments typical of what we understand as a ‘classical’ or ‘Graeco-Roman’ temple. The central pair of columns on the colonnades of the short north and south ends of the building are spaced slightly further apart than the rest - a symmetrical feature common in Greek and Roman temples, and framing the position of the door at one end. The formal appearance of a ‘classical’ temple is respected, and yet the door to the Temple of Bel is located at neither end, but asymmetrically in the western side. This unusual arrangement accommodated two chambers within the temple, one at the north and one at the south end, making the interior arrangement alien to the classical form. The pediments form the façade of a flat, not a pitched, roof (as would be expected in a classical temple), and four towers sprout from the corners of the cella. Finally, the roof is bounded by a row of merlons or ‘crow-steps’, decorative motifs which are not part of the conventional classical repertoire. 
Fig. 122. The Temple of Bel at Palmyra. 122.1. Plan of the temple. The building had a complex history of construction, and originally may have been planned as a more ‘conventional’ temple. 122.2. View of the temple from the east. Note the ‘Assyrian’ merlons above the entablature, the windows in the cella walls and the engaged Ionic columns at the end of the cella, which in a conventional temple would have been free-standing, forming a portico before the cella door.
The way in which this building might have been used will be explored in chapter 9. For the moment it will suffice to consider the significance of the elements. If the intercolumnar spacing and pediments were normally important markers of the building’s function, in this particular case those functions would have been better served by other forms. But function is only a part of the building’s purpose. The classical form concedes the other forms, but is not negated by them. Indeed, the use of the ‘Graeco-Roman’ form implies profound respect for whatever symbolism it evoked. (An archetype for the basic plan has been suggested - the Hellenistic temple of Artemis at Magnesia ad Maeandrum in Asia Minor.) All the elements, including the apparently redundant plan of the colonnade and the facades, had meaning, as did the whole. Such combinations of signs can be thought of as symbolic syncretism. The combination is not a random hodgepodge of disparate elements, but a deliberate scheme, and with this in mind we should perhaps exercise caution before considering the classical forms to be a ‘veneer’, masking native forms and intentions. ‘Veneer’ implies something superficial and deceptive about the outward form, and something authentic and more meaningful in that which is hidden. Are the facades of such buildings a sham, a disguise for other, truer meanings? Is there something dishonest when form does not fully express function? After all, why space columns further apart to accommodate a door where none exists? Such questions suppose that the functional aspect of the object is more important than symbolic meanings. 
The extreme complexity of signification is a severe hindrance to any straightforward analysis of cultures or identities in antiquity, where our knowledge of meaning is generally rather limited. Through reinterpretation, the meanings of cultural signs can alter within a culture during the course of their use. They can acquire new layers of meaning while retaining their old meanings. Obsolete signs might be revived, or new ones substituted for old ones. Through a process of transformation a typically ‘Greek’ image of a deity could have been understood as a ‘Syrian’ one, if the old sign for the deity had dropped out of use. In this case it would be wrong to see the deity as purely Greek: Greeks could regard it as Greek and Syrians as Syrian. But our problem is to differentiate between the different uses of the signs.

Language, Culture and Identity
Language itself is a system of signs, but we cannot draw a direct equation between use of a particular language and other cultural institutions, or claim that its speakers have a single identity. Several cultural groups may share a language, and bilingualism and multilingualism only complicate matters. The study of personal names, Greek, Latin and Semitic, provides clues about cultures and identities, but the evidence, derived mainly from inscriptions, has to be used with caution. It is assumed that Semitic speakers might adopt a Greek or Latin name, but that people of Greek origin (or other highly Hellenized Greek speakers) would not adopt a Semitic one. A Hellenizing environment might have stigmatized people with Semitic names, in which case it would not be too surprising to find speakers of Semitic languages choosing Greek names for their children. What is more significant is that in some regions we find people with Greek names giving their children Semitic names, which suggests that, in these regions at least, no stigma was attached. However, it is often unclear whether the use of a Greek personal name means that the individual was a Hellenized Greek speaker, or that a Semitic personal name signifies someone who was less Hellenized. It was not uncommon for an individual to have a Semitic and a Greek or Latin name: ‘Galba, who is also called Gaulan, son of Abd al-Ga’. The use of alternative names by an individual might suggest an ability to shift between alternative identities. Some of these alternatives were simple translations from one language to another: Zenobia’s son Wahballat, whose name meant ‘Gift of Allat’ (a goddess assimilated to Athena), used both a Latin transliteration (Vaballathus) and a Greek translation (Athenodorus) on inscriptions and coins.
The study of personal names reveals that Semitic names were predominant inland, around Emesa, Palmyra, the Ituraean and Nabataean lands, the Hauran and Arabia. But they are also encountered in coastal regions. Many of these names have been identified as Arabic rather than Aramaic, although many would argue that it is extremely difficult to make a distinction when the names are rendered in non-Arabic scripts. The debate prompts the question of what language(s) these people spoke in everyday life. In regions such as Palmyrene, the Hauran and Arabia, Greek was not the only language of inscriptions (see below), and in such places Latin names are not uncommon, perhaps the result of contact with Roman soldiers instead of Hellenizing city-dwellers. In highly Hellenized regions such as the north, the coast and the Decapolis it is hardly surprising to find Greek names predominating. Semitic names become more common in these regions from the fourth century, which might reflect a greater confidence in local, non-Greek identities; but the statistics are probably skewed by the greater number of inscriptions surviving from late antiquity.
	Inscriptions and texts show the predominance of Greek throughout the region. Greek was not confined to the cities, as inscriptions, papyrus and parchments from rural settings show. What then remains to be asked is whether this dominant ‘public’ language reflects widespread use, and whether the Greek language was a vehicle for the spread of Greek culture at the expense of others. If people were bilingual or multilingual, were they also capable of moving between cultures and identities? What proportion of the population was literate in any language, and was their choice of written language determined by the one most commonly used for administration rather than their mother tongues? Could most peasants understand Greek, or did they need an intermediary? The papyrus and parchment documents raise interesting questions about the degree of literacy outside the cities. A large proportion are legal documents and thus reflect the chief language of administration, but it is noteworthy that they may be signed by witnesses in languages and scripts other than the one used for the legal text itself, and some even show that Semitic languages could be used for legal documents. However, there are also private letters among the texts, demonstrating that Greek was in common use, even in rural contexts, and that it was not merely a language employed by highly educated civic elites. One still has to allow for a substantial proportion of the population being illiterate, particularly women (Babatha is a well-known case). In late Roman times, when the Christianized literary culture began taking a greater interest in people of humble origins, we encounter more evidence of non-Greek speakers. The Greek-speaking clergy employed translators for the benefit of the non-Greek speaking sections of their congregations. The church historian Socrates claimed that even in the highly Hellenized port city of Tyre in the fifth century there were people who could not understand Greek. This lack of Hellenization sometimes extended to more powerful figures than peasants: Theodoret wrote of a bishop from the countryside of Cyrrhus who also knew no Greek. 
Was Aramaic in its various dialects the most commonly spoken language, in spite of the predominance of Greek in inscriptions? It seems likely that it was, but for some regions it is difficult to be certain. Aramaic had been important under the Achaemenids, although it would seem that during the Hellenistic period it was not in general use as a written language, in contrast to Phoenician. As usual we are at the mercy of the very limited evidence, and the picture may change with new discoveries. Written Aramaic dialects, each using a different script, developed in the early Roman empire: Nabataean, Palmyrene, Syriac, Hatrene, and these were presumably transmitted by some system of training or education. Aramaic is probably meant when Greek sources refer to the ‘language of the Syroi’, and Theodoret states that different dialects of it were spoken by the Osrhoenoi, Syroi, Euphratesioi, Palaistinoi and Phoinikes. In general it is assumed that the country folk spoke Aramaic, making them distinct from the Greek speakers of the cities, but in cities the lower classes were probably also Aramaic speakers. Bilingualism or multilingualism may have been common, even among the upper classes. Rabbula, a fifth-century bishop of Edessa (died 435), who was born into a wealthy family at Chalcis ad Belum, was educated in Greek, but as bishop wrote in both languages. This is unusual, and most ancient writers, like many bilinguals today, probably felt more comfortable writing in one language (which need not have been their mother tongue).
As noted above, in the long run imperial support for Hellenism may well have counted against Semitic languages being used for administrative purposes. The Babatha archive shows how Nabataean rapidly came to be supplanted by Greek as the language of administration for the province of Arabia. The monumental inscriptions of Palmyra demonstrate that in a civic environment a dialect of Aramaic could perform at least some of the tasks normally reserved for Greek: civic decrees and laws, religious texts, epitaphs, papyrus and parchment documents. There is no evidence yet for Palmyrene as a literary language, but perhaps we should not be too surprised should that evidence turn up. Whether it would demonstrate the persistence of pre-Greek traditions, or betray a profound Hellenization of Palmyrene culture, is a matter for speculation. Nevertheless, with the fall of Palmyra, the written script dies out.
In spite of the strong political support for Hellenism, some written Aramaic forms persisted, and one in particular flourished. Palestinian Aramaic is among those attested in late Roman times, but the most extensive Aramaic writing to survive is that in Syriac. Syriac was the Aramaic dialect of Edessa in Osrhoene, which became the literary language of Aramaic-speaking Christians over a much wider area in the late Roman period. In use from at least the early first century AD, the written language spread east into the rest of Mesopotamia and beyond, and west in late Roman times into northern Syria. That it should be nurtured in Mesopotamia may be another example of the cultural distinction detected by some scholars between Mesopotamia and the more Hellenized regions to the west. Syriac inscriptions are found in Mesopotamia during the early empire, and the Euphrates archive shows that it could also be used for legal documents, but there are no Syriac inscriptions known in Syria proper until the late fourth century. This epigraphic evidence fits with what is known of Syriac literature - only in the fifth century do we find Syriac writers from regions west of the Euphrates, and before that all were from Mesopotamia. But we would do well to remember that the inscriptions and literature chart only the spread of its use as a prestige language, and they do not imply the absence of a ‘language of the Syroi’ in northern Syria before late Roman times.
Syriac was also a language used by pagans and Manichaeans, but little of their literature survives. Spreading west, it came to be used by the populations who were bilingual in Greek and Aramaic, and hence the use of Greek style, expressions and loan words in Syriac. The church seems to have accepted Syriac (and other dialects of Aramaic) as a public language for transmitting its teachings, something that the institution of the polis in general had not. The use of Syriac by Syrian Christians lent it the prestige to compete with Greek as a literary language, at least in the field of religion. Even so, Greek culture had been so thoroughly imposed on the region that no native culture could develop or persist independent of its influences. The early Syriac Christian literature of the fourth century, such as the hymns of the great Mesopotamian poet Ephrem (died 373), was not very Hellenized, but Hellenizing influences can be detected in some of the few surviving Syriac works of the early empire. An early document, The Epistle of Mara, Son of Serapion (the context appears to be late first century, but the text itself may be later), frames arguments by drawing on Greek learning, at one point comparing the deaths of Socrates at the hands of the Athenians and Pythagoras at the hands of the Samians with puzzling references to the death of a ‘wise king’ among the Jews: ‘For with justice did God make recompense to the wisdom of these three: for the Athenians died of famine; and the Samians were overwhelmed by the sea without remedy; and the Jews, desolate and driven from their own kingdom, are scattered throughout every country.’ Bardaisan of Edessa (154-222), author of various works (which unfortunately do not survive), was clearly a learned man who chose to write in Syriac, but he and his followers were strongly influenced by Greek culture, as implied by the Hellenized approach of a work on fate called the Book of the Laws of Countries, written by one of Bardaisan’s disciples.
Later Syriac Christians drew quite heavily from Greek. For Christian intellectuals some familiarity with Greek was desirable, because the New Testament itself was written in that language. Greek philosophy, particularly that of Aristotle, was much admired, and the asceticism of some Greek philosophers could provide models for Christians. Hence the need for competent translations of Greek works. In late antiquity translations from Greek into Syriac and from Syriac into Greek were commonplace, with Syriac-speaking monks providing much of the expertise. These included translations of Syriac religious works: poetry, hagiographies, martyr narratives. There were more translations from Greek into Syriac than the other way around, but the fact that Syriac works were translated into Greek at all is noteworthy. For some, translations into Syriac will have obviated the need for learning Greek. Greek remained the language of power, but in the north Syriac became a prestige language, and as it did so Greeks attempted to assert their cultural superiority over this barbarian literature. Just as adherents of the Second Sophistic had tried to suggest that Latin was derived from Greek (making them superior to the Romans), so the Greek speakers of the fourth and fifth centuries claimed that Greek was ancestral to Syriac (inventing, among other things, a Greek-educated son for Bardaisan, Harmonius). 
	While there is plenty of evidence for the use of Phoenician in Hellenistic times (in contrast to the paucity of evidence for Aramaic in this period), all the evidence suggests that by the beginning of the first century AD it had been supplanted by Greek, at least as a language for inscriptions. The latest Phoenician inscription on stone, from Aradus, belongs to the reign of Augustus, but short Phoenician inscriptions continue to appear on coins into the third century (fig. 120). It is possible that Phoenician survived as a spoken language during the first three centuries, although the implications of the coin inscriptions are against it (see caption to fig. 120) and it probably died out during this period. If a Semitic language were in daily use in the cities of Phoenicia, the most likely candidate is Aramaic.
In the south Hebrew remained in use, although it may have been deployed in specific contexts by Jews and Samaritans as an affirmation of identity, rather than a language of everyday life. Samaritans used it in their synagogue inscriptions, but it is unclear what language they spoke - it was probably Aramaic. Although the Jews seem to have spoken Aramaic in everyday life, Hebrew could still be used in synagogue inscriptions, on coins of the first and second revolts, for letters and legal texts of the Bar Kokhba revolt, and texts like the Mishnah (early third century), so at least some Jews could read and write in the language. But at the same time Greek and Aramaic were also used as written languages in a variety of contexts, including religious ones, and this perhaps gives us an inkling of the very complex multilingual environments in which the indigenous peoples of the region lived their lives.
	Apart from personal names there is very little material evidence for Arabic as either a spoken or written language during our period. The earliest unequivocal evidence is an inscription in Nabataean script from Eboda in the Negev, written in the Nabataean and Arabic languages, thought to date to the second century AD. The next piece of dated evidence is the fourth-century epitaph of Imru’ al-Qays, inscribed in a cursive form of Nabataean from Namara east of the Hauran (p. 00), and there are a few texts from later centuries. But recent work has uncovered texts in Thamudic and Nabataean scripts from northern Transjordan, Petra, the Hijaz, the Sinai and Egypt which are written in a language that it close to classical Arabic. Suffice to say that Arabic emerges in the region as an important written language only in the seventh century, and that before that it would appear that Arabic speakers would tend to write in Aramaic. Nevertheless the use of Arabic for monumental inscriptions is of the greatest importance for signifying the presence of a literate audience of Arabic speakers in the region.
	One extraordinary epigraphic phenomenon is that of the so-called Safaitic graffiti, which consist mainly of short texts, names and genealogies scratched by tribesmen on stones littering the landscape of the basalt steppe and desert of southern Syria and north-eastern Jordan. The surviving texts number tens of thousands. Many were clearly written by nomadic herders (but there are also texts from the Hauran which were probably written by the sedentary population), and they do not appear to be aimed at any particular audience - or at any rate their informal nature does not suggest that their writers gave much thought to the convenience of the readers. It is thought that they were scratched on stones mostly for amusement, perhaps as ‘free publicity for existence’ (to quote one sociologist’s view of graffiti). The script which the herders used was borrowed from south Arabia, and was quite unlike any of the other scripts used in the Syrian region. The language is similar but not identical to Arabic. The texts are difficult to date, because they rarely refer to things outside the community of Safaitic writers. The script appears to have been used from the first century BC to the fourth century AD (though such a late date is disputed). The majority of texts may belong to the first centuries BC and AD, since there are occasional references to Nabataean gods and kings (one tribesman even identifies himself as a Nabataean). What is interesting here is that we have humble herdsmen and other individuals who were to some degree literate. The number of graffiti suggests that this literacy was common among the tribesmen and the population of the region, a phenomenon so far unique in the Mediterranean world. The choice of script indicates that the writers were not much interested in communicating with their neighbours to the west and north, who were using Greek or Aramaic scripts. There are a few bilingual inscriptions combining Safaitic with Greek or Aramaic, but little to suggest that these people were greatly affected by Greek culture. The phenomenon implies that if other nomad groups in the empire had opted to use written scripts, the results might have been the same. It would be false to claim that these people were totally isolated from the outside world, however. They may represent an element of the population of the Hauran, who practised transhumance into the steppe and desert to pasture their animals, and if so they formed part of a community more firmly linked to the wider Roman sphere (the evidence for this, however, is debated). There seem to have been strong links between the tribes writing in Safaitic script and other tribes of the steppe and desert fringes. Tribes using Safaitic script were present at Palmyra and its territory, as attested by their texts. Safaitic graffiti are known further west, extending to the Lebanon region, and east, to Dura Europus. A few have even been found among the graffiti from Pompeii in Italy. The Safaitic writings suggest that among the underclass on the fringes of Roman Syria a simple training in letters was possible, outside the framework of Hellenism.
	The evidence for languages is necessarily positivist, but the patterns of inscriptions and languages do invite speculation about what remained unwritten. Because Semitic languages could be written in one region does not mean that it was possible in all other regions, and some languages may have been more socially appropriate to particular media and forms of communication than others. Where Semitic languages remained unwritten, speakers of those languages who wanted to write letters or erect commemorative inscriptions would have resorted to languages and idioms that were felt appropriate to those media (which basically meant Greek or Latin), whether or not they strongly identified with Hellenism or Rome. Perhaps the fact that the habit of erecting inscriptions is comparatively less common in Syria and the Near East than in neighbouring Asia Minor indicates a greater indifference among the peoples of the region to one particular Greek way of doing things. The evidence does not really permit confident assertions. The rise and demise of written languages in the historical record may track their importance as a source of social power, rather than providing evidence for or against specific modes of speech and thought in the population as a whole.

Architecture and Art
	From language itself we might turn to the more ‘secret’ languages of material culture, where difference and variance could be expressed in subtle ways. Interpretation of this material culture is never a straightforward exercise. Similar designs may point to the transmission of ideas through time and space and thus to a regional tradition, or they may point to similarity of function, but be quite independent of each other. It would be quite impossible to look at all forms of material culture, so what follows concentrates on architectural decoration and style, tomb and house design (the two share some features in common), sculpture, mosaic and painting, and dress as ways of expressing identity and difference. As we will see, context and purpose (meaning whatever institutions governed deployment and reception) are important in defining the style and form, often more so than geographical location. For example, figurative mosaics of the early empire show very little local influence, and even at Palmyra, where the sculpture is so distinctive, mosaics employ classical themes.
The evidence of inscriptions and texts can always be criticized for concentrating on elite culture, but the same might be said for some of the material evidence as well. Houses filled with mosaic floors and monumental buildings and tombs are not the products of the lowest classes of societies. Like inscriptions or texts, objects can be situated within a genre (meaning, in sociological terms, ‘a socially sanctioned type of communicative event’), but they may depend more heavily on context for their meanings than texts do. With languages, the choices are readily apparent to us, even if the contexts are not: Greek, Latin, Aramaic and so on. If domestic architecture or tomb decoration are languages, we need to understand how they might have been read. It is not enough simply to point to the local, regional or Graeco-Roman origins of a particular form; what is more important is the meaning of the form in the period of Roman rule. The difficulties of recovering the context and understanding what meanings the material culture was trying to communicate are serious obstacles, but any approach to social identities has to grapple with such problems.

Architectural Style
The interpretation of architectural decoration and style is particularly problematic, not least because our knowledge of Hellenistic architecture, one of the likely influences on architectural style in the region, is so poor. Practically nothing is known of the decorative styles of great centres like Seleucid Antioch, and only a little more is known about Ptolemaic Alexandria. Origins and influences may speak of meanings, but we need to be sure that we have identified the right ones. Herodian palaces such as Jericho or Masada appear to blend Italian and Hellenistic styles, but the Italian style itself may be inspired by Hellenistic architecture, so the route of transmission to Judaea (Rome or Alexandria, or both?) and the meaning (deliberately Romanizing, Hellenizing, or both?) are blurred. What appear to be indigenous inventions, such as the so-called ‘Syrian arch’ (a pediment with an arched entablature), first encountered in the region in the Temple of Dusares at Sia, may be derived from Alexandrian prototypes. The more we know about Ptolemaic style, the less Roman some of the classical architecture of Syria and the Near East becomes. If we were to know more about Seleucid style our ideas about architecture in the region might be altered still further. In short, our comparative ignorance of Hellenistic architectural styles complicates the interpretation of classicizing architecture of Syria and the Near East in the early Roman empire.
Some features, however, are not classicizing, but these are no less problematic. Many of these motifs are derived from Mesopotamian, Achaemenid and Egyptian architecture and are presumably the result of earlier empires influencing local architectural practice. It is interesting to see the vestiges of previous imperial styles in use – for example, the bell-shaped column bases on the Temple of Baalshamin at Sia in the Hauran, which have parallels in Achaemenid buildings - but it is by no means clear what the use of such motifs meant at the time. The merlons or ‘crow’s steps’ which adorned the parapets or facades of buildings in Palmyra (fig. 122.2), Damascus, Phoenicia and Nabataea (colour plate 22) are thought to be Mesopotamian or Assyrian in origin. When applied to classicizing temples and other structures these motifs differentiated such buildings from Roman buildings elsewhere, yet while we can point to these differences, often we cannot recover their meanings. Did they speak of an affinity between a ‘Syria this side of the Euphrates’ and a ‘Syria’ beyond? We may never know for sure. Nevertheless the continued use of these older designs is significant, as is their demise. 
Up to the late first century AD there is much regional variation in the Syrian region, with buildings blending ‘classical’ and other motifs together. Religious and funerary monuments dominate the architectural record during the first century BC and early first century AD. In the north there is very little that can be securely dated to before c. AD 50. Early buildings from the central coast contain many decorative elements which are deemed to be non-classical, particularly the ‘Assyrian’ merlons. A good example of the composite building style of this period may be found at Fakra, a mountain sanctuary high above the coast between Byblus and Berytus. Apart from two temples, there is an ensemble of three structures, a monument à colonnettes (see chapter 9), a large altar decorated with merlons, and a tower which has been identified as a treasury (fig. 123). The decoration on the last building, which is dated by an inscription to AD 43-4, is a curious blend of different traditions, with a course of ‘Assyrian’ merlons, Egyptian mouldings, a Hellenistic-style Doric architrave and ‘proto-Aeolic’ capitals, an archaic feature which may ultimately derive from pre-Hellenistic models in Palestine. Strikingly Egyptian elements are encountered at some sites, such as a lintel with a winged sun disc found at Yammoune on the western side of the Bekaa, amid Latin dedications. Whether these designs denote earlier Ptolemaic influence or derive from Bronze Age Egyptian influences in the Lebanon mountains and the Bekaa is open to debate. Non-Greek motifs are also found in the cities: a late first- or early second-century AD Latin dedication by a freedman, Quintus Longinus Nicon, to Jupiter Heliopolitanus, found in the colony of Berytus, is decorated with merlons. All of these features confirm a rich blend of traditions up to the middle or late first century AD, after which architectural styles become more homogeneous. The coastal region was more open to influences from the Mediterranean than was the interior, and as the quarry system developed imports of the sort described in chapter 6 probably helped eliminate strong local variations in architectural style among the Syrian ports and their hinterlands. 
Fig. 123. Fakra. The tower, of which only the lower portion remains standing, is to the left; in the centre, a monument à colonnettes, and on the right, a large altar decorated with merlons.
Hybrids of classical and non-classical forms can also be found at many locations inland. Palmyra was one of the places where local architectural traditions survived longest. The Temple of Bel at Palmyra, dedicated in AD 32 (but probably not completed until the late first century), has already been discussed. It employed merlons, but also classical motifs such as garlands. However, the classical devices are sometimes used in unusual ways, such as the pedimented windows on the cella (fig. 122.2). A variant of the Corinthian column capital found on some of the earlier buildings at Palmyra has parallels in far-flung places such as the Seleucid city at A Khanoum in Afghanistan, and Gandhara, but a more likely source of reference is one of the great Hellenistic foundations, such as Antioch or Seleucia on the Tigris. The use of bands of repeated vegetal motifs, particularly vine scrolls, as frames around niches, is typically Palmyrene, but it may have been inspired by similar motifs from further east. It is likely that the decorative devices which had spread across a wide region of the east under the aegis of the Seleucid empire continued to be transmitted from the major Hellenistic cities, and Palmyra would have been equally well placed to receive influences both from Mesopotamia and the Syrian Tetrapolis. Thus stucco work became popular at Seleucia on the Tigris in the first century BC, but it was also popular in the eastern Mediterranean and its appearance at Palmyra could have been the result of influences from either direction. Palmyrene buildings are increasingly influenced by stricter classical models after c. AD 50, but there are also many ways in which Palmyrene architecture remained distinct, such as the heavy use of consoles for statues on colonnades and temples, and a preference for cult reliefs rather than cult statues inside the temples. Such features would have lent a very different feel to the civic environment of Palmyra when compared to its neighbours further west. But the distinctive architectural styles died with other aspects of Palmyrene culture following the fall of the city in the 270s.
Some of the decorative motifs encountered in the Hauran during the early empire have much in common with those at Palmyra, particularly the use of vine scrolls (fig. 125), which are combined with other vegetal motifs like pine cones and pomegranates. Also notable are Corinthian-inspired capitals decorated with small human busts above a band of acanthus leaves. Although these forms belong to the period of Nabataean rule they appear to be either indigenous to the Hauran, or in some cases influenced by Palmyra (and perhaps Mesopotamia), rather than by the Nabataean art of the south. The decorative difference between Nabataea proper and the Nabataean-ruled Hauran seems to concur with the ceramic record (Nabataean eggshell ware being comparatively rare in the Hauran - see chapter 6). However, some of the decorative styles of the Hauran may derive directly from Hellenistic models rather than being transmitted through Nabataea or Palmyra. It may be significant that the ‘Assyrian’ merlon, which was used by both Nabataean and Palmyrene architects, appears to be absent from the repertoire of the Hauran architects and stonemasons.
The overall chronology and meaning of Nabataean architecture was until recently a subject of considerable scholarly disagreement. The subject is of importance for the region as a whole, because it raises questions about the origin of designs thought to be typically ‘Roman’. Early attempts at developing a chronology used the rock-cut facades of undated tombs at Petra and assumed a typology of increasing complexity, beginning with very simple designs lacking any classical style ornament and ending with the elaborate classical rock-cut facades of the ‘temple tombs’, which were thought to date to the period after the annexation of the kingdom. Other scholars disagreed and proposed that many complex tombs dated to Nabataean times. There was no way to date them apart from by style, and suggested dates for some of the more famous monuments such as the Khazneh (colour plate 21) or the Deir (fig. 124) ranged from the first century BC to second century AD. Parallels for features such as the rotunda within a broken pediment found on both of these monuments were to be found in first-century-BC frescoes at Pompeii, hinting at possible Roman influences - or the presence of Romans following the annexation in AD 106. The simpler forms of Nabataean tomb employed ‘Assyrian’ merlons (colour plate 22), sometimes with an Egyptian cavetto cornice and Hellenized cornices and door frames. Elements included decoration similar to that found in south Arabia (probably the result of the ‘caravan trade’) and the distinctive Nabataean capital, seen in numerous monumental buildings at Petra, Bostra, Sia and Hegra (Medain Saleh) (fig. 95). There is no need here to go into the typology of the simpler tomb types. A study of the Nabataean tombs at Hegra, many of which are inscribed with dates and the names of the stonemasons, shows that rather than undergoing an evolution, most of the supposedly early tomb types were being produced more or less contemporaneously in the first century AD, and while some forms were slightly earlier, these overlapped with later forms. Differences in designs seem to be due to individual stonemasons rather than evolving traditions. A detailed study of Ptolemaic architecture in Egypt revealed that a number of the larger ‘temple-tombs’ (among them the Khazneh and Deir) were inspired by third- or second-century-BC Alexandrian designs, rather than Roman ones of the first and second centuries AD. These facades were perhaps derived from the Palace of the Ptolemies or other royal buildings, and belonged to the period of Nabataean rule (first century BC - first century AD), meaning that they were contemporary with the simpler designs from which they were supposed to have evolved. The differences in design may denote differences in status, the temple-tombs being Nabataean royal monuments or the tombs of other high-ranking officials executed in an appropriate kingly style. Their precise chronology remains uncertain, but the debate over whether many important monuments were Nabataean or Roman has now been settled, and the influence of Alexandria on the architecture of the kingdom is clear. With the Roman annexation, the distinctive Nabataean styles faded away, and with it, perhaps, another facet of Nabataean identity.
Fig. 124. Petra, the Deir. Its date is uncertain (first century AD?), but there is reason to believe that it was used as a triclinium for ritual banquets devoted to the cult of a deceased Nabataean king, perhaps Obodas III (30-9 BC). The rotunda set within a broken pediment is likely to have been inspired by Ptolemaic architectural styles rather than Roman ones.
During the latter part of the first century, new buildings throughout the whole region adopted a more homogeneous ‘classical’ architectural style influenced by the marble quarries of Asia Minor, although Palmyra retained many distinctive elements. This homogeneous style coincides more or less closely with the heyday of the monumental Greek-style city in Syria, with the Second Sophistic, and with the development of the imperial quarry system (chapter 6). This is also the period when native culture is at its least visible. In the basalt regions the hard local stone was worked into Corinthian capitals in an effort to bring the civic architecture of these areas into line with others, although some regional elements of décor were retained. Relief work and other forms of decoration illustrate the Hellenizing drive, even in this difficult medium (fig. 125). 
Fig. 125. The entrance to the southern temple at ‘Atil (AD 151), the ancient village of Atheila, showing the richly decorated basalt stonework framing the doorway.
Identifying purely ‘Roman’, as opposed to ‘Greek’, elements in the designs of Syrian buildings is problematic, not least because Roman styles were heavily influenced by Hellenistic designs. What might appear to be the influence of Rome might be another manifestation of interaction between cities of the eastern empire. On the other hand, some features have been taken to indicate direct inspiration from the centre of power. At Heliopolis some of the limestone column capitals in the first century temple of Jupiter are similar in style to those found in Augustan Rome. In the courtyard of the temple, and on the cella walls of the nearby Temple of Venus (second century), the niches are decorated with shells, their keys at the top as was the common practice at Rome and in the west, rather than at the bottom as was normal in the east. Is this subtle difference a sign of the Latin origins of the pagus or colony? And, if so, do other elements signify older, non-Roman roots of the cults? The entablatures of the temples of Jupiter and Bacchus are decorated with a row of bull and lion protomes, appropriate animals for the deities worshipped there, and typical Achaemenid devices. What appears purely classical at a glance may be an impure mixture of classical and non-classical on a closer reading.
Architectural decoration need not have been influenced solely by architectural traditions. Some designs and patterns were common to a variety of media. The decorative architectural motifs of Palmyrene stonework are found repeated in textiles found in the city, suggesting that their symbolism was not confined to monuments. The rich decoration of ‘classical’ Syrian buildings such as the Temple of Bacchus at Heliopolis may owe something to local or regional woodworking traditions (colour plate 10).
In the mid-third century the drive towards monumentalization of cities tailed off (chapter 7), and local styles begin to emerge again. ‘Classical’ styles did not die out, particularly in the coastal cities, where imports from the marble quarries could be obtained easily. However, in many places the quantity of evidence declines in line with the monumental public city. In the late Roman period churches were the dominant form of monumental building. These too could receive imperial gifts such as Proconnesian marble. The Church of the Holy Cross at Sergiopolis, and the martyrium of St Simeon Stylites acquired some marble from such sources, but how much influence Constantinople had on Syrian churches remains debatable. The capital’s preference for brick stands in stark contrast to the limestone and basalt ashlars of our region. Indeed, such was the power of Syrian Christianity that the region could have disseminated architectural influence in the opposite direction, as some scholars have suggested. 
It is impossible to do justice here to the variety and richness of architectural décor in late Roman Syria, and all that can be done is to draw attention to it. In the limestone lands of northern Syria the exterior decoration is usually confined to bands around doors and windows, slabs of parapets, and on arches, but it is often intricate and elaborate, with many local variations. The evolution of the decoration has been used to help date many of the buildings of the region. Designs include bands of vegetal and geometric patterns: some classical; some resembling the Palmyrene vine scrolls; and some quite new. Prominent also are discs above doorways or in the centre of column capitals, ornamented with crosses, geometric designs or vegetal motifs. The interiors of churches are often heavily decorated, particularly around the chancel. A characteristic motif of the sixth century, found on church exteriors, is a ribbon-like moulding framing the tops of doors and windows and ending in scrolls (fig. 126). There is a variety of capitals, many of which are free interpretations of the classical designs, such as the ‘windswept’ type, which gives the appearance of acanthus foliage being blown by a strong gale (fig. 127). Another, dubbed the ‘Syrian’ capital, copies the plain Doric style, but adds two projecting brackets. The ornament of the region reaches its peak in buildings such as the fifth-century church at Qalbloze (fig. 185) and the complex at Qalaat Semaan (fig. 127). In the south the late Roman period is marked by a decline in the decoration of basalt. This stone was difficult to work at the best of times, and now decoration was often simplified and restrained; it includes vine scrolls, disks and simple crosses. Much if it was carved in relief rather than being incised, and even the lettering of basalt inscriptions is commonly found in relief. The progressive simplification of decoration in the Hauran stands in contrast to the elaboration found in the limestone north, or in the Euphrates region. In late antiquity the basalt and limestone environments created very different responses.
Fig. 126. Chapel at Burj ad Deirouni in the Jebel Barisha. Note the ribbon moulding over the windows.
Fig. 127. ‘Windswept’ capital (seen here upside-down) at Qalaat Semaan.

Houses of Eternity
	No overall study of burial practices for the region currently exists, and generalizations over such a wide area and long period are hazardous. Once again we encounter problems with interpreting the system of symbols, and understanding the nature of the evidence and how representative it is of society in general. Are some tomb types the result of fashion rather than changes in ritual? Did the same sign or group of signs have different meanings in different places, or at different times? There are tower-tombs at Palmyra, and some towers in the Hauran may have been used as tombs. If this should prove to be the case, should we conclude that the tower-tombs meant the same in both places?
Some general observations about practices and forms may be made, though these are of little help in distinguishing cultural differences. Throughout the period inhumations rather than cremations were the norm, though there might be many different types of burials and tombs within a single necropolis. Most of the basic forms are encountered all over the region, and there is surprisingly little variation in tomb forms over time, even from the early to late Roman period. However, the problem of studying tomb development is exacerbated by the fact that many are difficult to date. The simplest tombs are cists or pits dug into the earth or excavated from bedrock and covered with stones laid over the top, intended to contain single inhumations. Graves of this type need not be an indicator of low status, as the rich burials from the necropolis at Emesa demonstrate. They may tell us something about elite attitudes to display among the Emesene aristocracy, but monumental tombs did exist at Emesa and much of the evidence of burials has not yet been treated in a sufficiently detailed manner for us to advance such interpretations.
Single, free-standing sarcophagi could perform a similar function to the single burials, in a more conspicuous manner. But being highly visible features of the landscape, they were also accessible - not necessarily just for plunder, but for additional burials, or wholesale reuse by unrelated persons. Civic fines for illegal reuse could prevent appropriation, and inscribing the sarcophagus with phrases such as ‘In vain – you cannot open it’ might act as a minor psychological deterrent. But the resilient sarcophagi often outlasted the descendants of the deceased, and the temptation to reuse obsolete memorials might be too great. The excavators of the necropolis at Tyre have noted how the sarcophagi were originally sealed with metal clamps holding the lid to the body. If these still remain in place, there is usually a single burial within, but broken clamps signify multiple burials or reuse. Many sarcophagi bear inscriptions with the name and occupation of the deceased, but these are sometimes much later than the sarcophagi themselves. If the lid proved too difficult to move, an expedient means of gaining entry was to cut a neat square hole in the body of the sarcophagus, which could then be sealed with stones and mortar after additional burials had taken place. This treatment of sarcophagi says something about the importance of being buried in them, though perhaps not about the inviolability of the burials themselves, but once again, there is little systematic treatment of the material evidence over the region as a whole. Like more elaborate tomb structures, free-standing sarcophagi could be the focus of rituals. At Tyre some local limestone examples have a small projecting altar in high relief at one end, presumably used for offerings (on the Tyre necropolis, see p. 000).
	Grander monuments included large communal tombs. Such a tomb might be the property of its builder and reserved only for immediate relatives, or it might remain in the family for generations. Sometimes places in a tomb, or even a whole tomb, might be rented or sold to individuals or groups who were not related to the original builders, making it hard to conclude anything about the nature of family structure from the size and capacity of these complexes. Traditions may have varied from one region to another. A common form, found in many varieties, is the hypogeum, a collective underground tomb, usually accessed by a single entrance leading to a room or several rooms containing the burials. Large, arched recesses (arcosolia) could accommodate sarcophagi, or might have cist graves sunk into their bases. Loculi were long, narrow slots designed to accommodate coffins inserted at right angles to the wall of the tomb (fig. 128). Some tombs combined arcosolia and loculi, with the arcosolia reserved for the founders or other privileged individuals. In certain areas one type of burial seems to predominate over the other (for instance, loculi in Auranitis or along the Euphrates, arcosolia in northern Syria). This may indicate differences in social structure or attitudes to extended family groups (more burials were possible in a tomb full of loculi), or taboos forbidding the burial of strangers with family members. Some sections of tombs in Palestine or in cities like Tyre and Sidon served as ossuaries, and the practice of collecting the bones of ancestors and placing them in new or rebuilt tombs is known from inscriptions. In such cases the loculi or arcosolia served as temporary burial places, the bones being collected for secondary and permanent interment after the flesh had decayed. Small, elaborately decorated limestone ossuaries for individuals were common in first-century-AD Judaea. In the Hauran separate chambers in tombs may also have served as ossuaries. Whether the same or similar practices in different places indicate the same or similar beliefs about death is not known.
Fig. 128. Interior of the tower-tomb of Elahbel at Palmyra. The loculi for burials can be seen on the right-hand side, in vertical rows six deep. When occupied such burials were commonly sealed with a stone slab bearing a relief representing the deceased (see fig. 118).
Fig. 129. Monumental tomb at Cyrrhus. Hexagonal in plan, the building dates to the second or third century. In medieval times it became the tomb of a Muslim saint.
	Above ground the presence of the hypogeum might be made known by some form of marker or monument. If the tomb was cut into a rock face, this marker could take the form of a relief imitating the front of a building. If it was sunk into level ground, a monument might be erected above it, such as a simple tumulus or a stele with inscriptions giving details about the deceased. Some burial markers were more elaborate, imitating architectural forms. Other hypogeum markers, particularly in northern Syria, are in fact receptacles for burials, supporting or containing sarcophagi in addition to the burials below ground. At Bostra and Maximianopolis (Shaqqa) some hypogea were covered by monuments with exhedras set into their facades, which may have contained sarcophagi or statues. The Semitic term nephesh, meaning breath, person, or soul, could be used to denote a grave marker or structure built in memory of the deceased, or where the spirit might reside (colour plate 7). This word was used at Palmyra to designate tower-tombs (see below). An inscription on the Nabataean period tomb of Hamrath at Suweyda (later Dionysias) translates the Nabataean nephesh using the Greek world stele, although the monument in question is a large, tomb-like structure with engaged columns and a pyramidal or stepped roof. Monolithic tomb markers of this sort are numerous around Petra, and are also found in the Kidron valley in Jerusalem (for example, the ‘Tomb of Absalom’, the lower part of which is hewn from bedrock and the upper part of which is of ashlar masonry).
Fig. 130. Burial precinct in the Tyre necropolis. A Proconnesian pedimented gable sarcophagus stands alone in the foreground. Behind is a tomb containing loculi accessed from the outside, which supports three Proconnesian garland sarcophagi and another of lapis sarcophagus.
	Other tombs were constructed entirely above ground, without a hypogeum. Some were nothing more than blocks of loculi, accessed from the outside, and sometimes with sarcophagi on their flat roofs (fig. 130). Others were large mausoleums with central rooms containing loculi and/or sarcophagi. At Tyre there are sunken rooms of stone-built loculi. These had flat roofs, sometimes close to ground level, or accessed by stairs, perhaps for rituals, although some roofs carry sarcophagi. Some tombs had rooms for ritual banquets, and water installations, presumably for ritual cleansing. Recent excavations at Tyre have revealed a well-preserved example of such a room, paved with mosaics and containing a triclinium with benches veneered with imported marbles.
Fig. 131. Late Roman tomb with a pyramidal roof at el-Bara in northern Syria.
Fig. 132. Canopy tomb at the village of Dana, south of the Jebel Sheikh Barakat in northern Syria, marking the entrance to a hypogeum.
	Funerary architecture did not have to be as practical or functional as many other classes of monument, allowing the builders of tombs to indulge in the construction of showy, fantasy structures. Some imitate temples, others comprise a massive square or rectangular chamber topped by a pyramid (fig. 131), and yet others form circular chambers surrounded by colonnades. Monumental tombs may have been influenced by famous funerary monuments of the past, such as the Egyptian pyramids or the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, or by Hellenistic royal tombs closer to home. Regional variations are evident, which may well have their roots in social practices. Hypogea in the north sometimes have stone-cut seats either side of the entrance, perhaps in imitation of those in the vestibules of country houses of the limestone massif, where villagers could socialize. A common architectural form in the same region is the canopy tomb, with a gabled or pyramidal stone roof supported on arches or columns (fig. 132), which sometimes shelters sarcophagi. Peculiar to the Hauran, and perhaps no earlier than the fourth century, are tombs surmounted by a tower structure containing dovecotes. The best-preserved example is at Rimet al-Lohf in Trachonitis, where a temple-tomb of the third century AD was later given a crudely-built additional storey containing dovecotes around the interior walls. The meaning is lost to us, but the symbolism of the doves may be Christian.
The basic classes of hypogea, temple-tombs and pyramid-tombs have no observable regional distribution in Syria, but in most places the cemeteries are not sufficiently well known for regional variants and chronological trends to be apparent. Palmyra is a particularly well-studied example, with a large number of tombs dated by inscriptions. The earliest known from the site is a hypogeum thought to date to the second or first century BC, which was later incorporated into the religious sanctuary of Baalshamin, but otherwise the hypogeum form does not become common at Palmyra until the late first century AD. At the beginning of the Christian era inhumations in burial plots were common at Palmyra, marked by free-standing gravestones cut in low relief (this type of relief was subsequently adapted for use in monumental tombs, to seal loculi, from the mid-first century AD). The earliest type of monumental tomb at the site is also the most prominent and distinctive: the so-called tower-tomb (colour plate 15; fig. 133). The use of the word nephesh to describe these edifices, and its connection with the Greek term stele, might suggest a connection between these gigantic markers and the humble gravestones in the minds of Palmyrenes. The towers stand up to five storeys high, excluding their roof terraces. Each storey contained loculi along its walls, the upper floors being accessed by staircases. The largest could accommodate several hundred burials. In the very earliest examples the loculi occupy only the lower levels and are accessible from the outside, but this type gave way to towers with loculi inside, often richly decorated with pilasters, paintings and reliefs, and busts or figures representing the deceased (fig. 128). Sculpted busts are unknown before the mid-first century AD, and are thought to be influenced by Roman funerary practices. Tower-tombs are noted along the Euphrates, at Baghuz, Dura Europus and Zenobia, and even in Mesopotamia, at Deyr Yakup, south of Edessa, suggesting links between practices at Palmyra and regions to the east. The earliest dated tower-tomb at Palmyra is the tower of Atenaten (9 BC), and the latest is the tomb of Moqimo, dated AD 128. The tower-tombs remained in use long after this, but the fashion in tomb-building had clearly moved on.
Fig. 133. Tower-tombs in the western necropolis at Palmyra.
Some towers are connected to hypogea, which became fashionable as tombs in their own right from the late first century. Whether the preference for less conspicuous tombs has anything to do with differing attitudes to display is unclear, and like the tower-tombs the independent hypogea contain large numbers of loculi, but also arcosolia with sarcophagi for prominent individuals such as the founders of the tomb. The Palmyrene decorated limestone sarcophagi seem to have been another adaptation from the Mediterranean, and first appear in the middle of the second century, about the time when imported stone sarcophagi started reaching the coast. The early Palmyrene forms are peculiar. The body of the sarcophagus imitates a couch, and the lid is normally L-shaped in section, bearing an upright relief of the deceased reclining at a banquet, not a three-dimensional sculpture (banqueters in the round are a rare third-century feature). Sometimes three sarcophagi of this sort were arranged to resemble a triclinium. Among the best-known hypogea is the Tomb of the Three Brothers, Naamai, Malay and Saadai (second century). Portions of this extensive tomb were sold off, like real estate, in the later second and third centuries.
The latest securely dated hypogeum belongs to AD 251, but they were still in use in the fourth century. Large tombs took a long time to fill up, which may explain why empty parts were sometimes sold or rented. The third and latest category of Palmyrene monumental tomb is the temple- or house-tomb, which begins to appear in the mid-second century, and sometimes reached massive proportions. Palmyrene inscriptions call these structures ‘houses of eternity’. Some are indeed house-like, although this class of tomb exhibits a great deal of variety. The best-known example stands at the western end of the grand colonnade, and is precisely aligned with this street: the so-called Funerary Temple no. 86, dated to the third century (colour plate 14). This façade is clearly inspired by Graeco-Roman architecture, but other tombs seem to look to earlier Hellenistic palace architecture, much as the Nabataean rock-cut tombs of Petra do, and yet others draw on local Palmyrene designs, or combine elements from different traditions. In some cases the elites who commissioned these buildings may have drawn on expertise from outside Palmyra. The largest so far known is temple-tomb no. 36, located in the western necropolis, which was excavated in the 1980s. Although only the lowest part of the walls remain in situ enough remained of the building to enable its design and decoration to be reconstructed almost in its entirety. Erected between c. AD 210 and 220, it was about 18 metres (60 feet) square and 12 metres (40 feet) high, and consisted of two storeys containing loculi and sarcophagi. Like Graeco-Roman houses it had a peristyle at its centre. It had elaborately decorated facades on all four external sides, combining local, Parthian and Hellenizing decorative elements (the latter perhaps inspired by the scenae frons of theatres). Some of the decorative elements are based on western designs alien to Palmyra, and may be the work of craftsmen brought from the coast. Although the grandest, it was not the latest of the temple-tombs, which continued to be constructed down to the middle of the third century.
The architecture of tombs is only a part of the ritual of death and burial. The materials recovered from them reveal evidence for distinctive practices as well as more universal traits. But here we encounter the difficulty of distinguishing between fashion or availability of certain classes of object and deeply held beliefs. The objects placed in tombs may all have had meanings, but some may not have had any particular significance in funerary rites. Tombs and sarcophagi from a variety of locations have yielded similar types of finds: jewellery, glass or ceramic unguentaria, and coins. The dry conditions at Palmyra have preserved burials in fine clothes, including Chinese silks, and burial in splendid garments may have been common practice elsewhere as well (the wealth of silk-embroidered clothes found among a jumbled mass of skeletons of adults and children in a tower-tomb at Zenobia may not be normal, however, and the bodies could be victims of a Persian massacre in the sixth or seventh century). Recent excavations in a necropolis at Heliopolis (Baalbek) revealed an undisturbed burial in a limestone sarcophagus. The body, thought to be female, had sheets of gold placed over the forehead, eyes, nose and mouth, a gold oak wreath on her head and sheet gold plaques decorated with female heads in relief on her torso. Other burials wore crude funerary masks made from gold sheets, suggesting a local practice. The tradition of placing money in the tomb, or in the mouth of the deceased, to pay the ferryman to the underworld, seems to have been widespread, which could reflect a common system of belief, but it may have been a custom that was not central to the burial ritual, given that there are also burials without coins. Burials are not normally found within the city walls, which seems to reflect a general attitude towards the separation of the living inhabitants of the city from the polluting influence of the dead, who are confined to the extra-mural necropolis. In the countryside, however, tombs were sometimes located close to the living, in the courtyards of houses or in gardens, rather than being placed in a separate necropolis, perhaps indicating different attitudes towards the dead in more rural environments. Rural temples, too, are sometimes surrounded by burials. 
Within the cist, loculus or stone sarcophagus, the body might be placed in a coffin of wood, lead or terracotta. As with marble sarcophagi, so with terracotta: they too were manufactured in particular centres (Cyprus or the Antioch/Cilicia region) and traded regionally or long-distance. The lead sarcophagi may also have been mass-produced in centralized workshops, although very little study has been done on these. 
	Epitaphs provided individuals with an opportunity to express their identity. This huge subject cannot be dealt with in any detail here, but it is interesting to note what sort of information was chosen. Context seems to have been influential. An epitaph might include information about the deceased’s origin (what we might consider ethnicity), or their home city or village, particularly if the individual was foreign. In the cities, however, the occupation of the deceased is prominent: John, dealer in secondhand goods and grinder of purple; Theodorus, deacon and carpenter; George, sausage-seller and cantor at St Mary’s, to name some of the many examples from the Tyre necropolis. Why record for eternity that you were a murex-fisher, or a market gardener, pastry-seller, baker, plasterer-painter, marble-worker, cheese-maker, or cabbage-seller? Rather than emphasise what ethnic group they belonged to, these epitaphs, which provide us with useful information about specialist occupations, explain what constructive role the individuals played in civic society, which suggests that the communal project of the city was very important in shaping identities, and that this tradition continued into late antiquity. Their occupation, or their membership of a guild, which fitted them into the social framework and demonstrated to others their contribution to civic life, was an important part of ‘who’ they were in death.

The Private Domain 
A common feature of both urban and rural houses is an enclosed courtyard, around which the main units of the house are arranged. The focus of the house is introverted; homes presented blank walls to the outside world, although decoration might adorn the main entrance. In rural settings the courtyard provided not only a communal space and a source of light and air to the rooms around its sides, but also an area where the occupants could work without being subjected to the gaze of outsiders. It is in this use of domestic space for productive activities that rural dwellings may have differed from city dwellings, but it is possible to envisage courtyards or rooms in city houses being given over to production as well (for instance, to house textile looms). The courtyard also allowed the rooms around it to be subdivided into smaller dwelling units for different members of a family by providing a common and equal route of access. The simplest dwellings will have needed a space for storage and a reception/living space, with perhaps an outside area for working. The ground floor of many rural houses seems to have been given over to storage and shelter for animals; the upper floors were for living in. In this respect, too, many city dwellings may have been different. 
Fig. 134. Traditional mud-brick courtyard house at Harran (ancient Carrhae in Mesopotamia). The beehive design is also common in the steppe of northern Syria, and the form appears in Neo-Assyrian palace reliefs. It may well have existed in the region in Roman times.
The visual privacy of domestic space is a theme repeated in most dwellings, rural and urban, rich and poor. In the city the streets lined by private houses were quite different from the grand public thoroughfares. Here public space was relatively unimportant, the houses looked inwards towards their central courtyard, and the entrance was normally placed in such a way as to prevent the public gaze penetrating the dwelling. This made the house an entirely private space; it had no public role to play, in contrast to the typical Italian house with its views leading along a single axis into the heart of the building. Even in late antiquity, when the grandees began to conduct civic government in their homes, most house plans retained their seclusion from the outside world by placing the entrance away from the central axis. One notable exception is the vast house called the ‘Edifice “au triclinos”’ at Apamea, whose dimensions and decoration are such that it has been dubbed a palace, perhaps even the residence of a governor. Originally it too had an entrance offset from the main axis, but in late Roman times the complex was remodelled, reorienting the entire building around a grand axis leading directly from the street entrance, through its peristyle court, to a grand reception room with an apsidal end. The very public nature of this design sets it apart from other Apamene residences.
We know very little about humble dwellings in the cities, but there is no reason to suppose a rigid uniformity of plans, decoration and use of domestic space. In places where land was at a premium, such as the island of Aradus or the peninsula of Tyre, literary sources mention tall tower blocks. None has been identified, and it is difficult to know what they might have looked like, although they too might have consisted of a central court with wings of several storeys of apartments ranged around. The regulations about housing preserved in the text of Julianus of Ascalon (p. 000) seem to be concerned with such buildings. These regulations suggest that in Palestine flat roofs with terraces were commonplace; but imported roof tiles found in excavations at coastal cities indicate that some domestic buildings (the wealthier, Hellenized peristyle houses, perhaps) had pitched roofs. Cities and villages where flat roofs were common would have presented a rather different appearance from those where pitched, tiled roofs were the norm. Imported roof tiles of different colours could be combined to produce variegated patterns. These sorts of variations may seem insignificant, but even today among the Lebanese of the coast red-tiled roofs are seen as a mark of identity and difference.
	The moderately humble mud-brick houses of Dura Europus show few Hellenizing influences. Rooms were arranged around a central court, and smaller houses had only one or two sides of the court occupied by rooms. This basic house design was in use at Dura during the Parthian period, and the form is thought to derive from Mesopotamia. In many cases there was an entrance vestibule, and in many vestibules the entrance and exit were offset from one another, preventing viewers in the street looking directly into the central court beyond. The décor of the entrances, which sometimes employ gypsum mouldings, is one of the few Hellenizing features of these houses. Sometimes the courtyard had a few columns in it (again seen as a Hellenizing feature), but there were no peristyles typical of the wealthier town houses found in many of the Syrian cities. The main living or reception room opened directly on to the court and often had benches running around the walls and a hearth. The benches look as if they were influenced by the triclinium of Graeco-Roman houses. A division of living space into public and private areas (those furthest removed from the gaze of visitors) appears to be distinct. However, the layout of rooms does not indicate a strong gendered separation of space within the household. A single entrance means access was shared by men and women, and most of the rooms are accessible via each other and the central court. Furthermore, papyrus documents from Dura and elsewhere suggest how this sort of domestic space may have been used, with the court being owned communally by an extended family, and the rooms around the court being divided up among the individual family units. The partition or repartition of houses between family members means that the functions of individual rooms, and the divisions between reception and private chambers, could change over time. The interior fittings include features often found in traditional houses of the region today: niches for storage of possessions such as blankets, mattresses and water jars. Although moulded plaster cornices were frequently applied to the interior of buildings, and stucco decoration using classical motifs and perhaps even imported moulds, the inhabitants seem to have been unconcerned with demonstrating any deep affiliation with Greek culture through the regular use of figurative wall paintings or mosaics. 
	Regional differences are apparent everywhere, even in the grand houses of the elites. Some variations may be due to differences in climate, but it is worth noting that habitations may differ within a single community, pointing to social, economic and perhaps ethnic divisions. At Zeugma the moderately well off could perhaps not afford the space or outlay for colonnaded peristyles around the central courts of their Hellenized town houses, but they often added loggias with columns on one side. At Petra there is evidence for the gradual and haphazard transformation from a settlement of tents to stone-built houses. Courtyard houses were constructed, without any respect to a city plan, their positions and designs seemingly limited only by underlying topography. The overall appearance of Petra’s domestic quarters has been likened to a petrified nomads’ camp. The grander ones were Hellenized by the insertion of colonnades in the courtyards, and some have stucco and wall paintings. Other, simpler dwellings at Petra were excavated from solid rock. Consisting of one or more rooms cut into the cliff faces with an open terrace in front of them, these very unHellenized houses were accessed by rock cut staircases.
Even at Palmyra, where we find some of the best examples of highly Hellenized houses, there are notable variations. The highly Hellenized houses have a central peristyle court, on to which the main reception room faces, with other rooms arranged more or less symmetrically around the axis created by the reception room and peristyle. Even so, the entrances and vestibules to the houses are offset, as at Dura, to provide greater privacy. Near to the Temple of Bel is the House of Achilles, which must have been one of the grander Palmyrene residences. It had two peristyle courts and may have occupied a space of more than 1600 square metres (17,225 square feet), but its entire plan does not survive as the knoll on which it sits is badly eroded. Recent excavations in the centre of the city, to the north of the Grand Colonnade, have exposed a substantial residential complex which does not conform to the typical Graeco-Roman plan. The excavators suggest that it is a single residence, even though it is effectively partitioned in two, with a double doorway on the southern side - the smaller door giving access to the private wing of the house, and the larger to the reception rooms. Both wings have courts, and both are accessed by entrances offset from the courts. The courts have colonnades but not peristyles, and there is no axial arrangement to either wing. In its irregular layout the complex resembles the houses at Dura Europus, containing some Hellenized decorative elements but lacking the formal plan of such structures, but in its division of space it may have separated the genders more thoroughly than the Dura houses.
Fig. 135. The elaborately decorated entrance to the House of the Consoles at Apamea.
Several large residences have been explored at Apamea. Most seem to have been constructed in the second century, but they remained in use into at least the sixth, and they are important for giving us an impression of the private environment into which civic government retreated as the grandees who owned such residences began to dominate public life. The House of the Consoles is among the best preserved (fig. 135). It was a rectangular residence covering about 4500 square metres (48,440 square feet), with a large central peristyle court of about 2000 square metres (21,530 square feet). The entrance was offset from the court, as in houses elsewhere. Rooms close to the entrance on the west side are identified as a porter’s lodge and perhaps kitchens. A large room on the southern side was probably a private dining room. A large hall, with three doors opening on to the court, dominated the eastern side. From this hall doors gave access to other rooms. It is this hall that dominates the axis of the house, and it is likely that in this space the owner conducted his affairs. Along the north side was a row of small chambers, only some of which open onto the court through small doors; these may have been private living spaces. It is likely that other living rooms and bedrooms occupied an upper floor. There are traces of painted decoration, and the floors were paved with mosaics, replaced in the sixth century by an elaborate opus sectile pavement. Other houses at Apamea have similar features. A characteristic of their late antique phases also emphasises the decline of public life: private baths and latrines are established within these grand domestic spaces. The grandees may have ruled the city, but they did not need its public amenities.
Fig. 136. Traditional village house in the countryside west of Antakya (ancient Antioch).
The remains of country dwellings are found all over the region, but the Dead Cities of the north and the Hauran are two regions where similarities and differences can be studied in detail, using well-preserved buildings. In terms of basic plans there are no discernible differences in status between houses in the Dead Cities, although some bear elaborate decoration, much of which is similar to that employed in churches, and some are more carefully constructed than others. Houses occupied one or more sides of a walled courtyard. Most are two storeys high, the ground floor being for livestock and storage, and the upper one for living. Some, however, have sunken cellars, more appropriate for storage than for animals. The upper floors often have a veranda, accessible via an external staircase. Traditional houses of the Antioch region retain the same design and use of space (fig. 136). Their pitched roofs would have been supported by wooden beams. Beam slots on the interior walls indicate that the upper floors were generally made of wood, but some were paved with limestone slabs supported on stone arches. The rooms could be subdivided into smaller living units over time, to house extended families. Verandas might be given a decorative stone balustrade and were occasionally supported by columns which were presumably more expensive than the more normal pilasters. Entrance vestibules were sometimes provided with stone seats, allowing the occupants of the houses to socialize with or receive outsiders without letting them into the court. Properties were sometimes added to, simply by the construction of another house against the existing one (fig. 137), creating semi-detached units, or by building against another wall of the courtyard. Thus the large residences, once thought to be villas of wealthy landowners, were probably communal residences for groups of farmers or extended families.
Fig. 137. A pair of houses at Deir Sunbul in the Jebel Zawiye. Their verandas have gone; beam slots in the façades suggest that these were probably made of wood. More substantial verandas were made of stone. The basic design is very similar to that of the modern house in fig. 136.
	The houses of the Hauran have the same basic features as those of the north: the ground floor was reserved for storage and livestock, the upper for living. House units are arranged around one or more sides of a walled courtyard. However, the dwellings have flat rather than pitched roofs, consisting of basalt slabs laid over transverse arches and corbels (see chapter 5). Clearly there was insufficient timber, unlike in the Dead Cities. These roofs were suitable for drying grain and other produce, as is still the practice today in the villages of the region. Although the Hauran houses vary in their layouts and sizes, most have some general features in common: staircases give access to upper floors on the inside rather than the outside (stairs to the roof, however, often lay on the outside: see colour plate 28), and the entrances to the houses are small, all of which suggest a greater desire for protection than is the case with the houses of the Dead Cities (unless these features are simply the consequence of a slightly harsher winter climate). In the simpler houses the ground floors were usually divided into two parts, a large work area at the entrance, and a smaller space at the back for animals, divided from the work area by a row of mangers. The height and layout of the mangers suggests that each was designed for a fairly tall, single animal, perhaps a cow, but also possibly a donkey or mule. Directly over the rear stable is a mezzanine floor, perhaps for storage. There might be two or more upper floors, so that some buildings resembled towers rather than houses. This house type is thought to be a traditional one which predates the Roman annexation of the region, although most surviving houses are late Roman in date, as in the Dead Cities.
	There is considerable differentiation between houses in the Hauran. The humbler ones are of poor construction, and the grander ones are not only better built but also have more elaborate plans: sometimes a colonnaded portico in front, decoration around the entrance, more rooms and stables on the ground floor, verandas and more rooms on upper floors. Some contain a small courtyard close to the entrance which might merit the term atrium. These grand houses make their appearance in late Roman times, but they look less like the luxurious country villas of regional civic elites than the dwellings of wealthy villagers. One feature that a number of these grander houses have in common is a vaulted alcove on the ground floor, which may have served as a reception room or, in the case of local grandees, an audience chamber. This is seen as being related to the iwan, a type of vaulted hall found in the Parthian kingdom (although its exact origins are disputed). It is perhaps in such spaces that the rural grandees of the Hauran, like their city counterparts at Apamea, conducted their administrative affairs.
Fig. 138. A grand house in the metrokomia of Neela (Inkhil) in north-west Batanaea.

Sculpture
Sculpture, like Syrian culture in general, has been classified according to the degree of Hellenization. The three main classes are: heavily classical, providing a common link with other eastern Mediterranean provinces and Rome; a provincial style imitating these forms; and the third group, consisting of various regional styles which sometimes used classical forms but did not copy these directly, and which often combined these with other, local or regional features. The geography of the region has an important part to play in the distribution of the first category. Many of the fine classical marble statues need not be ‘Syrian’ at all, and were probably imported from the quarries overseas. Consequently these mass-produced items are commonest in the coastal regions, where they served the needs of the Hellenized elites. The second class also served the needs and aspirations of the Hellenized elite through the more or less competent imitation of classical models. Such objects are found more widely distributed in the region. Examples of the third class provide the best clues about local and regional identities and are commonest at inland sites, such as Palmyra and the Hauran, but they are also found in the coastal regions. A sandstone column from Kartaba, in the mountains above Byblus, which was perhaps part of a second- or third-century funerary monument, bears a relief panel with two aediculas, one above the other, each containing the busts of a man and a woman, carved in provincial style (fig. 139). The males, one of whom has the Semitic name Abidallathos, are dressed in the Graeco-Roman manner (although one wears a cylindrical hat), while the females are dressed in conical headdresses over which large veils are draped. Although this sculpture contains numerous Hellenized elements, the portraits have features in common with sculptures from places like Palmyra, at a site just 18 kilometres (11 miles) from the coast.
Fig. 139. Stele from Kartaba (see text). Height of original: 1.97 metres (6 feet 5½ inches).
	The chronology and meaning of much surviving Syrian sculpture is difficult to establish because most of it has been divorced from its original context. Almost all is of stone. Nothing is known of wooden sculpture, apart from the fact that it existed. While there is some evidence for production of bronze sculptures in local styles, there may have been major production centres overseas, just as there were centres for marble statuary. At Palmyra fragments of bronze statues have been found, some of which are from classical-style figures, but a life-size pair of bronze feet wearing Parthian-style slippers found in the agora suggests non-classical influences at work as well. The Palmyra Tariff mentions duties on imported bronze statues, implying that bringing such items into the city from elsewhere was fairly commonplace, and a large number of the statues attached to the consoles of columns at Palmyra may have been of bronze. At Apamea in the early second century, an inscription records that the wealthy benefactor Lucius Julius Agrippa decorated a bath house with bronze statues of figures from Greek myths, such as the satyr Marsyas, and Theseus and the Minotaur. It was no doubt a way of demonstrating his paideia, but we do not know whether the statues were produced locally under his inspiration and supervision, or if he was able to order the groups from a pattern-book provided by a production centre elsewhere. Ready-made classical figures in stone could certainly be obtained from some of the marble quarries, and the elites of the coastal cities took full advantage of these. At Byblus a monumental colonnaded street ended in a piazza with a large nymphaeum; it was decorated with statues of Hygeia, Orpheus, Achilles and Penthesilea. Special orders could probably be commissioned: for example, a statue of the city’s Tyche; or portrait statues, which could be shipped with the face roughed out and finished at the destination. Chemical analyses of marbles enable the sources of imported sculptures to be determined, though it is not always possible to pinpoint precisely which quarries the pieces came from. Collections of sculpture at Caesarea Maritima and Scythopolis were imported from various quarries in Greece and Asia Minor. But such pieces could also be found at sites more remote from the Mediterranean. The temple of the goddess Allat at Palmyra had as its cult statue a fine marble figure of Athena (with whom Allat was equated). This provided a striking contrast with the monumental relief in Palmyrene style, constructed in the early first century AD from limestone ashlars and standing 3.5 metres (11½ feet) high, which was placed in the sanctuary. This depicted a lion (the consort of Allat) holding a crouching gazelle in its paws (fig. 140). Both sculptures are equally powerful visual symbols of the divine, one in a local idiom, and the other in a style which served the desires of a Hellenizing member or members of the wealthy civic elite.
Fig. 140. Lion relief from the sanctuary of Allat at Palmyra, first century AD.
	Inland, regional centres could supply similar designs in local materials. Nabataean sculptors used sandstone and limestone to produce reliefs and sculptures in both Hellenizing and indigenous idioms. Context and materials may often have dictated the style and form almost as much as the tastes of those commissioning the work. Sculptures that were displayed in art collections of private houses are likely to have been highly Hellenized, intended to demonstrate the paideia of their owner to visitors. Others were made as dedications or decorations for religious sanctuaries and public buildings. On buildings the content of the sculptural programme is likely to have been influenced by the type of monument; and for public buildings in cities Hellenizing sculptures will have been especially appropriate. It is particularly unfortunate that the settings of many sculptures have been lost, such as the extraordinary series of basalt statues from the Hauran region, where analysis has mainly proceeded on the basis of style. In many cities there was a strong demand for statues of individuals to be placed at the entrances to tombs. Local or regional versions would have been cheaper than imports, and were perhaps accessible to people other than the Hellenized elites, although like sarcophagi the prestigious imported statues may have influenced the designs of funerary portraits in local materials. Their presence and numbers probably depended on whether there was convenient access to a centre of production, either local or overseas. A number of limestone statues has been found in the necropolis at Zeugma, and there may well have been a workshop operating in the region, as there are competent reliefs cut into the solid rock of the tomb walls as well (often a symbolic eagle for a male and basket for a female, rather than busts of the deceased). 
	One series of sculptures which retains its context and which can be dated closely is the remarkable set of figures and reliefs set up around the funerary monument of Antiochus I of Commagene (c. 70-36 BC), located on the peak of Mount Nemrut (figs 10, 25, 141). Here on a remote mountain top in the north-eastern part of his kingdom, 2150 metres (7054 feet) above sea level, a large tumulus was erected, framed by terraces containing sculptures on the eastern and western sides. The sculptures on both terraces include a row of colossal seated statues, 8 to 10 metres (26 to 33 feet) high. In these Antiochus takes his place among the gods, who are syncretistic combinations of Greek and Iranian deities (figs 25, 141). The king, who sports a Seleucid dynastic name (Antiochus VIII was his grandfather), wears his ancestral Armenian-style tiara (denoting his descent from the Persian satraps of Armenia, the Orontids) and Persian dress (the Orontids had married into the Achaemenid family). A series of reliefs depict his Persian and Macedonian forebears, from which we discover that Antiochus claimed descent from Darius I and Alexander the Great. Others show Antiochus shaking hands with various deities. One particularly well-preserved relief is thought to symbolize the conjunction of the planets on the day that Pompey confirmed Antiochus as king (fig. 10). The style is provincial, but the content combines Hellenizing and Iranian elements, making a statement about Antiochus’ ancestry and his identity as a descendant of the Orontids and the Seleucid and Achaemenid royal houses, as well as alluding to Roman consent to his rule. It is perhaps not surprising to find elite sculpture in a provincial style at the very beginning of our period, when architectural styles also combined elements from different cultural sources. And here we can at least comprehend some of the reasons for the particular combinations.
Fig. 141. Mount Nemrut. Head of Antiochus I of Commagene.
	The provincial basalt sculptures of the Hauran have generally lost their contexts and cannot be dated so closely, but two main phases can be distinguished. One belongs to the period of Nabataean rule and the other follows the Roman annexation in AD 106. As might be expected, the sculpture of the Nabataean period displays more unique elements, while the Roman period works are more Hellenized. The difficulties of working basalt forced the sculptors to produce compact sculptures by removing as little of the stone as possible to produce the image. The subject matter of the Nabataean-period sculpture includes animals such as lions and horses, and in particular eagles (in this case thought to be a symbol of the god Baalshamin). Representations of humans include standing figures in Greek-style mantles, which may have been funerary or honorific in function, and a series of seated individuals, some of whom hold inscribed scrolls which indicate that these figures are of mortals rather than divinities and may also have been honorific or funerary. Without their contexts, however, the meanings of many pieces remain enigmatic. Sculptures of the Roman period include a series of Graeco-Roman divinities, in particular figures of Nike (Victory). These seem to have been used mainly as dedications in sanctuaries, where they may have stood in niches or even served as acroteria on the roofs of temples. Reliefs also attest to the importance of divinities in Graeco-Roman guise. A series of torsos in Roman military dress may be dedications to emperors or warrior deities. Also common in the Hauran are funerary stelae, often of crude style, topped with busts representing the deceased.
The characteristic limestone sculpture of Palmyra is particularly well known and well dated, and in many cases the contexts are known, or can be guessed. It too blended elements from ‘classical’ and other cultures, drawing on elements commonly found in the art of the Parthian realm. Palmyrene art is considered ‘iconic’ or ‘static’ rather than dynamic and narrative. The best-known examples come from Palmyra itself, but this style is also encountered at Dura Europus (fig. 92), Edessa (fig. 147) and at Hatra. Most of the surviving limestone sculptures are reliefs, which were the preferred form for stone sculptures in the region, although in Hatra free-standing limestone statues were also produced and some of the consoles on columns at Palmyra originally supported stone statues rather than bronze ones. 
It appears to us as an art in which lively or narrative themes were difficult to express, although it is quite possible that its Palmyrene viewers could ‘see’ it as dynamic or narrative. It was also probably appreciated for its rich symbolism. Particularly characteristic was the depiction of human figures standing facing the viewer, rather than in profile. This is a notable departure from earlier traditions of relief carving in the Near East, such as the Neo-Hittite, Assyrian and Achaemenid, where figures were always shown in profile. Nor was it confined only to sculpture. Frontal figures are also found in frescoes and graffiti from the region. The origins of this type of art have long been a subject for debate, and more attention seems to have been paid to where the artistic tradition comes from than how it functioned and what it was for. Although ‘frontality’ is found in both eastern Syria and Mesopotamia as well as in India at roughly the same time, it is not clear whether the different traditions are connected. Frontal reliefs are found in the Parthian kingdom, but these seem to be later than the early Palmyrene examples. In Syria the emergence of the style appears to coincide very roughly with the waning of Seleucid power. It is possible that we are looking at an indigenous art form, one which emerged with the development of a Palmyrene identity, rather than one inspired from elsewhere. Reliefs in profile ignore the viewer, but facing ones engage the audience, which may have allowed Palmyrene viewers to regard these sculptures as dynamic rather than static or hieratic. The experience is direct.
The majority of surviving Palmyrene sculptures are reliefs from sanctuaries and tombs. The earliest of these, of the late first century BC and early first century AD, were carved in low relief (fig. 142). Later sculptures have higher relief and more ambitious decoration, but the frontal mode of presentation remains the norm throughout. Even the cult images in temples like that of Bel or Baalshamin seem to have been reliefs rather than statues.
Fig. 142. First-century relief from a stone beam in the Temple of Bel. Deities carved in low relief stand above a classical egg-and-dart moulding, over a typically Palmyrene vine scroll. The row of figures looks static, but in fact there is action: on the far left a giant with snakes’ bodies for feet is attacked by a rider and a dog; the row of five standing deities is perhaps meant to be involved. The figures have been identified as Shadrafa (with a serpent entwined around his lance), Atargatis? (with a bow, and a fish next to her leg), Poseidon? (a fish behind his legs), Arsu (with a round shield) and Heracles (with a club). The scene would appear to relate some myth, perhaps Palmyrene in origin.
Funerary sculptures include stelae, reliefs covering loculi, lids for sarcophagi, and (rarely) full-length statues standing inside the tomb or attached to brackets on the walls. Many of them are labelled in Palmyrene as the ‘image’ or ‘representation’ of the deceased. They are not portraits as we understand the word, and attempts at individual likenesses seem schematic to the modern viewer. Nevertheless, in the images, the deceased lived on; tombs were important not only as houses and memorials for the dead but as the focus of ritual for the living, including banquets taken in the company of ancestors. The facing busts look out to the living, and participate as onlookers, or, in the case of certain more elaborate sculptures, attend the funerary banquets, reclining on couches. Symbolic elements accompanying some portraits include a curtain, probably signifying the point of transition from the accessible world of the living to that of the dead. On the early reliefs a deceased man is sometimes accompanied by female mourner, characterized by gashed breast, lack of a tunic and loose hair falling about her shoulders. Reliefs also include reclining figures, which could be used to cover more than one loculus. The standard pattern shows a reclining male or two men, most commonly in Parthian dress, holding a cup and lying on a couch, and accompanied by a wife or attendants. The same design was used for the figures on top of sarcophagi. The men on the lids are often (but not invariably) priests, and their wives are frequently depicted as smaller, seated figures. Children are shown standing, usually in Greek dress. Between the legs of the couch, on the main body of the sarcophagus, there are commonly medallions bearing busts of other members of the family, living and dead. The designs do admit some variety. Occasionally the reclining male is wearing Greek dress, or a Greek cloak (himation) over Parthian dress, and occasionally the reclining figure is female, attended by female servants. Space between the legs of the couches is sometimes given over to other subjects such as standing figures of attendants, or men equipped for hunting.
The art of Dura Europus was closely allied to that of Palmyra, and some of the reliefs may have been imported from there, or at least executed by Palmyrene sculptors. There are numerous Palmyrene dedications from the city. The influence of Palmyra’s art was strong, even in the period of Parthian rule, reflecting the cultural and political importance of that city along this part of the Euphrates river. At Dura roughly worked reliefs depicting a frontal Heracles were popular, and these may be an example of purely local art. Several were found in doorways, and they may have served as a device to ward off evil influences.
	Much of the surviving sculpture from Syria is of first-to-late-third-century date, and from the fourth century new works become rare. However, wealthy individuals collected older works and displayed them in their homes, just as earlier cultured individuals had done. Such collections were a way of advertising one’s learning and culture in late antiquity. To a Christian, pagan images could be allegorical illustrations of virtues, in the same way that Philostratus had used paintings to discuss such subjects, and to intellectual pagans such as Neoplatonists these images still had spiritual meaning. Several sculpture collections are known from private residences across the Roman world, including a fifth-century villa at Antioch, where second- and third-century pieces, plus a few of the fourth century, were displayed. It is not clear whether the owners were pagan or Christian. Three sculptures are portraits: a bearded philosopher or ruler of the late second century, sometimes identified as the short-lived emperor Pertinax (AD 193); a cuirassed bust of the mid-third century portraying a young man with close-cropped hair and beard; and a porphyry head of a tetrarch. The remainder are mythological subjects, many of them good copies of famous Hellenistic originals: a statue identified as Meleager; the torso of a Bacchic figure wearing a panther skin, probably Dionysus himself; a head of Ares; a figure probably copying the statue of Apollo made by the Hellenistic sculptor Bryaxis for the temple at Daphne; heads of two satyrs and a nymph; a sleeping satyr; and a crouching Aphrodite. The mythological pieces all appear to be of Proconnesian marble, but the portrait heads seem to be from another source, perhaps the Aegean.
	The early empire, then, is the source of most Syrian sculpture. Works in local styles and depicting indigenous subjects tend to be found more commonly in funerary or religious settings, whereas civic monuments, baths and elite private houses were more appropriate for highly Hellenized pieces, either imported or manufactured locally. Similar trends can be observed in two-dimensional arts, where context also constrained the messages being transmitted and the meanings given.

Mosaic and Painting
In the early Roman period mosaics display much less regional variation than sculpture. No doubt there were mosaic floors in the Hellenistic period, and excavation at Tel Anafa in the Huleh valley has yielded some fragmentary examples. Herod’s Hellenizing palaces of the later first century BC had mosaic pavements, of which those on Masada are probably among the best known. Most were very simple geometric panels of black on white, perhaps inspired by contemporary mosaic work from Italy. However, the western palace on Masada yielded polychrome floors of a type that elsewhere would commonly contain figured panels (emblemata) at their centre. Instead they have geometric designs, which has been taken as evidence of Herod’s Jewish sensitivity to images, but it is also noted that similar designs are to be found on the Hellenistic mosaics of the Greek island of Delos, so Herod may have had plenty of Greek aniconic models to draw on. A few simple polychrome designs are known from other sites, dated to the late first century BC and first century AD, but the tradition of mosaics in Syria and the Near East can only really be traced with confidence from the beginning of the second century. The rise in the grand tradition of mosaics would therefore seem to coincide roughly with the Second Sophistic and the increasing monumentalization and Hellenization of public buildings in the late first century. Mosaics became common throughout the region, and unlike much of the sculpture from Syria their contexts are generally known, so that potentially some of their meanings are easier to comprehend. In the private sphere they were the mark of wealthy residences, and in the public they were most commonly employed in baths (where they provided durable, waterproof surfaces) and, from the fourth century, for the floors of Christian basilicas. Plain mosaic floors were also employed in more workaday contexts, such as courtyards or wine presses, where their waterproof surface would have been much appreciated. In churches they were often donations, and sometimes the name of the benefactor is recorded in the mosaic, along with the date of its completion. In contrast, mosaics in private houses rarely give such details, but even so they still helped to assert the status of their owner. Decorative mosaics were expensive (though perhaps not as costly as marble opus sectile, to which floors with mosaics were occasionally ‘upgraded’), and consequently the display of colourful mosaics in private households was one of many ways in which the elite could differentiate themselves from the lower classes of society.
This is not the place for a stylistic analysis of mosaics, nor for a study of the tradition’s evolution over the centuries. In any case, the study of Syrian and Near Eastern mosaics is hampered by the problem of dating many of the earlier floors. The sites of Antioch, Apamea and Philippopolis have yielded many pavements, allowing a stylistic chronology to be constructed, but in many cases the dating is insecure. It is hoped that the recent spectacular discoveries at Zeugma will help to refine the framework. Mosaic design in the Syrian region can be very roughly broken down into two main periods, one extending from the second to fourth century, and the other from the fifth century onwards. The second to fourth centuries are characterized by the use of polychrome mosaics with figured emblemata or geometric panels surrounded by geometric and floral borders. Both geometric and figurative mosaics are commonly characterized by the heavy use of polychrome tesserae, although the figurative panels normally have a white background. In the second century each geometric band tended to utilize plain colours, but from the Severan period different-coloured tesserae employed in the bands increased the richness of the design, creating what is sometimes referred to as the ‘rainbow style’. From the fifth century it became common for mosaics in public places to bear the date of their construction, which is a great aid to chronology. This is also the era of what are sometimes called ‘mosaic carpets’, floors which use repetitive patterns covering large surfaces.
Designs were clearly the product of choice, and it is this choice which interests us. Before the late fourth century the majority of mosaics were to be found in bath buildings and, most commonly, in wealthy private houses, which raises questions about the degree to which private patrons had a say in the designing of the floors. It seems fairly clear that there were workshops serving clients on a local or regional basis, and that the availability and proximity of these workshops would have dictated which sites were more likely to have had mosaic floors. These local workshops would have been responsible for cutting the small cubes (tesserae) from limestone, ceramic and marble, and laying them. Glass or a vitreous paste was sometimes used, though it was relatively fragile and was best employed for mosaics laid in places where people would not walk on them, such as walls or vaults. The size of the tesserae vary enormously from one mosaic to another, but are likely to reflect cost and function rather than any chronological evolution. When mosaicists did not have enough gradation of colours to attempt chiaroscuro technique, they outlined the figures with lines of tesserae in a single colour (fig. 147).
The question of choice inevitably prompts a further consideration: to what extent was that choice constrained by pattern-books? Was the process of choosing a mosaic like flipping through a catalogue of wallpaper designs? The existence of pattern-books is suggested by the fact that mosaics from different places display many similarities in their details. However, variations indicate that they might not always have been followed too closely. The Wedding of Ariadne and Dionysus is a theme found on mosaics at Zeugma and Philippopolis, but apart from the fact that the two protagonists are seated in the same manner (Dionysus to the right of Ariadne), the details and the composition are very different. If these are derived from pattern-books, the workshops were using quite different models. The workshops may have derived the designs from famous paintings or manuscript illustrations, although there is precious little evidence for illustrated manuscripts before the fifth century. The case for pattern-books remains unproved, but as we will see there can be little doubt that the figurative designs of mosaics in private houses were driven by the aspirations of the elite. 
	 Mosaics can help to define how different parts of a room were used: which spaces were normally occupied by furniture, and which were the main areas of circulation. Like rugs and carpets, they helped to demarcate different uses of space within a house, and the degree of decoration helped define the hierarchy of different rooms. Mosaics in reception areas and bedrooms (which might serve as more private reception rooms) were given precedence and were more likely to be colourful and elaborate to impress visitors than were floors in areas of the house that would not be seen by guests. The mosaics might have been chosen to complement other decorative schemes, such as wall paintings, but in most cases the mural programmes which accompanied them do not survive. Other features might influence the layout, such as the plan and decoration of the ceiling (the painted ceilings of some Syrian tombs closely resemble geometric mosaic patterns). In one room of the so-called Constantinian Villa at Antioch the central feature was an octagonal sunken pool. Four figurative panels of hunting scenes expand out from it in the form of a Maltese cross; the bands between the panels carried representations of the seasons. The pool and the room’s shape influenced the mosaic design, and in the case of the seasons the choice of subject may have been conditioned by the fact that there were four spaces to fill (seasons often occupied the corners of square or rectangular designs). This practical consideration does not exclude more symbolically significant readings of the seasons, however.
Attention is usually focused on figurative mosaics, although very many were purely geometric or contained floral motifs. Geometric patterns may have been derived from other media such as textiles or paintings, or all three media may have influenced each other. The carpet-like appearance of many geometric designs, with their repeated interwoven patterns, is very reminiscent of textile decoration, and may imitate expensive coverlets, carpets or wall hangings produced by famous regional centres of textile production, or luxury materials imported from elsewhere. Some geometric panels from floors at Zeugma resemble rugs lying on a paved surface. The geometric decoration of the vault in the Tomb of the Three Brothers at Palmyra uses repetitive patterns commonly found in mosaics (vine scroll, overlapping circles, hexagons), together with painted figurative panels common to the mosaic repertoire. Patterns found in painting and textile are also encountered in monumental relief decorations found on buildings (see above), and it is likely that woodcarving utilized the same designs. The interplay between decorative motifs in a variety of media was likely to have been complex. But not all mosaic was decorated, and some of it was more functional. Some floors were plain, and white tesserae were occasionally used to fill in irregular spaces between walls and the edges of expensive opus sectile floors. 
Fig. 143. Mosaic probably from Zeugma, late second century AD, showing a reclining female figure. At each end are squares filled by female heads.
	The most characteristic feature of the first phase of the mosaic tradition (second to fourth centuries) is the emblema, and it is to these that we now turn. Emblemata are most commonly found in houses. In these cases there was one important constraint governing choice: the scenes had to be drawn from Greek culture. They did not always correspond exactly to scenes from myths or stories, or at least not the versions that have been passed down to us, which raises questions about the degree of constraint imposed by literary culture. But the scenes chosen were all examples of paideia, and the characters were often labelled so that there could be no doubt about their identity. This labelling exposes the frequent use of personifications, either by themselves or accompanying the mythical characters: Charis (Grace), Euprepeia (Comeliness), Tryphe (Luxury), Gethosyne (Joy), Bios (Life). These helped orient literate observers to the meaning of the scene or scenes, and they also hint at a rich system of allegory which is largely lost to us. That allegory is precisely what is important here, for what other meanings lie behind the simple presentation of scenes from Greek myth? Charis and Euprepeia might be attributes of the mythical figures represented, but they might also reflect the aspirations of the mosaic’s owners. Did some myths have greater meaning for Syrians, and were they allegories for Syrian myths, or Syrian versions of Greek myths? The beauty contest between the Ethiopian queen Cassiopeia and the Nereids is a scene found at Apamea and Palmyra. Was this a play on the similarity between the names Cassiopeia and the Syrian Mount Casius? One intriguing suggestion is that the scene belongs to a story where the ‘Syrian’ Cassiopeia wins the beauty contest rather than having her country flooded by Poseidon, as in the better-known Greek version. The possibility of local readings invites new interpretations of other scenes. Was the popularity at Zeugma and Antioch of depictions of the sea goddess Tethys, mother of the rivers and wife of Oceanus, considered appropriate for cities located on the Orontes and Euphrates? Such an interpretation seems unlikely in the case of the magnificent Tethys panel from Philippopolis, however. Marine themes occur even at inland sites: Nereids and sea-deities; a marine Venus, seated in a giant scallop shell supported by two ichthyocentaurs; Poseidon in a quadriga of hippocamps. And what of Achilles on Skyros, attested at Palmyra and Zeugma, or the above-mentioned Wedding of Ariadne and Dionysus at Zeugma and Philippopolis? The power of this symbolism can be seen in the continued use of the personifications and mythical figures through the Roman period and even after the Muslim conquest (see Epilogue).
	Some meanings are easily guessed from their spatial context. A mosaic from the entrance to an Antiochene house at ekmece shows the Evil Eye attacked by an assortment of beasts and pierced by weapons. The Eye’s influence is also contained by the presence of a hunchback with a huge phallus (the Lucky Hunchback was a device thought to keep bad luck at bay). The design is a blatant device aimed at diverting baleful influences away from the riches of the house and the happiness of its owners. Wealth might be displayed, but it had to be protected from the malevolent gazes or desires of others. A late Roman mosaic from a house in Berytus contained a poem about jealousy, the ‘worst evil’, but one that had its good side because it ‘eats up the eyes and heart of the jealous’. Variations on this poem are known from other contexts in the Roman world, including the collection of poetry known as the Palatine or Greek Anthology. This may have been an opportunity for the owners of the house to demonstrate their Hellenism and at the same time ward off the negative forces of envy.
	Dining rooms afforded opportunities to display a variety of themes. Some were not particularly learned, though they were highly appropriate to the environment. In the House of the Buffet Supper at Antioch the mosaic for the dining room is laid out to suit a U-shaped arrangement of couches called a stibadium. The open space was decorated at one end with the depiction of a large bowl for mixing wine surrounded by exotic birds, and in front of that a circular medallion showing Ganymede providing a drink for the eagle of Zeus. Around the medallion, in the space that would have lain directly in front of the couches, is a band containing dishes for a banquet. Such explicit references to dining, however, are comparatively rare. In contrast there are frequent references to drinking, usually signified through Dionysiac images: satyrs and maenads, or scenes depicting Dionysus himself. Two other mosaics from the Antioch excavations portray the drinking contest between Heracles and Dionysus, and both come from dining rooms. The same theme was used to decorate a large third-century triclinium at Sepphoris in Galilee, where this theme was chosen as the central panel. It is surrounded by smaller panels, many of which are Dionysiac. One, labelled methe (drunkenness), shows Heracles collapsing at the end of the drinking contest. At Zeugma, Akratos (Unmixed Wine) pours a drink for Euphrosyne (Good Cheer).
	Dinner parties provided the intellectually inclined with opportunities to demonstrate their learning, and the décor of the dining room was one way of stimulating intellectual conversation. Images could help to guide the subject matter of table talk, providing a framework for polite discussion and displays of rhetorical prowess by the learned. Dining-room images may owe something to the Second Sophistic technique of ekphrasis, or description, of art. Among the skills that were prized was the ability of the orator to conjure up a scene in the minds of those listening, and here perhaps was an alternative way of transmitting scenes rather than pattern-books or manuscript illustrations - by word of mouth. Various scenes commonly found in mosaics were those of ekphrasis, and favoured descriptions could have helped to make particular images popular. Hunting, a common mosaic theme and a popular aristocratic pastime, is vividly described in Second Sophistic ekphrasis. The popularity of such rural themes even in late antiquity could reflect the endurance of and admiration for this rhetorical skill into late Roman times as well as the popularity of the hunt. Indeed, literary epigrams on classical art continued to be composed at least as late as the sixth century.
The dinner party was also a place where performances took place in a private setting. Musical works, plays, mimes or pantomimes might be staged for the enjoyment of the guests. Such performances are vividly recalled in the depiction of female musicians on a late fourth-century mosaic from Mariamme (Miryamin). This was a large rectangular mosaic set in front of an apse in a dining room. The diners would recline in the apse and see the musicians before them. This is manifestly not a copy of a famous Hellenistic painting or some such work, because the musicians are wearing contemporary dress. There is a castanet player, an organist (the bellows powered by two erotes), a flautist, a kithara-player, a woman striking metal bowls laid out on a table and a woman with clappers. The dinner party was also the stage for what might be termed ‘performance literature’, where readings from poetry or Greek novels took place. Dinner parties have been posited as an important vehicle for disseminating the Greek novels characteristic of the Second Sophistic, and in this genre the dinner party itself occurs as a device where the lovers exchange their first amorous glances. The potential for liaisons in this environment may explain why themes of lovers, such as Aphrodite and Adonis, or scenes where beauty is subject to critical gaze, as in the Judgement of Paris, were considered particularly apt. Mosaic scenes from known novels are rare, but they do exist. There are representations of the lovers in the anonymous romance Metiochos and Parthenope known from Antioch and Zeugma, and also from Antioch an image from the novel about the Assyrian king Ninus and his beloved Semiramis. To recognize the scenes meant familiarity with these works, but they could have furnished extra meanings to the viewers about lovers separated and reunited, wanderings through exotic lands, and other stock elements found in the novels. Mosaic representations of characters and scenes from novels or Greek tragedy might suggest a sophisticated audience. However, these images do not necessarily mean that the viewers were well read in Greek literature. Mimes and pantomimes drew on scenes from plays and novels, and their popularity as stage acts and at dinner parties could betray a less refined literary origin for these images. 
An ability to hold forth on allegory may explain some of the more extraordinary images, and perhaps only the sophisticated could tease out their overall meanings. One of the most elaborate of numerous high-quality mosaics of the later third and early fourth centuries from Philippopolis is a densely populated panel filled with personifications and mythical figures (fig. 144). The sky is occupied by the four winds and two putti labelled the Drosoi (Dew), emptying jars above the central figures, all of whom are connected with farming. Triptolemos, the inventor of agriculture, stands next to Georgia (Agriculture personified); before them is Ge (Earth), surrounded by four children labelled the Karpoi (Fruits of the Earth). To the right of this group is Prometheus shaping Protoplastos, the First Man, from clay, and Hermes holding a soul. Two figures in this scene are not labelled. One, watching Prometheus, may be a nymph; the other, standing beside Hermes, may represent the union of body and soul. To the left of Ge is Aion (Eternity) holding the wheel of the heavens, and behind him stand the Four Seasons. The whole may be intended to show how Man, fashioned from clay, makes use of Earth’s bounty. An Antiochene pavement shows three men reclining at a dinner party, somewhat poignantly labelled Parochemenos (Past), Enestos (Present), and Mellon (Future), presided over by the figure of Aion. Beneath the three stages of time is their label, Chronoi, leaving the observer with the opportunity to reflect on the differences between eternal and relative time. Such rich symbolism no doubt provided plenty of occasions for philosophical discussion.
Fig. 144. Drawing of an elaborate figurative mosaic from Philippopolis (see text).
Symbolic images need not simply have provided an opportunity for the display of learning, and sometimes they may have had profound spiritual meanings for their patrons and viewers which are very difficult for us to extract today. Rooms can have multiple functions, as is implied by the use of bedrooms as private reception areas. Moving furniture can temporarily transform a room into a different kind of space. The importance of ritual within the household can never be ignored, and many figurative panels can also be seen in a more pious light. For example, Ge and the Karpoi provided the agricultural wealth which maintained the social standing of many elite families, and their images would have been an appropriate reminder of thanks owed. It is noteworthy that these personifications were appropriated by Christians and employed in the ritual context of the church (see below).
	The fourth century saw the final flowering of the emblema and the adoption of the mosaic medium by Christians for paving churches. Some pagan mosaics may be a reaction to the Christianization of the empire. Excavation of the cathedral of Apamea revealed a fourth-century building underneath, its corridors paved with elaborate figurative and geometric panels. The figured panels represent Odysseus reunited with Penelope while servants dance in a circle (a scene not found in Homer); Socrates, seated Christ-like between six of the Seven Sages; and Cassiopeia and the Nereids. The excavators have suggested that this building may have belonged to the Neoplatonist school established at Apamea and that the mosaics, which are dated to roughly AD 350-75, form part of a Neoplatonic decorative programme. The mythical scenes can be seen as allegories of a quest for wisdom (as personified by ‘circumspect Penelope’ and the dancing servants, who perhaps symbolize education) and beauty. The prominence given to Socrates among the sages reinforces the view that Platonic philosophy was important to those who commissioned the pavements.
A late third-century mosaic from a house at Heliopolis also gives prominence to Platonic philosophy. Eight looped circles contain portraits of Socrates and the Seven Sages, surrounding a central roundel bearing an image of Calliope, the Muse of Epic. Once again Socrates is given prominence, this time by being placed directly above Calliope. The Seven Sages are accompanied by wise Greek maxims: ‘know thyself’, ‘nothing in excess’, ‘moderation is best’ and so on. An adjacent room bore a floor containing scenes from the life of Alexander the Great. Although damaged, the latter presents a narrative, probably inspired by literary Alexander romances. There is an annunciation scene: Olympias, the mother of Alexander, seated beside Philip of Macedon, receives an envoy of Dionysus who tells her that she will conceive through a god; next to this Olympias reclines on a couch and a servant washes the infant Alexander. The choice of annunciation may have been deliberate: a pagan appropriation of a Christian narrative for the great Hellenistic hero-king.
	From the later fourth century it is Christian symbolism that dominates the mosaic medium, although references to pagan Greek culture still occur. But at the end of the fourth century the central figurative panel, the mainstay of the mythical depiction, disappears. The figures remain, but they are normally used as elements in much larger designs (the ‘mosaic carpets’ mentioned above). The style seems to have been driven by church mosaics, but it also dominates the tessellated floors of private houses and other buildings as well. There is an expansion of contexts in which mosaics are used, such as in the porticos of public colonnades, and the increasing variety of uses is accompanied by more regional variation. Often these are scenes inspired by daily life, rather than the mythical or personificatory images which had dominated in earlier times. The themes no longer seem so constrained by the canon of Greek literature. Devices that had once served as borders to the framed panels, such as grids and vine scrolls, now move to central part of the mosaic. The carpets contain meanders and swastikas, fields of looped circles, grids, and fleurettes. The gaps in the patterns are often filled with vases and chalices, birds, baskets and cages, and sometimes crowded with seemingly random assortments of symbols: discs, fleurettes, and lozenges. Older themes are also encountered. There are Nilotic designs, with putti in boats and Egyptian buildings along riverscapes, derived from Hellenistic antecedents (fig. 145). 
The use of terms like ‘mosaic carpets’ evokes textiles, although the relationship between the two media remains conjectural (see above). Like carpets, the later mosaics are frequently designed to be seen from more than one viewing point, even when they contain figures. The figures themselves are scattered on a light background, or placed in rows or registers, rather like cutouts. The motifs include Sasanian designs. A large fifth-century mosaic from Antioch, with a central motif of a phoenix, placed on a field of fleurettes, has a border pattern thought to have Sasanian origins: a repeated heraldic motif of a pair of confronted rams’ heads above a pair of wings tied with a ribbon. The use of ribbons, which are sometimes shown tied around animals, seems to be inspired by Persian royal emblems. They may have been transmitted to Syria through the medium of Persian textiles, but other decorative arts, such as metalworking, could also have served to disseminate Sasanian designs. Personifications remained popular, although they often refer to the mosaic or the building in which it was laid, or to the owner. A common one is Ktisis, meaning either Foundation or Possession. Other personifications include Ananeosis (Renewal, perhaps a reference to the renovation of a building), and Megalopsychia (Magnanimity), the latter an appropriate emblem for those grandees who considered themselves to possess this virtue. In late mosaics we also encounter an interest in topographic details (fig. 145). A late-fifth century Megalopsychia mosaic from Antioch has a border showing buildings and landmarks of Antioch and Daphne. Topography reaches its most elaborate in the extraordinary mid-sixth-century floor of a church at Medaba, which is in the form of a map, with Jerusalem at its centre. The mosaic is badly damaged and its full extent is not clear, but it must once have depicted the whole of Palestine and Arabia. Cities, mountains and rivers are shown, as is the Dead Sea. Jerusalem is depicted with its main colonnaded street and principal buildings. Important geographical features, likely to be of interest to Christian pilgrims, are included. It has been suggested that the model was a pilgrim map, perhaps not unlike the Peutinger Table.
Fig. 145. Border between the nave and the aisle of the church of St Stephen at Kastron Mefaa (Umm ar-Rasas, Jordan), eighth century AD. Although the mosaic was laid after the period of Roman rule, the elements are typical of the late Roman period. The nave contains a peopled vine scroll (visible to the right), surrounded by a Nilotic border with the cities of the Nile delta, putti in boats, fish and plants. The aisle (on the left) contains geometric patterns and panels with chalices and so on. Of particular interest are the topographical designs between the intercolumnar spaces, depicting Palestinian and Arabian cities. On this section we see, from the bottom upwards: Eleutheropolis, Diospolis, Caesarea, Sebaste, Neapolis and Jerusalem.
	The inscriptions on late Roman mosaics record a variety of people of different status donating whole floors or parts of floors to public buildings. In churches it is likely that in most cases the clergy chose the designs, and that the whole ensemble was intended to be programmatic, but some designs may have been selected by lay persons, such as the representation of Mouchasos the Camel-driver from Deir el-Adas (fig. 146). The prominence given to him suggests he was the donor, although we cannot be certain. Stock elements on church mosaics include birds, vegetal motifs and vases. Scenes from the Bible are rare. This contrasts with what we know from textual sources of wall paintings, in which instructive visual lessons from the Bible figured prominently. There may have been a reluctance to place such scenes in places where people could walk on them. The floors seem to have been used as the image of the earth, God’s creation, with the animals and plants, and human daily life, that it contained. Creation is emphasized in the floor of a church of the archangel Michael at Huarte near Apamea, where Adam sits amid the animals, presumably in the process of naming them (Genesis 2 19-20). Although more concerned with topographical information, the Medaba map mentioned above continues the earth-bound theme. In contrast, church walls bore images of hope and salvation, and the roof portrayed a vision of heaven. But links with the pagan past were not completely severed in these church floors: a chapel at Nebo (Khirbet el-Mukhayyat) in Jordan has a depiction of two youths with baskets of fruits flanking a bust labelled ‘Ge’, recalling the arrangement in the Philippopolis mosaic. Here the likely interpretation is that the floor signifies God’s earth, personified together with her fruitfulness accessible to the righteous. Indeed, the elements of the Christian vision (creation, earth’s bounty, eternity) were already present in the Philippopolis mosaic. This does not necessarily signify any direct transmission, but it should alert us to the possibility of different symbols being employed to similar ends, and similar ones to different ends, in pagan and Christian contexts.
Fig. 146. Mouchasos the Camel driver, mosaic from a church at Deir el-Adas in the Hauran, dated January AD 621, now on display in the theatre at Bostra. Such scenes of ‘daily life’ are common in late antique mosaics. Mouchasos may have been the donor of this pavement.
	Jewish synagogues are another category of religious building where elaborate decorative mosaics were laid. There is not much evidence for their use in synagogues prior to the fourth century, but in late antiquity we encounter geometric designs resembling those used on the floors of Christian churches. These include the standard repertoire of grid patterns, looped circles, vine scrolls and animal motifs. Indeed, some have suggested that this form of decoration might have arisen from a desire to compete with the pavements laid by Christian communities. What is quite remarkable is the use of figurative, and even pagan, designs. As in churches Biblical scenes are rare, though perhaps, as in churches, scenes from the Bible decorated the walls (see below). The elaborate mosaics, probably of late fourth-century date, from the synagogue at Hammath Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee, with their inscriptions in Greek, Hebrew and Aramaic, have an interesting mix of Jewish and Hellenized elements. One large panel shows purely Jewish motifs: the Torah shrine flanked by menorahs (seven-branched candlesticks) and other ritual symbols. The other is a square containing a circular zodiac, with naked Hellenizing figures, their names in Hebrew, and a central medallion containing a figure of Helios, the Greek sun-god, in his chariot. The corners of the square have the four seasons. It would seem to point to a strongly Hellenized Jewish elite. The same designs are used about 150 years later in a synagogue at Beth Alpha, although here, while the inspiration may be Hellenic, the execution is thoroughly local. And these are not the only examples; another zodiac and Helios panel has been found at Sepphoris.
No discussion of mosaics in the region can avoid mention of a group of third-century mosaics from tombs at Edessa. Apart from representations of Orpheus, or a phoenix, the rest are remarkably non-classical in style and subject matter, with frontal portraits and Syriac inscriptions (fig. 147). Here the medium of mosaic is adapted to suit local subjects, but caution needs to exercised before viewing these as evidence that Edessenes or Mesopotamians rejected the classicizing styles. The designs may have been chosen because they were considered appropriate to a funerary context. The obvious parallel is Palmyra, where the homes of the elite were decorated in ‘Graeco-Roman’ style with Greek mythological mosaics, whereas in their funerary art the Palmyrenes maintained a very different, local or regional style. Something similar might be observed for some sixth-century mosaics from a tomb at Emesa which also have frontal depictions of the deceased, although this time in Greek costume. The Edessa mosaics should be compared with a group of later Mesopotamian mosaics from Sarrn, which are very much Greek in inspiration, with mythological scenes depicting Artemis, Heracles, Aphrodite and Dionysus. They came from a peristyle, but whether the context was a private house or public building cannot be determined.
Fig. 147. Drawing of the Funerary Couch mosaic from Edessa, late Severan period. The arrangement of figures and busts closely resembles the decoration found on funerary couch sarcophagi of Palmyra.
	Of paintings of the Roman period, very little survives. The best evidence comes from the early Roman period, from temples and houses at Dura Europus, the Tomb of the Three Brothers at Palmyra, houses at Zeugma, a hypogeum at Masyaf, about 30 kilometres (18½ miles) south of Apamea, and a recently discovered mithraeum at Huarte, about 15 kilometres (9¼ miles) to the north-west of the same city. In all cases the surviving examples are unlikely to represent Syrian painting at its very best. As with sculpture, a ‘provincial’ style is more evident at Dura and Palmyra than in those regions closer to the coast, but the overall evidence is slender. Inland at Zeugma the content and execution is entirely Hellenic; like mosaics, paintings were a way for their owners to express their education in Greek culture, and artists skilled in the style were available. Wall paintings from a house at Petra, probably of the first century, depict fantasy architectural trompe l’oeil designs, likened to the Second Style of painting at Pompeii, but may draw their inspiration from nearby Alexandria rather than Italy. They too suggest that Hellenized designs were appropriate to domestic contexts.
	Many of the Dura paintings come from religious structures, which may have influenced the styles. Frontal depictions are the norm, as with sculpture at Dura and Palmyra, and the figures or scenes are arranged in registers, with no attempt at perspective. When the Dura frescoes were first discovered in 1920, their frontality was thought to provide a link between the art of third-century Syria and the later Byzantine tradition. There are, however, problems with this, not least finding later examples of Syrian frontality to bridge the chronological gap between the two traditions. There may be a link, but it may be similarity of purpose (the gaze of the image connecting directly with the viewer and the room) that created the two traditions, rather than transmission from one to the other. Painted figures could serve as cult images instead of reliefs or statues. In the temple of Zeus Theos, the god was portrayed on a fresco on the rear wall of the naos, crowned by two victories; on either side the walls bore registers of worshippers. The formal poses of the worshippers, right hands raised in an attitude of prayer, or sprinkling incense on a burner, established these individuals, like the funerary reliefs at Palmyra, as a continual and attentive presence within the sacred space. The frescoes from the Christian chapel, although poorly executed, are rather different. A depiction of the Good Shepherd occupies the main niche above the pool which served as a font, along with Adam and Eve. The other paintings were arranged in two registers around the walls. The lower one shows a procession of women holding torches approaching a pedimented sarcophagus-like object, interpreted as the Holy Women at the Sepulchre. They also would have led the eyes of any viewers or participants in the room towards the font. Above the women is a very fragmentary set of images, of which two are identifiable: the healing of the paralytic and Christ walking on water. Separate panels showed David and Goliath and the Samaritan woman at the well. These Biblical episodes and miracles, for which the only date is a graffito of AD 232/233, furnished the worshippers with reminders of God’s power. Here perhaps is an early example of the tradition for placing scenes derived from Biblical and other texts on church walls, and one wonders how much it owes to the tradition found in the nearby synagogue, whose last phase dates to about AD 245, a decade before Dura was sacked and abandoned. The magnificent frescoes of the assembly hall of this building demonstrate that the Jewish community of Dura was perfectly at home among painted images of human beings. Even the ceiling tiles were painted with figurative decoration. The west wall, containing an aedicula where the Torah was kept, is the best preserved. Biblical scenes are arranged in registers around the room: Moses and the burning bush, the Exodus and the Red Sea crossing, Elijah raising the widow’s son, the sacrifice of Isaac, and Ezekiel’s prophecy, to name but a few. Although evoking events of a distant past, the figures are dressed in contemporary Greek or Persian clothes. The identity of some of the scenes is disputed, and it is hard to discern any overall programme in their arrangement. The difficulty of reconciling some of the scenes with surviving texts has led to the ingenious proposition that these are the product of an oral tradition rather than one based on a canonical text or texts, providing the rabbi and others with an opportunity to expound on the scriptures and draw various meanings from the images (rather in the way that mosaic emblemata might have done at the Hellenized dinner party), instead of providing a simple pictorial illustration of the scriptures.
	Also religious in content are the paintings from the mithraeum at Huarte, dated to the fourth century. Like the Dura church and synagogue, they show narrative scenes from myths: for example, the birth of Mithras, and a battle between gods and giants. Not all are obviously associated with Mithras, and the programme may have been intended to assimilate the god to other deities like Helios, Apollo and Attis. Perhaps the most remarkable scene of all is a rampart decorated with a row of hideous heads, each pierced by a yellow ray of sunlight - probably a reference to the City of Darkness and its demonic agents. Other agents of darkness have complete human forms, although at least one has two heads. They are depicted being torn apart by lions, or held in chains by horse riders. As at Dura, the figures are dressed in Greek and Persian garments.
	The use of a local or regional idiom in funerary contexts has already been mentioned in conjunction with sculpture and mosaics. In some cases Hellenized and indigenous conventions could be employed alongside one another, each appropriate for the particular message being conveyed. The paintings in the Tomb of the Three Brothers at Palmyra are interesting for the way they combine the Palmyrene tradition of funerary portraits with Graeco-Roman-style narrative emblemata drawing on Greek myth, and with generic geometric designs seen on mosaics. The frescoes at the end of the main gallery include typically Palmyrene frontal figures and busts of the departed in both Palmyrene and Greek costume, mixed with scenes executed in a thoroughly Hellenized style: Achilles discovered on Skyros, disguised as a woman, and Ganymede being carried up to heaven. The Achilles scene was common as a decoration for sarcophagi in the Roman world, and it also occurs on mosaic pavements in houses. Here it may be an allegory of transition, the point where Achilles chooses a glorious but short life; the theme of Ganymede stresses transition from one mode of existence to another. The paintings from the hypogeum at Masyaf are now lost; they are thought to be of the late second century. The themes were typical of funerary contexts but the treatment was purely Hellenized. On the wall were depictions of trees, an image of Narcissus, and children playing marbles. One of the sarcophagi was painted with classical figures typical of sarcophagus reliefs, associated with the Rape of Persephone. For allegorical imagery, Hellenized scenes were appropriate (however differently they might be understood); for representations of the deceased, other traditions might be employed.

Dressing Differently
	The vast amount of material and textual evidence for daily life, and regional variations in that evidence, has already been alluded to in previous chapters. Through everyday activities people can make themselves different. Taboos concerning food, and variations in food preparation and presentation, traceable through animal bones and pottery, have already been mentioned (chapters 5 and 6). Attitudes to beverages could also signify difference. The dedications to a Nabataean deity, Shai al-Kaum, ‘the good and rewarding god, who does not drink wine’, may indicate that his devotees also abstained from alcohol, or wine at least. As wine was central to the Graeco-Roman way of life, abstention would have been an important mark of cultural distinction. Likewise the treatment of the body, through acts such as male body piercing or circumcision, created markers of difference, and will have set such people apart from Hellenized ideals. The Greek and Roman notions of male beauty could cause circumcised males embarrassment in Hellenized environments like the baths or gymnasium, and some sought to disguise such physical marks through a surgical procedure called epispasm (the ‘uncircumcision’ of I Corinthians 7 18-19). The operation became so commonplace in Hadrianic Judaea that rabbis introduced more radical forms of circumcision which could not be easily disguised.
Fig. 148. Stele at Arsameia on the Nymphaios in Commagene, showing Antiochus I of Commagene in Armenian and Persian royal dress, shaking hands with the Greek god Heracles. The nearby inscriptions, however, are all in Greek.
Clothing and dress are important signifiers of identity, being used to denote status and social role as well as gender. There are often firm rules and taboos governing what people can wear, and even subtle variations can be used as a symbol of resistance to norms. Much of the evidence for clothing comes from funerary sculpture, which presents us with a problem because the way people chose to be represented in death may not have reflected their everyday attire. It did, however, reflect the manner in which they themselves or their surviving relatives wanted the deceased to be seen for eternity (see below). Throughout the region, cult images from Commagene to Petra are found in non-Greek garb, but what was appropriate for deities need not have been so for mortals. Again, context was probably important in deciding what sort of dress was appropriate. Emperors and deities could wear military costume. Honorific, non-funerary statues for public display tend to be in Greek-style dress or wearing a toga. Gender and status might have a part to play, with male citizens emphasizing their status through Greek dress, while women sometimes used more traditional clothing (fig. 139). Client rulers were able to emphasize their cultural allegiances through the use of regular Graeco-Roman garb, but Antiochus I of Commagene chose to stress his non-Greek descent through the tall Armenian tiara and Persian-style clothing of his statues and reliefs (figs 141, 148). However, his less politically independent descendant Antiochus IV, who had grown up among the Roman nobility, was portrayed as a Hellenistic monarch, wearing the diadem. A similar diademed Hellenistic ruler portrayed on a ring from the necropolis at Emesa (fig. 149.1) would be unremarkable were it not for the prominent earring; he may be a local dynast. (Male earrings were for Pliny the Elder an ‘oriental’ trait and a notable mark of difference.) The Ituraean rulers of Chalcis and the Herodian kings all opted for Hellenistic portraits, but whether these images are an accurate rendering of their normal appearance is unclear. Different appearances could be used for different audiences. The third-century usurper Vaballathus could be depicted with short hair, in Graeco-Roman style, on coins issued at Antioch, but some of those struck in Egypt show him with long hair (fig. 149.2). There seems little point in asking which is the ‘true’ portrait; both images are probably symbolic, although the Alexandrian one is a strikingly non-Roman choice in terms of social code. That it would be seen only in Egypt (because the coins did not circulate elsewhere) makes it no less extraordinary. There are numerous images of males, both mortal and divine, with long hair in Palmyrene art (most Palmyrene male portraits are short-haired, however). The use of Parthian clothes at Palmyra suggests that a Palmyrene fashion for long hair could have originated across the Euphrates, because Parthian, Hatrene and Sasanian rulers are portrayed with long hair, but it is also found among the peoples of the Syrian steppe, and among the Nabataean kings, so what statements were intended by the use of long hair for a portrait of Vaballathus are unclear to us. The meanings of other dress codes are also enigmatic, such as the loincloths found on male figures in sculpture from the Hauran of the Nabataean period. If these are to be connected with traditional bedouin dress as some scholars have suggested, it may be a statement about the comparative social prominence of nomadic groups in the region.
Fig. 149.1. Signet ring from the necropolis at Emesa, depicting a ruler wearing a royal diadem. First century BC - first century AD? After H. Seyrig, Syria 39 (1952), pl. 27, no. 6. 149.2. Alexandrian coin portrait of Vaballathus, wearing both a Hellenistic-style royal diadem and the laurel wreath of a triumphal Roman commander.
Palmyrene sculpture provides us with a good idea of the way in which context influenced dress. As is the case throughout the region, honorific statues normally wear togas or Greek mantles, appropriate to the civic environment. In their funerary reliefs the costumes worn by the male Palmyrene elites are Greek or Parthian rather than consciously indigenous, but parallels have been drawn between women’s dress and local bedouin costume still worn in the region today. Other costumes encountered in mythological or cult scenes, such as the beam from the Temple of Bel showing a procession (fig. 159), may be indigenous. Here women are in an entirely different mode of dress from that worn in the funerary reliefs, completely veiled from head to toe, their faces hidden. The male figures in the relief wear long tunics with short sleeves, belted at the waist, which seems to be the appropriate attire for religious observances but not for other contexts. A relief from the Temple of Nebo shows male priests in similar belted tunics, with bare feet. As we do not know for certain who the people in the beam relief are, it is not possible to be sure what the costumes of the women signify, although they are probably ritual. Religious garb perhaps incorporates elements of ‘Syrian’ costume (see below), and thus the veils could be seen as an expression of cultural identity within a specific social context. At any rate, such clothing seems to have been unsuitable for funerary reliefs or honorific statuary.
The Palmyrene funerary reliefs and sculptures, which form the largest category of evidence for dress codes, are likely to represent the values of the civic elites, reflecting either actuality or aspirations. Some patterns may be the result of particular sculpture workshops concentrating on mass production of images with certain styles of clothing, but private demands are likely to have shaped the canons of the workshops, and in some cases the same style or hand is evident for sculptures in both Greek and Parthian modes of dress. The chronology of the portraits indicates an increasing interest in non-Greek costumes over time. Where figures appear in the early Palmyrene reliefs, they are normally shown in Greek dress, but from the mid-first century AD Parthian costume begins to make an appearance. Men might wear a pendant or torque (also found in the Hauran sculptures), finger rings (commonly worn on the little finger of the left hand) and wreaths. The male fashion for beards appears to move in concert with Roman fashion: beardless in the first century, with beards becoming more common in the second and almost universal in the third. The only exceptions are priests, who remain clean-shaven throughout the period (though former priests could apparently grow beards). Long hair is worn by figures with or without beards, and may be combined with Greek or Parthian dress. Where there are multiple figures, some may wear Parthian dress and others Greek, or individuals might mix the two, wearing a Greek mantle over a Parthian tunic and trousers. How did Palmyrene viewers interpret these different dress codes? They must have transmitted certain statements about individual identity. Did the choice of a Greek mantle for a man make a statement about cultural allegiances, to the polis, and/or to the Roman empire? If so, what did Parthian dress signify in this context? And what messages did mixed Greek and Parthian garb communicate?
What is called ‘Parthian’ dress is in fact the male clothing and hairstyles typical of Mesopotamia. It might indeed be better labelled ‘Mesopotamian’. The royal statues of Hatra are dressed in the same style, and there are strong parallels with the costumes of the mosaics from Edessa (fig. 147). The ‘Mesopotamian’ attire consists of a short tunic with long sleeves, often embroidered with elaborate braids and strips of richly decorated material, in one or two vertical stripes. Sometimes the individual wears a long coat, open at the front, over the tunic. Loosely fitting trousers of the type worn by Antiochus I of Commagene (fig. 148) are also embroidered with stripes down them. Some sculptures depict leggings worn over the lower legs of the trousers and attached to a belt under the tunic, a form of accessory favoured by the Parthian and Sasanian nobility. This type of costume is normally accompanied by ankle-length boots, into which the trousers are tucked. A small lead tessera depicting Odaenathus’ son Herodian takes the Mesopotamian theme even further, showing him dressed in the tall headdress typical of Edessene and Hatrene royalty (fig. 150). In the use of such dress, Palmyrenes appealed to identities other than Hellenism as a source of social authority.
Fig. 150. Lead tessera of Herodian, son of Odaenathus of Palmyra, describing him as king and showing him in a Mesopotamian-style royal tiara and with his hair gathered in a bunch at the back of his head in Mesopotamian or Sasanian style. The other side (not shown) depicts him wearing a laurel wreath. After H. Seyrig, Antiquites Syriennes II, Paris 1938, pp. 44-5 and pl. VI, 1.
The richness of Palmyrene female attire has attracted much comment, but there is considerable variety, making generalizations difficult. The veil worn over the head is common to funerary sculpture elsewhere, although occasionally Palmyrene women are portrayed without it. First-to-mid-second-century womens’ dress is fairly simple and conforms more to the forms found in other regions of the Roman world, with a veil over the head and the hair held in a diadem. Sometimes they wear jewellery, and are often shown carrying spindle and distaff - symbols of the female role in the household that would have been entirely familiar to Hellenized viewers. In the second century there is an elaboration of female costumes, with increased emphasis on jewellery: necklaces, earrings, finger rings, diadems and bracelets. The most elaborate costumes occur in the third century, where the veil is drawn over a highly decorated and jewelled turban, but other women continued to be portrayed in the simpler dress of earlier times. The combination of turban and veil may have been influenced by styles at Edessa and Hatra, where even taller headdresses are found (fig. 147).
	Religious dress is often conservative and at variance with everyday attire. The beardless, shaved heads of Palmyrene priests, dressed in their distinctive cylindrical hats, are well known from Palmyrene funerary sculptures. Evidently the hats alone could signify ‘priest’ (and the decoration perhaps signified the deity), because reliefs and sculptures show the wearers in attire appropriate to the context of the art (a toga in the case of an honorific statue), but as we have seen in the case of the beam relief from the Temple of Bel, other evidence hints that special dress (long belted tunic, bare feet) might be appropriate during religious activities. Certainly this seems to have been the case in some of the temples at Dura Europus. The dress (long tunic and tall conical hat) and pose (offering incense) found on religious reliefs and temple frescoes there, such as the late second-or-third-century AD fresco of the priest Konon from the Temple of Bel (fig. 151.1), are paralleled on the late fourth-century BC coins of Mambog (Hierapolis). A basalt relief from Hierapolis of the second century AD (?) shows the high priest Alexander in similar attire, his conical cap decorated with astral symbols and his tunic belted at the waist and with a fringe of bells or pom-poms at the bottom (fig. 151.2). Two other unprovenanced reliefs of the Roman period in the Aleppo Museum depict priests in the same dress, as do reliefs now in Gaziantep Museum in what was formerly Commagene. While Dura and Hierapolis are some distance apart, there does seem to be a case for regarding these images as an example of continuity of local religious attire along the Euphrates from at least the time of Alexander. Only slightly different is the image of the priest Narkisos, son of Kasios, carved on the podium of the Temple of Hadaranes at Niha in the Bekaa valley (fig. 152). He is bearded, wears a long tunic with sleeves (which is also belted at the waist), a pectoral ornamented with relief busts of a male and female deity, and a pointed cap decorated with a crescent. The pointed cap may have been a characteristic element of Syrian costume in the Achaemenid period; at Persepolis in Iran a relief showing figures in such caps is generally thought to be a Syrian delegation visiting the Great King. Thus it is possible that elements of the costumes worn by priests and worshippers and reserved for religious activities in the Roman period were consciously ‘Syrian’ and had once been elements of formal dress.
Fig. 151. Syrian priests. 151.1. Drawing of the left-hand section of the fresco of the priest Konon and his family from the Temple of Bel at Dura, showing the offering of incense. 151.2. Drawing of the relief of the high priest Alexander from Hierapolis. Note the conical hat, belted tunic and bare feet. 151.3. Drawing of part of a relief from a tomb at the village of Babulin, 95 kilometres (60 miles) south-east of Aleppo, showing a priest called Rapsones sacrificing at an altar.
Fig. 152. The priest Narkisos from the Temple of Hadaranes at Niha.

Muddy Waters: the Impurity of Identities
The cultures of Syria and the Near East during the Roman period are sometimes described as hybrid, drawing in particular on Greek, Roman, local and Mesopotamian influences. Yet all cultures, even the most isolated, are in some sense hybrids, so this does not define those of the Syrian region as special or unusual. One can try to tease apart the different threads of origins and influences at places like Palmyra or Petra, but the separate influences need not say anything much about what the whole meant to contemporaries. Still less do the influences help to define what is ‘real’ and what is ‘veneer’. When looking for social identities one has to take into account all of the evidence, which is no easy task. All sorts of cultural symbols - shapes and designs of pottery, funerary rites, images of deities and so on - were manipulated by communities and individuals to express similarities with or differences from others. The same group could express difference from others in one context or field of activity (say, religion) and similarity in another (such as language or political form) without contradiction. As we have seen, the signs themselves might be open to more than one interpretation, and things that seem insignificant to us today may have generated profound feelings of distinction at the time. Even landscape creates a sense of belonging and difference. 
Hellenism was a powerful influence in the region during the period of Roman rule and an important tool for constructing communities. It was certainly not simply a façade masking another reality, and nor should it be seen as an influence that somehow contaminated the cultural ‘purity’ of traditional identities. It did, however, have much to do with power, with social standing, and with Roman imperialism. (We should reject any attempt to provide a neo-evolutionary explanation for the success of Hellenism, whereby a superior, vigorous ‘high’ culture naturally overcomes or is autonomously adopted by less vigorous, ‘passive’ ones.) The language and writing of power was Greek (and, in certain contexts, Latin), so command of the high-status language would have endorsed the standing of those fluent in this form of symbolic capital. But the influence of Hellenism ran deeper than that. With it came a way of life and a mentality centred on the polis, an institution in which the elites of Syria, supported by Rome, invested a great deal. Greek cultural forms penetrated society on many levels. Hellenism may have provided a sort of symbolic lingua franca by incorporating different traditions into a multi-faceted unity, allowing each community to identify through their own traditions with the wider cultural community of empire. Yet incorporation or assimilation was never divorced from the realities of power. The city state, allied with the Roman empire, influenced individuals and communities in their choice of cultural performances, although it also offered some individuals, especially members of the elite, a chance to participate in a wider imperial culture. 
The institutions of Roman imperialism, particularly the legal system, forced individuals and communities to interact with the dominant power on its own terms, and created new identities through organizations like the imperial cult or, from the fourth century, the state’s adoption of Christianity (see chapter 9). Those who hailed from communities which had most thoroughly assimilated the dominant Graeco-Roman imperial culture might seem better positioned to attain important posts in the empire, yet there are some hints that, important though Greek culture was, loyalty to Rome need not always have been expressed and rewarded through the intermediary of Hellenism. From the second half of the first century AD wealthy Syrians began entering the Roman Senate. Most whose origins are known came from Antioch, but this strongly Hellenized city was followed by less Hellenized Palmyra, which produced at least six Roman senators. It may however be significant that Judaea, Arabia and Mesopotamia did not contribute to the senatorial class in any significant way, and that the same bias may be noted for the rather more plentiful equestrians hailing from the region. One’s cultural background, it seems, probably affected one’s chances of attaining high offices of state - at least in the early empire. In the Christian empire the institution of the church offered opportunities for advancement for people from a variety of backgrounds, sometimes allowing those without a classical education to circumvent the restraints imposed by imperial Hellenism.
The common use of Hellenizing or Roman symbols in the Syrian region does not necessarily mean the obliteration of other identities. The surviving material traces of languages, art and dress are all the remnants of cultural performances, within a particular context, and with a particular audience in mind: Hellenized guests at a dinner party; peers and subordinates in the civic community; participants in religious and funerary rites; advocates in legal disputes; or recipients of letters, to select some examples. Within these contexts individuals and groups made choices, selecting from the alternative signs available to create a sense of identity, and to conform to or to resist the hegemonic powers that impinged on their lives. Hellenized intellectuals might avoid making anything of their non-Hellenized origins in their writings because the genre was inappropriate for such expressions, but others of lesser social status might choose to emphasize theirs. In distant South Shields on Hadrian’s Wall, a Palmyrene called Barates commissioned a funerary relief in the late second century for his British wife Regina. The imagery of the relief, showing Regina seated on a chair within an ornate aedicula is fairly normal in the repertoire of western funerary art, although the hairstyle and the spindle and distaff are typically Palmyrene. Moreover, apart from the Latin inscription, there is also a text in Palmyrene, paralleling the bilingual funerary texts in Greek and Palmyrene at Palmyra itself. Epitaphs generally suppose an audience, and the Palmyrene one hints at a desire for distinction, though we cannot know how many people in South Shields would have recognized the Palmyrene text as anything other than ‘barbarian letters’. But the deployment of Palmyrene in a British context must say something for its cultural importance to Barates himself, and for the fact that it was deemed an appropriate language for such a monumental medium even in this far-flung location. Equally striking is another funerary relief from South Shields for a Mauretanian freedman called Victor, whose pose, reclining on a couch, recalls Palmyrene reliefs. So too do the small facing busts above the scene, and the vegetal scroll behind him. The designs and execution suggest a highly competent sculptor familiar with Palmyrene art, who may himself have been from Palmyra. Once again, we are presented with something ‘hybrid’, but in this case the non-Hellenized elements were hardly local and some of the meanings will have been apparent only to a few.
In searching for Syrians the quest is not so much to locate a multicultural society lurking behind a Hellenized façade, and nor is it to classify and arrange identities according to distinct cultures occupying contiguous regions, with well-defined boundaries between their different customs, language, art and dress, and with the individuals in each cultural group all adhering to a single identity: ‘Phoenician’, ‘Arab’, ‘Syrian’ and so on. As stated earlier in this chapter, identity and culture are not the same thing. Individuals and groups construct their identities by participating in cultures or social institutions to differing degrees, using various different identities to negotiate status and rights, depending on context. Those identities in Roman Syria that were more readily renegotiated and revised are difficult for us to detect, given the very fragmentary nature of our evidence. One task is to try to make sense of the reasons why particular forms were chosen: Palmyrene monumental inscriptions, self-ascriptions as ‘Syrians’, Egyptian cornices, imported Proconnesian sarcophagi, ritual pointed caps and so on; and why particular forms were sometimes abandoned. We are often left with impure genres of overlapping identities, deployed in situations that we cannot determine for reasons that are lost to us. We know far more about Greek or Jewish culture than we do about the others, making Hellenizing or Judaizing choices easier to recognize and explain than Palmyrene or Nabataean. Our ignorance of other identities may make them especially hard to see. Even when certain forms persist over long periods of time (as seems to have been the case with ritual dress at Hierapolis), their significance is far from certain, and it is easy for us to dismiss as insignificant meanings that we do not fully comprehend. Nor does an apparent lack of continuity indicate cultural passivity or weakness. Cultural continuity can be maintained through institutional supervision and deliberate training and instruction, but what is reproduced, and how consistently it is reproduced, will depend, among other things, on the relations of the community with outside powers, on different cultural attitudes to memory, to the primacy and authority of written texts, and the extent to which myths and tradition could be used as justification for, or altered to suit, actions in the present. The possibilities for variation are almost infinite. In the search for Syrian identities, and the ways in which people may have made themselves different or similar, historians and archaeologists have set themselves a particularly difficult exercise.

9 The Pious World

Polytheism
Religions form another major sphere of social interaction through which people construct identities and a sense of belonging. It was also a sphere of social interaction which Hellenism respected. The Greeks may have assimilated local deities to Greek myths, but they did not suppress those local cults, or their forms of worship. This meant that local or regional cults became a channel through which local or regional identities could be affirmed. That is not to say that they did not adapt or appropriate Greek symbols, or that their adherents rejected Hellenism, or that the cults were in some sense evidence for a separate pagan Syrian culture of resistance. But at the same time we should also be wary of concluding that the metaphysical spaces consecrated to the deities (temples, shrines and altars) were seen by worshippers solely through the material remains that we ourselves observe at the sites. We should be wary too of concluding that the use of ‘Graeco-Roman’ architectural styles, Greek cult statues, or Greek inscriptions means that indigenous forms of piety could no longer find material or spiritual expression. The material evidence itself suggests a wide spectrum of responses and levels of interaction between Greek and native forms. We might even detect pride in these cults on the part of highly Hellenized Syrians. For example, the satirist Lucian is reverent in his treatment of the cult of the Syrian Goddess, Atargatis, at Hierapolis, as he is with other religions of the region, and this stands in sharp contrast to his irreverent and often critical approach to the traditional Greek gods and goddesses.
Like cities, cults might seek wealthy benefactors or imperial sponsors. Dedications made by Roman soldiers and officers at the shrines of local cults may provide proof of their success at attracting these representatives of state power. At the same time major sanctuaries could become an arena for competing social identities and even competing cults, with different groups promoting their interests or ‘ancestral gods’ within and around the sacred space. Some irregular designs of temples and sanctuaries suggest compromises to accommodate these different interests. Whereas ethnicity or tribal affiliations might determine the composition of worshippers of certain cults, others were apparently open to a wider range of people (or they had become more open as a result of social compromises). A few of these gained international recognition, and their images, like those of the Tyche of Antioch or the figure of Roma, were icons recognized across the empire. The ways in which they gained this ‘superstar’ status might differ considerably: for example, Jupiter of Doliche in Commagene was adopted for private worship by Roman soldiers and spread with the army, for reasons that are quite obscure. This means that ethnic origins might have nothing to do with attachment to a highly successful cult, although in many cases Syrian soldiers and traders were responsible for disseminating Syrian cults overseas. The advance of a cult might depend on luck; emperors and other important figures were impressed by the power of the god or goddess, and became benefactors or devotees. With very successful cults there might be very little central control over the composition of worshippers, and even less over spiritual meaning. In pagan cult, there was no one authority controlling iconography, cult practice and liturgy, or architectural design. As far as we can tell, cults such as Mithraism had no equivalent of the Council of Nicaea to determine their orthodoxy. The same deity might be the subject of different, contradictory myths or the focus of different types of ritual at different shrines or cities. If worshippers did not see a god or goddess as one thing, how did this affect their sense of identity, and how does it affect our search for the ‘meaning’ of a deity?

Icons of Difference
A significant number of Syrian deities was recognizable through the use of highly distinctive cult images which depart from the norms of classical representations. Some of these images are traceable to pre-classical times; others were perhaps creations of the Hellenistic or Roman periods. They did not have to be exceedingly old or ‘genuine’ to be successful generators of difference. Their importance lies in their individuality, and the fact that the forms of many were clearly traditional and indigenous. The images are generally so distinct that there is no mistaking them for any other deity, and some scholars regard the use of these special ‘icons’ as affirmations of each cult’s uniqueness, providing a way for indigenous peoples to assert their differences. While there were generic images of Zeus, Athena, Heracles and so on, these iconic images were defined by their specificity, and often by their identification with a place: Jupiter Heliopolitanus; Zeus Katabaites of the Cyrrhestians; Zeus Casius. The deity could be depicted in both generic and specific forms, one perhaps intended to appeal to Hellenized sensibilities, and the other denoting an indigenous origin. For example, the god might make more sense to those with a Greek education as a human figure, but be more intelligible to others as a conical stone. But the fact that we find Hellenized individuals like Lucian also taking an interest in promoting indigenous images is surely of some importance.
As was noted in the preceding chapter, non-Greek or non-generic images of deities are common on civic coins of the second and third centuries, coinciding with a growth in the number of cities issuing coins and with the development of the Second Sophistic as a cultural movement. These designs are likely to reflect the interests of the civic elites, suggesting pride in the uniqueness of the cults at a relatively high social level. Hellenism’s respect for religions left the door open for expressions of identity outside the conventions of the Second Sophistic, although in the case of coin types this expression occurred within the framework of the Greek-style city state. This need not imply, however, that all of these cults were somehow created or shaped by the hegemonic forces of Hellenism; rather it betokens recognition and pride on the part of those elites that the images contributed to the uniqueness of the community, and acknowledgement of the deities as a source of social power. The explosion of non-Greek cult images on civic coins created a sacred geography of indigenous individuality only loosely linked to the religious worlds of Greece and Rome. Piety was one way for civic communities to advertise a non-Greek identity without necessarily resisting Hellenism.
Fig. 153.1. Coin of Arca (Caesarea ad Libanum), of Elagabalus, dated year 530 (AD 218/219). Cult image of a goddess in an arched shrine, draped, wearing a flaring hat and with a bird-tipped sceptre. BMC 6. 153.2. Ptolemais, Elagabalus. Shrine containing a male cult figure, holding a double axe and flanked by bulls. BMC 41.
Some of the more successful icons of cult and of place, such as Jupiter Dolichenus, Jupiter Heliopolitanus and the Syrian Goddess Atargatis, gained a following far beyond the boundaries of their home cities. Their images were faithfully replicated in various media across the empire, but in each case the image referred to an original statue, associated with a particular place. The dispersal of Syrian cults outside the region is not strictly relevant here, except that as in Syria itself many used the network of cities of the empire to propagate. At the provincial level and perhaps beyond, the organization of the imperial cult (on which, see below) could have provided a model for supervising a cult over a wide area, if such supervision were deemed important. But in many cases the spread of cults may have been down to individuals or groups resident in a foreign city setting up a shrine or temple to their ancestral deity, which might develop its own rituals and operate independently of the original sanctuary.
Dedications to deities like Jupiter Heliopolitanus and Atargatis are encountered far beyond the bounds of Syria, and the cult centres are likely to have benefited from foreign patronage. For their home cities these superstar cults could attract imperial honours, bring large numbers of pilgrims and additional commerce, and advance the city in the provincial pecking-order. This is made clear by Lucian’s account of the cult of a serpent god called Glycon, which in the second century was advanced by a certain Alexander from Abonuteichus in northern Asia Minor. Lucian was scathing in his account of the activities of this ‘false prophet’, whom he charges with inventing the Glycon cult, but in the end Alexander’s efforts appear to have been successful and brought various benefits to his native city. It is possible, then, that some Syrian cults were ‘discovered’ or promoted by their cities with an eye to their own advantages.
Hellenized observers did indeed see the iconic images of Syrian deities as non-Greek. The historian Herodian (who is thought to have originated from Syria) specifically states that the strange cult image of Elagabal was no statue ‘of the sort that Greeks and Romans put up’ (on this image, see below). In Lucian’s work on the Syrian goddess Syrian and Phoenician cults are presented as non-Greek, and it is emphasized that they are older, as if this link with the traditions of a distant pre-Hellenic past were a significant asset. References in inscriptions to the deities as ‘ancestral’ gods appeals to tradition and may suggest that many of these were originally deities connected with tribes or particular places. Perhaps it does not matter whether we can find anything ‘really’ pre-Hellenic or pre-Hellenistic in the scattered evidence for many of these cults, or anything demonstrating true continuity of cult across the centuries. That continuity was perceived or imagined by contemporaries is enough. 
	Some of these images probably drew on ancient representations deliberately. The figure of Jupiter Dolichenus, the god of Doliche in Commagene, stood on the back of a bull and held an axe; it must derive from local early Iron Age reliefs of the Neo-Hittite period which also show bearded deities in the same pose. Whether this represents continuity from the early Iron Age to Roman times or simply appropriation of an ancient effigy in the Hellenistic or Roman period, the evidence will not allow us to decide, but it is surely significant that an old and decidedly non-Greek figure was consistently reproduced as the symbol of this deity, and transmitted across the Roman world. Why he became a focus of private worship for Roman soldiers is thoroughly uncertain, but the army was clearly fundamental in spreading his very specific image. There is nothing to suggest that he was the focus of widespread worship by civilians, even in Syria.
Another grand icon was that of Jupiter Heliopolitanus. Lucian states that the cult was Egyptian (there was a Heliopolis in Egypt). Representations in bronze, stone and lead (fig. 176) found in various parts of the Roman world served as propaganda for dissemination of the cult. The image does contain Egyptian elements, such as the mummy-like body of the figure decorated with panels and the tall hat, but these are combined with others: a whip (in Graeco-Roman iconography an attribute of the sun-god), ears of corn, and a pair of bulls. These appear to conflate a celestial deity (implied by the name Heliopolis) with an agrarian one, and the bulls and ears of corn recall images of the Aramean god Hadad, with whom Jupiter Heliopolitanus is sometimes equated. What is striking is the complete absence of representations of this figure at Heliopolis itself, even on coins of the city. Though his temple is depicted on coins, its cult statue is never shown within, as is the case with most other representations of temples on civic coinages. Was the image at Heliopolis simply too holy to permit profane gaze? A very similar cult statue is shown on coins of several cities: for example, Dium in the Decapolis (fig. 155.1), which may mean either that this type of figure was a regional form, or that the cult statue of Jupiter Heliopolitanus provided a model for others. The deities at Heliopolis are considered below (p. 000).  
Fig. 154. Underside of the lintel over the entrance to the temenos at Baetocaece. An eagle carrying a herald’s wand (caduceus) is flanked by two erotes holding garlands. This arrangement is also encountered at other religious sanctuaries in Syria and has been interpreted as symbolizing the sun or his messenger (the eagle), flanked by the morning and evening stars (the erotes).
This brings us to the subject of generic rather than specific non-Greek forms for deities. These imply the existence of regional rather than purely local religious elements, and perhaps of regional identities. All the same, it might not be unduly cautious to avoid seeing these as evidence for any general Near Eastern religion, which might imply greater spiritual coherence than is actually apparent. Divine images included rectangular, conical or spherical stones (figs 155.2, 156.1-3), referred to in modern scholarship as baetyls, a term derived via Greek probably from the Semitic bethel (‘house of the god’). Reliefs depicting baetyls in the form of rectangular blocks are common in Nabataea. Conical ones occur in the iconography of the coastal cities such as Seleucia, Laodicea and Sidon, as well as inland at Emesa. The use of a stone as the focus for a cult is widely attested in the region during Roman times, and naturally invites us to draw a connection between these baetyls and the black stone of the Kabaa at Mecca or, more broadly, with a Near Eastern propensity for avoiding anthropomorphic representations of the divine. But the peoples of our region did not have a monopoly on representations of non-anthropomorphic deities (they occur, for example, in Asia Minor), and some baetyls were evidently meant to be understood as mountains (see below), so similar symbols might have very different meanings in different places. However, the prevalence of baetyls among the Nabataeans and interior may indicate an ‘Arab’ preference for abstract, iconic visions of divinities.
A variety of other symbols may have provided a common if vague religious vocabulary. Among these are animals, real and mythical: bulls for a supreme male deity, lions or sphinxes for a major female deity (fig. 155.3). Fish and pigeons occur as symbols of important goddesses. The eagle, normally associated with Zeus, seems to have been employed as a divine messenger (it often carries the caduceus, the herald’s wand of Hermes). It may have had various meanings: Zeus; the providence of the gods; and it is also found employed in various contexts which strongly suggest it symbolized the sun (fig. 154). Cypresses occur in association with a young deity of regeneration, and a relief on an altar from Rome shows one such tree tied at the top with a ribbon, a young Palmyrene god, Malakbel, carrying a kid, emerging (being born?) from its branches. The cypress appears on Palmyrene clay tesserae and various civic coins (fig. 155.3). While the uses of these symbols may point to similarity of meanings, use of the same symbol at different places does not necessarily signify the same deity. Nor is there any reason to assume a single ‘correct’ reading of a deity or symbols.
Fig. 155.1. Dium, coin of Geta, dated year 268 (c. AD 204). Cult image resembling that of Jupiter Heliopolitanus, but holding an eagle-tipped sceptre and a figure of Victory. BMC 2. 155.2. Coin of Sidon from the reign of Elagabalus (AD 218-22) showing a spherical baetyl in a portable shrine with wheels. The baetyl is draped and wears a double crown. This is thought to be a non-anthropomorphic representation of the goddess Astarte. BMC 245. 155.3. Coin of Aradus from the reign of Elagabalus (AD 218-22), dated year 587 (AD 218/219). On the left-hand side, a bull; behind which, a standard with a raised hand. On the right, a lion; behind which, a legionary vexillum; above the lion, a star. Between, a cypress tree. The whole group seems to suggest a triad of supreme god, supreme goddess and a young god of regeneration, to which Roman military symbols had accrued. BMC 383.
	To describe the indigenous deities of our region is beyond the scope of this chapter. All that can be done here is to provide a very brief listing of some of the better-known ones, together with their origins and some generally agreed aspects. Pious epithets were often used rather than names, as if the names themselves were too sacred to mention: Baal (‘Lord’); Baalat (‘Lady’); El (‘God’); Allat (‘Goddess’). These could function as specific labels for particular deities, but the practice hardly aids our understanding of their cults, although the epithets were sometimes made more specific: Baalshamin (‘Lord of the Heavens’); or Baalmarcod (‘Lord of Dances’ = earthquakes?). Equations with Greek or Roman deities sometimes help to clarify possible meanings, but more often they merely underscore how little we know. The various meanings of an indigenous deity rarely produced exact equivalences with those of individuals in the Greek or Roman pantheons, so that representations of various classical gods and goddesses could be used to signify a single indigenous one, and one classical deity could symbolize several different native divinities. The more powerful an indigenous deity was felt to be, the more classical equivalents he or she might have (see below). A division has sometimes been made between an Aramean/Phoenician tradition for gods symbolizing earthly cycles of life and death, and an Arab/Babylonian preference for celestial deities, but if such tendencies can be detected in pre-Roman times, in many cases the traditions had merged by the Roman period, producing hybrid earth/celestial divinities. As with the social identities explored in the preceding chapter, the identities of the gods were equally impure genres rather than well-defined, separate ‘ethnic’ entities, and overlapped one another in functions and attributes without losing their individuality. Furthermore, they were not beings autonomous of their worshippers’ desires.
The great Aramaean god Hadad is attested in several different locations in Roman times, although he seems to have been less popular than his female consort, Atargatis (see below). Symbols of Hadad include the thunderbolt and ears of corn, one signifying his association with storms and rains, and the other the fertility and growth of living things. More widespread was the cult of the Aramaean Baalshamin, whose attributes and functions were very similar to those of Hadad. The symbols of Atargatis included lions, ears of corn, a drum and a sceptre, suggesting a variety of meanings and associations (see below); the similarity between representations of Atargatis and of the Anatolian goddess Cybele suggests a conscious attempt to link the two through iconography as well as cult practice. Phoenician supreme gods were commonly called Baal or El, and the goddesses Baalat or Astarte. The symbolism of Astarte was complex: lions and sphinxes were creatures associated with her; her association with the planet Venus provided a link with Aphrodite (or vice-versa?); and her aspect as a warrior-goddess and a form of fortune may explain a preference for ‘Amazonian’ city-goddesses at Phoenician sites along the coast (see chapter 7). She was also a mother goddess, connecting her cult with that of other deities who performed this role. At various Phoenician cities there were also young gods symbolizing the cycles of nature, of annual death and regeneration: Adonis at Byblus, Eshmun at Sidon, Melqart at Tyre. Cults with probable Philistine origins include that of the god Marnas at Gaza and the goddess Derceto (who was identified with Atargatis or Astarte) at Ascalon. The Nabataean deities included three goddesses whose cults were evidently still strong at Mecca in the seventh century AD, when they were mentioned in the notorious Satanic Verses of the Qur’an: Allat, al-‘Uzza and Manat. Allat (‘Goddess’, the female counterpart of Allah) was commonly associated with Athena; Manat was a form of destiny and could be represented as Tyche or Nemesis. Al-‘Uzza, ‘the Strong One’, was a goddess associated with the morning star (Venus), and thus with Aphrodite, and the Egyptian Isis. Male divinities of the Nabataeans included Qaus or Qos (an Edomite deity of rains and storms who could be depicted with bulls and a thunderbolt, like Hadad), Dusares or Dushara, ‘the One from the Shara’ (the mountains around Petra), Shai al-Qaum, ‘Companion of the Tribe’, and al-Kutba, ‘the Scribe’. Dusares was frequently associated with Dionysus, but he seems also to have been regarded as the head of the Nabataean pantheon, necessitating an association with Zeus. The teetotal Shai al-Qaum, ‘who does not drink wine’, is thought to have been a patron of nomads, soldiers and caravans, and may have been associated with Dionysus’ mythical opponent Lycurgus, attested as a god in inscriptions from the Hauran. But there are problems with these identifications, for there is also evidence to support the view that Dusares, Shai al-Qaum and al-Kutba are three aspects of a single deity. 
Whether sun cults were typically Syrian is debatable, although representations of Helios are common in the region. It is generally thought that the Unconquered Sun, Sol invictus, established as a major Roman cult under Aurelian, was inspired by these eastern solar divinities, but it is difficult to prove a direct connection. The sun-god Shamash had a major cult centre at Hatra, and Elagabal at Emesa was also a solar deity (see below). Celestial symbolism abounds on temples in the region (colour plate 11, fig. 154), but does not necessarily mean that the temples themselves were dedicated to the sun or moon; instead it may denote the fact that the deity worshipped there had the power to influence or control natural cycles such as day and night. 
	Civic coins and relief sculptures often stress the particular when depicting indigenous deities such as Astarte or the sun in their native guises, as if our interest in the broader and general patterns of identity and meaning of the deities was not always shared by the people of antiquity. Religious iconography and ancient writings frequently stress the unique: Astarte appears as a spherical baetyl only on coins of Sidon (fig. 155.2); and a sun god called Helioseiros appears only on coins of Chalcis ad Belum. Dusares was a dome-shaped baetyl on coins of Adraa, explicitly labelled ‘Dusares the god, of the Adraenoi’, but a pillar-shaped object flanked by two smaller pillars at Bostra (and, probably, at Charach Moba, although there the baetyl is not named on coins. See fig. 156.3). Whatever was generic about these gods and goddesses, there was clearly also a desire to give them local significance. It is perhaps our own desire to find links between deities and their symbols that makes these cults seem so deeply intertwined and indistinct, and has led some to form the notion that the whole religious environment of the region was converging on monotheism (finally made manifest through the three great eastern religions of Judaism, Christianity and Islam). But these specific icons suggest otherwise, and it is certain that in the early empire Syrians still moved in a world of aboriginal gods and goddesses, of sacred springs, rivers, woods and mountains, and minor ancestral spirits who governed their lives. In late antiquity pagan intellectuals sought to bring more coherence and order, but this is probably in reaction to the triumph of Christian monotheism and is unlikely to have touched the lives of the pagan masses (see below).
	Imported deities may denote the presence of foreign groups or survivals from earlier empires. Bel, a supreme cosmic deity of the Babylonian pantheon, had major cults at Apamea and Palmyra. Nebo, the son of Bel, identified with Hermes and Apollo, is found at Palmyra and Hierapolis. Cultural ties between the Euphrates regions and southern Mesopotamia, and past histories (Syria formerly being part of the Assyrian and Babylonian empires) may well explain these transmissions. Another Babylonian import was Nergal, a warrior-deity identified with Heracles. Roman soldiers brought exotic cults with them, although these are not especially common. Traces of Egyptian cults and symbols in and around the Bekaa valley are perhaps vestiges of Ptolemaic rule, but at Bostra the Egyptian Ammon was brought by the legio III Cyrenaica, which had previously been stationed in Egypt before being posted to Arabia. No doubt the Greek, Roman and other deities attested at Aelia Capitolina (Jerusalem) were brought by the military. Even Jupiter Dolichenus seems to have spread in Syria through the agency of soldiers and veterans. Although of eastern origin, the cult of Mithras seems to be a Roman implant; however, recent finds of Mithraic temples in a variety of locations across the region call into question the assumption that the cult was disseminated largely by the army. On the other hand we can only guess at the means by which the Anatolian god Mn came to be represented on coins of Laodicea ad Libanum, Artemis of Ephesus on coins of Neapolis in Samaria, or Diana of Perge on silver tetradrachms of the province of Arabia, and the reasons for the apparent popularity of the Egyptian Isis and Serapis in the region.

The Politics of Meaning
Most cults seem to have lacked a specific doctrine or authoritative scriptures which helped to define the manner of worship, or even what a deity signified. In many cases the most consistent feature of a cult was the image of the deity, which in the case of highly successful ones might be reproduced with considerable accuracy across the empire. However, the full meanings of a deity might not be apparent in that cult image (although images were important to meaning), and conformity of representation could sometimes disguise a wide variety of interpretations.
	As was noted above, basic meanings of deities are sometimes sought in the lifestyles their worshippers are supposed to have followed: those in settled regions had deities concerned with the cycles of nature, regeneration, water and the earth (all of which affected agriculture), whereas those of the nomads were astral and warrior deities. Armed gods and goddesses are common in and around Palmyra, where they are seen as a natural response to the rigours of life in the desert and the desire for protection. Meanings are also sought in patterns of representation. At Byblus and Sidon there were triads of supreme god, mother-goddess and a young god of regeneration. Iconography suggests that other places may have had similar arrangements for the chief deities in the local pantheon (fig. 155.3). So-called triads have been distinguished in many cities, although the arrangements are not always the same. At Palmyra it is thought that there was a preference for all male triads with a celestial bias: supreme god, plus sun and moon. But the number of certain triads is not large, and in a polytheistic world it is easy enough for us to find the requisite father-mother-son/daughter or chief-sun-moon combinations among the many deities worshipped at a site, particularly when the source material ranges from pre-Roman times to Christian writers of late antiquity. There is always the danger that the triads discovered by modern specialists would not have been recognized as such by the worshippers, and sceptics have seen this scholarly ‘triadomania’ as very much a modern predilection rather than an ancient one. Nevertheless there are some cases where the notion of a divine trinity does not appear to be inappropriate.
In late antiquity a number of sources, particularly Christian ones, describe pagan cults and explain some of their meanings. Without corroborative evidence from earlier times it is difficult to evaluate some of this material, but that does not mean that it should be dismissed outright. Ancient myths may have been preserved into the late Roman era (although there is very little certain proof of the transmission of pre-Hellenistic myths in either the early or late Roman period), and deities might bear Babylonian or Aramean names; but once again we should be cautious about using origins to explain meanings. Myths recounted by authors writing in both the early and late Roman period may help to make the meanings of deities and their symbols more intelligible to us, yet it is often far from clear that many of these myths were truly of great antiquity, and some may have been relatively recent concoctions designed to elucidate meanings where the original signification had been lost or discarded.
Even the most ancient deities had to prove their value in the contemporary world. It was up to the worshippers to champion the causes of their ancestral or favoured gods. The great religious centres and sanctuaries attracted not only hordes of pilgrims, but other divinities as well. Powerful social groups could try to constrain the meanings of gods in the sanctuaries under their control for their own ends, but there could also be occasions when it was in their interests to change or add meanings, particularly when faced with pressure from another powerful group to incorporate other gods into the cult. Within the cities great families or tribal groups might have an attachment to particular deities, and arrangements such as the father-mother-son/daughter triad, rather than signifying some very antique myth, might be an invention designed to solve religious tension at a particular sanctuary. The following of a god could also be enhanced by assimilation with another. This might involve some transmutation or additional layering of meaning on the part of the god, producing a hybrid that seems irrational to us. For example, there is an inscription naming the deity of the Palestinian Mount Carmel as Zeus Carmelus Heliopolitanus, combining two site-specific entities with a generic Greek one. Note also the combination of Zeus and his father Kronos, described below, p. 000. Such composite deities were the products of calculated strategies in a world where religion and politics were not separated, and where different social groups had an interest in a single spiritual focus. 
Some of the best-known Syrian cults contain puzzling amalgamations: for example, that of Elagabal at Emesa, the focus of which was a conical stone. The historian Herodian describes the cult as one which attracted pilgrims from a wide area, and other writers attest to the existence of a large temple, which is depicted on civic coins of Emesa. The cult stone, which features on numerous coin types (fig. 121.1, 156.1), may have been an ancient object of veneration, but there is no reference to it or the cult prior to the Roman period. The stone was evidently not a very large object (although Herodian maintains that it was huge), as it is shown on certain coins of the emperor Elagabalus riding in a four-horse chariot and was transported to Rome during his reign. Some coins specifically name the deity ELAGABAL, and a limestone relief from Nezala (Qaryatayn), between Damascus and Palmyra, shows the same deity and is labelled in Palmyrene ’LH’GBL. This has been interpreted as Aramaic for ‘God Mountain’, which would suggest that the modest-sized stone somehow represented a god who was a mountain. Whether or not this interpretation is correct, an iconographic parallel can be drawn with Zeus Casius, the deity of the mountain south of Seleucia, whose cult image was a very similar conical object, probably also a stone (fig. 156.2). However, the meaning of Elagabal was evidently more complicated than this. Herodian describes Elagabal as Helios, the sun-god, and says that ‘Elagabalos’ was the Phoenician name (probably meaning the Aramaic name). The stone was ‘conical in shape and black’ and ‘worshipped as though it were sent from heaven; on it there are some markings that are pointed out, which the people would like to believe are a rough picture of the sun, because that is how they see them’. Civic coins of Emesa show the stone covered in heavenly symbols and accompanied by an eagle. But the civic coins also give prominence to Helios, and various inscriptions record dedications ‘to the Sun God Elagabalus’. Precisely how the stone (or mountain?) came to be identified with the sun is a process that cannot now be unravelled. The theophoric name Samsigeramus borne by rulers of the Emisenoi tribe at the beginning of our period derives from the Semitic word for the sun, shamash or shams, which points to a sun cult among this tribe in the first century BC. Possibly this sun cult was grafted on to the worship of an existing local deity when the Emisenoi settled at the site; that two apparently separate spheres of divine activity (the heavens and the earth) should be fused in the image of a sacred stone might suggest a compromise between adherents of two formerly separate cults. If the cult recorded on the coins, inscriptions and texts were the product of such a social compromise, there might be no point in trying to root out one overall meaning for Elagabal, at the expense of multiple readings.
Fig. 156.1. The stone Elagabal in the temple at Emesa. Civic coin of Caracalla, dated year 527 of the Seleucid era, AD 215/216. The stone stands on a podium, flanked by parasols; an eagle stands in front. BMC 15. 156.2. The image of Zeus Casius on a civic coin of Seleucia Pieria from the reign of Antoninus Pius (AD 138-61). The conical object is accompanied by the label ‘Zeus Kasios’; an eagle perches on the roof of the shrine. BMC 47. 156.3. Civic coin of Bostra of the reign of Trajan Decius (AD 249-51), showing a platform (motab) on which a pillar-like baetyl of Dusares stands, flanked by two smaller baetyls. The whole image is surrounded by a wreath. BMC 48.
Religious syncretism (the process whereby several gods or goddesses are combined into one) is more likely to be the product of social and political pressures and compromises than an innocent and happy melding of traditions. The more worshippers a deity had, the less specific the meanings were likely to be, and the more likely the cult was to attract curious accretions. Hierapolis, the ancient Mabog or Mambog (modern Membij), was the centre of the extremely important cult of Atargatis, the ‘Goddess of Syria’. Her cult, and that of her male consort, Hadad, are known at the site from the late Persian and early Hellenistic period, and are probably much older. As we have seen, both deities were Aramean in origin. Lucian of Samosata devoted one of his works to this ‘Syrian Goddess’, who he calls Hera. But he also notes that she possessed features of Athena, Aphrodite, Selene, Rhea, Artemis, Nemesis and the Fates; the processes by which such (to us) seemingly incompatible identifications were made can only be guessed. If Lucian were attempting to translate the meaning of a non-Greek goddess for the Greek reader, it is unlikely that these equations would have made specific meanings of Atargatis any more transparent, but they would convey the impression of an important and potent goddess who could accomplish many things for her followers. (As was proposed in the last chapter, the more meanings a sign has, the more powerful it is.) Hierapolis was evidently a major centre of pilgrimage and the cult enjoyed a wide following in the Roman world: Lucian states that pilgrims came from an extensive area of Mesopotamia, Syria and the eastern Mediterranean; and the emperor Nero was one of Atargatis’ more prominent devotees. Wide followings were likely to result in a wide range of interpretations. That she was regarded as ‘Syrian’ is clear, and coins of Hierapolis regularly bear her image and the inscription ‘of the Goddess of Syria, of the Hierapolitans’. Hadad (whom Lucian equates with Zeus only) appears to have become less important than Atargatis during the Roman period, but he too was considered ‘Syrian’, or so some coin inscriptions which show the two deities describe them: ‘of the gods of Syria, of the Hierapolitans’. Coins and reliefs show the pair seated side by side on thrones, Hadad flanked by bulls and Atargatis by lions. This must be how the cult statues appeared in the temple at Hierapolis. Between them is a third image, which looks like a Roman military standard in a shrine. Lucian refers to this as semeion, the Greek word for an ensign or standard, and says that the ‘Assyroi’ have no term for it, implying that it is a late and perhaps alien addition to the cult. ‘It does not have its own particular character’, writes Lucian, ‘but it bears the qualities of the other gods,’ as if somehow it symbolized divinity in general or encompassed all of the other deities present in the sanctuary. Is the presence of this object a sign of military interest in Hadad and Atargatis, or Roman ‘colonisation’ of this native religion? Standards were indeed objects of military worship, and Hierapolis is a likely mustering-place for legions on campaign. However, standards were immensely popular in the second- and third-century religious art of Hatra, and one may question the influence of the Roman military there, even if some Roman soldiers were present for a brief period in the third century (see chapter 2). A Christian Syriac source, the Oration of Meliton the Philosopher to Antoninus Caesar, describes in a somewhat perplexing fashion the cults at Hierapolis, and mentions a ‘Simi, the daughter of Hadad,’ which is presumably semeion; this suggests that the standard, if a Roman addition, became incorporated into whatever myths surrounded the cult. A deity of Babylonian origin, Nebo, is also mentioned in this text, and he is probably to be identified with the bearded Apollo described by Lucian (Nebo being equated with Apollo in a number of contexts in Syria). Is this a survival from Assyrian or Babylonian times, or an addition brought to Hierapolis by worshippers from other centres where Nebo was worshipped (Babylonia, Palmyra, Edessa)? ‘Only these people display a statue of a bearded Apollo’, writes Lucian. ‘In acting in this way they commend themselves and accuse the Greeks and anyone else who worships Apollo as a youth … They think it is utter stupidity to make the forms of the gods imperfect and they consider youth an imperfect state.’ Here Lucian’s narration concedes superior wisdom to the ‘Assyroi’ and their alien, non-Hellenic conception of Apollo, the unique and the particular asserting itself over the Greek and generic.
	Palmyra was a place where the interplay of local and imported deities was extremely complex, and where we can occasionally divine something of the social forces that helped shape the pantheon. There are no contemporary textual sources describing the cults, and the evidence for them is in the form of temples, inscriptions, sculpture, and small clay tesserae that served as tickets to religious banquets (fig. 160). It is probably important to distinguish between those cults which had important temples and whose festivals were likely to have been major public events and those with smaller shrines or those that were the focus of private worship or dedications by individuals to an ancestral god. There is also a notable difference between deities favoured in the city and the ‘cavalier gods’ worshipped in the countryside. The imports are mainly found in the city: Babylonians like Bel, Nebo, Belti, Nergal and Nanai; ‘Syrians’ or ‘Phoenicians’ like Baalshamin, Bel Hamon, Astarte and Atargatis. Shadrafa and Elqonera are perhaps originally Canaanite. A variety of deities characterized as Arab is found in both city and country: Allat, Shamash, Arsu and Azizu, and various spirits of rural localities. Only a few deities were purely Palmyrene; in particular Iarhibol, ‘Aglibol and Malakbel. Bel seems to have been assimilated to a Palmyrene deity originally called Bol, whose name is preserved in the composites Iarhibol and ‘Aglibol, and Palmyrene tribal names like Bene Zabdibol. Iarhibol was originally the god of the Efqa spring, one of the major water sources at Palmyra, but in his capacity as an associate of Bel he was also a sun-god (see below). Once again, what appear to be incompatible domains (water source, the sun) are brought together. ‘Aglibol is encountered as a lunar associate of both Bel and Baalshamin. Malakbel also occurs in association with Bel and Baalshamin, but in different guises. Sometimes he appears as a warrior sun-god, and at other times he resembles the young gods of death, regeneration and birth found in the coastal cities. The two spheres of action could be combined: the altar found in Rome showing Malakbel as a young god emerging from a cypress tree bears another relief portraying him as Sol. 
Fig. 157. Palmyrene relief, dated AD 55, showing the healing god Shadrafa. His body armour, soldier’s cloak, small shield, sword and spear (here with a serpent entwined around it) are typical of Palmyrene representations of deities, who are often shown in military attire. The inscription reads ‘In the month of Iyar (May), in the year 366, this stela was erected by Atenaten, son of Zabd’ateh, descendant of Toshabeb, to Shadrafa, the good god, in order that he may become patron in his sanctuary for him and the members of his house, all of them.’ BM 125206.
The most important city cults were those of Bel and Baalshamin, whose sanctuaries were the largest. There are also numerous dedications to an unnamed deity who is thought to be Baalshamin. Palmyra thus boasted a pantheon with two supreme deities, Bel and Baalshamin, both of whom were identified with Zeus, and both of whom had separate temples and cults. Both were rulers of the cosmos and were associated with sun- and moon-gods, although in each case these subordinate solar and lunar deities were not the same pair. The ‘triad’ of Bel consisted of Iarhibol (the sun) and ‘Aglibol (the moon), while that of Baalshamin is believed to have employed Malakbel and ‘Aglibol in the same roles (though there ‘Aglibol had precedence over his solar counterpart). In his sanctuary Baalshamin was also associated with the name Durahlun, thought to be a divine name connected with the sanctuary of Rahle on Mount Hermon, and perhaps a site-specific aspect of Baalshamin. This dyarchy may seem theologically awkward to us, but in the minds of their worshippers Bel and Baalshamin were not totally incompatible, for on rare occasions they are represented together. The curious arrangement may hint at some sort of religious compromise between powerful and perhaps conflicting interests in the city.
From inscriptions it is possible to discern that certain deities were of particular interest to Palmyrene tribes or groups, who identified with them and might have an ‘ancestral’ claim to them (though this does not mean that each had exclusive rights to a cult). A number of tribal or collective names incorporate Bol or Bel or other deities: Bene Penabol; Bene Yedibel; Bene Taymarsu; but the full religious affiliations of these and others become clear only from the location and nature of the dedications. The Bene Maaziyan developed the Baalshamin complex, but they also had an interest in Allat (identified with Athena and Atargatis) and Durahlun. ‘Aglibol and Malakbel had a sanctuary (without Baalshamin) associated with an important tribe, the Bene Komare. Meaning, symbolism and appearances were to some extent negotiable, moulded by the politics of different social groups. Iarhibol may have become a sun god in a celestial ‘triad’ because his sponsors were able to bring sufficient pressure to bear on the Bel cult. Every group had an interest in gaining some rights within the great sanctuaries, and association of one’s gods with a major temenos would have been a powerful form of social legitimation, though it might require some adjustment to the meanings of the deities concerned.
Fig. 158. The Baalshamin sanctuary at Palmyra. This was closely associated with the Bene Maaziyan, one of the main tribes or social groups at Palmyra. In the foreground, the large northern court with its colonnade. The temple itself stands beyond, and behind it is the colonnade of the southern court.
This politics of meaning extended to classical deities as well. Representatives of Roman power perhaps played an important part in the processes, but locals could also have had a strong interest in assimilating or adding classical symbolism. The great power of a local male deity could be signified by casting him as Zeus, regardless of whether this produced incompatibilities on the local side, as in the case of Bel and Baalshamin at Palmyra, or among the variety of Greek deities symbolizing different aspects of the local deity (an inscription from Aradus combines Zeus and his father Kronos, calling this deity, which is probably a version of El, ‘the most manifest of all the gods’). These processes probably account for many of the specific or generic epithets we encounter in association with the name Zeus: Zeus Damascenus; Zeus Bomos (‘Altar-Zeus’); Zeus Baitylos (‘Baetyl-Zeus’); Zeus Megistos (‘Greatest Zeus’), or Zeus Hypsistos (‘Zeus the Most High’). On inscriptions and coins Jupiter Heliopolitanus was assimilated to Jupiter Capitolinus in Rome: Iuppiter Optimus Maximus Heliopolitanus. Was this an example of pressure applied by veteran settlers, and thus of passive acquiescence by locals to the ‘Romanization’ of their cult? Or was it locals appropriating the chief god of the Roman pantheon to signify the awesome power of their deity? Both readings are possible. Another deity in the same city territory, Baalmarcod, whose temple still stands at Deir el-Qalaa in the hills above Berytus, was also referred to as Iuppiter Optimus Maximus, perhaps for the same reasons. Some syncretism may have been the product of similarities between the names of Greek and indigenous deities, or between Greek and indigenous myths. These processes, however, are unlikely to have been any less innocent or devoid of social pressures or politics than those outlined above. 

Experiencing the Gods
Visiting temples and sanctuaries was a key feature of pagan religious experience. Very few major cults in Syria lacked a home sanctuary (Mithraism being one of the rare ‘decentred’ cults with a highly distinct iconography and ritual), so pilgrimage to, and experience of, the chief temple of a cult helped to emphasize the importance of the particular over the universal. Temples were places where the superhuman, the wonderful and the strange could be experienced directly. Sacrifice was the central act of devotion, but in many cases the cult image played an important part in the reception and understanding of the divinity. The rituals and symbolism added further layers of significance, and there were priests or local wise men on hand to furnish expositions. The gods could be consulted through dreams and oracles, and showed favours to those who made vows, offered sacrifices, consecrated themselves or their children to the divinities, or demonstrated their devotion through ordeals. Deities also gave orders and instructions to mortals, as evidenced by numerous inscriptions. Their images participated in the life of the community through processions and attendance of ritual banquets. Each deity had feast days, and the major cults had grand public processions, sacrifices and feasts that helped validate the social order and identity of the community. 
The painted registers in temples at Dura show offerings of incense being scattered on burners (fig. 151.1), and worshippers raising their right palms in an attitude of devotion. These poses can be found elsewhere and must have been standard (fig. 151.2). Throughout the region larger altars outside the temple proper served for the animal sacrifices. At public festivals crowds gathered in the courtyards of the great temples, sacrifices were offered and the meat divided up among the participants. Wine, too, was likely to have been distributed in quantity. The god could be honoured by a Greek civic festival, performances and distributions of gifts. The doors of the temple might open to receive the sunlight and expose the god’s image to the crowd, or the effigy might be brought out among them. In processions the deity rode around in a portable shrine, carried on the shoulders of bearers or propelled on wheels like a juggernaut. Civic coins provide us with a selection of divine modes of transport (figs 81.2, 155.2). The interior of the Temple of Bel at Palmyra contains a recess at either end; the southern one has a ramp which may have housed a heavy vehicle. There are references to a portable shrine of Bel called the phoreion, which was made of silver. At Seleucia the privilege of bearing the symbol of Zeus Keraunios (‘of the thunderbolt’) went to two elected keraunophors, ‘bearers of the thunderbolt’. The effect of carrying these images around cities and villages on festival days must have been very much like the processions in which statues of saints or the Virgin are taken through the streets in Christian religious ceremonies today. There were also organized processions to temples, especially if the sanctuary was located in the countryside.
Fig. 159. Drawing of a stone beam from the Temple of Bel at Palmyra, showing a procession. The camel is thought to be carrying a portable shrine on its back. Note the women veiled from head to foot to the right.
Pilgrims visited temples to discover and experience, and to show their devotion. In some sanctuaries it was possible to acquire a permanent testimony to one’s piety. Lucian writes that those that had made the journey to the Temple of Atargatis at Hierapolis could receive a tattoo on their neck or wrist. Not only could this mark have generated a sense of community among former pilgrims, but because such treatment of the body ran contrary to Hellenised ideals of physical beauty the tattoo was a visible reminder of a distinct religious identity.
Strange and wonderful things kept visitors coming and made a sanctuary distinct. Novelty was perhaps an important part of the religious encounter, although some of the things to be experienced do not strike the modern mind as particularly religious. Lucian describes ritual prostitution with visiting strangers in his account of the festival of Adonis at Byblus. An event celebrating the resurrection of Adonis involved women who had shaved off their hair, says Lucian; but those women who wanted to keep their hair had to pay a penance by prostituting themselves to strangers in the agora, and the money paid for their services was offered to Aphrodite. He gives no explanation for this practice, although various modern interpretations exist. Most however stress the universal over the particular and unique, emphasising ritual prostitution as a feature of Near Eastern cults. It may have been, although explicit references to the practice in Roman Syria are not common, and some come from the pens of Christian authors whose value as witnesses may be suspect.
Some acts of devotion were organized events or rites of passage expected of initiates; others were personal and voluntary tests of faith through abstinence or self-denial, sexual or otherwise, which imparted purity to the individual. Such ordeals could demand considerable personal fortitude. At Niha on the western side of the Bekaa valley a virgin and prophetess called Hocmea fulfilled a vow to a local god, Hadaranes, who had ordered her to abstain from eating bread for twenty years: a difficult assignment in a world where bread was a staple, but not necessarily life-threatening. More extreme were certain devotees of Atargatis who castrated themselves - a permanent, though rather drastic way of demonstrating commitment and ensuring purity. Eunuchs provided a high-profile example to others of the goddess’s power to inspire devotion.
Visitors also sought guidance or instructions from the gods. The forms of oracles were as varied as the cults themselves. Borne aloft on human shoulders, the image of Jupiter Heliopolitanus impelled his bearers in this or that direction to provide answers. Baetyls hissed answers, or were seen to change shape or colour. Precious offerings were cast into pools in the hope of courting divine favours; if they were rejected, it was a bad omen. The late Roman pagan historian Zosimus recounts how the fall of Palmyra was predicted at the sanctuary of Aphrodite at Aphaca (Afqa, above Byblus) when at a festival the Palmyrene offerings of the previous year floated back to the surface of the pond into which they had been cast.
Fig. 160. Palmyrene clay tessera, showing a figure standing in a tower on top of a hill. The Aramaic inscription reads ‘Bel Hamon’. Rather than being a purpose-built structure, the temple of the god Bel Hamon was installed in the late first century AD in a bastion on the Jebel Muntar on the western edge of the city, and that is presumably the edifice shown here. 
Partaking in sacred meals is a well-attested practice, although attendance at a ritual banquet was commonly by invitation only, and therefore not a major public affair. Devotees were organized into cells called thiasoi, ‘sacred companies’, each with its own dining-room in the sanctuary or elsewhere. The numerous rock-cut triclinia in and around Petra are a vivid testimony to the importance of these practices. A special building for such gatherings stood in the courtyard of the Temple of Bel, and banquets probably took place there on regular occasions, such as celebrating the consecration of a new priest. The cells helped to create a sense of identity among a small group of devotees or priests, who might be members of a single clan. At Palmyra clay tesserae were distributed for admission to such thiasoi. Large numbers of these tickets survive, decorated with cult images and symbols and providing us with precious information about religious life in the city (fig. 160). The sacred meals themselves may have been relatively sober and modest affairs, and the menu is likely to have been governed by religious taboos. Wine seems to have been fairly central to the proceedings, although presumably devotees of Shai al-Qaum avoided it. Some accounts for meals in the mithraeum at Dura survive (see p. 000), listing jars of wine, meat, fish sauce, oil and radishes, together with wood and lamp wicks for cooking and lighting, and parchment for the secretary. Detailed study of the evidence suggests that a number of invitees might take part in the proceedings of a sacred banquet along with the members of the thiasos, eating and drinking and possibly listening to musical performances, as well as participating in religious observances. Entry into a thiasos of a major cult was probably costly, and the expense of an official sacrifice and banquet might have to be defrayed by the new priest or his family.
The priests presumably had some power over the meaning of a cult and the shape of its rituals, and could demand that visitors observe certain rules for behaviour within the precinct, but they were also answerable to the faithful, as some fragmentary cases of litigation attest, and they were probably unable to control all personal acts of devotion. There may have been long-lived dynasties of priest-rulers at some centres, though there is not much proof of this, and even without a hereditary priesthood it would not be surprising to discover families attempting to keep control within the clan. Squabbles between competing groups for control of a sanctuary may underlie the dispute over the priesthood of Zeus recorded on the wall of the temple at Thelsea (Dmeir), north of Damascus, which was brought by a group of villagers before Caracalla in AD 216, and the Herodian Agrippa II seems to have been involved in a case against a certain Samsigeramus who had seized the high priesthood at Iabruda in the eastern foothills of the Antilebanon. In many instances religious offices seem to have been elected posts, which could have helped to defuse potential tensions among the contending forces (or may simply have exacerbated them!), without necessarily imparting any democracy to the process. Another legal case inscribed on the temple at Dmeir makes it clear that there was a regular turnover of naokoroi (‘temple-wardens’). Even the high priests of Hierapolis were annually elected. It would seem, then, that many of the key functionaries in the sanctuaries were essentially amateurs rather than professional theologians - though that did not mean that they were any less devout.
Fig. 161. Temple of Zeus at Fakra. The temple itself is cut into a karst limestone outcrop. The rectangular temenos has a high wall with a colonnaded entrance; the interior has a portico and an altar in the middle of the court.

Temples and Rituals
Temples were therefore an important feature of religious experience. It follows that their designs ought to tell us something about the nature of their cults. Here of course we encounter problems, for no two temples are exactly alike, which makes generalizations hazardous, and we need to distinguish between elements that were truly meaningful to the cult and those which could be the product of popular fashions and meanings unconnected with ritual. Again, meaning is often sought in the origins of the designs, which are viewed as either classical or indigenous, appealing to archetypal classical or Near Eastern forms. More than any other type of monumental building in Roman Syria the sanctuaries do indeed appear to derive from a twofold heritage: a ‘Graeco-Roman’ one, to which they owe their external decoration, and local traditions, which determined the layout of the interior. The result is a ‘Graeco-Roman’ temple enclosing a traditional shrine or shrines. Is this a victory of Hellenism over the native, is it native appropriation of a Hellenizing genre to serve indigenous cults, or once again are both readings possible?
Most major temples in Syria were located in cities, or cities had accrued around them. Public worship took place in the large courts in front of temples, rather than in the temples themselves, and the vast size of many courts anticipated the huge crowds that were expected on festival days. The gigantic scale of some sanctuaries was matched by prodigious elevations. And just as great temples dominated the civic landscape, so too the siting of temples in prominent places in the countryside appropriated the skyline for religion. Temples and sanctuaries may have been located in ‘High Places’ on mountains and hilltops so as to be closer to the gods, but at the same time they gave the gods and their cults a commanding position over rural society. The fertile centre of the Bekaa valley is flanked by the foothills of the Lebanon and Antilebanon ranges, both of which are punctuated at intervals by hilltop temples. From the plain these buildings would have been a prominent and highly visible reminder of this pious world (and some still are). The sacred was given additional prominence and permanence through the huge blocks of stone used to construct temples and sanctuaries (colour plate 4). This obsession with gigantism will be examined below. 
Most of the temples face east and many were probably oriented towards the position of the rising sun on the most important day in the cult’s calendar, so that rays of light could enter the temple and shine on the statue - at least, that is a preferred explanation for the fact that the orientations of temples vary from true east. Some, however, face west or in other directions, but this does not necessarily falsify the former explanation; it might instead suggest that the cults in question had other emphases (sunset or other celestial events).
	In some cases the social dominance of sanctuaries was proprietary as well as spiritual. There is evidence for deities owning land, from which the funds for some of the ambitious building projects must have derived. Deities may have been significant landowners in villages, and in certain cases a village or a group of villages were perhaps owned by a temple (the villagers presumably paid rents to the temple). There is, though, no evidence for temples as major landowners, and the political position of any temple estates is much less certain. It seems that under the Seleucids Hierapolis had originally been some sort of sacred estate, but that this was subsequently constituted as a polis. The sanctuary of Zeus at Baetocaece in the mountains above Aradus (colour plate 4) has been seen by some as an independent political entity, but the concessions which an inscription there tells us were accorded to the sanctuary seem to be more economic and religious than political. A third- or second-century-BC Seleucid king had conceded the village of Baetocaece to Zeus. Through the right of asylia (meaning that the sanctuary was inviolable) it had some sort of independence, it was exempt from the impositions of travelling officials, and its tax-free bimonthly fair, which had been instituted by the king, was still going strong in the third century AD. No city is mentioned in the Seleucid decree, but a letter to Augustus preserved in the same inscription is from a city, assumed to be Aradus, concerning details about the tax-free status of the fair, which suggests that by the end of the first century BC Baetocaece was not wholly independent, even if it had been before. If great sacred estates had been an integral and important part of the political landscape in Hellenistic times (and this is far from certain), it seems that this was not so by the Roman period.

Temple Design
	Certain elements of the religious sanctuary (temenos) were common to most cults. A surrounding wall (peribolos) or cutting defined the limits of the sacred space. The main ritual events, the sacrifice, the burning of victims and the division of the carcass among the crowd occurred within this area. The courtyard of the temenos might not contain any monumental buildings, but it would at the very least have an altar for these sacrifices. The temple (naos) was normally reserved for the priests and the cult image of the deity; it might be placed in the middle of the temenos, towards the rear, or projecting from the back wall. It stood on a podium, elevating it above the pavement of the sanctuary. The main entrance to the temenos (propylon) typically faced the temple’s façade, and the altar stood between. 	
Fig. 162. The northern side of the great courtyard of the Temple of Jupiter Heliopolitanus at Heliopolis (Baalbek). In the foreground, a water basin with a central fountain. Note the row of dedicatory stone altars on the steps behind. At the back is the wall of the sanctuary, with an exhedra and Aswan granite columns. Between this and the steps a colonnaded portico of Aswan granite shafts once stood (see fig. 178).
	The sanctuaries at Dura Europus form a convenient starting-point for a brief look at the main forms, because they are the least like ‘classical’ temples in plan, with little or no formal axial organization. Like the famous synagogue and church in the same city, a number of the pagan temples were originally private houses, adapted and altered to suit cult requirements. They do not occupy prominent positions in the settlement, and their irregular plans and lack of symmetry are probably the result of this domestic heritage. They may be viewed as evidence of the relatively private nature of worship at Dura and the difficulties faced when negotiating for space, in marked contrast to the great public cults of other cities. They give us an impression of what small shrines for private worship in those other cities may have looked like. The Dura temples are exclusive and inward-looking, serving the needs of particular social or religious groups. For example, the so-called Temple of the Gaddé appears to have been used almost exclusively by Palmyrenes, or people connected with Palmyra. The main focus of the cult was on the Gad (Protector) of Dura, but other dedications are to the Tyche of Palmyra and deities worshipped at Palmyra, such as Malakbel, Iarhibol and Nebo. Most temples were constructed during the period of Parthian rule, with additions built under the Romans. Common features include a high peribolos wall which, like walls around private homes, shut the sanctuary off from the public space of the street. Around the interior of the peribolos was a series of rooms, many of which were chapels or dining rooms added by private benefactors. The naos was normally placed at the rear of the sanctuary, opposite the entrance. Typically it was rectangular in plan, with a single entrance in the middle of its wider side opening on to a wide vestibule or pronaos; beyond this was a smaller inner sanctum, which might be flanked either side by a small chapel. One feature the sanctuaries tend to share with private houses is a deliberate avoidance of strict axiality, so that the main entrance is not aligned with the entrance to the naos, preventing unauthorized viewing of the cult image from the street. Traditional features of ‘classical’ architecture, such as pitched roofs and colonnades, were quite uncommon. As noted above, the Dura synagogue and church house belong to the same category; they are not the secret meeting-places of persecuted cults, but typical Durene religious buildings, serving the interests of small groups.
More public cults, which could command greater resources in terms of space, manpower and money, were planned with greater monumentality and symmetricality. Topological constraints might still dictate the shape of the sanctuary, as at Sia in the Hauran, 3 kilometres (1¾ miles) east of the city of Canatha, where the rocky hilltop prevented a rigid geometrical layout of three temples which were constructed in three successive, interconnected enclosures, approached by a road 300 metres (238 yards) long running through a monumental arch. In other sanctuaries a complex history of donations, extensions and improvements might create an unusual pattern within the urban framework, as in the Baalshamin sanctuary at Palmyra (fig. 158). Rather than taking pride of place in a courtyard or at the end of a succession of courtyards, the sanctuary’s temple, altar and flanking colonnades occupy a relatively small space between two larger courtyards to the north and south. The details of its earliest phase, of the late first century BC or early first century AD, are not clear, although a small courtyard with rooms arranged around it existed at the northern end, and a chapel may have occupied the site of the later temple. In the first century AD a second, much larger courtyard was laid out between the northern court and the chapel, and two thiasoi, one of Baalshamin and the other of Durahlun, built a banquet hall. The temple itself was built in the mid-second century, and a third court was constructed to the south of it, also in the second century. As was the case with ambitious schemes of civic monumentalization, these urban and rural sanctuaries might take decades or centuries to complete (and on some the work was never finished). The dated inscriptions from the peribolos of the temple on the Jebel Sheikh Barakat in northern Syria, between Antioch and Beroea, show that construction of this wall, which was financed by individuals, was built between AD 61 and 120. This important rural sanctuary was only about 68 metres (74 yards) square; enormous complexes like Heliopolis consumed far greater amounts of time, labour and money (see below). Even today the superhuman scale of some of these edifices is breathtaking, and must have been all the more astounding in antiquity. The monumentalization of sanctuaries seems to have begun a little earlier than other buildings in the civic landscape, starting in the late first century BC or early first century AD, and continuing down to the middle of the third century. Even quite small temples in the countryside adopted this monumentality, though on a correspondingly more modest scale. Yet as with secular building projects, we find that there is little evidence for new temple construction on a large scale in cities or the countryside after the mid-third century. The simultaneous decline in temple building and in civic architecture suggests that the two phenomena are related.
Fig. 163. Civic coin of Tripolis, of the reign of Caracalla (dated AD 211/212), showing a temple and, next to it, a structure which is perhaps a tower altar or a monument à colonnettes. Alternatively it may be another temple with a flat roof terrace. Note the ‘Assyrian’ merlons. BMC 79.
Within the courtyards there were channels and basins for water, used for ablutions and ritual cleansing (fig. 162). In the larger sanctuaries porticos ran around the perimeter of the court, and the walls of the peribolos sometimes contained niches for statues or baetyls. Here too, around the edges of the court, one might expect to find rooms for banquets and small shrines to a variety of deities, and inscribed dedications on altars or altar-shaped blocks of stone. In some cases the courtyards contained more than one temple, as at Sfire in northern Lebanon (fig. 164). Just as some privileged groups or individuals could reserve places in public spaces like theatres, so positions within the courts could be reserved, or so various inscriptions on the pavements and walls at Heliopolis would suggest: ‘This exhedra is reserved for the village of Elphana of the Apameans, in perpetuity’; or ‘place of the copper-smiths’. These places may have served as triclinia for ritual banquets or simply positions occupied during the festivals; it is interesting to note that in these cases villages and occupations, two important markers of social identity, are the defining criteria.
Fig. 164. Temples at Sfire. The main temple (which is also the best preserved) was dedicated to Zeus. The others may have been upgraded from shrines to other deities. Alongside the Zeus temple, and oriented in the same direction (east), are the remains of a smaller temple (lower right). A third temple stands at a right angle to the others, before the temple of Zeus (upper left); incorporated into its foundations are the remnants of an earlier walled enclosure containing a monument à colonnettes. The columns in the foreground are part of a portico on the northern side of the temenos; those at the top of the picture are part of a modern house.
As stated before, the altar was the focus of ritual activity within the temenos. Many of the monumental altars were raised, probably so that the crowds could see the sacrifices. Some sanctuaries contained huge, elaborately decorated tower altars. Such buildings seem to be shown on coins of Emesa and Tripolis (fig. 163). The courtyard of the temple of Jupiter Heliopolitanus had two, both containing staircases leading to a roof terrace. Their visual prominence suggests that these towers were of extreme importance; they would have dominated the courtyard, and obscured views of the temple from the main entrance. They may have functioned as artificial ‘High Places’ for sacrifice, although it would have been difficult to carry large animals to offer as sacrifice on to their roofs. The terrace of the larger altar may have served for ritual banquets. Courtyards also contained more modest altars for offerings of incense or oils. Another courtyard structure, particularly common in Lebanon and the Phoenician coastal region, resembles an altar but was probably not used for sacrifices (colour plate 6). A small colonnade encompassed a central edifice which in a number of cases contained niches, probably for cult images. Inscriptions on some are offerings in fulfilment of a vow, and the prominent position of some within a sanctuary makes it likely that these monuments à colonnettes were shrines of some sort, or a regional variation on the concept of a temple. Another suggestion is that they are a continuation of a tradition of baetyl-worship. They occur in a wide variety of sizes. A huge one stood in its own temenos at Machnaqa in Lebanon (fig. 165). At Sfire, in the northern reaches of the Lebanon range, there were several. One was found under the foundations of a later temple (fig. 164). This stood in a small walled enclosure of its own. The fact that the monument à colonnettes has the same orientation as the later temple suggests that the latter is an upgraded version of the former, rather than a construction intended to obliterate it. Another one stood on a hill above the main sanctuary, also within an enclosure of its own (colour plate 5). The remains of a small one, less than a metre square (3¼ feet) in plan, are to be found among the debris near the main temples. Although most monuments à colonnettes occur in the area of modern Lebanon they are encountered further afield, perhaps as a result of social interaction between the peoples of the coast and the interior. An excellent example is to be seen in the courtyard of the Temple of Nebo at Palmyra, which carries a relief with a row of figures, presumably divinities. Small versions or models in alabaster are known from Hatra. These objects, which retain their figures and busts of divinities and columns decorated with standards give a good impression of the overall appearance of some of the larger ones in temple courtyards. 
Fig. 165. Machnaqa, a sanctuary in the mountains east of Byblus. The largest structure within the spacious temenos is this monument à colonnettes, which is the biggest example known. The central part of the structure was completely solid; within its foundations are the remains of an earlier, equally solid structure, presumably of the same kind.
An inscription from the sanctuary at Sia mentions a theatron, which in this case refers not to a theatre building but to the courtyard of the Baalshamin temple there, where banks of seats ran around the edge of the temenos (fig. 166). Since the courtyard was a place where the worshippers gathered to observe the spectacles and participate in the ceremonies, the analogy with a theatre as a place where one watches is not misplaced. At Sahr in Trachonitis a temple courtyard had seating of this sort, and next to the sanctuary was a small theatre. Earlier in date and somewhat removed in space, but probably relevant, is the theatre building in the second-century-BC sanctuary of Atargatis on the island of Delos in the Aegean, where Syrian traders are likely to have worshipped. Modest in scale but probably similar in function are the rooms with banks of seats in some of the sanctuaries at Dura Europus, although the position of these, in rooms on the edges of the sanctuaries, suggests a more exclusive gathering, rather like the triclinia for the thiasoi. One in the temple of Artemis resembles a small theatre or odeum (fig. 110). The two Parthian-period examples in the Temple of Azzanathkona both consist of a bank of seats, bearing inscriptions, mainly the names of women. The inscriptions are probably dedications rather than denoting reserved seats because the inscriptions often take up more than a single space, and yet it is quite possible that the rooms were reserved mainly for female cult activities. Inside some of the temples, too, there were ranges of steps or seats (colour plate 9). The recent discoveries within the so-called Great Temple at Petra may well be pertinent in this regard. It was originally assumed that this building was a normal peripteral temple (having a colonnaded portico running around the outside), but excavations have revealed that the columns were inside the building. In its first phase it seems to have been a large hall rather like a basilica. In the first century AD the intercolumnations of the interior were filled in and the rectangular space within was converted into a semicircular theatre with a stage. A large paved courtyard with porticos was laid out in front of the building. The purpose of this curious architectural ensemble remains enigmatic; if it had been a temple in its first phase, it is difficult to see how it functioned as one in the second. Another possibility is a council chamber or odeum, but an altar found in the courtyard suggests a cult function. However, it is often difficult to separate the sacred and the purely secular, and a multipurpose structure, for both civic and religious gatherings, is not impossible. Overall, these provisions for seating in the courtyards and rooms of the sanctuaries imply that ritual performances of some sort were of particular importance in certain cults.
Fig. 166. Sia: the theatron in front of the temple of Baalshamin.
If the Petra Great Temple should prove to be a cult building, it would be unlike any other temple known in the region. There are, however, many variations in the designs of temples in Syria, making appeals to any ‘standard’ model unrealistic. Even in the highly Hellenized regions close to the coast there are distinct traditions (see below). Other features are more widespread in Syria and Mesopotamia, yet are absent from other parts of the Roman east. Many of the basic elements of architectural decoration are ‘Graeco-Roman’: columns and porticos commonly use classical orders, and columns form a porch or surround the main chamber of the temple (the cella). The classical style undoubtedly has meaning, but we may question whether it signifies that those who visited or worshipped in such places considered the cults themselves thoroughly Hellenized or Romanized. The fact that secular buildings could be turned into temples with little alteration to their exterior intimates that outward appearances may not have been essential to the cults (fig. 160). The classical elements may be more a concession to taste and fashion than a statement about the rituals and natures of the cults themselves. Furthermore, it is not always clear whether what we perceive as ‘Graeco-Roman’ denotes the import of alien ideas and models rather than the continuation an older tradition. Roman influence seems apparent from the fact that many Syrian temples, like those in Italy and the western provinces, are constructed on a platform, elevating them to a dominating position on the skyline. However, the first phase of the Temple of Jupiter at Heliopolis (Baalbek), which is probably Hellenistic in date, consisted of a massive platform for a temple (see below). We know too little about temple architecture in Hellenistic Syria to dismiss the possibility of a pre-Roman tradition for the podiums. Rather than signifying adherence to Roman ways, it may indicate a more general desire to raise the holy above the level of profane, everyday life.
The façades of the temples combine classical and other elements in unusual ways, which would have created a very distinct feel to the sanctuaries. A number of temples had tall towers either side of the entrance, or at the rear of the cella (fig. 167). The Temple of Bel at Palmyra had a pair at either end. These towers commonly contain stairs leading to the roof, and in some temples, such as those of Bel and Nebo at Palmyra, they permitted access to flat roof terraces, presumably for some sort of ritual. Even temples of more normal classical appearance, such as the so-called Temple of Bacchus at Heliopolis, had interior staircases either side of the entrance, leading up to the roof. The pediments of the Bacchus temple are plain and contain a window, without the elaborate sculptural groups or reliefs commonly found in classical temples. Like the roof terraces the windows were perhaps accessed via the stairways and could have been used for cultic purposes.
Fig. 167. Civic bronze coin of Abila from the reign of Elagabalus (AD 218-22), showing a temple with a tower either side of a classical colonnaded façade.
Departure from the classical archetype is even more evident in the interior arrangements of Syrian temples. If any generalization about the interiors of ‘Graeco-Roman’ temples is possible, it was normal for those in Italy, Greece and Asia Minor to contain a cult statue, positioned close to the rear wall of the temple, and often set within an inner sanctuary or holy of holies (adyton). Some Syrian temples do indeed seem to imitate this pattern. Many others, however, have more elaborate structures at the back of the cella. These commonly divide the rear into three separate chapels, which are usually raised on a platform above the main floor of the cella and approached by a broad staircase. The emphasis is on the central chapel, where the cult statue or relief was probably placed. This tripartite arrangement is encountered in temples all over the region, from the Baalshamin temple at Palmyra to the Qasr al-Bint at Petra. Lucian, when describing the cult of the Syrian Goddess, uses an old-fashioned Greek term to denote this arrangement at the back of the cella: thalamos. There is no proof that the term was used widely in Syria in antiquity, but modern scholars have applied it to a variety of structures in Syrian temples including those corresponding to the classical adyton: rectangular chambers, apses and columned baldaquins. Some of the most elaborate arrangements are found in the temples of the Lebanon region, where the emphasis on the thalamos is particularly striking. There are sufficient similarities in most of them to suggest that the design reflects regional cult practice, even though the exteriors of many such temples are ‘typically’ Graeco-Roman. Good examples can be seen in the so-called Temple of Bacchus at Heliopolis and the Temple of Hadaranes at Niha, both in the Bekaa valley (fig. 168 and colour plate 9). At the top of the wide staircase, the thalamos was the setting for elaborate architectural structures. Some of these structures were colonnaded; others appear to have formed more solid screens, as if to shield the flanking chapels from the gaze of those on the cella floor. Many have small windows piercing the cella wall to let light into the thalamos. It is assumed that the central part of the thalamos housed the cult statue, and that the screens imply that access to this area was probably restricted. Beneath the thalamos there is commonly a crypt, which in many cases can be entered through a door flanking the staircase or by steps descending from the raised floor of the thalamos itself. These crypts were evidently intended to be accessed only from within the cella. The small temples of Ain Hersheh (colour plate11) and Hebbariyeh at the foot of Mount Hermon have additional, larger crypts under the floors of their cellas, which are accessible from the outside, but in both cases the crypt beneath the thalamos was separate and could be entered only from within. As with the thalamos above it, access to this space was presumably carefully controlled. While the Lebanese temples share many details with one another there seems to have been no standard plan for the interior: a detailed stone model for a thalamos found at Niha on the western side of the Bekaa valley, next to the temple of the local deity Hadaranes, has measurements in feet and other elements for a hexagonal columned baldaquin scratched on it. The model was marked with a Greek inscription ‘plan of the adyton’, and there can be no doubt that it was a three-dimensional architect’s model for the temple. The relevant part of the Temple of Hadaranes still survives in good condition for comparison (fig. 168), and the measurements scratched on the model do not correspond perfectly with the dimensions of the model or the design as it was eventually built. It looks as if these measurements were added during discussions -between architects and priests? - over the plan. It is worth noting that the language of this discussion was Greek, although many of the monumental inscriptions at Niha were in Latin, no doubt reflecting the site’s location in the territory of the colony of Berytus. Whatever the nature of worship at Niha, the design appears to have been negotiated using a non-indigenous tongue.
Fig. 168. The raised thalamos of the temple of Hadaranes at Niha. Note the entrance to the crypt, half way up the stairs, on the right.
Fig. 168b. The ‘Nabataean’ style plan of the late first century BC temple of Baalshamin at Sia.
Other temple plans have a raised platform in the centre of the cella functioning as an altar or shrine. The fact that this plan occurs within the area ruled by the Nabataeans suggests it is a ‘Nabataean’ design (although some elements may derive from Egypt). The so-called Temple of the Winged Lions, north of the main colonnade at Petra, is such a building. It was originally constructed in the early first century AD, then remodelled in the mid-first, but went out of use following a fire in the early second. The cella was square and fronted by a rectangular vestibule. The focal point of the elaborate interior was a raised podium approached by steps and bearing columns, which is thought to have been either an altar or, more probably, a podium (Nabataean motab) for the cult image. The second-century-AD temple on a hilltop at Khirbet Tannur was a rectangular edifice enclosing an earlier cube-like structure resembling a tower altar, its sacrificial function suggested by the burnt debris of offerings. The building was set within a courtyard which contained the usual elements: an altar, three banqueting triclinia and other rooms. Similar also is the Temple of Baalshamin at Sia (fig. 168b), where a cella enclosed a smaller square chamber, itself enclosing four columns which probably demarcated the area occupied by the cult image. It is thought that in all cases the centralised focus of the shrine or altar within the cella allowed worshippers to stand or progress around it. The basic plan has a parallel in the open-air sanctuary at Petra known as the ‘High Place of Sacrifice’, on the Jebel Madhbah overlooking the southern part of the city. All surviving features are carved out of living rock. The site was reached by a series of rock-cut stairways, recalling the ascents inside some of the great tower-altars and temples elsewhere. The largest feature is a court oriented north - south, 16 metres (52½ feet) long and 7 metres (23 feet) wide, with a low raised platform towards the centre, presumably intended for offerings and perhaps cult images (or, as some have suggested, for an officiating priest to stand on). A podium is aligned with this platform, off the western side of the court. This is a raised rectangular structure of 3 by 2 metres (10 by 6½ feet) with steps on one side, surrounded by a cutting which forms a passageway. There is a slot in the top of the podium which may have accommodated a baetyl, and other cuttings around its edges may have held supports for an ornamental cover or baldaquin. This podium looks very like representations of a motab which was used to support baetyls, a device found on civic coins of Arabia (fig. 156.3). With the passageway around it, it resembles the temples described above. Together with the court, a tank for water and possible provisions for dining it contains all the elements present at the other temple sites. Numerous further examples of these Nabataean ‘High Places’ are known, and no doubt hilltop temples like Khirbet Tannur are an upgraded version of these open-air sanctuaries.
Fig. 169.1. Kalybé at Hayyat in the Hauran. Such buildings were perhaps monumental versions of smaller structures with niches designed to hold cult images, and may be a variant on the monuments à colonnettes, many of which also contain niches. 169.2. Reconstruction and plan of the kalybé at Hayyat.
Another type of religious building with a much more limited distribution is found in the northern part of the Hauran. This consists of a large masonry façade with niches for statues, behind which is a room or a set of chambers that may have functioned as an assembly hall for religious rituals. A building of this kind at Umm ez-Zeytun bears an inscription dated to AD 282 which calls the building a ‘sacred kalybé’. Similar buildings are known at Maximianopolis (Shaqqa) and nearby Hayyat (fig. 169). Kalybé is a Greek word meaning ‘hut’ or a structure made of light materials. Are these buildings, with their cult niches, a translation into stone of a portable shrine? The use of niches recalls the monuments à colonnettes. In modern times the term kalybé has been applied to a variety of monumental façades found in the region, such as the structure on the western side of the piazza at Philippopolis, designed to display statues of the imperial family, but this is misleading as it implies similarity of function. The Philippopolis ‘kalybé’ may well have had a religious purpose (for example, as a shrine for the imperial cult), but it has little or nothing in common with the structures at Umm ez-Zeytun, Shaqqa or Hayyat, and there is no evidence that it was viewed in the same way by contemporaries. 
Fig. 170. Northern thalamos of the Temple of Bel, Palmyra. The central part housed a cult relief or statue; either side of this are enclosed staircases leading to the roof. Note the windows in the walls of the cella. 
	Among the most eccentric forms of temple in the region is the Bel temple at Palmyra. The naos itself was dedicated in AD 32 (though it was perhaps not completed at the time), but the site is thought to have served as a sanctuary long before this. The vast temenos appears to have been enlarged to its present size - 210 by 205 metres (230 by 224 yards) - during the second century AD. The complex is oriented west, but the image of the deity was not aligned with the doorway of the cella or with the propylaea, as was the case in most other monumental temple complexes. The temenos was surrounded on all four sides by porticos, and the western one of these, if not all of them, must have carried a roof terrace, as indicated by the spiral staircases contained inside the piers of the north-western and south-western corners. The monumental triple-gated propylaea stood in the middle of the western side of the temenos. A processional ramp led from the courtyard under the portico and peribolos wall in the north-eastern corner, out into the city (fig. 171). This alternative entrance may have been used to bring animals into the temenos for sacrifice. Within the courtyard was a monumental basin, a large altar and a hall for ritual banquets, identified by the large number of clay tesserae found there. The temple itself is Hellenistic in its basic design. With a Corinthian portico surrounding a rectangular cella, it originally stood on a low stepped platform in the Greek manner rather than on a podium. Following the second-century extension of the temenos the ground level was lowered a little and the stepped platform was converted into a low podium, an indication perhaps of changing fashions in external design rather than cult activity. The entrance to the cella, as noted in chapter 8, is located on the western side, and is offset towards the southern end. It is approached by a ramp rather than steps (for a plan see fig. 122.1). The entrance to the cella is framed by a colossal stone door set into the colonnaded portico, a device which has parallels in Ptolemaic architecture. The deep space between the cella and the surrounding colonnade was roofed with stone panels supported by stone beams, carved in relief (figs 142, 159). Windows in the eastern and western walls of the cella are an unusual feature, and the cella is unique in having two thalamoi, one at the north and the other at the south end. The northern thalamos is considered to have been the principal shrine, containing the cult image or images, which may have been in relief form rather than free-standing (fig. 170). The southern one still retains its ramp, and for this reason it is believed to have housed a portable shrine or image of Bel which was used in processions. Quite why this arrangement was chosen is not clear. It is not known how much the present design owes to earlier temples or shrines which stood on this site, but there is evidence to suggest that construction of the cella took place in fits and starts over a period of perhaps seventy years. One proposition is that the temple was originally intended to face south, but the wadi lying immediately south of the temenos prevented monumental emphasis in that direction. There are hints that a reorientation occurred while the temple was being built. The two thalamoi which dominate the northern and southern ends appear to have been inserted, as their stone façades are not keyed into the masonry of the cella walls. If the northern thalamos were the more important, placing the entrance towards the southern end of the western side would have created more space for ritual activities before it. The unusual design may in part be the consequence of compromises made during the building’s construction. As the Niha model suggests, the plans of a building could alter as the project progressed, and the double emphasis within the cella of the Bel temple may indicate more than one interest at work. As noted above, large sanctuaries could become an arena for various interest groups negotiating space for their ancestral deities, and Bel, having the most important sanctuary in the city, had to share his with other gods and goddesses. The inscription referring to the temple’s dedication in AD 32 describes it as the ‘Temple of the gods Bel, Iarhibol and ‘Aglibol’. The stone roof panel between the cella entrance and the temple’s portico bore a relief of three divine figures, usually identified as ‘Aglibol, Iarhibol and Belti (the female consort of Bel), and the other figurative reliefs on the roof beams show an assortment of deities. Indeed, the epigraphic record implies that the Palmyrenes regarded this sanctuary as a temple of various Palmyrene gods rather than being restricted to the worship of Bel.
Fig. 171. Processional way leading under the west portico and sanctuary wall of the Bel temple. The corner pier of the colonnade, the stump of which can be seen on the right, contains a staircase to a roof terrace of the portico.
	The thalamoi in the Temple of Bel are both flanked by towers in the angles of the cella, with staircases leading to a roof terrace. Possibly processions of priests and other celebrants made their way up and down while ceremonies were being performed in the court. Four corner towers are also to be observed in another eccentric temple, at Thelsea (Dmeir), on the road between Damascus and Palmyra (fig. 172). It was in use from the Severan period but not completed until AD 245, and consists of a rectangular cella with large arched portals at either end, allowing passage through the building. The design did not provide for a thalamos. One of the towers contains a staircase which presumably led to some sort of roof terrace. Whether it should be considered a temple at all is debatable; it may have been the monumental entrance to a sanctuary now buried or never built, or some variation on the tower altar, although the inscriptions on it, which outline details of legal cases, are all concerned with a temple of Zeus Hypsistos. 
Fig. 172.1. The well-preserved ‘temple’ at Dmeir (ancient Thelsea). 172.2 Plan.

Baalbek and the Limits of Megalomania
During the first century BC and first century AD some truly enormous religious structures were built. The outer circuit of Herod’s Temple at Jerusalem created a trapezoidal space whose maximum dimensions were about 310 by 510 metres (339 by 558 yards), making it the largest such structure in the region. The outer peribolos of the sanctuary of Zeus at Damascus, probably constructed under Augustus and his immediate successors, was about 305 by 385 metres (334 by 421 yards), and enclosed an inner circuit of about 100 by 150 metres (109 by 164 yards), the latter now forming the boundary wall of the great Umayyad Mosque. There may have been others, such as Elagabal at Emesa and Atargatis at Hierapolis, but we have little evidence for the dimensions of these sanctuaries. Slightly smaller in scale, but equally designed to impress, were the sanctuaries of Bel at Palmyra and Jupiter Heliopolitanus at Heliopolis. The builders of the Temple of Jupiter did not set out to compete with Jerusalem and Damascus, whose enormous enclosures resembled city walls. Instead they chose to increase the scale of the house of the god itself, to monstrous proportions. What they achieved still astonishes today, and is on a scale that has never since been surpassed; that they were unable to finish the building is perhaps not so surprising. Indeed, the most ambitious phase of the project was abandoned in its early stages, probably because the builders had reached the limits of what was physically and financially possible. In scaling up the size of the whole building, they had also intended to scale up the size of the building blocks used. The result is a monument so awe-inspiring that modern minds have difficulty conceiving how it was built, and as with the pyramids and other impressive feats of ancient engineering, the most speculative and least imaginative resort to the influences of visiting spacemen for an explanation.
Fig. 173. General view of the main religious complex at Heliopolis: the ‘Temple of Bacchus’ (in the foreground) and the Temple and courtyard of Jupiter Heliopolitanus, seen from the south. Beyond the temples, the plain of the Bekaa and the foothills of the Lebanon range.
Heliopolis may not have become an independent city until the end of the second century AD, but its role as a major religious centre was well established long before that time. The site is thought to have served as a religious centre for the Ituraeans, and may well have been part of the principality of Chalcis in the first century BC. Inscribed dedications mentioning the rulers of Emesa, and perhaps Arca, indicate that the sanctuary of Jupiter there was attracting the attention of important regional figures in the first century AD, and the prodigious sums involved in constructing the temples and sanctuaries there must mean that the deities at Heliopolis could draw on much greater resources than those that could be provided by the hinterland and surrounding population. The elaborate ceiling of the portico around the ‘Temple of Bacchus’ (colour plate 10) is decorated with busts of deities, including a number of city-goddesses. One of these is labelled ‘Antiochia’, and it may honour one of a number of cities that provided funds for the building. That is speculation; but the scale of the structures at Heliopolis can only mean that the cults attracted substantial donations and a considerable following.
There were several monumental sanctuaries and temples at Heliopolis. Two massive temples were located on the western side of the city (fig. 173), the largest and tallest dedicated to ‘Jupiter Optimus Maximus Heliopolitanus’, and the other, generally called the ‘Temple of Bacchus’ and one of the best-preserved temples in the Roman world, to a deity or deities unknown (colour plates 8-10). Both appear to have been constructed before the end of the second century, and so both vast structures date mainly to the period when Heliopolis did not have independent city status. Immediately to the south of these giant temples was a rectangular temenos containing temples of more modest size, including the unusual round temple known as the ‘Temple of Venus’. Finally, on a hilltop to the east stood another large temple, located at the end of a long staircase. Only fragments survive, but the dimensions of one of its column bases suggest that it was not much smaller than the two great temples in the plain below.
Fig. 174. The Temple of Jupiter, seen from top of one of the tower altars of the great court.
There is no doubt that the principal cult at Heliopolis was that of Jupiter Optimus Maximus Heliopolitanus, because most of surviving dedications are to this deity. There is also no doubt that the largest temple was dedicated to him. The courtyard of the temple is filled with dedications, and coins which depict the building (distinguishable from the others by the number of columns) are always accompanied by the initials of the deity, I.O.M.H. (fig. 175.1). The ‘Temple of Bacchus’ appears on some coins, alongside the Temple of Jupiter, but no identifying inscription accompanies the representation. The temple on the hill is also depicted on coins, identifiable by its staircase (which still survives) and the rocky landscape (fig. 175.2). The smaller temples do not appear at all. What is slightly unusual about these numismatic representations is that, unlike many other depictions of temples on civic coins, those of Heliopolis never show the deities within. Perhaps as suggested above the doors to the temples were not normally opened, and the deities were not meant to be viewed from the outside. 
It seems absurd that the identity of the deities worshipped in such huge temples should be sought in little things like inscriptions and coins, but these provide some of our most important contemporary sources of evidence. Inscriptions attest a deity called Venus Heliopolitana, but the buildings and coins provide no clues as to which temple - if any - was hers. A colossal statue, thought to represent this deity, was found in the courtyard of the Temple of Jupiter (it is now in Istanbul), and perhaps part of the courtyard was given over to her. She may be the female Tyche figure which appears on coins, flanked by male figures and encircled by a veil held by two little figures on columns (fig. 175.3), but the identification is not explicit. Coins and inscriptions attest another deity, called Mercury, and representations of the temple on the hill are accompanied by a little symbol of Mercury: a herald’s wand (caduceus: fig. 175.2). Consequently this has been dubbed the ‘Temple of Mercury’. However, a caduceus is also found on the underside of the doorway of the ‘Temple of Bacchus’, where it is carried by an eagle. It is suggested that in this case the caduceus refers to the eagle as a messenger of the sun, which if correct highlights some of the difficulties encountered when trying to equate a divine symbol with a single meaning. The fact that the ‘Temple of Bacchus’ is well preserved only complicates matters, for it is decorated with a plethora of divine figures and symbols. Reliefs inside show what appear to be scenes from the myths of Dionysus, including the god’s birth; hence the identification with Bacchus, the Roman equivalent of Dionysus. It is quite possible that these images refer to a young god of nature and regeneration, like Adonis at Byblus, and that ‘Mercury’, somehow assimilated to Dionysus, is the young god of a triad of deities which included Jupiter and Venus as father and mother. But other deities are also shown on coins: a city-goddess resembling the Tyche of Antioch; another Tyche between two military standards who may or may not be identical to the previous; and two naked male figures carrying uncertain objects, perhaps branches, who may be the same as those shown with the Tyche with the veil. Thus the coins confirm a cult of Jupiter Heliopolitanus (whose image is strangely absent), and of Mercury and a city Tyche, but the precise meaning of the remaining images is elusive, hinting at a cult of a female deity resembling a Tyche who may be Venus, and two unknown male figures who may be her acolytes. The conspicuousness of the monuments contrasts with our ignorance of the details.
Fig. 175. Civic bronze coins of Heliopolis. 175.1. Coin of Septimius Severus (AD 193-211), showing the Temple of Jupiter, labelled I.O.M.H. BMC 3. 175.2. Coin of Philip I (AD 244-9), showing the ‘Temple of Mercury’ on a hill covered in shrubs, approached by a long staircase. The temenos contains an altar and urn, with a caduceus outside, on the left. BMC 19. 175.3. Coin of Philip I with a Tyche figure standing between two small naked male figures, an inflated veil held over her head by two small female figures on columns. BMC 21.
Fig. 176. Drawings of some of the votive lead figurines found at Ain al-Djouj near Heliopolis. From left to right: Jupiter Heliopolitanus (labelled ‘Zeus’) flanked by bulls, the façade of his temple at his feet; Mercurius Heliopolitanus, holding a caduceus (more classical-style versions are known); Tyche holding a cornucopia (Venus Heliopolitana?). Other figurines include Dionysus, animals and some curious ensigns resembling a caduceus topped by a disc and a bust of Helios. Their precise date is uncertain, but they are presumed to be Roman rather than Hellenistic.
The Jupiter sanctuary was the most excessive of the religious buildings at Heliopolis. A monumental temple, probably of the first century BC, was already standing when the first Roman phase of construction began. It is not known whether this earlier building had been completed, but its platform, measuring approximately 48 by 90 metres (52½ by 98½ yards) and standing 12 metres (39½ feet) high, provided the core of the Roman temple’s podium. A courtyard for worshippers lay to the east in front of this temple, constructed over a low hill which is presumed to have formed a place of worship in pre-Hellenistic times. It is possible that the builders of the Roman period intended to extend the courtyard westwards to surround the new temple, but if so, this part of the project was abandoned. 
The first and most excessive phase of the Temple of Jupiter’s construction was invisible to the worshippers in the great court. This, the so-called trilithon phase, expanded the width and length of the podium by about 10 metres (33 feet). But what was most remarkable about it was the preposterous size of the stones to be used. It seems like an undertaking to build the unbuildable; proof, perhaps, to contemporary observers of the power of the god. If completed, the outer facing of the podium, standing about 12 metres (39½ feet) high, would have been composed of a mere three courses of giant ashlars. Long after the temple fell into ruins these vast stones prompted wonder, particularly the three immense examples which form the second course of the western end (hence the name ‘trilithon’). These are the largest stone blocks ever employed in a building, and two even larger ones lie in the quarry to the south (figs 68, 177).
Fig. 177. In 1994 workers digging for building aggregate in the ancient quarries at the base of the Sheikh Abdullah hill at Baalbek revealed an even larger stone than the famous ‘Hajjar al-Hiblah’ (fig. 68). This stone, dubbed ‘Monolith II’, is nearly 20 metres (65 ½ feet) long and about 4.5 metres (14¾ feet) in breadth and depth. It would have weighed about 1250 tonnes had it been released from the bedrock beneath it. The monolith itself was used as a quarry in later times; note that smaller blocks have been removed from its surface.
Local geology enabled the builders to begin realizing their ambitious project. Good-quality building stone with few natural fissures, suitable for megalithic elements such as these, could be found next to the site where the temples were to be built. The quarries were also located at an elevation slightly above the temples, so that the journey between them could benefit from gravity at least part of the way. The two unused blocks were both quarried at an incline, which presumably made it easier to detach them from the bedrock. The first course of huge blocks was completed on all three sides of the podium, as was the second layer of the western end, but then, for reasons unknown, the construction technique was abandoned. Perhaps the higher courses were beyond the builders’ capacity, or the project was too expensive. Further courses, assuming that the work was completed, were constructed with much smaller blocks. Some may have disappeared as a result of robbing when the temples were converted into a medieval citadel, but it is likely that the northern side of the podium was never built up. Coins giving an oblique view show the temple’s ‘better’ southern side (fig. 175.1). The giant blocks of this trilithon phase are marked with guidelines for dressing, and some attempt was made to begin shaping the mouldings on the lowest course, but otherwise many of the blocks remained in their quarry state, which must have given the whole podium a rather crude appearance from ground level. 
Fig. 178. Drawing of the Jupiter sanctuary at Heliopolis, showing it as it probably appeared in the middle of the third century AD, and assuming that the podium of the trilithon phase was never completed.
	The temple itself was probably constructed over several decades, beginning in the mid-first century AD. As it was placed on the existing Hellenistic podium, it was not necessary to complete the trilithon before beginning on the temple, and the phases of their construction overlapped. In fact, the second course of the trilithon has etched on its upper surface a full-scale plan of the western pediment, on which the blocks were presumably laid out before being lifted into position some 28 metres (92 feet) above; and an unused column drum from the temple was incorporated into the trilithon foundations. The temple had a colonnaded portico around all four sides, ten columns along the front and rear, and nineteen along the sides (counting the corners twice), standing about 20 metres (65½ feet) high. From ground level to the top of the pediments the temple measured almost 48 metres (158 feet); and from the courtyard to the point of the roof about 40 metres (130 feet). Enormous blocks of stone continued to be employed. The four corner columns of the building, each 16.6 metres (54½ feet) high, are thought to have been monolithic shafts of limestone weighing about 130 tonnes. Although much of the sculptural detail on the outside of temple seems to have been finished, some features, such as a capital topping one of the antae (the projecting side walls of the cella, flanking the door), were not.
The courtyard itself was enlarged by throwing three large vaults around the original hill on all sides except the west where the temple stood. Some of the keystones in the vaults have sculptures and inscriptions naming the teams that constructed a section of vaulting: ‘the Squad of Moschus’; ‘the tenth squad of [the village of?] the Chonensii’. As with the trilithon, the dressing of the vaults was begun but then abandoned. On the three sides of courtyard above, an immense wall, containing apsidal exhedras and colonnades of Aswan granite shafts, was fronted by a continuous portico of Aswan columns (fig. 162). The wall was decorated with niches for statues. Much of the construction here is later first or second century. The courtyard was embellished with two large water basins supplied by fountains (unfinished), a pair of honorific columns (or Hellenized versions of baetyls?) and the two impressive tower altars mentioned earlier in this chapter. This courtyard presumably had a monumental entrance; if so, it was dismantled in the third century to make way for an additional courtyard with an unusual hexagonal plan. This project too was never completed, with many of the blocks left undressed. Finally, a monumental colonnaded entrance with two corner towers was added to the hexagonal court, and before that, a semicircular courtyard containing a monument à colonnettes (figs 178, 179).
Fig 179: Civic coin of Heliopolis, of the reign of Philip I (AD 244-249). Propylaeum to the Temple of Jupiter, identified by the letters I.O.M.H. The representation is fairly accurate, and the substantial remains of this entrance make the representation immediately recognizable. BMC 16.
Like the sanctuaries at Damascus and Palmyra the Heliopolis ensemble provides us with an example of the strength of ‘pagan’ piety and the extraordinary vigour with which religions were pursued. Its builders appear to have experimented with the very limits of the possible, thanks to the presence of suitable stone near the site, but in doing so were unable to finish what they had started. There may have been no other motive than to demonstrate the immense potency and importance of the god, making his sanctuary as prominent and permanent as possible. Like the great civic monuments, gigantic religious sanctuaries perhaps tried to affirm the glory and perpetuity of a certain social organization through overweening architecture. The effort involved certainly betokens something more than mere caprice; but perhaps, like the builders of another giant sanctuary, the great fifteenth-century Gothic cathedral of Seville, the religious authorities at Heliopolis also could have claimed (with some justification) that they did it for no other reason than ‘so that future generations will take us for madmen’. 

The Imperial Cult
Worship of the emperor was an activity that Rome actively promoted and organized, which in the early empire provided some sort of unifying religious structure and identity in a fragmented polytheistic world of local or regional cults. The imperial cult was celebrated on various levels, chief among these being the city and the province. Individuals and other cults could demonstrate loyalty to the empire and ruling regime by dedications, prayers or setting up images of the rulers in houses, shrines or temples. Cities had honoured Hellenistic rulers or powerful Roman generals as divine or semi-divine beings right up to the inception of the principate, when this worship became focused on the figure of the emperor. Sanctuaries for municipal imperial cults are attested in various cities in the region, but these all functioned within the civic framework. The imperial cult was organized on a communal, provincial basis (called the koinon of Syria: fig. 180.1) from the reign of Augustus, when the tetrarch Dexandros, an ancestor of Lucius Julius Agrippa of Apamea (see p. 000), held its first high priesthood. Representatives of the Syrian cities would come together for provincial assemblies and celebrations, which consisted of festivities in honour of the emperor: official panegyrics, gladiatorial combats, or recitals of poems or prose works about him. The province showed its fidelity as a whole, setting aside civic rivalries and animosities. The imperial cult bound the individual and the city to the Roman hierarchy, defining the place of provincials within the power structure, but through its assemblies it also provided provincials with an additional channel of communication with the emperor. In this sense it acted as a mediating institution between the cities and the centre of power, and for this reason was likely to have been an important institution for provincials. It is worthy of note that on civic coins the koinon and sub-districts of the imperial cult are the only social and political entities commonly referred to other than the cities themselves. The institution provided provincials with an identity as members of a province of the Roman world, and rejection of the imperial cult was a very serious matter. Christianity’s first serious problems were with this cult rather than others, and as a result they placed themselves in conflict with the hierarchical order of the empire.
	The Syrian provincial cult was divided into smaller regional entities or sub-districts called - somewhat confusingly - provinces or eparchies. Before the reign of Vespasian there had been three, centred on Tarsus (eastern Cilicia being part of the province of Syria at this date), Antioch and Tyre. Under Vespasian the annexation of Commagene added a fourth eparchy, but this was quickly reduced to three again after eastern Cilicia was detached from Syria. By the reign of Hadrian the number had been raised once more to four, with the creation of an eparchy centred on Damascus. The names of the four were Commagene (presumably with its capital at Samosata, whose civic coins bear abbreviations which must be expanded to something like ‘Metropolis, of Commagene’), Syria (Antioch), Phoenice (Tyre) and Coele-Syria (Damascus). Beyond these details the evidence is extremely fragmentary and incoherent. Delegates from each eparchy met at their respective capitals, and each eparchy had its sanctuary, president and high priest, although an inscription from Gerasa cites a high priest ‘of the four eparchies’, resident at Antioch. It seems therefore that Antioch had some sort of precedence over the other eparchies. It is also interesting to note that the four eparchies evolved independently of the Roman administrative provinces, as if they had gained some social or political identity of their own. The eparchy of Coele-Syria included a number of Decapolis cities which by the second century were in the administrative provinces of Arabia or Syria Palaestina, and as an entity this eparchy continued to exist after Septimius Severus created an administrative province with the same name in a different region (see chapter 3). Second- and third-century coins of various cities, Abila, Dium, Gadara, Scythopolis, Pella and Philadelphia advertise the fact that they are ‘of Coele Syria’, as if the eparchy provided them with a communal affiliation. There is also some evidence to suggest that after its punishment by Septimius Severus following the defeat of Pescennius Niger, Antioch lost its pre-eminent position to Laodicea (see p. 000). Some Severan coins of Laodicea call the city ‘Metropolis of the Four Provinces’, and some show four Tychai, perhaps representing the eparchies, standing before the city-goddess of Laodicea (fig. 180.2). However, it is difficult to imagine that Antioch failed to recover its original status during the Severan period, so perhaps Laodicea was granted honorary status, or shared its position with Antioch in some way.
Fig. 180.1. Bronze coin of Trajan (AD 98-117), with a personification of the koinon (‘the commune’) of Syria. BMC 1. 180.2. Civic coin of Laodicea of the reign of Philip I (AD 244-9). Four Tychai standing before the city goddess of Laodicea. BMC 110.
	There is no clear evidence for a provincial imperial cult in Judaea/Syria Palaestina, although cities of the province had their own municipal imperial cults. By analogy with the coins inscribed ‘of Coele Syria’, civic issues of Neapolis and Caesarea inscribed ‘of Syria Palaestina’ might support the existence of a provincial imperial cult there. Some slight evidence exists for Arabia in the third century, but this is not enough to give us an idea of its organization.

Jews and Samaritans
From Herod to Bar-Kokhba
If the evidence for pagan identities requires some considerable interpretation and speculation drawn from diverse and fragmentary sources, that is not so with the Jews. The enormous amount of literary evidence allows for more confident interpretations of the archaeological record, and shows how religion contributed to a sense of community and difference, and how knowledge of a pre-Hellenistic past could be used to justify activities in the present. Continuity was aided enormously by Jewish reverence for the written word, which imparted a degree of religious, moral and social authority and conformity in the form of the Torah. The Hasmonaean conquests in the late Hellenistic periods had expanded the Jewish presence, mainly, it seems, by forced conversion of locals such as the Galilaeans and Idumaeans. Although the greatest concentration of Jews was in Judaea and Galilee, there was no clear geographical boundary between gentile and Jewish settlement, and no zone that was entirely Jewish. Greek cities were established in predominantly Jewish Judaea and Galilee and pagans evidently lived in the countryside in these areas (although there is practically no archaeological evidence for them); conversely there were significant Jewish communities in cities and rural areas outside these regions. There were also plenty of Jews who had remained in Babylonia after the exile. In all these areas Jews and gentiles generally co-existed peacefully, but the political impositions of the gentiles could generate tensions and conflict (see chapter 8). Nevertheless the Romans took measures to accommodate Judaism, recognizing the rights of Jews within the empire, including exemption from military service, their payment of the Temple-tax, and the right not to appear in court on the Sabbath. They did not have to worship the emperor (although they might offer sacrifice to God in his name), or swear oaths on the emperor’s name. The emperors themselves were not insensitive to the potency of the Jewish deity; Augustus provided for daily sacrifices in the Temple on his behalf. Boundaries between gentile and Jew were religious, social and cultural rather than political and geographical, but the coming of the Messiah promised political deliverance for the land as well.
Until the end of the first revolt, Judaism resembled some of the other cults of the region in that it was originally centred on a great sanctuary with its High Priests, and with festivals, sacrifices and pilgrimage as an important feature of religious observances. Where it differed crucially was in the Jewish rejection of all other deities. The High Priest presided over a supreme court, the Sanhedrin, which was responsible for making judgements on religious and civil matters and which provided a legal framework for the Jews of Judaea and a corporate body for regulating the faith. That Judaism was a unifying social force is evinced by the fact that during the first revolt the converts of Idumaea and Galilee, as well as the Judaeans, were prominent in fighting against Rome. However, there were also forces within Judaism tending towards disunity as well, some of which the Sanhedrin could not control. Even among the members of the Sanhedrin there were different opinions on a variety of practices and beliefs, and among all pious Jews there were disagreements and debates over interpretation of the Torah and over rituals and taboos, about whether there was an afterlife, and over when the Messiah would come and what would happen. The best-known groups are the Essenes, the Pharisees and the Sadducees, who held very different positions with regard to tradition, scriptural interpretation, and observance of the Law, but there were numerous other sects as well. Some saw resistance to Rome as a religious duty, while others accepted and co-operated with Roman hegemony. These vigorous debates and varying stances within Judaism were extremely difficult for the Sanhedrin to manage, let alone outside powers, but the Roman prefects and procurators do not appear to have handled the problems they faced with any great degree of competence. The popular belief that a Messiah would come to liberate the Jews from foreign domination naturally found little favour with the rulers, but gained popularity with the masses. Messianic claims abounded in the first half of the first century AD, leading to a chain of rebellions. During the first century those opposed to Roman dominion succeeded in swaying some of the religious leaders, and the emergence of extremists who specialized in assassinating moderate Jewish collaborators provided additional coercion. The first revolt witnessed a shortlived but remarkable experiment with an independent Jewish state, notable for its deliberate rejection of Hellenism. It also witnessed attacks on Jews by the Greek populations of the cities across the region, and, following the collapse of the revolt, the state’s attitude towards Judaism was symbolized by the image found on millions of gold, silver and bronze coins across the Roman world: Judaea capta. Captured Judaea was an emblem fundamental in helping to legitimize the usurping Flavian dynasty.
Fig. 181.1. Silver shekel of the first Jewish revolt. The inscriptions are in archaic Palaeo-Hebrew script and the designs consciously avoid using Hellenizing symbols. The obverse reads ‘shekel of Israel’, with the date, year 5 (AD 70), above a chalice; the reverse has a stem with three flowers, around which is the inscription ‘Jerusalem is holy’. BMC 20. 181.2. Bronze coin of the emperor Vespasian (AD 69-79), from an uncertain mint (Caesarea?), showing a personification of Victory inscribing a shield set on a column. The Greek inscription is the equivalent of the Latin Judaea capta. BMC 1.
	The destruction of the Temple was a turning-point in the development of Judaism, bringing the sacrificial cult, the High Priesthood and the Sanhedrin to an end. Initially many Jews perhaps hoped it would be rebuilt, and rabbis continued to debate sacrificial ritual as if the Temple existed, but as time passed it must have become clear that restoration was not imminent. To some the restoration was perhaps not so important; the authority of the High Priest and Sanhedrin had been tarnished somewhat during the periods of Herodian and Roman rule, and various groups had contested their authority, including questioning the spiritual importance of sacrifice. Jews of the Diaspora generally lived too far away to participate in the sacrificial cult, although they might arrange for sacrifices to be performed on their behalf. The ground had already been prepared for a more decentred cult, for which a great sanctuary was no longer necessary. During the interval between the fall of Jerusalem in AD 70 and the outbreak of the Bar-Kokhba war, rabbinic academies were established in centres like Jamnia for the study and interpretation of the Torah and the preservation of commentaries on it, and it was these institutions that gradually came to take on the spiritual authority once enjoyed by the High Priests and the Sanhedrin. This process began at the same time as new Greek cities were being established in Jewish and Samaritan areas, continuing the Hellenizing project begun by the Herodian kings and Julio-Claudian emperors. We do not know what effect the Jewish rebellions of AD 115-17 in Cyprus, Cyrenaica, Egypt and Mesopotamia had in our region, although the Roman general responsible for putting down the Mesopotamian revolt was afterwards made governor of Judaea - a sign, perhaps, that trouble was expected. The Bar-Kokhba revolt saw another attempt to create a Jewish state, although this rebellion was more restricted and did not find such widespread support as the earlier one. With the defeat of Bar-Kokhba, the Jewish population of Jerusalem and its territory was expelled and a gentile population settled there, dashing any hopes that the Temple might be rebuilt. The installation of a legion at Caparcotna, in a position between Galilee to the north and Samaria and Judaea to the south, was probably intended to drive a wedge between the two regions and so check any potential uprising in one spreading to the other. Greek cities and Roman armies contributed to a redefinition of political geography in the region.
Fig. 182. Silver shekel of the Bar-Kokhba revolt. The obverse type shows the Temple, with the Palaeo-Hebrew inscription ‘Jerusalem’. The reverse reads ‘year two of the freedom of Israel’ – a clear reference to an independent Jewish state – and shows ritual symbols, a bundle of twigs (lulav) and a citron (ethrog). BMC 6.

After Bar-Kokhba
Rabbinic Judaism was an adaptation to suit the changed circumstances after the fall of the Temple: there was no emphasis on the duty of sacrifice, and other rituals formerly exclusive to the Temple could now be performed elsewhere. The study of the Torah became central to religious devotion, and through it the rabbis set about defining Jewish religious identity and generating practical rules that allowed pious Jews to observe the Law and at the same time live in a world where coexistence with gentiles was a fact of life. After the Bar-Kokhba revolt most of the influential rabbinic academies were to be found in Galilee. A Hasmonaean conquest, the inhabitants of which had been forcibly converted, Galilee had already become an important centre for interpretation of the Law by the first century AD (Jesus of Nazareth was one of the region’s more famous radicals), and this position was maintained throughout the period of Roman rule. However, in spite of the copious literature discussing religious law generated by the rabbis, resulting in the authoritative Mishnah (c. AD 200), the third-century Tosefta (the ‘Supplement’ to the Mishnah) and the Palestinian or Jerusalem Talmud (interpretations of the Mishnah, completed c. 400), it is uncertain to what extent the writings and prescriptions of these sages influenced the daily behaviour and attitudes of other Jews. The rabbis do seem to have gained authority in religious matters, not least because they rendered a crucial service by determining the religious calendar, something that had formerly been determined by the High Priest and Sanhedrin. However, it is sometimes difficult to reconcile the image of Judaism in rabbinic sources with portrayals of Jews encountered in non-rabbinic sources. The ordinary people portrayed in the latter seem to belong to another world, often less concerned with the ritual purity and pious lifestyle advocated by the rabbis, and often less anxious to create strict cultural boundaries between themselves and the gentile population. The detailed prescriptions of the rabbis were in any case rather difficult to fulfil to the letter, especially as there was not always agreement. The rabbinic work was perhaps more important in helping to preserve and transmit traditions and in developing and shaping a coherent Jewish identity, particularly in late Roman times when the empire had adopted a religious offshoot of Judaism as its official religion. The centrality of religion to that Jewish identity is undeniable, and it is worthy of note that no significant body of secular Jewish writing survives in either Aramaic or Greek from late antiquity.
By the third century the restrictions imposed after the Bar-Kokhba war were relaxed, and a Jewish community was reinstalled in Jerusalem. The Jews were largely exempt from Roman persecutions of Christians in the third and early fourth centuries, which shows how far the two faiths had grown apart, and how successful both had been in separating themselves from each other in the eyes of the authorities. Unlike Christians, Jews did not have to sacrifice to the emperor to prove their loyalty to the state. By the fourth century the Roman state had come to recognize a leading rabbi as the patriarchal representative of all Jews, but it is far from clear what his powers and responsibilities were. However, the fourth century also witnessed the triumph of Christianity over the Roman world. While Jews were permitted as a sect, the Christian state nonetheless placed all sorts of restrictions on them, some of the more significant being aimed at preventing the spread of their religion. During the fifth and sixth centuries the Roman authorities became increasingly concerned with heresies (see below), and anyone who held religious views other than Chalcedonian Christianity was likely to fall under suspicion. From the time of Justinian onwards the government became progressively suspicious of, and more oppressive in its attitude towards, the Jews of the empire. They were accused of complicity in the Persian conquest in the early seventh century, and following the Roman reconquest Heraclius ordered the conversion of all Jews to Christianity (the rapid collapse of Roman authority in the region during the years that followed rendered the measure irrelevant).
In late antiquity Galilee retained its pre-eminence, but over the centuries emigration abroad saw the overall numbers of Jews in the region decline, so much so that rabbis began trying to encourage them to return to the Holy Land. The Jewish population of the Palestinian provinces seems to have become increasingly urban too, abandoning the countryside in favour of the larger villages and cities. Jewish farmsteads (identified by their ritual baths) are common in the first century AD, but rare thereafter, suggesting that the suppression of the revolts could have triggered a major and permanent shift away from the land. It was in the Hellenized urban environments that later Judaism flourished, in places like Tiberias, which was a major centre of rabbinic Judaism in late antiquity, and where the Jewish patriarch was based until the early fifth century. 

Samaritans
The evidence for the Samaritans is not so abundant. Since the return from exile Judaism and Samaritanism had developed separately. Samaritans had a distinct theology and in the late Hellenistic period there had been conflicts with the Jews, culminating in the Hasmonaean sack of their Temple on Mount Gerizim. This remained their sacred site, however. The Samaritans were not exempt from the impositions of Hellenism: Herod had founded the Greek city of Sebaste with foreign colonists, and under Vespasian another Greek city, Neapolis (Nablus), was founded near Mount Gerizim. By the second century a temple to Zeus Hypsistos stood on a peak of Mount Gerizim near the site of the Samaritan Temple. There are occasional references to Samaritan unrest in the early empire, but it is in the late fifth and sixth centuries that we encounter notable conflicts between them and the Roman authorities, of sufficient severity to induce the Romans to introduce anti-Samaritan measures and to convert their synagogue on Mount Gerizim into a church. Whereas the Christian state tolerated Jews, it seems to have had little fondness for Samaritans, although the authorities may sometimes have confused them with Jews. Major Samaritan revolts in 529 and 555 suggest a substantial population with a distinct sense of identity and a severe grudge.

A Religion of State
Christianity: Early Division and Dissent
Christianity emerged from the radical ferment of Jewish apocalyptic and messianic traditions current during the first half of the first century AD. Jesus and his followers were all Jews, and in the early years after his crucifixion c. AD 30 his cult can scarcely be regarded as anything other than an offshoot of Judaism. Jewish followers were responsible for transmitting this cult of the ‘Nazarenes’ among the cities of the region, and at Antioch they seem to have first received the name ‘Christians’. Wherever Jewish communities were to be found, soon there were also Christians, even among the diaspora communities of Babylonia. From Syria the cult spread to Asia Minor and the rest of the Mediterranean. However, during the first century the number of Christians in the Roman world must have been very small. Christianity was definitely a minority religion, yet it was strengthened early in its history when the church departed from mainstream Judaism by accepting gentiles into the Christian community. Not all Jewish Christians necessarily concurred with this policy, but within a few decades the number of gentile Christians came to outnumber Jewish ones, and following the disturbances of the first Jewish war (AD 66-70) identification with Judaism was not necessarily desirable. Further Jewish revolts in 115-17 and under Bar-Kokhba probably accelerated the process of separation. Communities of Jewish Christians continued to exist, steadfastly observing Jewish ritual, but they became isolated from the streams of universalizing Christianity.
Proselytism provided the cult with a new ambition. The move allowed Christianity to be viewed as a universal religion, open to all who embraced it. It proclaimed universal truths without employing obscure philosophical language (although, as Christian intellectuals discovered, obscure Greek philosophical concepts could be accommodated). Its texts were written in a language accessible to all. Cult practice did not require expensive public rituals or great temples (although the process of initiation might require lengthy tests of a neophyte’s commitment). While no single explanation can adequately convey the reasons why Christianity became so successful in the Roman world in the second and third centuries, one must be that this univeralizing religion had no real challengers. Orthodox Jews do not appear to have been enthusiastic about proselytes. The religious philosophizing of the intellectual elites was open only to the highly literate. Many pagan religions were associated with a particular place or people and did not exclude other faiths, or, like Mithraism, were restricted to particular classes and gender. 
	Christianity soon came to straddle the Fertile Crescent and the boundaries of the Roman and Parthian empires. As noted above, Jewish Christians were established in Babylonia by at least the early second century AD and, on the opposite side of the Euphrates from the province of Syria, the kingdom of Osrhoene, which during the second century was brought under the control of Rome, hosted a variety of Christian sects. Its capital Edessa was a notable centre of pagan cult, but by the late second century various Christian groups were established there, including the ascetic Encratites, a sect established by the Syrian apologist Tatian. An Edessene aristocrat, Bardaisan, was a convert, and his king Abgar VIII (AD 179-214) reputedly took an interest in the religion. The third-century Acts of Thomas hint at Christian communities further east, in India and perhaps beyond.
If Christianity was a universal religion, its mission was to convert everyone. But what exactly was Christianity? Diversity was inherent in the faith from its early days, perhaps because its communities of worshippers were so dispersed, and because of a lack of any strong focal point from which orthodoxy could be disseminated. Christians identified with one another against non-Christians, but otherwise the different sects were concerned with differentiating themselves. The sects might agree that there were fixed, universal truths, but this did not naturally lead towards unity, because the body of truths themselves differed from one community to another. Christianity offered an eternal afterlife in a heavenly abode of perfection, but speculation about the exact relationship of the eternal realm to the everyday world led to a variety of interpretations. Some sects gravitated towards Platonic-style philosophies concerned with eternal truths far removed from the apparent material world. To grasp these truths required special knowledge (gnosis). A broad spectrum of beliefs is usually placed under the umbrella of the term ‘Gnosticism’, ranging from sects which drew heavily on orthodox Christianity to those whose monotheism was questionable, and whose teachings attracted the interests of pagan intellectuals. The principal elements of Gnosticism seem to be these: that a pre-cosmic catastrophe had resulted in a realm of purity, truth and light being mixed with corruption, falsehood and darkness, these latter qualities being equated with matter and the ‘apparent’ changing world around us. Sparks of the original pure light were trapped inside the material bodies of certain elect humans, and Gnostic teaching was supposed to awaken these trapped souls and prepare them for their journey to heaven. As a result, the body, being composed of matter, was generally regarded as irrelevant to salvation. Gnosticism usually required textual expurgation or elaborate theological acrobatics to reconcile Christian scriptures with its basic tenets; for a start, the very first chapter of the Old Testament claimed that God had created the material world. And was not the body of Christ Himself made of matter? The eponymous founder of a Gnostic sect called the Marcionites, which became well established in Syria and Mesopotamia in the second century, adopted a solution to such problems. Marcion taught that the God of the Old Testament had indeed created the world, but that this being was an inept demiurge, and not the true God (whose eternal realm was immaterial). Christ, as a pure being, could not have been made of matter or born of human flesh, and while the New Testament was witness to his coming, it had become corrupted through references to the wicked Jewish Old Testament and required judicious pruning. Marcion appears to have been the first Christian to form a canon of acceptable scriptures. He also insisted on celibacy to deny the inferior creator-being success through human procreation. Some have seen the Marcionite principle of celibacy as a precursor to later Christian ascetic traditions of self-mortification and denial of the body. From the fourth century asceticism became a major movement in Egypt, Syria and Mesopotamia (see below). Marcionite communities were certainly established in places like Edessa, which became an important centre for asceticism, and Epiphanius, the fourth-century bishop of Salamis in Cyprus, when listing the places where this heresy still existed, shows the Marcionites to have been concentrated in the Fertile Crescent. Tatian’s Encratites, established at Edessa in the late second century, also practised self-denial and celibacy. The origins of asceticism, however, are much disputed, and some would see its development in Syria as being independent of the ascetic movement of Egypt. Furthermore, notions of purity through celibacy can also be found in pagan Syrian cult.
Dissent was to be found even among the more orthodox, and in particular the learned and influential. Bishops and church leaders held diverse opinions about the Trinity, and the precise relation between God the Father and God the Son. Origen (c. 185-253), bishop of Caesarea in Palestine, proposed that Christ was the Word, who had adopted human form to bring God to humanity. An opposite view, that Christ was a man in whom the Holy Spirit had taken up residence, was adopted by figures such as Paul of Samosata, bishop of Antioch (260-8). Paul’s views were considered heretical, but in the decades that followed Antioch became the centre of a school of Biblical studies stressing the human aspect of Christ, in opposition to the belief that he was a purely metaphysical being.
Thus Christianity showed a tendency towards fragmentation rather than unity, long before Constantine adopted it as a religion of state. A historical Jesus was less important than a Christ who could be employed in the service of the various Christian communities. The influences of Judaism, Greek philosophies, and Hellenized Mazdaism, with its insistence on dualities of light and dark, good and bad, generated various interpretations of Christ and His message among the scattered communities of Christians. Bishops might gather to consult one another on matters of doctrine, but the scriptures available were wildly different and not all enjoyed common acceptance.

The Consequences of Empire
By the third century politics began to play a prominent role in the fortunes of the church. There is a tradition that the emperor Philip the Arab (AD 244-9) was Christian, and some have seen the actions of his successor and supplanter Trajan Decius (249-51) as a backlash against Philip’s positive attitude towards Christianity, whether or not Philip was actually a believer. Rome had celebrated its thousandth anniversary in AD 247-8, but the empire was in crisis and now it was felt that subversive elements had to be purged. Trajan Decius decreed that all inhabitants of the empire were to sacrifice to the gods by a certain date, and to gain a receipt to show that they had done so. In this way they demonstrated loyalty to the state. Even if his edict was not intended as a direct attack on Christians, refusal to sacrifice was met with harsh punishment, and a number of Christians demonstrated their commitment by the supreme sacrifice of martyrdom. Persecution continued under Valerian (253-60), this time with edicts specifically against Christians, forbidding meetings and condemning senior clergy and influential members of the congregations. These persecutions ended with Valerian’s capture by the Persians in 260, and shortly afterwards the emperor Gallienus issued an edict reversing his father’s policies. In the latter part of the third century, the ‘Little Peace of the Church’ allowed Christian communities to assimilate themselves into the fabric of provincial society. The earlier persecutions had helped to define the orthodox Christian believer and the role of church leaders, and Christian apologists, anxious to demonstrate that they were not a threat to the traditional order, sought to harness Greek intellectual culture in the service of their faith. The church was now prominent enough to attract the criticisms of influential pagan intellectuals, and Christian apologists retaliated with Hellenized treatises of their own. By using Greek culture, Christian leaders forged an identity that could compete with Hellenism and win favours from the central powers. The most eloquent were eventually able to compete with traditional Greek rhetors for honours before emperors, and such defeats on their own territory forced pagans on to the defensive. Christians could also look to the emperor to arbitrate on their behalf. Aurelian (270-5) was the first emperor to whom the church appealed to solve an internal dispute, which was to rule in favour of the other bishops against Paul of Samosata, who had been accused of heresy for his beliefs but had refused to leave his church. Most important of all, the first three centuries witnessed the gradual development of a Hellenized Christian discourse that was relevant to the project of empire. The second century Christian Tatian, himself from Syria or Mesopotamia, had written after his conversion that there should be one code of law and one political organization for all mankind, and these sorts of sentiments appealed when it was intimated that Rome was the political organization in question.  
With the accession of Diocletian in AD 284 the late third-century atmosphere of tolerance began to dissolve. In AD 303, inspired by an oracle and coerced by his violently anti-Christian colleague Galerius, he issued a series of edicts which effectively outlawed Christianity. These commanded that ‘churches be levelled to the ground and the Scriptures be destroyed by fire’ and that ‘those who held places of honour be degraded, and that imperial freedmen, if they persisted in the profession of Christianity, be deprived of freedom’. The effectiveness of the edict seems to have depended on the inclinations of provincial governors, but the ensuing persecutions under Diocletian, Galerius and Maximinus were to claim numerous martyrs and may well have induced many Christians to move from the cities to the safer anonymity of the countryside, heralding a new era of monasticism and asceticism. Nevertheless this diffusion out from the urban centres was slow, and the persecutions cannot account for much of it. For example, epigraphic evidence from the north of Syria suggests the spread of Christianity into the countryside of Antioch in the first half of the fourth century, and in the territory of Apamea by the second half, reaching further south only in the fifth and sixth centuries - but this evidence relies on our being able to identify memorials and monuments as Christian.
	The importance of Constantine’s conversion and his triumph over his rivals cannot be overstated. The emperor’s great achievement was to marry the religious force of Christianity with the secular powers of the Roman empire, giving the Roman world a new identity and a new mission. He also saw his role as that of a protector of Christians outside the empire, so that his rule transcended the boundaries of what was politically possible by invoking the spiritually possible. The Roman emperors had harboured the ideal of ruling the inhabited world; now Christianity aspired to make this reality. If the sources are to believed, Christians in Iran identified with the emperor, so much so that following Constantine’s death and his unrealized Persian campaign they were persecuted as subversives. The identification of a state with a religion was nothing new to the Jews, and during the third century an association between Zoroastrianism and the Sasanian royal house had gathered strength, though this relied very much on the personal whims of the kings. In the past Roman emperors (as the embodiment of state) had associated themselves with heavenly counterparts such as the sun or Jupiter. In some senses, then, Constantine was doing nothing original by conjoining emperor and empire with a particular religion. But this was a universal religion with a message for all of humanity, and the state was to define and embody the orthodoxy necessary for salvation. Emperors were not merely a figurehead for the church. From Constantine onwards the church sought their help in doctrinal disputes. Emperors took a keen interest in the councils, published letters setting out their opinions on matters of orthodoxy, and, if necessary, authorized persecutions of sects deemed heretical. There was no separation of church and state. An entirely new community - a politico-cultural commonwealth of Christians - had been created. It would be no exaggeration to say that this change in the nature of the empire had consequences for every one of its inhabitants.

Pagans and Christians
The fortunes of the Christian world depended on the will of God as much as on military power. A sinful empire would be punished, so it was important to eliminate sin wherever it lay. Pagans were obvious targets, although in the time of Constantine polytheists were still in the majority, making them difficult to attack. But paganism by its very nature consisted of a wide variety of unconnected cults; and while pagan intellectuals might seek some form of unity there was no universal pagan organization to oppose an assault by the highly organized and well-connected Christian church. The very concept of pagans and paganism was a Christian creation, an abstraction that the adherents of polytheistic cults would not have recognized. On the other hand the power of individual pagan ‘demons’ was felt to be very real, and it was sometimes necessary to demonstrate the power of the Christian God in metaphysical duels with these lesser spirits or by physically appropriating their sanctuaries. Some of the more famous centres of Syrian paganism were pointedly claimed for Christianity. At Heliopolis Constantine constructed a church and forbade ritual prostitution at Aphaca. Constantius II interred the relics of the Christian martyr St Babylas at Daphne near Antioch, silencing the oracle of Apollo. Christianity began to encroach on the ritual landscape with more conspicuous churches and, in the countryside, monasteries. The plain of Dana, between Antioch and Beroea, was an important rural district into which Christianity intruded and established itself in the fourth century. This was a landscape dominated by a mountain (Jebel Sheikh Barakat) on which stood the pagan sanctuary of Zeus Madbachos and Selamanes. Some measures, even if not deliberately anti-pagan, were probably intended to demoralize pagan intellectuals whose writings and teachings could undermine Christian legitimacy. Apamea hosted a school of Neoplatonists; and in 331 Constantine executed the philosopher Sopatros, who came from that city. If the interpretation of the fourth-century mosaics under the cathedral at Apamea as Neoplatonic allegory is correct (see p. 000), it would seem that Christianity struck at their property as well.
	Destroying temples had symbolic value, even if it did not always silence the demons. Urban and rural landscapes were converted into battlegrounds in which Jews and pagans often found themselves ranged against Christians. Much depended on the power structure - the religious interests of the emperor and, often more importantly, the governors. The activities of the emperor Julian (AD 360-3) briefly reversed the trend. He had been converted from Christianity to Greek intellectual paganism (‘Hellenism’) by Neoplatonists of the Apamene school in about 355, the year in which Constantius II made him deputy emperor, and on becoming sole emperor Julian worked actively to promote Hellenism. In order to prevent Christians appropriating Greek philosophy he forbade them to learn it. Temples were restored or reopened, as inscriptions attest: ‘Under the rule of Flavius Claudius Julianus, Imperator, Augustus, the rites were restored, and the temple was rebuilt and consecrated in the year 256, the 5th of Dystros’ [March AD 362]. Where Christians had formerly attacked pagans, now pagans attacked Christians. Constantine’s church at Heliopolis was dismantled and Christian virgins killed; at Damascus Jews destroyed two churches; at Sebaste the tomb of St John the Baptist was profaned; and the pagan comes Orientis seized the sacred vases of the church at Antioch. At Arethusa on the Orontes the bishop Mark had tried to convert the pagan inhabitants by violence, and Julian commanded that an opulent temple which Mark had destroyed be rebuilt. The bishop and his followers were tortured and Mark was killed. Maiuma, the port of Gaza, had been rewarded with independent city status when its inhabitants converted to Christianity; Julian revoked this and rejoined it with pagan Gaza. But in spite of these measures, Julian seems to have misjudged the devotion of Christians and the apparent indifference of pagans to his universalist Hellenism. In any case the experiment faltered when he died in 363 and his successor Jovian returned fully to the Christian fold.
Fig. 183. Temple at Bziza in northern Lebanon, which was later converted into a church. Initially Christians destroyed temples and left them in ruins, preferring not to convert houses of ‘demons’ into churches, but in many cases the appropriation of the sacred space ultimately proved a more effective way of eradicating or assimilating the pagan spirits worshipped in such places.
The anarchy of paganism made it fairly easy to contain, if not to eradicate. But in the fourth century Christianity also had to deal with a rival universal religion, a form of Gnosticism with Christian, Jewish and Persian elements called Manichaeism. Its originator, Mani, a third-century Syriac-speaking ascetic from the Sasanian province of Asorestan (Assyria-Babylonia), travelled with his disciples, winning converts wherever they could. The sect’s organization appears to have been loosely structured, and the religion itself easily adapted to particular local conditions without compromising its integrity as a faith. It won many converts in Persia, but came into conflict with the ambitions of the Zoroastrian high priest Kartir. In AD 276 Mani was executed and the Sasanian state commenced its persecutions of the Manichaeans. But the failure of Manichaeism in the Sasanian empire led to the diffusion of its missionaries east to central Asia and China (where the sect continued into the fourteenth century) and west into Roman Mesopotamia and Syria, whence it spread to other parts of the Mediterranean, attracting sufficient attention for Diocletian in 297 to issue a rescript to the proconsul of Africa condemning the sect. Their proselytizing made them unpopular with Christians, and although Manichaeism was rife in the fourth century, the Christian empire managed to eliminate them by the fifth or sixth. Perhaps Manichaeism had never been a serious rival to Christianity. To become one of its Elect was a complex process, involving reincarnation; Christianity offered a simpler route to salvation.
	In the later fourth century the increasing association of the Roman state with Christianity, particularly under Theodosius I (AD 379-95), intensified pressure on pagans. In 391 Theodosius prohibited them from visiting temples and sacrificing, effectively preventing them from practising the fundamental rituals of pagan cult, and in the following year pagan cults were officially banned. Like many imperial decrees, this one was probably difficult to enforce universally, and there is no evidence that it killed off paganism. But it did mean that paganism was officially unacceptable, and encouraged anti-pagans like Theodosius’ prefect of Oriens, Cynegius, who saw to the closure or destruction of numerous pagan temples during the 380s. Bands of monks and ascetics were particularly effective at combating the ‘demons’ that haunted the pagan sanctuaries, and which were often defended by angry locals. Cynegius was prepared to provide Christians with military support to carry out their acts. Bishops were also key players in directing the vandalism. They were concerned among other things that they would have to atone in the next world not only for their own sins but also for those of the inhabitants of their sees, and did not want their reputation in heaven stained by the questionable activities of a heretical or pagan population. 
	Yet even in these circumstances polytheism retained its vitality. There were legal loopholes which allowed temples to remain open and cults to be observed. Local and even imperial officials could be bribed to ignore the emperor’s orders. Famous pagan shrines were often protected by powerful interests, and sometimes exceptional zeal and daring was needed to overcome the powers of pagan elites and the ‘demons’ who lived in the sanctuaries. Gaza’s best-known shrine, the Marneum, remained open for several years in spite of an appeal to the emperor Arcadius by its bishop and the presence of an imperial official charged with the closure of pagan shrines. Only by visiting Constantinople in person did the bishop obtain an imperial order to close the Marneum. He returned with a military escort, but the pagan priests put up a show of force and it took a miraculous sign from God to fire the Christians with sufficient courage to launch a successful assault and burn the house of the formidable demon (AD 402). Theodosius I had constructed a large basilica in the great court of the Temple of Jupiter at Heliopolis, and yet this flagrant appropriation of pagan space was unable to overcome the power of the deities worshipped there. Theodoret referred to Heliopolis as ‘a city of demons’, and the fifth-century bishop of Edessa, Rabbula, attempted to destroy its idols but was beaten up and thrown out of the sanctuary. In the later sixth century a pagan attack on local Christians in the city led to the discovery of a widely networked underground pagan organization covering a number of Syrian cities, with a ‘high priest’ based at Antioch. The investigations led to startling accusations and a witch hunt that implicated various elite figures, including the Antiochene patriarch.
	Although late Syrian paganism lacks much in the way of material culture, it is quite clear from written sources that polytheism continued down to the Muslim conquest and beyond. In the early sixth century Jacob, bishop of Serug (Batnae) in Mesopotamia, could list an extensive catalogue of pagan deities and cult centres in the region. At Carrhae paganism included notable elements from Greek philosophy; the cult survived into the tenth century. The worshippers of ‘demons’ included intellectual Hellenes as well as uneducated rustics, and the fact that education in the Roman world continued to be entrusted to Hellenes was of sufficient concern for Justinian to forbid them to teach. Rustics could be overcome by force, but intellectual paganism was a more formidable source of corruption.
	Jews and Samaritans were other natural targets. Jews could be seen as possible collaborators with enemies, be they pagans within the state or Persians without, and as such were vulnerable to attack. These Christian fears were not always groundless. Under Julian, and during the Persian invasion of Syria during the early seventh century, Jews were able to take advantage of anti-Christian movements. Consequently synagogues as well as temples were prey for marauding monks and ascetics.

Beyond the Frontiers
The adoption of Christianity as an imperial religion also affected the inhabitants of lands outside the empire. The emperors, through their support of missionaries, encouraged the Christianization of foreign communities and states. Religion, even if viewed as slightly heretical by the centre, was a useful tool with which to bind together peripheries and even states beyond the reach of Roman armies. The emperors could view themselves as the heads of a commonwealth of Christian states, exercising a new form of Roman hegemony. Relations were established with a wide spectrum of political, cultural and ethnic entities: with the Axumites of Ethiopia, whose rulers had converted to Christianity in the first half of the fourth century; with Christian communities in Mesopotamia and South Arabia; with Iberia (eastern Georgia) and Lazica (Colchis); and of course with Armenia, whose king Tiridates had been baptised in the early fourth century. 
The danger that this new form of Roman hegemony posed to other states is evident in the reactions and counter-reactions it engendered. After Julian’s defeat (AD 363) Shapur II officially banned Greek in Armenia, in an attempt to neutralize Armenian Christianity (the contemporary Armenian liturgical language being Greek). But under the religiously tolerant Yazdgard I (399-420), Persian Armenia adopted a written form of the Armenian language (previously it had used only Greek and Syriac), helping to spread Christianity there. The Sasanians subsequently abolished the Christian Arsacid dynasty in Persian Armenia, and tried to impose Zoroastrianism, without success. They then attempted to promote Nestorianism, which had been anathematized by the Romans (see p. 000) and could be regarded by the Sasanians as ‘their’ form of Christianity. This too failed, and the Armenians preferred to align themselves with the new Monophysite doctrine that had emerged in the Roman empire (see below). Sasanian attempts to impose Zoroastrianism in Christian Lazica achieved similar results: Lazica also adopted Monophysitism. The theatre of religious conflict extended even further afield: in the first half of the sixth century the emperor Justin encouraged an Axumite invasion of South Arabia to protect Christians there from their Jewish ruler, prompting a Sasanian invasion and ejection of the Axumites later in the century. 
	Christianization did not always work to Rome’s advantage, particularly when it came to dealing with heresy. In the fifth century the Antiochene patriarchate had maintained links with Nestorian churches in the Persian empire, but the growth of Monophysitism (see p. 000) in northern Syria led to the Persian church formally breaking with the Roman empire in AD 484. Nestorianism had been condemned within the empire; in this way the Christians of the Sasanian empire, through commitment to Nestorianism, were able to demonstrate their separation from Roman political and spiritual hegemony. Their missionaries spread Nestorianism further east, as far as China, but in Mesopotamia and Babylonia they were soon in competition with the Monophysites. Yet by the sixth and seventh centuries Monophysites were also in conflict with the Chalcedonian Christian emperors and thus became acceptable to Sasanian rulers as a sect that was opposed to Roman hegemony. It is no doubt for this reason that during his invasion of Mesopotamia in the early seventh century, Khusrau II gave the Chalcedonian Christians of Edessa the choice of conversion to Nestorianism or Monophysitism.

The Search for Unity
By the seventh century, during the struggle between the Persians and the Romans, the identification of the Roman state with Christianity had become firmly ingrained. Roman identity had become inseparable from the Christian faith. But behind the façade of unity the religion of the empire was in crisis, triggered by a doctrinal statement issued by a church council in the middle of the fifth century. There were basically two camps, one accepting the statement, and the other rejecting it. Although proponents of both positions existed all over the eastern empire, the split could be roughly characterized as geographical, dividing the northern areas of the empire from the Fertile Crescent. The emperors and court had become identified with the northern group, forcing the others to disassociate themselves from the centre of Roman power. A doctrinal problem had become a political, social and military hazard to the unity of the empire. 
	The alliance of empire and faith created its own special problems for the faithful. Religion was inseparable from politics, but the dynamics of politics were ill-suited to producing conformity in a universal religion of this sort. Christianity demanded certainty on important doctrinal matters, but politics often demanded compromise, being unable to impose absolute truths on a population with different notions of truth. When salvation was at stake, truth and compromise were incompatible bedfellows. 
Christ himself proved to be the most intractable problem of all. Was he human? How exactly had he come to be filled with God’s Spirit? When Christ had suffered on the cross, had God suffered as well? Consensus on these fundamental matters was virtually impossible to attain. The Christian scriptures were inadequate for the rigid demands made on them, because they left such important matters open to a variety of interpretations, giving potential heretics a leeway. Heresy was not only the enemy of truth; it was the enemy of the unity that was so deeply desired. The politics of absolute truth could not permit differential readings of the same texts, and contradictory opinions could not point the way to salvation. Hence the insistence on the true way, even though there was no ultimate authority recognized by the entire body of the church that was capable of defining the truth. Instead the search proceeded through a series of councils. 
A desire for conformity had long been manifest, even before Constantine, through provincial councils of bishops who met to commune on matters of doctrine, but opinions on many fundamental articles of faith had always been too different for consensual certainty to emerge. Christian emperors themselves were not happy with uncertainties. They were keen to see Christianity consolidated and the collections of scriptures systematized and understood correctly. The truths of Christianity were the truths of the empire. Orthodoxy was not only God’s intention; it was good for Rome. The great ecumenical councils, beginning with that of Nicaea (325), had tried to define Christianity, but the irony of these successive councils was that the doctrinal and organisational compromises to which the bishops communally agreed did not prevent dissent, and might even force church leaders into opposing camps. The search for doctrinal certainty became a search for compromise with those who would not compromise. 
Thanks to the alliance of church and state, the personal convictions of emperors and their relatives contributed to the politico-religious tumult. In the fourth century the Arian heresy, which espoused the idea that the Son and the Father were metaphysically separate in substance, prospered for several decades under sympathetic emperors. Imperial religious inclinations had considerable influence on church affairs, and support for a particular doctrinal position in one reign might be reversed in a later reign. If the emperor had no strong convictions of his own, policies might be influenced by powerful figures at court, including those bishops who had the emperor’s ear.
	Aside from the profound doctrinal differences, regional factionalism also had a part to play in the disunity of the Christian domain. The primacy of the papacy in the church hierarchy was not disputed, but the later fourth and fifth centuries witnessed a struggle between the other patriarchates for primacy in the eastern empire. The great sees of Constantinople, Antioch and Alexandria jostled for supremacy, their bishops using doctrine as a weapon against one another. The success or failure of the parties often depended in part on the reigning emperor’s views, but popular opinion could never be neglected. The details are far too complex to outline here, but the nature of Christ provided a decisive focus for allegiances. The council of Nicaea had ruled that Father and Son were the same, but the wording was such that this could be interpreted in different ways. Christ could be regarded as having two natures (human and divine) or a single nature (divine). The papacy tended to support the two nature, diphysite view, and was opposed to Christ having a single nature (monophysis). Its views were influential, but not incontrovertible. The pope, moreover, was far away from the centre of the dispute, and in the east popular support for Monophysitism reduced papal authority to a distant opinion.
During the fifth century Antioch lost ground in the power struggles between the patriarchates, partly on account of its association with diphysitism. The city had become a centre for adherents of the idea that Christ had two natures, and many bishops were followers of this school, such as the influential theologian Theodoret, bishop of Cyrrhus. But as patriarchs the bishops of Antioch, regardless of their personal inclinations, had to supervise bishops and Christian communities of both diphysite and Monophysite persuasions. Local Monophysites were frequently opposed to diphysite bishops, and, as the fifth century wore on, the opposition became increasingly violent. In addition many Syrians were still pagans. There were prosperous and important Jewish communities to contend with as well; and of those that considered themselves Christian many were regarded as heretics by both diphysites and Monophysites, being Gnostics, Marcionites or Manichees. A further problem for the Antiochene patriarchate was the ambition of the fifth-century bishop of Jerusalem, Juvenal (422-58). He wanted his own patriarchate, which could only be formed at the expense of Antiochene authority. In order to achieve his aim, he had to enlist the support of Antioch’s opponents. His strongest allies were among the supporters of the Monophysite patriarch of Alexandria in Egypt, Cyril (412-44).
The patriarchate of Alexandria emerged in the fifth century as a powerful opponent of the Antiochene diphysite school, promoting the idea that Christ was the Word, and that God had suffered on the cross. Although the boundary between Monophysite and diphysite doctrines and identities grew ever more distinct over time, there were various different positions on points of doctrine between the two extremes. Many Syrian bishops supported Monophysitism in more or less extreme forms, aligning themselves with Alexandria rather than Antioch, and the influence of the Antiochene patriarchate was somewhat unfairly linked to the fortunes of the diphysite movement in the east. One of the more notable and bitter doctrinal battles was that between Cyril and Nestorius, patriarch of Constantinople, who was a pupil of the Antiochene school. Nestorius had influence at court, but his orthodoxy was questionable, and Cyril devoted his efforts to exposing Nestorius’ heresy. Furthermore, Alexandria was not prepared to concede primacy in the east to Constantinople, a city which had not even existed at the time of the council of Nicaea. At the ecumenical council of Ephesus in 431 Nestorius was deposed and sent into exile by the emperor Theodosius II. 
Although this was a defeat for Nestorian diphysitism, the council did not lead to a Monophysite triumph, as the Alexandrian patriarch was forced in the interests of unity to come to a compromise with the Antiochene diphysites. Proponents of both sides of the debate sought to gain control of the three great eastern sees, Rome being too distant to be seriously engaged in the struggle. Cyril’s extremist successor Dioscorus (444-51) worked hard to cultivate the imperial court in Constantinople and undermine diphysite Christology, and in 449 the investment paid off. The emperor Theodosius II appointed Dioscorus president of the second council of Ephesus, and with military assistance Dioscorus was able to depose those bishops who opposed his Monophysite views. Juvenal was granted his patriarchate, consisting of jurisdiction in the two provinces of Phoenicia, the three provinces of Palestine, and Arabia. The patriarchs of Antioch and Constantinople were deposed, together with many of their supporters, including Theodoret of Cyrrhus. Dioscorus proved victorious, but his support diminished the following year when Theodosius II died. Pope Leo, who was opposed to Monophysite doctrine and had not been present at Ephesus, was furious, calling the council ‘a band of robbers’. Dioscorus had gone too far. The new patriarch of Constantinople saw an opportunity to gain papal recognition as the chief patriarch in the east by summoning a new council, which would bring the heads of the church together to define its doctrine and organization once and for all. 
In 451 the ecumenical council of Chalcedon was convened, at which Dioscorus was deposed. Juvenal switched sides and salvaged a patriarchate consisting of the three provinces of Palestine; Theodoret of Cyrrhus was restored to his see. Alexandria’s power had been broken, Constantinople’s had been reinforced and schism with Rome prevented. More importantly, a doctrinal statement emerged. It was probably not intended to be a creed like that of Nicaea, but Pope Leo was especially keen to see the problem of Christ resolved. The council ruled that Christ was ‘truly God and truly Man’, and that he was ‘made known to us in two natures’. The reference to two natures had been insisted upon by papal legates and some of the bishops of the Antiochene school. This doctrinal statement proved to be the source of a protracted battle which eventually rent the eastern church in two. Had it been declared that Christ had been formed out of two natures rather than in two natures, all might have been well, since it could have been interpreted as one nature formed out of two by the supporters of monophysis.  The distinction between the Greek words ‘out of’ (ek) and ‘in’ (en) appears trivial, but in a world where theological debate interested all Christians, and where only one version could be correct, such differences were crucial. Matters of personal salvation, orthodoxy and relations between the empire and churches beyond its borders were at stake. On this truth there could be no compromise.
It seems that all those who attended the council misjudged the difficulties involved in reconciling doctrinal differences. Chalcedon had defined orthodoxy, but the definition did not suit everyone. Monophysite rejection of ‘Chalcedonian’ doctrine led to riots in the cities and Monophysites taking matters into their own hands. Juvenal of Jerusalem, now seen as a supporter of Chalcedon, was driven from his patriarchate, and the Monophysites of Ascalon and Gaza appointed their own bishops in defiance. If schism had threatened before Chalcedon, the threat was now even greater. The church stood divided on the nature of Christ.
The later fifth and early sixth centuries saw a struggle to control the Antiochene patriarchate by proponents of both sides of the Christological debate. The authority of its Chalcedonian patriarchs declined, in contrast to the expanding influence of their colleagues in Constantinople and Alexandria. Some loss of influence was due to political changes: in the late fourth century the province of Syria Coele had been divided in two, Syria Prima and Syria Secunda. The creation of Syria Secunda, and the building of a major cathedral at Apamea, shifted some of the focus away from Antioch. Cyprus had been detached from the patriarchate at the council of Ephesus in 431, and Juvenal of Jerusalem’s victory at the ‘robber’ council of 449 reduced Antioch’s jurisdiction to Syria Prima and Secunda, although Chalcedon had returned the Phoenicias and Arabia to the Antiochene fold. But the doctrines of the Chalcedonian patriarchs of Antioch were also opposed locally, and sometimes savagely, by Monophysites. These people, who in their day were never known a Monophysites, but were instead politely called ‘Hesitants’, ‘Those with Reservations’, or less politely ‘Dissidents’ or ‘Manichees’, gained much ground in Syria during the fifth century. Imperial commitment to Chalcedon wavered, and this uncertainty led to open defiance on the streets. In 470/471 Bishop Martyrius resigned; in 479 Bishop Stephen was stabbed to death by fanatics wielding reed pens; and Stephen’s successor Calendio was prevented from entering Antioch for a whole year. A Monophysite candidate, Peter the Fuller, was bishop three times between 470 and 489, the beneficiary and victim of changing imperial policies and doctrinal power struggles. The emperor Anastasius (491-518) appears to have had Monophysite sympathies, or at any rate it was he who appointed Severus to the Antiochene patriarchate in 512. Severus was the architect of an organized Monophysite sect, and although a highly educated man he was not above using violence and intimidation to compel others in his diocese to accept Monophysite beliefs. While Chalcedonians argued the essential unity of Chalcedonian and Monophysite views, Severus argued against any compromise. There were many who did not share this sentiment. Syria Secunda stayed faithful to Chalcedon, and in 516 several of its bishops declared Severus deposed and excommunicated, cutting all ties with him. The anti-Severan side, feeling isolated under an indifferent emperor, even looked to Rome for support. In 517 the monastery of Maro in Syria Secunda appealed to the authority of the pope rather than be forced to deal with Monophysite sympathizers in Constantinople, Alexandria or Antioch.
With the death of Anastasius in 518, and the accession of the Chalcedonian emperor Justin I, Severus’ imperial support collapsed and he was deposed. He fled to Alexandria, where he continued to administer to the Monophysites as if he were still patriarch until his death in 538. Imperial sympathy for the doctrine was at a low ebb. Justin and his nephew Justinian were looking west, and their ambitions in this arena required the support of the pope, whose consent could be won only by a show of support for Chalcedon. In any case Justin was anxious to unify Christianity under Chalcedon as the expression of true faith. The imperial government was also especially keen to see that no Monophysite bishop should gain control of the Antiochene patriarchate, and Severus’ post was filled by the Chalcedonian Paul, who initiated a persecution of Monophysites under his jurisdiction. Paul’s excesses led to his removal from office, but Chalcedonian persecution of Monophysites was understood to be orthodox policy. Monks were forced to sign documents agreeing to comply with Chalcedon or be turned out of their monasteries. Some accepted imperial will, but others chose to leave and set up communities in remote places where they would be free to observe their beliefs. Intransigence reigned on both sides. The Monophysites had come to distinguish themselves by a special adaptation of a liturgical formula called the Trisagion, which originally stated: ‘Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy upon us’, but the Monophysites inserted the phrase ‘who was crucified for us’ after the invocation. This was an explicit reference to God crucified, and such a formula, which the Monophysites would not relinquish, was unacceptable to orthodox Chalcedonians. On the other hand Monophysitism in any form was unacceptable to the pope, whose opinion mattered greatly if the west was to be won. When Justinian became sole emperor he sought a reconciliation of the Chalcedonian and Monophysite camps (532), and even persuaded Severus to come to the capital. He seems to have been influenced by his wife Theodora, who was sympathetic to Monophysitism. But when Severus won over the patriarch of Constantinople, the pope intervened. However strong the emperor’s personal desire for unity might have been, he bowed to pressure. The patriarch of Constantinople was deposed, Severus was anathematized, and his writings burned. In spite of this, the emperor still held out hope for compromise and was prepared to make conciliatory gestures. The Monophysites complained that Chalcedon had rehabilitated the writings of diphysites whom they considered heretical, among them Theodoret of Cyrrhus. Justinian hoped that an official condemnation of these writings might open up the door to reconciliation, but harmony remained beyond the emperor’s grasp.
In spite of these problems, and the bouts of persecution during the sixth century, Monophysites remained loyal to the idea of a united Christian empire; as far as they were concerned, Constantinople was in error about Christianity’s mission and needed correction. The two sides had had a common history before Chalcedon and this mutual heritage was not so easily cast aside. On the imperial side there can be little doubt that reconciliation was of the highest priority. However, some Syrian Monophysites fled to Persian territory to escape oppression, and in doing so placed themselves beyond the reach of Constantinople. Here they could operate independently and remain in communication with the faithful in Roman territory. Syrian Monophysites within the empire might identify with these other Monophysites outside it, but this did not, until the last decades of Roman rule in Syria, prevent them from identifying with the Roman empire as well. 

The Monophysite Church
For Monophysite leaders a complete break with Chalcedonian Constantinople was a step too far. However, the Monophysite solution to the emergency under Justinian -the creation of a parallel church, with a Monophysite priesthood separate from the Chalcedonian - was a radical measure which sent clear signals to Constantinople: there would be no reconciliation without a refutation of Chalcedon. Initially they made no attempt to consecrate bishops, which could be seen as a direct challenge to imperial authority; the aim was simply to create a clergy who could minister to the faithful. However, the Monophysite bishop John of Tella was willing to travel beyond the empire to consecrate Monophysite bishops in Persian territory, with the result that the authority of this parallel Monophysite church transcended the limits of empire in a way that Chalcedonian Constantinople did not. The most significant departure was initiated by Jacob Baradaeus, bishop of Edessa, who from 542 until his death in 578 travelled widely throughout the eastern empire, dressed as a beggar to avoid detection by his Chalcedonian enemies, consecrating Monophysite bishops and organizing an underground Monophysite church. Although he did not intend to break with the church of the empire, the ordination of so many Monophysite clerics made it difficult, if not impossible, to reverse the process. A ‘Jacobite’ Monophysite patriarch of Antioch now held office concurrently with a Chalcedonian one, and because Monophysitism in northern Syria tended to be centred on monasteries and the countryside, these alternative patriarchs of Antioch resided in monasteries, often some distance from the city itself. 
Until the end of the sixth century there had been notable communities of Monophysites at Constantinople and in Asia Minor, but these had presumably mostly converted to Chalcedon by c. 600, for after that we hear nothing more about them. However, by this time Monophysites outnumbered Chalcedonians along the eastern frontier and beyond, from Ethiopia to Armenia and Iberia. A coherent community had been forged through opposition to the centre of power. It may not have been planned as a separate political entity from the Roman empire, but in a state that identified with one particular doctrine any organized opposition took on political dimensions. Furthermore, the Arab tribes like the Ghassanids on whom the Romans relied for the defence of their desert frontier were predominantly Monophysite and the antagonism between the two sects thus gained a potential strategic dimension. Most importantly, the Monophysites came to discover that their religious identity did not have to be coterminous with the aspirations of Roman hegemony. The Monophysite movement created a cohesive Christian community at the periphery of the Roman and Sasanian empires, from Armenia to Ethiopia, in which Syria and Mesopotamia played a central and unifying role. There were also linguistic differences with Chalcedon, however indistinct these might be. Many of the clergymen appointed by Jacob Baradaeus were Syriac-speakers, drawing a cultural line between Chalcedonian Greek-speakers and the Monophysites. It was not a strict boundary, because there were numerous Monophysites who were speakers of Greek and languages other than Syriac, not to mention Syriac-speaking Chalcedonians, but it drew another distinction between the Monophysites and the mission of imperial unity. A new Christian identity, transcendent of political boundaries, had been created in debate with the Greek, Chalcedonian Christianity of the empire.
Like Justinian his successor Justin II also tried to find common ground with the Monophysites, but without a revocation of Chalcedon negotiations seemed doomed to failure. Thwarted, imperial policy reverted to persecution, particularly under the strongly Chalcedonian emperor Maurice. The Persian invasion and occupation of Syria in the early seventh century swept the pro-Roman Chalcedonians aside, their bishops often being replaced by Monophysites or Nestorians. The Monophysite church had become increasingly autonomous of the Roman state, which no longer formed an important part of its self-identity. When Heraclius recovered Syria and Mesopotamia he tried, like his predecessors, to find common ground without refuting Chalcedon. He met important Monophysite leaders, attempting to find a compromise, but Chalcedon remained an impossible obstacle, and before long the emperor’s patience turned to persecution. The Roman state did not represent Monophysite interests, and there were many who welcomed the relief from persecution that the Muslim conquerors brought. When God ‘saw that the measure of the Romans’ sins was overflowing and that they were committing every sort of crime against our people and our churches,’ wrote the ninth-century Monophysite patriarch Dionysus of Tel-Mahre, ‘He stirred up the Sons of Ishmael and enticed them hither from their southern land … it was by bargaining with them that we secured our deliverance. This was no small gain, to be rescued from the tyrannical kingdom of the Romans.’ In the long term however, relief from Chalcedonian persecution was all that Monophysites could expect from Muslim rule.

Out of Control
Within the Roman world Christianity had developed alternative sources of power to those of the imperial government. This structure, however, was difficult to control, because whereas imperial officials were answerable to their seniors, church leaders and the pious were ultimately answerable only to God. The failure of the church to agree on a definitive power structure may be a consequence of its early history, when Christians were scattered in small autonomous communities across the Roman world and beyond, but this lack of a formal, well-defined hierarchy meant there was no ultimate authority capable of settling differences among the leaders, or of defining what was appropriate action and what was not. Nor was there any way for one leader to impose his will on the others. Appeals might be sent to emperors, but emperors could not always be relied on, and some tended towards what others viewed as heresy. At the same time the diffusion of Christianity out of the cities and into the countryside made it difficult for city-based church leaders to control.
This ‘anarchy of the church’ might worry emperors, but it proved very useful to Christian leaders. Bishops were able to build up a power base in their see, because unlike imperial officials they often remained in their post for life. As experts in doctrine they could challenge emperors. Certain sees, such as those of Antioch or Alexandria, gained greater powers and influence and fought to promote their doctrinal views in the capital. Patriarchs could send missionaries outside the empire promoting doctrines that conflicted with current imperial ones. In turn episcopal authority could sometimes be challenged by the bishops’ own subordinates: the bishop tended to be based in, and thus represent, the authority of the city, but his power in the countryside was invested in assistants who might champion the independence of large villages in a bid to gain episcopal powers for themselves. At the same time the powers of appointed church leaders (and emperors) could be challenged by the spiritual authority of people and things that stood outside the existing structure of the church: by ascetics and monks, and by more abstract holy entities such as sacred images and relics.
Ascetics were Christian heroes, martyrs in times of peace. Focal points for ascetic expression were often in remote, out-of-the-way places: caves or abandoned tombs, or in some cases no shelter at all. The ascetic was superhuman and anti-city, enduring inhospitable environments where civilization did not exist. In fleeing the world the ascetic practised anachoresis, the withdrawal or removal of one’s self from one’s village (chora). He shared certain ideals with the Gnostics, by renouncing the world, which had fallen from God’s grace, and with it bodily desires. Such Holy Men were inspirational to the masses. The ascetic did what they could not, even though he often came from a background as humble as theirs. Obeying the commandments of Christ literally, the ascetic life gave individuals from all sorts of backgrounds a direct link to God, and these Christian heroes were prepared to listen to and pray on behalf of all classes of people. The Holy Man could intercede on behalf of a local community, harnessing divine will for them. After eight years of fasting and solitude the aged Abraham the Recluse prevented a rainstorm from destroying village crops with a miraculous prayer. Prevention of a storm might seem a trivial reward for such prolonged asceticism, but to a local community an intercession like this could be a matter of survival or starvation. The Holy Man did not need any formal authority conferred upon him by the church; his power came directly from heaven.
Fig. 184. A stump is all that remains of the column on which St Simeon Stylites stood in prayer. After his death the column became an object of veneration and a martyrium was built around it (see fig. 188).
Syrian asceticism took some extreme (and occasionally sensational) forms. Some ascetics became boskoi, ‘grazers’, living in the open without proper clothing, eating grass, nuts, berries and roots, like animals. Others loaded themselves with heavy iron chains. The Mesopotamian ‘dendrite’ David perched like a bird in a tree at Thessalonica in Greece. This unusual behaviour could lead to iconic, superstar status. Simeon the Stylite (c. 386-459), the pillar-dwelling saint, was Syria’s most celebrated ascetic, whose renown spread from Gaul to Persia. A monk whose growing dissatisfaction with monastic life led him to increasingly strange acts of devotion, Simeon abandoned his monastery and became a hermit, living on a hill above the settlement of Telanissus (Deir Semaan), close to the plain of Dana, between Antioch and Beroea. He was unable to avoid the attentions of the crowds of devotees, and eventually, in order to divorce himself further from the world, he ascended a column (c. 412), on which he stood in almost continuous prayer. The first column was replaced by a second, higher one, and then a third, which reputedly raised him about 20 metres (65½ feet) off the ground (fig. 184). Here he lived an austere life of prayer and contemplation, but he also succeeded in attracting increasing numbers of pilgrims, who were eventually served by a monastery and hostel around the foot of the pillar. His assistants climbed a ladder to deliver messages and food. Twice daily Simeon would interrupt his prayer to listen to individuals or to address the crowds. He pronounced on problems of orthodoxy and heresy, and his opinions were sought at the ecumenical councils of Ephesus and Chalcedon. Emperors, elites and peasants alike wanted his advice, prophecies and judgements.
In spite of the extreme rigours of his lifestyle, Simeon lived on columns for nearly fifty years and was over seventy years old when he died. On his death the Antiochenes claimed his body, and it was borne in a slow procession to the city, with an escort of soldiers and bishops and the imperial magister militum per orientem. Simeon had become a relic, and his lifestyle an example to others. Imitators were to be found throughout Syria and Mesopotamia, among them a namesake, Simeon the Younger (AD 521-92), who began his vocation at the age of seven under the guidance of the stylite John. He established a column and a monastery on the Miraculous Mountain between Antioch and Seleucia Pieria, which even today bears his name (Samandag, ‘Mount Simeon’).
The fame and spectacle of stylitism was something that Simeon the Elder’s hagiographers had difficulty explaining. It seemed to be deliberately seeking attention, rather than withdrawing from the world. Other ascetics achieved renown somewhat paradoxically by deliberately avoiding public notice and admiration, trying to live anonymously, such as the various ‘holy fools’ who set themselves up to be scorned or laughed at by day and, thus estranged from the world, spent the night in prayer. Their examples were less of a challenge to the authorities.
Monasticism was an institutionalized form of asceticism, but it too was difficult to regulate and absorb into the ecclesiastical framework. The monastic movement became an immensely powerful force in Syria in late antiquity, and it was crucial for the church to maintain communion with the monks, a communion which the patriarchs of Antioch more than any other had difficulty in maintaining because of differences of doctrine. Some Syrian abbots were powerful and independent voices, and influential figures at church councils, so their support was often vital to emperors and church leaders alike. Rural monasteries, where groups of holy men came together to observe communion with God through fasting, suffering, isolation and contemplation, were often a significant feature of village societies and their economies, and inevitably became social and political institutions serving a wider public than the monastery itself. Like the solitary ascetic, the holiness of the monk made him a suitable judge of morality in the local community, and by invoking God’s authority monks could champion the rights of the poor. Monasteries were to be found in cities as well as in the countryside, but this did not make such institutions easier for the church authorities to control. Surrounded by the pleasures of urban life, the city monks were perhaps subjected to the rigours of self-denial even more than their country brethren were, and thus were equally holy and influential. There was nothing particularly meek about monks, especially when it came to matters of doctrine. Disagreements between the orders sometimes led to riots and street fights between them. Monks and abbots were all too obviously prepared to intervene in the affairs of cities, and bishops found it prudent to align themselves with the monasteries if they could. It was mostly monks, rather than ordinary Christians, who were instrumental in organizing the destruction of pagan temples and idols, for their holiness enabled them to combat demons effectively. 
While the life of the ascetic or monk was impractical for the majority of the population, individuals could participate in holiness by observing some ascetic practices. Celibacy could be adopted by married folk after having a family. Laymen and women were encouraged to become consecrated ‘covenanters’ of the church, living strictly according to certain doctrines but otherwise participating in the life of the general community. As the bishops often discovered, personal religious experience was impossible to regulate and doctrinal concessions might have to be offered to religious communities in exchange for political support. Theodoret of Cyrrhus had to authorize the use of an expurgated version of the Gospels to satisfy the many Marcionites in his diocese. Miracles and religiously inspired individuals encouraged crowds to take the will of God into their own hands. Illegal actions of a religious nature such as the destruction of synagogues were difficult to punish when the faithful culprits claimed they were acting on God’s orders.

The Christianisation of the Landscape
Christian architecture rejected the temple as a model, and turned instead to assembly halls. This was appropriate, as the space was intended for an assembly (ecclesia) of the faithful, rather than for housing a cult image. While Christianity liberated architects from the conventions of classical temple design, it soon imposed new rules. Early Christian ‘church houses’ resemble domestic buildings, but by c. AD 350 distinct architectural forms had emerged. The commonest form of Christian religious building was the basilica, which derived its design from the earlier civic buildings of that name. Typically the basilica consisted of a rectangular nave, facing west, with aisles either side and an apse (either internal or projecting) at the eastern end (colour plate 24). The earliest known in the region was the cathedral at Tyre, built c. AD 314-17, and described by the church historian Eusebius, but the earliest surviving examples belong to the second half of the fourth century, when the basilica became a formal design for places of Christian worship. While the basic concept eschewed the temple, there is some debate about whether certain features of the basilica owe anything to pagan shrines. The fine church at Qalblozeh (fig. 185) provides us with an excellent example of a basilical form employing two towers flanking the main entrance, which recalls the façades of some Syrian temples (fig. 167). The tripartite thalamos of the temples appears to be repeated in the apses and side chapels of these churches (fig. 186). Some Syrian temples even end in an apse: Burkush and Rahle on Mount Hermon; or the temple at Slim in the Hauran, which also had towers flanking the entrance. While it is not unlikely that temples did inspire some of these elements, others were already present in civic basilicas, and the dates of many notable ‘precursors’ (such as those just cited) are all probably first century AD. No doubt some of these temples were still functioning, or their ruins were still visible in late antiquity, but there is no unequivocal evidence for transmission of a tradition, and it is not clear whether any physical affinities imply ritual similitude.
Fig. 185. The basilica at Qalbloze, a village in the Jebel A‘la of the limestone massif of northern Syria, close to the plain of Antioch.
Fig. 186.1. Plan of the first-century-AD temple at Slim in the Hauran. 186.2. Plan of the fifth-century basilica at Dama in the Leja. 186.3. Plan of the basilica at Mshabbak in the Jebel Semaan, built c. 460 (see colour plate 24).
Other forms were completely new. The fourth-century Great Church of Constantine at Antioch was evidently built in the form of an octagon, for that was what it was commonly called. This may be an early example of the other main tradition of churches, where a large central space is capped by a dome. There are a number of these buildings in the Hauran, of which the church at Zorava (modern Zoraa) is the best known and among the best preserved. Larger tetraconch churches were constructed in the cities: the cathedral at Apamea and a church at Seleucia (fig. 187) were both built to the same plan and virtually the same scale. Similar tetraconch plans are found at Bostra and Amida. The Syrian examples are poorly preserved, but a fourth-century church of comparable scale and plan that still stands is that of San Lorenzo in Milan, which gives one an impression of the original appearance of the Syrian ones.
Fig. 187. Plan of the tetraconch church at Seleucia.
Like temples the churches were often situated in an enclosure containing other buildings such as a baptistry. Some complexes were martyria, buildings constructed near or around holy places or relics, rather than simply churches for everyday worship. Like the great pagan sanctuaries before them, these special sites attracted pilgrims and wealthy donors. Among the most elaborate and famous is the cruciform complex built around the pillar of St Simeon Stylites at Qalaat Semaan. This martyrium resembled a set of four basilical halls meeting in a central octagon (colour plate 23; fig. 188). The main part of the shrine was probably constructed under the emperor Zeno (AD 474-91). The focal point was the octagon, perhaps roofed, perhaps open to the sky, which housed the saint’s pillar (fig. 184). Three of the four arms of the martyrium were assembly halls for pilgrims; one arm on the east side formed a basilica church. The space between the eastern and southern arms was enclosed and contained a monastery and cloister for visiting priests. Pilgrims arrived at the hilltop complex from the south via a series of monumental gateways, the third and innermost of which was surrounded by hostels, stables and a baptistry. These substantial arrangements, together with the hostels identified in the village of Deir Semaan at the foot of the hill, attest the enormous popularity of the saint’s cult, which was a more than adequate Christian counterweight to the pagan Temple of Zeus Madbachos and Selamanes on the neighbouring hilltop.
Fig. 188. Drawing of the martyrium complex of St Simeon Stylites at Qalaat Semaan as it was in the early sixth century, restored here with a roof over the central octagon housing the saint’s column. Further hostels and buildings were added to the complex during the course of the sixth century. After G. Tchalenko, Villages antiques de la Syrie du nord, vol. II, plate lxxviii.
No attempt will be made here to describe the immense variety of Christian buildings in Syria. Suffice to say that there were an enormous number of such structures, particularly churches. The latter are far commoner than pagan sanctuaries, or, at least, they are commoner than identifiable pagan sanctuaries, which does raise questions about the degree to which recognizable form inhibits our ability to discern the frequency of pagan shrines in the landscape. Some account must be taken of the growing population in late Roman times, of course. In addition it should be realized that the frequency with which one encounters churches (and, indeed, temples) across the region varies from place to place. Some villages have only one or two churches, others of comparable size (and presumably population) have many more. Their number and distribution in a settlement may reflect its social organization. Umm al-Jimal has fourteen, which may not be excessive for the estimated number of inhabitants (6000-8000), but most of these are contained within the irregular blocks of houses that constitute the late Roman village, and are thought to be the private places of worship for the inhabitants of those blocks. Thus most of the Umm al-Jimal churches were not strictly public places of worship, but more like the chapels for extended families or cells, and in this sense recalling the pagan thiasoi. These arrangements resemble the religious practice at Dura, where temples were located amid houses and were not major public buildings. The multiplicity of small Syrian churches may constitute the late antique successors to a large number of private or family pagan shrines which remain unidentified. 
Church building was also important as a way of affirming the Christianization of the landscape. The conversion of rural and urban temples into churches was one way of doing this (fig. 183), but during the early phases of this Christianizing process it was deemed more important to leave temples in ruins after assaulting them rather than rebuilding them as churches, to create powerful symbols of pagan decrepitude. There was also the matter of what to do about Old Testament sites venerated by both Jews and Christians. Generally these were treated with respect by the Christian authorities and existing arrangements were left intact. Within the cities Christians also adopted some of the paraphernalia of pagan ritual - such as public processions - to assert control of the polis and its civic spaces. That these processions could be the scene of zealous assaults on pagan shrines and statues by the crowd was further proof of their effectiveness in the competition with pagans for the mastery of urban space. The building of churches ‘blocking’ the main street, a sixth- or seventh-century characteristic observable in some cities, may be less a sign of urban degeneration than the deliberate appropriation of a key element of civic life. The street was a public area, and now Christians claimed it for their faith.
The Christianizing process of the fourth to sixth centuries need not be viewed as a total break with the classical tradition. People still inhabited a civic landscape filled with statues and images of ‘pagan’ myths. What is more, they continued to make things with ‘pagan’ images: for example, mosaic pavements. It was difficult to eliminate the pagan tradition entirely without ridding themselves of the classical city. Up to the end of Justinian’s reign there were attempts to restore and even built new civic monuments in the classical tradition. The great transformation that began under Roman rule in the later sixth century, in which Christianity came to pervade almost all aspects of life within the empire, was cut short in our region by the Muslim conquest.

From Polytheism to Monotheism
In the early empire no effort was made to regulate religious beliefs, except where they offered resistance or conflicted with imperial ideology. Many cults were considered ancestral to particular social groups or intimately bound up with particular social institutions such as villages or cities. The pagan religions of Syria appear timeless in contrast to the linear histories of Judaism and Christianity, but that is probably the consequence of our own ignorance. In general we know too little about them to be sure about the effects Roman rule and Hellenism had on iconography, liturgy and beliefs, or to what extent the communities of worshippers had a strong sense of identity (the example of Judaism may not be appropriate to other cases). But some form of identification with the cult and its observances will have been necessary for a display of piety. The essay of Lucian on the Syrian Goddess suggests pride in the distinction and antiquity of Syrian cults in contrast to those of the Greeks, and Hellenism’s respect for indigenous cults may have been exploited by Syrian elites as an expression of their communal differences. The imperial cult acted as a loosely binding social force cutting across these differences: the emperors embodied the empire for their subjects.
Rome’s adoption of Christianity was a radical departure. The empire had always been a pious institution, but piety had generally involved respect for the myriad religious traditions within its boundaries. Now the complex world of polytheism gave way to a more ordered identity of Roman Christianity. Rejecting all other cults, the empire attempted to make one religion synonymous with itself, but there were forces within Christianity over which the empire had little or no control. Christianity’s own lack of unity on matters of doctrine led to the growth of separate and competing communities, not all of which were identical with the empire. In the Christian world ultimate authority lay with God, not the emperor, and direct communion with God was possible from all levels of society. Part of the transformation of the Roman world in late antiquity involved the state coming to terms with this new organization of authority.
The Christian tradition provided an alternative to the Greek, making it possible for relatively low-class, non-Hellenized individuals to win renown, something that had been difficult in the pre-Christian empire. The activities of monks and ascetics demonstrated that people did not require a sophisticated education to gain respect, and educated Greek-speaking Christians employed their literary talents to describe the lives of some of these ascetic heroes. At the same time Holy Men opened up a channel for the lower orders, who could not adopt the ascetic life, to express themselves. Christianity helped to provide a new identity for many Syrians, and gave authority to languages other than Greek or Latin. Greek domination of Christianity was to be resisted, even if Syriac Christianity was not independent of Greek and Hellenism. 
The process of Christianization was far from complete when the region was lost to the Romans and its Christian inhabitants became subordinate to a new politico-religious empire. The long centuries of Islam succeeded in providing a sense of ethnic and spiritual community for the majority of inhabitants of the region where Christianity had been arrested.

10 The Military

The Company of Soldiers
The Roman army was another major institution in Syria around which identities were organized. Soldiers tended to live together, and the culture of the army was relatively homogeneous across the empire. The state was responsible for arranging most of the supplies to the army. Such facts raise questions about the degree of integration or positive interaction between the military and the civilian population. Traditionally the Roman army has been seen as a force assisting the cultural and economic integration of civil societies in the provinces. It was responsible for developing provincial infrastructure (roads, canals, aqueducts), and in peripheral regions military bases or veteran colonies provided a framework for urbanization. Soldiers intermarried with the local population and their pay was spent in local markets. But much of Syria was urbanized and economically developed before it was incorporated into the Roman empire, and some recent studies have focused more on the lack of interaction between soldiers and civilians. For a start, the jobs which the soldiers had to do as official representatives of an often oppressive central power - such as policing, tax collection and surveillance - set them apart from the general population. In order to perform these tasks it was better for them not to be closely integrated into civilian society. Soldiers were identifiably different from civilians, even if they were often billeted in cities and in the countryside among the civilian population, and even if many would have been recruited from the region. The army, like other social institutions such as the polis, provided a communal identity, in this case for recruits from diverse backgrounds, who were given a common training, and schooled in common values, effectively creating a community of soldiers. Intermarriage with the locals did take place, but equally it was not uncommon - as many military tombstones attest - for soldiers to pass on their inheritances to comrades (implying that they had no other heirs), or for them to marry the daughters of other soldiers. 
Like the local population most soldiers in Syria would probably have spoken Greek and/or Aramaic in everyday contexts, but they could also distinguish themselves through the use of Latin for official business (and commonly for military tombstones). At Bostra, where the legio III Cyrenaica had its headquarters, there is not much evidence for the mixing of military personnel and the locals. Even if the rank and file consisted of natives by the fourth century AD, it was considered unusual if a Roman officer spoke the local language (unless that language was Greek). As in the polis, festivals were used to help cement a sense of corporate identity among the soldiers. These had nothing to do with the cults of the region in which they were stationed. A papyrus calendar dated AD 225-35 found at Dura lists festivals observed by the cohors XX Palmyrenorum, an auxiliary unit which was stationed in the city. The celebrations are those of the imperial cult and traditional Roman feasts (fig. 189). Such observances may have been imposed on all army units from the time of Augustus. Even in private religious observances there were certain deities such as Mithras and Jupiter Dolichenus who were popular with the army but not so frequently encountered outside military contexts (see, however, the comments on p. 000). 
Economic independence from civilians is rather harder to demonstrate, but equally the case for economic interaction with them is also difficult to prove. Locals may have produced goods to sell in bulk to the army, or items for individuals: for example, pottery or textiles. The state attempted to provide basic supplies through taxation in kind and control of production, and probably did so even in periods when soldiers were expected to buy equipment using their own salaries. Certainly by the late Roman period imperial factories at Antioch and Damascus supplied weapons and armour, and soldiers’ clothing was provided by state workshops or through tax in kind (although this tax was commonly commuted to cash). So while the separation of soldiers from civilians was not complete, there were social, cultural, economic, religious and linguistic spheres of interaction among the military which were not characteristic of civilians.
Fig. 189. Drawing of a wall painting from the Temple of Bel at Dura Europus, showing Julius Terentius, tribune of the cohors XX Palmyrenorum, offering a sacrifice before three figures on pedestals. The latter have been identified as Palmyrene gods, but another suggestion is that they are images of Balbinus, Pupienus and Gordian III, emperors in AD 238, and that this scene shows military observance of the imperial cult. The seated figures below are the city-goddesses (Tychai) of Palmyra and Dura.
The ethnic makeup of the army in Syria would have been diverse, and the various official practices mentioned above will have been necessary to provide coherence. The preference may have been for recruits from the Greek-speaking east rather than the Latin-speaking west, although Syria was a popular recruiting ground for auxiliary soldiers and their linguistic biases were no bar to their deployment, as they were posted all over the empire: Palmyrenes and Emesenes served in Numidia, Epiphaneians and Ituraeans in Mauretania Tingitana; there were archers from Epiphaneia on Hadrian’s Wall; and Syrian soldiers were also posted to the Danube. Even highly Hellenized cities like Antioch and Caesarea furnished the army with auxiliaries.
 Local or regional recruitment to the legionary and auxiliary forces stationed in Syria itself is noted from at least the early second century, breaking with an earlier tradition of ensuring that units did not serve in the province in which they were raised. Many of the late Roman units called equites were locally raised, as attested by their names: indigenae, Saraceni. On the other hand, some western barbarian auxiliary units are listed in the Notitia Dignitatum (on which, see below), though it is likely that after the division of the empire in AD 395 recruitment into these units was local, even if they retained their original ethnic names. The use of people from the region or the locality ought to have led to increased interaction between soldiers and civilians, and yet even on the matter of recruitment there is evidence for a certain degree of introversion. From as early as the second century the allocation of land to veterans might be conditional on their sons serving in the army. In late Roman times it was common for sons of veterans to be drafted into the military, meaning that the units were to some degree self-perpetuating. However, the absence of references to such practices in the sixth-century Codex Justinianus may mean that recruitment was largely voluntary by this period and that conscription or obligations had been abolished. 
On joining the legions soldiers became Roman citizens, and auxiliaries acquired citizenship on retirement. In the first and second centuries this meant that ex-soldiers often had important social standing in local communities, but the importance of the army as a route to improving status through citizenship declined after Caracalla granted citizenship to all free inhabitants of the empire in AD 212. Although army veterans must commonly have received land in frontier areas, the notion that they had a great deal of cultural impact, or that their wealth helped stimulate agriculture in a given region, remains somewhat speculative. The presence of veterans, soldiers and administrators, particularly in the more remote or weakly Hellenized areas, probably had some effect on local communities, especially since these figures of authority were powerful in the locality and had influence outside it. This probably explains the occasional use of Latin for some civilian inscriptions in country areas: there it had a status value that Greek perhaps did not. However, the only real detectable cultural impact is in the colony and territory of Berytus. The main language of monumental inscriptions in Berytus following the foundation is Latin, there is evidence for obscure Italian cults, and Latin also spread to the countryside (fig. 90.2), yet by the fourth century Greek had taken over as the language of inscriptions, even if Latin remained a literary and legal language taught in the city (see chapter 7). Nevertheless the Roman nature of Berytus drew comment even in late antiquity. The city had a huge territory, and if the intent was to create some sort of dominant economic giant on the coast, there is not much evidence of export of surpluses, unless it was perishables that were not packaged in ceramic containers (see chapter 6). It was once thought that the early phase of development of the limestone massif in the north might be attributable to wealthy veterans moving into the area, but is far from clear whether the veterans recorded in inscriptions were living in the hills or whether they were absentee landlords. The evidence of veterans in the Hauran region suggests integration into the local communities, often as important figures, and here perhaps their investment did stimulate economic growth - but many may have been recruited from these communities in the first place, and thus their cultural impact may have been slight. Overall, when one takes into account the numbers of veterans, together with the fact that the state seems to have encouraged veterans to take up agriculture, especially in late Roman times, it is likely that these people assisted the economic growth of marginal zones in Syria, even if it did not foment cultural change. 
	The clearest evidence for interaction between the military and civilians comes from Dura Europus, but even here the indications are equivocal. Following the Roman conquest the north-western part of the city was taken over by the army and became a military base, which presumably involved ejecting any civilians from this quarter. There is evidence for a mud brick wall being constructed across part of the city to demarcate the military zone, although it is clear that certain personnel were also billeted, at least on an occasional basis, outside this zone. So while the soldiers did not occupy a purpose-built camp, there does seem to have been an attempt to create some form of physical separation from the rest of the city. However, the city walls were also manned by soldiers during conflicts, suggesting that in times of crisis the whole of Dura became a fortress. There is also a fair amount of evidence to suggest that soldiers were active in policing the city at all times. Within the confines of the camp were several purpose-built military structures, including a small amphitheatre. Former civilian houses were transformed into barracks. Other buildings housed officers, and a temple was used for keeping the archives of the cohors XX Palmyrenorum. Overlooking the Euphrates was a large complex with two courtyards which the excavators dubbed, on the basis of somewhat slender support, the ‘Palace of the dux ripae’. The dux ripae was a military official recorded in texts from Dura (the Euphrates is known to have been divided for administrative purposes into a ripa superior and ripa inferior, and the dux ripae may have been a commander subordinate to the governor of Syria Coele, but nothing concrete is known of the duties of this official). Some temples seem to have been mainly or perhaps exclusively patronized by soldiers: a mithraeum in the military zone; and a dolicheneum. Other temples in the military zone appear to have been used by both military and civilians: the Temple of Azzanathkona (which housed the records of the cohors XX Palmyrenorum); and the Temple of Bel. Outside the military zone the evidence (dedications, graffiti) suggests that most temples were patronized by civilians, although the Temple of the Gaddé was frequented by some military personnel and the so-called ‘Military Temple’, which resembles a Roman temple more than the other religious structures at Dura, was built by archers belonging to an auxiliary cohort. Dura had several bath buildings, one in the military quarter, another next to the ‘Palace of the dux ripae’, and two others close to the main gates (which perhaps indicates that they were intended for use by soldiers on guard duty). It would seem that while soldiers and civilians lived side by side at Dura, the most ‘Romanized’ installations were built and used by soldiers.

Benefits and Burdens
There is no clear sign at Dura or other cities of military interference in civic government, but there is not much indication either way. The larger and more powerful cities may have been able to avoid military meddling in their affairs, and soldiers perhaps had more influence in more remote or smaller communities close to major bases. There is a number of dedications by local communities in the Hauran region to military personnel as benefactors or ‘friends’ of the community. Texts of the third and fourth century show comparatively low-ranking military personnel acting as judges in civilian legal disputes, but such cases may not have been accepted government procedure and it is difficult to say whether appeals to army officers represent choices exercised by civilians or constraints on civilians by the military. In remote areas soldiers may have been the only easily accessible official representatives of the state. 
For the cities some military impositions were official burdens, others were not. In late Roman times the tax system required city councillors to undertake the transport of tax in kind to the army, which sometimes meant moving goods over long distances at considerable personal expense. Libanius refers to Antiochene councillors who took supplies to Barbalissus and Callinicum on the Euphrates, as if this were a regular obligation. It must have been an onerous and unrewarding task. Another way in which the military presence could have had an adverse affect on civic government is also encountered in the writings of Libanius. Presumably the state frowned upon the activity, but it was unable or unwilling to prevent soldiers from interfering with lives and profits of the Antiochene civic elites by defending smallholders and tenants against tax collectors and bailiffs. In exchange for this protection the villagers paid them cash or foodstuffs. Presumably the soldiers in question were billeted in the villages; and apparently such ‘protected’ communities also felt free to molest unprotected neighbours. Such developments were apparently accepted by the senior military officials at Antioch, who may even have sponsored these activities. Securing military patrons was one way for the weak to subvert the established structure of civic authority; whether this counts as positive interaction or not depends on one’s point of view. 
However the military presence could have a negative impact on the fortunes of the masses as well as those of the elites. Soldiers were feared by the peasants. Military personnel had the right to requisition goods or means of transport, to commandeer guides from among the local people, to force them to act as porters or to supply beasts of burden or horses for the cursus publicus, or to demand food or billeting for soldiers. They were supposed to carry a diploma from the emperor which permitted them to make such demands, but people forged these, or used ones that had expired, and it was difficult for peasants to argue with armed soldiers. An inscription from Epiphanea (Hama) records the instructions of the emperor Domitian (AD 81-96) to an imperial procurator, that ‘neither by the renting of beasts of burden nor by the distress of lodging should the provinces be burdened’, and that ‘nobody commandeers a beast of burden’ or ‘a guide unless he has a permit from me, for, when farmers are torn from their homes, the fields will remain without their attention’. Some communities provided purpose-built accommodation for military and other persons on state business in the form of inns. An inscription of AD 185-6 from Phaena on the edge of Trachonitis preserves the letter from a governor telling the locals that they are not obliged to receive soldiers into their homes if their village has an inn. Public display of imperial orders in the form of inscriptions such as these may have helped settle some disputes, but the theme of unlawful military impositions keeps cropping up over the centuries. Soldiers are recorded as abusing their hosts, stealing from them and behaving in a drunken and threatening manner. They could extort extra taxes over and above the required amount or demand more rations from producers. In times of peace soldiers could draw foodstuffs from established state granaries (access and rations being strictly controlled), but when the number of soldiers swelled during a campaign, locals would find themselves competing with soldiers for food, and prices would rise. To alleviate the problem food and supplies might be brought in from outside the region by the state, but this in itself could also become a source of friction if imported foodstuffs undercut prices on the local markets. Sometimes local traders simply closed their shops if they deemed the prices too low. Even in peacetime soldiers might compete with locals for resources, particularly during shortages. Nevertheless the existence of soldier-farmers (if indeed such a category existed), particularly in late Roman times, will have seen some of the interests of soldiers and civilians converge.
	The army’s involvement in the construction of major works like roads and aqueducts was of benefit to communities, although it is not always easy to distinguish projects intended for civilians from those which incidentally benefited them. Sometimes military expertise and labour might be brought in for a civilian project, but it did not necessarily come free of charge. The state might require locals to finance necessary infrastructure works, even if they were built by the army; this certainly seems to have been the case in the late empire and may well have been so in earlier times. A road from Damascus to the Bekaa Valley which passes through the Wadi Barada (the ancient Chrysoroas river, flowing into Damascus) collapsed into the river during the second century and was repaired by soldiers of the legio XVI Flavia, but the community of Abila paid the bills. 
Fig. 190. The Hadrianic aqueduct at Caesarea, which brought water into the city from the north. Although intended for civilian use, inscriptions attest to its construction by soldiers of the legio VI Ferrata.
The role of the military in the process of urbanization has been questioned above. In the early empire it seems that military bases were generally established in or added to existing urban communities, and the army appears to have had little effect on the urban framework of the provinces of the region (with the exception of Raphanea). However, in the late empire the military requirements of defence do seem to have had some influence on urbanization, with settlements being fortified as military strongholds and promoted to cities. Strategic requirements altered the urban framework in a way they had not in the early empire (although numerous new cities were not military bases and were promoted for various other reasons; see chapter 3). 
The presence of soldiers with cash to spend will have offered opportunities to enterprising locals and local communities, but proving that any civilian material culture found at military bases was supplied by private entrepreneurs and not by requisition or tax in kind is often difficult. In Syria such research is also frustrated by the fact that the origins of many artefacts, particularly pots, are unknown. Even when origins are known, the objects do not necessarily provide us with the information we are seeking. The association of Late Roman C ware with military bases may point to an entrepreneurial enterprise taking advantage of an established trade route or its products riding ‘piggy-back’ on more important state supplies (see chapter 6), but as Late Roman C comes from western Asia Minor that is hardly evidence of local economic exchange. A relationship between issues of civic coins and military campaigns in the early empire might be adduced as evidence of the economic interests of civilians and soldiers converging, but this has also been seen as either testimony to the impositions forced on civilians by the army (civilian communities providing money for state employees) or, conversely, cities profiting by forcing soldiers to exchange silver and gold for local small change (which might have a lower value or no value at all outside the issuing community).
Clearly there are few certain answers to the question of whether the Roman army can be credited as a key factor in the assimilation and ‘Romanization’ of Syria. It depends on whether we view the acculturation and integration of locals as part of any greater Roman military mission or strategy. The most pessimistic stance sees the army as an institution largely separate from the civilian world and with its own systems of supply. Most interaction with locals was incidental to the role the army played in Syria, and it was the civilians themselves who played a major part in the development and integration of the region with the rest of the Roman world. The validity of this stance depends in part on the role of the army in the east. But as with the matter of interaction, the question of the army’s role in the region has no easy answers.

Strategies and Frontiers
For many years the concept of a defensive imperial ‘grand strategy’ has dominated the study of Roman frontiers. Some scholars favour it, others are opposed to it, and yet others take the middle ground. In its best-known form the model advanced proposes that the Roman state had long-term policies for organizing and defending its borders, beginning with a system of client buffer states and highly mobile legions in the first century AD, shifting to a defensive cordon of more permanent, stationary forces on the frontiers in the second and early third centuries, and finally to a system of ‘defence-in-depth’, involving mobile cavalry units and permanent garrisons at points both on and behind the frontiers in the late empire. While the various phases of this model do seem to explain certain networks and dispositions of armies and fortresses in certain periods, there are enormous problems with the whole as an overall explanation of Roman strategies and objectives. In the first century it is clear that Rome relied quite heavily on the client kings for military support (their armies were later absorbed into Roman army, although usually they were not posted in the places where they were recruited). But most client states in Syria were not positioned to be ‘buffers’ between Rome and her enemies, with the possible exception of Commagene, and some kingdoms, such as Osrhoene in Mesopotamia, continued to exist long after the first model was supposed to have been abandoned. While some legionary bases of the second phase were located in places where they could intercept attacks by the Parthians and Sasanians, others were positioned far from any possible front line. At all times the location of fortresses and armies will have been dictated by three main factors: first, the need for adequate supplies without becoming too great a burden on local populations; second, the need to police those populations, particularly in the large cities, but also in the countryside; and third, the defence of the empire in the face of external attack. One could also add a fourth factor for the early empire: the concentration of too many armies under one governor was a potential danger to the ruling emperor, and thus it was prudent to distribute these armies among several provinces and governors, bringing them together only in an emergency. Some of these factors will have militated against a purely scientific defensive strategy with regard to the disposition of the imperial forces.
More importantly, one might question whether defence against external foes was always uppermost in the minds of those who managed the Roman army, and whether Rome ever viewed its frontier in Syria as a defensive cordon. The military presence was clearly for reasons of security, but the exact nature of the security threat is contended. Was it mainly external, or internal? To what extent did Rome perceive the Parthians and Sasanians as a serious threat to Syria? Was the Roman frontier in the east aimed at preventing powerful enemies penetrating the empire, or were the frontiers limited only by what peoples and kingdoms Rome could conquer and control? Was the army envisaged as a force aimed at supervising Rome’s subjects more than defending them against outside enemies? Our understanding of the function and disposition of the Roman army in the east depends in large part on the answers to these questions, and views on these matters differ considerably. Some scholars prefer to see the empire as one geared towards offence rather than defence, and have pointed to imperial rhetoric and ideologies in support of this view. This rhetoric stresses eternal Roman victory and unlimited expansion, or the notion that the oikoumene or inhabited (and civilized) world, and the Roman empire or the realm ruled by its emperors, were the same. Perhaps the Roman government did not see the frontiers as defensive structures, but merely zones from which further conquests could be launched. Hence perhaps the apparently ‘soft frontier’ in Mesopotamia, lacking any fortified boundary but peppered with fortresses which both sides sought to control by means of garrisons and sieges, and from which Roman armies could advance into Armenia and to Ctesiphon. But the idea that the armies on the frontiers did protect the empire is also expressed in the sources. With the adoption of Christianity the empire gained a further mission: responsibility for protecting the interests of Christians, not only within the empire, but also beyond the physical and political frontiers. 
However, there is a fundamental difference between the ideologies of empires and their realities. Reality, of course, forced the Romans to recognize practical limits to Roman power. There were zones that could be controlled directly, zones that could be controlled or influenced indirectly, and others that could not be controlled at all. Sometimes the uncontrollable areas lay outside the empire, and sometimes it would seem that areas well within the frontiers of empire (such as seems to have been the case with the Ituraeans of Mount Lebanon under Augustus) were also beyond the limits. The frontier provinces were made up of zones in which the degrees of control were potentially always shifting, and it is likely that the deployment of forces within the frontiers reflects this. Roman power, however, extended beyond the frontiers in the form of alliances with other states. The eastern frontier is easily cast as a nearly immobile structure constrained by hostile and invincible foes, the Parthians and Sasanians, but for the Romans it was also a place with opportunities for diplomatic influence and imperial expansion: into Mesopotamia and Armenia, and further north, into Colchis, Iberia and Albania. It was a place where the political and military boundaries of the empire might be transgressed by other sorts of social relations: religious and spiritual, cultural, and economic. The eastern frontier was contingent rather than planned, with the result that various allegiances and spheres of social interaction extended from the Roman world into what was enemy territory in political and military terms.
The term limes is commonly used to describe the defended frontier of the Roman empire, and especially any network of fortifications. But there is no evidence that the Romans themselves used this word to mean a linear defensive boundary. In the east it is not a term encountered before the fourth century, when it was used officially to mean an administrative frontier region under the command of a dux who commanded limitanei (troops of the limes), unconnected with any defensive or military installations that happened to be in it. In Syria it also came to have specific associations with the desert, regardless of whether this was occupied by any Roman forts or soldiers.
Traditionally the bulk of the army has been seen as a protective shield against barbarian aggression and infiltration. Forts and legionary bases were positioned so that their units would be able to react with maximum efficiency to an invasion. The alternative position argues that in our region there was no defensive barrier as such, that the presence of army units near the border of the Parthian and Sasanian empires was to facilitate Roman acts of aggression against these adversaries (both of which Rome did not consider a major threat), and that an important function of the army was to maintain security internally, policing the cities and the road network, putting down rebellions and suppressing banditry.

The Enemy Without
A simple review of the number of Parthian or Sasanian invasions of Syria compared to the number of Roman attacks on Ctesiphon lends support to the notion that external threats, while an ever-present danger, were less a part of the Roman military experience in Syria than Roman aggression (see chapter 2). Some of this may be due to poor historical records, especially in the late first and second centuries, but it would take a number of unrecorded Parthian and Sasanian attacks to match the known Roman invasions under Pompey, Crassus, Mark Antony, Trajan, Lucius Verus, Septimius Severus, Caracalla, Severus Alexander, Gordian III, Carus, Galerius and Julian (a number of which led to permanent conquests). The only securely recorded Parthian invasions of Syria are in 51 BC, in response the aggression of Crassus, 40 BC, in the company of the Roman renegade Labienus, and AD 161, and only one of these led to the annexation of territory (40 BC). There was certainly a threat in AD 62, and a possible attack c. AD 73-8, but these did not lead to Parthian conquests. The Sasanians are often painted as aggressors in their wars with Rome, but their rulers could maintain with justification that Rome was injuring their cause. Shapur I claimed that Gordian III attacked him, not vice-versa, and the pretext for his campaign that led to the fall of Antioch was Caesar’s ‘lie’ concerning Armenia - presumably the violation of a treaty. Most Parthian and Sasanian attacks on the Roman empire seem more punitive than colonial in their intent, and like the Parthians, the Sasanians raided Roman Syria but attempted to conquer it only once.
	One likely reason why there were few Sasanian attacks on Syria is that the Roman conquests in Mesopotamia shifted the main arena of conflict to the other side of the Euphrates. For the Romans, control of Mesopotamia presented a particular problem. There was no obvious natural or ethnic boundary between what was Roman and what was Sasanian. On the other hand the conquests made attacks on Sasanian territory easier - the army could march against Ctesiphon and be in Roman territory much of the way, as well as relying on supplies from the fertile lands on both sides of the Euphrates. From Ctesiphon it was a fairly short though arduous route up the Tigris back into Roman possessions. Mesopotamia also provided a base from which to threaten or influence whoever ruled in Armenia. Its strategic importance made the conflicts it created acceptable. Septimius Severus claimed that the conquest of Mesopotamia provided security for Syria. The historian Cassius Dio disagreed, insisting that it only brought more strife. Territorial disputes in Mesopotamia proved Dio right, but the fact that there were no Sasanian invasions of Syria between the third and sixth centuries also justified the claim of Severus.
	The Parthians and Sasanians clearly constituted a threat to Roman ambitions in Mesopotamia, and to some extent they threatened northern Syria, particularly in the early empire when northern Syria was the frontier. The degree to which Roman emperors considered them a threat to the eastern provinces as a whole is debatable (see chapter 2), but any perception that the Parthians or Sasanians had a claim to Syria will have influenced Roman strategies there. More uncertain is the threat posed by nomads of the steppe and desert, especially in the early empire. Traditionally the network of roads and forts in the steppe between the Euphrates and the Red Sea has been seen as a defensive frontier aimed at controlling non-allied nomadic groups. But some scholars have questioned whether that was truly the purpose of these installations, which suggest considerable effort invested on the part of Rome. There must have been times when bands of nomads posed a threat to sedentary peoples, but this does not necessarily mean that the Romans considered the raids sufficiently threatening to warrant the construction of an elaborate defensive network against them. Forts could have housed soldiers whose job it was to police the roads, provide safety for travellers and protect strategic resources such as wells. At the same time the system would have permitted the soldiers to exercise some control over nomad activities, by placing forts at important water sources and regulating markets where the tribes came to buy or sell commodities. Nomad tribes and confederations are more prominent in the late empire, when they were used by Rome and the Persians (see chapter 2), but we often read more about disruption caused by those ‘allied’ groups in the pay of Rome than by independent non-aligned groups outside the empire. It is not certain how serious was the threat posed by nomads outside the sphere of the Roman-Sasanian conflict. As the Roman military advanced into the steppe in the late second and early third centuries it will have had more contact and potential conflicts with such groups, but were they the reason for the military presence in the first place? Or was the development of the Roman borderlands and Roman alliances beyond the frontiers the reason why the tribes began gravitating towards these regions?
	Lack of references to conflicts with the nomads need not preclude them. The corpus of Safaitic graffiti includes occasional mentions of the warrior life to which nomads might aspire and suggests that the tribesmen sometimes came into conflict with Roman soldiers. This evidence indicates that, as in times prior to and after Rome, the nomads of the desert fringes saw raiding as part of their way of life. A low-intensity threat of this sort could have devastating effects on sedentary populations in the long term. Such raids would receive little or no mention in literary sources, which were interested in major conflicts and key events. The graffiti are occasionally accompanied by drawings showing tribesmen fighting, on foot or on horse- or camel-back. Like bedouin of more modern times, they probably fought each other and the settled communities, perhaps also extorting protection-money from settled peoples. 
Any temporary alliance by many tribes could pose a serious threat. Desert tribes seem to have been involved in the rebellion of Palmyra, although the details are very obscure. Two decades later Diocletian constructed a system of roads and forts in this same area (see below), which may have been a response to problems with nomadic tribes following Palmyra’s fall. Some villages in the eastern Hauran, closest to the nomadic regions, appear to have been fortified at this time by the construction of walls around them; nomad raiding is a possible explanation. In the end it would seem that the nomads gained the upper hand, or Rome found the use of regular troops to maintain security in such an unproductive and arid environment too expensive, because the forts were apparently abandoned by the end of the fourth century (see below).

The Enemy Within
The local population was a potential threat to Roman order. The poor or dispossessed had an interest in changing that order, or at the very least sought to live outside its rules. Others saw resistance to Roman domination as a religious or ideological duty. These enemies within the frontiers could be as disruptive as barbarian invaders. Aside from the threat of internal rebellions and civil unrest, such as the two Jewish conflicts in the early empire and the Samaritan revolts under Zeno and Justinian, there was the perennial threat of banditry. Travellers frequently ran the gauntlet of highwaymen; the story of the Good Samaritan exemplifies the potential dangers of travel in the countryside. Simple footpads operating in small groups were not necessarily of interest to the authorities, and fortified inns and towers along roads could provide security at night for people on the move. However, the evidence implies that bandits could also operate in large units, putting cities and villages in jeopardy as well. 
If left unchecked bandit groups could attract followings among the lower classes and threaten the security of wide areas. It is difficult to assess the threat posed by bandits in areas under direct Roman control from the scattered references, but in zones where direct control was difficult to achieve the impression is that banditry was common. The lawlessness of these remote areas within the empire could spill into the ‘civilized’ regions. For example, in about AD 400 bandits from Isauria, a part of the Cilician Taurus famous for brigandage, plundered Cilicia and Syria and harried Antioch between about 404 and 405 (they were supposed to have penetrated Phoenicia and Galilee as well). 
Some bandit leaders evidently enjoyed considerable successes and possibly achieved folk hero status. Outlaws rejected the established social order and as such had some romantic appeal; they were stock characters in Greek novels. Cassius Dio mentions one precocious commander named Claudius ‘who was overrunning Judaea and Syria’ when Septimius Severus was campaigning in the east and who successfully evaded capture. The story of how he greeted and kissed the emperor while in disguise sounds like the impertinent exploit of some ancient Robin Hood; suffice to say that bandits were not necessarily regarded as the enemy by all sectors of the population, although their targets were more often likely to have been the weak and vulnerable rather than the rich and powerful.
Of course it is not always a simple matter to distinguish banditry from nomadic raiding by people from outside the empire, and within the frontiers remote areas of the sort haunted by large bandit groups were often almost as inaccessible to Roman forces as those outside. In the early empire the Ituraeans had a formidable reputation as robbers, and the bandits of Trachonitis, who as late as the reign of the Herodian Agrippa II (AD 48-c. 94) appear to be referred to in a fragmentary inscription from Canatha as living in a ‘beast-like condition’ and ‘lurking in holes in many parts of the country’, were tamed only by a century of rule by client kings. 
Policing the locals was therefore likely to have been a major preoccupation for the Roman authorities, although the provision of security in the provinces was not confined solely to the military. In the early empire much of the military policing seems to have been confined to the countryside; at any rate major cities appear to have had their own police forces. The civic authorities were expected to deal with their own unruly mobs while client kings and Roman army units attended to the hinterlands. But there are signs that security in the cities eventually became as important to the authorities as brigandage in rural areas, if not more so. By the third century there is some evidence to suggest that vexillations from the legions were being deployed in the larger cities and security seems a plausible reason for this. Soldiers become more prominent as civic police in the late empire, and in contrast the onus for policing the countryside increasingly seems to have shifted to civilians, who built fortified refuges and towers in rural areas. These civilian strongholds are difficult to distinguish from military installations, which further complicates the study of imperial strategies (see below).
Although it was the job of a governor and his forces to suppress organized bands of marauders, it is unclear whether the authorities commonly took any great interest in the activities of bandits unless they became a serious threat to people and regions that mattered, particularly in the late empire. Ammianus Marcellinus describes the ravages of the Maratocupreni, an entire village near Apamea whose inhabitants lived by plunder and who were ‘exceedingly numerous, skilled in crafty wiles, and dreaded because they roamed about quietly under the guise of honourable traders and soldiers’. That their activities continued unhindered for some considerable time is suggested by the fact that they built elaborate houses in their home village with their loot. When eventually the army intervened, harsh measures were exacted: the entire village was slaughtered, including the children, and their houses demolished. That banditry was such a severe problem in the territory of one of Syria’s greatest cities is striking. It is all the more likely, then, that in more remote locations the local population may have had to make its own arrangements for security.
On balance, then, it seems not unreasonable to propose that one of the most important functions of the Roman army in Syria and the Near East was to control the civilians. But the civilians themselves were also expected to make an effort, just as they were expected to contribute to the well being of the empire in other ways. The great military powers to the east, raiders in the frontier regions, unruly mobs in the cities and armed marauders in the countryside are all likely to have influenced the manner in which the Roman army was deployed in the region. The limits to imperial order lay both within and without.

The Roman Army in Syria, Palaestina and Arabia: Units and Deployments
In the early empire the bulk of the Roman army consisted of legions (composed of heavy infantrymen who had Roman citizenship) and auxiliary troops (who gained citizenship after their term of service). Each legion contained about five thousand men, often divided up into detachments (vexillations) stationed throughout the province. Auxiliary infantrymen served in cohorts of either about a thousand or five hundred men, and the cavalry alae were organized into units of the same strengths (there were also mixed cavalry and infantry units). Army units would always have been dispersed in cities and in forts and camps along routes of communication, according to the factors outlined above (supply, coercion, defence and limiting the military power of governors). Legionary bases did not house armies up to full strength except when mustering troops for campaigns; in general they would have served as administrative centres, housing commanders and their staff and some units, while the rest of the legion served in detachments elsewhere. The forces of the republic and early empire were probably billeted in or near the major cities, moving from one location to another as circumstances dictated. There were perhaps two legions based in Syria initially, but the numbers fluctuated considerably in the civil wars at the end of the republic. There is somewhat scanty evidence for the number of legions under the Julio-Claudians - three, perhaps, under Augustus, and four under Tiberius, all stationed in the north: the III Gallica, VI Ferrata, X Fretensis and XII Fulminata. Another, the IV Scythica, seems to have come to Syria during Corbulo’s Armenian campaigns. There were no legions in the south until the Jewish war, and the units stationed in places like Judaea prior to that conflict would have been composed of auxiliaries. The sources refer to armies being located at places like Cyrrhus, Laodicea and perhaps Beroea, but the legions of the period were highly mobile and these cities were probably not intended as permanent legionary bases, even if proper fortresses began to emerge at some locations in the later first century. From about the reign of Nero there was a legion, possibly two, at Raphanea (XII Fulminata and perhaps VI Ferrata), and this site remained a legionary base until the third century. Under Vespasian Zeugma became the headquarters of the IV Scythica; the city may have housed the X Fretensis before the latter was transferred to Judaea during the Jewish war. In other regions Rome relied on the armies of client kings, who were expected to maintain security within their kingdoms and provide assistance to Roman forces when necessary (see chapter 3). In addition there were some units working for the Roman army that did not properly belong to it, provided by indigenous groups such as the Palmyrenes. 
As the kingdoms were annexed, the legionary presence moved into the south. By the reign of Hadrian the disposition of the legions was probably as follows: in the north, the XVI Flavia at Samosata, the former royal capital of Commagene, the IV Scythica at Zeugma, and the III Gallica at Raphanea; and in the south, the Judaean garrisons of the X Fretensis at Aelia Capitolina and the VI Ferrata at Caparcotna (Legio) in the Jezreel valley. For Trajan’s new province of Arabia, the III Cyrenaica had been transferred from Egypt to Bostra. The legions were therefore distributed throughout the region, and only two were based on the Euphrates and so in a position to protect Syria from a Parthian invasion. 
The practice of transferring entire legions from one province to another became rare after Hadrian, but details about their disposition in the region during the later second and third centuries is no less sketchy than before. A Severan legion, the II Parthica, seems to have wintered at Apamea during imperial campaigns of the third century, and was instrumental in leading Elagabalus’ revolt against Macrinus in AD 218. In Syria Phoenice the III Gallica was suppressed for supporting a rebellion against the same emperor, but was later restored at Danaba near Damascus. The IV Scythica seems to have been transferred from Syria Palaestina to Alexandria by Severus Alexander, but is found at Oresa in the Syrian steppe in the fourth century.
	Auxiliary units are attested mainly by inscriptions. Two military diplomas (documents given to veterans on their discharge) of AD 88 together record eight cavalry alae and nineteen infantry cohorts in Syria, an auxiliary force of about 14,500. Another diploma of AD 156-7 has three or four alae and sixteen cohorts, and it is likely that there were more in the province at the time. Many recruits in Syria seem to have come from the Balkans, particularly Thrace (renowned for its fierce warriors), although local recruitment into these auxiliary units is likely during the course of the second century. In the first century there was a marked preference for posting auxiliaries away from their province of recruitment, but this practice appears to have changed during the second. Soldiers of the cohors III Thracum Syriaca (Thracians based in Syria), attested in one of the diplomas of AD 88, might originally have been from Thrace, but over time new recruits could have come from diverse backgrounds, including Syria. Evidence for the location of units is largely based on finds of inscriptions, but these were often reused in later buildings, requiring the assumption that the stone had not travelled far from its original location. Wandering stones are a hazard of epigraphy in Syria; such stones could have been re-employed for their decorative appeal, even if they could not be read, and thus have a greater tendency to move long distances than unmarked stones. Does the presence of an inscription of the cohors I Flavia Chalcidenorum equitata sagittariorum, reused in a large fortress near Thelsea (Dmeir) on the road between Damascus and Palmyra, provide evidence of the unit’s presence there in c. AD 162 (the date of the inscription)? The surviving fortress may not even be Roman; recent research suggests it is an Umayyad desert palace. The inscription may have come from a nearby building in Thelsea, but that cannot yet be proved. These sorts of problems make the assessment of any strategy of auxiliary deployment very difficult. Overall the pattern suggests that the number of auxiliaries increased during the late first and second centuries, implying that Rome found these more lightly armed troops increasingly useful. The absorption of the armies of client kings into the auxilia is likely to have contributed to the increase in numbers. The auxiliaries were perhaps better suited to police work than heavy infantrymen of the legions. Many of them were cavalry units and archers, and these forces may have been intended to counterbalance to Parthian horse- and bowmen who had proved so successful against legionary armies in the past. Through auxiliary and non-legionary forces Rome sought to make up for any deficiencies in her traditional tactics, learning from mistakes and observing what was effective: hence units of dromedarii (camel corps) and clibanarii (heavily armoured cavalry) which could counter hostile nomads and Parthian or Sasanian forces.
	Aside from the land-based forces, Syria also had a fleet, the classis Syriaca. It was perhaps established under Vespasian, although the earliest certain evidence is Hadrianic. It is thought that its main base was at Seleucia Pieria; however, its galleys were also stationed at other cities along the coast. Naval ships patrolled the Euphrates too. In addition detachments from the Italian fleets at Misenum and Ravenna were posted at Seleucia, their main purpose apparently to provide logistical support for eastern campaigns.
	In the first century AD the royal armies of the client kings could be called upon to provide assistance to the Roman army, and these forces were also expected to defend Roman interests and maintain order in their respective kingdoms. The abundant literary evidence for the Herodian armies shows that like their imperial counterpart they too were stationed in both cities and remote places and were not necessarily intended for frontier defence. Like Roman troops they acted as a police force (the dynasty could not always rely on popular support, and Herod’s fortress palaces like Masada could function as refuges if necessary), but they could also be used for aggression outside their kingdoms (provided the kings consulted the relevant Roman authorities and their aims did not conflict with Roman interests). On the annexation of the kingdoms many if not all of these royal armies were formed into auxiliary units. The cohors I Ulpia Petraeorum, listed in the diploma of AD 156-7, is likely to have been formed originally of Nabataean soldiers, who were then posted to Syria. Similarly a cohors I Ituraeorum found in one of the diplomas of AD 88 might have originated in the forces of a client ruler.
	In the early empire Syria had the largest military presence of the eastern provinces, although the size of this army is difficult to calculate, given that in addition to the legionaries there was an unknown number of auxiliaries. One source (Tacitus) hints that under Tiberius the two types of soldier were present in equal numbers throughout the empire. There were four legions in the east at this time, a force of about 20,000 men, all based in the province of Syria; so together with the auxiliaries the army was perhaps about 40,000 strong. Using the same rule of thumb we can calculate that by the end of Hadrian’s reign the number in the east had risen to 60,000 (three legions in Syria, one in Arabia and two in Syria Palaestina, plus an equal number of auxiliaries). The dissolution of the client kingdoms and the advance into more remote areas will have required additional forces, and the garrisoning of Mesopotamia will have raised the numbers to perhaps 80,000-90,000 by the early third century (there were also two legions stationed further north in Anatolia). With Severus’ division of Syria in two, the concentration of forces in a single province of Syria ended (subsequently there were perhaps 20,000 in Syria Coele, and 10,000 in Syria Phoenice). Attempts to calculate the ratio of soldiers to civilians involve calculations based on even vaguer rules of thumb, but it is unlikely that it ever rose above 1:100 and was probably considerably lower. The scope for interaction between the military and the local population was therefore in part limited by numbers, although the power soldiers could wield within a community will have helped compensate for any numerical deficiency.
	In the late empire the legions declined in importance. Instead of legionaries and auxiliaries, the principal distinction in the Roman army was now between the units of the mobile field army (the comitatus), and the permanent garrisons under the command of provincial duces. The comitatus was commanded by the magister militum per orientem, based at Antioch, who was the chief military official for the eastern provinces. The duces were also answerable to him. Legions were now smaller units, sometimes perhaps no more than a thousand men, and while some served in the comitatus, others formed permanent garrisons and in general they were no longer the crack troops of the Roman army. Auxiliary cohorts and alae were also reduced in size. Fortunately we possess a list of civilian and military officials, the Notitia Dignitatum, which names the legions, auxiliary units and other forces of the provinces together with their locations. The sections in the Notitia for the east date to about AD 400, but it is thought that it largely reflects troop dispositions under Diocletian. It shows that in Syria most of the legions of the early empire were still in the same provinces or regions. Apart from the III Cyrenaica at Bostra in Arabia the other legions had by the fourth century moved to new bases, all of which were in more remote areas than the earlier ones. The Euphrates was covered by the IV Scythica at Oresa (at-Tayibeh) and the XVI Flavia at Sura; the steppe by the III Gallica at Danaba and the I Illyricorum, probably brought to Syria by Aurelian, at Palmyra. In Palestine the X Fretensis had moved to Aila on the Gulf of Aqaba, and Arabia was now listed with two legions, the III Cyrenaica and the IV Martia (at a place called Betthorum, perhaps modern Lejjun). Aside from units of auxiliary alae and cohorts, other forces of the permanent garrison of the provinces listed in the Notitia consisted of cavalry units referred to as equites. The units of the comitatus had no permanent bases (or at least, none is mentioned in the Notitia), and when not on campaign were billeted in cities. In contrast the permanent garrisons were settled in the regions which they defended and patrolled, and their interests tended to converge with those of the civilian population, regardless of state concerns: for example, when Jovian ceded Nisibis to the Sasanians the garrison of the city refused to comply and fought the enemy in a futile bid to save their home. It seems that like the civilian population the soldiers of the permanent garrison also farmed the land, for a law of AD 443 refers to an ancient right of the troops in the border regions, the limitanei, to cultivate land for their own profit free from the obligations of performing public services and paying land tax. In return for these concessions their sons were expected to provide the next generation of limitanei. Although they have sometimes been called a ‘peasant militia’ and were clearly secondary in status to the comitatenses, the limitanei were regular troops, and an effective fighting force. They could be called up to serve away from their homes, and were sometimes drafted into the field armies under the title of pseudocomitatenses.
	Apart from commanding the provincial garrisons, the duces also seem to have been responsible for liasing with, and perhaps paying subsidies to, Arab allies and foederati. But the federates themselves were commanded by tribal leaders who had been either recognized or appointed by Rome. Paying tribal leaders had evidently become customary by the reign of Julian, when the emperor lost their support at the outset of his Persian campaign by withdrawing subsidies to some of them. Non-payment of subsidies might result not only in loss of support or revenge raids on friendly territory; it might also represent a very real loss of Roman influence over peripheral regions where the tribes operated. The activities of Justin II and Maurice in breaking the power of the Ghassanids led to the weakening of Roman control in the Syrian steppe and was likely to have been a factor assisting the Sasanian conquests of the early seventh century. Increasing reliance on Arab foederati from the fourth century is suggested archaeologically by the apparent abandonment of Roman forts and towers in some remote areas of the south like the Azraq oasis, about 80 kilometres (50 miles) south-east of Bostra and in the heart of what would later be Ghassanid territory.
	By the sixth century references to legions, cohorts and alae had disappeared from the Roman military vocabulary, and Procopius, when writing the history of Justinian’s wars, had to describe for his readers what an ancient Roman legion was. There is also evidence that numbers had seriously declined: at the beginning of the fifth century the strength of the comitatus in the east is estimated at about 104,000, but by the time of Justinian it may have been less than a quarter of that strength. There seems to be no way of estimating the size of the permanent garrison, although there is a tradition that Justinian also reduced their numbers. It is perhaps no surprise to find that after the troubles of the early seventh century the entire Roman army in the final battle against the Muslim forces at the Yarmuk in AD 636 numbered about 50,000.

Forts and Geographies
Physical remains attesting to the Roman army’s presence in our region are confined mainly to the steppe and desert, and consequently they are mostly of the third century or later, when the Roman army advanced into these peripheral zones. There are some earlier fortifications in these regions, but the overall purpose behind the Roman advance into such apparently unrewarding environments remains uncertain. If they were not aimed at controlling the activities of nomad raiders, they may have protected and policed trade routes and sedentary populations living in these marginal zones. The Severan period witnessed notable advances down the Euphrates (p. 000) and into the remote eastern regions of the province of Arabia. If there were motives for these advances other than imperial opportunism they are not clear to us, even though there are tantalizing indications of a rationale in some cases. The fortifications in and around the remote Azraq oasis in Arabia controlled valuable water resources in an otherwise arid basalt landscape, and the soldiers stationed there may have had an interest in traffic along the Wadi Sirhan, a depression which stretches into what is now the north of modern Saudi Arabia. Quite what form any Roman influence over the Wadi Sirhan took is difficult to say (manned posts and regular patrols?), although an inscription from Azraq gives distances from the fort to other locations and mentions Dumatha, modern Jauf, at the other end of the wadi about 400 kilometres (248 miles) to the south-east, and a Latin dedication by a centurion found at Jauf itself suggests a Roman military presence there, perhaps during the late second or early third century. Suffice to say that the during the period from the late second to perhaps the early fourth century the Roman military had an interest in this area, whether for economic or security reasons, but they may have withdrawn during the course of the fourth century, perhaps in response to the growing power of nomad confederations and heavier dependence on ‘Saracen’ foederati. 
The late third-century Strata Diocletiana and the legionary camp at Palmyra (fig. 191) may be related to whatever strategies were being pursued at Azraq. These look very much like a response on the part of the state to the collapse of Palmyrene control. Under Diocletian the Roman army stepped in to do the job that the Palmyrenes had formerly done, and of all the military systems in Syria, the Strata Diocletiana most resembles a scientific cordon, with roads linking a line of forts stretching from Sura on the Euphrates via Palmyra and south, passing east of Auranitis to reach the road linking Bostra and Azraq. Milestones along the route from Arak southwards use the term ‘Strata Diocletiana’ or ‘Istrata Diocletiana’, implying that this was the official name of the road network. Yet even this is not certain, for there are also milestones in the name of Constantine and his co-rulers reading ‘Istrata Constantini […?]’, so the term may signify nothing more than the fact that there were various roads constructed under Diocletian and Constantine. But the evidence of so many roads and buildings under Diocletian, at least between Palmyra and Azraq, strongly suggests a programme and their conception as an integrated system. The best evidence comes from the section between Palmyra and Thelsea (Dmeir). At its northern end was the legio I Illyricorum at Palmyra; in the rear was the legio III Gallica at Danaba. The Strata itself was guarded by forts of auxiliaries and units of equites. Other units of equites were settled behind the Strata; their purpose may have been to provide strike forces to intercept raiders. Yet there is no certain indication of what threat such a network was intended to counter. Perhaps it was supposed to secure the settled areas against incursions by the Tanukh or other nomads, or simply to protect traffic and ensure a line of communication. Most of the forts cannot have been positioned so as to protect sedentary peasants in the vicinity, for there is little evidence of ancient farming in this arid landscape. Scattered though the evidence is, a case for the Strata Diocletiana between Palmyra and Thelsea being a reaction to problems with nomads is perceptible. The sixth-century chronicler Malalas says that Diocletian ‘built arms factories at Damascus, bearing in mind the incursions of the Saracens’, and the emperor is known to have conducted a Saracen campaign in AD 290, though the precise location of the enemy in this case is unknown. It may well have been in this area; the Azraq inscription mentioning Dumatha also refers to the presence of soldiers from four Danubian legions, who are likely to have been there for some very special reason. When this network was abandoned is also unclear to us; it has been suggested that like the system at Azraq the forts fell out of use during the fourth century. Perhaps Diocletian’s successors found the system of direct control ineffectual, and turned over responsibility for these regions to federate Arabs, so that henceforth the Roman military presence began only at Palmyra. The name, however, seems to have survived, for Procopius tells us that under Justinian there was a quarrel between the Ghassanids and Lakhmids over a district called Strata, which lay south of Palmyra and was named after a road.
Fig. 191. The Strata Diocletiana. The network between Palmyra and the Euphrates is probably earlier than Diocletian; a milestone from Aracha (Arak) records road works in AD 75. This may have become a frontier zone after the fall of Palmyra to Aurelian. A milestone using the term Strata Diocletiana was found between Palmyra and Aracha, but otherwise all other certain Diocletianic installations associated with this system are found from Palmyra southwards. Recent work on the section between Palmyra and Sura on the Euphrates suggests that in late Roman times this section was probably intended to maintain security against Sasanian attacks; at any rate the main periods of occupation in the forts there coincide with known Sasanian invasions.
	There are many differences between Roman military installations in the western empire and those found in the east. Comparisons between the two parts of the empire are often made on the assumption that those in the west represent the ‘normal’ types (for instance, fortresses of ‘playing card’ shape), and that eastern practices such as billeting armies in cities or building forts that do not conform to western designs is somewhat aberrant, or that the western-style forts have yet to be discovered. From an eastern perspective it may be the case that the western-style installations are the true aberrations, used mainly in provinces where urbanization had not yet taken root. However, the possibility of new discoveries in our region cannot be discounted, given the current state of knowledge. Legionary fortresses of the early empire are poorly known; that at Samosata has disappeared under the floodwaters of a dam, as perhaps has that at Zeugma. Raphanea has barely been explored, and little is known about the fortresses at Caparcotna and Jerusalem. A large rectangular enclosure on the northern side of Bostra has been identified as the camp of the legio III Cyrenaica (fig. 36). The details of its interior have yet to be revealed, but this is the only fortress so far discovered in the region that is comparable in size and shape to the classic legionary bases of the western empire. Legionary fortresses of the late empire are slightly better known. Two substantial examples can still be seen at Lejjun and Udruh in Jordan, both of which lay east of the via nova Traiana in Arabia and Palaestina Tertia, away from major civilian settlements. Lejjun was probably constructed under Diocletian for the IV Martia, and is much smaller than the fortress at Bostra, being sufficient to accommodate between about 1000-1500 men. Nevertheless at 242 by 190 metres (265 by 208 yards) it is one of the largest military installations surviving in the east (fig. 192). Udruh, which is of comparable size though more irregular in shape, is something of a puzzle, because it seems to be superfluous (all of the legions in the Notitia Dignitatum are accounted for without it). One possibility is that this was the home of the Legio VI Ferrata, which is not mentioned at all in the Notitia Dignitatum. Perhaps it was transferred there in the third or early fourth century and then destroyed or suppressed. Other ruins associated with late Roman legions are the ‘Camp of Diocletian’ at Palmyra, probably the base of the legio I Illyricorum, and traces of a possible camp for the IV Scythica between Palmyra and Sura at a site called at-Tayibeh, identified as ancient Oresa. Internal buildings are not well preserved, although the principia (headquarters) can be distinguished at Palmyra, Lejjun and Udruh. The camp at Palmyra was monumentalized in keeping with the rest of the city, and was adapted from a pre-existing plan for that quarter. Its axial colonnades appear to be second century; these met in a tetrapylon made of reused stones, probably a Diocletianic addition. On the north-western side at the end of an open square stood the principia, nestling against a hill on the very edge of the city; its impressive ruins still dominate that part of the site.
Fig. 192. Plan of the legionary fortress at Lejjun.
	Most smaller forts are also of late Roman date, when they can be dated at all. An exception is the early auxiliary fort at Tell el-Hajj near the Euphrates between Zeugma and Sura. Some other forts which lack external towers (on these features, see below) are thought to belong to the early empire because in outline and size they resemble western imperial auxiliary forts, although few have been explored in order to confirm this. There are many forts and fort-like structures in the steppe and desert of Syria and Mesopotamia, most of which have not yet been investigated. The difficulties of establishing a chronology are exacerbated by the fact that many fortifications assumed to be Roman may instead be Parthian, Sasanian or Umayyad. Even when they can be assigned to the Roman empire it is not always clear whether the building in question was a military base, a fortified refuge built by locals, or a villa or monastery with a defensive circuit. Trying to delineate ‘grand strategies’ or speculating about relations between soldiers and civilians using such insecure evidence is particularly hazardous. The basic typologies remain very uncertain and rely on dated analogies from other regions of the Roman world. In the early empire towers tended to project inward, but the later forts (which basically means most of the examples in our region) have towers projecting outwards. However, the shape of the towers themselves (square in plan, pointed, rounded and so on) would seem to be no guide at all to the date of a fort. Small forts which are square or form a parallelogram and have four corner towers have traditionally been attributed to the Tetrarchy, but the design may have enjoyed long-standing popularity in the region. In some smaller forts the barracks are usually attached to the curtain wall (thought to be a late feature) rather than free-standing, others combine both forms; but larger bases like Lejjun retained the traditional pattern of free-standing barrack blocks and again such features are an unreliable indicator of date. In the countryside forts were often interspersed with towers positioned along roads frequented by travellers; apart from acting as guard posts they could also be used to send signals to each other and to the forts. Some towers were fairly substantial, with accommodation for soldiers, while others were more specifically designed for observation or signalling. In an experiment using towers in the vicinity of Lejjun archaeologists were able to discover that signals could be transmitted at night by burning torches to the fort of Khirbet el-Fityan, which in turn could relay messages to the legionary fortress at Lejjun to the south-east, from which the towers themselves could not be seen. Other signals were presumably used in daylight. Such installations helped to give the Roman army the edge over any hostile forces.
Fig. 193. The single entrance to Khan al-Manqoura (Vallis Alba), a fort of the strata Diocletiana. This large fort could have housed up to 500 auxiliaries of the cohors I Julia Lectorum, and guarded not only the strata but also a pass in the Jebel Rawaq which dominates the western horizon. Although located in the dry steppe, it was at the centre of a complex system of water collection, and there is a large reservoir south of the gate.
Apart from housing the units needed to counter any enemy forces, the smaller forts served as bases for patrols, local administrative centres, watering places, stopovers for travellers and couriers, and guard posts along the routes of communication. A combination of good communications and resources was no doubt important in the choice of sites for these smaller forts. In the drier regions control of water supplies was a significant factor: that at Azraq in Arabia was built on a lava ridge above a lake and natural springs, at the junction of roads from Damascus and Bostra, and a late third- or fourth-century inscription from Khan al-Abyad on the road from Damascus to Palmyra praises a certain Silvinus for having constructed a castrum in the dry wasteland and ensuring ‘that it abound with water celestial’ to provide for wayfarers and agriculture. While the forts on the Strata Diocletiana and around Azraq may have been deserted by the end of the fourth century, many others remained in use through the fifth century. But by the sixth a number of those in the south had been abandoned, particularly in Arabia and Palaestina Tertia. The latest certain involvement of the Roman army in Arabia is indicated by an inscription of AD 529 from Qasr el-Hallabat, about 60 kilometres (37 miles) south of Bostra (although this may be a ‘wandering stone’). This suggests that the concerns of the empire were focused elsewhere, and the periphery was being increasingly left to the Arab allies and foederati, at least in the southern part of our region.

The army was one of the great rationalizing forces that Rome had at her disposal. If there were a series of strategies pursued by the Roman military during the centuries of Roman rule in Syria, they might have been as follows. During the first century there was a gradual buildup of legionary and auxiliary forces across the region. The initial focus was on the north because it was here that adequate supplies and infrastructure were to be found. At this point the army acted as the state’s forces of coercion; the logistics required to support a Parthian war were as yet underdeveloped. The gradual expansion of the Roman military into the countryside was achieved only as the army gained mastery over and developed sufficient supply to rural areas. Increasing sedentarization of the indigenous population no doubt assisted these developments, even if the army did not encourage the process of settlement. By the early second century the infrastructure was sufficiently well developed to allow emperors to wage war on the Parthian kingdom, with the aim of conquering at least the land between the Euphrates and Tigris. This was partly achieved, and successive attacks weakened the Parthians, but their overthrow and replacement by the Sasanians checked the Roman advance. Consolidation recommenced in the later third century, and with the victory of Galerius over Narseh Roman ambitions in Mesopotamia revived. However, with the partition of the empire and its resources under Constantine’s sons the main concern was to defend this territory rather than attempt new conquests. After the treaty of Jovian and the partition of Armenia the boundaries between the Roman and Sasanian empires remained fairly static. Settlements in the border regions or potential enemy invasion routes such as the Euphrates valley were fortified and a number of these were promoted to city status. The smaller size of the forces, including legions, and their dispersal across the steppe, might be a consequence of problems of supply in the more remote areas were many were now stationed, so that the soldiers were encouraged to exploit local resources as much as possible. Crucial changes occurred in the sixth century, but their nature and extent are uncertain. They may well be connected with Justinian’s costly wars of conquest in the western Mediterranean. The number of regular soldiers was probably reduced, and the comitatus was much smaller than before. The waning of Roman military presence in the south-east was probably connected with the growth of nomad federations, itself likely to have been a symptom of state reliance on these groups for security in remote areas. Periodic attempts to revise this strategy and revive direct Roman control further weakened the state’s authority in these peripheral areas, because the nomads effectively held control whether the state paid them or not. There are also signs that the state was having financial difficulties by the beginning of the seventh century, if not before. The disruption of the Persian conquest in the early seventh century effectively put an end to any organized Roman strategy in the region, for Heraclius had barely succeeded in recovering the lost provinces before they were conquered by the armies of Islam. The successes of the Muslim armies altered the strategic makeup of the region completely. The project to unite the Fertile Crescent under a single power was finally achieved; not by Rome, nor by its Sasanian opponents, but by the peoples of the imperial peripheries.

Epilogue
The Furniture of Hellenism?

The end of Roman Syria: an Historical Sketch
In AD 622, the year in which Heraclius launched his attack on the Sasanians, the Arab followers of a new monotheistic religion established themselves at Medina in the Arabian peninsula. Their leader was Muhammad, a citizen of Mecca who proclaimed submission to Allah, the one true god, and in doing so had angered the pagans of his native city. Inspired by this new faith, the Muslim followers of Muhammad recovered Mecca and began expanding their political and religious power over the whole peninsula. Soon they were looking northwards, to the Arab tribes inhabiting the fertile and populous lands of Syria, the Bilad ash-Sham.
	The same period had witnessed the momentous struggle between the Romans and Sasanians. Against seemingly impossible odds Heraclius had prevailed (see chapter 2). In July 629 the Persian general Shahrbaraz and the Roman emperor met in Cappadocia to arrange a withdrawal of the Persian forces from Syria, Egypt and Asia. The terms of the peace treaty allowed the Romans to recover all the territory that had been lost to them in the previous two decades, at least as far as the Khabur river in Mesopotamia. A period of instability ensued as the Persians withdrew and Roman forces moved southwards to re-establish garrisons in the Syrian cities. Most of these places had not experienced Roman rule for many years.
	On March 21, AD 630, Heraclius returned the remains of the True Cross to Jerusalem, with great ceremony. Even so, Roman control of the south was not yet fully consolidated. In September 629 the Romans had defeated a ‘Saracen’ army of Muslims at Mu’ta near Charach Moba (Karak), east of the Dead Sea. To the Romans, who were busy trying to consolidate their power in the region, the precarious nature of their control and vulnerability of their situation were probably not fully apparent, and the conflict at Mu’ta was in all likelihood viewed as the latest in a long succession of skirmishes with Arab tribes and federations. Islam, however, gave the tribes a new cohesion which the Romans did not at first appreciate and probably did not understand. By the time the threat became more evident, the southern periphery was already lost. In 630 Muhammad formed a peace with Christian and Jewish tribes in and around the Gulf of Aqaba, and negotiated the surrender of Aila (Aqaba) and Udruh. There is no sign of any Roman presence this far south, though it is likely that given the chance a presence would have been re-established.
Muhammad died in 632, but political authority passed to his closest friend and supporter Abu Bakr (632-4), the first caliph (‘successor’) of Islam. Late in 633 or early 634 the Muslim incursions into territory held by the Romans began in earnest. A Roman army was defeated near Gaza, and at about the same time Bostra submitted to another force which had crossed the Syrian desert, which then moved on to Damascus, where it crushed a Ghassanid army. The Roman position in the south was suddenly in grave danger. A major defeat of the Roman forces at Ajnadayn, near Eleutheropolis (Bet Guvrin) in Palestine, followed in the summer of 634, and the fall of Damascus in 635. The Muslims then moved north into the Orontes valley.
	Heraclius, based at Antioch, mustered an army to repel the invaders. In the face of a Roman advance the Muslim forces withdrew to the south, and after numerous skirmishes in the summer of 636 the decisive battle took place north of the Wadi Yarmuk on 20 August. The Roman army was led into a trap between the deep gorges of the Yarmuk and its tributaries and destroyed. The defeat was absolute: the Roman camp was overwhelmed, and those who managed to escape were quickly pursued. For the Romans the day, and the Syrian provinces, were lost.
Heraclius did not attempt a counter attack. He decided instead that the best course of action would be to evacuate and to consolidate his position in Asia Minor. It might have been possible to defend the Syrian cities of the north, but Heraclius abandoned them. It was probably a strategic trade-off: by leaving the Muslims with plenty of territory to organize, he gave his own forces precious time to regroup beyond the Taurus. With the departure of the emperor seven centuries of Roman rule came to a close. 
	For most cities the transition from Roman to Muslim rule was relatively peaceful, and there is no evidence of general resistance. Coastal ports, whose garrisons could be supplied by sea, remained in Roman hands longest, but within about five years most of these too had capitulated. Mesopotamia, the keystone to the Fertile Crescent, fared little better. Its Roman curator had treated with the Muslims, agreeing to pay them an annual bribe if they remained in Syria. Heraclius, who had not been consulted, annulled the treaty. The Muslims then crossed the Euphrates and between 638 and 640 took the whole of Mesopotamia, and from there began campaigning in Heraclius’ homeland of Armenia. Heraclius died in early 641, a bitterly disillusioned man. The great military emperor, conqueror of the Persians, had been thoroughly worsted by this unexpected onslaught from Arabia.
	The losses suffered by the Romans pale in comparison with the fate that befell their old adversary, the Sasanian kingdom. Defeat by Heraclius, and Khusrau’s death, plunged the kingdom into a crisis. The threat from the Arabs on the south western border, always prevalent since the suppression of the Lakhmids, now increased, and in 637 the Sasanians were defeated by the Muslim armies near al-Hira and lost Iraq. The king, Yazdgard III, fled to Iran. Defeated in further battles, Yazdgard was eventually assassinated, and so the Sasanian kingdom was effectively brought to an end.

Why the Conquest?
There are two main approaches to the problem. One emphasizes the specific political and historical circumstances. The sixth century was a difficult time for the eastern provinces, and the catalogue of earthquakes, famines, Persian invasions and plagues are seen as contributing to a general decline and increasing weakness in the social, economic and military structure of the empire. Antioch and Apamea were badly damaged by earthquakes in 526 and 528, and Berytus, Sidon and Tyre by an earthquake of 551. The cities continued to function, but in Berytus large areas of the city, including high-status residences, were only partly restored, with other parts being left in ruins or demolished. The pottery from Berytus shows that a narrower range of products was reaching the city after the earthquake than had done so before, suggesting a sudden decline in economic activity at the site. The Persians sacked Antioch in 540, and Apamea in 573. Apamea’s great Cathedral of the East, probably containing a relic of the True Cross, was never restored. Whether this was through lack of will or resources is unclear. The Persians also deported large sections of the population of some of the cities to their own empire, leaving these centres with fewer inhabitants. The ‘Justinianic Plague’, which ravaged the empire beginning in 540, broke out repeatedly during the sixth and seventh centuries. Then, in the early seventh century, the empire suffered a major period of internal strife (rebellions against Maurice and Phocas) at a time when it was waging war on two fronts, against the Persians in the east and the Avars and Slavs in the north. The Persians were able to take advantage, and the major discontinuity of the Sasanian conquest weakened Roman authority over the eastern provinces, so that after Heraclius’ victory the Muslim armies were able to exploit this weakness in order to assume control at the expense of Rome.
Formidable though the list of disasters is, the degree to which plagues, earthquakes and sackings were determining factors leading to the empire’s decline is debatable; some studies of more recent catastrophes have indicated that they do not necessarily lead to the collapse of society, and can even stimulate growth. There are signs of urban continuity after some of these traumas, though as a rule building activity throughout the region appears to have been reduced in the second half of the sixth century. The porticos of Antioch’s main street were rebuilt in the aftermath of the Persian sack of 540. The city’s main baths may not have been rebuilt, but further south, in Berytus, the imperial baths remained in use when neighbouring residential neighbourhoods had been abandoned following the earthquake of 551. The baths of Gerasa were restored in 584. 
So in some places essential ‘Roman’ elements of civic life persisted beyond horizons of destruction, natural or man-made. This is not deny the significance of catastrophic events: disasters can, of course, deal serious blows to a way of life already in decline as a result of other factors.
	Another approach stresses the empire’s internal decline over ‘assassination’ by invaders and events beyond its control. Preceding chapters have looked at long-term changes to the cultural, political and military life and organization of the region in the late Roman period. Many changes were common to the empire as a whole, and some must have weakened the authority of the central government in the provinces, even though that was not what the state had intended. As we have seen, the erosion of traditional civic government and values, on which the Roman state had relied heavily during the early empire, was reflected in the transformation of the urban environment. But that was not all. Rigid rules governing expenditure of taxes made it difficult for the central government to divert resources in times of emergency, and the officials who oversaw expenditure did not always make their accounting procedures transparent. Army units, settled and dispersed throughout the region, were reluctant to serve elsewhere, and the state began to rely heavily on mobile forces of federate nomads for defence. The rule introduced by Marcus Aurelius that no one could be governor of their native province had been created to prevent governors from mobilizing regional loyalties against the central government. This rule was overturned in late Roman times, in response to pressures from the powerful grandees. This meant that the government in Constantinople increasingly devolved control to regional interests, which did not always concur with imperial concerns. 
The rise of Christianity and sectarian conflicts led to changes in cultural allegiances and the organization of new identities. From Justinian onwards the drive to Christianize the empire strengthened, leading to fierce persecutions of pagans, Jews and heretics. The importance of the divide between Chalcedonians and Monophysites has often been downplayed, but it gave many Syrians reasons not to identify themselves with the emperors. Heraclius had tried to solve the rift by advancing a doctrine that Christ had one will (Monothelitism), a novelty which even many Chalcedonians resisted. The fact that the Muslim invaders encountered little resistance might suggest that the Romans had failed to provide Syrians of both persuasions with a good reason for identifying with Constantinople. If the empire was ‘assassinated’ by external foes in the seventh century, it had perhaps unwittingly developed a suicidal streak by the late sixth.
The weakness of the empire, brought about both by catastrophes and long term changes, was no doubt the reason why opportunistic invaders were able to succeed. The decline of one state inevitably gives others advantages. Another factor may be demographic: the late Roman period had witnessed the growth of powerful Arab groups on the desert fringes. Although Christian and in the pay of Rome, these groups had much in common with the conquerors, and could be easily assimilated with them. A recent thesis also stresses the proactive economic role of the invaders. The nomads of Arabia had depended on the economy of the settled areas, by participating in the long-distance trade in luxuries. The later sixth-century decline of the cities and their economic infrastructure affected the nomad economies, causing a ‘crisis of mutuality’ to develop between sedentary peoples and nomads. Islam gave the nomads the cohesion to take matters into their own hands, by conquering the economic centres on which they had previously depended. They aimed not to overthrow existing society, but to appropriate the economic system and revitalize it. Rather than being heavily regulated and state-controlled, the new system, led by ‘entrepreneurs’, became more competitive and dynamic than what had gone before. This is presented as an alternative to the idea that the Islamic state’s finances initially comprised looting and acquisition of booty prior to the development of an organized system of taxation.

The Umayyads
The Muslims first established their regional headquarters in camps rather than in the cities. This preference for fortified residences in the steppe or desert continued even after Damascus became the capital under the Umayyads. The first capital of Islamic Syria, established by the caliph ‘Umar (AD 636-44), was the old Ghassanid residence at Gabitha (al-Jabiya) in the Golan, where the initial clashes of the Battle of the Yarmuk had occurred. It was intended to be a settlement for Muslim soldiers like similar sites in Iraq and Egypt, but it never developed, and many Muslims settled in the cities instead. Antioch did not retain its former pre-eminence in the new hierarchy of settlements. Indeed, Antioch was generally promoted only by Greek and Latin powers, including the Byzantines in the tenth century and the Crusaders in the eleventh. Under the Muslim conquerors the centres of power shifted inland, to Damascus, Emesa and Chalcis, away from the great cities of the coastal region.
	Abroad the Muslim conquests continued. Within a century of the Roman defeat at the Yarmuk Dar al-Islam, the ‘Abode of Islam’, had become a vast domain, stretching from north Africa to Afghanistan. The Syrian navy that the Muslims employed gained mastery of much of the eastern Mediterranean, inflicting another major defeat on the Romans off the coast of Lycia in 655. The Muslim governor of Syria, Mu‘awiya, was established as caliph in 661, marking the beginning of the Syrian-based Umayyad dynasty which was to control the Islamic world for almost a hundred years. He was a brilliant administrator who managed the diverse and potentially conflicting elements within his empire with considerable skill. His power base rested with the Arab armies in Syria, and it was to his former province that he transferred the seat of power, leaving Medina and Mecca as places of pilgrimage. Syria, formerly on the eastern periphery of the Roman empire, was now at the centre of a realm whose influence by the early eighth century extended from Spain to the Indus, with Damascus at its heart. 
The Syrian army which Mu‘awiya consolidated was the most effective fighting force in his empire, which he and his successors employed against the embattled Romans. Constantinople was attacked on three occasions, the first in 669, a second between 674 and 680, and a third in 717, although each time the city successfully withstood the besiegers. The truncated Roman empire proved more resilient than its attackers had perhaps anticipated. Heraclius had abandoned Syria and Mesopotamia, but he and his successors were able to utilize the high Taurus ranges as a defensive shield for Asia Minor, although regular raids were conducted by Muslim armies, turning the border territories into a waste land and devastating many cities of the interior. 
After the failure of the third siege of Constantinople, however, the Umayyads came to accept the reality of the Christian empire’s continued existence. They also had internal problems to contend with. After the death of Mu‘awiya in 680 weaknesses in the power structure became apparent, as the new caliphs faced problems over the Umayyad succession, divisions in the Syrian army and among the political elite, and opponents in Iraq. Umayyad control was consolidated under ‘Abd al-Malik (684-705) and Walid I (705-15), but the problems of the succession and internal divisions never went away and in 750 the dynasty was overthrown by rival forces based in Iraq.

Culture Shock?
The idea that the Muslim conquest represents a dramatic break with the past, and that the region experienced a sharp cultural and demographic decline afterwards, no longer prevails. The Arab character of the Umayyad state is undeniable: the ruling elites and the army were all Arabs, and Roman state lands or properties which had been abandoned by those who had evacuated Syria following the Roman defeat were allocated to them. However, the local elites that remained often retained their position in society and their land. As governor of Syria Mu‘awiya had needed a bureaucracy, and he pragmatically adopted the existing Roman administrative structures together with its personnel. This he retained as caliph, and under the Umayyads Christians achieved high positions in the administration, running the financial system in Syria. The social and political shocks of the conquest were in this way curtailed.
The melding of new and old authorities is neatly expressed in a Greek inscription from a bath house at Hammath Gader near Umm Qais (Gadara), dated AD 662: ‘Under Mu‘awiya, servant of Allah, chief of the faithful, the hot water system of these [baths] was cleared and renewed through Abdalla son of ‘Abu Hashim, governor, on December 5, Monday, indiction 6, in the year of the colonia 726, year 42 of the Arabs, for the healing of the sick, by the zeal of John the Gadarene, steward.’ In this we have three levels of authority recorded, the highest two being Arab; the renovation of a ‘typical’ Roman public building of a type adopted by the Muslims; reference to the (ancient?) status of Gadara as a Roman colony (nowhere else attested); and dates expressed according to the Roman, civic and Hijra calendars, together with the indiction. Here at the very beginning of Umayyad rule the conquerors appear as a structure grafted on to Greek civic culture; but their impact on that culture was to increase as time progressed.
Religious changes were also slow. Under the Umayyads the Muslims formed a small proportion of the population, and initially this privileged ruling elite showed little interest in converting non-Muslims. The failure of the Christian empire to defend the followers of Christ did not result in Christians abandoning their faith and wholesale conversions to Islam. Christians were too divided to form a common opinion, except that the disasters could be explained as God’s punishment for heresy. Monophysites and Chalcedonians could blame each other for the divine retribution meted out; or blame could be placed on Jewish treachery. Perhaps it was the Chalcedonians of Syria and Mesopotamia who thought that the magnitude of God’s wrath in these days spelled the end of the world, resulting in the various apocalyptic writings of this period. But the world persisted, and overall there was little resistance to Muslim rule; the subject population seems to have accepted the permanence of the conquest within a decade. Umayyad power was notably secular. The Muslim masters were more tolerant of Jews and Christian sects than the Orthodox Romans had been, and left them free to practise their own observances as long as they paid a poll tax and, if they owned estates, a property tax. From these sources the Muslim state acquired considerable income. In the long run, however, conversion to Islam was socially and financially advantageous for the masses. The fact of Muslim military successes also gave Islam a tremendous psychological edge. 
Fig. 194. The Umayyad phase of the grand colonnade at Palmyra, with rows of shops down the centre of the street.
Whereas cities in Roman Anatolia went into decline, those in Umayyad Syria seem to have fared well. Resafa was preferred over Damascus as a residence for caliph Hisham (724-43), and thrived down to the fall of the Umayyad regime. At Palmyra shops in the grand colonnade were still operating, and a new row of booths was built along the centre of the street (fig. 194). Large town houses at Palmyra and Apamea continued in use. Petra thrived in the seventh and early eighth century. Settlements on the fringes, such as Medaba, Umm al-Jimal and Umm al-Quttayn appear to have flourished in the later sixth and seventh centuries. All of this suggests dynamic urban life, if with less emphasis on public spaces and monumental buildings than in the Roman period. But changes in the nature of urbanism formerly attributed to the Muslim conquest are now seen as a continuation of trends that had already been developing under Roman rule. The transformation of cities and urban lifestyles was well under way before the conquest (see chapter 7). Streets had already become narrower or blocked off, and public spaces invaded by private buildings. Some places may even have recovered elements of their Hellenized grandeur after the conquest. The Umayyads were not insensitive to the tradition of civic monumental architecture. Bath buildings and even colonnades remained a feature of Umayyad cities, although monumental theatres did not. An Umayyad governor constructed a colonnaded portico of shops at Scythopolis, and the elaborate Umayyad administrative complex on the citadel at Amman (Philadelphia) included a colonnaded street, harking back to the authority of Hellenized architecture. This was one of many ways in which the old empire of Rome provided models for the new. One of the clearest ‘imperial’ statements in the old Roman tradition was the settlement founded at Aanjar in the Bekaa valley. A Syriac chronicle of AD 819 mentions that the caliph Walid ‘built a city and named it ‘Ayn Gero’ (Aanjar). Rectangular in plan, Aanjar resembles a ‘playing-card’ shaped Roman military camp, with colonnaded axial main streets meeting in a monumental tetrakionion. It is perhaps more Roman in inspiration than anything contemporary Romans were building (fig. 195). 
Fig. 195. Aanjar. The site is enclosed by a fortified wall, 370 metres (405 yards) long by 310 metres (339 yards) wide, with axial main streets meeting at a junction with a tetrakionion of reused Roman masonry (shown here). The streets were lined with colonnaded arcades and boutiques, and in addition to the houses, arranged in rectangular blocks, Aanjar contained a bath house, a mosque and a palace complex. This was one of several small fortified settlements probably inspired by the formal plans of Roman cities. Others include Aqaba (Aila) and Qasr al-Hayr al-Sharqi.
There is little to support the notion of a decline in the countryside under the Umayyads either. Surface surveys convey a strong impression of continuity and dense occupation. There is evidence of continued expansion of rural settlement in some marginal areas such as the Negev. The limestone massif of the north was a heavily populated, marginal environment, where any adverse developments might lead to major changes in the settlement pattern. The period after the mid-sixth century saw little new construction, but the excavations at Dehes showed that the houses excavated all continued in use into the eighth century, and some into the tenth. These findings suggest that the traditional assumption that the Muslim conquest brought an end to the region’s prosperity is a false one, although it is not clear why the area seems to have stagnated after c. 550. One possible reason is that the population had simply become too great, and competition for resources too intense to allow continued growth in this peripheral region. Further east, in Chalcidice and Palmyrene, the emphasis seems to have been more on great rural estates than peasant smallholdings, although these estates were likely to have been part of a wider, integrated system including towns and villages of the steppe. The numerous large farms and residences (often rather misleadingly called ‘desert castles’) were probably owned by Muslims (who were exempt from property taxes). Some of the more spectacular ones were built by the caliphs themselves. The Umayyads developed and improved late Roman water collection and irrigation techniques to create elaborate domains in what is now dry steppe or desert. Among the best known are the complexes at Qasr al-Heir al-Gharbi, which utilized the resources of the Harbaqa dam (fig. 58), and Qasr al-Heir al-Sharqi, in the steppe east of Palmyra. The huge site at Rasm Abu Miyal, built on the edge of a wadi, flourished in the Umayyad and Abbasid periods. It consisted of a vast enclosure, 1 kilometre (2/3 mile) wide and 1.5 kilometres (7/8 mile) long, at the heart of which stood a ‘palatial’ residence. Water supplies were assured by a double qanat system, a large regulatory basin and system of canals. The concept is essentially an aggrandized version of late Roman exploitation techniques: a large enclosure for agriculture, served by natural and artificial water supplies, implanted in an environment essentially suited to raising of livestock. A similar network of country estates, towns and villages associated with water systems is known from Jordan. It is, however, possible to see in the ‘desert castles’ such as these a shift in the centres of power, from ‘towns’ like Androna to the residences of aristocrats located in the countryside.
The focus on cities and great residences inland was one element in the Umayyad reorganization of space. The region was now divided into military provinces called junds, which bore no relation to the former Roman provinces (although they may correlate to Roman ducal commands), and which completely reorganized the political and military structure. The conquerors also imposed new concepts of time. The Hijra calendar was uncompromisingly lunar, with no adjustments to realign it with the solar year. But the Seleucid era was also employed, and remained in use for centuries. We have little evidence about the fate of the civic eras, but some certainly survived, and it is noteworthy that the church of St Stephen at Kastron Mefaa shows the era of Arabia and the indiction system still in use in the early eighth century, long after the province of Arabia had ceased to exist.
The Umayyad system of taxation was less well organized than that of the Romans. Muslims were exempt from the poll tax, but like non-Muslims they had to pay a land tax. Most revenues were spent locally. The caliphs tried to assert control of the system to ensure that some part of the provincial revenues came to Damascus, and it was probably the successes of ‘Abd al-Malik and Hisham in gaining a greater degree of control over imperial revenues that allowed them to build on the scale that they did.
The pottery record points to significant changes in trade and the distribution of goods. The tradition of packaging in amphoras, and eating from fine ware vessels, was something that Islamic Syria shared with the Roman/Byzantine world, but the patterns of imports and exports changed. In Berytus, for example, there was a major shift towards Egypt. The fine wares now all come from Egypt, whereas in the fifth and sixth centuries the main fine wares had been Late Roman D from Cyprus, Late Roman C from Phocaea, and African Red Slip from Tunisia. Gazan wine amphoras, and the Late Roman Amphora 1 (carrying wine and oil from Cilicia and perhaps Cyprus), were plentiful before the seventh century, but absent after the conquest. Instead the majority of amphoras were imported from Egypt and northern Palestine (Akko/Ptolemais and Caesarea were important wine producers in the Umayyad period).
	The numismatic record, however, suggests some sort of continued link between the Umayyad world and the Roman/Byzantine empire. Bronze folles of Constans II (AD 641-68) are found at both rural and city sites across the region. They are so common that they must have circulated as currency, and were perhaps purchased from or exchanged with Constantinople by local communities. The caliphs did not interfere in the workings of the local monetary economy, and when the Umayyads finally began to produce their own bronze coinage, towards the end of the seventh century (see p. 000), the central government made no attempt to regulate what regional centres produced.
Some of the cultural changes that one might have expected - such as the abstinence from alcohol and pork, and the prohibition of images of humans and animals - are not much in evidence in the archaeological record, although the textual sources occasionally refer to them: ‘‘Abd al-Malik … ordered the pigs to be killed in the cities of Syria and throughout Mesopotamia’. Pig bones continue to be found on various post-conquest sites (though this may reflect the fact that Muslims formed only a small proportion of the populace), wine production continued (several caliphs were notorious drinkers), and artistic production was not confined to abstract designs. Non-Muslims continued their old traditions, and while human and animal figures were inappropriate for the decoration of mosques, the Umayyads used them with abandon in their country estates. The delicate stucco work at Qasr al-Heir al-Gharbi and Khirbet al-Mafjar blends Roman and Sasanian motifs, drawing traditions from both sides of the Fertile Crescent together. The style of some of the figures at Qasr al-Heir al-Gharbi is reminiscent of the art of nearby Palmyra, whose ruined tombs must have been prominent in the landscape. Qasr al-‘Amra, an eighth-century site located about 30 kilometres (18½ miles) south-west of the Azraq oasis, was a richly decorated complex of baths, domestic chambers and an audience hall, which had marble cladding, mosaics and wall paintings. Many themes of the paintings are thought to have been typical of the décor of such buildings under the Umayyads and a number of these would not have been out of place in their late Roman equivalents: hunting scenes; athletes and wrestlers; a nilotic setting; personifications of poetry (particularly dear to the Umayyads), but also history and philosophy, identified as such by Greek inscriptions; three busts which may represent the three ages of man; vine scrolls, birds and other animals. That this place was frequented by the caliphs and was a centre of political power is reflected in a painting in the audience hall, the ‘Fresco of the Six Kings’, four of whom are identified by Greek and Arabic inscriptions as the Roman emperor, the Sasanian king Khusrau, Roderic, king of the Visigoths, and the Axumite Negus (Ethiopia); the others may be the emperor of China and the ruler of the Turks. Perhaps most extraordinary of all are the numerous figures of naked women, depicted with an unashamed sensuality. More religiously inclined caliphs might prohibit images of humans and animals, but representations such as those at al-‘Amra proclaim the very secular face of Umayyad rule.

Art, Architecture and the Traditions of Hellenism
Early Islamic architecture drew inspiration from Sasanian as well as Roman traditions, blending Persian iwans with Roman arcades, colonnades and domes. There are very few identifiable mosques surviving from the early decades of Muslim rule in the region, and most must have been relatively modest affairs. But by the end of the seventh and beginning of the eighth centuries mosques were being constructed at the heart of some of the larger settlements, to emphasize Islam’s importance and authority in the cityscapes of churches and decaying pagan temples. The best known of the early Islamic religious structures are the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, built under ‘Abd al-Malik, and the great Umayyad mosque in Damascus. The Dome of the Rock derives its form from a Roman tradition for centrally planned churches with domes, and may have been deliberately designed to rival the nearby Church of the Holy Sepulchre as a centre of pilgrimage. The Umayyad mosque in Damascus utilizes a different plan, thought to derive from the basilica and forum complexes of Roman cities, but also resembling the courtyard houses of the region. It occupies the site of a former Christian cathedral of St John, which in turn had been built within the inner temenos of the Temple of Zeus Damascenus. Initially the Muslims had shared the temenos with Christians, but under Walid the cathedral building was removed and the entire space converted into a mosque, with a large open court in which Muslims could gather and a huge three-aisled basilical hall on its eastern side. The Dome of the Rock and the Umayyad mosque were structures on which no expense was spared; and they had the revenues of a great empire to support these projects. With the fall of the Umayyads and the shift of the centre of power to Iraq, all imperial projects of this sort ceased in Syria.
The important late Roman mosaic tradition of Palestine and Arabia endured under Umayyad rule. Local authorities continued to decorate their churches with rich mosaic carpets, the best known being one of the most well-preserved mosaics from the region: that in the church of St Stephen at Kastron Mefaa (Umm ar-Rasas: fig. 145). The magnificent mosaics of the nave and aisles are probably to be dated to AD 718 (the date of construction is given in an inscription, but the reading is unclear; a much later date of 785 has also been proposed, though there are problems with this). Additional floors were added in 756. Features such as the border of Nilotic motifs are clearly derived from earlier classical versions, while others, such as the vine-scrolls, representations of cities (including Kastron Mefaa itself) and the elaborate geometric carpets containing small panels with the standard repertory of images (chalices and other containers, birds and so on) are typical of the late Roman period. All representations of living things have been deliberately destroyed and the gaps meticulously filled in with blank tesserae, the inanimate objects being left intact. This ‘iconoclasm’ has been noted at several churches in the region, and looks very much like the result of a prohibition on such representations, perhaps as a result of the caliph Yazid II’s edict in the 720s ordering the destruction of images of things that drew breath. It certainly is not wanton vandalism: the work of removal and repair was carefully done, probably by the Christian community itself.
The Umayyad caliphs themselves also sponsored mosaics, though they seem to have been more cautious in their approach to representations of humans and animals in this medium. The glorious pavements of the palace at Khirbet al-Mafjar, constructed by the caliph Hisham (AD 724-43) at a site north of Jericho, were composed of an array of geometric panels filling a large hall with eight apses. The complex interwoven patterns are paralleled in the stucco work found there. The mosaics did, however, contain one set of animal representations, in an apsidal audience room, where a lion hunts gazelles in the shadow of a large fruit tree. The Umayyad Mosque in Damascus employed Syrian and Roman craftsmen, probably using imported Roman materials (colour plate 29). The original mosaic covered the upper walls of the porticos and the facades within the sanctuary, and must have outclassed any other mosaic in existence in both extent and magnificence. Although fire and earthquakes have destroyed much of the work, the mosaics of the west portico of the court have survived. In accordance with Muslim rulings there are no people or animals in the scenes, but there are palatial pavilions, resembling the Hellenistic architecture of Alexandria, and towns set amid a lush landscape of trees and flowing water, all against a background of gilded glass tesserae. This was a vision of paradise as promised to the righteous. The subject matter would not have been out of place on a floor of the Roman period, but the sumptuous nature of the materials used, and the skilful handling of colours and contrasts, marks out these mosaics, like those of the equally magnificent examples in the Dome of the Rock, as far superior.
Many decorative motifs in Umayyad art seem to derive from classical prototypes, a fact which begs the question of meanings. We have already touched upon these problems in the period of Roman rule (chapter 8), including the debate about the use of Greek pagan images as evidence of Hellenization or Hellenism as a symbolic lingua franca for the peoples of the region. The problem is a semiotic one: what do these signs really signify in these contexts? Is it a case of cultural assimilation, or were the Umayyads appropriating the signs for their own use? Did the combinations of images such as those at Qasr al-‘Amra create entirely new meanings, were they completely reinterpreted, or were new layers of meaning being added to the old ones? The hunting scenes at al-‘Amra contain images and creatures not normally depicted in the Roman equivalents, and which may be a purely regional or local idiom. If so, were other Greek themes and images redeployed to suit the conquerors’ tastes, in such a way that there were not seen as Greek? Did the new occupants of Syria find the fittings and furniture of Hellenism still there, and rearrange them to make entirely different statements?
Unlike the Germanic conquerors of the western Roman empire, the Muslims did not become assimilated to Roman ways. Though they might make use of it, they did not need Hellenism to bolster their legitimacy. A new and confident culture took shape within the bounds of their empire, every bit as vigorous as that of the Romans. The Arabic language was intimately associated with Islam, and the Umayyad achievement was the Arabization of their empire, providing it with a unifying identity based on religion and language. Arabic, which for several centuries had been the dominant language spoken on the fringes of the Roman provinces, was now a high-status tongue, the language of the Qur’an, and rapidly became a major literary tradition. In other areas, however, Greek retained its importance, and throughout the seventh century it was used as an administrative language. The Nessana documents, many dating to the 680s, are predominantly in Greek, and these include administrative papers prepared by people with Arab names. The Arab-Byzantine coins were often bilingual, being inscribed with the names of the issuing cities in both Greek and Arabic (fig. 82). 
There were clearly aspects of the Greek tradition and culture that were felt worth preserving for their intrinsic value, and intellectual works stimulated Muslim speculation. Syriac-speaking monks continued to make translations of Greek works after the conquest, and it was their expertise that preserved many ancient texts (Syriac was to become a medium of translation from Greek into Arabic under the Abbasids). By the seventh century Syriac scholarship was heavily Hellenized, but the cultural superiority of Hellenism and the Greek language was still being expressed and, in some circles, perhaps resented. Severus of Nisibis (died 666/667), who was bishop of Qinnesrin (Chalcis ad Belum), could comment bitterly, and not without irony, that there were still ‘those who assert that the whole of knowledge exists only in the Greek tongue’. This raises questions about the degree to which the elitism of Hellenism could ever be fully divorced from other expressions of Greekness. The caliphs may have reacted to break Hellenism’s alliance with power when ‘Abd al-Malik replaced Greek in the civil service with Arabic. This rejection of Greek by the administration, after a period of experimenting with bilingualism, may have been a deliberate attempt to suppress it. Greek continued to be used by Chalcedonian Christians, at least as a literary language, though they too soon adopted Arabic for everyday use, partly in order to dissociate themselves from accusations that they were a Byzantine fifth column within a Muslim world, but also as a way of distinguishing themselves from the predominantly Monophysite Syriac-speakers.
We have stressed aspects of continuity, but it should also be emphasized that the Umayyad world was a period of transition from a Hellenized culture to an Arabized one. Some features of that transition had already commenced in the last century of Roman rule. The experience and resources that the caliphs drew on provided some form of administrative and cultural continuity between Roman and Umayyad rule, but the Arab rulers also borrowed extensively from the Sasanian world, whose values were in some respects closer to those of the Muslim warriors (admiration for the heroic deeds of great fighters, a strong tradition of court poetry). The Umayyads brought together the traditions from both sides of the Fertile Crescent and created something quite different, the final moment of late antiquity in Syria. The eternal domination of the Romans, celebrated by the provincials of Syria for 700 years, was at an end, but the Muslims did not break completely with the Roman past. Instead it was a legacy they inherited and shaped as their own.

The End of Antiquity?
A more significant change appears to have come in the eighth century, after the Abbasid revolution and fall of the Umayyad dynasty in AD 750, with the transfer of the centre of power to Baghdad and the consequent concentration of resources in Mesopotamia rather than Syria. During the eighth and ninth centuries rural sites in marginal agricultural lands in Syria went into decline and were abandoned, and most of the cities contracted. Many sites show a decline - Petra, Beth Shean (Scythopolis), Jerash (Gerasa), Umm Qais (Gadara), Umm al-Jimal, Palmyra and Apamea. The Negev settlements also dwindled in the eighth century. But this simple picture is actually more complicated, and generalization for such a heterogeneous region is hazardous. The great imperial baths of Berytus continued to function on a reduced scale under the Umayyads, but were remodelled on a larger scale under the Abbasids. Aila (Aqaba) seems to have flourished under the Abbasids, pursuing trade with India and China. Archaeologists depend heavily on pottery for dating rural sites, and Abbasid coarse wares are only just beginning to be recognized at sites previously thought to have been abandoned abruptly after AD 750. There is also some debate about whether Umayyad bronze coinage, which generally bears no dates or references to rulers, continued for a while after the fall of the dynasty. The eagerness to define endings and beginnings can easily lead to continuities going unnoticed or underemphasized. It is perhaps hazardous to speculate about the nature of this eighth/ninth-century change until we have a better idea of what things were being transformed, and when, but political discontinuities allow one to conclude abruptly a narrative that is in fact a continuous process of social change. At any rate it seems clear that Syria became a relative backwater with the rise of Abbasid Iraq. The region had enjoyed nearly a century at the centre of a major world empire, and its fall from that position of pre-eminence is an appropriate point of closure for both Roman Syria and the Near East and antiquity in general.

List of rulers
All dates AD unless otherwise noted.

Seleucid kings
Seleucus I Nicator (312-280 BC)
Antiochus I Soter (280-261 BC)
Antiochus II Theos (261-246 BC)
Seleucus II Callinicus (246-226 BC)
Seleucus III Ceraunus (226-223 BC)
Antiochus III the Great (223-187 BC)
Seleucus IV Philopator (187-175 BC)
Antiochus IV Epiphanes (175-164 BC)
Antiochus V Eupator (164-162 BC)
Demetrius I Soter (162-150 BC)
Alexander I Balas (150-145 BC)
Demetrius II Nicator (145-140, 129-125 BC)
Antiochus VI Dionysus (145-142 BC)
Diodotus Tryphon (142-138 BC)
Antiochus VII Euergetes (138-129 BC)
Alexander II Zebinas (128-123 BC)
Seleucus V (125 BC)
Cleopatra Thea (125 BC)
Cleopatra and Antiochus VIII Grypus (125-121 BC)
Antiochus VIII (121-96 BC)
Antiochus IX Cyzicenus (113-95 BC)
Seleucus VI Epiphanes Nicator (95-94 BC)
Demetrius III Philopator (95-88 BC)
Antiochus X Eusebes Philopator (94-83 BC)
Antiochus XI Epiphanes Philadelphus and Philip I Philadelphus (93 BC)
Philip I (93-83 BC)
Antiochus XI Dionysus (88-84 BC)
(Tigranes of Armenia, 83-69 BC)
Antiochus XII Asiaticus (69-64 BC)
Philip II Barypous (c. 68-64 BC)

Roman Emperors
Usurpers are mentioned only when relevant to the text.

Julio-Claudian Dynasty
Augustus (27 BC-AD 14)
Tiberius (AD 14-37)
Caligula (37-41)
Claudius (41-54)
Nero (54-68)

Civil War
Galba (68-9)
Otho (69)
Vitellius (69)

Flavian Dynasty
Vespasian (69-79)
Titus (79-81)
Domitian (81-96)

‘Adoptive’ emperors
Nerva (96-8)
Trajan (98-117)
Hadrian (117-38)

Antonines
Antoninus Pius (138-61)
Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus (161-9)
Marcus Aurelius (169-77)
Marcus Aurelius and Commodus (177-80)
Commodus (180-92)

Civil War
Pertinax (193)
Didius Julianus (193)
(Pescennius Niger, usurper in the east, 193-4)
(Clodius Albinus, usurper in the west, 193-6)

Severan Dynasty
Septimius Severus (193-8)
Septimius Severus and Caracalla (198-209)
Septimius Severus, Caracalla and Geta (209-11)
Caracalla and Geta (211-12)
Caracalla (212-17)
Macrinus (217-18)
Elagabalus (218-22)
Severus Alexander (222-35)

The ‘Soldier Emperors’
Maximinus I Thrax (235-8)
Gordian I and Gordian II Africanus (238)
Balbinus and Pupienus (238)
Balbinus, Pupienus and Gordian III (238)
Gordian III (238-44)
Philip I the 'Arab' (244-6)
Philip I and Philip II (246-9)
Trajan Decius (249-51)
Trajan Decius and Herennius Etruscus (251)
Hostilian and Trebonianus Gallus (251)
Trebonianus Gallus and Volusian (251-3)
Aemilian (253)
(Uranius Antoninus, usurper in Syria c. 253)
Valerian and Gallienus (253-60)
(Macrianus and Quietus, usurpers in the east, 260-1)
(Postumus, usurper in the west, 259-68)
Gallienus (260-8)
Claudius II (268-70)
Quintillus (270)
Aurelian (270-5)
(Vaballathus, usurper in the east, 271-2)
Tacitus (275-6)
Florianus (276)
Probus (276-82)
(Saturninus, usurper in the east, c. 278)
Carus (282-3)
Carus and Carinus (283)
Carus, Carinus and Numerian (283)
Carinus and Numerian (283-4)
Carinus (284-5)
Diocletian (284-6)

The Tetrarchy
Diocletian and Maximianus (286-305)
Galerius and Constantius I Chlorus (305-6)
(Constantine I, usurper in the west, 306)
Galerius and Severus II (306-7)
(Maxentius, usurper in the central provinces, 306-12)
(Maximianus, 2nd reign as usurper in the west, 306-7)
(Maximianus and Constantine I, usurpers in the west, 307-8)
Galerius and Licinius (308-9)
Galerius, Licinius, Maximinus II Daia and Constantine I (309-11)
Licinius, Maximinus II and Constantine I (311-13)
Licinius and Constantine I (313-24)

Dynasty of Constantine
Constantine I (324-37)
Constantine II, Constans and Constantius II (337-40)
Constans and Constantius II (340-50)
Constantius II (350-61)
(Magnentius, usurper in the west, 350-3)
Julian (361-3)
Jovian (363-4)

Houses of Valentinian and Theodosius
Valentinian I and Valens (364-7)
Valentinian I, Valens and Gratian (367-5)
Valens, Gratian and Valentinian II (375-8)
Gratian and Valentinian II (378-9)
Gratian, Valentinian II and Theodosius I (379-83)
Valentinian II, Theodosius I and Arcadius (383-92)
Theodosius I and Arcadius (392-3)
Theodosius I, Arcadius and Honorius (393-5)

Eastern Roman ('Byzantine') Empire
Arcadius (395-402)
Arcadius and Theodosius II (402-8)
Theodosius II (408-50)
Marcian (450-7)
Leo I (457-73)
Leo I and Leo II (473-4)
Leo II (474)
Leo II and Zeno (474)
Zeno (474-91)
(Leontius, usurper in the east, 484-8)
Anastasius I (491-518)
Justin I (518-27)
Justin I and Justinian I (527)
Justinian I (527-65)
Justin II (565-78)
Tiberius II (578-82)
Maurice Tiberius (582-602)
Phocas (602-10)

Heraclian dynasty
Heraclius (610-13)
Heraclius and Heraclius Constantine (613-38)
Heraclius, Heraclius Constantine and Heraclonas (638-41)
Heraclius Constantine and Heraclonas (641)
Heraclonas (641)
Constans II (also called Constantine III) (641-54)
Constans II and Constantine IV (654-68)
Constantine IV, Heraclius and Tiberius (668-81)
Constantine IV (681-5)
Justinian II (685-95)
Leontius (695-8)
Tiberius III (698-705)
Justinian II, 2nd reign, and Tiberius (705-11)

Parthian (Arsacid) Kings
Some of the dates given below are tentative.

Arsaces I (c. 238-217 BC)
Arsaces II (c. 217-191 BC)
Phriapatius (c. 191-176 BC)
Phraates I (c. 176-171 BC)
Mithridates I (c. 171-138 BC)
Phraates II (c. 138-128 BC)
Artabanus I (c. 128-123 BC)
Mithridates II (c. 123-87 BC)
Gotarzes I, usurper (c. 90-80 BC)
Orodes I (c. 80-76 BC)
Sinatruces (c. 76-70 BC)
Phraates III (c. 70-57 BC)
Mithridates III (c. 57 BC)
Orodes II (c. 57-38 BC)
Pacorus I, co-ruler with Orodes (c. 39 BC)
Phraates IV (c. 38-2 BC)
(Tiridates, usurper in the west, 26 BC)
Phraataces (c. 2 BC-AD 4)
Orodes III (4-6)
Vonones I (8-9)
Artabanus II (10-38)
Vardanes I (38-45)
Gotarzes II, rival to Vardanes (43-51)
(Vonones II, usurper, c. 51)
Vologaeses I (51-78)
(Vardanes II, usurper, 55-8)
Vologaeses II (77-80)
Pacorus II (77-108)
(Artabanus III, usurper, 79-81)
Vologaeses III (105-47)
(Osroes I, usurper, 108-29)
(Parthamaspates, Roman nominee, 116)
(Mithridates, usurper, c. AD 140)
Vologaeses IV (147-91)
(Osroes II, usurper, c. AD 190)
Vologaeses V (191-208)
Vologaeses VI (208-22)
Artabanus IV (213-24)

Sasanian Kings
Some of the dates given below are tentative.

Ardashir I (224-41)
Shapur I (241-72)
Hormizd I (272-3)
Bahram I (273-6)
Bahram II (276-93)
Bahram III (293)
Narseh (293-302)
Hormizd II (302-9)
Shapur II (309-79)
Ardashir II (379-83)
Shapur III (383-8)
Bahram IV (388-99)
Yazdgard I (399-421)
Bahram V (421-39)
Yazdgard II (439-57)
Hormizd III (457-59)
Peroz (457-84)
Balash (484-8)
Kavad I (484, 488-96, 499-531)
Zamasp (496-8)
Khusrau I Anushirvan (531-79)
Hormizd IV (579-90)
Bahram VI Chobin (590-1)
Bistahm (591-7)
Khusrau II Parvez (590-628)
(Hormizd, usurper? c. 593)
Kavad II (628)
Ardashir III (628-30)
Shahrbaraz (630)
Khusrau III? (630)
Buran (630-1)
Azarmidukht (631)
Hormizd V (631-2)
Khusrau IV (631-3)
Yazdgard III (633-51)

Caliphs of Islam

Rashidun Caliphs
Abu Bakr (632-4)
‘Umar (634-44)
‘Uthman (644-56)
‘Ali (656-61)

Umayyad Caliphs
Mu‘awiya I (661-80)
Yazid I (680-83)
Mu‘awiya II (683-4)
Marwan I (684-5)
‘Abd al-Malik (685-705)
Walid I (705-15)
Sulayman (715-17)
Umar II (717-20)
Yazid II (720-4)
Hisham (724-43)
Walid II (743-4)
Yazid III (744)
Ibrahim (744)
Marwan II (744-750)

Captions for colour plates

1. Contrasting landscapes: Cedars of Lebanon on the Jebel Baruk, part of the Lebanon range.
2. Landscape west of Petra, looking towards the Wadi Araba.
3. The grand colonnade at Apamea, looking north. An honorific column stands in the middle of the street in the distance.
4. One of four entrances to the temenos of Zeus at Baetocaece in the Jebel Ansariye. Note the monumental size of the ashlars used.
5. A small sanctuary at Sfire in northern Lebanon, which originally housed a monument à colonnettes.
6. Monument à colonnettes (heavily restored) at Fakra in Lebanon.
7. Late first century BC funerary monument at Hermel, in the northern Bekaa Valley.
8. Southern side of the so-called ‘Temple of Bacchus’ at Heliopolis (Baalbek).
9. Interior of the ‘Temple of Bacchus’, showing the raised thalamos and the elaborate decoration.
10. Detail of the richly decorated ceiling between the peristyle and cella of the ‘Temple of Bacchus’.
11. Temple at Ain Hersheh on the western slope of Mount Hermon. The rear of the cella is decorated with a bust of the moon goddess Selene; the front bore a bust of the sun god Helios. Note the burial in the foreground.
12. General view of Palmyra and its oasis, showing the grand colonnade which stretches from the huge temenos of Bel (centre) to the so-called funerary temple (bottom right), changing direction twice along its course. The city wall can be discerned in the foreground.
13. The monumental arch of the grand colonnade at Palmyra.
14. The so-called funerary temple at Palmyra. In the foreground, the collapsed remains of another monumental tomb.
15. Tower tombs in the western necropolis at Palmyra. In the distance can be seen the well-preserved tower of Elahbel.
16. The interior of tower 19 in the city wall at Dura-Europus. Persian sappers undermined the foundations of the south western corner during the final siege of the city, but instead of collapsing the wall sank into the mine and remained standing. The finds from the tower were extraordinarily well-preserved, and included horse armour, a painted shield and weapons.
17. The well-preserved interior of the theatre at Bostra. Although built of black basalt the façade of the scenae frons employed contrasting white limestone columns and entablatures.
18. Colonnaded street in Tyre, the chief city of Syria Phoenice. The columns and their capitals are all imported granites and marbles.
19. The north theatre at Jerash.
20. General view of the site of Pella.
21. The so-called Khazneh or ‘Treasury’ at Petra.
22. Tombs at Petra. Note the ‘Assyrian’ merlons on the tops of some of them.
23. General view of the martyrium complex at Qalaat Semaan. The focal point was the large octagon (on the right) which surrounded the pillar of the dead saint. Arranged around this, forming a cross, were four halls, of which two can be seen here. The eastern one (on the left) served as a church; the other three were used as assembly halls for pilgrims.
24. The well-preserved church at Mshabbak in the Jebel Semaan.
25. General view of Serjilla, a village in the Jebel Zawiye. The building to the left in the middle distance is a bath building; the one on the right is thought to be an andron (fig. 49) and the two buildings may have been conceived as a single complex. The other buildings are houses.
26. Ruined houses in the village of Jerade on the eastern edge of the Jebl Zawiye. On the left is a small tower.
27. Interior of the Church of the Holy Cross at Resafa.
28. House at Umm al-Jimal. Note the exterior staircase. Located in the dry steppe, the town’s economy was based around raising livestock, and it was under Ghassanid control in the sixth century.
29. Mosaics on the wall of the Great Mosque of the Umayyads in Damascus.

Picture Acknowledgements
Peter Guest: colour plates 20, 21.
Wolfgang Leschhorn and Peter Franke: fig. 119.
Paul Reynolds: fig. 9.
Michael Robinson: fig. 120.
Ed Templar: fig. 190.