Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
Faculty of Classics
University of Cambridge
April 2006
ii
Abstract
This thesis examines the archaeological and epigraphic evidence from the Hellenistic Far
East (Bactria-Sogdiana, Arachosia, north-west India), with reference to current scholarship
on ethnic identity and its formulation.
Chapter 2 discusses the settlement of the Hellenistic Far East under Alexander and the
Seleucids, with special reference to evidence on intermarriage. Even in early periods, I
suggest that intermarriage, and consequent blurring of cultural boundaries, led to a
concerted attempt to assert Greek identity. Two case studies are considered in greater
depth. Funerary practice (Chapter 3) was an area in which Greek writers perceived stark
differences between themselves and the peoples of Central Asia. The Greek authors
delineated an ethnic boundary in face of a sometimes contradictory picture of actual cultural
practice, a phenomenon familiar from the theoretical literature on ethnicity. Greek tombs
could also be used to display Greek identity and cultural values. In Chapter 4, religious
practice is considered. The archaeological evidence reveals a wide spectrum of cult
practice, and I argue that these diverse forms of behaviour could be ethnically neutralised.
The urban landscape of Ai Khanoum reveals that Greek identity was strongly asserted only in
specific contexts, such as the gymnasium and the shrine of the citys founder.
Chapter 5 examines this process of the rationalisation of cultural practice into a distinct
ethnic identity on a more individual level, through two inscriptions. The inscriptions of
Sophytos and Heliodora reveal, respectively, an Indian defining himself with reference to
Greek cultural terms, and a Greek dedicating to an Indian god, in an Indian language. I
suggest that an understanding of the broader Hellenistic context of this material may allow us
to develop more nuanced lines of approach, with the potential to contribute, in turn, to wider
debates on ethnic identity in the Hellenistic world.
iii
Preface
I have incurred a number of debts in the course of my PhD research, which I am glad to have the
opportunity to acknowledge here. Thanks are due above all to my supervisor, Dorothy Thompson,
for her constant support, sound criticism, and generosity with her time and advice. Several other
individuals were kind enough to read and comment upon particular chapters, suggest relevant
bibliography or provide access to unpublished material: Susan Bayly, Dilip Chakrabarti, Eivind
Kahrs, Robin Osborne and Nicholas Sims-Williams. I am also grateful to the staff of the libraries of
the Faculty of Classics, Faculty of Oriental Studies and the Ancient Iran and India Trust in
Cambridge for their assistance in tracking down (often more than usually obscure) items of
bibliography. Some of the material in this thesis was first presented at seminars in the Faculty of
Classics, as well as conferences in Oxford, Birmingham, Leicester and Liverpool, where
participants provided many helpful comments.
Financial support was provided by the Arts and Humanities Research Council, for the duration of
my MPhil and PhD research. I have received further grants and scholarships from the Faculty of
Classics, Faculty of Oriental Studies and St. Catharines College. Research in Afghanistan in
August-September 2005 was supported by a generous grant from the Committee for Central and
Inner Asia. Special thanks are due to the Minaret of Jam Archaeological Project, and its Director,
David Thomas, for facilitating my visit to Afghanistan, allowing me to participate in their project in
Ghor Province and covering my expenses in the field. Roland Besenval and the staff of the
Dlgation archologique franaise en Afghanistan (DAFA) were kind enough to discuss their
recent fieldwork, and allow me to use their library collections in Kabul.
I am fortunate to have had the support of good friends throughout my time at Cambridge: in
particular, among the MCR of St. Catharines College, and the graduate community of the
Department of Egyptology (who have good-humouredly ignored my defection to Classics). I hope
that they will forgive me for not naming them individually here. I would like to dedicate this thesis to
my parents, Raymond and Carol Mairs, my sisters Rebecca and Jessica, and my grandparents,
Ruth and Neville Ginn, as some small expression of my thanks for their love, support and
encouragement.
Declaration
This dissertation is the result of my own work and includes nothing which is the outcome of
work done in collaboration except where specifically indicated in the text. As required by the
Degree Committee of the Faculty of Classics, I certify that this dissertation does not exceed
80,000 words in length, excluding the Bibliography. The total word count is 79,438 words.
iv
Contents
List of Figures
List of Maps
Abbreviations........................................................................................................................................... 8
Transliteration Conventions..................................................................................................................... 8
Map 1 The Hellenistic East......................................................................................................................9
Map 2 Bactria and Sogdiana .................................................................................................................10
Map 3 North West India in the Indo-Greek Period ................................................................................ 11
Map 4 Hellenistic Egypt ........................................................................................................................ 12
viii
Abbreviations
Unless specified otherwise, references to Classical authors are to the following works in their
most recent Loeb edition, where one exists. Any uncredited translations are my own.
Transliteration Conventions
In transliterating Greek proper nouns, I have aimed for consistency rather than strict
adherence to one particular system. In most cases, I have preferred the Greek form
(Herodotos, Seleukos), but where a Latinised form is more familiar, or more commonly
encountered in the scholarly literature, I have sometimes retained this (Bactria, Oxus).
For Devan.gar/, I follow the system adopted in A. A. Macdonells A Sanskrit Grammar
for Students (third edition, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1927). I have avoided direct
quotation of Russian works and, wherever possible, given the original Cyrillic for
transliterated terms. It should be noted that the Romanisation of the names of Russian
authors writing in Western European languages often varies from one publication to another:
these are cross-referenced in the Bibliography.
ix
Holt
(1999b), Map 2.
x
Holt (1999b),
Map 3.
xi
Chapter 1
Introduction
1 Foucher (1942-47), 73-75, 310. On Foucher and the establishment of the Dlgation archologique
franaise en Afghanistan (DAFA), see Olivier-Utard (1997), Part 1; note, however, Grenets (1999)
critical review of the latter part of this work.
2 Schlumberger (1960), 152.
3 On the Bactrian mirage and the archaeological reality, see Kuzmina (1976) and Holt (1987).
4 Francfort (1984), 4.
5 Holt (1999b), 9-20.
2
present study is to examine how the evidence currently at our disposal may be used to look
at the people and processes behind the material Mischkultur of the Hellenistic Far East.6
The topic has an inescapable degree of contemporary resonance, which brings its own
problems and opportunities. Issues surrounding the contact or cohabitation of different
ethnic groups inevitably evoke modern parallels: some of the resulting problems of
terminology and approach will be discussed in Section 1.3 below. Ongoing conflict and
instability in Afghanistan, Pakistan and the Central Asian Republics have led to comparison
of past and present experiences of warfare in the region,7 and also impose severe practical
constraints on the conduct of research there. Although much archaeological material has
been destroyed (or remains inaccessible and uncatalogued) and sites continue to be
pillaged,8 new material has also emerged onto the antiquities market. A significant number of
new documents and inscriptions have appeared in recent years,9 and numismatic finds
continue on an often spectacular scale.10 The value of this new evidence is, however, often
compromised by its lack of secure provenance.
The temptation when dealing with an area such as the Hellenistic Far East is to aspire
to comprehensiveness, but it is questionable how well the field, in its present state, would be
served by a synthetic study. Given the rate at which new evidence is emerging some of
which leads us to reassess earlier interpretations any such survey would quickly become
out-of-date. Although the present study aims to take account of as much of the currently-
available evidence as possible, it addresses a more specific question, that of ethnic identity.
I have deliberately avoided discussing chronology or proposing historical or dynastic
reconstructions. Perhaps controversially, only limited use is made of numismatic evidence.
My analysis of material culture is at times conducted from an explicitly anti-art historical
perspective. My purpose in selecting these particular approaches and forms of evidence has
not been to pass judgement on their general applicability or utility with regard to the
Hellenistic Far East. Rather, my particular agenda investigating ethnic identity has
required a certain degree of focus.
Holts Bactrian paradigm sets the region firmly within a Hellenistic context. My aim is
to ask some of the same questions of the evidence from the Hellenistic Far East, as are
commonly posed in studies of ethnicity in the Hellenistic world. This will not be a matter of
directly applying previously-developed theories or methodologies to the Hellenistic Far East,
6 See Section 1.3.2 below. Droysens Mischkultur and its problems are discussed by Momigliano
(1970), Praux (1978), 7ff, and Ritner (1992), among others.
7 Holt (2005).
8 Bernard (2001).
9A Greek tax receipt: Rea, Senior and Hollis (1994), Rapin (1996a); the inscription of Sophytos:
Bernard, Pinault and Rougemont (2004); Aramaic documents: Shaked (2004). I am grateful to
Nicholas Sims-Williams for allowing me to consult in manuscript Naveh and Shakeds forthcoming
publication of the Aramaic documents. The most recent survey of Greek texts from the Hellenistic Far
East is Bernard (2002).
10 Bopearachchi (2002); Bopearachchi and Flandrin (2005).
3
but of using the data from this ethnically and culturally complex society to question and
reformulate our ideas on ethnicity in the Hellenistic world as a whole.
The remainder of this chapter sets out the basic methodological framework of the
present study, introducing the Hellenistic Far East, and discussing how the concept of ethnic
identity may contribute productively towards its analysis.
4
The history of the Hellenistic Far East has long been notorious for its obscurity.11 Such are
the deficiencies of the Greek and Latin literary sources that reconstruction of a traditional
narrative history is impossible. At some point during the third century,12 the Greek kingdom
of Bactria established its independence from the Seleucid empire, under Diodotos I and his
son Diodotos II.13 The Diodotids were overthrown by Euthydemos I, the king whom the
Seleucid king Antiochos III encountered on his unsuccessful attempt to reconquer the Upper
Satrapies in 212-205.14 Euthydemos son Demetrios I invaded India.15 Another king active in
India was Menander I Soter, who appears in both Greek and Indian literary sources, and
appears to have been a patron of Buddhism.16 The Greek kingdoms of the Hellenistic Far
East became subject to increasing political fragmentation. In Bactria, the Euthydemids were
overthrown by Eukratides I, who continued to struggle against the Greek kings of India;
Justin states that Eukratides came to power at around the same time as Mithridates of
Parthia, c.170.17 The Greek kingdom of Bactria fell to nomadic invasions around the middle
of the second century.18 In India, the latest Greek coinage is that of Strato II, in the early first
century AD.19 During the first three centuries AD, the Kushans, a dynasty of Central Asian
origin, came to control most of the former Greek possessions in Bactria, India and beyond. 20
The majority of the Greek kings of the Hellenistic Far East are known only from their
coinage. Although careful study of monograms, die sequences and overstrikes can produce
11See e.g. Strabo 15.1.3. A curious footnote to the sparse Classical tradition on the Hellenistic Far
East is the occurrence of the grete Emetreus, the kyng of Inde in Chaucers Canterbury Tales (The
Knights Tale, 1298). Chaucers source appears to have been Boccaccio, who mentions both
Demetrios and Eukratides (De Casibus Virorum Illustrium 6.6). On the Graeco-Bactrian and Indo-
Greek kings in mediaeval tradition, see Bivar (1950).
12 All dates are BC, unless stated otherwise.
13Holt (1999b); Bopearachchi (1994b). For critical discussion of the dynastic history of the Hellenistic
Far East, see, in general, Holt (1999b), who also supplies a useful compendium of the relevant
Classical sources.
14 Polybios 11.34.
15Strabo 11.11.1. The treasury at Ai Khanoum has yielded some of the spoils of Graeco-Bactrian
campaigns into India: Rapin (1992a), (1996b). The new inscription from Kuliab, which mentions
Euthydemos and Demetrios, is discussed in Chapter 4. India, when used with reference to periods
before 1947, indicates the Indian Subcontinent / South Asia as a whole, not the modern nation state.
16Bopearachchi (1990); Plutarch, Moralia 821D; Strabo 11.11.1; the Milindapaha, a P!li dialogue
between the Greek king Milinda and a Buddhist sage is translated by Rhys Davids (1890).
17 Justin 41.6.
18 Attested in Classical and Chinese sources, and by archaeological evidence from Ai Khanoum and
elsewhere in Bactria: Bernard (1985); Lyonnet (1991).
19 According to the analysis of Bopearachchi (1991b).
20 On the Kushans, see Staviskij (1986) and Harmatta, Puri and Etemadi (eds.) (1994).
5
invaluable evidence on relative chronology and territorial possessions,21 there has been a
dangerous tendency for speculation to be presented as fact.22 Much is open to
interpretation. The earliest major modern works on the Hellenistic Far East, W. W. Tarns
The Greeks in Bactria and India (1951; first edition 1937) and A. K. Narains The Indo-Greeks
(1957), which, in the absence of much archaeological material were reliant on literary and
numismatic sources, differ in a great many of their conclusions. There are only a few points
in the present study where issues of chronology or the geographical sphere of control of
particular kings will be of importance. In these cases, I follow Bopearachchi (1991a) (Figure
1.1).
The appeal of the term Hellenistic Far East, in defining the geographical and
chronological parameters of the present study, is that it is non-specific. Several regions of
Central and South Asia came under Greek rule or influence in the Hellenistic period, but the
nature and duration of this Greek presence varied.23 Bactria-Sogdiana, for example, became
the centre of an independent Greek-ruled kingdom; Arachosia passed under Indian political
control in the late fourth century, yet continued to produce Greek inscriptions during the third
century. In the second century, the Greek rulers of Bactria instigated a process of military
expansion into North-West India, and numismatic evidence attests Greek kings in the Panjab
as late as the first century AD. The cultural and political connections between these regions
makes some catch-all term useful, particularly if they are to be dealt with from a wider
Hellenistic perspective. Hellenistic Far East or variants such as Greek Far East and
Hellenistic Farther East is not a perfect solution, but its recurrence in the scholarly
literature of several languages, and the lack of prejudice (so far) attached to its use, make it
a convenient compromise.24 With reference to earlier periods or when treating the region
from an explicitly Mediterranean or Achaemenid perspective I will also occasionally use the
term Upper Satrapies.
It has become customary to refer to the Greek kingdoms north of the Hindu Kush as
Graeco-Bactrian and those in the Indian Subcontinent as Indo-Greek. 25 These
designations are, for obvious reasons, unsatisfactory. As outlined in the historical summary,
above, the same dynasties or the same individual kings are often involved: at what point
does Demetrios I, conqueror of India but attested in an inscription from northern Bactria,
become Indo-Greek? The distinction between the two terms is intended to be (loosely)
21 See the work of Bopearachchi (e.g. 1991c) and Holt (e.g. 1999b).
22 See the somewhat pessimistic discussion in Seldeslachts (2004).
23 Alexanders initial conquests, and the process of settlement, will be discussed in Chapter 2.
24The term was apparently coined by Hassoulier in 1902, as Extrme-Orient grec: Schmitt (1990),
42; Schlumberger (1960).
25 Other expressions are occasionally encountered, but have yet to gain any widespread currency.
The term Indus Greeks, for example, has been vigorously championed by Dani, on the grounds that it
more accurately reflects the geographical extent of the Greek-ruled states (e.g. Dani 1991). The only
real reason for preferring Indus to Indo-, however, appears to be a political one: the western regions
of ancient India lie within modern Pakistan.
6
chronological and geographical, but the very constructions Graeco-Bactrian and Indo-
Greek have unfortunate cultural and ethnic connotations. For this reason however
innocently the terms may be employed elsewhere I will use them only occasionally, to
make a geographical distinction or for stylistic variation.
Geographical vagueness is also somewhat inevitable. In both ancient and modern
usage, names such as Bactria or Sogdiana do not generally correspond to clearly
demarcated entities on the ground. It is notable that the Classical sources preferred to refer
to peoples rather than to territorial units.26 As used by Soviet archaeologists, Bactria was
extended from its usual ancient definition as the region south of the Oxus, to include areas
farther north, thus emphasising the high degree of cultural uniformity found in archaeological
material from the region. This modern definition of Bactria makes a great deal of sense in
archaeological terms and has come into widespread use: it is also apparent that the
inconsistent attempts of the Classical sources to delineate a boundary between Bactria and
Sogdiana along the Oxus did not reflect contemporary local conditions.27
One question, of course, is whether we are right to view this region from a Hellenistic
perspective at all. 28 The use of Hellenistic with reference to the Greek-ruled states of
Central and South Asia courts a slight but significant degree of controversy.29 One problem
is that it implicitly prioritises the Greek component.30 Another is that it has traditionally borne
certain cultural assumptions (see Section 1.3.2 below). The most pragmatic approach is to
use Hellenistic in a chronological sense, to denote the period from the death of Alexander to
that of Kleopatra VII in 30 BC. The period of Greek political and cultural dominance in the
Hellenistic Far East, however, extends beyond these chronological limits, even if only by a
few decades. In addition, some of the regions ruled by Indo-Greek kings lie outside the
territory conquered by Alexander. The Hellenistic Far East therefore oversteps the
conventional boundaries of the Hellenistic world. The approach I adopt here is to apply
Hellenistic, as ingenuously as possible, to the territory in which Greeks had significant
influence in the last three centuries BC. 31 If this implies an indifference to terminological or
cultural nuance, it is at least a studied indifference.
26Satrap of the Arachotians rather than satrap of Arachosia: Arrian 3.28.1; cf Staviskij (1986), 47, on
Bactria and Bactrians.
27 Staviskij (1986), 47-55; Leriche (1985), 67.
28 Karttunen (1997b), 1-2.
29 Banerjee (1919), 10; Narain (1992), 7; Thapar (2002), 214. Discussed in Mairs (2006).
30As does the term non-Greek, which groups together diverse cultural and ethnic groups; I use it
somewhat reluctantly, for lack of a concise alternative.
31 Scholars grapple with the problem in very different ways: see e.g. Sedlar (1980), ix; Green (1990),
xv; Shipley (2000), 1-2; Ogden (2002), x-xi. Hellenistic may also be used in a linguistic sense,
indicating koin! rather than Classical Greek, and in a broader cultural sense which encompasses the
Greek or hellenised culture of the eastern Mediterranean through into Late Antiquity.
7
1.3Ethnic Identity
Figure 1.1 Chronology of Graeco-Bactrian and Indo-Greek Kings: Bopearachchi (1991a), Table 5.
8
Ethnic group: any group of people who set themselves apart and/or are set apart by
others with whom they interact or co-exist on the basis of their perceptions of cultural
differentiation and/or common descent.
Ethnicity: all those social and psychological phenomena associated with a culturally
constructed group identity as defined above. The concept of ethnicity focuses on the
ways in which social and cultural processes intersect with one another in the
identification of, and interaction between, ethnic groups.
The rhetorical starting-points for the present thesis are Sin Jones The Archaeology of
Ethnicity (1997) and Stuart Tyson Smiths Wretched Kush: Ethnic Identities and Boundaries
in Egypts Nubian Empire (2003). Jones (1997) is currently the definitive survey of ethnicity
in archaeological theory, and discusses the intellectual and political background to the
modern theoretical literature, as well as the issues involved in application to the
archaeological record. Smiths scope is somewhat narrower, focussing on two sites, Tombos
and Askut, in Egyptian-controlled Nubia of the second millennium BC.
Jones (1997) obviates the need for an extensive literature review here: the salient
points may be picked out relatively briefly.32 For the time being, the definitions quoted at the
beginning of this section may serve to indicate the spectrum of social and cultural behaviour I
wish to consider under the heading of ethnic identity. As will be discussed further below,
these definitions should not be regarded as either canonical or comprehensive. My own
tendency, for example, is to use the terms ethnicity and ethnic identity interchangeably.
Where I would like to lay greater emphasis, following Smith, is on the practical application of
ethnicity-theory to the evidence, and on what I hope an ethnicity-centric study of the
Hellenistic Far East to actually achieve.33 The priority, in both cases, must be to work closely
with the evidence itself a measure of learning by doing. The question of what constitutes
32 My discussion of ethnic identity and its operation also owes much to the eminently pragmatic survey
of Eriksen (1993).
33 Smith (2003), xv-xvi.
9
an ethnic identity, and how we should go about recognising this in the ancient record, will
therefore form a constant thread throughout the analysis in the following chapters. Some
preliminary discussion of the key theoretical and terminological issues is, however, in order.
The Conclusion will revisit these questions, in order to tie together the points made in the
analysis of the evidence itself.
In discussing modern debates on ethnicity, it is customary to pay homage to the work of
Fredrik Barth (1969a), which laid many of the ground-rules for the way in which we approach
analysing ethnicity as a constructed identity. Barths particular emphasis was on the role of
ethnic boundaries, the divisions which people delineate between their own group and others,
and the claimed cultural bases upon which such boundaries are constructed. From an
archaeological perspective, ethnicitys controversy has traditionally sprung from this
problematic relationship to culture. The identification of an archaeological culture, or
artefact assemblage, with a particular ethnic group, common in the earlier part of the
twentieth century, was adopted enthusiastically as a tool of the racist archaeology of Nazi
Germany and has, unsurprisingly, been rather less popular since.34 The normative
assumption that bounded uniform cultural entities correlate with particular peoples, ethnic
groups, tribes and/or races,35 aside from its unfortunate political connotations, is also
insensitive to diversity within a single society. Culture is nevertheless an important medium
through which ethnicity and ethnic differences are articulated. In some cases, the cultural
differences may be slight, but are seized upon (often by all groups involved) as key
differentiating characteristics. Even in cases where an ethnic group does manifest a
common culture distinct from that of neighbouring groups, much can be gained by regarding
this very important feature as an implication or result, rather than a primary and definitional
characteristic of ethnic group organisation.36
If ethnicity is not the same as culture, then what is it? First and foremost, ethnicity is
not so much what someone is as how they are defined. It is primarily a social category,
perhaps (though not necessarily) with some legal and biological aspects, and is something
which is adopted by the actors themselves.37 This usually takes the form of self-definition
where a group defines themselves as Greek or Bactrian or Egyptian, with a feeling of group
solidarity and common identity but it may also be imposed from outside in the absence of
any self-perceived common identity among the ethnic group in question. Ethnic identity is
generally articulated as much in negative as in positive terms, defining the group in
opposition and in contrast to others.38 The ethnic group (where self-defined) has a clear
consciousness of itself as a separate group and sets in place particular social boundaries in
order to perpetuate its separateness, although there is in practice a certain degree of fluidity
across boundaries, and incorporation of others into the ethnic group (for an example, see
Chapter 5, Section 5.3.4). We are dealing not with absolutes, but with perceptions and
definitions. A level of control is maintained by the social processes of exclusion and
incorporation whereby discrete categories are maintained despite changing participation and
membership in the course of individual life histories.39 It may not matter what ethnic group
an individual, or their parents, was born into, if they can be rationalised and incorporated into
the framework and practices of another group.40
All these aspects of ethnicity have certain implications for the practical interpretation of
archaeological remains. We should not, for example, expect to be able to delineate clear
ethnic boundaries on the basis of apparent differences in artistic or architectural style,
especially not when these differences occur within a single site. The archaeological record of
the contact or cohabitation of two ethnic groups cannot be expected to produce a simple
model of uniform acculturation. What we should expect in multi-ethnic societies and what
the analysis of their material remains should take into account is a complex pattern of
overlapping material culture distributions relating to the repeated realisation and
transformation of ethnicity in different social contexts, rather than discrete monolithic cultural
entities. 41 If ethnicity is to be a useful interpretative framework, then our approach to
identifying it in the ancient record must be examined extremely critically. Section 1.4 sets out
the principles on which I shall conduct my analysis of the material from the Hellenistic Far
East.
Ethnic being a word with great currency in modern popular culture and politics (ethnic
minorities, ethnic cleansing, ethnic discrimination), it is as well to offer some additional
discussion of what ethnicity is not. Even in academic studies, a degree of caveat lector must
apply; the term continues to be used in different ways by different people, sometimes failing
fully to take into account the range of issues involved, or subordinating analytical nuance to
modern resonance:
Ethnicityis a much-abused term, and one that is sometimes used to mask directly
political motives. Since 1992, for instance, within the former republic of Yugoslavia,
there has been serious fighting between Serbs, Croats, and others (mainly Muslims)
over territories. The irony is that there are relatively few underlying differences among
the communities involved, the principal distinctions being religious (Orthodox Christian,
Roman Catholic, and Muslim respectively). It is sad that blind prejudice among ethnic
and religious lines which underlay the horrors of the Holocaust during World War II
should once again lead to the mindless slaughter in Yugoslavia termed ethnic
cleansing. The perversion of ethnicity is the curse of our age.42
Without seeking to downplay the gravity of the situations cited by Renfrew and Bahn,
discussions such as this do somewhat miss the point. The potential for manipulation is
inherent in the practical construction and articulation of ethnic boundaries, and this is not a
phenomenon unique to the twentieth century.43 On the contrary, the construction of social
identities, often deeply felt and defended, with a variable or even non-existent basis in
reality may be argued to be all but universal. It is not the genetic, linguistic, religious or
cultural attributes of a community to which ethnicity, as used in the modern scholarly
literature, refers, but rather the ways in which people use (or abuse) this raw material in the
construction of their projected social identities.
Given the very primal emotions which a challenge to an individual or communitys
identity can provoke, the recognition of this artificial quality of ethnic identity can be a
sensitive matter to broach. This is true of modern respondents (whether in ethnographic
fieldwork, or even in everyday social interaction), but also with the past. Textual sources may
shed light on the tenacity with which historical groups or individuals have protested their own
ethnic identity, and we may read into this an awareness, on some level, of the challenges it
was possible to bring against this, confronting their own construction of their identity with the
basic attributes of descent or language-use which they possessed. It is also, however, an
issue when dealing with modern studies of such groups in the ancient world. Modern
identities often have a claimed basis in past ones witness the Classical basis of the
intellectual identity of the modern West and recognising these past identities themselves as
constructs, or challenging the cultural basis of them, can be felt to be deeply threatening.
This phenomenon can be seen in operation in a number of studies on the populations of the
Hellenistic Far East particularly by authors who clearly want them to be Greek or to be
Indian. The classic polarity is Tarn (1951) versus Narain (1957), although this has tended to
be over-simplified.44
The perversion of ethnicity is a historiographical rather than an historical
phenomenon. This perversion is inherent in the way in which ethnicity itself operates, and
the emotive nature of the vocabulary used merely serves to further demonstrate the conflict
which people often perceive in the idea that their own identity, and that of other people, may
be constructed rather than innate. Ethnicity is not something which can be or ought to be -
resolved in this way, broken down into its constituent attributes and either confirmed or
dismissed as fiction. The mechanisms by which people seek to construct an identity; the
factors they use or dismiss in order to reinforce this; and the lengths to which they will go to
maintain the constructed identity, are issues to be studied in themselves. The Hellenistic
world is an especially fruitful area for a study of this sort and the Hellenistic Far East, in
addition to being well-overdue such a reassessment, has a range of evidence capable of
providing a stimulating contribution to debates on Hellenistic ethnicity, and, indeed, to those
on identity and its construction in general.
A brief sketch of modern historiographical trends will reveal the extent to which debates on
culture and identity in the Hellenistic world have been conditioned by the contemporary social
and political environment. Droysen, in his Geschichte des Hellenismus (1877, first edition
1836-43), characterised the Hellenistic period as one of the mixture of two cultures, Greek
and Oriental,45 leading inevitably (and teleologically) to the rise of Christianity. 46 His analysis
owed much to Hegels construct of thesis (Greek culture) plus antithesis (Oriental culture)
leading to synthesis (a Hellenistic Mischkultur). In the nineteenth and early-mid twentieth
centuries, influenced in part by contemporary European colonial ventures, 47 this synthesis
came implicitly to be regarded in two ways. From the projected native48 point of view, the
diffusion of Greek culture and political control was benign, a civilising influence. Seen from
the European point of view, it represented a degeneration or bastardisation of Classical
Greek culture. By many, such as Rostovtzeff, the latter process was given a more positive
slant, and the period when Hellenistic Alexandria replaced Classical Athens as the pre-
eminent cultural force in the Greek-speaking world was imagined to have been marked by a
dynamic and vibrant cosmopolitanism.49 Local citizenship, as Banerjee, an early historian
of Hellenism in India, rather grandly put it, slowly yielded to a citizenship of the world.50
In the years following the Second World War, colonialism and cosmopolitanism could
no longer be regarded so positively.51 In Germany, for example, study of the Hellenistic
period became unpopular because of its association with monarchy, authoritarianism and
45 Specifically Jewish: the term hellenistic first occurs in the Bible with reference to Jews taking up
Greek language and lifestyle: Ogden (2002), ix; 2 Maccabees 4.13; Acts 6.1. In contemporary
documentary sources, such as the papyri of Hellenistic Egypt, there are Hellenes and there are
Egyptians, neither necessarily denoting pure descent and culture, but often rather the identity the
individual themselves chose to project (or found it useful and appropriate to project) in a particular
context: see Lewis (1986) for numerous examples. There are no Greek-ish people, no Hellenists;
the absence of such mixed categories in the Hellenistic world will be explored further in the
Conclusion.
46 Momigliano (1970).
47 Burstein (1997), 2.
48I use native and, indeed, European - somewhat facetiously. For further discussion of the post-
colonial minefield surrounding the Hellenistic Far East, see Mairs (2006).
49 Rostovtzeff (1920), 161.
50 Banerjee (1919), 11.
51 Burstein (1997), 4.
13
colonialism with echoes of racial superiority in the Greek domination over native peoples.52
The first great age of Western imperial expansion in Asia became rather the dark side to
the Hellenistic period.53 In the later twentieth century, study of indigenous cultures in their
own right became regarded as increasingly important. Post-colonialist interpretations were a
major growth industry, influenced by Saids (1978) critique of the attitudes to non-European
cultures conditioned in Western scholarly writing. A classic example is Wills (1985) article
Pour une anthropologie coloniale du monde hellnistique. Although conscious that no
historian can write entirely divorced from his times, Will accuses earlier historians of having
failed to confront la problme sociologique majeur des rapports entre ethnies, entre lethnie
conqurante et dominante et les ethnies conquises et exploites.54
The backlash-against-the-backlash has been, in many ways, a parallel development,
rejecting the direct comparisons made between the Hellenistic states under Greek rule and
modern European colonies. Bagnall, for example, points out some key differences between
ancient and modern colonisation.55 The picture of isolation and division which emerged in
reaction to cosmopolitanism, is viewed as equally unrealistic, since it ignores the role of
native lites and well-attested processes of intermarriage and acculturation.56 It has now
become virtually orthodox doctrine to see the Hellenistic age, not as a mix good or bad
at all, but as a time of multicultural development, with people of different races and religions
and different social and political traditions living side by side, but independently.57 A further
development has been the tendency to look at areas of overlap and encounter in the
Hellenistic world, focusing on the specific situations and circumstances in which Greek and
non-Greek met and interacted most closely. Multiculturalism is the new cosmopolitanism,
and it is a concept no less conditioned by prevailing political and social conditions.58 Interest
in the Hellenistic period has been, to some extent, fuelled by widespread experience of
mutiracial societies and the problems they can create.59
This simplified historiographical schema neglects many overlaps and side-issues, but
will serve to demonstrate the problems faced by anyone attempting to address the ethnic and
cultural issues generated by study of the Hellenistic Far East. Where Droysens Hegelian
model of thesis countered by antithesis leading to synthesis can, in fact, best be applied is to
Hellenistic scholarship rather than to Hellenistic culture itself.
In the same way as more abstract political and social conditions, the sociological theory
on ethnicity discussed above also forms an important context for modern Hellenistic studies.
Ethnicity has become a key interpretative framework within which to view Hellenistic culture
and identity, and this framework has been applied with a significant degree of self-reflexivity,
and awareness of the historical and ideological contexts within which modern notions of
ethnicity have been formulated.60 The tendency and often declared policy 61 - in Hellenistic
studies to problematise extends to intellectual discourse, and the sociological literature is
engaged with critically. Many of the key themes and concepts discussed above recur
throughout ethnicity-based analyses of the Greek world,62 such as the emphasis on exposing
the artificiality of ethnicity, 63 defining it as a construct rather than anything more objective.
The Classical Greek and Hellenistic evidence, moreover, permits other factors to be
taken into account or explored more thoroughly than those commonly treated in the
specifically-archaeological literature. For most parts of the Hellenistic world, we not only
have reasonably detailed if naturally biased accounts by Greeks64 of non-Greek cultures
and ethnic groups, but also evidence of the languages in use there. Language-use is a
conspicuous feature of and means of articulating ethnic identity, and is notably absent from
the definitions from Jones (1997) quoted at the beginning of this section. The reason for the
common omission of language from the archaeological literature on ethnicity is obvious:
inferring the language spoken by the creators of a particular archaeological culture is a
difficult, contentious and often rather dubious exercise.65 Yet language-use can be an
important part of ethnic identity, and where we have the opportunity to identify the language
(s) spoken by specific past communities, for which we also have archaeological evidence, it
adds an important dimension to our understanding of ethnicity in those communities. Where
evidence of bilingualism survives, we also have a useful basis for discussing the political and
social implications of language-use. 66 Aside from the language in which they are written, the
content of texts can also provide contemporary views on ethnic identity and ethnic relations,
and information on how ethnic identities functioned and were expressed within society. The
concept that ethnicity is something fluid, subject to change in different circumstances so long
as it can be articulated within pre-defined frameworks, for example, can be seen in the
papyrological evidence from Hellenistic Egypt. Individuals might hold double Greek-Egyptian
names, or the same individual might function within the Greek or Egyptian legal systems
according to context or preference. This potential for situational variation will be a key theme
in my analysis of the material from the Hellenistic Far East.
We also have from a relatively early period discussions of ethnicity by the Greeks
themselves.67 Herodotos lists the practices and qualities which make someone a Greek, with
particular emphasis on language and religion.68 Crucially, where what we would term
ethnicity is treated in the ancient sources, it is in terms of discussion and reformulation
rather than simple, unproblematic statement.69 The relative importance of different factors in
determining ethnicity, as perceived by contemporary commentators, may also be assessed,
although it should be borne in mind that it is the perception and articulation of ethnic
qualities and attributes which matters, and not always their actual possession by the
individual or group in question. In the case of Hellenistic Egypt, descent (or claimed descent)
was a major factor in the eyes of the participants, as was language-use.70 More abstract
concepts such as primordiality or common origin, often backed up by myth, could also figure
prominently in the articulation of Greek identity.71 These perceived indicators of common
ethnic identity are not the kind of things which show up in an archaeological context. As will
be argued in Chapter 3, comparison of actual cultural practices with the claimed cultural
bases of ethnic boundaries may provide a constructive approach to apparently contradictory
sets of textual and archaeological evidence, and give some insight into the formulation of
identity.
1.4 Methodology
The point that ethnic identity is a construct, with a varying relationship to factors such as
language use and material culture, has perhaps been somewhat laboured in the preceding
discussion. The purpose of this has been to highlight the fact that pieces of evidence such
as artistic style or the language of inscriptions in the Hellenistic Far East in fact require a
great deal of further consideration before we can decide what they tell us about ethnicity. As
already indicated, much of my theoretical discussion will be integrated with the consideration
of the evidence itself, in the following chapters. The present discussion will lay down a few
methodological ground-rules, and explain the basis on which my analysis will be conducted.
This will consider the specific nature and problems of the evidence from the Hellenistic Far
East, and the ways in which we might realistically expect expressions of ethnic identity to
show up in the ancient record. Literary and epigraphic evidence will be largely omitted from
this discussion, to be considered elsewhere, particularly in Chapter 3 and Chapter 5.
The problem with many discussions of ethnicity and material culture is that they
promise much, but deliver little in terms of actual application.72 Given the difficulty of the
task, this is perhaps unsurprising, even an indicator of scholarly rigour. But locating
articulations of ethnic identity in the material record is not only possible, but crucial if
ethnicity is to be anything more than an elegant but rather convoluted theory. At the very
least, such an exercise, engaged in critically, has considerable heuristic value, as will be
discussed further with regard to epigraphic evidence in Chapter 5.
The basic principles on which I shall conduct my analysis are as follows. Ethnicity is
not the same thing as culture, and ethnic boundaries do not always correlate with cultural
boundaries. We cannot, therefore, in looking at material culture, impute ethnic qualities to
the artefacts themselves and their style. Rather, what will have mattered in day-to-day
assertions and perceptions of ethnic identity was how people used and viewed material
culture. What our analysis should aim to do, therefore, is to ask how material culture was
used, and by whom, not what we think it was. This means being sensitive to context in
terms of the position of an artefact within a particular complex, and the position of a complex
within the wider archaeological site the types of material which occur together, and what
evidence we have on the ethnic identity or socio-economic status of the people who used
this particular object or complex.73 We may perceive a Corinthian column as a Greek ethnic
indicator, but how do we know that it was? Might it have had other, primary associations to
the people who saw it every day, asserting socio-political status, for example, rather than
solely or principally Greek identity? Or was a column something people might not have seen
as an appropriate vehicle for the expression of Greek identity at all, focusing rather on dress,
food, or social behaviour?
72 This criticism could be levelled at Jones (1997) see Smith (2003), xvi or Beck (1995).
73See e.g. Mairs (forthcoming a) on the transformations in meaning of Egyptian artefacts in Central
and South Asian contexts.
17
for expressions of personal piety and the assertion of status and identity. As the literary
evidence considered in Chapter 3 will demonstrate, differences in mortuary practice may be
loaded with a strong ethnic and even emotional significance. Chapter 5 will discuss two
further inscriptions (an epitaph and a religious dedication) which can be used to situate the
material considered in Chapters 3 and 4 in a wider context of social interaction and cultural
transmission.
My focus will be on the specific places and ways in which interaction took place
between different ethnic groups, and the social, ethnic and cultural dynamics of these
situations. Points of contact ethnic boundaries in Barthian terms will be revealed in
differences in religious or funerary practice, and the particular ethnic significance which we
may impute to these differences, through consideration of literary evidence or the wider
archaeological context. Where possible, cult sites and tombs will therefore be situated within
their immediate urban or geographical setting, and related to other structures and evidence
of human agency within the site as a whole. My aim is to consider the full spectrum of
practices in operation and the ways in which these may have been perceived by the actors
themselves.
As well as revealing boundaries between different ethnic groups, differences in cultural
or social behaviour within a single site may have a further significance, that of variation in
individual practice. Can we observe processes of acculturation at work, and how might this
relate to ethnic identity? Evidence for intermarriage will be considered in Chapter 2, which
suggests that, in later periods at least, we should be open to the possibility of individuals
exhibiting a range of different cultural practices as a result of their mixed descent. As
emphasised above, no direct correspondence can be assumed between descent, cultural
practice and ethnic identity. What is clear, however, is that particular items of material culture
or aspects of behaviour are often selected by the agents to be invested with a strong ethnic
significance:
It is important to recognize that although ethnic categories take cultural differences into
account, we can assume no simple one-to-one relationship between ethnic units and
cultural similarities and differences. The features that are taken into account are not
the sum of objective differences, but only those which the actors themselves regard as
significant. Not only do ecological variations make and exaggerate differences; some
cultural features are used by the actors as signals and emblems of differences, others
are ignored, and in some relationships radical differences are played down and
denied.81
The obvious problem is that our analysis must therefore depend on being able to find out
precisely which features the actors themselves regard as significant. When is an ethnic
indicator not an ethnic indicator? This issue is dealt with succinctly and pragmatically by
Erdosy:
The crucial point for archaeology is twofold: culture (and, by extension, material culture)
will be actively engaged in the process of boundary maintenance, but only a few
selected traits out of the available spectrum will be called upon to do so. It follows from
this that assemblages of traits will never be adequate expressions of ethnicity. Rather,
it will be the distribution of all material culture traits, which will reveal group affiliations.82
Crucial to my analysis will be the attempt to identify which traits were employed as ethnic
markers and, equally importantly, which forms of activity might be stripped of overt ethnic
significance. I have often found it convenient to follow Halls use of the term indicia (the
operational set of distinguishing attributes that tend to be associated with membership in an
ethnic group 83), although I disagree with his approach in many other respects. While my
primary concern is with ethnicity, it is important to retain an awareness of the environments in
which groups and individuals operated, where ethnic identity may not always have been a
matter of overwhelming concern: hence my somewhat promiscuous use of the adjectives
cultural, social or civic to qualify statements. None of these terms is employed with any
narrow, specific force, but rather to emphasise the network of factors at play in the
negotiation and assertion of identities in the Hellenistic Far East.
82Erdosy (1995), 93-94. Erdosys discussion (pre-Jones, but with citation of Barth) introduces the
notion of ethnicity to the archaeology of South Asia; note the objections of Allchin (1995), 43-44, in the
same volume.
83 Hall (2002), 9.
20
1.5 Ai Khanoum
If Bactria may be exploited as a paradigm for the evidence from the Hellenistic world and the
complex methodological and historiographical issues surrounding it, Ai Khanoum (Figure 1.2)
may serve as a paradigm, in microcosm, for the problems involved in approaching the
Hellenistic Far East. As it will furnish a large proportion of the material to be considered in
the following chapters, some preliminary remarks on its excavation and publication history
are in order. Ai Khanoum remains the most extensively excavated site of the Hellenistic Far
East, although it should be emphasised that its publication is neither comprehensive nor
systematic. The citys hinterland has been subject to a series of thorough studies, devoted to
exploiting the potential of archaeological survey to place the site in its geographical and
chronological context.84
Ai Khanoum, despite its initial celebrity and novelty, has not attracted much in the way
of further detailed study, in the Anglo-American world at any rate. It is, of course, frequently
cited as an example of the fusion of Greek and Oriental architecture, as a remote outpost
of Hellenism but there has been little intensive analysis of its archaeological remains by the
wider scholarly community, nor has it been integrated into many wider studies of the
Hellenistic world in a more than cursory way. There are some notable exceptions: Holts
(1999b) explicit siting of Bactria within a Hellenistic framework, and within the academic
context of the University of Californias Hellenistic Culture and Society series; Downeys
(1988) study on Mesopotamian Religious Architecture, which considers the temples of Ai
Khanoum alongside those of Uruk, Dura-Europos and Seleuceia; or Alcocks (1993; 1994a)
work on survey archaeology, which takes the plain of Ai Khanoum as a case study alongside
other regions of the Hellenistic world.
A small number of individuals, from among the sites original excavators, have
produced a large number of the relevant publications: keeping up with Paul Bernards
prodigious rate and quantity of publication is a scholarly feat in itself. An element of
bibliographical monotony in the present study is therefore somewhat inevitable. Given the
dangerous potential for over-reliance on a few publications and secondary discussions, some
of the problems in approaching this material should be stated at the outset. In what follows, I
have found particularly useful Fussmans (1996) critical essay on the publications of Ai
Khanoum.
The sites chronology varies from publication to publication, as does the system of
numbering of different architectural phases.85 Although perhaps inevitable in the (admirably
detailed and quickly-produced) preliminary publications of the site, this can be extremely
frustrating for the reader; where necessary, I have indicated such chronological and
terminological variation in the original publications in my own presentation of the evidence.
Many of the buildings in the city are oriented along the same axis as the main street, roughly
NNE-SSW. Most publications adopt the convention of simplifying this to North-South. The
East side of the sanctuary of the Temple with Indented Niches (Chapter 4, Section 4.2;
Figure 1.2), for example, is the one which faces onto the main street. For the sake of
simplicity and ease of reference, I have retained this convention; true North is indicated in
the Figures.
Little has been published in the way of aerial views or general survey of the site.86
Approximately two thirds of the city itself remains unexplored. Only two houses have been
excavated, and only one tomb from the necropolis outside the city walls. This does not allow
us to argue anything about typicality from the remains at Ai Khanoum, still less to support
the (worryingly common and casual) citation of the site as a model for Hellenistic colonial
urbanism in Bactria.87 Just as importantly, it may impede understanding of the zoning and
dynamics of the site itself: where and how people lived, traded and related to the various
public buildings of the city. 88 Ai Khanoum has given us a wealth of artistic and architectural
material, crucial for understanding the relationship of this city to the Mediterranean world,
and the place of the Greek kingdom of Bactria in the development of Gandh!ran art. But, as
emphasised by Fussman, there is more we could ask of it, in terms of understanding the
citys social and economic history: The A Khanum excavations demonstrate the truth of the
old adage: you only find what you search for.89
My emphasis, in the sections on material from Ai Khanoum in the following chapters,
will be on trying to access something of how the site worked; how people lived in it and used
the space; how they may have perceived certain aspects of it; and what this tells us about
their social and ethnic identity. In several places, the excavators of the site have already
briefly addressed this need, although not framing the problem in exactly the way I do here.
Bernard (1981), for example, addresses the question of urbanism, and takes the reader on a
tour of Ai Khanoum from the point of view of an ancient visitor to the city.90 A subtle yet
critical shift in rhetorical emphasis and my preferred approach would be to try to look at Ai
Khanoum from the point of view of a resident. This not only helps us some way towards
escaping from the perspective which insists on viewing this city and its culture from the
viewpoint of an ancient or modern Western outsider, but may also aid in developing a little
more scholarly empathy, providing a better way of understanding the citys dynamics. We
have plentiful data on and analysis of the art and architecture of Ai Khanoum, but we must be
very careful in how we use this to tell us about its people.
Issues of access and visibility are key in examining the dynamics of an urban site. The
potential ethnic implications of this are evident (Was there Greek versus Bactrian residential
segregation? Who had access to the citys public buildings?), and have previously been the
focus of some discussion with regard to Ai Khanoum.91 An important step towards reaching
a synthesis of this material is taken by Ligers, unfortunately unpublished, Maitrise thesis, La
physionomie urbaine dune cit hellnistique en Asie Centrale (1979), which emphasises the
contrast between public and private space, and traces routes of access to and within
particular buildings and complexes.92 These issues will be considered further in Chapter 4.
As noted above, Ai Khanoum cannot be used as a model for the settlements of the
Hellenistic Far East. The dramatically different picture at sites such as Old Kandahar and
Takht-i Sangin, where less evidence is available, does not give us sufficient comparative
material. This should not, however, threaten the validity of the approaches developed in the
following chapters. My aim throughout has been to tailor theory and methodology to the
evidence, and approach each specific case in its own context and on its own merits. The
emergence of new evidence should allow these approaches to be developed, rather than
completely revised.
91 Notably Guillaume (1983) on the propylaea and Rapin (1992a) on the treasury and palace/
administrative quarter. Alston (1997) and Alston and Alston (1997) consider ethnic and social zoning
in the cities of Roman Egypt.
92 I was able to consult this work in the library of DAFA in Kabul, for which I am grateful to the Director
of DAFA, Roland Besenval, and the library staff.
23
Chapter 2
Settlement and Intermarriage
.1 Introduction
The bulk of the archaeological and epigraphic evidence from the Hellenistic Far East dates to
the third and second centuries BC, a period in which, as I shall argue in the following
chapters, Greek identity might be strongly asserted in public, official contexts, alongside a
much broader spectrum of individual behaviour. It is, however, to the period immediately
preceding this that of the initial Greek settlement under Alexander and his Successors
that we must look for our understanding of some of the basic cultural processes at work.
During the late fourth and early third centuries, a Graeco-Macedonian population was
established in the Upper Satrapies of the former Achaemenid empire. Our sources enable
us to identify certain points of contact which were established between these settlers and
local peoples, both on the official level of administration and bureaucracy, and also in wider
social interaction and intermarriage. Our interpretation of the nature and depth of these
contacts will have profound implications for how we conceive of Greek culture and identity in
subsequent periods.
The focus in this chapter will be less on determining the numerical strength of the
Greek settler population we can do little more than state that it was relatively small, but
politically dominant1 than on considering how different ethnic groups interacted with each
other, and with external authorities, during the settlement process. Identifying the precise
mechanisms by which a Greek population was established in the Hellenistic Far East is a
frustrating exercise.2 The sources do, however, provide certain insights into the ways in
which communities and their hinterlands were organised, and interaction between the
settlers and local populations.
A number of studies have been dedicated to the establishment of Greek power in the
East,3 and these lay the necessary foundations for a wider reassessment of the development
of ethnic relations and cultural interchange in the region. New evidence, especially the
Aramaic administrative documents from Bactria,4 makes it increasingly possible to take the
pre-Greek and even pre-Achaemenid picture into account. Although limitations of space do
not permit detailed consideration of this historical background here, the assessments
contained in studies such as Briant (1984) and Leriche (1985) have done much to inform the
following discussion. More specific reference to Achaemenid and Bronze Age evidence,
especially from Bactria, will be made throughout Chapters 3 and 4.
One particular aspect of inter-ethnic relations intermarriage receives special
discussion in the final section of this chapter. Marriage between Greek settlers and local
women has potentially serious implications for the ethnic identity of subsequent generations.
Although literary sources are not as abundant for this as for the process of settlement in
general, the critical use of comparative case studies, from elsewhere in the Hellenistic world
and modern colonial societies, enables a constructive approach to be taken to the evidence
for intermarriage and the maintenance of ethnic boundaries in the Hellenistic Far East.
26
.2.1 Alexander
Although the literary sources reveal isolated cases of Greeks in Achaemenid Central Asia
and India,5 a significant Greek presence was established only under Alexander. Alexanders
progress through the Upper Satrapies was accompanied by a constant process of
settlement. Garrisons were established frequently, either in the citadels of existing cities6 or
as outposts in their own right, to guard territory already conquered. Their success was
variable: the Classical sources are full of examples of Greek garrisons besieged or over-run.7
Given their apparently poor survival rate, and the fact that they were planned as military
outposts, not settled communities, Fraser is right to omit these garrisons from his discussion
of the cities founded by Alexander.8 Similarly, temporary seasonal quarters will have had
little lasting impact beyond stretching the resources of the surrounding area and fermenting
intrigue and conspiracy among the sequestered Greeks.9
The foundation of larger urban settlements follows a fixed pattern. The sites of new
cities were chosen for strategic reasons. Alexandria Eschate, for example, was founded on
the Jaxartes, prw tw katadromw tn pran to potamo poikontvn barbrvn".10
Resettlement or garrisoning of existing cities was also undertaken, as these tended already
to occupy the best sites, in oases, with good defensive potential, or commanding strategic
routes. 11 The sites were well fortified,12 but we are given no details as to what degree of
urban planning was undertaken. The settlements population was composed of a
combination of Macedonians and Greeks no longer fit for active service and volunteers from
5 Scylax of Caryanda: Karttunen (1989), 65-68; the Branchidae: Parke (1985). Narains (1957), 6,
theory that the Greeks in Bactria were not Hellenistic Greeks, but mostly the descendants of earlier
settlers will not hold. There is direct evidence only for isolated and specialised cases of Greeks
settled in the East under the Persian Empire. In addition, the idea that the Greeks of Bactria had for
the most part been settled there for generations does not tally with the large numbers who attempted
to leave on the news of Alexanders death. Woodcock (1966), 16ff, also argues unconvincingly for a
more substantial Achaemenid-period Greek settlement of the East. It is, of course, possible that some
descendents of earlier Greek settlers continued to form distinct communities, as in the case of the
Hellenomemphites in Egypt: Thompson (1988), 95-97.
6 Bactra: Arrian 3.29.1; Maracanda: Arrian 4.5.2, Curtius 7.6.10; Peukelaotis: Arrian 4.28.6.
7 Maracanda: Arrian 4.1.4, 4.5.2, 4.16.5; Curtius 7.6.24.
8 Fraser (1996), 171; cf Pidaev (2001), 54.
9 Alexanders winter court at Zariaspa (Bactra) and the Pages Conspiracy: Arrian 4.7.1ff.
10 Arrian 4.1.3.
11 Fraser (1996), 172.
12Alexandria Eschate: Arrian 4.4.1; Arrigaios: Arrian 4.24.6. Note also the refortification of
Samarkhand in the Hellenistic period: Rapin and Isamiddinov (1994).
27
among the local population,13 although we may question how truly voluntary this settlement
was. The mixed population of these settlements is to be noted. The verb used in most
cases is sunoikzein, whether referring to the deliberate creation of a new settlement of mixed
population, or the implantation into or accretion onto existing cities of a Greek community.14
Alexandria Eschate is an example of the former type of foundation. That the latter took place
is clear from the continuity between the Achaemenid and Greek strata at sites such as Old
Kandahar: indeed, the continued production of Achaemenid pottery types alongside locally-
produced Greek types suggests that potters were catering for a clientele composed of both
Greek immigrants and Iranians or Persians who had long been settled in the city.15
In his rapid progress through the region, Alexander had little time to consolidate the
new foundations. Three weeks were spent at Alexandria Eschate to construct its walls, and
all the buildings were completed 17 days later.16 The literary sources give very little
information on the foundation of Alexandria-in-the-Caucasus, 17 but it seems to have been ill-
equipped to survive and develop as a settlement. When Alexander passed by it again, on his
way to India, wholesale reorganisation was necessary: the inefficient governor was
dismissed, more settlers were provided from the local area and from among the troops, and
a new city governor and satrap were appointed.18 Clearly the settlement had declined once
the Macedonian army had gone. It was only because it happened to be on Alexanders route
to India that some attempt was made to arrest and reverse this decline. It must therefore be
assumed that the same hasty foundation led to similarly incohesive and poorly-managed
settlements elsewhere, but that most of these were essentially left to fall apart.
It should also be noted that not all demobilised troops were necessarily settled in the
country on a permanent basis. Before crossing the Oxus, Alexander had sent home a mixed
group of Macedonians too old for active service and mutinous Thessalians.19 Other troops
may have been only temporarily garrisoned in one place to convalesce. Those of the
Companion cavalry who were left in Zariaspa (Bactra) because of ill-health, for example,
were later perfectly capable of launching a counter-attack against Spitamenes raid into
Bactria.20
In all, the picture which emerges of the Greek foundations in the Upper Satrapies at the
time of Alexanders departure for India is not a strong one. The settlements had a difficult
birth, and remained vulnerable to local uprisings, nomadic incursions or simply inefficient
government. A force of 3,500 cavalry and 10,000 infantry was left in Bactria under
Amyntas,21 but the Greek settlements and garrisons were spread out over a large area, and
it is difficult to escape the conclusion that this force, despite its size, must have been dismally
ineffective at securing the wider region against both external and internal (Greek and
Bactrian) threats. The settlers themselves, at the time of their second revolt, managed to
raise an army almost twice this size; perhaps some of Amyntas troops were among them.
What the Greek troops, left behind as settlers in the remote areas of the Upper
Satrapies during the campaign, thought of their situation may be judged from the fact
that once news of Alexanders death reached them they immediately packed their bags
and began that journey home that soon ended in disaster.
Fraser (1996), 185.
The settler revolts, described in grim and sometimes emotive detail in the literary sources,
are our first immediate point of access to the perspective of the settlers themselves.
Alexanders policy of settlement had been carried out in a hasty and not always efficient
manner. Aside from the problems resulting from the unresolved issue of local opposition, the
practice of settling those troops no longer fit for active service had more to do with the
pragmatic operation of a field army than the successful foundation of a settlement. They
were jettisoned as a liability to the army, and there is nothing to suggest that this would not
make them a liability to a city.22 Although the sources give little information, discontent had
clearly been brewing among the Greek settlers for some time. They had reason to resent
Alexanders decision to settle them in Bactria-Sogdiana, a region in which their numbers had
suffered attrition from adverse climatic conditions and the guerrilla tactics used by
Spitamenes. In addition, some of the mercenaries used to settle the region may have been
chosen specifically because they had formed part of an anti-Macedonian army in Greece:23 a
good way of getting rid of troublesome forces, but surely a very poor one of forming a stable
settlement in a hostile country.
The two main sources for the settler revolts are Diodorus Siculus and Quintus Curtius
Rufus. Each account has its drawbacks24 - Diodorus confuses the two revolts and Curtius
takes little interest in events after 323 but the basic pattern of events is nevertheless
reasonably clear. The first rebellion came in 325, with the news that Alexander had been
wounded in India. He was widely believed to be dead and the settlers thus felt safe to
revolt.25 Curtius gives the more detailed account of the first revolt. Although he states that
its motivation was a desire for exodus, not independence, it seems probable that the rebels
were divided into groups with different objectives and with no undisputed leader. 26 One
Athenodorus assumed the title of king. According to Curtius, this was non tam imperii
cupidine quam in patriam revertendi cum eis, qui auctoritatem ipsius sequebantur, 27 but it
was nevertheless a strange act for someone supposedly intent simply on returning to
Greece. The revolt disintegrated into an internal dispute among the Greeks. Athenodorus
occupied the citadel of Bactra (where the satrap, Amyntas, who disappears from the records
after this point, was probably killed),28 but was then assassinated at a banquet by a Bactrian
named Boxus, at the instigation of Biton, a rival Greek. Biton, according to Curtius, did in the
end manage to escape both retribution from the Greek settlers and Bactria itself,29 taking
with him an unspecified number of Greeks. The possibility should, however, be borne in
mind that Curtius did not base this on any secure information as to the rebels actual fate, but
simply assumed that they had been successful in their initial aims.30
The role of Bactrians in the first revolt provides an important reminder that we cannot,
even at this early stage, consider the Greek community in social isolation from its Bactrian
neighbours. Chaniotis cites the (rare) attested incidents of co-operation between foreign
garrisons and local citizens in Hellenistic cities, against the power which had established the
garrison, and argues that such a co-operation presupposes intensive interaction between
the foreign soldiers and the inhabitants of the garrisoned settlement.31 The garrison at
Bactra was the centre of such co-operation in the first settler revolt. Mentions of Bactrians
and Greeks as co-conspirators, even attending the same banquets, raise the possibility of
intensive interaction and intermarriage doubtless not without ethnic and social
complications.
The first revolt, although it declined into internecine squabbling, was a serious comment
upon the settlement of Bactria and the situation which it had produced. The genesis of the
second revolt, in 323, followed a by-now familiar pattern of discontent, hesitation and
25Diodorus 17.99.5-6: this is where Diodorus confuses the two revolts: the massacre after Alexanders
death was provoked by a separate event.
26 Schober (1981), 30.
27 Curtius, 9.7.3.
28 Holt (1988), 84.
29 Curtius, 9.7.11.
30 Schober (1981), 30-31.
31 Chaniotis (2002), 105; see also Mas (2002) reply, especially 119 on billetting.
30
opportunism. 32 Pausing only to make sure that Alexander was really dead this time,33 the
Greeks took counsel together, elected a man named Philon as their general and raised a
force of 20,000 infantry and 3,000 cavalry. This threatened to empty the east (and so flood
the west) with thousands of mercenaries. The situation was quite serious for those
Macedonian officers in Mesopotamia who had suddenly inherited Alexanders powers and
problems.34 A Macedonian expeditionary force was dispatched under Peithon to suppress
them.
Diodorus claims that Peithon intended to treat the Bactrian Greeks with clemency and
win them over to form an alliance which would see him made ruler of the Upper Satrapies.
Perdiccas suspected that this was what Peithon was plotting and gave him orders to kill them
instead. After some hesitation on the part of Peithon, the Macedonian troops took matters
into their own hands and massacred the rebellious Greek settler army.35
There is reason to doubt that this dramatic cause-and-effect chain of conspiracy and
bloodbath transpired quite as Diodorus would have us believe. Although paranoia on
Perdiccas part would be quite understandable, given the contemporary political situation, the
massacre of 23,000 settlers seems a little extreme, not to mention detrimental to effective
Graeco-Macedonian control over the Upper Satrapies. Diodorus plays up a neat
Macedonian versus Greek conflict and there may also be an anti-Peithon bias stemming
from Hieronymos of Cardia, on whom Diodorus account is based.36 The question we have
to ask is whether, given the later strength of Greek power in the Hellenistic Far East, the
annihilation of as many as 23,000 settlers is really plausible. Certainly, the account in
Diodorus is open to considerable interpretation. 37 The conclusion which seems most likely is
that the colonists did suffer considerable losses, but that a large number survived and were
sent back to Bactria.38 The sources do not permit us to determine figures any more
precisely.
The picture which emerges of the Upper Satrapies after the death of Alexander is one
of continuing Graeco-Macedonian control, albeit constantly threatened by internal dissent
among the Greek settlers and strained relations with both the local population and Central
32 Diodorus 18.7.1.
33Bosworth (2002), 61 n117: The movement clearly took some time to develop momentum. News of
Alexanders death had to percolate through the north-eastern satrapies, and some weeks will have
elapsed while the colonists reassured themselves that this time Alexanders death was accurately
reported. At Athens the demos held back from open war until eye-witnesses arrived from Babylon;
and the colonists would have been prudent to wait for similar confirmations. Then they would have to
co-ordinate themselves and agree on the hierarchy of leadership.
34 Holt (1988), 88.
35 Diodorus 18.7.1; Sidky (2000), 97ff.
36
Schober (1981), 35; Holt (1988), 90 n12. Bernard (1990a), 34, following Hornblower (1981), takes a
more nuanced approach to the question of bias in the work of Hieronymos.
37 Holt (1988), 89-90.
38 Schober (1981), 37; Bernard (1990a), 33-34.
31
Asian nomads. It is important to view the Bactrian settler revolts in their wider Hellenistic
context. The period before and after the death of Alexander was marked by widespread
unrest, on the part of Greeks and non-Greeks alike. Alexander did not fully consolidate his
grip on large areas, such as Sogdiana and India. After his death, Alexanders Successors
fought among themselves, moving large forces of mercenaries about the former Achaemenid
empire in the process; Atrosokes in north-western Media and Chandragupta in India were
able to take advantage of the lack of secure centralised control and seize territory; in Greece
itself, the Lamian War erupted.39 Yet this extended period of disruption did not lead to the
complete collapse of Graeco-Macedonian authority. If we view the settler revolts in Bactria
as two flashpoints in a longer period of simmering unrest rather than two entirely separate
rebellions,40 then they become less dramatic and their repercussions more limited. The
transition of power from Seleukos I to Antiochos I may provide a parallel case. A destruction
level at Pasargadae has been dated to this period, and the massacre in Persis of 3000
mutinous Persian troops by a Macedonian commander and of 3000 dissident settlers by local
soldiers may also be linked to unrest at the time of this dynastic changeover.41
It is clear that the efforts made to maintain Graeco-Macedonian control over the Upper
Satrapies and their populations were, for the most part, successful. The satrapal
appointments made at Triparadeisos the Cypriot Greeks Stasanor of Soloi and Stasandros
were given Bactria-Sogdiana and Areia-Drangiane respectively; the Macedonian Philippos
was transferred from Bactria-Sogdiana to Parthia-Hyrcania 42 make sense in light of a
situation where a numerically still strong Greek population (possibly with anti-Macedonian
feelings) needed to be calmed and settled.43 The archaeological evidence, too, simply does
not support the view either that Alexanders settlements virtually died out, and were
abandoned, or that, only a few non-active members of the Macedonians and Greek
population having remained behind, these were absorbed in due course in the native
background.44 On the contrary, the continuous construction activity at Samarkhand
throughout the Hellenistic period shows the tenacious if intermittent hold the Greeks
could keep on comparatively remote outposts.45 We cannot assume on the basis of a settler
revolt and massacre (apparently confined to Bactria) and evidence that other sites, such as
Alexandria-Margiana, were destroyed by nomadic incursions, that the same was true for all
Greek settlements in the region. There may be a break in the evidence, but we should not
posit solely on this basis a corresponding break in Greek occupation.
The settlement of the East continued under the first Seleucids. Very little detail is available
on Seleukos Is rapid conquest of the Iranian Plateau and the Upper Satrapies Justin takes
him practically straight from victory in Babylon to victory in Bactria46 - but the evidence
suggests a largely peaceful transition of power, conducted through diplomacy with the
various satraps. This was the same policy as had earlier been followed by Antigonos, and
the continuity both in personnel and in the type of policy successfully implemented for
dealing with this personnel is striking: Sibyrtios, for example, continued as satrap of
Arachosia throughout the period in question.47
The Upper Satrapies were strategically important, and when Seleukos I appointed his
son Antiochos as co-regent, it was with special responsibility for that region. 48 Seleukos sent
out fresh reserves of colonists, refounded cities 49 and established royal mints.50
Demodamos of Miletos was dispatched to campaign across the Jaxartes, where he set up an
altar to Apollo of Didyma.51 Excavations at a number of sites demand that the old view of
Seleucid disinterest in Central Asia be substantially revised. 52 The Seleucid settlement, in
Bactria and elsewhere, was no mean accomplishment,53 with very specific strategic and
commercial goals.
The growing autonomy of Diodotid Bactria during the course of the third century will
undoubtedly have affected Greek colonisation. Without Seleucid state intervention in the
process, settlement by incoming Greeks from the Mediterranean world will inevitably have
become a matter of individual initiative. What motivation or incentive might a Greek have
had for settling in the East? Whatever has been suggested on the basis of its distance from
the Mediterranean and supposedly hostile conditions, Bactria, as argued forcefully by Kuhrt
46 Justin 15.4.10-12.
47 Sherwin-White and Kuhrt (1993), 12.
48 Antiochos mother was Apama, daughter of Spitamenes; much speculation is possible about the
importance of appointing a half-Bactrian to this position. Intermarriage and the shaping of ethnic
identity will be considered in Section 2.4, below.
49Appian, 57, gives an exaggerated account of Seleukos foundations. For a summary of the literature
on Seleucid sites in Central Asia, see Holt (1999b), 27 n16.
50Sherwin-White and Kuhrt (1993), 19; Holt (1999b), 26-27. Seleucid royal mints in Bactria under
Antiochos I: Bernard (1985). Coins of Seleukos and Antiochos from Uzbekistan: Abdullaev,
Franceschini and Raimkulov (2004).
51Pliny 6.49. It in unclear whether this took place under Antiochos co-regency in the East, or earlier
during the period of Seleukos initial conquests.
52 Sherwin-White and Kuhrt (1993); cf Sherwin-White (1987), 17.
53 Cohen (1978), 25.
33
and Sherwin-White,54 was not quite the Siberia of the Hellenistic world.55 It was a region
with urban centres, agricultural potential, important trades routes and mineral resources,56
and would therefore have held certain attractions for settlers. Communication between
Central Asia and the Mediterranean could be a laborious and lengthy process, but transport
links were reasonably efficient and well-maintained under the Seleucids, just as they had
been under the Achaemenids, and the later rise of Parthia did not greatly disrupt long-
distance contact and trade.57 The presence of commodities imported from the Greek
Mediterranean, and even dramatic and philosophical works on papyrus, at Ai Khanoum attest
regular, if small-scale, contact between the Hellenistic Far East and the Mediterranean world
well into the second century.58 Traders, and the occasional intellectual tourist such as
Klearchos of Soloi,59 kept up a meaningful level of intercourse.
None of this, however, is enough to suggest that the Hellenistic Far East attracted
Greek settlers on any great scale after the first military settlements. The region had much to
offer an migr Greek seeking to advance himself socially or economically, but in the early
Hellenistic period it was up against some very strong competition.60 Klearchos may have
visited Ai Khanoum, but Alexandria in Egypt, with its greater proximity to Greece and court
patronage of the arts and sciences, could attract large numbers of prominent intellectuals. A
Greek mercenary, too, could offer his services to several Hellenistic states which were easier
to reach, and most probably offered better pay.
More importantly, as outlined above, the reason for the presence of the early military
colonists in the Upper Satrapies is a very simple one. Population pressure or economic
problems may have provided the initial impetus for them to leave Greece and join the army of
Alexander,61 but the reason they settled in the East is because they were forced to. As the
two settler revolts show, many of them were clearly not there of their own free will, and the
authorities in the West had great difficulty in making them stay. It was the military element
which formed the bulk of the early immigrant community, and this cannot have continued to
the same extent under the Diodotids.
All these factors suggest that the nucleus of Bactrias Greek population was formed by
the early settlers, under Alexander and the first Seleucids, and that subsequent migration
from the western Greek world had only a limited impact. Although this removes one
important variable (ongoing Greek immigration) from the ethnic equation, it also brings into
focus a number of additional issues. The Greek community did not evolve in isolation, but
the culture and identity of the restricted pool of first-generation Greek settlers will have been
subject to variation over subsequent generations. For this reason, the following sections will
discuss the points of contact between the Greek settlers and local peoples and
administrative structures, and the question of intermarriage.
35
Although the Classical authors have relatively little to say on the subject,62 a number of
modern archaeo-anthropological studies have enabled the pre-Greek human geography of
Bactria, in particular, to emerge with greater clarity.63 The relative uniformity of Iranian
nomenclature makes it difficult to distinguish native Bactrians from Persians, where no more
specific ethnic is given, but there were at least some members of the Persian diaspora,
Briants ethno-classe dominante, in Bactria.64 Whilst remaining an integral part of the
Achaemenid empire, the Upper Satrapies enjoyed a degree of autonomy, both political and
cultural. In particular, the region maintained close links with the nomadic populations of
Central Asia.65
The territory and its population were organised in various ways. Large cities controlled
a surrounding hinterland, with villages subject to them; some areas were under direct royal
administration; and others were under the control of local rulers, known as hyparchs in the
Greek sources. The exact place of these hyparchs in the satrapal hierarchy is uncertain, and
it is likely that the term does not correspond to any rigidly-defined position. The population
paid tribute in kind to the hyparchs and owed them military service; the hyparchs, in turn,
were responsible for supplying troops to the Persian army, such as those Bactrians who
fought with Darius at Gaugamela. 66 The Bactrian cavalry were a particularly important
resource.67 The archaeological evidence, too, supports the idea that Bactria-Sogdiana under
the Achaemenids was a well-developed region, with fortified cities and irrigation works, tied in
to the Persian imperial system.68
Alexander and the Seleucids were not working with a blank canvas. They used local
military and economic structures to facilitate the organisation of the new settlements and
management of the military resources of the area. A combination of natural and human
resources were necessary in the x!ra of settlement. For this reason, even when a green
field site was chosen, all the Hellenistic foundations were established in the immediate
proximity of pre-existing settlements. Local peasant, as well as Greek settler labour was
62Holt (1988), 25, and Briant (1996), 764, discuss the limitations of this material: the Classical sources
do not even mention the extensive network of irrigation canals in Bactria.
63Briant (1978), (1982a), (1984), (1996); Leriche (1985); Holt (1988). A greater degree of vagueness
prevails with regard to other regions, such as Arachosia, where the source material is not so
abundant.
64 Briant (1996), 771.
65 Briant (1982a), 203-226.
66 Briant (1978), 70-72, (1996), 768; Curtius 4.13.5.
67 Briant (1984), 83-84; Polybios 10.49.6-9.
68 See Holt (1988), 27, for a summary of the archaeological evidence from pre-Greek Central Asia.
36
required to support the new cities 69 as recognised by Isocrates, who had suggested that
the local populations of newly colonised lands in the east should become helots of
Greece. 70 The necessity of having the local people continue to till the land is shown in
Alexanders reaction to the mass naxvrsiw of the rural population around the Indian city
of Pattala: messengers were sent, as a priority, to bring them back.71
The transfer of urban populations from old towns to the new ones may have helped
provide the new foundations with the necessary artisans and traders.72 This did not
necessarily involve the complete depopulation and abandonment of the old town, as can be
seen from a later period with the continued occupation of Bhir Mound alongside the Indo-
Greek city of Sirkap at Taxila,73 but the usurpation of the old citys function and position by
the new one must have involved the parallel transfer of much of its economically-active
population.
Local systems of military recruitment were also apparently maintained by the incoming
Greeks. The Bactrian cavalry continued to form an important part of the armed forces of the
Greek kingdoms of the region. Elsewhere in the Hellenistic world, arrangements were made
with local peoples (whether under direct control or merely tributary) to supply troops. Pre-
existing institutions and relationships will have facilitated the organisation and recruitment of
local troops.74 The satrap of Bactria appears to have had more extended powers over the
Upper Satrapies as a whole, with responsibility for organising the conscription and levy of
troops, recruited on a local level by the hyparchs.75 Troops from India and Scythia were also
channelled via the satrap of Bactria, and Bactra probably acted as a muster point for the
north-eastern part of the Persian Empire and adjacent allied or tributary territories. 76
Alexanders policy in appointing satraps and governors took account of the existing
hierarchy and chain of command in Bactria. A degree of administrative continuity was
desirable, both in governing the Upper Satrapies efficiently and in ensuring their loyalty.77
The operation of this principle, however, depended to a great extent upon how the current
ruler received Alexander and his army. Those who co-operated or courted his favour, were
confirmed in their positions or even given additional commands. 78 When Astes, the governor
of Peukelaotis, attempted revolt, he was replaced by Saggaios, who had formerly been with
Astes but had gone over to the (pro-Alexander) Taxiles.79 This trust was not always well-
placed and Persian satraps who welcomed Alexander could turn against him once their most
compelling reason for doing so his army was gone.80 Even in the territories of satraps
who had co-operated, Alexander tended to leave an additional fortified garrison of troops
under Greek or Macedonian command.81
Satrapies which put up more resistance were given to Greek or Macedonian officials.82
Stasanor recurs in the sources as a frequent trouble-shooter, sent to rein in more than one
rebellious satrapy.83 There also appears to have been a general, gradual policy of the
hellenisation of the satrapal authorities. Where possible, administrative continuity was
maintained, but this was an interim measure. There are cases of a Persian satrap being
replaced by a Greek on his death or retirement.84 In the lower echelons of the satrapal
bureaucracy, the continuing use of Aramaic (at Ai Khanoum and Old Kandahar: see Chapter
4) suggests the survival, for a period at least, of an Achaemenid scribal class.85 The
appearance of Iranian-named intermediaries in transactions in Greek texts of the second
century from the treasury at Ai Khanoum,86 however, is perhaps indicative of the gradual
usurpation of Aramaic by Greek as the language of bureaucracy, even if some of the
personnel remained the same. In the opinion of Rapin, publisher of the treasury texts, these
Bactrians were civil servants employed in the treasury. They knew how to write Greek and
operated like any other treasurers in the Greek world.87
How this educated Bactrian lite instrumental in ensuring the survival and smooth
running of the new settlements interacted with the incoming Greek settlers may be gleaned
from the literary sources. As already mentioned, the first settlers revolt had some support
from local Bactrians. The cross community aspect gives the enterprise an ironic feel:
79 Arrian 4.22.8.
80 Satibarzanes: Arrian 3.25.2; Curtius 6.4.20, 7.3.2.
81 Artabazos was made satrap of Bactria which we are told readily gave in
(o xalepw prosxvrsasin) but with a Greek garrison in the citadel of Bactra under Archelaus:
Arrian 3.19.1; Curtius 7.5.1. Similarly, Alexandria-in-the-Caucasus was given a Greek governor
(Nikanor), but an Iranian satrap (Turiaspes): Arrian 4.22.4-5.
82 Menon (Arachotians): Arrian 3.28.1, Curtius 7.3.5; Nikanor (region up to the Indus): Arrian 4.28.6.
83Sent to Areia to arrest the troublesome satrap Arsames and take his place: Arrian 3.29.5; Diodorus
8.3.17; made satrap of Drangians: Arrian 4.18.3; sent to Bactria by Antipater: Diodorus 18.39.
84Artabazos (Bactria) was permitted to resign because of old age and replaced by Amyntas: Arrian
4.17.3; Diodorus 8.1.19; Holt (2005), 74-75. Mazaios (Babylon) died and was replaced by Stamenes:
Arrian 4.18.3; Diodorus 8.3.17.
85 For an Aramaic bureaucracy in Achaemenid Bactria, see Shaked (2004); Naveh and Shaked
(forthcoming).
86 Rapin (1983); Grenet (1983).
87 Rapin (1990), 339.
38
Fusion, harmony and brotherhood did not suddenly replace years of mutual animosity;
the Greeks with Athenodorus wanted to leave, and the native peoples wanted nothing
better Thus, the only cooperation between Greeks and barbarians thus far was for
the purpose of ridding each group of the others company.88
upon Saka military support and alliances. Once again, it is Greek interference in local power
structures and lite relationships which emerges as the principal instigator of revolt.
.3.2 Settlements
New colonies, established under Alexander and the Seleucids, had to be capable of
supporting their own population, both by providing an appropriate level of defence and by
supplying the necessary agricultural and economic resources for its maintenance. They also
had to fulfil certain obligations to the central authority which had established them, especially
the supply of military manpower. As discussed above, appropriate tributary hierarchies were
already in place in the Achaemenid East, and in many cases these were essentially taken
over by the incoming Greeks. In others, the foundations of Alexander and the Seleucids
fundamentally altered existing patterns of land-use and social organisation.
The brief descriptions which the literary sources give of the foundation of settlements
conceal a more complicated process, even if (as in the case of Alexandria-in-the-Caucasus)
this process was not always carried through efficiently. A force of demobilised troops and
local people could not simply be deposited on a site and expected to stay, survive and create
a functioning community. Perhaps the most important process involved in the founding of a
colony was the organisation of the settlers to exploit the surrounding territory and consolidate
the relationship between it and the city. For this reason, it is important to consider cities
along with their x!ra,93 including the relationships between urban centres and the smaller
settlements in their hinterland, and smaller-scale systems of land-management and
allotment. The evidence demands that we question the assumption that, in the Hellenistic Far
East, there was a clear-cut division between Greek cities and a purely native countryside.94
From an early stage, the Greek settlers had no choice but to interact with the surrounding
country and local populations; some, at least, of them were on the land, not simply isolated
in Greek cities.
The usual Hellenistic solution to the problem of ensuring a colonys economic
productivity and security was to allocate shares of land to settlers, with certain military
obligations attached.95 In the Achaemenid empire, land and resources were granted to
individuals by the king. These grants did not become private property in the strict sense of
the term, but were in theory revocable and came with obligations of loyalty and service to the
crown.96 For Alexander and for the Seleucids, it was convenient to establish military colonies
along similar lines.97 The Greeks of the early Hellenistic period suffered from a faim de
terre,98 and land grants were an important factor in encouraging emigration. Not only was
there an expectation that settlers would maintain order in the local area, but they were also
liable for military service when required. Despite the frequent disruptions in the Upper
Satrapies, it is clear that the region did continue to fulfil some military obligations to the
central authority, right up until the period of Bactrian independence. On Peithons expedition
against the rebellious settlers in Bactria, other eastern satrapies were expected to supply him
with troops to quell the revolt.99 A Babylonian astronomical diary records the satrap of
Bactria supplying war elephants to the Seleucid king as late as 274/3;100 this implies the
maintenance of some degree of tributary relationship, even if it did not extend to full, direct
control.
It is difficult to explain how Greek settlers would have been supported in the Upper
Satrapies without land-grants. To give an example of the kinds of provisions made for
settlers, the Jewish military colonists sent to Phrygia by Antiochos III were promised that they
might continue to use their own laws and that they would be given a place to build a house, a
plot of land to cultivate and plant vines, and exemption from taxes on agricultural produce for
10 years. 101 Land grants could be composed of pieces of land on different sites, suitable for
different types of cultivation.102 Bactria had great agricultural potential, as well as substantial
mineral resources. Much of the Iranian plateau and Central Asia is, however, unsuitable for
arable farming, and in assessing patterns of land use in the region, the role of pastoral and
nomadic peoples must always be taken into account, even if these groups traditionally lack
much of an historical voice.103 Arrian, for example, describes the Paropamisadae (Hindu
Kush) as barren, yet supporting a sizeable population of people and livestock.104 Suitable
land and resources would therefore have been available for Greek military settlers, although
we should suspect that the Graeco-Macedonian authorities concept of availability did not
always take account of pre-existing systems of ownership: a potentially serious source of
tension between the settler community and local populations.
97 Cohen (1978), 5.
98 Briant (1978), 65.
99 Diodorus 18.7.3.
100 Sachs and Hunger (1988), 345.
101 Josephus 12.148ff.
102 Cohen (1978), 50.
103See Briants (1982a) important study on nomadic pastoralists in the ancient Near East and Central
Asia.
104Arrian, 3.28.6. Comparison with modern nomadic pastoralists and sedentary populations in
Afghanistan reveals an intricate and delicate symbiosis: Pedersen (1994).
41
It is probable that most land grants were managed from villages, rather than from
individual homesteads in the countryside.105 Alexander founded smaller settlements around
Alexandria-in-the-Caucasus and Alexandria-in-Margiana.106 In Bactria-Sogdiana, the territory
of some cities was already organised in this fashion, with the smaller communities supporting
the larger one agriculturally and under its political authority.107 When the sources state that a
number of local people were assigned to a new city, it may be the case that the villages in
which these people already lived were given to the city without any large-scale relocation of
population,108 although there are also cases in which population-transfer was clearly
involved.
The evidence from the excavations at Ai Khanoum supports this picture of a large
central settlement supported by and serving farms and villages in the surrounding territory.
Commanding an important strategic location at the confluence of the Oxus and Kokcha rivers
and on the route to the mines of Badakshan, Ai Khanoum also had a large agricultural
hinterland.109 The size of its theatre and gymnasium suggest that it served a far greater
population than that actually resident within the city walls. 110 A house outside the walls,
similar to those in the southern residential quarter of the city itself,111 and a Hellenistic-period
farm 5km from the city 112 are probably to be regarded as the residences of Greek settlers, an
identification supported by finds of Greek ceramics in eastern Bactria.113 Diodorus lists as
one of the earliest settlers complaints their longing for tn! Ellhnikn gvgn ka
daitan.114 The provision of theatre, gymnasium and all the trappings of Greek civic life at Ai
Khanoum will have gone some way towards meeting this need for the Greek settlers of the
Bactrian countryside.
105 Cohen (1978), 48; for the latter pattern elsewhere in the Greek world, see Pe"irka (1973).
106 Diodorus 17.83.2; Curtius 7.10.15-16.
107 Briant (1978), 70.
108 Briant (1978), 72-73; Curtius 7.11.28-29.
109 Gentelle (1978); Bernard and Francfort (1978); Rapin (1990), 331.
110 Bernard (1981), 113.
111 Bernard (1974b), 281-287.
112 Bernard (1976a), 461.
113 Lyonnet (1997), 123-157.
114 Diodorus 18.7.1.
42
.4 Intermarriage
The remainder of this chapter will address the question of sex ratios among the Greek
settlers of the Far East, and consider the role intermarriage between Greeks and local
people may have played in shaping the ethnic identity of their descendents. As both the
ancient literary sources and comparative case studies, ancient and modern, suggest, it is
probable that the vast majority of the Greek settlers were male, and married local women. A
key piece of evidence from early Hellenistic Arachosia, discussed below, reveals that
intermarriage was recognised to have important political and cultural implications. On the
Greek, male side, there is unlikely to have been much opposition to the idea of intermarriage
per se, nor was intermarriage restricted to any particular socio-economic group. Parallels
from elsewhere in the Hellenistic world and modern colonial settings reveal that opposition
to, or active official discrimination against, intermarriage and interbreeding is usually a
phenomenon of later in a process of colonisation, when more women of the dominant group
have become available for marriage, or when religious pressures are applied. It is also
common for mixed marriages to occur across the socio-economic spectrum: while poorer
soldiers may marry (or form less formal relationships) with local women of comparable
status, aristocratic marriages are often conducted as part of policies of power-brokering or
ethnic rapprochement.
What this translates to in terms of the ethnic potential of the offspring of such
marriages may vary dramatically according to specific circumstances. In the scholarly
literature on mixed marriages in colonial settings, it is common for some emphasis to be
placed on the role of women as bearers and perpetuators of culture:
Although the intersections of gender and ethnicity have rarely been explicitly handled,
nevertheless various assumptions have become common currency. According to
some, women play a particularly important role when it comes to the cultural
reproduction of ethnicity; not only are they the chief bearers and symbols of a groups
identity, as the principal socialisers of children, they are also the main architects and
arbiters of cultural meanings. According to others, however, women are as marginal in
the ethnic domain as they are in all other situations of social and cultural life where
meanings are being constructed. 115
The issues Wilson raises here are as valid for the Hellenistic world as for modern societies.
Alongside the assumptions she lists, we might, for example, include Halls contention that
bilingualism is a natural consequence of intermarriage between alloglots.116 Lada also
brings up but does not address in detail some important questions about the role of
women in the inculation of ethnic identity in the offspring of mixed marriages:
In any immigrant community settling in a foreign land women play a crucial role not only
in their reproductive capacity, which ensures the physical survival of the group beyond
the first generation of immigrants, but also as carriers and propagators of the culture of
the community. Without a natural and healthy balance between women and men not
only can the immigrant community not survive as a distinct ethnic group, but also its
culture is much more prone to rapid and drastic change. Without such a balance
among the newcomers, intermarriage between them and the natives becomes
inevitable, which in turn will unavoidably affect the culture and ethnic identity of the
offspring. It is, therefore, essential that, when studying the social and cultural history of
Hellenistic Egypt, we pay more attention to a much-neglected aspect of society, viz. the
role of immigrant women.117
Whilst Lada is undoubtedly right in urging greater attention to be paid to the role of women in
the socialisation of the children of mixed marriages in the Hellenistic world, this must be done
critically. The issues he raises (the role of women in transmitting their culture and ethnic
identity to their children; the maintenance of ethnic group boundaries) are extremely pertinent
ones, but they require to be problematised.
The following discussion aims to examine (but not necessarily answer) the question of
what role inter-ethnic marriages may have played in the construction of a childs identity,
without making the a priori assumption that intermarriage leads to the destruction or
compromising of ethnic boundaries. In fact, boundary maintenance may become more
actively patrolled in situations of contact or where an ethnic identity or culture seems
threatened. Women marrying across ethnic group boundaries in Hodders study of the
Baringo area of Kenya, for example, were observed to change their dress and ornamentation
completely to match those of their husbands ethnic group.118 Wider social and cultural
constraints will have had an impact on how women behaved in mixed marriages, and what
role they played in the socialisation of their children. Modern settlers own perceptions on the
role of women, and the ways in which settler or immigrant groups seek to protect their culture
and identity, are often strongly expressed and, in the absence of equally rich sources from
the ancient world, provide a valuable resource in ascertaining how these factors may have
impacted on the development and articulation of identity in the Hellenistic Far East. A
number of contrasting case studies on intermarriage in modern colonial and settler societies
will therefore be introduced into the following discussion, to highlight areas in which the
mothers ethnicity may have had an impact, and the strategies conscious and unconscious
which may have been employed by father, mother and their respective ethnic groups to
maintain ethnic boundaries or claim the children of the marriage.
Ethnic identities may become blurred or situationalised through a number of avenues of
acculturation: an individual may acquire the ability to use another language through
education or for professional reasons; local lites may adopt the cultural trappings of an
incoming dominant ethnic group. In such contexts, ethnic boundaries are generally crossed
or defined by adults, who have already been socialised as a member of one ethnic group;119
through deliberate policy or constraint they may then acquire the ability to function with an
ambiguous or ambidextrous ethnic identity. Mixed marriages, however, have the potential to
produce mixed children, whose primary socialisation may allow them to acquire the ability to
function as members of more than one ethnic group, or even come to identify themselves as
a new ethnic group.120 The contradictions an outside observer may see in such an
individuals behaviour or use of ethnic indicia may present no difficulties to the individual
themselves. Switching behaviour situationally (e.g. in language use), or even combining
different ethnic traits in one situation (perhaps in architectural or artistic expression), may
not be consciously thought by the actor to constitute the crossing or transgressing of an
ethnic boundary. This is not to say that we should fall back on a crude melting-pot model of
ethnic encounter and intermarriage. It simply means that we should be open to the
possibility that our own perceptions of ethnic differences and boundaries may not have been
those of the actors themselves and that, conversely, the actors may have chosen to express
their ethnic identity through different media than the ones immediately obvious to an
archaeologist or philologist. These arguments will be revisited in the following chapters, with
reference to the archaeological material from the Hellenistic Far East.
Such constant negotiation of ethnic boundaries is, of course, only the potential result of
mixed marriages: different social and historical contexts produce very different results in
terms of the actual upbringing and ethnic self-identification of the offspring. In order better to
understand the range of possible outcomes of intermarriage in the Hellenistic Far East and,
crucially, avoid casual generalisations about the ethnicity and wider social identity of children
of mixed parentage this section will examine a number of examples of how intermarriage
has operated in different historical contexts. Modern colonial settings provide problematic
points of comparison to the Hellenistic world. One solution is to look at specifics, constantly
bearing in mind the particular historical and social factors which may have led to a certain
policy or pattern of behaviour. Inevitably, this will mean that many of the phenomena
119 My discussion here has some common ground with Bentleys (1987) influential application of
Bourdieus concept of habitus to ethnicity. (See further Jones (1997), 8892; Banks (1996), 4547.) I
have, however, some sympathy with Yelvingtons (1991) criticisms of this use of habitus, echoed by
Banks (1996), 47: while helpful for Bentleys theory, it [habitus] can only be so because it is effectively
a black box its workings are mysterious, its contents vague and it seems at times to be a repository
for Bourdieu to hide an ill-defined theory of psychological motivation. Introducing the term habitus,
with all its associated literature, would not, I feel, contribute greatly to the present discussion.
120e.g. Eurasians/Anglo-Indians in South Asia: Grimshaw (1959); McGilvray (1982); Hawes (1996);
Carton (2000).
45
considered cannot be assumed (or perhaps even realistically posited) to have pertained in
the Hellenistic Far East. The purpose of the exercise is, however, a heuristic, rather than a
reconstructive one. Its value lies in the hope that it will throw up useful comparanda and,
equally importantly, negative comparanda and suggest the range and diversity of possible
outcomes.121
The inevitable disclaimers aside, there are a few more general points which I hope to
use this discussion to emphasise. First is the role of womens agency in the conduct of
mixed marriages and in the socialisation of the children of such marriages. This is a topic
which tends to receive only cursory or speculative treatment with regard to the ancient world
often in terms of suggesting a child may have grown up to have affinities or sympathies
for its mothers people. Even though the sources for womens and childrens viewpoints in
the ancient world are restricted in number and in scope, the issue deserves more reflective
consideration than this. The second major point I wish to highlight throughout is the
importance of the political background to the practice of mixed marriage in colonial settings.
In the initial stages of colonisation or settlement, what did each side have to gain from
intermarriage? How did this affect the reception in wider society of the children of mixed
marriages, and the ways in which they might choose or be compelled to present themselves?
These factors, and others, will have implications for how we view the ethnic background to
the production and presentation of material culture in the Hellenistic Far East.
Little primary evidence is available on the number of Greek women who made the journey to
the East, whether in the train of Alexanders army or among later groups of settlers. The
epigraphic evidence from Bactria furnishes us with only one female name, an Isidora interred
in the mausoleum at Ai Khanoum in the early third century.122 Onomastics are, as always in
the Hellenistic world, no certain indicator of ethnic identity. We do not know whether this
Isidora was herself an immigrant, or the daughter of earlier settlers nor, indeed, whether
both of her parents had Greek names. Analysis of the nature of the settlement itself and
comparisons with other case studies can, however, help us to draw some conclusions about
the level of Greek female presence in the East.
The number of Greek women in the baggage train of Alexanders army is unlikely to
have been great. Philip II had banned wives and children from accompanying the
121 Comparative approaches have an honourable tradition of use and abuse in any number of
disciplines (e.g. middle-range theory and ethnoarchaeology: Trigger (1995); David and Kramer
(2001)). Studies of the Hellenistic world have also exploited the potential offered by comparative case
studies: see in particular Bagnalls (1995), 101ff, and (1997) insightful critiques of Wills (1985)
discussion of colonial Peru alongside Hellenistic Egypt. Schlumberger (1968), 36-37, makes explicit
reference to recent colonial parallels for the Hellenistic Far East: LOrient proche est quelque chose
comme lAmrique centrale ou lAmrique du Sud des GrecslExtrme-Orient grec, est quelque
chose comme lAmrique du Nord des Grecs.
122 Bernard (1972), 619.
46
Macedonian army, and Alexander followed this practice up to a certain point, limiting the
number of camp followers wherever possible:123 in the winter of 334/333 Alexander allowed
recently-married troops compassionate leave to visit their wives and families at home.124 By
the time he reached Hyrcania, Alexander appears to have relented, in face of the obvious
impracticality of allowing conjugal leave so far from Macedonia, and permitted his soldiers to
take wives from among the (presumably mostly non-Greek) captive women.125 This practice
of marrying or forming relationships with local non-Greek women, whether prisoners or not,
was also followed by the army lite, not least by Alexander himself.126 The soldiers families
killed by a flash-flood in Gedrosia were probably mostly these captive wives and their
children. 127 Their wives ethnicity and the likely prisoner-status of most clearly did not
affect the attachment of the soldiers to the families they formed in this way, and querying of
the exact legal or religious status of the unions probably reflects modern concerns much
more than contemporary ones. During the expedition against the Gandaridae, when morale
was at a particularly low ebb, Alexander made ration allowances to the soldiers wives and
gave their children bonuses in proportion to their fathers military records.128 The official
recognition and support of soldiers families was evidently an issue, and one to which the
authorities were under pressure to respond. Courtesans or prostitutes, such as the Athenian
hetaira Thas who urged Alexander to burn Persepolis,129 are likely to have constituted a
larger proportion of the Greek female camp followers than wives of whatever status.
The most important point to be made about the settlement of the Upper Satrapies by
Alexander, and later under Seleucid initiative, is that it was a military settlement. This has
obvious implications for the number of women present. As previously noted, it does not
seem likely that early Hellenistic armies travelled with their wives and children in any great
numbers. The general rule seems to have been for soldiers to travel without Greek wives
and to intermarry with the local population if they were stationed or settled in a place on a
more permanent basis.130
In Egypt, there is little indication that Greek women formed any substantial part of the
early Hellenistic settlement. In fact, the male bias in Greek sex ratios which emerges from
analysis of the papyrological evidence is striking. In part, this apparent bias will have been
produced by factors such as the practice of female infanticide by Greeks (but not, apparently,
by Egyptians); disadvantageous legal status of women; and even the deliberate concealment
of women from tax assessors but it is difficult to escape the conclusion that there were also
simply fewer women than men among Greek immigrants to Egypt.131 Although we do not
have similarly detailed demographic evidence from the Hellenistic Far East, the process of
settlement was the same and the results can hardly have been wildly dissimilar: the first
wave of immigration in the Hellenistic period was predominantly, if not exclusively, a military
and, therefore, a male one.132
The Egyptian evidence suggests, as argued by Lada, that this picture changed over
time and that more Greek women did settle in Egypt in the course of the third century.133
After the first wave of male, military settlers, some of these may have sent for their families in
Greece. Mass civilian immigration (which is more likely to have included entire families as
well as lone males) was also most probably a later phenomenon.
Even where Greek ethnics occur in the feminine or women bear Greek names, as with
Isidora at Ai Khanoum, there is often no way of knowing whether these womens ethnicity
and Greek nomenclature reflects patrilineal Greek descent alone. A case from the military
settlement of Pathyris in Upper Egypt provides a sound caution against assuming that a
woman who was Greek in terms of name or official ethnicity was also purely Greek by
descent. Dryton, a Greek cavalry officer, married one Apollonia, who conducted business in
Greek and came from a Cyrenaean background.134 Further investigation of the familys
archive, however, reveals a more complicated picture. Apollonia also went by the Egyptian
name Senmonthis, and it is exclusively by this name that she is known in private accounts
and letters. She could not write Greek. In fact, her family seems to have become thoroughly
Egyptianised over the three or four generations it had been settled in Egypt. All Apollonias
daughters with Dryton bore double Greek-Egyptian names and went on to marry
Egyptians.135
It is only, however, when we look back through Apollonias family tree136 that we
discover something of the background to this, and the mechanisms by which this
Egyptianisation took place. Whilst Apollonias father, grandfather and great-grandfather bore
dual Greek-Egyptian names, all her female antecedents are known only by Egyptian names.
The conclusion to be drawn seems to me to be an obvious one: Apollonias military immigrant
male forebear, from whom she derived her Cyrenaean status, had arrived in Egypt without a
Greek wife and family, and married an Egyptian woman in the Upper Egyptian military colony
where he was settled. His sons had continued to do likewise. This has profound implications
for how we view the general pattern of intermarriage among Greek military settlers
throughout the Hellenistic world. In cities such as Alexandria, within easier reach of Greece,
Greeks and Greek urban culture, the picture may well have been different; but in a small up-
country settlement such as Pathyris, especially among settlers from poorer socio-economic
backgrounds, intermarriage must quickly have become the rule. The children of such
marriages inherited the Greek official ethnicity of their father, but, as the case of Apollonia
shows, their private ethnicity in terms of nomenclature and language use may well have
been different.137
A similar picture of contrasting levels of female immigration and intermarriage between
an initial wave of military settlement and a later, more general settlement, emerges from
British India. The army of the East India Company provides us with the kind of detailed
information on the social status and roles of the women who accompanied armies that we
lack for the early Hellenistic period. Few women sailed out to India from Britain in the late
eighteenth century; and, given the young age of most Company recruits, very few were
soldiers wives. For upper- or middle-class women, the danger of the voyage and conditions
in India will have been a disincentive. The fishing fleet who set out to find husbands in India
were a phenomenon of the later nineteenth century, when the sea voyage had become less
difficult and the British presence in India more secure, just as the number of Greek women in
Hellenistic Egypt increased with greater civilian immigration in the course of the third century.
Lower down the socio-economic scale, the Company actually sought to restrict the number of
working-class women coming out to India: the claims to gentility of many British women, it
was felt, were tenuous at best.138 A British surgeon writing from Cawnpore (Kanpur) in
1785 put it more bluntly:
Many of the women here are mere adventuresses from the Milliners shops on Ludgate
Hill and some even from Covent Garden and Old Drury [well-known areas of
prostitution in late eighteenth-century London]. They possess neither sentiment nor
education, and are so intoxicated by their sudden elevation, that a sensible man can
only regard them with indignation and outrage.139
137 We have little evidence of Greek women marrying Egyptian men, Apollonias dual-named
daughters being an obvious exception. In conditions where a dominant ethnic group intermarries with
a politically or socially subordinate one, it is nearly always the case that men from the lite group
marry women from the non-lite group, but not vice versa; see also Clarysse and Thompson
(forthcoming). If, in addition, the numerical strength of the female population of the lite group is not
great, this tendency is increased.
138 Hawes (1996), 6,17.
139 Cited in Yalland (1987), 53.
140 Curtius 5.7.2.
49
The natural consequence of the situation in India was marriage or cohabitation between
British soldiers and Indian women: even had the expense of supporting a British wife rather
than an Indian one not been so great,141 and the benefits not so doubtful, there were simply
not enough British women in late eighteenth-century India to provide wives for all the British
men there. Again, as with Hellenistic Egypt, soldiers posted to settlements up-country, away
from large communities of their compatriots, were more likely to form marriages or
relationships with local women. British disapproval of, or outright discrimination against,
such mixed marriages, does, however, form a sharp contrast with Hellenistic Egypt. British
soldiers succeeded in achieving a certain level of official recognition of and provision for their
Indian wives and Eurasian/Anglo-Indian children, but the issue of race was always a bar to
more equitable treatment.
The common factor in all these cases Hellenistic Bactria, Hellenistic Egypt and British
India is the military nature of the early settlement. A common pattern emerges: where
settlement was predominantly military, it was also predominantly male; where this was the
case, intermarriage between immigrant men and local women became the rule. Changes
over time, both in the nature of the settlement (military or civilian) and, in the case of British
India, in the ease with which immigration could take place (especially after the opening of the
Suez Canal in 1869), led to a change in the initial pattern. Intermarriage did not remain the
only option for the settlers and continued immigration meant that the settler population itself
became more diverse and able to maintain constant contact with its country of origin.
As discussed above, it is hardly likely that settlement in the Hellenistic Far East
continued on as great a scale after the initial military colonisation under Alexander and the
early Seleucids. As a consequence, the region will not have received the same influx of
female Greek settlers as did third-century Egypt, and Graeco-Macedonian sex ratios will
have remained at their initial (male-dominated) levels. All the evidence points towards far
more Greek men than women forming part of the settlement of the Hellenistic Far East. As in
the case of other less accessible military settlements, such as Pathyris, intermarriage must
therefore have been common. This does not mean that Greek culture was lost or diluted
Apollonia, whatever her competence in Greek, used the Greek legal system and styled
herself a Greek; the citizens of Ai Khanoum had their gymnasium but it does mean that we
have to accept that the articulation of the populations Greek identity may have coexisted with
quite different cultural practices, in different spheres. These may be less visible in the
archaeological record, and we lack the mass of papyrological evidence which illuminates the
complex ethnic picture of Hellenistic Egypt, but, from a relatively early period in the
settlement of the East, there existed a Greek population which had very close points of
access to the culture and identity of its indigenous neighbours.
141 600 per annum (British); 50 per annum (Indian): Hawes (1996), 6.
50
The cases of British and Spanish colonialism in the Americas provide an immediate lesson in
why we cannot assume universal rules and uniformity of conduct in mixed marriages. At
different points in the colonial process, very different attitudes to intermarriage prevailed. At
least in the early colonial period, neither the British nor the Spanish offered much official
opposition to sexual relations between European men and local women. An important
contrast comes in the treatment and status accorded to the offspring of such relationships. In
Latin America, mestizaje (mixing, interbreeding) became a recognised concept, with
special if not necessarily high-status terms for individuals with different combinations of
Spanish, native American or African blood.142 Mestizaje even came to occupy a key place in
Mexican nationalist ideology.143 In British North America, the official picture was more black
and white.
For both the Spanish and local lites in early colonial Latin America, there was much to
be gained from collaboration. Spanish policy in Mexico was to recognise the ranks of Indian
nobility, and keep local grandees in place.144 Aztec nobles could, in turn, often prove alert to
the opportunities afforded by Spanish imperialism.145 With this came a deliberate policy of
Hispanisation and Christianisation. The children of the Aztec aristocracy were educated by
Spanish friars: in practice, this meant learning to read and write (Spanish and sometimes
also Latin) and studying grammar and rhetoric. As well as being prestigious
accomplishments, which linked them to the dominant culture, literacy and fluency in Spanish
made it possible for local people to voice their complaints to the monarch.146 Individuals
differed in their acceptance or rejection of particular facets of Spanish culture. One aspect
which deserves to be highlighted, given the familiarity of this issue from the Hellenistic world,
is the adoption of Spanish names by Aztecs. As well as lite Hispanisation, individual homes
were potential centres of acculturation, with indigenous women commonly employed as
domestic servants, and thereby learning Spanish and Spanish customs.147
The general pattern of intermarriage is similar throughout Spanish Latin America. The
first wave of Spanish immigration was predominantly male, with Spanish women in any
number only from the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries onwards. Marriages
were conducted with the Indian nobility and considered prestigious or advantageous (to
whatever extent) by both parties. Formal and informal relationships were common right
down the social scale. Ethnic and social hierarchisation persisted, and was instrumental in
the status accorded to the children of mixed unions. Even locally-born Spanish were
considered of lower status than those born in Europe, and when Spanish women began to
settle in the Americas in greater numbers, the practice of intermarriage with Hispanised,
aristocratic indigenous families declined. While the offspring of a Spanish man and a woman
of whatever ethnic background might be declared Spanish, an increasing concern
developed over the exact position of those of mixed descent, resulting in a detailed casta
system which gave a name and status to the offspring of various kinds of mixed union.148
The source material, somewhat inevitably, makes it difficult to access a female
subaltern viewpoint in the colonial Americas,149 and consider the motivations of indigenous
women (and their families) in forming marriages with European men. An exception, from
North America, is provided by Peterson-del-Mars study of the well-documented life of Celiast
Smith: an example of a Chinookan Indian woman who exercised agency in
intermarriage.150 This account is largely positive, emphasising Celiasts success in
preserving her interests within European settler society, but a number of tempering factors
should be borne in mind. The Chinookans, who inhabited a stretch of territory on the lower
Columbia river in present-day Oregon/Washington, were, in general, well-disposed towards
European settlers, because they saw an advantage in trading with them. Chinookan society
was highly stratified and Celiast was a member of the lite. It is difficult to ascertain pre-
contact Chinookan gender roles. With more permanent European colonisation in the region,
and the arrival of greater numbers of European women, intermarriage became increasing
condemned. Even in earlier periods, when Indian women were considered potential
marriage partners by European immigrants, they were also vulnerable to rape and
violence.151 Celiast Smiths case should therefore not be taken as universally applicable, but
it does provide a rare and valuable insight into the strategies an lite native woman might
employ in intermarriage, and how this impacted on the ways in which she and her children
projected their ethnic identity.
A Chinookan womans marriage to a European settler was not entirely an individual
affair, but of wider relevance to her community. The advantages which might accrue to the
woman herself included the acquisition of independent wealth and status, more difficult for a
woman within Chinookan society. Celiast first married a low-status French-Canadian baker,
a marriage probably arranged by her father. The marriage was abusive, and Celiast
resented her husbands and her own low status in European society, first attempting
unsuccessfully to elope with another man, then marrying Solomon Smith. Smith offered
Celiast an opportunity to escape an unsatisfactory marriage and climb within European
society; for Smith, this high-status native wife afforded him protection and goodwill from the
local Indians, and also connections to the powerful European settlers whom her sisters had
married.152
Celiast seems to have exhibited some situational variation in her projection of her
ethnic identity, but this met with limited success. She continued to exercise the prerogatives
of an lite Chinookan woman, and on occasion used her status to intervene on the behalf of
European settlers. Yet, in everyday life, she returned to her native tongue and ways only in
her old age, after Solomon was in the grave and her livelihood probably seemed more
secure.153 Celiast converted first to Catholicism, then Methodism, but seems to have been
constantly frustrated in her attempts to be fully accepted into European, Christian society.
The careers and marriages of her children show the positive and negative impact their
mothers origins could have. Whilst her son was able to acquire respectability from his
fathers ethnicity and connections, and trade on his mothers reputation as a settler-friendly
Indian princess in his career as a local historian, her daughters suffered abuse and
discrimination for their Indian blood. 154
We have one key piece of evidence for the legal and logistical issues created by
intermarriage in the Hellenistic Far East. In a treaty of 303 BC, Seleukos I ceded Arachosia
to the Maurya emperor Chandragupta.155 In exchange, Seleukos received 500 elephants,
and a marriage agreement was also set in place, the precise implications of which have
provoked considerable debate.156 According to Strabo, Seleukos ceded Arachosia upon
terms of intermarriage (pigama) and of receiving in exchange five hundred elephants.157
In Appians account, Seleukos campaigned against Chandragupta until they came to an
understanding with each other and contracted a marriage relationship (k"dow).158 Appian
clearly understands a dynastic marriage-alliance to have taken place, whereas Strabos
pigama suggests something rather different, an inter-state agreement on rights of
intermarriage. For a number of reasons, Strabos account is much to be preferred: he names
and makes specific reference to his source, Eratosthenes, and his discussion of the treaty
between Seleukos and Chandragupta is much clearer and more detailed than Appians rather
vaguer report.
pigama is a term with well-known implications in the Hellenistic world. In many Greek
cities, for a marriage and its offspring to be legitimate, both parties had to be citizens, or an
interstate agreement on marriage (pigama) had to be in place.159 The situation in
Hellenistic Egypt was more flexible, but here too we can observe intermarriage creating
problematic intersections of social and ethnic identity.160 What, then, does the existence of
an pigama suggest about the ethnic and political situation in early Hellenistic Arachosia?
The complexity of the ethnic make-up of third-century Arachosia will become apparent
in the discussions of the epigraphic material from Kandahar in the following chapters. The
existence of this earlier pigama would, however, suggest that some legal, official
framework underlay these more fluid expressions of identity. Lack of information on the
exact terms of the pigama, unfortunately, impedes our understanding of the nature of this
framework. Attempts have been made to view the pigamas role in enforcing social order
from various parts of the ethnic spectrum. We might suggest that Alexanders garrison had
intermarried with the local Iranian population, and the treaty protected the Greek status of the
offspring of these unions, now that they were passing under Maurya control.161 Alternatively,
given the rigidity of Indian social systems and their attitude towards foreign groups (see
Chapter 5), did the status of Greeks within Indian society, and their right to marry Indians,
now need to be protected?162 Each of these interpretations and they are by no means
mutually exclusive supposes to a greater or lesser extent that Arachosias transfer from
Seleucid to Maurya control was the factor which made clarification and protection of status
necessary.
Although the Indian implications should be emphasised and it is clear that, whatever
the force of the pigama, some rationalisation of Greeks within Indian society did later take
place (see Chapter 5) the party with the closest interests in this pigama was clearly the
local Arachosian Greek community. Certainly, it is difficult to see what real benefits a more
general marriage arrangement, as opposed to a dynastic alliance, would have brought the
two external powers involved. Although usual Hellenistic practice would confer Greek status
on the children of a Greek father, we have no evidence that this situation in Arachosia had in
fact, by 303, received any official sanction. Contact with the Greek West, as well as the
prospect of increasing involvement with the Indian East, may have provided the catalyst for
formalising this situation. The arrival of a western Greek army in Arachosia may also have
been a somewhat unsettling experience for the local Greek community, both in terms of
reinforcing an external authority with which they had had little direct contact and in
confronting them with cultural norms and conceptions of Greek identity from back home.
The available evidence still limits us to psychological speculation about the motivations
and process of negotiation behind this move. In particular, we are left with a somewhat
indistinct picture of Arachosian Greeks insecure in their identity, and Seleukos I
magnanimously championing the rights of his compatriots, at the same time as handing them
over to Maurya rule. In an Indian empire, what did Greek legitimacy give the settler
community of Arachosia in any case?
For this agreement to have any potency, it must have been expected that the Greeks of
Arachosia would remain in contact with the Greek West, where legitimate Greek ethnic, and
civic, status would be of some importance. It is usually supposed that Seleukos, in receiving
500 elephants for a province over which he had little or no effective control, got rather a good
deal.163 The A#okan Edicts (see Chapter 4) attest the presence of the Maurya imperial
apparatus in third-century Arachosia, but I would suggest that our understanding of the
pigama clause of the treaty between Seleukos and Chandragupta might be enhanced by
viewing this control, too, as somewhat looser than thorough, direct administration.164 In such
a situation, the practical benefits of ratifying the official Greek status of the settlers and their
children may be clearer: little in the basic dynamics of the Greek community of Arachosia
was expected to change.
This pigama agreement forms a fitting conclusion to the present discussion. My aim
has been to examine the settlement of the Hellenistic Far East with special reference to
ethnic contact and intermarriage, in order to provide the background to the analysis of
archaeological and epigraphic material which forms the core of this study. Settler societies
are confronted with a series of complex social and ethnic situations, which people feel a
need to consolidate and rationalise. Literary sources give us two valuable pieces of
evidence for ethnic encounter in the settlement of the Hellenistic Far East the role of
Bactrians in the Greek settler revolts, and pigama in Arachosia and these provide a
useful indicator of wider day-to-day interaction.
As argued in Chapter 1, we may attempt to identify expressions of ethnic identity in the
manner and context in which material culture is used. If many of the people who produced
this material culture had married outside their ethnic group, or were the offspring of inter-
ethnic marriage, with the potential to operate according to the cultural norms of more than
one ethnic group, then this will have consequences for how we perceive the use of material
culture. Such individuals may use and conceive of artefacts and buildings differently than we
might expect from Greeks, and they may change these uses in different circumstances
even if we have nothing as overt as bilingual Greek-Bactrian inscriptions. Although,
especially since we lack domestic contexts, a gendered approach will not be possible,
gender roles in subsequent generations of mixed marriage may also have impacted on how
the children of these marriages perceived their identity. Some of the public arenas in which I
argue Greek identity to have been expressed at Ai Khanoum, for example, are exclusively
male ones (see Chapter 4).
Contact with other groups, and the ability to vary language use or other forms of
cultural expression, does not, of course, automatically lead to an ethnic free-for-all. On the
contrary, the cases from Hellenistic Egypt and the colonial Americas discussed above
suggest that contact is an occasion for the regulation of formal ethnic and social categories,
whatever the basis of this in individual behaviour. Celiast Smith adopted European culture,
but, from a European perspective, retained an Indian identity. Apollonia explicitly claimed a
Greek Cyrenaean identity, but her language use, and even name, might vary. With the
pigama of 303, we may already see an effort to define ethnic boundaries in the Hellenistic
Far East. In the material considered in the following chapters, I suggest that the cultural
building-blocks of a Greek identity were identified and reinforced through public display. The
inscriptions of Sophytos and Heliodora, discussed in Chapter 5, will enable us to revisit the
questions of intermarriage and the reshaping of ethnic boundaries, and to see their impact
over several generations of Greek settlement in the East.
55
Chapter 3
Funerary Practice
3.1Introduction
Formal, ritualised disposal of the human body is a deliberate act. It may provide a canvas for
the expression of an individuals self-identification and, more significantly, allows a
community to reinforce their common identity (or display it conspicuously to outsiders)
through ritual and public display.1 This chapter argues that, in the Classical accounts of
Central Asian mortuary ritual, and in the archaeological evidence for the funerary practices of
Greeks in the Hellenistic Far East, we may observe behaviour designed to make a statement
of the position of ethnic boundaries and consolidate the ethnic group.
Smiths study of ethnic identity in Pharaonic Egypts Nubian empire of the second
millennium BC, introduced in Chapter 1, takes as a case study the colonial cemetery at
Tombos. The wealth and cultural cues embodied in funerary monuments and grave goods,
Smith argues, did not simply reflect the social position of the deceased, but offered an
opportunity for redefining and negotiating social roles and identities, including ethnicity.2
The burials at Tombos display a strong adherence to Egyptian practices, as one might expect
among an Egyptian colonial community. Local lite emulation may also be a factor, although
Smith suggests burial practices as one area in which a selectively-Egyptianising local lite
may in fact have chosen to maintain local customs.3 Among the burials at Tombos are a
pyramid-tomb of the Egyptian administrator Siamun, Overseer of Foreign Lands, and his
wife Weren, but even simpler pit and underground chamber tombs from the site reflect
Egyptian burial practices. The reasons for such an ostentatious display of Egyptian identity
are probably not far to be sought:
The picture at Tombos is not, however, uniformly Egyptian. Some women were buried
in Nubian style, which Smith associates with the evidence of Nubian influence in domestic
contexts at the site of Askut as a marker of Nubian women entering into Egyptian society but
maintaining some Nubian practices.5 Comparative evidence from a Napatan cemetery at
Sanam shows a more marked divide between men being buried Egyptian and women being
buried Nubian.6 Here, it may be the case that men were instrumentally adopting Egyptian
practices, whilst women maintained Nubian tradition or perhaps simply experienced no
great social or political imperative to Egyptianise.
There are any number of other recent studies which have sought to see overt
expressions of ethnic identity in funerary practice. 7 Where the construction of monumental
tombs or cenotaphs is involved, we have the added dimension that, even after the conclusion
of public funeral rituals, a conspicuous marker of the individuals burial, perhaps even with
perceived ethnic characteristics, will have remained in the landscape. This is the case with
the pyramid of Siamun at Tombos. In the Hellenistic world, Ma draws attention to the
funerary practices of garrisons, and the meanings which these men far from home made out
of death in foreign contexts.8 Citing the example of an Antigonid officer based in Eretria,
who was installed in a large barrel-vaulted Macedonian tomb with a tumulus, he asks how
this tomb type, typical of the Macedonian lite, related to local tombs, what impact it had on
the people who saw it, and how it fitted into the local landscape.
These questions are also pertinent to the evidence from the Hellenistic Far East. The
evidence from the region (two heroa and an extramural necropolis at Ai Khanoum; a funerary
inscription from Zhiga-tepe; the Hellenistic cemetery and inscription of Sophytos at
Kandahar9) does not permit us to generalise about Greek funerary practices there. A broad
overview of regional differentiation in practice and change over time such as, for example,
Morris (1987) analysis of burial and society in Early Iron Age Greece is not within the
scope of the evidence. What can productively be attempted is the contextualisation of the
individual examples of how people sought to present themselves in death. This will involve
looking at the immediate spatial context of the funerary monuments as well as their place
within wider geographical and chronological traditions of mortuary practice in Central Asia
and the Hellenistic world. I would argue that funerary practice was a significant area within
which Greeks and non-Greeks in the Hellenistic Far East, at least initially, perceived ethnic
differences, and that, although the archaeological picture will inevitably reveal greater
complexity than the simple dichotomy presented by the written sources, the construction of
funerary monuments was an area in which people sought to make a conspicuous statement
of these differences and negotiate ethnic boundaries.
58
Our context and point of comparison for Greek burials in the Hellenistic Far East must come
from local material of earlier periods, and from regions outside direct Greek control.
Fortunately, a number of Classical authors furnish information on Central Asian funerary
practice, and the archaeological material has received a reasonable depth and breadth of
publication. To have written sources and archaeological evidence which, to a certain
measure, contradict each other is hardly unusual. The mortuary practices of Central Asia
held something of a ghoulish fascination for Greek writers, who describe how the Bactrians
and Scythians exposed their dead. The archaeological evidence, on the other hand, makes
it clear that, while exposure did indeed take place, it was only one of a number of funerary
practices in operation.
This contrast is open to a more nuanced response than simple prioritisation of the
archaeological or the textual evidence.10 The Greek writers got it wrong or chose to lay a
misleading emphasis on one particular practice but there is much to be gained from
dwelling a little longer on the possible reasons for this. It is my argument that the contrast
between how the native peoples of Central Asia treated their dead and how Greek writers
said they treated their dead may best be viewed in terms of the delineation of an ethnic
boundary by these Greek writers. The literary sources make the division between Greek and
non-Greek plain, with an added accusation of barbarism to sharpen the distinction.11 Ethnic
identity is here asserted as being predicated on cultural practices: this is a claim familiar from
the processes of ethnic identification considered in Chapter 1, and, as so often, its basis in
actual practice is not quite so firm as the agents would have us believe. The Greek sources
sought to articulate and rationalise the differences they saw between themselves and other
groups. This discourse can also be seen in the funerary monuments and inscriptions of the
region, which, I would argue, represented a medium through which ethnic boundaries were
negotiated. The display of Greek forms could be overt, as will be considered further in the
discussion of Greek mausolea, heroa and funerary inscriptions below. But the permeability
and changing nature of ethnic boundaries is also visible in funerary practice, with non-Greek
individuals (such as Sophytos at Kandahar: see Chapter 5) making a deliberate display of
their Greek culture and learning in their family tombs, and with the close relationship of
mausoleum forms at Ai Khanoum to wider traditions of Central Asian funerary architecture.
Strabo, basing his account on Onesicritus, deals with Central Asian exposure of the dead at
greatest length:
10 Hall (2002), 24: Interpreting the literary record is, of course, seldom straightforward, as
archaeologists are always keen to point out (though why some should either assume that literary
scholars are unaware of this or believe that methodological rigour is a skill with which only
archaeologists are endowed is less explicable).
11See Teixidor (1990), 74-77, for further examples of Greek writers constructing the other through
implicit accusations of barbarism or deliberate slander.
59
In ancient times, not much distinguished the lives and customs of the Sogdians and
Bactrians from those of the nomads, although the Bactrians were slightly more
civilised. Yet, Onesicritus and his followers say not the best things about any of
them, namely, that those who have been worn out by age or illness are thrown alive
to dogs maintained just for this purpose. He writes that these dogs are called
entombers in the local language and that, while it looks spotless outside the walls
of the Bactrian metropolis, the inside is littered with human bones. He also says
that Alexander put an end to this custom.12
Plutarch attributes similar funerary practices to the Bactrians, Scythians and Sogdians:
Whenever they meet with a happy end, the dead of the Hyrcanians are devoured
by dogs and the Bactrians by birds, according to custom.13
Alexandertaught the Arachosians to till the soil, and persuaded the Sogdians to
support rather than slay their parentsHe induced the Indians to accept the Greek
gods, and the Scythians to bury rather than eat the deadHe taught the
Gedrosians the tragedies of Euripides and Sophocles.14
Two things are immediately striking in these accounts. First, whilst Plutarch apparently
differentiates between the practices of the Bactrians, Hyrcanians and Scythians, he is in fact
setting them up in common, barbaric, contrast to Greek burial of the dead. Strabo and
Plutarch both generalise about Central Asian funerary practices, concerned to emphasise
their exceptional and barbaric nature rather than provide comprehensive coverage of the
range of customs present. Secondly, Alexander is credited with putting an end to these
practices, as part of his supposed wider civilising mission.
The report of Onesicritus, quoted by Strabo, has attracted some comment and
controversy. The central question is whether or to what extent his description of Central
Asian funerary practice had any basis in reality. Rawlinson equates the use of dogs to
devour the dead with Zoroastrian practice. 15 Boyce and Grenet are more sceptical of
Onesicritus grisly fantasy, 16 although they do cite some possible supporting evidence,17
and suggest that Onesicritus may have heard of steppe nomads abandoning their old and
sick, customs which he confused with some half-understood explanation of the Zoroastrian
funeral rite and then garbled into a gratifyingly horrid travellers tale.18
Onesicritus was present on Alexanders campaigns in Central Asia, and, whatever his
penchant for exaggeration or sensationalism, at least provides us with literary testimony
contemporary to the archaeological evidence we possess for non-Greek funerary practices in
the region. With Greek accounts of the exposure of the dead in Central Asia, we are not
simply dealing with later writers who had no familiarity with the place. As the parallel of
Strabos and Herodotos descriptions of western Iranian funerary rites demonstrates (see
below), these sensationalist generalisations were sometimes being made by those who were
in a position to be familiar with the more complicated picture of varying forms of treatment of
the dead, but chose to report selectively, concentrating on phenomena which were likely to
shock or titillate their readers and to delineate clear boundaries between the customs of
(civilised) Greeks and (barbarian) others.
It is the Magi who form the focus of Greek accounts of western Iranian exposure of the
dead:
I can mention these Persian customs with confidence because I know about them,
but there are others, to do with the dead, which are talked about obliquely, as if they
were secrets. It is said that the body of a Persian man is not buried until it has
been mauled by a bird or dog. I know for certain that the Magi do this, because
they let it happen in public; but the Persians cover corpses in wax before burying
them in the ground.19
They say that the Magi do not bury their dead, but expose them to be eaten by
birds. They also sleep with their mothers, by ancestral law. Such are their
customs. 20
Herodotos here seeks to extend his more secure knowledge of the customs of the Magi to
Persians as a whole; Strabo, by the context of his remarks, makes it clear that his interest is
less in accurately describing funerary practices than in presenting outlandish and abhorrent
customs to his Greek readership. The parallels with the Greek accounts of Central Asian
exposure of the dead are striking. Despite the elaborate tombs of the Achaemenid kings and
the funerary monuments of Central Asia, discussed below, when dealing with the Iranian
world, Greek writers consistently find that there is greater narrative mileage to be had from
highlighting minority, but more unusual, Zoroastrian funerary rites, which in addition allow
them to delineate a clear boundary between Iranian ethnic groups and their own.
There has been some speculation on the possible relationship between the Central
Asian funerary practices described by the various Classical authors, and those prescribed by
the Zoroastrian religion, practised by some Achaemenid kings and thought to have had its
ultimate origins in Central Asia. Zoroastrian texts provide detailed stipulations on the
appropriate treatment of the dead.21 These specify the temporary deposition of the corpse in
a chamber (kata), its transportation to a place where it is exposed to carnivorous animals (a
dakhma or tower of silence being a special construction for this purpose) and the collection
and storage of the excarnated bones in an uzd!na.22 It is not always clear, however, how
much these reflect actual practice as opposed to an ideal, or, indeed, to what extent what we
would recognise as Zoroastrianism from later periods even existed in Achaemenid and
Hellenistic Iran and Central Asia.23 The Avestan canon was not set down in a permanent
written form until the Sasanian period. Zoroastrian beliefs and practices were certainly
present in the Achaemenid empire, but they were by no means universal, and a king might
honour Ahura Mazda but still be buried in a tomb rather than exposed on a dakhma. The
contemporary or near-contemporary accounts of Onesicritus and Herodotos, as well as some
limited archaeological evidence, show that exposure was practised, but we should be
cautious in judging its extent. The strict funerary prescriptions of Zoroastrianism are
straightforward to spot in the archaeological record.24 Where these features occur in Central
Asia, they are generally either outside Graeco-Bactrian territory or later in date.25 This leads
Grenet to the conclusion that the type of Zoroastrianism practised in Central Asia in the late
centuries BC and early centuries AD generally ignored the funerary prescriptions codified at
the same period in Parthian Iran.26 Certainly, the Achaemenid and Hellenistic periods should
be seen as a time of development in Zoroastrian funerary practices, where little was as yet
rigidly codified or implemented on a truly pan-Iranian scale.27 We should therefore not make
any assumptions about uniformity of religion or orthodox funerary practice in Achaemenid
and Hellenistic Central Asia, and should certainly hesitate to use the term Zoroastrian as
21 The types of funerary installations described in the Vendid!d are concisely outlined by Boyce
(1975), 325ff, and Rtveladze (1987), 37. For greater detail on the funerary prescriptions of Zoroastrian
texts, see Grenet (1984), 31-41.
22Grenet (1984), 37, prefers to differentiate between buildings designed to receive excarnated bones
(Arabic naus) and receptacles (ostothques).
23Grenet does not use the term Zoroastrianism for Central Asia in this period in any strict sense, and
notes (1984), 277, that others prefer to avoid it altogether.
24 Grenet (1984), 31.
25See e.g. the discovery of a secondary interment of disarticulated human remains in the Sasanian
period in-filling of a fortification at Merv: Herrmann et al. (2001), 18-20.
26 Grenet (1984), 220.
27 Boyce (1975), 325, and Sulejmanov (1991), 168, place the formation of Zoroastrian funerary
practices in Central Asia.
62
any kind of catch-all description or explanation of the funerary and religious material culture
to be discussed here. The term, in general, appears to be over-used and, from the point of
view of a non-Iranologist at least, sometimes to create significantly more problems in reading
the archaeological material than it contributes towards resolving.
The Classical accounts, as already noted, owe more to the construction of a barbarian
topos28 than accurate ethnographical reportage. What is at any rate clear, from the literary
and archaeological evidence, is that local Central Asian funerary practices differed from
Hellenistic Greek ones, and were perceived by contemporary observers as sufficiently
different to be articulated as signifiers of oppositional ethnic identity. As further consideration
of the archaeological material will reveal, there does not appear to have been much or
perhaps any uniformity of funerary practice across pre-Hellenistic Central Asia, still less
any formalised and universally, rigidly applied religious strictures on the treatment of the
corpse and conduct of funerary ritual. In this regard, the treatment of Central Asian death-
ritual in the Classical sources is highly significant and, from our earlier discussions of the
construction of ethnic identity and its ideological manipulation, rather familiar. Funerary
practice, with its potential for monumental display, public ritual and the affirmation or
transgression of taboos over the treatment of the human corpse, is well-suited to the
business of articulating ethnic identity and asserting group boundaries. This potential may
not always carry through into actual practice there are any number of contexts in which
homogeneity in funerary customs masks a more complex ethnic picture but in a situation of
dynamic ethnic contact and hierarchisation such as that of Hellenistic Bactria, we may
certainly view variation in mortuary practice and its representation as indicative of wider
social and ethnic concerns.29 An important part of my analysis here will be in highlighting the
complicated interface between expressions of ethnic identity through funerary practice and
material culture, and expressions of wider social or cultural identity. The relationship, as
will be discussed further in Chapter 4, is a crucial one, for assertions of socio-economic
status and civic identity are often intimately bound up with ethnic concerns.
The following paragraphs will summarise the archaeological evidence for funerary
practice in Central Asia immediately before the establishment of the Graeco-Bactrian state,
or outside the territorial limits of its control, in order to emphasise just how diverse and
resistant to modern scholarly generalisation this material is. The study of Central Asian
funerary practices has an invaluable resource in Grenets (1984) detailed survey of the
archaeological and textual evidence, which conveniently organises the material by period
and geographical region.30 This has the benefit of highlighting regional trends and
28For the use of this term to indicate a societys constructed stereotype of an ethnic group, as
opposed to the more complicated patterns of actual behaviour and self-representation (mimesis), see
Smith (2003), following Loprieno (1988).
29 For a discussion of these issues, with case studies, see Hall (1997), 130131.
30Account should be taken of the books additions and corrections, e.g. on the redating of Erkurgan
(see further below). Sites with more than one period of occupation are divided between the relevant
chronological chapters.
63
influences, so notably neglected by the blanket coverage of the Greek sources. I retain
Grenets system of organisation here, with references to his letter-and-number designations
of individual sites in brackets (H = hellnistique, K = kouchano-parthe, S = kouchano-
sasanide, although these are broad chronological allocations rather than fixed and specific
datings or cultural affiliations). More recent scholarship is considered where appropriate, but
my intention here is simply to provide an overview of the variety of forms of funerary practice
in operation in Central Asia at the time of the Greek conquest, and of the continuation of this
diversity in the Hellenistic period.31
a) Chorasmia
Chorasmia, the region to the south of the Aral Sea (see Map 1), maintained close relations
with nomadic peoples of the steppes, a relationship which can be discerned in funerary
practices.32 Although Chorasmia had been under Achaemenid rule, it was no longer so by
the time of Alexanders conquests, and remained beyond the sphere of Greek domination in
the Hellenistic period. The fortified site of Koj-Krylgan-kala (H1, c.fourth-second centuries
BC, pillaged in antiquity) was probably a mausoleum intended for the burial of a king of
nomadic origin. Boyce and Grenet posit that this represents the grafting of nomadic
practices and beliefs onto local religious stock, which was probably Zoroastrian.33 Alongside
the mausoleum/naus interments of the Kushan period, a number of Central Asian sites
present inhumations oriented to the same cardinal directions as nomadic tombs of the same
period. These may suggest that at least part of these populations consisted of sedentarised
nomads, who retained their own funerary practices.34 In the Middle Ages, some influence
may even have flowed in the opposite direction, with the adoption by the nomadic fringes of
excarnation.35
The fortified site of Kazakli-yatkan has revealed a naus/mausoleum of the fifth/fourth
century BC, sited in the middle of the settlement itself;36 this will provide some cautionary
evidence against interpretation of the intramural mausolea of Ai Khanoum as idiosyncratically
Greek.
Anthropomorphic funerary urns have been found at Koj-Krylgan-kala and at a number
of contemporary sites (H2, H3 (funerary identification uncertain), H4). Although the vases
from Koj-Kryglan-kala itself contained no human remains and thus cannot be used to
31I omit Parthyene-Margiana: Grenets (1984) two sites in this region (H6, H7) are of dubious funerary
identification, and fall within the sphere of the Parthian empire.
32 The most detailed consideration of these influences in mortuary practice is provided by Jagodin
(1987). Helms (1998) provides a general introduction to the archaeology of ancient Chorasmia.
33 Boyce and Grenet (1991), 192-193, 51.
34 Grenet (1984), 218.
35 Grenet (1984), 225.
36 Helms et al. (2001), 130.
64
determine mortuary practice, those from a farm 2km to the south (H2) contained fragments of
cremated human bone.37
b) Sogdiana
Scant information is available on the site of Kzyl-tepe (H5), in the oasis of Bokhara. 38 A
necropolis was excavated on the slope of a tepe of the Achaemenid period, dated by the
excavator to the fourth-third centuries BC. The corpses had been burnt with everyday
objects of a sedentary character (pottery, grinding-stones, etc.), and the ashes placed in
vases along with dismembered sheep heads.
Erkurgan, in the lower Kashka-darya valley, was a settlement with a temple, palace,
citadel and city wall, built in the third century BC over older structures which probably had the
same functions. It has been identified as the Nautaka beseiged by Alexander.39 There was
a dakhma (S13, c.third-second centuries BC) 40 north-west of the town, outside the walls.
The identification of this structure, a massive quadrangular tower in unbaked brick, as a
dakhma is based on its isolated position outside the town, the presence of disarticulated
human bones on its upper platform and the discovery of a vase under one of its terraces in
which excarnated human bones had been collected. If the identification and dating of the
structure are correct, then it represents the earliest clear indication of Zoroastrian religious
practice in Sogdiana.41 The dakhma appears to have fallen out of use some time in the
second century BC. The only well-preserved skull from the site has an artificial deformation
characteristic of Saka practice.42
c) Bactria
The Greek burials at Ai Khanoum will be discussed below. The human remains from the
orchestra of the theatre at Ai Khanoum (H11) were at first argued to represent the
continuation or resurrection of pre-Greek practices of exposure, but now, in the light of the
stratigraphy, seem much more likely to be the result of a massacre at the fall of the city.43
A jar containing a human skull and some bones from under the Kushan period royal
pavilion at Khalchayan (Xal!ajan, H12) may date to the third century BC, but it is without
contemporary architectural context and the chronology of the site is uncertain. For the most
part, therefore, larchitecture funraire de la Bactriane pr-grecque nous est encore
totalement inconnue.44 For the Kushan period, a number of naus and possible kata
structures are known from northern Bactria.45
As this brief summary of the archaeological evidence for non-Greek mortuary practice in
Central Asia, and the views of Greek authors on Central Asian mortuary practice, has
demonstrated, the Greeks of the Mediterranean littoral drew a strong distinction between
themselves and the peoples of Central Asia, in which funerary practice and their perception
of it played a clear role. This distinction was made in a way which relates very closely to how
groups seek to construct and delineate ethnic group boundaries, both in the claimed basis of
this distinction and in the fact that its relationship to reality clearly did not matter so much as
its ability to be articulated and draw discrete categories. The following section will aim to
consider the relationship between ethnic groups and their funerary practices on the ground
in the Hellenistic Far East, and how we might view the expression of ethnic identity being
manifested in these practices. Three mausolea have been excavated at Ai Khanoum. A
fragmentary funerary inscription is known from Zhiga-tepe, in the Bactra oasis. At Kandahar,
the Stele of Sophytos (Chapter 5) is probably from a funerary context, but knowledge of any
Hellenistic cemetery remains limited. My emphasis, where possible, will be on setting these
monuments and inscriptions within their urban context, to focus on how people used
monumentality and the Greek language to make public statements of their individual identity
and that of their wider community.
Of the three mausolea excavated at Ai Khanoum, the Temenos of Kineas is the earliest.
Although it is referred to in its original publications as the heron de Kinas,46 we are
fortunate to have an inscription from the site (Figure 3.6), which states that it was set up
Kinou n temnei (see further below).47 The structure was apparently indeed a heron, the
tomb of one Kineas, but it seems somewhat perverse to insist on this designation when its
ancient name is preserved. 48 The people who constructed and used this structure
considered it, within its wider enclosure, as a temenos; by calling it a heron, and thereby
focusing in on the building itself without the space surrounding it, we are already imposing a
subtle change of emphasis.
The Temenos of Kineas, as
already noted, contained a
heron, a commemorative shrine
for the cult of a prominent figure,
in this case probably the founder
of the city (see further below). It
was also, more simply, a burial
place, containing the tombs of
this Kineas and of three other
people by established Greek
practice, probably members of his
family. It was a prominent site of
civic cult, constructed early in the
citys history, and located in the
centre by the administrative
quarter. It contained an
inscription of Delphic maxims: a
potent statement of the
communitys Greek identity,
providing a connection to the Figure 3.1 Heron of Kineas, Phase 2: Bernard (ed.) 1973, Vol.
2, Plate 13.
wider Greek oikoumene, of which
Kineas had founded an outpost.
All these aspects should be borne in mind when we consider how people used the
Temenos of Kineas, and how they perceived it in relation to their social and ethnic identity.
The different, non-mutually exclusive roles played by the structure also, unfortunately, make
it somewhat difficult to integrate into the present discussion, where I am, for the sake of
clarity, attempting to consider funerary and religious practice separately. The Temenos of
Kineas, as a site of cult and a place of burial, deserves to be considered in both categories;
any division would be arbitrary and run the risk of impeding understanding of the structure as
a whole. It is my intention, therefore, to provide a full discussion of the Temenos of Kineas
here, returning in Chapter 4 to emphasise those aspects which merit further consideration
alongside the evidence for religious cult in the Hellenistic Far East.
The Temenos of Kineas is published by Bernard et al. (1973); Grenet (1984), H8,
provides a brief but convenient summary. The temenos is located in the centre of Ai
Khanoum, by the monumental propylaea which led to the administrative quarter (see Chapter
4, Figure 4.1). It went through three main architectural phases, throughout which it
maintained the basic plan of a cella preceded by a pronaos with two columns.49 The dating
of the inscription to the first years of the third century shows that the temenos mentioned in it
was already in existence at this date. Phase 1 may be dated to the last quarter of the fourth
century, and additional evidence of the early date of construction of the temenos comes in
the fact that the direction and location of the propylaea has clearly had to be dictated by its
presence.50 In Phase 2 (Figure 3.1), around the time of the construction of the grand
administrative quarter in the first quarter of the third century, the heron building was
enlarged, and the stepped podium on which it had stood replaced by a platform. Phase 3
(Figure 3.2) may be dated to around 200 BC. Phase 4 represents the re-use of the temenos
as a house after the fall of Ai Khanoum, a pattern common across the city. 51
The major burial, identified as that of Kineas, lay under the floor of the cella of Phase 1
(Figure 3.3 and Figure 3.4). It comprised a limestone sarcophagus (Figure 3.5, 1), set on the
bare earth rather than in a crypt proper. The sarcophagus received libations poured onto the
floor in the cella above, via a conduit which ran into the coffin itself through a
Figure 3.4 Heron of Kineas, tombs under the cella: Bernard (ed.) (1973), Vol. 2, Plate Figure 3.5 Heron of K
91. Vol. 2, Plate 16.
70
small aperture in its lid.52 The three further burials under the building, which had no conduit
or aperture for libations, are assigned to Phases 2 (Burial 2) and 3 (Burials 3 and 4). Like
Burial 1, Burial 3 (Figure 3.5, 3) was also in a limestone sarcophagus; Burials 2 and 4 were
in wooden coffins, of which, in the case of Burial 2, only traces remained. Burial 4 is of
particular interest because it was the only one not pillaged in antiquity When excavated, a
badly-decayed wooden coffin containing an equally poorly-preserved skeleton was revealed.
Tomb 4 contained no offerings.53 Some traces of offerings have, however, been recovered
from the pillage debris of the tombs, for the most part fragments of alabaster vases, probably
of local workmanship. Four of these vases can be almost completely reconstructed, and one
has the Greek letters KINN, an abbreviation of knnamon or kinnmvmon, which the vase
must have contained. 54
Greek and Macedonian parallels may be cited for the form of the little chapel with cella
and pronaos, and for the form of funerary cult practised there: both were also widely diffused
in the Hellenistic and Roman world, notably in the eastern Mediterranean basin. The tomb
types and libation pipe would similarly present no difficulties in a Greek or Hellenistic context.
Bernard et al. note in particular the Macedonian parallels (at Langadha and Leukadia) for the
T-shape of Phase 1 of the structure, in line with their emphasis on the importance of the
Macedonian element in the colonisation of the East.55 My focus here, however, will not be on
architectural parallels: when dealing with a plan as simple as that of the mausoleum of
Kineas, they may in any case tell us little.
Setting the Temenos of Kineas in its immediate urban context enables us to gain a
better idea of how it functioned in the everyday life of the city. Burial within the city walls was,
in the Greek world, generally reserved for figures such as the citys founder, or prominent
leaders.56 It has therefore been argued from the first publication of the inscription from the
site that Kineas was the founder (ofikistw) of Ai Khanoum. He is unknown from any other
source, but our historical sources for events in Bactria in the late fourth and early third
centuries are in any case so inadequate that this should not be surprising.
Its relationship to the propylaea also shows that some effort was taken to integrate the
Temenos of Kineas into the citys central quarter and its everyday business. In Phase 3, the
latest and best-preserved of the structures three Graeco-Bactrian phases, there are niches
in the exterior rear wall of the building. The buildings entrance faced south-east, towards the
main street of the city, and its back wall faced onto the entrance to the administrative quarter.
In a brief but very important discussion, which it would have been welcome to see taken
further, the main report on the site imagines the implications of this feature.57 The niches (for
offerings?) may appear at first glance to be facing the wrong way, until we look at the
temenos in its urban context. Its back wall is towards the monumental propylaea which led
into the administrative quarter, a major thoroughfare. As people walked towards the
administrative quarter, they would have seen the back of the temenos terrace on their left,
perhaps with ex votos dedicated to Kineas and his family in the niches. The Temenos of
Kineas was a structure which, despite being set well back from the main street, people who
had business in the administrative quarter would have passed all the time: it did not need a
special trip, and people had access to the buildings exterior, where they could make
offerings, without actually entering the enclosure.
One parallel for this use of a sacred space comes from New Kingdom Egypt (c.
1540-1070 BC). Egyptian temples were generally approached along a straight axis, through
a succession of courts and pylons, with an increase in sanctity of the space and
corresponding restriction of access with each threshold crossed. A number of temples,
however, had Chapels of the Hearing Ear on the exterior of the building, directly against the
back wall of the inner sanctuary itself. These chapels could be simple niches, sometimes
with carvings of ears, or elaborate shrines with a statue of the god. Those who were not
allowed direct access to the god inside the temple could present their petitions at the back
door. Offerings were also made of stelae with ears inscribed on them.58 The Temenos of
Kineas is, of course, very different from an Egyptian temple, but this comparison suggests
one way in which we might interpret the presence of the offering niches in its exterior wall.
Restriction of access to the inner cella is a possible reason for this: not everyone could have
poured a libation directly down into the tomb or perhaps even found this an appropriate
thing to do so this provided another way of getting close to Kineas and honouring him.59
Alternatively, without assuming that access to the temenos was so strictly regulated, we
might suggest that the offering niches in the back wall simply presented people with a way to
integrate the shrine into their daily life without any formal separation of cultic and secular
spheres.
The Temenos of Kineas, especially given the role played by the citys main temple, is
never likely to have been the most popular site for personal religious devotions. Its location
by the administrative quarter is highly significant, suggesting that it was by the citys ruling or
administrative lite that the preservation of the symbol of the citys founder was considered
most important. So why might it have been important to these people that they should pass
this structure every day, and what did it mean to them? Part of the answer to this has been
suggested above, in that the Temenos of Kineas was a reminder of the citys origins, and of
its civic history.
The inscription of the Delphic maxims from the site, however, also suggests that the
Temenos of Kineas had a strong association with Greek culture and the notion of a wider
Greek oikoumene of which Ai Khanoum was a part. The inscription (Figure 3.6) was found
re-used as the socket for a wooden post in the pronaos, with its engraved face turned
against the wall. Its original location, during the buildings working life as a heron, is likely to
have been on the terrace.60 As with most of the buildings at Ai Khanoum, the Temenos of
Kineas is notable for its hybridity, incorporating both Greek-style columns and other features
less typical of western Greek art and architecture.61 As I argue throughout the present study,
the relationship between cross-fertilisation in artistic style, and how people actually
conceived of their ethnic identity and its relationship to material culture, is an area in which
we must be especially careful not to make assumptions. The inscription from the Temenos of
Kineas, however, leaves us in little doubt as to how its builders and users conceived of this
structure and its connection to their Greek civic identity.
The inscription survives in two parts: a limestone base, with part of a longer inscription
of the Delphic maxims and an epigram by its copier, Klearchos, and a small fragment of the
stele itself on which only the letters filoso`f- are preserved.62 The two inscriptions from the
base read as follows:
presbthw eboulow,
teleutn lupow.
Although the originals from Delphi do not survive, a number of other copies of the
maxims (=mata) of the Seven Sages are known, from both literary and epigraphic
sources. 64 The Ai Khanoum inscription appears to have been a lengthy one, which
overflowed onto the base of the stele, and the claim by Klerachos to have copied it at Delphi
provided a direct personal link between this fairly remote Greek colonial settlement and the
symbolic centre of the Greek world. A number of Greek foundations of the Hellenistic period
emphasised some connection to Delphi, specifically through the cult of Pythian Apollo, a
phenomenon which is also familiar from earlier Greek colonies.65
The Klearchos of the inscription has been identified as the philosopher Klearchos of
Soloi, who is known to have travelled in the East. If he did indeed visit Ai Khanoum, we can
see on an individual level how intellectual links were maintained between the most distant
regions of the Hellenistic world, as also evidenced by the use of up-to-date Greek
philosophical vocabulary in the Greek A"okan Edicts from Kandahar (see Chapter 4, Section
4.12). There is an element of irony in the contrast between what Klearchos wanted from the
East, and what the Greeks of the East wanted from Klearchos. Klearchos had an interest in
non-Greek religion and philosophy. The Greeks of Ai Khanoum, however, clearly greatly
appreciated the opportunity to acquire from Klearchos a link to the religion and philosophy of
Greece. There is no particular need to imagine that Klearchos copied the inscription at
Delphi in the first place with the Greeks of Ai Khanoum in mind; there may have been any
number of other cities along his route across the Hellenistic East who reproduced his copy of
the maxims.66
The opportunity to acquire a good, first-hand copy of the Delphic maxims is one which
a city 5000km, as the crow flies, from Delphi is likely to have viewed as something of a coup.
It is clear from textual quotations and other inscriptions (e.g. at Miletopolis) that the Delphic
maxims circulated in different versions. The epigram of Klearchos stresses that he copied
the maxims himself, and that he did so conscientiously (pifradvw):
For the early colonists of Ai Khanoum, this certified link to Delphi and thereby to Greek
culture and the Greek way of life the Ellhnik gvg ka daita so pined for by the first
Greek settlers in Bactria68 must have been of great significance. It represents, moreover,
something more than a sentimental longing for the old country. It is common for a group
who feel their ethnic identity and the culture upon which they predicate it to be under threat to
make a public statement of this culture, displaying it to outsiders and reinforcing it to
themselves. The founders and first colonists of Ai Khanoum created for themselves an
environment in which they had the opportunity to live a Greek civic life, perhaps in contrast to
the facilities available in the citys chora, or, indeed, in the domestic sphere. The Temenos of
Kineas and the inscription of the Delphic maxims were a creation of the early days of the city,
but they continued to be used and renovated throughout the citys life. In later periods, their
significance may well have become still greater, allowing the citizens of Ai Khanoum a claim
to Greek identity and culture which they may have felt was threatened by factors such as
intermarriage or distance from the Mediterranean world. In his assessment of the
inscriptions significance as a symbol of the maintenance of the Greek way of life at Ai
Khanoum, Robert pinpoints the key issues:
The Temenos of Kineas and the Delphic inscription may have provided a focus for the
Greek community of Ai Khanoum, a reminder of their common identity,70 but the inhabitants
of Ai Khanoum were not all of Greek descent. The texts from the treasury in the
administrative quarter reveal individuals with Iranian names, probably working as minor
officials or bureaucrats there.71 As discussed above, the administrative quarter was reached
through the monumental propylaea from the citys main street, passing the rear of the
Temenos of Kineas en route. The Temenos of Kineas was, therefore, also highly visible to
the non-Greek population of Ai Khanoum, especially if we may suppose a similar situation
to that which prevailed elsewhere in the Hellenistic world to those among them who had
hellenised (to whatever extent) and acquired a position in the Greek bureaucracy of the
city.72 The Temenos of Kineas and its inscription of the Delphic maxims had a message for
the Greek population of Ai Khanoum, concerning their common identity and its basis. To the
non-Greek or hellenised non-Greek population, there are two additional messages which it
could have borne.
First, it stated what it meant to be Greek, and what a person had to demonstrate in
order to be Greek, or acquire the status of a Greek. Part of this was the usual primordial
claim to common ethnic origin, based in this case on the citys foundation and its links to the
western Greek world. But the inscription also suggests that to be Greek means to have a
knowledge of the Greek language and Greek culture, to be educated in a philosophical
tradition and to exercise certain cardinal virtues, appropriate to a persons stage in life.
Whether any hellenising or hellenophile local ever took this as a direct guide or inspiration is
questionable, but it certainly made the basic criteria and indicia of Greek identity clear.
Secondly, we may view the Temenos of Kineas and its inscription as a reminder of
where the power lay at Ai Khanoum: the prestige culture was Greek, and the city was a
Greek foundation.
Kineas tomb had clearly become a focus for the settler communitys expressions of
Greek identity. As noted above, its several functions as tomb, as cult site cannot and
should not be compartmentalised in order to fit more neatly into the present study. The
analysis of archaeological remains, and the use in this analysis of concepts such as ethnic
and social identity, sometimes seems actively to discourage a linear or compartmentalising
approach. A productive analysis of the Temenos of Kineas demands that we keep several
threads of interpretation and argument active at the same time. In the context of the current
discussion, my aim is to set the tomb of Kineas alongside other tombs and memorials from Ai
Khanoum, and from elsewhere in the Hellenistic Far East, in order to ask what kind of
statements funerary monuments made about the identity of the people who erected them. It
will also be necessary, however, to return to a number of points from the preceding
discussion when we come to consider religious practice (Chapter 4), and how the practice of
formal and popular religion related to how people conceived of their identity, and sought to
present it to the gods and to other people. It is therefore only appropriate to conclude this
section by asking how much it mattered, in terms of the meanings and associations it
acquired to the people who saw it in its original urban context, that the Temenos of Kineas
was a place of burial.
The usual location for a cemetery in the Greek world was outside the city walls, and, as
will be seen, this is where the main necropolis of Ai Khanoum was situated. In Central Asia,
72The issue of the level of restriction of access implied by the propylaea is discussed in Chapter 4,
Section 4.6.
76
burial or disposal of the dead also commonly took place outside the limits of habitation, and
in the case of Zoroastrian practice, there were powerful pollution taboos against both
inhumation and any close contact between the dead and the living. On the other hand, the
monumental intramural naus from late fifth/early fourth-century Kazakli-yatkan, in
Chorasmia, is a caution against assuming that this presents any kind of general pattern.73 A
tomb, although it may of course be pillaged or destroyed later, is generally conceived of as
something permanent, a resting place, a very physical presence in the landscape. It can be
a link to a communitys ancestors and its history. In the case of the Temenos of Kineas, this
link is one with strong symbolic resonance. It ties the Greek community of Ai Khanoum both
to their origin in the western Greek world, the source of their culture, and, by Kineas
presence, to the site of Ai Khanoum and the land in which they were now settled. A grave is
not always just a grave, and the second intramural mausoleum from Ai Khanoum also serves
to demonstrate the significance of a tombs physical presence, and the symbolic associations
which could be attached to it.
The second mausoleum inside the city walls of Ai Khanoum is generally referred to as the
heron/mausole au caveau de pierre.74 I prefer here to use the more neutral designation
mausoleum, particularly since, as will be discussed below, some question remains over the
identification of the site. It received preliminary publication in Bernard (1975), with a full
study by Francfort and Liger
(1976); it is also the subject of a
briefer report (H9) in Grenet
(1984).
The Stone Vault Mausoleum
(Figure 3.7) lies approximately
150m north of the Temenos of
Kineas, again within the broad
area of the monumental
propylaea which gave access to
the administrative quarter. The
mausoleum itself lay inside an
enclosure, the limits of which
were uncovered to the west and
south. Later, post-Graeco-
Bactrian occupants of the site
pillaged the building extensively
for construction materials, so its
reconstruction presents some
problems.75
The mausoleum had been
preceded by an earlier building of
similar dimensions on the same
site, the scanty remains of which
do not permit reconstruction.76
The dating of the monument itself
poses some difficulties: it has
been dated on basis of ceramics,
confirmed by architectural
comparison which, of course,
Figure 3.7 The Stone Vault Mausoleum: Francfort and Liger
(1976), Plate 4.
74 Bernard (1975); Francfort and Liger (1976); Grenet (1984).
75 Bernard (1975), 180; Francfort and Liger (1976), 25.
76 Bernard (1975), 188.
78
runs the risk of being a circular argument. Francfort and Liger place the first two phases of
construction to the first half of the third century, later than the Temenos of Kineas. 77
The mausoleum was a grand construction, and the fact that its vault was made entirely
in stone is striking, given the parsimonious use of stone in general at Ai Khanoum. 78 The
stone vault is certainly a contrast to the tombs in the Temenos of Kineas, where the
sarcophagi rested on the bare earth. In the absence of inscriptional evidence, its occupants,
however, remain anonymous.79
The mausoleum appears to have been surrounded by a peristyle colonnade (). It faced
east, on a raised terrace or stepped platform. A staircase went up to the entrance in the
middle of the faade. The mausoleum itself had three rooms: a vestibule with two stone
columns, Room 1, then the smaller Room 2. The burial vault was under the floor of the latter,
accessed by a staircase in baked brick. The top of the staircase lay some distance under the
floor, suggesting that it was usually closed, but re-opened each time a new inhumation was
made. The contents of the vault were pillaged in antiquity, but the fact that it contained
several burials can be seen from the remains of five skeletons and two undecorated stone
sarcophagi, one of which remained more or less intact. A second vault, in baked brick, also
pillaged, lay under Room 1. This suggests that the original crypt must at some point have
reached capacity, necessitating the construction of a second.80
The presence of a distinct room, Room 2, above the tomb itself, separate from the
entrance hall and Room 1, shows that this room played a special role in relation to the tombs
beneath. It is probable that funerary cult was practised there, possibly with libations running
directly into the vault as at the Temenos of Kineas.81
The human remains comprised five skeletons (a young child, two adolescents or small
adults, two older people) and fragments of bone from a sixth. The skull of one of the
skeletons was deformed, although initial analysis was unable to ascertain whether this was
congenital or an artificial deformation.82 The five skeletons, despite having been disturbed
and strewn around the inside of the vault during its pillaging, remained fully articulated,
suggesting that, at the time of their disturbance, the ligaments and perhaps even the skin
remained intact, holding them together. This can only mean either that they were fresh
inhumations, or that they had been embalmed. Francfort and Liger incline towards the latter
option, given the duration of the mausoleums functioning life. Embalming was, of course,
77 Francfort and Liger (1976), 38. On the stratigraphy of the Mausoleum, see Francfort and Liger
(1976), 32-33.
78 Francfort and Liger (1976), 32.
79 Bernard (1975), 188.
80 Bernard (1975), 183, 185; Francfort and Liger (1976), 31, 33-34.
81 Bernard (1975), 189.
82Francfort and Liger (1976), 34; another deformed skull, from Erkurgan, is noted above, although in
the absence of a published illustration or detailed description of the Ai Khanoum skull, little should
probably be made of this parallel.
79
not unknown to the Greeks of the Hellenistic period, as the elaborate preparation of
Alexanders body shows. The sixth set of human remains consists of fragments of bone
inside pellets of a porous material, roughly the size and shape of a fig. No other examples
are known of this curious practice, from either the Greek world or Central Asia.83 It may
correspond to a rite of re-inhumation as will be seen below, for example, in the jar burials
re-interred in the Extramural Mausoleum but it is also reminiscent of the conservation of
relics, as, for example, in Buddhist tradition. The secondary vault, under Room 1, contained
the remains of a young person of small stature, probably female as indicated by the bone doll
and steatite jewellery which accompanied her.84
The graves lack much in the way of funerary equipment: there are some ceramics and
two rings (one bronze, one iron) from the main vault, and the doll and jewellery already
mentioned from the secondary vault. Francfort and Liger suggest that the modesty and
austerity of the tombs accords well with the monumental and robust character of the
mausoleum itself, but it seems more likely that the lack of grave goods is simply due to the
monument having been thoroughly pillaged. The sole solid evidence of the performance of
cult at the site is a baked brick altar at the foot of the external stair.85
The question of the identity of the tombs occupants has yet to be satisfactorily
resolved. The number of burials and their varying age and sex suggests a family crypt. The
consensus of opinion thus far appears to be in favour of making the original occupant an
unknown citizen for whom the honour of heroization had been decreed,86 whose family were
subsequently buried alongside him. As with the Temenos of Kineas, however, I would
hesitate to call this monument a heron: not because there is any compelling reason why it
cannot be, but simply because there is equally, at present, no compelling reason why it must.
Francfort and Liger conclude that the Stone Vault Mausoleum was that of a family
whose ancestor who had achieved something worthy of heroisation and a tomb intra muros.
Given the Greek style of the building, they argue, this ancestor had to be a Greek or a
hellenised Bactrian. That the tombs occupant need not have been purely Greek is an
intriguing suggestion, albeit one which we might choose to phrase rather differently, given my
reservations here about arguing straight from a buildings architectural style to the identity of
the people who used it. Certainly, whoever the original occupant of the Stone Vault
Mausoleum was, he was someone the city considered to have a sufficiently close (political
and cultural?) connection to be buried within the walls. A few lines later, however, Francfort
and Ligers possible hellenised Bactrian is no more, and they suggest that the Greek or
Macedonian occupant was a magistrate or military man. As they emphasise, we do not know
whether it was the city of Ai Khanoum itself which honoured him, or perhaps Seleukos or
Antiochos heroising one of their companions.87
The suggestion that this might be a royal mausoleum is immediately refuted by
Francfort and Liger, on the grounds that, at the period of its construction, Bactria had yet to
achieve full independence from the Seleucids.88 The process of Graeco-Bactrian
independence was, however, a gradual one, and the Diodotids clearly enjoyed more or less
unlimited authority in Bactria long before they began to strike coins under their own names.89
The declaration of independence, if any such direct claim was ever made, and the striking of
coins in their own names would have been a public statement, obvious to outsiders. Affairs
within Bactria itself could be more open to acknowledging the actual balance of power and
influence. The fact that Euthydemos could be regarded as a usurper by Antiochos III and
defend himself by protesting that he had overthrown the usurping Diodotids90 shows just
how difficult and sensitive a matter the business of asserting independence from the
Seleucids actually was. But it is significant that Antiochos IIIs anabasis was the first
attempted Seleucid assertion of control over Bactria for some years. The Diodotids, and later
Euthydemos, will have been essentially free to behave like kings in Bactria, with all the
control over the manipulation of their political image, and possible creation of dynastic cult,
which this implies. For the moment, the suggestion that the Stone Vault Mausoleum at Ai
Khanoum contained a royal burial remains, at the very least, a possibility which we should
not rule out. For a positive identification, inscriptional material from the site would be
necessary. In addition, given the lack of excavation at the Graeco-Bactrian capital of Bactra,
too little is known about the status and position of the cities of Hellenistic Bactria to allow us
to debate the likelihood of the city of Ai Khanoum being the burial place of kings. The Stone
Vault Mausoleum may simply have been the resting place of an unknown local dynasty of
rulers or officials.
The Stone Vault Mausoleum, like many other buildings at the site, had a life after the
fall of Ai Khanoum in c.145 BC. Unlike the Temenos of Kineas, however, which apparently
became a house, the Stone Vault Mausoleum became the site of several further burials.
Shortly after the pillaging of the mausoleum by the citys post-Graeco-Bactrian occupants,
two burials were made in the buildings ruins, one of a girl, identified by her jewellery, and the
other of a baby. These have been dated by ceramics to the period after the Graeco-Bactrian
occupation of the city. In the Islamic period, when the monument had already degraded into
something more resembling a tumulus, the western faces of the outcrop, in the direction of
Mecca, became the site of a small Muslim cemetery of ten tombs. To my knowledge, none of
these later burials has received any publication, save brief notices by Francfort and Liger.91
The absence of any such primary publication of the material makes further analysis of
them here extremely difficult, but they certainly merit further discussion. The continuity of
burial on this one spot is striking. In the case of the Islamic period tombs, one might suspect
that the choice of burial place had more to do with the site having become a conspicuous
mound, an appropriate place outside the limits of contemporary habitation, than any
continuing association of it as a place of burial.
The two earlier burials, dating to the period of the post-Graeco-Bactrian occupation of
the city, however, beg a few questions which demand to be given at least some
consideration. The post-Graeco-Bactrian occupants of Ai Khanoum are occasionally referred
to as squatters, a faintly derogatory term which, to my mind, does not do justice to their
occupation and re-organisation of the site. These people lived in and used the site of Ai
Khanoum in a different way to the previous occupants, and the way in which they related to
the existing urban layout, and changed the functions of several of the citys major buildings,
is of great interest. The Temenos of Kineas, for example, was converted to domestic
purposes. The citys main temple (Chapter 4, Section 4.2), was also occupied and used in a
very different manner to that in which it had been used by its original inhabitants. A certain
degree of rebuilding or relocation of urban institutions also clearly went on, as may be seen
from the character of pillaging in the administrative quarter. The pillagers favoured materials
were baked brick and stone, and the only walls preserved beyond a certain height at the time
of excavation were those in raw brick. 92 This removal of construction materials suggests a
building programme elsewhere, and may also have constituted a deliberate assault on a
symbol of Greek political power.93 It should be noted that we have little or no information on
the identity and origin of the later occupants of the city. It is generally assumed that they
were non-Greek, but we know nothing of the fate of the Hellenistic period inhabitants; the
human remains found in the theatre orchestra suggest that some, at least, of them were
massacred (see Section 3.2, c) Bactria). On the other hand, we do possess one firm piece
of evidence for the introduction of a new, non-Greek group, in the shape of an undeciphered
runic inscription on a silver ingot from the treasury.94 The post-Graeco-Bactrian occupation
of Ai Khanoum, and the manner in which its new inhabitants related to the earlier urban
structure, would make an extremely interesting study in itself.
91Francfort and Liger (1976), 2526, 35. For further post-Greek burials at Ai Khanoum, see Rapin
(1992a), 81, for a burial under the treasury; Leriche (1986), 109-111, on five tombs from the upper city,
dated to the first century BC; and Veuve (1987), 116, on two Kushan and three Islamic tombs from the
gymnasium.
92 Rapin (1992a), 7.
93Rapin (1992a), 35. On the post-Greek occupation and treatment of the treasury and administrative
quarter/palace area, see Rapin (1992a), 31-35.
94 Rapin (1992a), 139-142.
82
If they had not known already that it contained tombs, the pillagers of the Stone Vault
Mausoleum as with those of the Temenos of Kineas certainly soon found out. The burial
vault itself was plundered (of what, if any, original funerary equipment we do not know) and
the bodies were disturbed. The hypothesis that the articulation of the disturbed remains was
due to their having been embalmed adds an extra dimension to the discovery: how would the
pillagers have reacted to finding preserved or semi-preserved human remains? The dating
of the two post-Graeco-Bactrian burials in the ruins of the mausoleum is uncertain, so we do
not know how close chronologically they may or may not have been to the mausoleums
pillaging. It is interesting, nevertheless, to think that the place may have been known to be
an old place of burial, and thus appropriate for future inhumations. Alternatively, it may
simply have been a convenient location, in which case we would like to know more about the
settlement patterns and any urban zoning implemented by the post-Graeco-Bactrian
occupants of Ai Khanoum. We should note that the Temenos of Kineas, despite being
pillaged, despite having its bodies disturbed, apparently acquired no lasting association as a
place of burial, and became a house. I do not propose that any of this, at present, amounts
to a coherent theory on how later occupants of the site related to the Graeco-Bactrian burials
at Ai Khanoum: it is simply an issue which we might like to consider in greater depth than has
previously been done.
83
The main necropolis at Ai Khanoum lay to the north-east of the city, outside its walls. Surface
survey and aerial photography 95 have revealed the sites of a number of mausolea, but only
one has been excavated. In the publications of the excavations at Ai Khanoum, it is referred
to as the mausole hors-les-murs.
A rammed earth wall (Phase 1), running east-west, stood on the site of the future
Extramural Mausoleum, perhaps serving as a boundary between burial plots. In Phase 2, a
rectangular building was constructed, outside which stood a small baked brick altar. It is
difficult to ascertain much about the form and function of Phase 2; it may have been a simple
wall around a group of tombs.96
Phase 3, the mausoleum proper,
remained in use until the end of the Graeco-
Bactrian occupation of Ai Khanoum. The
mausoleum was rectangular, 9m by 6m, and
partly subterranean (Figure 3.8). The whole
construction was in unbaked brick. The
entrance door was in the south wall, leading
into a vaulted corridor with two vaults
opening off each side (Figure 3.9). In the
following stages, Phase 4a and Phase 4b,
the mausoleum underwent a major Figure 3.9 Extramural Mausoleum, SE vault:
Bernard (1972), Fig. 6.
renovation, where the walls were replaced
95Some aerial photographs appear in the plates in Leriche (1986), but no detailed ones of the
necropolis area appear to have been published.
96 Bernard (1972), 610.
84
cannot accept it without reservations. The most obvious objection is that the simple form of a
mausoleum of this sort is not culturally-specific. As in the case of the Temenos of Kineas, for
example, we might cite Macedonian parallels. The monumental tombs of Alexandria in
Egypt, the subject of a recent study by Venit (2002), provide a good illustration of the ethnic
readings we ought and ought not bring to bear on the Extramural Mausoleum at Ai Khanoum.
The tombs discussed by Venit provide an excellent source of information on the social
and cultural history of Hellenistic and Roman period Alexandria. The contrast between the
Greek identity of their occupants and the more diverse architectural and artistic influences of
the tombs themselves is striking:
Throughout the 500-year history of Alexandrias monumental tombs, the great majority
belonged to persons who, despite their geographic ancestry, aimed culturally to be
Greek. They spoke Greek, and adhered to Greek ideals, yet (and this is perhaps
ironic) they were buried in tombs that do not proclaim any specific formal lineage that
can definitively be defined as Greek, except the architectural elements that from their
inception informed them. The dead are laid to rest in monuments that can be described
by using a Greek architectural vocabulary but that are discrete to Alexandria,
monuments of diaspora reconfigured in a foreign setting.106
The form of these tombs defies categorisation within either a Greek or an Egyptian
tradition. Even within individual tombs, diverse forms of mortuary practice, including
interment, cremation and mummification may be attested.107 One aspect which we might
note, by way of comparison with the inscribed jars from the Ai Khanoum Extramural
Mausoleum, are the Hadra hydriai, jars used in Alexandria exclusively for cremated remains.
These occasionally bear inscriptions, giving the name, rank and place of origin of the
deceased, the name of the official responsible for the interment, and also the date. The
dates attested range from the mid-third to the late-second centuries BC. 108 The ethnic
implications of these tombs, and the Egyptian influences visible in their architecture and
decoration are, as Venit notes, not so clear-cut as we might suppose. In Hellenistic Egypt,
neither Greeks nor Egyptians appear to have found anything especially controversial in the
other groups funerary practices, and it is in fact in such contexts that Greece and Egypt
appear to interact most closely.109 Burial might be used to make an ethnic statement,
perhaps in contrast to the way in which the individual chose to lead their public life,110 but the
level of religious and artistic syncretism in our evidence is such that it really demands that we
treat each case on an individual basis. This, of course, is something which we cannot at
present do with the single private tomb from Ai Khanoum. But the Egyptian evidence does
illustrate well that the ethnic reading of a tomb must take into account the information we
possess on the identity of the occupant in other spheres of activity, and also that architectural
or artistic form may itself vary and be open to a number of interpretations.
88
That Greek burial was not restricted to the colonial enclave of Ai Khanoum, but, along with
the Greek settlers themselves, spread across Bactria, may be seen from a fragmentary
inscription from Zhiga-tepe, 5km from Dilberdzhin in the Bactra oasis. 111 The inscription was
the subject of brief notices in Kruglikovas and Pugachenkovas publications on Dilberdzhin
and Zhiga-tepe, respectively,112 but has received fuller consideration by Vinogradov 113 and
Bernard.114 I take my readings here from Bernard and Vinogradov, whose publications were
subsequent to those in the Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum and the Bulletin
pigraphique. 115
The inscription, in typical monumental-cursive letters,116 is preserved in six fragmentary
lines on the top left corner of a ceramic plaque (Figure 3.12). Between lines 5 and 6 was an
aperture, apparently for binding onto a stone stele. It is dated to the late third or early
second century BC.117 Although Kruglikova and
Pugachenkova both noted that the inscription
was in verse, and was possibly a dedication,
Vinogradov was the first to identify it as an
epigram on a tomb, on the basis of its
characteristic turns of phrase and the facility
with which Line 6 may be reconstructed as to
the House of Hades.118
1. Oow n e ya[...]
2. Ajseiw ...
3. Diognh ....
4. Oxhtai d[.....]
5. Patrw .....
6. [E]fiw Ad[ao]
Figure 3.12 Greek funerary inscription from
Zhiga-tepe: Kruglikova (1977), Fig. 16.
Chapter 4
Religious Practice
4.1Introduction
The corpus of archaeological and epigraphic material on religious practice in the Hellenistic
Far East is significantly wider and more varied than that on funerary practice. In addition to
the excavated temple sites, and Greek inscriptions, the recently-published Aramaic
documents from Bactria provide some incidental information on religion in the region under
Achaemenid rule. Although this evidence does not add up to a comprehensive picture of
religious life and cult practice in Hellenistic Bactria and Arachosia, it may be used in
conjunction to construct some working hypotheses on the ways in which ethnic identity
manifested itself in a public context.
My definition of religion here is, of necessity, rather a broad one. I include all
archaeological sites of the period which, it has been argued, show evidence of cult activity,
as well as inscriptions which mention the names of gods or religious matters. In at least two
of the inscriptions (Ai Khanoum gymnasium; Kuliab), dedications to gods have a significance
which is also, or perhaps even primarily, socio-political rather than to do with personal
devotion. Religion is more of a unifying theme in the following discussion than an exclusive
description of the types of practice and behaviour to be considered. My emphasis is on the
areas of interface between public religious practice and expressions of social and ethnic
identity which the evidence reveals.
As ever, a few preliminary remarks are in order on the lacunae in our evidence, and on
the areas into which this discussion will deliberately not stray. Only at Ai Khanoum may we
currently place a temple into a well-excavated Graeco-Bactrian period urban context. The
Temple of the Oxus (Takht-i Sangin) and the Temple of the Dioscuri (Dilberdzhin) both pose
chronological difficulties, which may severely compromise previous analysis. At the majority
of the sites discussed in this chapter, we have no cult statue or secure epigraphic
identification of a deity. The contrast between the information to be gleaned from
archaeological, as opposed to epigraphic, evidence will be of particular pertinence in the
section on Old Kandahar.
One of the great advantages of several of the sites considered here is that they reveal
occupation stretching before and/or after the period of the Graeco-Bactrian kingdom. This
enables some degree of local context to be established.1 Despite or because of the more
abundant archaeological material from Kushan period Bactria, it has been necessary to
impose reasonably strict chronological limitations on the material to be discussed. Had my
principal concern been religious practice per se, rather than as a category of evidence which
1 Not, however, to the degree to which we may examine the attitudes of Hellenistic dynasties to local
(Greek and non-Greek) religious institutions at some other cities, such as Babylon (Downey (1988),
7ff), or Panamara in Caria (van Bremen (2004)).
92
may provide information on ethnic identity in the Hellenistic Far East, the analysis offered
here would inevitably have been expanded to encompass a great number of additional sites
and issues. One area in which I do introduce material from the Kushan period is in the
section on the Temple of the Dioscuri at Dilberdzhin; this is necessitated both by the
considerable uncertainty over the chronology of the site itself, and by the nature of the
evidence, which raises important questions about the cult of Greek deities in Kushan
Bactria.2
One of my major concerns will be attempting to ascertain the ways in which sanctuary
space was used. At a number of the temples discussed here, there is great potential for
looking at the various cult practices performed, and the corresponding variations in material
culture, in a more holistic way than has previously been done. The Temple with Indented
Niches at Ai Khanoum is a particularly useful example, both for the completeness of its
excavation and the problems posed by the material found there. It will therefore receive the
fullest discussion of the sites considered in this chapter. The importance of not considering
even this remarkable temple sanctuary in isolation will, however, be emphasised by the
subsequent discussion, which sets the Temple with Indented Niches within its wider urban
structure, with reference to both religious and non-religious institutions.
There are several good surveys of the Hellenistic Bactrian temples known from
archaeological excavation, notably Bernard (1990b); Boyce and Grenet (1991), 165179;
Hannestad and Potts (1990); and, in conjunction with the Seleucid evidence, Downey (1988).
Litvinskii and Pichikyan (2000), 283-293, explicitly consider the Temple of the Oxus at Takht-i
Sangin alongside Ai Khanoum and Dilberdzhin.
2 On Kushan Bactria, see Staviskij (1986). For one example of the persistence of Hellenistic cults in
the Kushan empire, and the difficulties of interpreting the available evidence, see Mairs (forthcoming
a).
93
The Temple with Indented Niches status as the principal religious site at Ai Khanoum it had
no known major rivals demands that we consider its form and function in some depth. It
was sited prominently in the centre of the lower city, surrounded by a large walled sanctuary.
Both temple and sanctuary were subject to thorough excavation, although the limits of the
sanctuary were not reached. The non-Greek character of the temples architecture and
many of the artefacts recovered from it raises the question of the cultural identity of the
people who used it, and how they related to this curious structure. It should be stressed that
this temple cannot be considered an anomaly within Ai Khanoum: there was no Greek-style
temple at all, so the Temple with Indented Niches and its urban context must be made to
relate to each other in a meaningful way. In the absence of evidence from other major
Bactrian cities, in particular Bactra, the non-Greek character of religious architecture at Ai
Khanoum should not, however, be taken as a general rule, especially since we have from
later Taxila a temple which is strikingly Greek in form and architectural decoration, even if its
function is less certain.3
My discussion will summarise the architecture of the Temple with Indented Niches and
its sanctuary, before moving on to the question of its Mesopotamian form and what this does
and does not mean in terms of culture and ethnicity; the nature of cult at the site and the
functioning of the various aspects of the sanctuary complex; and finally the temples context
in terms of the urban environment of Ai Khanoum.
The Temple with Indented Niches goes by two names in the original publications of the
site: temple niches indentes and temple redans. In adopting Temple with Indented
Niches here, I follow Francforts (1984) use of temple niches indentes in the series
Fouilles dA Khanoum. It should be noted, however, that Francfort also occasionally
employs the name temple redans,4 and that some later publications, such as Downey
(1988), also follow this name throughout.
The full publication of the small finds from the Temple with Indented Niches, with important
discussions on their function and context, is to be found in Francfort (1984). For the
architecture, the original reports must still be consulted.5
The sanctuary of the Temple with Indented Niches was accessed from the main street
of Ai Khanoum, and lay just south of the monumental propylaea of the administrative quarter,
south-east of the Temenos of Kineas (Figure 4.1). One full side of the sanctuary enclosure
(60m), fronting onto the main street, was cleared. The temple was reasonably well-
preserved at the time of excavation, with its raw brick walls surviving in places to a height of
3m. Treasure-hunters had dug in a number of places, but had not seriously damaged the
architecture. The temple building itself was roughly square, with sides of c.20m, and stood
on top of a raised platform. At all periods, it appears to have comprised a vestibule or
pronaos, reached by a set of stairs, and a cella, which in later periods was flanked by two
smaller sacristies. The temples
distinctive indented niches lay four
along each exterior wall, with only two
on the front wall, flanking the door
(Figure 4.3).6 The excavators identified
five architectural phases, with Phase 5
being the earliest construction on the
site, and Phase 1 designating its re-use
as a storage depot by the post-Greek
occupants of the city.7 The chronology
of the site can only be sketched
somewhat broadly; it has been
established mostly on the basis of
ceramics, and on coins (only three of
which were significant by their
context).8
Phase 5 (Figure 4.2) represents Figure 4.1 Temple with Indented Niches (Sanctuaire),
the first temple building on the site, immediate urban context; see also Chapter 1, Figure
1.2.
5 Bernard (1969), (1970), (1972), (1974b); Bernard and Francfort in Bernard (1971).
6 Bernard (1969), 327, 333; Bernard (1970), 319
7 In the preliminary publications, there is of necessity some re-organisation of this scheme. The
position in each particular publication may be clarified by reference to Bernard (1970), 319, n1, and
Bernard (1971), 414, in which the phasing reaches its final form, maintained in subsequent
publications such as Downey (1988).
8 Bernard (1971), 429-430.
95
constructed in the late fourth or early third century; this was razed and replaced by the
Temple with Indented Niches (Phase 4 onwards). The Temple with Indented Niches did not,
however, entirely cover the walls of the earlier temple, so something of its form can be
discerned. It was similar to the
later temple, with a pronaos and
cella. The cella was not flanked
by sacristies and was larger than
in subsequent periods. In two
Cella and places, the internal floor of Phase
sacristies
5 was preserved, and on one of
these, in the cella, a small altar in
raw bricks was uncovered.
Access to the pronaos was
Pronaos probably by a stairway. The walls
rested, on the eastern side,
directly onto the alluvium, and in
the west onto an artificial
embankment. Like the later
temple, it seems that that of
Phase 5 was surrounded by a
crpis (stepped brick platform).9
Phase 4, the construction of the
Temple with Indented Niches
proper, followed the same broad layout as the temple of Phase 5, although it differed in some
details (Figure 4.3). The pronaos led into a smaller cella than that of Phase 5, flanked by two
sacristies. The building was set on a crpis of three steps, and the main door was reached
by a stairway of ten steps on the outside of the building. A number of pedestals of unbaked
brick stood on the upper step of the crpis. Traces of ashes preserved on the top of these
pedestals permit their identification as altars. At the base of the rear of the temple, 32
libation vessels, all of local non-Greek ceramic types, were set into the earth. Phase 3 was
marked by the raising of the floor level of the sanctuary courtyard and the construction of a
new access stairway, maintaining the ten steps of the previous one.10
In Phase 2, in the second half of the third century, a number of architectural
modifications were made. A new access way (comprising either a stair or a ramp) was laid
over the previous one, and the stepped crpis was replaced by a platform. Although the
excavators had earlier supposed that the crpis of Phase 4 was replaced because of erosion
by rainwater, it had in fact survived well in at least one place, suggesting that there were
other reasons for the construction of the platform.11 The earliest report on the structure
suggests a change in the nature of cult practice which required a route around the outside of
the edifice.12 The platform never carried any form of superstructure or colonnade, such as
that posited for the Stone Vault Mausoleum. An isolated massif of masonry to the south of
the temple entrance, on the main faade, perhaps served as a statue pedestal. Features of
earlier phases (such as the libation vessels) persisted, suggesting continuity in cult. Phase 2
remained in use for a long period, as shown by the numerous repairs made to the platform.13
The material from the later occupation of the temple (Phase 1) can be placed sometime
in the first century. The structure appears to have lost its original religious function, and
become a storage depot, as shown by the numerous jars found in the pronaos and southern
sacristy. Among the other finds from this period are millstones, some of which, despite their
apparent use by the later occupants of the city, are of typical Greek type. Although much
earlier material remains in the sanctuary and in the temple itself, disruption by the post-Greek
occupants means that find-spots must be interpreted with caution. Many items appear to
hase 4: adapted
have been moved around within the sanctuary, or even brought in from elsewhere in the
city.14
The chronological phases of the wider sanctuary are known in less detail than those of
the temple itself. In Phase 5, the sanctuary appears to have been surrounded by a wall of
baked bricks. In Phase 4, a wall in unbaked bricks was constructed, and Phase 3 is
associated with the construction of a large portico to the south of the main entrance. The
eastern side of the sanctuary has been completely uncovered, and ran for 60m along the
main street. Extensive exploration among the houses of the sites later occupants failed to
reveal the northern limits of the sanctuary. A number of storerooms lined the inside of the
sanctuary walls, and there were two subsidiary chapels within the sanctuary. The main
entrance to the sanctuary, onto the main street, lay on the axis of the temple entrance. Two
columns with stone bases flanked the outside of the entrance porch. South of the entrance,
on the inside of the sanctuary wall, was a portico c.17m long and 5m deep, with four columns
with stone bases. A water channel, branching off from the canal along the main street,
entered the sanctuary via a conduit in the south-west corner (Figure 4.4). This open channel
ran from east to west across the south side of the sanctuary, and although its course
changed, it never ceased to function during the life of the sanctuary. Numerous small stone
pedestals (whose function will be discussed below) were found throughout the sanctuary and
its storerooms, as well as in the temple itself.15
Two separate, smaller chapels lay within the sanctuary precinct, one to the north and
one to the south (Figure 4.7). The southern chapel (Figure 4.5) was rectangular (7.6 x 5m),
with a tiny cella and vestibule. The faade had two columns with stone bases and wooden
shafts. This chapel existed from the beginning of the life of the sanctuary, until it was
apparently replaced by the northern chapel. The northern chapel (Figure 4.6), uncovered
during the search for the northern limits of the sanctuary, had a T-plan analogous to that of
the earliest phase of the heron of Kineas, with a broad pronaos with two columns and a
narrower cella. This plan, as already noted in the discussion on the Temenos of Kineas in
Chapter 3, has been compared to Macedonian tomb-types and even to examples from AD
sixth-century Pyandzhikent. In the absence of other close parallels or connections between
these buildings, however, my preference is not to attach much significance to the recurrence
of this rather simple form. A pedestal in unbaked bricks stood against the interior back wall
of the cella, but no traces of a cult image were found. The chapels construction was largely
later than that of the main temple.16
No inscriptions were discovered at the temple, so the precise identity of the deities
worshipped there, and the names by which
the population called them, must remain a
matter of conjecture. Discussion of the
small finds and cult equipment from the
temple and its sanctuary will be reserved
for Section 4.2.3, below.
4.2.2Mesopotamian Analogies
The similarity of the Temple with Indented Niches to Mesopotamian temple forms was noted
in the earliest publications of the site.17 The niched decoration on the exterior walls of the
temple is a common feature of Mesopotamian religious architecture,18 as is the stepped
platform on which the temple sat. In addition, the basic schema of a cella with lateral
sacristies, preceded by a pronaos, most closely approximates to that of the Parthian period
temples at Dura Europos.19 A similar plan recurs at the Ai Khanoum Extramural Temple, and
comparisons have also been drawn with Dilberdzhin and Takht-i Sangin.20 This apparent
export of a Mesopotamian temple type to Hellenistic Bactria has provoked considerable
debate.21 The question of the mechanism by which this form was transmitted, and of what
ethnic and cultural implications it holds, requires some further consideration. My argument,
to be outlined in greater depth below, is that the origin of the Mesopotamian form of the
Temple with Indented Niches is to be sought in Achaemenid Bactria, and that, whilst the
choice of this form cannot be used to make assumptions about the ethnic identity of the
Figure 4.6 Temple with Indented Niches, Northern Chapel: Bernard (1972), Fig.
population
14. of Ai Khanoum, it can be used, in comparison with other institutions within the city,
to make some preliminary arguments about the particular locations which served as a focus
for the expression of (Greek) ethnic identity.
Maximalist interpretations of the evidence would hold that the Temple with Indented
Niches is the product of a deliberate policy of architectural (and cultural) fusion, perhaps
orchestrated by a central power.22 Downey states that this combination of forms in the
architecture of a distant colony argues for a considered attempt to create new styles of
architecture based on an amalgamation of varied traditions.23 The fact that the Temple with
Indented Niches existed in much the same form from very early in the life of the city might
indeed appear to suggest this kind of deliberate implantation, rather than a process of
architectural and religious hybridisation of longer gestation. In the absence of any immediate
regional architectural context, the form of the Temple with Indented Niches highly
reminiscent of Mesopotamian architectural forms, but with elements such as Greek columns
and statuary, and subsidiary chapels on a more recognisably Greek plan is striking, and the
argument that its form and style represent an artificial construct is an attractive one. The
heterogeneous nature of cult practice within the temple and its sanctuary might also suggest
that a deliberately non-Greek or hybrid architectural form would be appropriate,24 although,
as I will argue below, this multiple dedication or use of a sanctuary should in fact present no
such conflict.
We should, however, be resistant to making the Temple with Indented Niches and its
origins any more synthetic or artificial than they need be. Just because the interplay of
artistic motifs and architectural forms is complicated, does not mean that this complexity
must be deliberate. 25 Given the early date of the temples foundation we have essentially
two choices in how we assess its architectural form and diversity of cult practices: either it
represents a deliberate policy of fusion (which would still have to be imposed in practice), or
it is something, already at this early stage, that its constituency would have found appropriate
or at least acceptable. This does not have to imply any great open-mindedness towards
cultural or ethnic fusion on the parts of either first-generation Greek settlers or native
Bactrians, simply that the bounds of the alien, and perhaps with this the spectrum of ethnic
indicia, had already been subtly reset:
il y a dabord ces modles orientaux que les constructeurs grco-bactriens nont pas pu
ou nont pas voulu ignorer et qui ont nourri et stimul leur inspiration: modles qu la
faveur de lunit politique ralise par la royaut sleucide ils ont pu connatre dans
tout lOrient non-mditerranen, du Proche-Orient iranis, hritier des traditions
msopotamiennes, jusqu lAsie Centrale dont nous entrevoyons quelle dut exercer
sur eux une profonde influence.26
The starting point of our discussion of the Temple with Indented Niches ought,
therefore, to be the more minimalist approach of noting simply that similarities with forms
found in Mesopotamia exist. As noted above, I am inclined to treat the drawing of
architectural comparisons with some scepticism. Little, for example, should be made of the
similarities between the simple layouts of the Northern Chapel and the heron of Kineas.
The Temple with Indented Niches is, however, a special case, with its combination of
Mesopotamian layout, and such distinctive features as the stepped crpis and brick niches.
Even for a Hellenistic city, this is no ordinary temple, and its lack of any counterpart in more
Greek style means that we must find a way of analysing its form which takes into account
the important role it must have played in the life of the city of Ai Khanoum, with its Greek
public inscriptions and institutions such as the theatre and gymnasium. My question is two-
fold: how did Ai Khanoum come to have a Mesopotamian temple; and what cultural
messages did this building send out to the people who used it? Cult practice in the temple
and its sanctuary, and the issue of the ethnic identity of worshippers there, will be discussed
in the following section.
The most plausible explanation of the Temple with Indented Niches form is, as with so
many other aspects of the Hellenistic world, to see it in an Achaemenid context.27 This
recognition of the Achaemenid blueprint underlying many of the forms and structures of the
Hellenistic world bureaucracy, administration, aspects of society and culture is particularly
in evidence in the work of Pierre Briant,28 and provides the basis for an approach which has
the potential to give us a valuable longer chronological perspective, as well as highlighting
the strength and importance of the various non-Greek cultures of the Hellenistic world. Our
response to something such as the Temple with Indented Niches, in other words, ought to be
less Classical and more Hellenistic, and implicit in Hellenistic is Achaemenid.
Although Ai Khanoum, in its excavated form, is very much a Greek colonial foundation,
the history of occupation of the site and its hinterland is much longer.29 Archaeological
evidence from Achaemenid Bactria in general is, unfortunately, extremely scanty, although
the 2005 excavations at Balkh (ancient Bactra) have yielded some material from
Achaemenid-period strata.30 The newly-discovered Aramaic documents from Bactria provide
an extremely valuable source of information on the administration of the region under the
Achaemenids, and may also add something to our picture of religious life in Bactria at that
period. The documents mention individuals with theophoric names, some characteristically
Zoroastrian, some referring to local deities such as the river Oxus.31 Provisions are made for
the cult of V!ta, the Zoroastrian wind god, but, intriguingly, a libation at a temple of B"l is also
mentioned. This Semitic name, Naveh and Shaked suggest, may be used to designate a
local deity, or perhaps even Ahura Mazda, and is not necessarily a reference to a Semitic
27 Bernard (1990b), 52, rightly notes that the most likely solution to the problem of the Temple with
Indented Niches is to posit local antecedents in Achaemenid Bactria, which have yet to be recovered
archaeologically. My inclination here is to push this Achaemenid angle still further.
28 For an ego-histoire, see Briant (1996), 9-11.
29 Synopsis of finds from periods from the Chalcolithic to the Islamic: Gardin (1998), 105-124. The
strong evidence for Achaemenid period settlement at Ai Khanoum itself (although no architecture
remains) is noted by Leriche (1986), 71-72. On pre-Hellenistic fortified sites in eastern Bactria, see
Gardin (1995).
30 Personal communications, Roland Besenval and Christophe Sivillon, August 2005.
31 Preliminary report in Shaked (2004); full edition Naveh and Shaked (forthcoming).
101
cult. In connection with this, we should note Berossos reference to Artaxerxes II introducing
the cult of Anahita to various peoples of his empire, including the Bactrians. 32
The extent and nature of Persian control over the affairs of the provinces the areas in
which there was intervention by the central authority and those in which there was little or
none has been a subject of some debate.33 In religious affairs, Briant argues that while
there was some central imperial control or regimentation of religious practice among ethnic
Persians (the ethno-classe dominante), including the Persian diaspora in the provinces, non-
Persians were often left more or less to their own devices.34 It might, in fact, prove prudent
to support the local cults of conquered lands. Herodotos describes how the reputation of
Cambyses in Egypt, for example, suffered from his murder of the Apis bull - although a stele
from the Serapeum at Memphis depicts Cambyses honouring an Apis which died in his sixth
regnal year. 35 The daiva inscriptions of Xerxes have been used to argue that a Persian king
might actively persecute a cult, and promote the exclusive worship of Ahura Mazda, but
these inscriptions are best viewed as non-narrative, and aimed at Persians or even simply
intended as a statement of royal piety.36 Ahura Mazda was a god especially honoured by the
royal dynasty, but this does not mean that he was imposed on conquered peoples. It is only
possible to speak of religious legislation in the case of specifically Persian cults, an
important focus for common identity among the ruling class:
La symbiose politico-religieuse tant ce quelle est chez les Perses comme dans tous
les pays du Moyen-Orient ancien lidologie religieuse joue un rle central dans la
structuration politique de lethno-classe dominante. En dfinitive, libert de culte
reconnue aux peuples soumis et maintien des traditions perses vont de pair : ce sont
deux faces dune mme politique qui vise rserver une ethno-classe culturellement
homogne les bnfices et privilges ns de la conqute et de la domination.37
In the case of Bactria, it therefore seems likely that there was continuity in local
religious practices (the use of local theophoric names), as well as an element of the
introduction of official Achaemenid cults, probably intended for Persians (Anahita, perhaps
also B"l). If we posit the introduction of Near Eastern styles of temple architecture along with
these cults, then this gives us the necessary local context to explain the otherwise unusual
form of the Temple with Indented Niches at Ai Khanoum: it would be built within the tradition
of Bactrian official religious architecture, and would be a form with some association with the
Achaemenid imperial elite, and the administrative and civic organisation of Bactrian cities. In
fact, the Temple with Indented Niches, as the major temple of Ai Khanoum, is precisely where
we might expect to see such influences manifesting themselves, as well as in the Persian
palace-style architecture of the citys administrative quarter. 38
The continuity of the use of Mesopotamian forms of religious architecture under
Alexander the Great and the Seleucids, as heirs to the Achaemenids, and the considerable
flexibility of religious practice which might take place within such temple complexes, is
illustrated by the case studies considered by Downey (1988). At Uruk, the temple archives,
along with terracotta figurines and bullae, indicate that in the Hellenistic period the same
temple might continue to be used by the same traditional families, as well as receiving
dedications to Greek deities from immigrant Greeks and hellenised locals. At Dura Europos,
the temples of which are often used as comparisons for the Temple with Indented Niches at
Ai Khanoum, the Roman/Parthian period temple of Artemis was also a temple of
Mesopotamian form in which a Greek goddess was worshipped, although Nanaia is
mentioned in one graffito.39
Mesopotamian temples were traditionally centres of economic and administrative
activity, and might be extremely wealthy. The post-Greek occupation of the sanctuary of the
Temple with Indented Niches, however, complicates any possible investigation into the
economic role played by the temple during the Hellenistic period, as the post-Greek
occupants used the sanctuary as a storage depot for objects including Greek
administrative texts clearly gathered from other areas of the city.40 An Aramaic-script
ostrakon found in the sanctuary,41 however, does not have any parallels among the treasury
documents, and appears to come from another administrative office, whether elsewhere in
the palace, or even in the temple sanctuary itself. The absence of any grammatical
indicators does not permit us to judge whether the language of the ostrakon is Aramaic, as
used in the Achaemenid administration, or an early attempt to write a local Iranian language
using the Aramaic alphabet. Its early date, in the first part of the second century, might,
however, be used to exclude the second possibility.42 This ostrakon provides no conclusive
evidence in itself, but it leads us at least to consider the possibility of a traditional temple-
economy on Near Eastern lines built around the Temple with Indented Niches, in which the
administration was not conducted in Greek. Although there had been much disruption of the
goods and raw materials stored in the sanctuary, some items, such as ivory objects, were
38The evidence for the local Achaemenid origin of the high, stepped podium on which both the Temple
with Indented Niches and the Extramural Temple were constructed will be discussed in Section 4.5
below.
39 Downey (1988), 46-47, 186.
40 Francfort (1984), 79; Rapin (1992a), 98.
41 Text: Rapin (1992a), 105.
42 Rapin (1992a), 111.
103
ignored by later pillagers, and their distribution within the temple and its sanctuary (Figure
4.7) enables us to see that luxury goods might be stored by category in different locations,
so showing some organisation in the use of the sanctuary as a storage place, at least for cult
equipment and offerings. In the style, too, of some of the objects from the temple, we may
observe Achaemenid traits, or evidence of a local tradition of craftsmanship which
Figure 4.7 Temple with Indented Niches, distribution of bone and ivory objects: Francfort
(1984), Plate 1.
perpetuated motifs from the Persian empire. 43 All these factors reinforce the status of the
Temple with Indented Niches as the main temple of Ai Khanoum, made wealthy by its
patrons, and also its Achaemenid connections.
Even if the architectural style and administrative organisation of the temple appears
different from that of the rest of the city, we cannot afford to divorce it from its urban context
in our analysis. For the moment, I restrict myself to stating one basic principle which will
underlie my analysis of the urban space and civic structure of Ai Khanoum: since the Temple
with Indented Niches is the only major temple at Ai Khanoum, located prominently on the
Main Street and adjacent to the citys other public buildings, we must suppose that the same
people used it as used complexes such as the administrative quarter, and even foci of Greek
identity such as the Temenos of Kineas, the gymnasium and theatre. We cannot assume
that they simply changed their identity at the gates of the sanctuary, although they may have
chosen to play on different aspects of it. This therefore forces us to consider how the
Mesopotamian form of the temple would have been considered by those who used it. What
43 Francfort (1984), 17-18, 122. On local pre-Hellenistic traditions of craftsmanship, from the materials
at Ai Khanoum, see Guillaume (1985).
104
differences would they have perceived between the temple and the buildings which
surrounded it, and would they have perceived it as being as foreign as modern analysis
makes it appear?
I would suggest that the Mesopotamian architectural form of the temple, along with the
non-Greek religious practices which took place within its sanctuary (Section 4.2.3), could
easily have been ethnically neutralised. The nature of religious practice and the way in
which this may have been described (e.g. offerings to Zeus) could have been sufficient to
satisfy a worshipper that they were not engaging in any practice which was particularly non-
Greek. Or, to look at things in a less sectarian and more flexible manner, people may have
exercised different aspects of their identity, ignoring anything which they did not wish to
actively use in the assertion of their identity outside the limits of the sanctuary.
To give an example of the way in which this might have been possible, I shall discuss
how one of the more overtly Mesopotamian elements of the Temple with Indented Niches
might be made subject to an ethnically and culturally more neutral interpretation. Niches in
the exterior brickwork of a building are a characteristic feature of some Mesopotamian
architecture, but the export of this form is attested in other regions and periods than
Hellenistic Bactria. The elaborate palace faade or temple faade style of Early Dynastic
(late fourth/early third millennium BC)
Egyptian tombs also derives from
Mesopotamian forms (Figure 4.8).44
In this context, the primary
association of the motif is with lite
social status, rather than ethnic
identity. Although the question of
Egypts cultural connections with
Mesopotamia in the Early Dynastic
and Predynastic periods remains a
vexed one,45 the analogy of palace
Figure 4.8 Elevation and plan of early Egyptian palace
faade architecture does serve to faade architecture: Spencer (1993), 58, Fig 38.
demonstrate that architectural forms
of foreign origin may exist alongside local forms of funerary or religious practice without any
apparent perception of incongruity.
The essential question, to my mind, is whether an architectural element such as
indented niche or palace faade decoration would have immediately struck a contemporary
local observer as Mesopotamian, and further, as something jarring and foreign. My suspicion
is that it would not. We cannot suppose any great familiarity with Mesopotamian architecture
on the part of the bulk of the population of Ai Khanoum, even though the earliest settlers,
soldiers from Alexanders army, will have been extremely well-travelled by the time they
reached Bactria. If, as I have suggested, the Mesopotamian elements of the Temple with
Indented Niches derive from local Achaemenid official architecture, then such elements will
rather have been perceived by the local Bactrian or Bactrian-born population as part of the
stylistic repertoire of familiar, local forms. The source of their ultimate derivation will most
probably have meant little to those who used the temple, just as it is perfectly possible for a
worshipper in a modern Christian church to ignore or be altogether ignorant of the
development of church architecture in antiquity and the Middle Ages. It is, of course, quite
probable that to groups such as the first Greek settlers at Ai Khanoum, this form of temple
architecture will have been perceived as something foreign and unfamiliar. The essential
point remains, however, that, while Mesopotamian is one of the first adjectives a modern
scholar may apply to the Temple with Indented Niches, a Hellenistic-period worshipper at this
temple may well have ranged through a lengthy descriptive vocabulary of religious, cultural
and more mundane, everyday attributes before the adjective Mesopotamian would even
have occurred to them. From an art-historical perspective, the Mesopotamian form of the
Temple with Indented Niches in its plan, exterior decoration and stepped platform is
subject to one form of analysis. We should be cautious, however, in the ethnic
characteristics we seek to impute in the course of this investigation. The ethnic implications
of the form of the Temple with Indented Niches, as I will argue in Section 4.6 below, are in
fact largely negative ones, and become clear only when we consider it in its wider urban
context.
106
The extent of the horizontal excavation of the Temple with Indented Niches and its sanctuary
permits us to look at the spatial distribution of various items of cult equipment, and foci of
religious activity throughout the site. Although isolated in the following discussion for the
purposes of description and analysis, these areas functioned as part of a wider whole, and
we should not consider the activities practised there as mutually exclusive. At the end of this
section, I will therefore return to consider the internal dynamics of the temple complex in
broader terms, and attempt to assess what relationships existed between the different forms
of worship practised, and how these might have been perceived.
Zeus of the Diodotids.47 Some syncretism with an Iranian deity is posited, with the most
popular candidate being Ahura Mazda, like the Zeus-Oromazdes of Nemrud-Dag.48 Boyce
and Grenet, however, suggest Mithra, given the more common assimilation of this god to
Zeus in the eastern Iranian world.49 Rapins interpretation of the remains of the statue, and
those of the wider temple complex, is more cautious, judging merely that the statue certainly
represented a syncretic Graeco-Oriental deity, whether male or female, in a style which is
evidently Greek.50
In the pronaos of the temple, on either side of the door through to the cella, stood three
pedestals in unbaked brick, two to the north side and one to the south. These originally bore
life-size statues in unfired clay and stucco, fragments of which were recovered. One has a
somewhat idealised female face, while another, male, face may represent a portrait; all are
Greek in style. The heads of the statues are in high relief rather than full three-dimensional
sculpture, and were placed against the wall. These statues appear to have been left
untouched by the post-Greek occupants of the temple.51 It is generally assumed that they
represented donors, but we might also identify them as royal figures (testimony to the official
place occupied by the temple in the life of the city), or cult statues in their own right.
The function or identity of the divinities worshipped in the two lateral sacristies to the
central cella is uncertain. Anahita has been suggested for the southern sacristy, but in the
absence of any more positive indications this can be little more than supposition. We may
note, in any case, that Anahita occurs rather more frequently in discussions of Central Asian
artistic and archaeological material than the evidence in fact demands. 52 As with many areas
of the temple complex, the material in the sacristies had been much disrupted by later
occupants, although some of it (fragments of ivory and carbonised wooden furniture) may
belong to the period of the temples active life. 53
In the latest stratigraphic layer of the southern sacristy was found one of the most
remarkable items from the temple, a medallion with the image of Cybele. 54 It had been
47 Bernard (1969), 338, 340-341; Holt (1999b). For a ring with a similar thunderbolt motif supposedly
discovered at Ai Khanoum, see Bopearachchi and Flandrin (2005), 111-112.
48 Bernard (1970), 327, (1974b), 298; Nemrud Dag: Sanders (1996).
49 Boyce and Grenet (1991), 169; cf Bernard (1990b), 53.
50 Rapin (1990), 341.
51 Bernard (1969), 329-333, 344; Bernard (1970), 327; Boyce and Grenet (1991), 169.
52 Boyce and Grenet (1991), 187-188.
53 Bernard (1970), 319-322.
54This medallion is now known to have survived in the National Museum of Afghanistan in Kabul:
personal communications, Omara Khan Masoudi and Roland Besenval, August 2005.
108
cached between two jars by the post-Greek occupants of the temple, evidently as an object
of economic value independent of whatever religious significance it may previously have
borne. It is not possible to know whether it originally came from the southern sacristy, or
from elsewhere in the temple sanctuary or the wider city. The medallion is c.25cm in
diameter, 1-2mm thick, made of gilt silver. It depicts the goddess Cybele in a lion-drawn
chariot driven by a Nike. A sun, moon and star are in the sky, and a figure stands behind the
goddess which has been identified as a priest with an umbrella shading his mistress. A
second priest stands at an altar.55 The scene depicted has received several interpretations.56
Its (very Hellenistic, Graeco-Oriental) style and iconography has been traced by Bernard to
northern Syria of the early third century, although Boyce and Grenet suggest that it was
manufactured locally.57 Its original purpose and mode of display, if it did come from the
temple, are uncertain. It appears to have originally had a wooden backing or support, and
Bernard associates it with western Hellenistic/Roman-period oscilla, discs of metal or stone
with religious images, set up in sanctuaries or in private residences.58
Although the tripartite layout of the cella is highly suggestive of some divine triad, for
which various identifications have been proposed, the material from the sacristies is really
too sparse to enable us to identify the deities to which they were dedicated, and the
relationship of these to the main cult in the cella. 59
One of the most striking cult practices at the Temple with Indented Niches is that attested by
the jars buried in the stepped crpis at the rear of the temple (Figure 4.10). This practice has
no exact parallels in the Greek or Iranian/Central Asian worlds (although some possible
analogies will be considered below), and is all the more remarkable for having persisted
throughout the active life of the temple, despite renovations to the structure.
Thirty-two vases, all of local non-Greek ceramic types, were set into the base or first
step of the earliest phase of the temple platform. The vases were upturned, and designed to
receive libations poured directly onto the earth: residues of liquid remained inside them. In
later phases, extensive renovations were made in the temple platform; the practice of
chthonic libations, however, continued. Two further vases were found in one of the floors
contemporary to Phase 2, at the foot of which the platform was pierced with a series of holes
which, even in the absence of vases, could have served to receive libations.60
Figure 4.10 Chthonic libation vases set into the base of the temple podium: Downey (1988), Fig. 23.
Although it has almost universally been argued that these vases represent a non-Greek
cult practice, it is perhaps worth noting the existence of chthonic cults and earth-libations in
the Greek world: this would not have been something entirely alien to Greek tradition. 61 The
most fruitful line of approach, however, especially given the early phase of the temple from
which this cult practise is attested, is to see it in a local context. Chthonic libations of this
sort fit into a long-standing Central Asian tradition, from the late Bronze Age onwards. The
context for such deposits is usually in association with water channels (we may perhaps note
the channel in the temple sanctuary in this connection), or funerary material. The Temple
with Indented Niches is apparently their first occurrence at an attested cult site. 62 In the Indo-
Iranian world, such libations might have the expected chthonic or underworld connotations
(Boyce and Grenet note that the vases at the Temple with Indented Niches are at the shady
north-western side of the building), and may be associated with the cult of Mithra, perhaps
appropriate if the main god of the temple cella is to be identified as a Zeus-Mithra. Such
questions of precise cult identification are, however, best left open.
The presence of this local ritual at the Temple with Indented Niches may be tied into the
arguments advanced above about the temples Achaemenid Bactrian context. If the temples
Mesopotamian form is to be associated with official Achaemenid religious architecture and
cult in Bactria, then what could be more natural than for such a site to also become the focus
of less formal local religious practice? The discussion of the exterior offering niches at the
Temenos of Kineas (Chapter 3, Section 3.3) may also be pertinent here. The chthonic
libations were made at the back of the temple, outside the line of approach to the main cult
which took place inside, but still providing a close point of physical proximity to the sacred
site without having to negotiate the schemata of behaviour and cult practice associated with
entering the temple itself. Although this practice was evidently accepted at the Temple with
Indented Niches it persisted over a long period of time, and involved physical engagement
with the structure of the temples platform we may perhaps see it as an example of the
ways in which official cult and religious architecture could be spontaneously adapted to the
needs and practices of the people who used it.
An interesting hypothesis put forward by Francfort would tie the chthonic libations, and
other religious practices at the Temple with Indented Niches, all the more firmly into a local
tradition stretching before and after the arrival of Greek settlers. After the fall of the city of Ai
Khanoum, the Temple with Indented Niches was subject to two separate incidents of
pillaging. During the first, in the immediately post-Greek period, the main cult statue was
destroyed. The second, more destructive episode of pillaging, some time later, was marked
by a serious fire. We have little evidence to allow us to attribute the destruction of individual
elements of the sanctuary and its equipment to one period or the other, except in a few
cases, such as that of the main cult statue. Between these two incidents, Francfort argues
that we may in fact envisage une continuation du culte local aprs la destruction de la statue
grecque.63
Little information is
available on the nature of
the deities worshipped or
cult practised in the two
smaller Northern and
Southern Chapels in the
temple sanctuary. From
the beginning of the life of
the sanctuary, there had
been a small annex
chapel on its south side,
later transferred to the
north. Both are on a
model which we might
view as more
recognisably Greek, with
columned vestibules,64 a
significant addition to the
cultural-architectural mix
of the temple complex.
Whatever role these
chapels played, we may
note them as loci of
smaller-scale cults within
Figure 4.11 'Pedestals' from the Temple with Indented Niches: the sanctuary, given
Francfort (1984), Plate 28.
some official
architectural expression.
Brick altars were built against the interior wall of the temple and small brick pedestals
(identified as offering pedestals rather than altars) were found on the northern and western
sides of the upper step of the crpis.65 These are, however, rather unenlightening: their
presence allows one to say that sacrifices were offered, not to specify the nature of those
sacrifices. 66
64 Bernard (1976b), 273, who compares the plan of the Northern Chapel to that of the heron of
Kineas, for which he proposes a Macedonian origin.
65 Bernard (1970), 323; Boyce and Grenet (1991), 167.
66 Downey (1988), 73.
112
In addition to these brick altars or pedestals, cult activity is attested by the presence of
around 40 small limestone pedestals. These occur from the lowest strata, and so were in
long-term use at the temple. Twelve came from the temple building itself, the remainder from
the sanctuary courtyard or the rooms surrounding it. Similar pedestals have been found
elsewhere at Ai Khanoum, and indeed in the wider region. They are worked in imitation of
column bases, in five main types, including Attic-Ionic or Oriental (Figure 4.11). There are
no traces that they were used as statue bases, although they were clearly designed to
support something, and some were very eroded and therefore appear to have spent a long
time in the open air. The most commonly accepted suggestion is that they supported
thymiateria, little metal burners designed to receive liquid, incense, grain or other such
offerings.67 As with the brick pedestals, however, this does not serve to attach them to any
specific cult.
A diverse selection of small finds were recovered from the temple sanctuary. As
discussed above, the disruption of the site and the importation to it of material from
elsewhere in the city by the post-Greek occupants of Ai Khanoum introduces an element of
uncertainty into our analysis of the cult purposes of much of this equipment. Chronologically,
it is difficult to make much distinction within the corpus of small finds. 68 The complete
publication of the small finds is Francfort (1984), with plans conveniently presenting the find-
spots of various categories of items (e.g. Figure 4.7). They include items made of ivory and
stone, which appear to have been worked according to a local tradition of craftsmanship,
although their users could equally well have been Greek or Bactrian. Precious stones, gold
and glass also occurred (including, from the southern sacristy, a number of little leaves and
flowers perhaps designed to be sewn onto fabric part of the clothing of a cult image?),69 as
did some wooden items, carbonised by the fire in the main temple building. These include a
wooden sarcophagus-like item from the southern sacristy, although, as Francfort notes, this
could equally have been taken from a mausoleum, or been a stretcher used for the
procession of a divine image. Plaster casts of a medallion bearing the image of a winged
gorgons head (Figure 4.12), and a female bust also occur.70
A number of different artistic styles are found in the equipment from the temple, ranging
from ivory furniture in a Greek or Hellenistic style, to objects in which Achaemenid or Central
Asian motifs are present. It is worth noting, perhaps, that all of the necessary raw materials
would have been available to local craftsman. 71 Two examples occur of plaster mouldings,
demonstrating one mechanism by which motifs might be propagated over a long distance in
67 Francfort (1984), 81-84; Downey (1988), 73; Boyce and Grenet (1991), 167-168.
68 Francfort (1984), 3.
69 Francfort (1984), 73ff.
70 Francfort (1984), 31-37.
71 Francfort (1984), 8-12, 18, 29, 117ff.
113
the Hellenistic world:72 a rare point of access, alongside the inscription of Klearchos from the
Temenos of Kineas, to the ways in which ideas and artistic forms might physically be
transmitted. In the Greek forms of, for example, the plaster female bust, Francfort sees
lexpression du dsir des Grecs de la Bactriane de reproduire sur les bords de lOxus les
crations les plus belles de la toreutique et de la sculpture des rivages de la Mditerrane,
manire de perptuer leur diata. 73
As well as the Cybele medallion discussed above, at least two further possible divine
images should be noted: a bronze pectoral bearing a representation which has been
identified as a lunar goddess (Figure 4.13),74 and a small bronze club for a statuette of
Herakles:75 neither, however, presupposes anything about the nature of cult at the temple
and its sanctuary.
Potentially more eloquent are the ivory figurines and terracottas. Only a relatively small
number of terracottas were recovered from the sanctuary; these include male and female
human figures, and roughly-modelled animals. The dedication of such objects at sanctuaries
has well-known Greek/Hellenistic and Central Asian contexts, with the similarities to artefacts
from later Kushan Central Asia being particularly noteworthy. 76 As Boyce and Grenet note,
the terracottas from the sanctuary of the Temple with Indented Niches are not necessarily
votives from the period of the temples active functioning, and may belong to the post-Greek
occupants of the city. In any case, they form part of a more varied corpus of similar objects
found throughout the city and the region. 77 Might these, then, be an important point of
access to the types of non-formal religion which might be practised in the home, or areas
outside official temple complexes? Ivory fertility goddess figures also occur, including one
interesting example with articulated arms (Figure 4.14 and Figure 4.15).78 These too are
representative of a much wider-spread network of practices. In particular, the occurrence of
various heterogenous representations of nude female figures is to be noted, which, from
numerous analogies at other sites and in other cultures, we might associate with fertility, and
perhaps more specifically with personal offerings intended to ensure pregnancy or successful
childbirth.79 In terms of their context at the Temple with Indented Niches, they do not enable
us to say anything about the formal cult practised in the main temple building, but may be
used to add to our picture of the spectrum of less formal religious practices for which this cult
site could become a focus.
f)Water channel
The open water channel across the southern side of the sanctuary was, as described above,
fed by the canal which ran alongside the main street of the city. Although some association
might be suggested with the cult of Anahita, to use the water channel as the sole evidence
for the presence of such a cult, also posited for one of the temple sacristies, would be
tenuous in the extreme. The water channel may have served for ritual ablutions, or even to
water a sacred garden.80
Having surveyed the evidence for religious practice in different areas of the Temple with
Indented Niches and its sanctuary, we may now return to the question of how this complex
functioned as a whole. Although I do not propose any regulated internal coherence among
the religious practices attested the site was clearly used for a variety of practices: formal
and informal, ceremonial and more everyday we cannot afford to segregate our analysis
of them. Whether or not an individual or group engaged in more than one form of religious
activity in the course of a visit to the temple or whether they might perform more than one
form of religious activity, but for different purposes on different occasions they cannot have
been unaware of the other uses to which the temple complex was put. Although access to
the main temple building, and further to its cella and sacristies, may have been restricted, the
sanctuary courtyard was an open space, with the potential for religious activity to be
performed openly. Even if those making offerings on the limestone pedestals in the
courtyard were not doing so in full view of those pouring libations in vessels set into the
temple podium, they will have been aware of each others comings and goings. A certain
amount of tunnel vision may have been in order, with the possibility of ignoring activities in
which one was not actively engaged, but it would have required an unreasonable degree of
denial and deliberate obtuseness for an individual to mentally appropriate the temple
sanctuary as purely a temple of Zeus, or anything else. Whether we suppose that anyone
in fact did so is intimately linked to our perception of how individuals in the city negotiated
their own ethnic identity. If, as I have argued, mixed descent made it possible for individuals
to adopt a wide range of ethnic indicia and the arenas in which identity was publicly
80 Bernard (1974b), 298; Downey (1988), 72; Boyce and Grenet (1991), 167.
115
expressed thereby became charged with political and social significance then we may
imagine that the performance of religious activity in
place for local worshippers, Greek colonists, and officials from the neighbouring palace 81)
might therefore be slightly modified: there may have been considerable crossover between
these groups.
The Temple with Indented Niches and its sanctuary was clearly a site to which people
could make recourse to fulfil a range of religious needs or duties from personal appeals to
the divine, we might argue, to dedications with a more public or civic flavour. Although not a
focus for specifically Greek sets of public behaviour, in the manner of the Temenos of Kineas,
to be revisited below, it was nevertheless a prominent arena for the performance of ritual
activity and, as the major temple of the city, we would expect it to have had a wide
constituency. We should, however, note the lack of evidence for domestic religion at Ai
Khanoum, the range of religious activities or superstitions which took place at a level of
formality below that of public ritual and dedication. The relationship between the Temple with
Indented Niches and the two other major religious sites of the city the Extramural Temple
and the acropolis Podium will be discussed in Section 4.6 below.
Temple with Indented Niches. These are the citys only two major temples, and neither has a
Greek architectural form. In the absence of any alternative, they must have been patronised
by a broad spectrum of the citys population. The position of both temples on the main street,
and its continuation beyond the city gate, may also serve to link them to each other, although
the precise nature of the relationship between them would require more evidence to be
explored further.
The gymnasium at Ai Khanoum, a truly monumental construction, was located at the back of
the central quarter of the city accessed through the propylaea, beside the western ramparts
along the bank of the river Oxus (Figure 4.20).85 I provide here only a brief description of the
gymnasium and its surrounding buildings, with additional detail on the dedicatory inscription
found in it. Given its location, and the position of the institution of the gymnasium with regard
to Greek culture and identity in the Hellenistic world in general, the gymnasium will feature
heavily in the discussion of identity and religious practice in the urban context of Ai Khanoum
in Section 4.6, below.
The main excavated building of the gymnasium was a square with sides of 99.6m,
entered from the south and with large colonnaded exedrae in the centre of each of the four
walls. The exedra in the northern wall, facing the entrance, was significantly larger than the
others, and it is this which contained the statue and inscription described below. The main
central court was surrounded by an enclosed corridor, with additional longitudinal rooms
leading off the court itself. To the south lay a larger rectangular enclosure. These two
connected structures within a single complex echo Vitruvius description of the gymnasium as
comprising two courts, one for athletic exercises and the other for intellectual pursuits such
as philosophy and rhetoric.86 We may note the columned exedrae of the excavated court,
and it seems likely that this was the intellectual centre of the Ai Khanoum gymnasium, with
the larger court to the south serving as the location for physical exercise.87 A remarkable
sun-dial is testimony to the range of activities for which the gymnasium at Ai Khanoum was a
centre. 88 In its excavated architectural form, the gymnasium dates to around the end of the
first half of the second century; it had, however, replaced an earlier structure, and there are
also indications that work on the complex had not been completed by the time of the fall of
the Greek city of Ai Khanoum.89
The inscription from the gymnasium was published by Robert (1968), with further
commentary in Veuve (1987). I follow Roberts reading here; the clarity of the inscription and
its photographic reproduction allow no ambiguity.
Triballw
ka Strtvn
Strtvnow
Erm!i, Hrakle.
85 Preliminary reports: Bernard (1967a), 317-319, (1968), 276-279, (1976a), 293-302; Veuve and Liger
in Bernard et al. (1976), 40-45; full publication: Veuve (1987).
86 Vitruvius 5.11.
87 Bernard (1976a), 298.
88 Veuve (1982).
89 Bernard (1976a), 297; Veuve (1987), 103.
120
boundaries of the Hellenistic world, on the Danube and at Abu Simbel.93 We might also
suggest that the very presence of this inscription is highly significant. The inscriptions from Ai
Khanoum are few in number, and always carry Greek cultural associations of some weight,
whether proclaiming the Delphic maxims, or marking an individual in death. The act of
setting up a public inscription in stone is one which we might link intimately to communal,
civic assertions of Greek culture.
The final piece of evidence for religious practice at Ai Khanoum comes from the acropolis,
the raised plateau above the lower city. A sondage in the south-western corner, the highest
point, revealed a square walled enclosure in the centre of which stood a podium c.16.5m
square.94 This reached a height of 2.5-3m and had seven steps, narrowing to c.5m square at
the top. The entire structure was in the open air, and bore no superstructure. It was oriented
precisely to the cardinal points, with an access stair on the western side, leading to the
supposition that it was designed for sacrifice towards the rising sun. The podium itself
yielded no artefacts, and the buildings around the courtyard have not been excavated. The
only evidence for dating comes from the shape and size of the bricks, which conform to
those in use during the period of the Greek occupation of Ai Khanoum.
The Stepped Podium has been set within an Iranian tradition of open-air cult practice
on high places,95 as described by Greek authors and visible also at a number of
archaeological sites.96 Furthermore, additional evidence from the region enables us to place
this structure in the very local Achaemenid context which I have suggested is so crucial for
an understanding of the Temple with Indented Niches. A structure at Pa#mak-tepe in the
lower Surkhan-darya valley (a northern tributary of the Oxus) is frequently cited as a parallel
for the Ai Khanoum Stepped Podium.97 This structure is a three-tiered podium of rammed
earth, oriented to the south-east, with only a light superstructure. Its dimensions are
comparable to those of the Stepped Podium at Ai Khanoum. It is dated by ceramics to the
fifthfourth century, making it the only religious structure known from Achaemenid Bactria. It
may be associated with the cult terraces and platforms of Iran, and suggests a point of origin
for the Stepped Podium and, indeed, other structures at Ai Khanoum which have a similar
base of a stepped platform in the religious architecture of Achaemenid Bactria, and in a
wider Iranian context.
Whilst the nature of the religious practices conducted at the Stepped Podium, and at
Pa#mak-tepe, still eludes us, the location of the Stepped Podium does allow us to make
some comments about the constituency which it may have served, and the relationship it
bore to the rest of the city of Ai Khanoum. This will be discussed in the following section.
94The Stepped Podium is described briefly in Bernard (1976a), 306-307; Downey (1988), 75; and
Bernard (1990b), 54. I have principally relied, however, on the description and discussion in Boyce
and Grenet (1991), 181-183, which draws on unpublished material. No plans or illustrations of the
podium and its surrounding sanctuary have been published.
95Bernard (1976a), 307, followed and expanded upon in Bernard (1990b), 54, and Boyce and Grenet
(1991), 183; Herodotos 1.131-132, Strabo 15.3.13-14
96 e.g. Pasargadae: Stronach (1978), 138-145; Nemrud Dag: Sanders (1996).
97Bernard (1976b), 271; Downey (1988), 75; Bernard (1990b), 53; Boyce and Grenet (1991), 182-183.
Pa#mak-tepe is (relatively briefly) reported in Pidaev (1974).
123
98 See e.g. Alston and Alston (1997) on social status and urban zoning in Roman Egypt.
124
the main street.99 These include the palace/administrative quarter, the Temenos of Kineas,
the Stone Vault Mausoleum and the gymnasium, with the wide area to the south of the latter
with the piscine.100 This zone beyond the propylaea is therefore occupied by institutions
with key civic functions or associations. Secondary access routes are less clear. It seems
that a road linked the southern residential quarter (dominated by large houses) with the area
of the gymnasium, providing a direct connection, a back door, which by-passed the
propylaea.101 Liger posits the existence of a second official entrance to the citys central
quarter to the south of the Temple with Indented Niches, similarly marked by propylaea.102
Within the palace/administrative quarter, we may note further restrictions in access.103
Two residential units lay back from the quarters main courtyard, and the excavations of the
treasury revealed details of its order and method of construction which are of potential
significance. Probably originally located to the east of the main court, the treasury was
moved to a suite of buildings on its western side. To the south, leading into the interior of the
administrative complex, the treasury was relatively open. An additional entrance on the east
side, leading from the corridor surrounding the main court, could be closed off. Finally, a
bricked-up opening in the western wall, which communicated directly with the road outside
the complex, is apparently that by which building materials were brought in during the
treasurys construction. The implications of this are, to Rapin, that there were two tiers of
access to the treasury, comprising those (Greeks) with privileged access to the inner
administration of the city, and (non-Greek) subaltern employees or artisans, who entered
from the main court. My own impression would be that, whilst these issues of access are
potentially of great significance, we should be extremely careful in the ethnic character which
we impute to them.
Similarly, we might suggest that the possibility of a direct route from the southern
residential quarter (which was occupied by large, apparently lite residences) to the area
around the gymnasium, by-passing the propylaea, privileged access to this zone for those of
high socio-economic status. On the other hand, the exact role played by the propylaea in
restricting access should be examined further. The gateway construction itself would not fulfil
the purpose of selecting those individuals with the ethnic or civic right to enter the
administrative quarter. If, for example, it were to be argued that Greeks might enter this
zone, whereas non-Greeks might not, we would have to posit additional methods of control,
whether by monitoring of the gateway, or by self-regulation (people knowing their place with
regard to whether it was appropriate for them to enter this district or not). I would suggest
that the role of the propylaea was somewhat different to this. To begin with, the nature of the
complexes in the area beyond the propylaea is such that some degree of self-regulation may
well have been in operation: only those with business in this area would have had occasion
to enter. Even if we decide that this distinction was made for the most part along ethnic lines
(with the non-Greek employees of the treasury, if they entered it, as an exception to this, or
on a different level from Greeks), there are other groups, such as women, who would
similarly have had no business in the gymnasium or treasury. This automatically leads us to
see a more complicated set of divisions in the population at Ai Khanoum, in which issues of
social status and gender role are also important. The question, of course, is to what extent
socio-economic status corresponded to an ethnic hierarchy. As I have argued throughout the
present study, however, factors such as intermarriage will have rapidly blurred any such neat
correspondence, and one of the issues we should focus on is rather the extent to which
individuals or groups might vary their assertions of ethnic identity in particular locations and
circumstances. In light of this, my inclination would be to see the propylaea not as a physical
restriction-point marked with a metaphorical No Bactrians sign but rather as a tangible
statement of the zoning of the urban landscape of which an inhabitant would already have
been socially aware. The propylaea are marking a threshold, a transition from one sphere of
public life and expression to another of markedly different character.
What, then, might this allow us to say about areas in which access is not apparently
restricted in this way? The theatre is a potentially interesting case study, situated on the
main street, but the practicality of its location built into the side of the acropolis might advise
against imputing any great social or political significance to this. The Temple with Indented
Niches, on the other hand, whilst clearly delineated as a separate, sacred space by its
sanctuary wall, is accessed directly from the main street, not set back in the zone behind the
propylaea. In addition, its status as the major (known) temple of the city, and the diversity of
the cult practices performed within its sanctuary, suggest that this was a structure open to a
wide spectrum of the population of the city. More importantly, in the context of the present
discussion, we may see the Temple with Indented Niches as the arena for a very different set
of forms of public behaviour than those in evidence in, for example, the treasury or
gymnasium. The non-Greek character of many of the artefacts and practices attested in the
temple sanctuary is striking. It is, I would argue, forms of public behaviour which are
restricted by the urban plan of Ai Khanoum, rather than expressly the movement of people
themselves. If the Aramaic-script ostrakon from the Temple with Indented Niches suggests a
temple administration in Aramaic or an Iranian language,104 then we may also see the Temple
with Indented Niches as the centre of a bureaucracy of a different character to that attested
by the Greek documents from the treasury. The accumulation of wealth and resources in
104Note, however, the presence of many objects in the sanctuary which originated from elsewhere in
the city, and also the paucity of the information which we can gain from the ostrakon itself. The
ostrakon is published in Rapin (1992a), 105, No. 28.
126
temple complexes, in the Greek world and elsewhere, did, of course, make them powerful
economic centres in their own right.105
The location of the Stepped Podium within the city is, as noted above, potentially of
great significance. It is set aside entirely from the complexes of the lower city, and located on
the south-western corner of the acropolis. The acropolis itself does not appear to have been
heavily populated; this, at least, is the impression given by the traces in negative left by the
decomposition of mud brick.106 It was principally given over to military installations and
fortifications. Near the eastern rampart is a group of houses of more modest dimensions
than those of the southern residential quarter of the lower city. It has been suggested that
the acropolis represents a native quarter, and that the Stepped Podium was plus
spcialement destin aux troupes indignes de la garnison. 107 The ethnic (and colonial)
resonances of such suggestions are clear. Holt, for example, imagines that huddled in
single-room houses looking down upon the tiled roofs of Greek mansions in the elite lower
section of the city, these people may have acquired some measure of Greekness but not an
equality with Seleukoss settlers.108 This division in socio-economic as well as spatial
terms between indigenous subalterns and a Greek lite is, of course, broadly what we
should expect in a Greek colonial settlement such as Ai Khanoum. I do not argue here that
there was no ethnic hierarchisation in the city. Rather, in examining formal funerary and
religious installations, my focus has inevitably been on relatively elevated socio-economic
groups, and it is my contention that, within these, we can observe the relationship between
ethnic identity and acceptable public modes of expression varying according to context. This
may lead us to bring some qualifications to our analysis of the Stepped Podium. Might it, for
example, simply have been appropriate to construct it on a raised place, which the lower city
lacked? Would anyone from the lower city ever have made the journey up to sacrifice at it?
Was any relationship perceived between the Stepped Podium and other religious
institutions? I would certainly hesitate to see an utterly clear-cut division between the
constituencies served by the various cult sites within and around Ai Khanoum.109
A number of previous studies on Ai Khanoum have identified institutions such as the
theatre and gymnasium as sites for expressions of Greek identity or intellectual culture within
the city, with a more complex picture prevailing elsewhere.110 To cite the central question, as
posed by Hannestad and Potts, Does the existence of a gymnasium and a theatre in the
same period as the two temples of non-Greek plan suggest that the Greek identity of the
inhabitants was rather more dependent on the customs connected with these two types of
buildings than with religious buildings?111 This is precisely what we might expect to be the
case, both from analysis of the remains at Ai Khanoum themselves, and by comparison with
other regions of the Hellenistic world. As Bernard notes, in his study of Graeco-Bactrian
architecture:
This idea of a Greek rhythm or lack thereof in the domestic and public spaces of Ai
Khanoum is an evocative one. Greekness was actively asserted in certain specific
circumstances, and this has left its imprint on elements of the urban structure. Individuals of
mixed descent, who had the potential to display various aspects of their identity elsewhere,
within the confines of the gymnasium might actively seek to assert their identity as a Greek
lite.
In conclusion, let us revisit the Temenos of Kineas, the probable resting-place of Ai
Khanoums Greek founder. As discussed in Chapter 3, Section 3.3, this place of burial had a
set of civic connotations which demand that we also treat it in the context of religious
structures at Ai Khanoum, and the wider urban dynamics of the city. Although we have no
Greek temple from Ai Khanoum, the Temenos of Kineas and the Stone-Vault Mausoleum
were also sites at which cult was performed, and they have a more recognisably Greek
character. In part, we may associate this with the arguments advanced in Chapter 3 about
the ethnic and emotional force of dying Greek. On the other hand, the Temenos of Kineas
may also be considered alongside the gymnasium as a key focus for Greek civic identity.
Malkins (1987) study of the role of religion in Greek colonisation highlights the
importance of the cult of the oikist in a new city, and the Delphi-connection in colonisation in
general. As already noted with regard to the Temenos of Kineas, the oikists tomb would be
placed prominently within the city itself, in contrast to the more usual custom of extramural
burial, and provide a focus for civic identity.113 The demarcation of sacred space and the
establishment of cults was another important means by which a colonial population
maintained their old identity and forged a new communal one.114 Any sense of this is absent
at the temples of Ai Khanoum, highlighting the responsibility of the Temenos of Kineas with
its central location and Delphic inscription in bearing this role within the city. Some
comparison with two other cities, Seleucia-on-the-Tigris and Babylon, may be enlightening.
At Seleuceia, there is no temple of Greek form, but there is a heron on Greek plan with
Greek epigraphic evidence of Seleucid ruler cult.115 Hellenistic Babylon has yet to reveal a
Greek temple, suggesting that the temple of B"l, with its Babylonian temple authorities and
absence of any Greek ritual, may also have served a Greek constituency.116 For the
purposes of the maintenance of a Greek identity, it mattered that this was asserted in certain
key contexts, such as the gymnasium and the tomb of the oikist. Elsewhere, boundaries
were less distinct. How we should interpret this is unclear. It may simply be that personal
religious practice was not something which was thought to bear uncontrovertibly ethnic
connotations, nor was there any danger of an individual compromising their status and
identity through particular practices.
The remainder of this chapter considers the evidence for religious practice at other
sites in the Hellenistic Far East. In the case of the majority of these, it will be impossible to
relate them to a wider urban structure in the same way as at Ai Khanoum. They will
nevertheless contribute further to the arguments already advanced on the ethnic
connotations of religious practice, and the arenas in which Greek identity might be asserted
particularly strongly.
Takht-i Sangin lies at the junction of the Waksh (upper Oxus) and Panj rivers. Along with the
site of Takht-i Kobad, it was one of two fortresses in the vicinity guarding the right-hand bank
of the Oxus.117 Excavations have revealed continuity of occupation and cult activity at the
Temple of the Oxus at Takht-i Sangin from the Achaemenid to the Kushan periods.118
Giving full consideration to the range of cultural and ethnic debates raised and
contributed to by the Temple of the Oxus would take the present study well beyond its current
chronological and geographical parameters, and, of course, require much greater space than
it is practicable to devote to it here. Rather than summarise all the evidence from the site,
therefore, I will concentrate on a number of key issues which may be tied in with the material
considered elsewhere in this chapter. The Greek votive inscription of Atrosokes to the god
Oxos, from which the temple derives its modern name, will receive particular attention. For
more comprehensive coverage of the site at which great potential for future work beyond
the confines of the temple precinct remains the reader is referred to the full publications of
Litvinskii and Pichikyan (2000) and Litvinskii (2001), in Russian with English summary. 119
Given the emphasis of my discussion of the temples of Ai Khanoum, above, the first
point which must be made about the Temple of the Oxus is the lack of evidence on its wider
urban context. 120 Takht-i Sangin was a much larger site, stretching for around 1km, and
bounded to the north and south by defensive walls in stone, in stark contrast to the more
common use of mud brick in the region. The site bore visible remains of a number of well-
spaced right-angled structures, and fragments of column drums on the surface appear to
indicate that, until the Kushan period, these houses had stone peristyles. In the centre of the
city was a citadel (165x237m) surrounded by a moat and a stone wall flanked by protective
towers, which survives to a height of up to 6m. The river lay to the east, and the Teshik-Tash
range to the west made the site inaccessible by land. Excavation has concentrated on the
area of the citadel, and in particular the Temple of the Oxus, which stood on its western
side. This was surrounded by a rectangular stone enclosure wall, inside which stood
subsidiary buildings.121
117 Debate continues over the precise find-spot of the Treasure of the Oxus, the great hoard of
Achaemenid gold now in the British Museum: Dalton (1964); Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 134;
Litvinskii and Pichikyan (2000), 1336.
118 Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 134.
119 The main preliminary publications of the Temple of the Oxus are, in English, Litvinskiy and
Pichikiyan (1981) and Litvinskiy and Pichikyan (1984); in Russian, Litvinskii, Vinogradov and Pichikyan
(1985) and Pichikyan (1989); in German, Pitschikjan (1992). Note that the transliterated forms of the
names Litvinskii and Pichikyan vary from publication to publication. Important responses to these
publications in French include Bernard (1987) and (1994a). See also the discussion of the site in
Boyce and Grenet (1991), 173-181.
120Rapin (1992b), 103, considers the Temple of the Oxus to be the primary focus of the town. The
size of the fortifications, and evidence of wider occupation, might seem to counter this argument.
121Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 134-135; Litvinskii and Pichikian (1994), 48; Boyce and Grenet
(1991), 174.
130
At the centre of the temple building itself (Figure 4.21) was a white-plastered square
hall with four columns, with subsidiary elongated rooms or corridors leading off it. The eight-
columned forecourt was flanked by two symmetrical wings; the two square rooms which led
directly off this forecourt contained considerable ash deposits which, as will be discussed
below, feature heavily in arguments on whether the temple was the site of a Zoroastrian fire
cult. An Ionic column capital recovered from the Temple has been the object of detailed
analysis in the context of Hellenistic architectural forms, and the columns of the Temple in
131
general display Achaemenid and Hellenistic influence. 122 A number of altars or statue bases
were found in the vicinity, most notably in front of the two small rooms which communicate
only with the exterior faade of the temple wings. The mud-brick walls of the temple were
preserved to a height of up to 5.5m, with a thickness of 3m. The construction of the temple in
its present form has been dated to the late thirdearly second century BC, and it was in use
until at least the second half of the second century AD, under the Kushans.123
Although many items from the Temple of the Oxus may be independently dated on
artistic criteria, the internal chronology of the structure presents certain difficulties. The
votive objects from the temple, to be discussed further below, came from deposits of a single
period, around the first century BCAD first century; yet these deposits clearly contain items
dating over a much longer chronological span. Because the floors of the lowest level were
kept clear throughout the temples period of active use, it has not so far been possible to
distinguish individual strata, and we cannot therefore gain a picture of changes in the
temples use. 124
What we do clearly have at the Temple of the Oxus in contrast to any of the temples
at Ai Khanoum is an attested period of occupation stretching from the early Hellenistic
period (although with some items of Achaemenid date) beyond the end of Graeco-Bactrian
rule. This temple therefore contains potentially valuable information on the reaction of the
Greeks to local religious practices and institutions, 125 and the treatment by the Kushans of
the sites patronised by their Graeco-Bactrian predecessors. The temple continued to
function throughout this period, and we may perhaps see in this confirmation of the organic
argument on religious practice in the Graeco-Bactrian kingdom which I advance throughout:
that temple sites answered a variety of religious needs, and could accommodate a great deal
of influence and change.126
The Temple of the Oxus yielded a remarkable haul of around 8000 votive objects, only
a small proportion of which have been published.127 These date from the Achaemenid to the
Kushan periods, and demonstrate a variety of artistic styles, including Persian, Greek, Indian
and Scytho-Siberian. The votive objects were recovered from a number of specially-dug
trenches, or walled-in areas at the end of the temples internal corridors. They had been
122 Litvinsky and Pichikian (1998); Litvinskii and Pichikian (1994), 53ff.
123Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 135; Litvinskiy and Pichikyan (1984), 29-30; Boyce and Grenet
(1991), 174.
124Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 135-136, 157; Litvinskiy and Pichikyan (1984), 31; Boyce and
Grenet (1991), 174, n97; Bernard (1994a), 84.
125On the possibility that the Temple of the Oxus was founded or actively patronised by the Seleucids,
and the political implications of this, see Boyce and Grenet (1991), 174; Litvinskii and Pichikyan
(2000), 341ff.
126 Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 163; Litvinskiy and Pichikyan (1984), 31.
127Litvinsky and Pichikian (1998), 233. These included ivory and gold objects, a large number of
Hellenistic makhaira sheaths and other arms (Litvinskii (2001)), altars and statues.
132
deliberately cached during the Kushan period.128 This practice of caching votive items may
be observed in other temples in the ancient Mediterranean world, as a standard response to
the problem of respectful disposal of religious equipment or dedicatory items which are no
longer required.129 The question is how we should interpret this practice at the Temple of the
Oxus. Whilst the storage rather than discarding of these objects does imply some continuity
in function, it is nevertheless significant that they were no longer used. We might therefore
expect further excavation or analysis of the internal chronology of the Temple of the Oxus to
reveal subtle shifts in meaning and usage during its active life.
As Litvinskii and Pichikyan argue, the votive material from the Temple of the Oxus is
crucial for our understanding of the interaction of various cultural and artistic influences in
Central Asia of this period. Interpretations of Graeco-Bactrian art are becoming increasingly
nuanced, with emphasis placed on the lack of any simple model for the way in which artistic
traditions interacted: the Hellenistic material from the Temple of the Oxus represents neither
a mere Greek overlay on local traditions, nor Greek artistic dominance.130
A few key pieces may be used to demonstrate the value of the votive material from the
Temple of the Oxus for our understanding of cultural and religious interaction at the site:
A large number of these were discovered, and they may be split into a number of
independent groups based on artistic style. Their relative fragility suggests local
manufacture, something which is all the more suggestive when the diversity of artistic
influences in them is considered. In their current state, the majority cannot be reconstructed
into complete examples. Most notable are a pair of diademed heads, a man over 50 years
old and a younger man, which are sculpted in a style comparable to that of Hellenistic
images of ruling dynasts. The older man has been identified by Bernard as Eukratides.
Whatever their precise identification, the presence of these two royal figures among the other
non-royal statues is testimony to the potential role of royal patronage i.e. official support by
representatives of the Greek authorities at the Temple of the Oxus, or perhaps even royal
cult or something approaching it. A further figure, representing a bearded man wearing a
headdress with side-flaps, is referred to by Litvinskii and Pichikyan as the satrap.131 As
discussed in Section 4.2.3 above, statues of possible rulers/donors are also found at the
Temple with Indented Niches at Ai Khanoum.
128 Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 136; Litvinskiy and Pichikyan (1984), 31.
129 Egypt: Wilkinson (2000), 64; El-Saghir (1993).
130Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 134, 163; Pichikian (1985), 283. For recent assessments of
Gandh!ran art, see the papers in Allchin et al. (eds.) (1997).
131Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 154-156; Litvinskii and Pichikian (1994), 60-61; Bernard (1990b),
57; Boyce and Grenet (1991), 177.
133
Figure 4.22 Ivory xiphos (sword) handle with image of Herakles overpowering Silenus:
Litvinskii (2001), Figure 74.
b)Ivories
Two ivories are of particular note, one representing Herakles overpowering Silenus (Figure
4.22; see further below), and another with an image of Alexander as Herakles, which has
been placed in the wider Hellenistic context of such representations.132
c)The Hippocampess
A further ivory scabbard bears a sculpted relief of a female figure with serpentine tail, horses
legs and birds wings (Figure 4.23). Similarities have been noted to Scylla and other Greek
sea-monsters, but the most notable feature of this piece is the way in which it may also be
fitted into local Central Asian traditions of aquatic deities and mythological figures. The
Takht-i Sangin hippocampess therefore serves to illustrate a phenomenon which was noted
132 Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 157-162; Litvinskij and Pi#ikian (1995), 129ff.
134
above at Ai Khanoum, and will be further discussed below in the section on Dilberdzhin: the
potential for images to bear a variety of intersecting cultural associations, which might fit into
both Greek and local schemes of representation without appropriation by either side.133
The most important votive object from the Temple of the Oxus is, however, the altar with
Greek dedicatory inscription which gives the structure its modern designation.134 This was
also recovered from one of the temples caches, and we can only suppose that it would
previously have been displayed more prominently in the temple or its sanctuary. It is dated to
the mid-second century BC. The base bears a statue of a Marsyas-Silenus figure playing a
double flute, and an inscription:
exn
nyhken
Atrosvkhw
Ojvi135
The importance of the god of the river Oxus in Bactria may be seen in the use of
theophoric Oxus-names, attested in the fourth-century Bactrian Aramaic documents, and in
the treasury documents from Ai Khanoum.136 Kushan coins bear the image of a deity with
the name OAX$O. 137 The temple cult of the Oxus in the region is also attested by a later
Chinese source.138 In an important article, Bernard (1987) discusses the imagery of the satyr
Marsyas who is depicted in the statue, and the intersections of this image from Greek Asia
Minor with the cult of the Oxus at Takht-i Sangin. This association is more widely spread
than just in the votive of Atrosokes: we may note the image of Silenus on an ivory scabbard,
discussed above, and also Litvinskii and Pichikians interpretation of the Greek comedy
mask gargoyle from Ai Khanoum as representing a Silenus figure.139 A large number of
flutes were also found at the Temple of the Oxus, reinforcing the Marsyas connection.140 The
conjunction of all these, Greek and Bactrian, images of water deities, including the
hippocampess, discussed above, all reinforce the arguments advanced here on the ethnic
133 Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 157-158; Souleymanov (2001); and especially Litvinskij and
Pi#ikian (1995), 129, 140-149.
134 Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 153ff; Litvinskii, Vinogradov and Pichikyan (1985) for complete
discussion of the statue and the inscription and its palaeography; Bernard (1987).
135 Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 153.
136 Shaked (2004), 47-48, Naveh and Shaked (forthcoming); Grenet (1983).
137 Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 153; Boyce and Grenet (1991), 179-180.
138 Drge and Grenet (1987).
139 Litvinskij and Pi#ikian (1995), 139, contra Bernard (1976a), 307.
140 Litvinskij and Pi#ikian (1995), 149; Bernard (1987), 109.
135
implications of syncretism in the Graeco-Bactrian state. Litvinskii and Pichikyan argue that
this reduplication increased not only the sacred force of the altar but it also bore witness to
the cultural synthesis and drew attention to the culturally and perhaps ethnically mingled
Graeco-Bactrian environment.141 This argument could be taken further: such processes of
artistic/religious assimilation represent one of the fundamental avenues by which this very
process of cultural and ethnic blurring may have taken place.
Complicating the picture of cultural encounter created by this votive item, Atrosokes, an
individual with an Iranian name, chooses to make his dedicatory inscription in Greek, and to
depict the local god of the Oxus through a Greek image. We lack any further information
(such as a patronymic) which might enable us to discuss Atrosokes ethnic identity. It is, of
course, possible that he was either of mixed Greek-Bactrian descent, or had to whatever
extent adopted the Greek language or Greek culture.142 His very dedication of the inscription
would suggest that he was of high socio-economic status, but the ethnic implications we
ascribe to this would, of course, be highly dependent on whether we are to assume that
Greek culture was adopted by local Bactrian lites. A more pertinent question, perhaps, is
what official role was played by the Greek language, and whether it is here a more ethnically-
neutral mode of public expression, rather than any great statement on the identity of the
individual who used it: si cette date un fidle avait voulu inscrire une ddicace sur lex-voto
quil offrait au dieu Oxus, dans quelle autre langue crite, si ce nest le grec, laurait-il
faite? 143 It is worth reiterating that we have no non-Greek religious inscriptions from
Hellenistic Central Asia, and that Aramaic, the only other securely-attested written language,
is so far known only from ostraka or texts on perishable materials.
The name Atrosokes comes from an Iranian root signifying firebrand. Given the
evidence for a fire cult at the Temple of the Oxus (see further below), this had been
presumed to identify him as a devotee or priest of a fire cult.144 As Bernard and Boyce and
Grenet argue, however, this name is more suggestive of Atrosokes religious and cultural
milieu, rather than any testimony to his personal religious convictions.145
The evidence for a Zoroastrian fire cult at the Temple of the Oxus comes from the two
square chambers which lead off the forecourt. These had altars clearly designed to be
permanent fire-holders rather than simply places to make burnt offerings. The mud altars
and walls of these chambers had been baked by fire, and there was a thick layer of ash on
the floors. In addition, the plan of the Temple of the Oxus represents the earliest attested
occurrence of a combination of features which, individually or as a whole, are to be found in
141 Litvinskiy and Pichkyan (1984), 63; cf Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 153.
142 Boyce and Grenet (1991), 183-184.
143 Bernard (1987), 112.
144Litvinskiy and Pichikiyan (1981), 153; Litvinskiy and Pichikyan (1984), 62; Litvinskii, Vinogradov
and Pichikyan (1985), 103-119.
145 Bernard (1987), 114; Boyce and Grenet (1991), 177, n108.
136
a number of later eastern Iranian fire temples:146 a main room with four pillars set in a
square, peripheral corridors, an eastern aspect and a large entrance portico flanked by two
wings. We may also note that the plan of the Temple of the Oxus places it in the same broad
architectural tradition as the other temples of Bactria discussed in this chapter. These
similarities are suggestive, but whether they in themselves, at this period, are sufficient to
identify a Zoroastrian fire temple is highly dubious.147 Boyce and Grenet argue that at
present there appear equal grounds for seeing it [the Temple of the Oxus] as an image
sanctuary with accessory fire chambers,148 which appears to me to be the best interpretation
of the evidence.
Whilst fire-cult clearly does not constitute the raison dtre of the Temple of the Oxus,
its presence is illustrative of the diversity of interconnected religious practices in operation at
the site. The modern designation of the temple, of course, implicitly prioritises the cult of the
Oxus, although we have no secure information that this in fact represented the central cult at
the site. The most plausible scheme interprets the Temple of the Oxus as a cult with a
central image of a deity, but subsidiary provision for the cult of fire, and perhaps other
religious practices, all encompassed in the central temple building and its forecourt. This
combination of the cults of fire and water (the river Oxus), and of fire-cult with that of gods
given image form, is not disconsonant with practice in the contemporary and later Iranian
world.149
As was the case with the Temple of Indented Niches at Ai Khanoum, the Temple of the
Oxus at Takht-i Sangin therefore illustrates a number of key features of the excavated temple
sites of Hellenistic Bactria. Central among these is the encounter of Greek and Bactrian
artistic influences and religious practices. These intermingle in a way which is highly
suggestive of a living tradition, subject to modification and interpretation on an individual
level. Alongside this, we may note the continuity of religious practice at a single site at the
Temple of the Oxus, and perhaps also the subtle alteration which such practice might
undergo. The Achaemenid-Bactrian element is again important, with practice during the
Hellenistic period clearly having its roots in what had gone before. Finally, the inscription of
Atrosokes gives us an individual with a Bactrian name making an inscription in Greek.
Although the conclusions we might draw on the basis of this brief inscription about the
146 Although evidence from before the Parthian period had previously been scarce and open to
interpretation, a fire temple is now known from Tash-kirman-tepe in Chorasmia, which may date back
to the seventh-sixth century BC, with radiocarbon dating of ash layers 40cm above the temple
pavement to 378-235 BC: Helms et al. (2001), 134-136.
147The key discussion of whether we may identify the Temple of the Oxus as a fire temple is contained
in Bernard (1994a), who argues with conviction that we may not. See now the argument of the
excavators in the full publication of the site (Litvinskii and Pichikyan (2000), 352ff), which takes into
account the criticisms of Bernard. Previous discussions include Litvinskiy and Pichikyan (1984), 29;
Pichikyan (1989), 113; Bernard (1990b), 58; Boyce and Grenet (1991), 174-175; Rapin (1992b), 101,
109-110, 118. Note also that the fire-chambers may only have operated as such from relatively late in
the active life of the temple: Bernard (1994a), 86-90.
148 Boyce and Grenet (1991), 178.
149 Bernard (1987), 114, (1990b), 57; Rapin (1992b), 107, 119-120.
137
identity of its dedicator are extremely limited, the inscription of Sophytos from Kandahar,
discussed in Chapter 5, will contribute further material to the question of how we should
interpret evidence of an individual with a non-Greek name using the Greek language.
138
The
site of Dilberdzhin lies in the northern part of the Bactra oasis, around 40km north-west of
Bactra itself. 151 The ancient town, excavated by a joint Soviet-Afghan expedition from
1969-1973, comprised a central, circular fortified citadel, surrounded by a walled town (c.
400m square). There was a further zone of habitation extending for some distance (c.
500-800m) outside the outer walls (Figure 4.24). The principal point of interest of the site lies
150 %&'()*+,-&., also transcribed Delbarjin, Dilberjin, Dilberdjin, Dilberd/in, Dilberdzhin. The
number of different spellings current makes compiling bibliographical data on Dilberdzhin a
particularly aggravating process. I here transliterate the Cyrillic form used by Kruglikovas (1974) and
(1986) publications of the site (also used in the series !"#$%&& '()*+& (Drevnyaya Baktriya)),
although she herself transcribes the name as Dilberdjin in her French publication of 1977. It seems
hardly fair to inflict greater confusion by insisting on my usual (if inconsistent) principle of transliterating
names according to Greek rather than Latin forms: the Dioscuri, as they are referred to in all French
and English publications on the site, stand.
151 The main publications of the site are Kruglikova (1974) and (1986), the latter to a great extent
superseding the former. Further articles appeared in the series !"#$%&& '()*+&: Vainberg and
Kruglikova (1976) on the coins; Dolgorukov (1984) on the fortifications; and Pugachenkova (1984) on
the main city gate. Kruglikova (1977) is an introduction to the site in French, concentrating on its
religious monuments.
139
in its religious structures, in particular the so-called Temple of the Dioscuri, which lay in the
north-east corner of the fortification wall of the lower city. The usefulness of the spectacular
architectural and iconographic finds from this complex is, however, to a great extent
compromised by the controversial chronological sequence established by its excavators.
The attribution of the early phase of the Temple of the Dioscuri, and that of the town itself to
the Graeco-Bactrian period may, it appears, be wishful thinking; the bulk of the material from
the site is certainly from the Kushan period or later. I provide here a brief description of the
temple, with a discussion of
its chronology, before moving
on to consider what points it
might bring to bear on the
present discussion.
The Temple of the
Dioscuri (Figure 4.25) was
the most monumental of
several religious structures
excavated at Dilberdzhin. Its
mud brick walls survived in
places to a height of 6m, and
in its earliest phase (Period
1), later substantially
renovated and enlarged,
comprised a structure c.
23x17.5m. It was surrounded
on three sides with a
sanctuary wall, which was
engaged with the back wall of
the temple building itself. A
vestibule led onto a cella
surrounded by corridors. The
vestibule was flanked by
Figure 4.25 'Temple of the Dioscuri': Fitzsimmons (1996), Fig. 1.
two small rooms, which
communicated only with the
exterior of the building.
From this earliest phase date the two paintings of the Dioscuri which give the temple its
modern name (Figure 4.26). These were on the wall of the vestibule, symmetrically arranged
on either side of the entrance to the cella. The twins stand alongside their horses, holding
the bridle, and with their characteristic pilos.152 Their iconography is recognisably Greek, but,
152
For the publication of these paintings, see Kruglikova (1976), although note the criticisms of Lo
Muzio (1999), 42-43.
140
as will be discussed below, this does not preclude us from also situating them in a local
religious
context. To add to the religious complexity of the site over a longer period, we may note
three further wall paintings. The first, of the Indian deities 0iva and P!rvat1 with the bull
Nandin is from the entrance hall of the Period 4 temple. The others, again from a much later
period, are from exterior chapels, and depict an Athena with additional attributes from
outside the standard repertoire of her Greek iconography (Figure 4.27).
As Kruglikova observes, the Dioscuri and Athena both occur on Graeco-Bactrian coins,
the Dioscuri being the favoured type of Eukratides. We may therefore suggest this as the
local context for the presence of this otherwise anomalous Greek iconography at
Dilberdzhin.153 What these images say about the date and function of the temple at
Dilberdzhin is, however, a rather more contentious issue.
The grounds for revising the chronology proposed by the sites excavators are most
thoroughly explored by Fitzsimmons (1994) and (1996). The original reports are rife with
inconsistencies. 154 In particular, the grounds for dating the Temple of the Dioscuri to the
Graeco-Bactrian period are at best tenuous. Whilst material from the site does indicate a
153
Kruglikova (1977), 409, 421. Graeco-Bactrian coins as the source for later religious iconography:
Boyce and Grenet (1991), 161.
154 Detailed in Fitzsimmons (1996), 290-298.
141
long period of occupation, extending back even into the Achaemenid period,155 the Temple of
the Dioscuri in its excavated form cannot be argued to date as far back as the Graeco-
Bactrian period. The ceramic evidence is for the most part much later, and none of it would
be incompatible with a date posterior to the end of Graeco-Bactrian rule in the region, around
130 BC.156 Much is mistakenly hung on numismatic evidence (few Graeco-Bactrian coins,
little from any stratified context157), or on the dating of the painting of the Dioscuri. Kruglikova
dates this to the reign of Eukratides, on the basis of the appearance of the Dioscuri on his
Dioscuri in the second or third centuries AD, while Fitzsimmons dates the 0iva and P!rvat1
painting to the seventh-eighth centuries AD, thus extending the working life of the temple
beyond this period.159
The identification of the deity or deities worshipped in the temple is also contentious.
Although Kruglikova suggested that the Dioscuri themselves were worshipped, it seems
more likely that they are present in the fresco in their common function as guardian or
companion deities to the main god of the temple. Whether this central deity was Zeus
(suggested by Bernard) or an Iranian female divinity (Lo Muzio) is best left open to debate.160
Correspondences in plan with other temples of the region (such as those of Ai Khanoum or
Surkh Kotal) are, as admitted by Kruglikova, only very loose, and cannot be made the focus
of any real argument.161
The Temple of the Dioscuri is a double misnomer: not only is it unlikely that the temple
was principally dedicated to the twin gods depicted in its entrance hall, but the term
Dioscuri also fails to do justice to the network of associations which these images may have
possessed. As Lo Muzio notes, divine twins occur in Indo-Iranian, as well as Graeco-
Roman, myth and iconography: In the case of Dilberjin, so distant from the homeland of this
iconography, there are reasons to believe that the Greek (or Graeco-Roman) identity of the
Twins did not go much beyond their figurative attire and their raison dtre is to be looked for
in the local religious background.162
This is the very flexibility in iconography and religious practice which we have noted
throughout Hellenistic Bactria: sites might serve as foci of multiple religious rites, perhaps
with different ethnic slants, and be patronised by more than one ethnic group, or by
individuals with a more complex personal ethnic identity. The use of multiple names for the
same temple or divine image and this need not necessarily have operated at the level of
officially-orchestrated or -approved syncretism if it occurred, as I suspect it did, may have
allowed diverse ethnic communities to use the same site without the necessity of
appropriating the deity and its worship for any particular ethnic affiliation. This is not to
impute any degree of Janus-face schizophrenia to the identity and iconography of the
divinity. Greeks may have looked at the Dioscuri at Dilberdzhin and seen one thing, and
local Bactrians may have looked at them and seen another (how would a Greek and a
Bactrian have referred to them in conversation with one another?); on the other hand, it is
possible that people who looked at the image did so with a conscious awareness that it was
more all-encompassing, something which could have the attributes of one god without
denying its identity as the other. This may, I would suggest, even be used as a paradigm for
the operation of ethnic identity in the Hellenistic Far East. Those with a wider spectrum of
potential identities than solely Greek or Bactrian might project one aspect of this identity in
a particular situation (Greek in the gymnasium) without this having to presuppose wholesale
denial of other aspects of their identity, which it was simply not appropriate to consider in this
specific context. We may note that the Athena of the later period, like the Dioscuri, may
also be understood in a more Iranian framework. 163
How, then, do these Greek gods (whom it is only too tempting to consider in isolation)
fit into the wider religious schema at Dilberdzhin? The strength of Iranian and Indian
influences is equally manifest, and these three cultural and iconographic influences cannot
and should not be separated. Despite the likelihood that the Temple of the Dioscuri in its
excavated form does not, in fact, date back to the Graeco-Bactrian period, Dilberdzhin
provides us with an invaluable longer chronological picture of the cohabitation and
development of various religious influences in the period following the rise and decline of
Greek political influence in the region. The importance of individual deities might vary at
different periods the painting of the Dioscuri was covered by the wall of the temples Period
3 vestibule164 but the very survival of Greek forms at Dilberdzhin is remarkable testimony
to the thoroughness with which they had clearly been integrated and rationalised into an
idiosyncratically local Bactrian religious picture. As further illustration of this, we may note a
statue of Herakles recovered from one of the rooms surrounding the towns main gate
fortification. Underneath this statue were discovered the remains of an earlier statue, which
fortuitously contained a coin of Vasudeva II, the last Kushan king.165
As with Takht-i Sangin, Dilberdzhin therefore forces us to look at religious practice
under the Graeco-Bactrians and Kushans in a more fluid and organic way, focusing on the
longevity and adaptability of cult. As has been my emphasis in discussions of the religious
structures from Ai Khanoum, what this highlights are the ways in which people might actually
use these sites, and means that we cannot, with any degree of credibility, make statements
about ethnicity and ethnic politics which are divorced from a firm grounding in the schemes of
everyday reality and religious practice which these sites reveal. What Dilberdzhin shows is
the range and permeability of the forms of iconography which might appear at a single site
over a long period. If we must view this in an organic way, as something thoroughly
integrated into a framework of local religious practice, then this gives us good reason to be
sceptical of any imputations of artificiality or politically-motivated syncretism at Ai Khanoum,
and other sites where the archaeological record gives us a briefer chronological window.
4.9Zhiga-tepe 166
The fragmentary Greek funerary inscription from Zhiga-tepe, 5km east of Dilberdzhin, in the
Bactra oasis, has already been discussed in Chapter 3, Section 3.6. The site of Zhiga-tepe
itself was excavated by a Soviet-Afghan team in 1974 and 1976. In general, there has been
little publication on the site. Pugachenkova (1979) is the publication of the 1974 season, with
a summary in French. Pidaev (1984) covers the ceramics from the 1976 season.
Fitzsimmons (1994) and (1996) contain discussions of the chronology of the site. As with
Dilberdzhin, there is reason to doubt elements of the chronology proposed by the
excavators, as well as their grounds for assigning artefacts and structures to particular
periods.
The site of Zhiga-tepe consisted of a raised tell with a central protuberance, near the
ancient wall surrounding the Balkh/Bactra oasis.167 The complex comprised an exterior wall
c.150 metres in diameter, and inner wall parallel to this at a distance of 2.15 metres. The
outer wall was lined with semi-circular towers. There was apparently an open courtyard
between constructions against the walls and a central building.
The excavators identified four periods of occupation at Zhiga-tepe, the earliest being
Graeco-Bactrian (Period I). The Kushan period (Period II) followed only after a period of
abandonment, and Pugachenkova associates the blockage of several entrances in the
exterior wall with the nomad invasions of the second century BC which marked the fall of the
Graeco-Bactrian kingdom. Serious doubts have, however, been cast on this proposed
chronology of the site by Fitzsimmons, who identifies problems with many of the datings
proposed by the excavators, and extends the active life of the site well beyond the fifth
century AD.168
As was the case with Dilberdzhin, we cannot therefore identify any indisputably
Graeco-Bactrian structures from Zhiga-tepe, and must be cautious in how we relate it to the
other sites discussed in this chapter. The Greek inscription of Diogenes from Period I,
however, and two coins of Euthydemos, at least allow us to conclude that the site was in use
in the Graeco-Bactrian period, and by at least one individual with a Greek name, using the
Greek language in an inscription. This inscription was, it should be noted, identified by
Pugachenkova as a dedication rather than an epitaph, and thus the possibility of a cemetery
at Zhiga-tepe has not been considered in earlier work
There are a large number of entrances in the outer wall of the structure at Zhiga-tepe,
too many to be practical in a fortress, and so Pugachenkova suggests that we should
consider it as a religious rather than a military site. Analogies with Bronze Age and Early Iron
Age temples also from the Bactra oasis (Dashly III and Kultlug-tepe), as well as Koi-Krylgan-
kala in Chorasmia support this identification, and allow us to consider Zhiga-tepe within a
much longer chronological tradition of local Bactrian and Central Asian religious structures.169
The nature of the cult performed at Zhiga-tepe is uncertain. A ceramic vessel may bear the
image of a goddess.170 Although Sarianidi had identified a fire-cult at Dashly III, there is in
fact no need to suppose that the presence or centrality of a hearth indicates worship of the
fire itself rather than the use of fire in cult practice; this analogy cannot, therefore, be used to
suggest the nature of the cult at Zhiga-tepe.171 Pugachenkova proposes that it may have
been dedicated to a cult of the stars, although this is questioned by Boyce and Grenet.172
For the purposes of the present discussion, two major points should be made about the
structure at Zhiga-tepe. First, it may be firmly located within a local Bactrian tradition of
religious architecture, which stretched back long before Achaemenid or Greek domination.
Some continuity of cult practice may therefore be posited, and the presence of the inscription
of Diogenes reveals that the site might be used by Greeks although we would like to know
rather more about the inscriptions context before judging the nature or extent of this Greek
involvement. Secondly, its monumental architecture indicates that this was a prominent
temple, perhaps attracting a constituency of worshippers and patrons from a considerable
area around. Its plan so unsuitable for defensive purposes promotes the idea of
accessibility to the temple courtyard, while access to the central building may perhaps have
been more restricted.173 The issues of spatial organisation already discussed with regard to
the temples of Ai Khanoum, and to a more limited extent at Takht-i Sangin, are also of
relevance here: this was a site which different people used or, depending on their religious
status, perhaps had to use in different ways, suggesting a range of different religious
experiences of the same structure.
The script may be used to date the inscription to the late-third or early-second century,
but this is superfluous given the historical information contained in it.177 Euthydemos was the
king of Bactria against whom Antiochos III conducted a campaign on his eastern anabasis.
Antiochos siege of Bactra in 206 is recounted by Polybios, who transmits some of the few
snippets of literary-historical data available to historians of the Greek kingdom of Bactria:
For Euthydemus [like Teleas, the envoy] was himself a Magnesian and, defending
himself to Teleas, alleged that it was unjust for Antiochus to demand his removal from
power, since he himself had not rebelled against the king. Rather, when others had
revolted, he had destroyed their descendants and thus gained possession of the
Bactrian throne. After further discussing this matter along these same lines, he begged
Teleas to mediate peace in a kindly manner, exhorting Antiochus not to begrudge him
his royal name and state. For if Antiochus did not make these concessions, neither of
them would be safe: not far away were great numbers of nomads who not only posed a
danger to them both but also threatened to barbarize the whole area if they attacked.
After saying these things, Euthydemus sent Teleas to Antiochus.
The Seleucid king had long been looking for a way out of the situation, so hearing these
things from Teleas he readily accepted peace for the aforementioned reasons. After
Teleas had shuttled between them many times, Euthydemus finally dispatched his son
Demetrius to confirm the agreements. Antiochus gladly received him and judged the
young man to be worthy of royal rank because of his appearance, dignified bearing,
and conversation. First, Antiochus promised to give him one of his own daughters in
marriage. Second, he conceded to his father [Euthydemus] the title of king.
Concerning the rest of the terms, he made a written treaty and sworn alliance. Then,
after lavishly provisioning his army, he marched away, adding Euthydemuss elephants
to his own. 178
Much tenuous genealogical speculation might be hung on the dynastic marriage between
Euthydemos son Demetrios and a daughter of Antiochos,179 but we do not have any
evidence that it actually took place. Demetrios was a neanskow at the time of the siege of
Bactra. As king in his own right, Demetrios went on to spearhead the Graeco-Bactrian
conquest of north-western India;180 on his coinage, he is depicted with the elephant scalp
used by Alexander the
Great to symbolise his own
conquest of India (Figure
4.28).
In the inscription of
Heliodotos, Demetrios is
already associated with his
father Euthydemos in a
public dedication. He bears
the title kallnikow, but,
unlike Euthydemos, not the Figure 4.28 Tetradrachm of Demetrios I: American Numismatic
Society Online Database.
title of king, which we might perhaps expect if he were already conducting campaigns and
honoured alongside his father. This is not, however, an official inscription made by the royal
family, and it does not enable us to say anything about the exact status of Demetrios sub-
king or favoured prince at the time at which it was made, nor whether kallnikow is an
official title or merely a poetic epithet. A more official document which does bear the names
of more than one Graeco-Bactrian king reigning simultaneously is the Greek tax-receipt
parchment from Asangorna.181 This contains the names Theos Antimachos, Eumenes and a
second Antimachos, in a dating formula. Attempting to decide whether Demetrios epithet
kallnikow refers to his early campaigns in India which would therefore have to have begun
during his fathers lifetime or to the role he played during the siege of Bactra leads us into
complicated chronological territory.182 Bernard suggests that the context of the inscription
should be seen as the immediate aftermath of the siege of Bactra, when Euthydemos had
received confirmation in his status as king by Antiochos;183 hence the confident and assertive
tone of the inscription, with Euthydemos as pntvn mgistow basilvn and his heir already
kallnikow.
About Heliodotos himself his status, background, place of origin the inscription tells
us little; it is resolutely impersonal in tone. His lack of patronymic (indicating perhaps that he
was well enough known not to need this distinction), and the fact that the inscription is set up
on behalf of the king and his son, suggests to Bernard that he was a high official, perhaps the
governor of the province in which Kuliab lay or a Friend of the king. 184 As a near-parallel for
the occurrence of the theophoric name Heliodotos, we may note the Heliodoros of the
Besnagar inscription (see Chapter 5).
What, then, of the religious content of the inscription, the lsow in which Heliodotos
made his dedication, and the community which it served? For a deity to be honoured or
made the subject of a dedication in a sanctuary belonging to another is hardly unusual in the
Greek world and, as discussed above, multiple foci of worship may be observed in the
architecture of the Temple with Indented Niches at Ai Khanoum. Elsewhere in Bactria, at
Takht-i Sangin and Zhiga-tepe, the evidence is highly suggestive of more than one god being
honoured at a single site, or of different communities using the same structure, perhaps for
different purposes. Given the lack of archaeological context, we may question the identity of
the Zeus to whom the grove was dedicated: might this name be used in a Greek inscription
to gloss a local god? The possibility should, at any rate, be considered. Hestia is invoked in
traditional terms, and it should be noted that this is the first evidence of her cult among the
181 Rea, Senior and Hollis (1994); Bernard and Rapin (1994); Rapin (1996a); Grenet (1996).
182 The former would date the inscription to shortly after 206, the latter option to around 190.
183 Bernard in Bernard, Pinault and Rougemont (2004), 345-355.
184 Bernard in Bernard, Pinault and Rougemont (2004), 352.
149
Greeks of Central Asia, although she does occur on Parthian rhytons from Nisa.185 Tyche
occurs on some late Indo-Greek coins, of Philoxenos, Amyntas, Peukolaos and Hippostratos.
The loiba mproi offered by Heliodotos may appear somewhat impractical, but the
meaning is surely that the sacrifice comprises libations and burnt offerings.186
The royal connections of this inscription invite us to consider the possible relationship
between the ruling dynasty and religious cult in the Graeco-Bactrian state. Evidence of royal
patronage of cults may be seen in the diademed sculpture heads from Takht-i Sangin,
perhaps also the statues from the pronaos of the Temple with Indented Niches at Ai
Khanoum. The relationship between the religious imagery on Graeco-Bactrian and Indo-
Greek coins and actual cult patronage and practice is difficult to interpret; it may be possible
to discern some disjunction between the official iconography and patron gods of kings, and
the spectrum and ethnic associations of cult practice actually in operation. Another issue
which the evidence is suggestive of, but does not actually permit us to critically address, is
that of syncretism and its possible political force. The case of Ptolemaic sponsorship of the
god Serapis (Osiris-Apis) is a case in point, utilising Greek and Egyptian influences to create
a cult strongly bound up with the ruling dynasty.187 At the Temple with Indented Niches at Ai
Khanoum, as previously discussed, the main god has been identified as a syncretised Zeus-
Mithra or Zeus-Ahura Mazda. Such cults, the existence of which in anything other than
artistic or onomastic convention in Hellenistic Bactria we must not assume, could be a
powerful tool of ethnic rapprochement, enabling the king to appeal to both sides of the ethnic
coin as we may, in fact, see later Indo-Greek kings doing in more literal, numismatic terms.
Of ruler cult, we have only limited evidence. The only Graeco-Bactrian king to refer to
himself as theos (on coin legends and in the Asangorna tax-receipt parchment dating
formula) during his lifetime is Antimachos I Theos (c.185-170 BC), later than the inscription of
Heliodotos.188 The title theos is also applied (very) posthumously to Diodotos, on a
commemorative coin of Agathokles.189 Among the standard repertoire of Hellenistic titles
borne by Graeco-Bactrian and Indo-Greek kings Soter, Epiphanes, Philopator, Euergetes,
Dikaios we also have, again from a much later period, this time in North-West India, the title
theotropos borne by Strato and Agathokleia.190 The adoption of divine titles by Graeco-
Bactrian and Indo-Greek kings is, in other words, a phenomenon later than the evidence of
the inscription of Heliodotos, and appears to have been far from universal. In Heliodotos
dedication and, as I have argued earlier, perhaps also in the Stone-Vault Mausoleum at Ai
Khanoum (Chapter 3, Section 3.4) we may however see the roots of ruler cult, in the
honour accorded and divine protection requested for members of the royal family.
In terms of its style and cultural associations, the dedication of Heliodotos is that ironic
rara avis in the Hellenistic Far East: a relatively normal Greek inscription. From Kandahar,
we have the exceptional Greek A9okan Edicts (Section 4.12, below); the intriguing but
somewhat confusing dedication of the son of Aristonax (Section 4.11, below); and the Stele
of Sophytos, a exercise in Hellenistic intellectual sophistication executed by a man with an
Indian name (Chapter 5). The inscriptions of Bactria range from those with an apparently
local Bactrian religious context (the inscription of Diogenes from Zhiga-tepe), to ostentatious
displays of Greek identity (the Delphic maxims from the Temenos of Kineas at Ai Khanoum),
to documents attesting economic transactions involving Greeks and Bactrians (the treasury
documents from Ai Khanoum). The dedication of Heliodotos is a relatively banal Greek verse
composition which reveals une culture grecque solide, ordinaire, partage entre le pote et
ses lecteurs.191 In its vocabulary, syntax and poetic imagery, which are elegant but not so
ostentatiously literary as the inscription of Sophytos, as well as its content, rien ne surprend
lhellniste.192
In terms of its ethnic implications, this very banality perhaps makes the inscription of
Heliodotos all the more significant: it provides an insight into a Greek culture which is not, so
far as we can see in this particular instance, protesting its purity and vigour with any
particular passion, a culture which was part of a communitys everyday life and from which
they drew their normal repertoire of social and political practices. The way in which
Heliodotos chooses to make a display of his concern for the well-being of the king and his
son (with politically-motivated sycophancy, we might ask?) is by setting up a Greek
inscription to Greek gods, in a sacred place to which he gives a Greek description
(Diow k(a)t' lsow). Even if we should keep an open mind as to the nature of this cult place
(would native Bactrians also have called it the grove of Zeus?), the erection of a Greek
inscription presupposes a community frequenting the place who would have understood it
and, perhaps more importantly, considered this an appropriate thing to do. If, as with the
inscription of Sophytos (see Chapter 5), we imagine Heliodotos altar dedication sitting
among other, similar inscriptions, then we can gain some idea of the civic and social role this
location might have played, and the quiet reinforcement of the Greek values and identity
which it may have provided. Of the wider issues considered with regard to the funerary and
religious structures at Ai Khanoum public/civic versus private practice, spatial organisation
the lack of archaeological context of the inscription of Heliodotos can unfortunately tell us
little. It gives, however, an important insight into a wider picture of Graeco-Bactrian society
which the geographical limitations of much of our evidence, centred on the single site of Ai
Khanoum, does not otherwise permit.
The evidence for religious practice at Old Kandahar is rather more abundant than that for
funerary practice (see briefly Chapter 3, Section 3.7, with fuller discussion in Chapter 5,
Section 5.2). The bulk of our evidence is, however, epigraphic, without any secure
archaeological context, and the unusual and welcome presence of a number of Greek
inscriptions should not blind us to their limitations. No cult sites are at present known from
the (little-explored) archaeological remains of Hellenistic and Mauryan Old Kandahar. The
Greek and Aramaic Edicts of A9oka and the epigram of the Son of Aristonax do, however,
furnish us with valuable evidence on religious practice at Kandahar under the Seleucids and
the Mauryas. The Edicts of A9oka are especially valuable as our first major piece of
evidence for the encounter of the Greek communities of the East with Indian religion. This
will be of crucial importance when we move on to consider religious practice among the Indo-
Greeks in Chapter 5.
The epigram of the Son of Aristonax was published by Fraser (1979),193 whose edition
I follow here. Reconstructions have been suggested by Oikonomides (1984) and Peek
(1985).194
1.[.....................]
2.YHROSA[..........] st!sa tde efiw tme[n]ow
3.uflw Arist"naktow, ALEJ[...] {i?}n stow
4.ka svt!row mo t[......] o(or a?) w.
dedication appear to be his attack by a wild animal (gen. yhrw, line 2), from which he was
saved. Fraser suggests three possibilities for the form of the statue: the wild animal which
attacked the dedicator, the (hypothetical) dog which saved him from it, or the god to whom he
attributed his rescue.197 svt!row mo (line 4) could refer to either of the latter.
Beyond this, we are even further into the realms of supposition, especially with regard
to the nature of the temenos in which the statue was set up. The worship of a Greek deity in
a temenos in Kandahar, Fraser argues, is to be contrasted with the later suppression or
discouragement of Olympian religion under A9oka, as is (he claims) shown by the Edicts.198
The inscription, he suggests, also proves that the area of Kandahar remained Seleucid
during the first part of the third century, only later being incorporated into the Mauryan Empire
by A9oka. Although this does appear to have been the case, the epigram of the Son of
Aristonax does not in itself prove it. The worship of a Greek god (even were this directly
attested by the inscription) does not presuppose that the region in question was under Greek
political control. A9oka did not, in fact, discourage non-Buddhist sects. The idea of the
suppression of Greek religion would also accord poorly with A9okas use of local languages
including Greek in his inscriptions.
Oikonomides, on the other hand, inclines towards a more extreme interpretation: the
existence of a flourishing Greek city at Old Kandahar, whose institutions were active well into
the period of Mauryan dominance. The Greek translation of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Major
Rock Edicts on blocks of masonry (see Section 4.12, below) supports the existence of at
least one sizeable Greek public building. The temenos may be another, which Oikonomides
identifies with the founder cult of Alexander, supplying this name in the lacuna in line 3 of the
inscription. He cites parallels to support his theory that the name of the dedicator was also
Alexander, named in the inscription only by reference to his eponymous saviour: 199 an
ingenious solution but one for which there is no proof.
The firm information which the inscription gives us is in fact rather basic: a man with a
Greek patronymic (the son of Aristonax) made a Greek-language dedication in a sanctuary
in early third-century Kandahar. The early date, and the lack of anything obviously non-
Greek about the inscription, would suggest that the missing name of the dedicator is a Greek
one, and that he would have considered himself a Greek; but, this being the Hellenistic Far
East, there is always a possibility that he may not. Nothing is known of the architecture or
cult of the sanctuary itself, and we should be extremely hesitant in making any assumptions
about it on the basis of this one Greek inscription. At Ai Khanoum Greeks worshipped in
temples of non-Greek architectural form, and a man with a non-Greek name made a
dedicatory inscription in Greek at the Temple of the Oxus. On the other hand, we have the
almost gratuitously-Greek inscription from the Greek-style Temenos of Kineas at Ai
Khanoum. The temenos in which the son of Aristonax set up his thanks-offering could
equally well have been either that of a pre-existing local temple, in which Greeks now also
worshipped, or that of a new Greek temple. Given the long history of occupation of the site
of Old Kandahar, we must suppose that, even if this temenos was that of a new Greek
temple, its impact on the urban landscape of the city was minimal, perhaps forming part of a
Greek quarter.200 At least one more Greek public building may be posited, where the Greek
translations of the A9okan Edicts were displayed, but it is not necessary to suppose that the
settlers completely remodelled the city in the form of a Greek polis.
200 Whitehouse (1978), 33; Helms (1982), 13; McNicoll (1978), 46.
154
For the mid-third century, which furnishes our other major pieces of epigraphic evidence on
religious practice at Old Kandahar, we must engage with material which has a very definitely
non-Greek cultural background: the A9okan Edicts. The Edicts of the Mauryan emperor
A9oka (reigned c.269/8-233/2), inscribed on pillars or rock surfaces throughout his empire,
provide invaluable evidence for his reign, evidence which we lack for almost all other Indian
kings of the period. In his Thirteenth Major Rock Edict (MRE) A9oka claims that, after the
bloody conquest of the region of Kalinga, in eastern India, he became a convert to the
Buddhist dhamma.201 A major concern of his Edicts is to promote this dhamma throughout
his empire. A9oka is not mentioned by his personal name, but by the title piyadassi (Sanskrit
priyadar,in, of benevolent sight). Only comparison with Ceylonese chronicles where A9oka
is known by this title or throne name allowed this identification.202 The Edicts are official
pronouncements of policy, containing instructions to officials and subjects for circulation to
the provinces. Their purpose was to make the kings statements public to as large a group of
people as possible. They were therefore set up in prominent places in major towns or
religious centres or by major trade routes, and probably also circulated on perishable
materials which have not survived. They were also, significantly, written not in Sanskrit, the
classical language, but in Pr!krits (vernaculars), with some regional variations in dialect and
script.203 Only in Dravidian-speaking South India is the local language not used. Two areas
in Afghanistan have produced A9okan inscriptions: the Laghman valley204 and Kandahar. It
is highly significant that the relevant local languages used are Aramaic and Greek. There
were some variations in the text, for which the Fourteenth MRE pragmatically allows:
It exists in abridged, medium-length, and extended versions, for each clause has not
been engraved everywhereThere is considerable repetition because of the beauty of
certain topics, and in order that the people may conform to them. In some places it
may be inaccurately engraved, whether by the omission of a passage of by lack of
attention, or by the error of the engraver.205
201 Dhamma is the Pr!krit (vernacular) form of the Sanskrit dharma, a term for which it is notoriously
difficult to find an appropriate English translation. It embraces concepts of law, piety and
maintenance of the proper social order. See Thapar (1997), 137-181 for a discussion of A9okas
policy of dhamma, and below for the Greek translation of the term as esbeia. Thapar (1997) also
contains translations of the A9okan Edicts.
202 Thapar (1997), 6.
203 This, inevitably, raises questions about the level of literacy in Mauryan India. Mookerji (1955), 101,
is inclined to see literacy as relatively widespread, encouraged by the availability of a monastic
education. Thapar (1997), 281, in contrast, sees literacy as more restricted, and envisages the Edicts
having been read aloud at gatherings.
204 Dupont-Sommer (1969); Ito (1979); Mukherjee (1984). Allchin and Norman (1985) provide a
catalogue of all the known A9okan inscriptions.
205 Thapar (1997), 257.
155
For the purposes of the present discussion on Greek religious practice and ethnic
identity in the East, two aspects are immediately striking. The first is the awareness the
Edicts show of the West. The Fifth MRE refers to Greeks (yonas on this term see Chapter
5), Kambojas and Gandh-ras, all peoples of southern Afghanistan. The Thirteenth MRE
contains references to specific Greeks: the kings Antiochos II, Ptolemy II, Antigonos
Gonatas, Magas of Cyrene and Alexander of ?Molossia or ?Epirus.206 Antiochos II, who is
also mentioned in the Second MRE,207 is the most important figure, as the Seleucid Empire
had the closest contacts with India. It is worth noting that there is no reference to a Greek
king of Bactria, as Seleucid authority was still at least nominally acknowledged in Bactria at
this date.
The second point to be made concerns the missions sent by A9oka to promulgate
dhamma in the west (termed the victory of dhamma in the Thirteenth MRE, and
representing a spiritual or philosophical rather than a military victory). Yona peoples and the
Greek kings mentioned above are explicitly stated as the objects of such missions. With the
Kandahar inscriptions, we see the physical evidence of this official policy of introducing
Greeks to the concept of dhamma. There is, however, no record of A9okas missions
reaching western Greek courts or having any impact there. What such promulgation
represented, crucially, bears no comparison with Christian missionary movements or with the
use of religion to reinforce a monolithic state in innumerable other historical contexts. The
Seventh and Twelfth MREs 208 make it clear that all sects are not only to be tolerated, but to
be accorded respect. Dhamma as advocated by A9oka did not represent the political
establishment of Buddhism to the exclusion of other religions and philosophies, and so we
cannot make any such assumptions about its impact upon the cultic practices of the Greek
populations of southern Afghanistan. Examining the Greek Edicts in their local context at Old
Kandahar, however, may enable us to deduce a little additional information about the nature
and strength of the Greek community in the region.
The two Greek Edicts from Old Kandahar are presented here according to the editions
of Schlumberger (1964) for Kandahar III and Schlumberger, Robert, Dupont-Sommer and
Benveniste (1958) for Kandahar I.209 Kandahar III is a Greek monolingual, dated to c.255.210
Kandahar I is a Greek-Aramaic bilingual, dated to c.250.211 As the official bureaucratic
206This list of kings, used in conjunction with the dating to ten years after A9okas accession, dates the
Thirteenth MRE, to c.256-255.
207 Thapar (1997), 251.
208 Thapar (1997), 253, 255.
209 The inscriptions were numbered according to their date of discovery.
210 Schlumberger (1964), 127.
211 Schlumberger, Robert, Dupont-Sommer and Benveniste (1958), 6, 11; Scerrato (1964), 27.
156
Kandahar III
212 e.g. the inscription from Taxila: Marshall (1951), 164-166; Marshall (1960), 74; Ito (1977).
213Schlumberger, Robert, Dupont-Sommer and Benveniste (1958), 20, 36ff; Dupont-Sommer (1966),
441; cf the Aramaic-script ostrakon from Ai Khanoum, discussed above.
214 Benveniste and Dupont-Sommer (1966), 446ff.
157
Kandahar III, the Greek monolingual, essentially represents a translation of the last
portion of the Twelfth MRE and the first portion of the Thirteenth MRE. The section which
deals with the mission to the Hellenistic kings is, unfortunately, missing. It would have been
interesting to know how this was presented to a Greek-speaking population who would
presumably have been the object of such a mission, or whether it would simply have been
omitted as irrelevant. The structure of Kandahar III is unusual for an A9okan Edict, which
were usually rock-cut or inscribed on a pillar: it is on blocks of stone, which formed part of a
wall or building. The block had been removed from the ruins and thus has no archaeological
context, but (if parallels from Shahb!zgarhi, M!nsehr!, K!lsi and Girn!r may be applied
here) it is likely to have formed part of a much larger text which would in turn have required a
sizeable stone building for its inscription.215 We are thus presented with a long, apparently
monolingual Greek inscription on a major stone building in a city known to have had a Greek
community and active Greek culture immediately prior to this period: the suggestion has
been made that the Edict was set up on a Greek public building or civic structure, such as a
portico or a gymnasium, all the better to be presented to a Greek audience. Substantiating
this theory is, unfortunately, impossible in the current state of the archaeological evidence
from Old Kandahar.
The text of the Greek follows the original Edicts quite closely, with the scribe making
three categories of editorial excisions: statements or phrases which did not apply in the
region; repetitions or apparent repetitions; and phrases which were difficult to interpret.
Norman concludes from the last category that the translator did not entirely understand all
that he was reading, but this is by no means a judgement on his fluency in the Pr!krit as
Indian texts contain similar omissions or rephrasings of difficult sections.216
It is the language of the Greek, however, which presents the point of greatest interest.
It is not merely a translation into fluent Greek, but an adaptation of the ideas of the original
into current Greek philosophical terminology. The Pr!krit dhamma, commonly rendered as
law or similar in English, becomes esbeia piety in Greek. The term used for a religious
sect becomes diatrib, which usually designates a philosophical school or way of life in
the Greek world.217 The vocabulary is educated and sophisticated, and represents an
attempt to translate the Indian Buddhist original into something with which a Greek would
have been familiar not just linguistically, but also culturally. The use of Greek philosophical
terminology is perhaps indicative of how a Greek would perceive a Buddhist mission of the
kind mentioned in the Thirteenth MRE: as spreading a philosophy rather than proselytising a
religion.
It is notable, however, that such very specifically Indian concepts as !"#$%&'& or
("&%&)& are merely transliterated as bramenai and sramenai (line 17). It is possible that this
represents the translator 218 reaching the limits of his skills: having struggled to find elegant
Greek translations of other Indian terms, he now throws his hands up in despair at the
resolutely un-Greek Brahmins and Buddhist mendicants. An alternative explanation,
however, would have some implications for our understanding of religion and culture among
the Greek-speaking community of Mauryan Old Kandahar. The translation of the Twelfth and
Thirteenth MREs in Kandahar III is an excellent one, made with sensitivity to the cultural
vocabulary of its audience. Its purpose, like that of the non-Greek A9okan Edicts, is to get its
message across. The bramenai and sramenai may have been retained in their original form
because the translator knew that they would be intelligible to his audience, and no Greek
equivalent would communicate their precise meaning and distinction quite so well. The
Alexander historians, with their limited personal acquaintance with India and Indian religion,
spoke of Alexander meeting gumnosofista at Taxila.219 The Greek community settled in
third-century Arachosia, as Schmitt argues with some plausibility, knew perfectly well what
!"#$%&'&* and ("&%&)&* were.220
There is a difference, however, between familiarity with the concept, and first-hand
knowledge of or adherence to Indian religions, and the Greek A9okan Edicts from Kandahar
tell us nothing about how A9okas promulgation of the Buddhist dhamma was received by
those of Greek culture or descent. What forms this promotion took, other than the setting up
of the Edicts, we cannot be sure. The silence of western Greek sources on the missions
A9oka claims to have sent to the Hellenistic courts suggests that they had little or no impact
in the Mediterranean Greek world: Athenaeus account of diplomatic contact between the
courts of Antiochos I and A9okas father Bindus!ra/Amitrochates is one of somewhat
frivolous requests for figs and sophists.221 The Greek community of mid-third century
Kandahar, under Mauryan political authority, may have been receptive to Asokas promotion
of dhamma, or they may have ignored it. My own suspicion would be that at Kandahar, as
elsewhere in the Hellenistic oikoumene, the presence of a number of Greek and non-Greek
cults, and diverse philosophical sects, presented no great intellectual conflict. In this context,
Indian religions whether A9okas dhamma or the worship of Indian gods may not have
been something to be consciously or deliberately accepted or rejected. The inscription of
Sophytos, and the material culture of Old Kandahar, testify to the cosmopolitan community
present there, with influences from the Indian, Iranian and Greek worlds. The Besnagar pillar
inscription, discussed in Chapter 5, gives us evidence that those of Greek descent later
resident in India might worship Indian gods. Just as cultural and ethnic boundaries will in
218 Or perhaps translators? Note the variation in spelling between diaprtontai in line 7 and
diaprassomnvn in line 20-21: Schmitt (1990), 50. These variations occur in two separate sections
of the inscription, the translation of the Twelfth MRE and of the Thirteenth MRE.
219 e.g. Plutarch 64.
220 Schmitt (1990), 50.
221 Athenaeus 14, 652-653.
159
practice have been indistinct however strongly they may have been reinforced in rhetoric or
public display so heterogeneity and syncretism should be expected to have been a feature
of local religious practice at Old Kandahar.
The status of the A9okan dhamma as a way of life deliberately promulgated by a
central authority may have had some impact on its reception at Kandahar. Whatever local
popularity it may or may not have gone on to enjoy, and whatever impact Buddhism had
hitherto had in the region, the fact remains that the A9okan Edicts originated from the
Mauryan imperial apparatus. Might they have been well-received and followed by locals
(Greek, Indian or Iranian) keen to get ahead in local government or bureaucracy? No
evidence remains of other forms in which A9okas dhamma or Indian religious ideas in
general may have been spread in texts on perishable materials, orally, in less official
contexts but in the form in which we have it, A9okas official promotion of dhamma in
monumental written form, couched in educated, philosophical Greek vocabulary, cannot have
been intended for mass consumption. Like the philosophical schools to which it is implicitly
compared, in its official form it is likely to have been a lite, literate concern. The ways in
which non-official religious ideas, of whatever cultural origin, may have been presented to
and by the masses are something to which our current sources do not permit us access.
Kandahar I
The bilingual Greek-Aramaic inscription, Kandahar I, was cut into a rock face by the
road outside Old Kandahar. Although at the time of its discovery it had become detached, it
is unlikely to have moved far from its original location. This is not a literal translation of any
surviving Indian text, but rather represents une prsentation la grecque 222 of the A9okan
Edicts. The Greek and Aramaic texts are parallel rather than identical, the Aramaic
corresponding to the Greek only in the general ethical content of the message it
expresses.223 Significantly, the Greek text occupies the head of the inscription, and is thus
the principal or prestige language. The A9okan principles of vegetarianism and respect for
ones parents and elders are given a slight Greek edge; those who lack the self-control for
the former are exhorted to adhere to it kat dnamin (line 10), while the normal Indian or
Iranian order of mother and father is reversed to patr ka mhtr (lines 10-11) to reflect the
usual Greek expression. As in Kandahar III, Greek philosophical vocabulary is used as we
have already seen with esbeia for dhamma.
The major conclusion which must be drawn from the epigraphic material from Old Kandahar
is that there was present in Seleucid and Mauryan Kandahar a Greek community which was
not merely Greek by descent, but maintained Greek culture. The quality of the execution of
the inscriptions suggests that they were made by a skilled stone-cutter, and the community
must have had sufficient demand for Greek inscriptions to support at least one person in this
profession. It would also be interesting to know something about the people who read the
official Indian texts on which Kandahar I and Kandahar III are based and drew up the Greek
and Aramaic adaptations/translations. Were they, for example, Greeks or Iranians in local
government, receiving instructions from the central Mauryan authorities? What degree of
bilingualism was there in the local bureaucracy, and what was the ethnicity-by-descent of
those who wrote Greek versions of official Edicts for promulgation? Without further evidence,
it is impossible to do much more than speculate on these questions on the basis of
comparison with similar bicultural societies (like Hellenistic Egypt), an exercise to which
some space will be devoted in my discussion of the inscription of Sophytos (Chapter 5).
In addition to attesting the presence of a community which asserted Greek culture, the
style of the language of the inscriptions and their palaeography indicates that this community
was (as at Ai Khanoum) in contact with the Hellenistic world to the west.224 The discovery of
the A9okan inscriptions at Kandahar settled the old argument about the position of the
frontier fixed by Seleukos I and Chandragupta Maurya.225 It has also, conversely, served to
tie Arachosia more closely to the Hellenistic or hellenised world, even if Schlumbergers
estimation of A9oka as practically un souverain hellnistique 226 is an over-statement of the
case, and one at which one suspects Narain who claimed of the Greeks that they came,
they saw, but India conquered227 would be less than amused.
The use of Greek as the language in which the A9okan Edicts were rendered is
significant. As mentioned above, it presupposes that Kandahar had a Greek-speaking
population of sufficient size to make such an exercise worthwhile. Although Aramaic is also
used, the region lacking any other written language, it is Greek which occupies the position
at the head of the bilingual inscription. The style of the Greek is fluent and learned. At
Mauryan Kandahar, we have not a population for whom Greek was a fossilised bureaucratic
language, a remnant of the brief occupation of the region, but a population who had access
to a Greek education. Although the size of this Greek-speaking population remains
impossible to gauge, in the mid-third century their influence and prominence must have been
considerable. The adapted translation of the A9okan Edicts is directed at them, using their
language and their cultural reference points. Although Kandahar fell under Mauryan rule, the
Greeks maintained during the third century not just a physical presence, but a very real
cultural and perhaps socio-political influence within the city. If, as has been suggested
above, the monolingual A9okan inscription came from a Greek public building, then this
would accord well with this sense of Greeks as a dominant or prestige cultural group within
the city.
The local Iranian population of Kandahar frequently overlooked in cases where it is
easy to draw a simple Greek-Indian polarity appear to have been considered of lesser
political importance, perhaps reinforced by their lack of powerful kindred beyond their
borders.228 The Kambojas of the A9okan Edicts and other Indian sources probably represent
the local Iranian people, and the limited Indian textual evidence available on their religious
practices suggests that they practised Zoroastrianism in some form. What conflict there may
or may not have been between the injunctions of the A9okan Edicts which appear in any
case to have been open to liberal interpretation and local religious practice is uncertain.229
The Aramaic section of Kandahar I may have been carved below the Greek, but it was
still made, and some effort was made to reach an Iranian audience in their own terms. As at
Ai Khanoum, the survival of an Achaemenid lite or a bureaucratic class literate in Aramaic
seems likely. As was also the case at Ai Khanoum in the ostrakon from the sanctuary of
the Temple with Indented Niches, which can be interpreted as either Aramaic or an Iranian
language the Aramaic used has an element of Iranian vocabulary, something with which we
are now also familiar in the Achaemenid period Aramaic documents from Bactria.230 Aramaic
language and script in Bactria and Arachosia appears to have been a literary or bureaucratic
tool rather than a mode of everyday communication: the translation of the A9okan Edicts, in
its large Iranian vocabulary, reflects its limitations in meeting new situations and
terminology.231
The key arguments advanced here on how the evidence for religious practice in the
Hellenistic Far East may develop our understanding of the ways in which ethnic identities
were formed and expressed will be revisited in the Conclusion. Chapter 5 will consider two
important inscriptions the inscription of Sophytos from Kandahar and that of Heliodora from
Besnagar which serve to emphasise the highly situational nature of ethnicity in the Graeco-
Bactrian and Indo-Greek states, a phenomenon which we may place in a thoroughly
Hellenistic context.
165
Chapter 5
The Inscriptions of Sophytos and Heliodora
5.1Introduction
The emphasis in the preceding chapters has been on communities rather than individuals, an
attempt to sketch in broad strokes the way in which ethnic identity operated in funerary and
religious contexts in the Hellenistic Far East. In public inscriptions and the built environment,
I have argued that ethnic boundaries were often deliberately reinforced. The
correspondence between these public boundaries and individual behaviour was, however, a
varying one, and there are cases in which we can observe expressions of identity, and the
cultural baggage of identity, being manipulated. In particular, the evidence for religious
practice suggests that what we might perceive as ethnic traits, such as the worship of
particular gods, or modes of artistic representation, may in fact be neutralised. Although I
have not addressed this question directly, my intention in using this term has been to imply
both that modern scholarly analysis might neutralise explicitly ethnic interpretations of the
evidence, and that the populations of the Hellenistic Far East were themselves selective in
the cultural traits to which they chose to attach ethnic weight, a stratagem it may have been
convenient for them to adopt.
The latter phenomenon has, thus far, been considered somewhat passively, as a
probable conclusion to be drawn from the patterning of the archaeological material from sites
such as Ai Khanoum and Takht-i Sangin. The present chapter aims to address this area
more directly, through two individual case studies. In the first, the inscription of Sophytos
from Kandahar, a man with an Indian name presents himself in a very Greek mould. The
second, the inscription of Heliodora from Besnagar, takes us beyond the chronological and
geographical boundaries of the Greek states of Central Asia, into the Indian Subcontinent.
Not only, however, does this inscription provide us with a kind of mirror image of that of
Sophytos with a Greek presenting himself according to Indian cultural terms but it also
allows us to consider the further development and alteration of Greek identity in the Indian
territories which the Bactrian Greeks conquered and interacted with.
In addition, the discussions of these two inscriptions may serve as a conclusion to the
preceding chapters on funerary and religious practice. The Stele of Sophytos is probably
from a mausoleum, and consideration of the mortuary remains from Hellenistic Kandahar
permits us to make a few points about the use and potential conflict of archaeological and
epigraphic sources. The pillar inscription of Heliodora is dedicated to an Indian god, and may
therefore give some insight into the ways in which profession of a particular religious practice
might tie in with an individuals concept of their own identity.
There is little that is in itself problematic in either Sophytos or Heliodoras statements of
their cultural reference points: ethnic ambiguity is, crucially, something which individual public
display might often go to great lengths to avoid. Analysis of the conflicts between claimed
166
ethnicity and other factors such as descent or language-use is a key modern research
question, but one which the ancient sources for the reasons already stated may
deliberately seek to obscure. The final section of this chapter will therefore consider the
ethnic loading of terminology, and the contemporary resonance of inscriptions to which
modern analysis gives a particular ethnic weight.
167
At sites such as Ai Khanoum, we are heavily reliant on the archaeological material, with only
a few inscriptions, intact or fragmentary. Old Kandahar presents a strong contrast, with its
more abundant epigraphic material, but less well-established archaeological context. These
inscriptions the A!okan Edicts, the inscription of the Son of Aristonax, the Stele of
Sophytos raise numerous possibilities for how we might look at the community present in
Hellenistic Arachosia, its institutions and social and ethnic identities. As discussed in
Chapter 2, the pigama in the treaty between Seleukos I and Chandragupta gives us strong
evidence that Greek ethnic boundaries were already, in the late fourth century, being
challenged and reinforced.
The Stele of Sophytos, which emerged from the antiquities market, has not, as yet,
generated a wide body of scholarly literature, although this is bound to change. The initial
publication and commentary is Bernard, Pinault and Rougemont (2004). Brief mentions are
also made in Flandrin and Bopearachchi (2005). I will not discuss the inscriptions
authenticity here, a major point in favour of which is, to my mind, the fact that it is by no
means the only unusual inscription to have emerged from Hellenistic Kandahar.
Svftou stlh
168
The inscription, on a limestone block designed to be set into the wall of a building, fits
within the tradition of Greek funerary epigrams, displayed with an implicit or explicit appeal to
the passer-by to stop, read the inscription and think about the accomplishments or
misfortunes of the person commemorated.1 Sophytos clearly has his audience in mind, and
is concerned to project a particular image of himself: he is successful and cultured, a man
who has restored the fortune and reputation of himself and his family. What he never states
directly at any point although whether it would have been appropriate to do so in this
context is perhaps another matter is what he considers his ethnic identity to be, and what
civic or social position he held in Kandahar. His emphasis on his learning is so insistent that
we might perhaps read some insecurity into it and Sophytos learning is the very Greek
learning of Apollo and the Muses, and of recherch Hellenistic literary vocabulary. The
acrostic DIA SVFUTOU TOU NARATOU is repeated in a column to the left of the
inscription, to make it immediately obvious to the reader just how clever and skilful he has
been in constructing it. An example from Hellenistic or Roman Egypt, the Stele of Moschion,
may serve as illustration of the studied playfulness typically involved in such an exercise.2
Moschions stele contains eleven preserved inscriptions, in Greek and Demotic, including
crosswords and acrostics bearing his own name. The subject matter of several of the
inscriptions is the very fact that they have been composed in such a way, and they include
guides to the reader as to how to approach deciphering them. Just as Sophytos does,
Moschion repeats his Greek and Demotic acrostics in a column alongside the text, to make
them more immediately obvious. Moschion has reason to be proud of his epigraphic
sophistry. Constructing an acrostic in a language such as Greek or English which uses a
purely alphabetic script is clever, but not necessarily an excessively taxing intellectual
exercise. But in Demotic, written in a script which combines alphabetic signs and semantic
determinatives, as well as fossilised conventional writings of words which defy
straightforward alphabetic reading, it is another matter entirely.3 The inscriptions intended
audience, other than its dedicatee Osiris, is stated in the Greek inscription A:
Ellhsi ka ndapoisin. Sophytos, however, is clearly appealing to an audience which
identifies itself strongly with Greek culture. His inscription is linguistically and culturally
monolingual.
Whatever has been stated on the basis of the Indian roots of the names of Sophytos
and his father Naratos,4 the question of Sophytos ethnic identity is in no way resolved. The
Stele of Sophytos in fact presents just the kind of (apparent) ethnic ambiguity or duplicity we
are familiar with from elsewhere in the Hellenistic world: an Indian name in a Greek
composition. It is worth, however, pausing to consider what we do not know about Sophytos.
We do not know whether his family were immigrants from India, and if they were, how
recently they had arrived in Kandahar. We do not know whether his family had intermarried
with Greeks or Iranians and to what extent. We do not know what language he spoke at
home and in public, and whether he was competent in more than one language. We know
nothing of the kind of house he lived in, what he wore, what he ate and perhaps most
importantly how other residents of Kandahar perceived him and his ethnic identity. By
comparison with the picture from Hellenistic Egypt, we might suggest a few things which we
do know about him, at least from negative evidence. His retention of the Indian name
Sophytos in a Greek public inscription would suggest that this was the only name he used,
unlike the situation in Egypt where some individuals displayed dual-naming, or would present
themselves with a Greek name in a Greek context and an Egyptian name in an Egyptian
context.
Sophytos is still, however, a rendering of an Indian name according to Greek phonetics
and orthography. Its very appearance in a Greek inscription is striking but then this is
Kandahar, not Athens. Pinault traces Sophytos back to the Indian Subh"ti, and Sophytos
father Naratos to N#rada. Etymologically, Sophytos may be Subh"ti, but was he ever called
by this name and, if so, in what contexts? As Pinault notes, a Greek patronymic form
Naratidhw is constructed from the Indian name N#rada.5 Sophytos was a name which had
a previous history of being presented in a thoroughly Greek official context, on the coins of
the Sophytos who was a local ruler in Arachosia or Bactria at some point during the third
century. By the time of the Sophytos of the inscription, how would it have been perceived?
Was it a name with sufficient cachet in Kandahar for any ethnic implications it might have
borne to have become subordinated to its familiarity and (perhaps) pedigree?
In the absence of any explicitly-stated claim to Greek identity by Sophytos, the interplay
between ideas of ethnicity, culture, social status and prestige on the stele invites us to
reconsider our assumptions about the relationship between intellectual culture and language
use, and ethnic identity. It is clear that Sophytos is using the Greek language to express his
claims to high status, filial piety and intellectual and cultural refinement, but what
significance, in this context, did his use of Greek have? Was there an alternative language
or cultural convention within which he could have chosen to make these statements? There
is evidence of the use of Aramaic and Pr#krit at Kandahar, in the A!okan Edicts, but this is
not sufficient to give us a detailed picture of the contexts within which each language was
used. On the Stele of Sophytos, it is interesting to note how notions of high socio-economic
status, Greek culture and perhaps even Greek burial go together, but we should hesitate to
prioritise these facets of the inscriptions overall presentation of Sophytos identity. Whether
Sophytos acquisition and projection of a Greek education made him Greek or whether he
ever considered that it did remains a matter for debate. The example of post-Renaissance
Europe shows that Greek (and Latin) learning might be something which individuals could
perceive strongly as the basis of their intellectual culture, and which they might use to display
their social status, without ever choosing to use it as a statement of their ethnic identity.6 To
return to an example chronologically and geographically somewhat closer to Sophytos, the
poet Meleager and novelist Iamblicus declared themselves Syrian through-and-through,
despite their ability to function in a Greek cultural sphere although Syrian may here be
employed in a largely geographical sense.7 At no point in his inscription does Sophytos ever
attach an ethnic to himself and we should be similarly hesitant to do so, concentrating
instead on the questions raised about the interplay between culture, language, status and
ethnicity at Hellenistic Kandahar.
If we cannot and should not make any judgement about whether Sophytos was
Greek or non-Greek, we also lack any firm evidence as to whether he was buried Greek.
His inscription mentions a family tomb which he has restored, and its position on a block
designed to be set into a wall invites us to imagine some kind of above-ground mausoleum.
There may have been other inscribed blocks set into the tomb, as argued by Rougemont on
the basis of the steles prominent title and the wide margin along its left-hand side,8 and the
inscription itself states that it stood by the roadside. This monument was a prominent one,
designed to be seen and to make a conspicuous statement about the status and identity of
its occupants, just like the inscription upon it. Parallels may be suggested with the
6 See e.g. Shanks (1996), 80, on nineteenth-century Romantic nationalism: A nationalism focused
upon monuments, history and other cultural phenomena was combined with an international concern
for the Classical Greek past stemming not from ethnic interest but from ideas of cultural descent.
7 Teixidor (1990), 70.
8 Bernard, Pinault and Rougemont (2004), 238.
171
Extramural Mausoleum at Ai Khanoum, 9 but, potentially useful and evocative as these are,
they must remain hypothetical.
As signalled in Bernards historical commentary, however, the inscription of Sophytos
most urgently demands to be considered alongside the archaeological evidence for funerary
practice at Kandahar itself. Old Kandahar is a site of great archaeological promise, but most
of this potential remains unrealised.10 The evidence for funerary practice is sparse and, for
the most part, of uncertain date. Two wreathed amphorae containing the remains of
calcinated bones from the Museum at Kandahar are, as Scerrato emphasises, divorced from
any knowledge of their archaeological context or the ethnic or social affiliation of their
owners.11 He dates one tentatively to the Sasanian period. A Pre-Islamic cemetery lay
under a later Muslim cemetery at Pir-i Sabz, by the side of the road towards Girishk and
Herat, but was the subject of only a brief exploration in 1958, which revealed a number of
pithoi and bronze bathtub-shaped basins. On the basis of ceramic evidence, Scerrato
(again, very tentatively) dates these to the secondfourth centuries AD.12 Archaeologically,
the funerary architecture of Hellenistic Kandahar therefore remains completely unknown.
Textual evidence for funerary practice in Arachosia remains subject to the cautions
outlined in Chapter 3 for Greek accounts of Central Asian exposure of the dead: texts written
by outsiders do not tell us what people did, but what others thought or said they did. We
should be clear about precisely what concerns and prejudices the authors were aiming to
project or reinforce. This can in itself be extremely valuable in giving us an idea of how
practices were perceived and rationalised, and how social and ethnic boundaries were
delineated even how religious orthodoxy came to be constructed but what it does not
give us is an accurate and detailed description of actual funerary practice.
Benvenistes discussion of the references in the Vid!vd"t to unorthodox funerary
practices in Arachosia highlights just how much caution is needed here. The passage he
discusses had generally been read as a condemnation of the practice of inhumation in
Arachosia, but Benveniste argues that it in fact refers to casting human remains onto the
earth (and thus contaminating it) rather than burying them in the earth.13 As discussed in
Chapter 3, the salient point to be made is that there was in fact no universal adherence to
any orthodox Zoroastrian practice of exposure in the Hellenistic period, and that this
orthodoxy can be an inaccurate and even unhelpful standard to apply, especially when it is
derived from later texts.
Alongside the great heuristic potential of cautious and comparative analysis of the
inscription of Sophytos, a few other, more positive conclusions to this discussion may be
made. The Stele of Sophytos provides us with a window onto the crossing and re-stating of
cultural and ethnic boundaries in Hellenistic Kandahar. An Indian name in a Greek
inscription, however open-minded we should remain about the individuals ethnic identity and
status, is still a remarkable occurrence, which allows us an insight into a process of ethnic
and linguistic change and variation in Hellenistic Arachosia of which we might otherwise
remain ignorant. That this evolved alongside a more formal system of ethnic categorisation
may perhaps be deduced from the pigama of 303, if its terms remained in force. Finally,
Sophytos statement of his restoration of his familys fortunes is explicitly couched in terms of
his restoration of their house and of their tomb. As argued in Chapter 3, a tomb is a visible
symbol in the landscape, one which could be used to project an individuals or a communitys
sense of its own identity, and its relationship to its local environment. Sophytos family tomb
was bound up with his ideas of personal and familial prestige, and was one of the key
vehicles through which he chose to make a statement of his own status and identity.
173
14 I retain the form of the name used in the inscription, despite its potentially confusing resemblance to
a Greek feminine, rather than transcribing it as Heliodoros. The heliodore!a of the inscription is a
masculine singular instrumental, to which the corresponding masculine singular nominative ending is
-a"/-a. Heliodora is what the inscription calls him, the form in which he is presented, so this is the
form which ought to be the starting point for any investigation into his identity. The difference is a
subtle one and may well, in the end, turn out to be of little major import - but it is as well to start the
discussion with as few assumptions as possible. The inscription of Sophytos (Section 5.2) here
provides a valid methodological parallel. It is argued that Sophytos is a rendering of the Indo-Aryan
name Subh#ti according to Greek script and phonology. Yet Sophytos is the guise in which he
presents himself, in a Greek inscription, and is the only name which we have any evidence of him
applying to himself. Similarly, Heliodora should be spared the implicit hellenisation of becoming
Heliodoros, even if the distinction, in this case, is little more than a syntactical one. Heliodoras father
Diya/Dion is perhaps a more pertinent example.
Latinising the name to Heliodorus (e.g. Narain (1957); Irwin (1975-76)) is a still less excusable
Western, Classical appropriation of the name and its owners identity however innocently this may
be intended. If a Greek individuals name is well-known in a Latinised form through occurrence in
Latin texts, there is some reason to retain this form: if no ancient text refers to the individual in
question in this way, then it is somewhat perverse to introduce a Latinised form into modern discourse.
15 Note, however, Burstein (1985), 72, no. 53, and (2003), 234.
174
The first report of the pillar, 7.14m (20ft 7in) 16 in height, in pinkish-brown sandstone,
with a bell-shaped capital, was published by Cunningham in 1880 (Figure 5.1).17 Octagonal
at the bottom, the shaft passes through gradations of sixteen and then thirty-two sides,
before becoming round at the top. There are two bands of decoration along the columns
shaft; traces of decoration are also preserved on the capital and its base.18 At the time of
Cunninghams inspection, the pillar was still very much an object of cult, visited by pilgrims
and with sacrifices made before it. The column-shaft had been smeared with a thick coating
of vermilion paint, which obscured the inscription. 19 Cunningham was unable to examine it
further, and reluctantly restricted himself to recording the report of local people that it was
uninscribed. Marshall (1909) was the first to record the presence of an inscription, which is
given an initial transcription and translation by Bloch in the same article. The first fuller
publications or commentaries are those of
Fleet (1909, 1910a and 1910b), Barnett
(1909), Venis (1910) and Vogel (1912). The
best published illustration of the inscription
remains the rubbing in Marshall (1909),
which is reproduced by Narain (1957) and
Salomon (1998).20
The inscription is to be dated to the
late second century BC.21 The inscribed
area of the main inscription, Besnagar A
(Figure 5.2), is c.56cm (1ft 10in) wide by
52cm (1ft 81/2in) high. A briefer inscription,
Besnagar B (Figure 5.3), appears on the
opposite side of the pillar. The height of the
Figure 5.2 Besnagar A
letters ranges from c.2.86cm (1 1/8in) to
4.76cm (1 7/8in).22 The script is Br#hm$ of
the %u$ga period, and the language is
central-western epigraphic Pr#krit, with
16Only the earliest publications contain measurements, in imperial units. Conversions to metric units
(and any miscalculations) are my own.
17 Cunningham (1880), 41-42. Figure 5.3 Besnagar B
18 Descriptions of the pillar: Cunningham (1880) (unreliable in places); Marshall (1909); Irwin
(1975-76); Theuns-de Boer (1999).
19Accounts of the pillar as an object of cult, and the continuity of this practice: Bhandarkar (1917),
187-188; Khare (1975-76), 177-178; Theuns-de Boer (1999).
20 Illustrations and photographs of the pillar: Bhandarkar (1917) and Vassiliades (2000). There are
inaccuracies in the drawings in Cunningham (1880): Irwin (1975-76), 166. Diagrams of the pillars
structure, and plans of the various excavations carried out at Besnagar: Irwin (1975-76).
21 Salomon (1998), 265-266.
22 Fleet (1909), 1087.
175
23 Barnett (1909).
24 Audouin and Bernard (1974), 16 n1.
25On the archaeology of Besnagar/Vidi!# see (concisely) Khare (1989); Chakrabarti (1995), 221-222;
and (full study of the wider region) Tripathi (2002). Summaries of the excavation history of the site
surrounding the pillar of Heliodora: Khare (1967), 21; Irwin (1975-76), 168-170.
26 Cunningham (1880), 41.
27 Bhandarkar (1917). Earlier explorations at the site, under Lake in 1910, revealed nothing
substantial.
28Nothing remained of the superstructure of the building; for a proposed reconstruction, see Khare
(1967), 26, fig. 1.
29 Khare (1967), 25.
30 Stratigraphy and phases: Khare (1967), 23-24.
31 Khare (1967), 23.
176
Salomon (1998),32 which I reproduce here. Salomons edition replaces the earliest
publications (references cited above), and also those of Narain33 and Sircar.34 I have not
included a full apparatus criticus. Variations in readings due to the worn surface of the
pillar, and the poorly-known historical context are mostly minor, and may be followed in the
references.35
Besnagar A
Besnagar A
1. [De]vadevasa V%[sude]vasa garu&adhvaje aya)
2. k%rite i[a] Heliodore!a bh%ga-
3. vatena Diyasa putre!a Takhkhasil%kena
4. Yona-dutena [%]gatena mah%r%jasa
5. A)talikitasa upa[)]t% sak%sa) rao
6. K%s(-pu[tra]sa [Bh]%gabhadrasa tr%t%rasa
7. vasena ca[tu]dase)na r%jena vadham%nasa
Besnagar B
1. trini amuta-pad%ni [ia] [su]-anu*hit%ni
2. neya)ti [svaga)] dama c%ga apram%da
A6: [Ko]sipu [tra]sa (Narain 1957); K%s(putrasa is to be preferred: Vogel (1912), 127.
177
Besnagar B
5.3.2Interpretative Commentary
A1 The religious content and associations of the inscription demand that we engage with
Indian religious terminology and practice (for which, at this period, there is often little
further evidence), and the question of the relations of Heliodora and the Indo-Greeks in
general with Indian religions. My discussion of the Indian religious side, in which I
cannot claim any great depth of knowledge or expertise, will be restricted to highlighting
points of interest and contention. Full discussion of Heliodoras ethnic, social and
religious identity, which must make reference to several passages in the inscription, as
well as to wider issues, I reserve for below.
43 Early Vai!!avism and its development: Jaiswal (1967). Epigraphic sources: Salomon (1998),
239-240. The coins of Agathokles from a hoard at Ai Khanoum (Audouin and Bernard (1974)) are also
an important early source. Chanda (1920) still contains stimulating comments on the Vai!!ava aspect
of the Besnagar inscriptions.
44 Jaiswal (1967), 32, 37-40.
45 Jaiswal (1967), 13, 28.
46 Jaiswal (1967), 71-72, 170-175; Irwin (1975-76), 168, 175.
47 Audouin and Bernard (1974), 17.
48 Jaiswal (1967), 28, 31.
49 Audouin and Bernard (1974), 30-31.
180
contrast with the case in third-century Bactria, where the existence of a complicated
religious reality (as, for example, in the temples of Ai Khanoum) contrasts with an
official, civic identity, on coins and in public inscriptions, which is entirely Greek.
The Greek equivalents of these names (Hlidvrow and Dvn) were recognised in the
first publications of the inscription.54 Besides being designated a yona (see A4),
Heliodora retains his Greek name, albeit with modified syntax. In noting that Sophytos
does not bear a Greek name in his inscription from Kandahar, we should also note that
Heliodora does not bear an Indian one. We may remark on the use of Indian names by
individuals described as yonas or yavanas in later dedicatory inscriptions at Buddhist
sites in western India. The origin and ethnic identity of these individuals is, however,
unclear: the terms may here be used to indicate generic westerners, or possibly even
Indians involved in the sea trade with the West.55
The principal publication of the archaeological material from the city of Taxila (Sanskrit
Tak,a-il%, Pr#krit Takhkhasil#) is Marshall (1951), with a briefer guide in Marshall
(1960). This important north-western city had a long history of habitation, on several
separate sites in the same vicinity. The second major city at Taxila, Sirkap, was
founded by the Indo-Greeks in the second century BC. See further A1, [de]vadevasa v[%]
[*sude]vasa V#sudeva, the god of gods, and A4-A5 mah%r%jasa a'talikitasa the
Great King A'talikita.
Here, at last, is the ethnic indicator we lack for the inscription of Sophytos. Heliodora is
a yona, a term, as noted above, with a spectrum of implications in Indo-Aryan
54 For other examples of Greek names in Indian inscriptions, besides those of Indo-Greek kings on
coin legends, see Karttunen (1994), and (1997b), 296-297, 308-309; Seldeslachts (2004), passim.
Some of those previously identified are, as Karttunen and Seldeslachts both note, more probably not
to be considered as Greek at all. The identification of the name of the Indo-Greek king Menander in
an inscription from Reh (G. R. Sharma (1980)) is a case in point: Fussman (1993b), 117ff.
55 Karttunen (1994), 331-332.
182
languages, but which may be translated here as Greek. 56 The use of this term to
describe Heliodora contributes to a number of debates treated in previous chapters,
and raises new questions of its own, full consideration of which I reserve for Sections
5.3.3 and 5.3.4, below. A yona is what an Indian would have called a Greek, not what a
Greek might be expected to have called himself. The question of the inscriptions
authorship is therefore key in deciding what this tells us about how Heliodora regarded
himself, and how others regarded him.
Comment on this occurrence of yona- has tended to overshadow the interest of
the second part of the compound, -"#$%. "#$% has the sense of envoy, messenger,
ambassador, negotiator, probably from the root (du to go,57 and is the normal word
used for an ambassador in Sanskrit and Middle Indo-Aryan. Greek ambassadors to
Indian courts are known in the persons of Megasthenes, Daimachos/Deimachos and
Dionysios, but these are early Hellenistic envoys from western kings. 58 Heliodora is a
representative of a closer, more immediate form of diplomacy, between an Indo-Greek
king and an Indian neighbour. The Indo-Greek kings political relations, as we might
have assumed even without the evidence of the inscription of Heliodora, extended
beyond the orbit of their evidently complicated interactions with one another. What this
diplomacy consisted of is, in this particular case, unknown. Narain suggests that the
context of the embassy of Heliodora may be Antialkidas (see A4-A5) loss of a
considerable portion of his kingdom to Apollodotos; Antialkidas would have been in
need of an ally. But again, Narain concedes, we are left guessing as to what
happened as the result of this alliance, if it had any political significance.59 Marshall
proposes that Antialcidas was seeking to make common cause with the .u&ga king
[Bh#gabhadra] against their mutual rival Strato I, whose dominions in the Eastern
Panj#b lay wedged in between their own.60 The uncertainties of Indo-Greek
chronology and geography, much-debated and founded almost entirely on numismatic
evidence, are such that the precise details of the political situation must remain elusive.
Heliodoras (self?-)representation has further implications in the context of such
an embassy. The duration of his mission to the court of Bh#gabhadra is unknown, but
we might argue that his dedication to a local cult suggests long-term residence, or at
least some ostentatious demonstration of local commitment. Whatever his role as an
56The word for Greek in a number of Semitic and Indo-Aryan languages derives from Ionian:
Persian yaun" (Sancisi-Weerdenburg (2001)), Hebrew yavan, Egyptian Demotic wynn, Sanskrit
yavana and P#li/Pr#krit yona.
57 See entries in Monier-Williams A Sanskrit-English Dictionary (second edition, Oxford: Oxford
University Press 1899) or online at the Cologne Digital Sanskrit Lexicon, http://webapps.uni-koeln.de/
tamil/.
58 Karttunen (1997b), 69-94, mostly on Megasthenes.
59 Narain (1957), 157.
60 Marshall (1960), 21-22.
183
61Domestic politics in the kingdom of Antialkidas may also have had an impact in this decision, as
argued by Marshall (1960), 22: No doubt it was part of the political propaganda of Antialcidas for his
ambassador to proclaim himself a follower of Vish!u (Bh#gavata) and set up a pillar in honour of that
deity; and indeed it is quite possible that in the Panj#b itself Antialcidas was playing up to the
Br#hmanical faction and making such use of it as he could to undermine the power of the
Euthydemids east of the Jhelum.
62 Harmattas (1994), 407, insistence on Heliodoras good knowledge of Br#hm$ script and Prakrit
language appears to me to conflate two separate issues: the evidence of the inscription (which we
may hardly suppose Heliodora to have carved himself, even if he did compose it), and the supposition
that, in his role as ambassador, he will have needed some degree of ability in the local Middle Indo-
Aryan language. The latter is a reasonably safe assumption, but is not to be deduced from the former.
63 Bernard and Audouin (1974), 37 n4.
184
Antialkidas I (reigned c.115-95 BC) is known only from numismatic evidence; the
uncertainty of the identification and date of Bh#gabhadra (see further below) does not
permit us to use the inscription of Heliodora to furnish more precise information on the
dates of his reign.65 At the time of Heliodoras mission, Taxila evidently belonged to his
kingdom, the territorial extent of which seems to have varied but which was located in
the North-West around Gandh#ra and the Panj#b (see Map 4). As discussed in
Chapter 1, interpretations of the numismatic and scarce literary and epigraphic
evidence for the Indo-Greek kings vary widely, and can be prone to circular reasoning.
The assessment of Seldeslachts (following on from the work of Guillaume (1990) and
(1991)) is the most blunt but realistic: the chronology and history of the Graeco-
Bactrians and Indo-Greeks is still utterly confused. The reconstructions by different
authors diverge widely and are mutually incompatible to such an extent that it looks as
if they relate to different historical events. Of some forty two Graeco-Bactrian and Indo-
Greek kings known, only eight are found in ancient texts and inscriptions, the others
only in coin legends, so that historical reconstructions for the most part depend on the
largely subjective interpretation of numismatic evidence.66
My discussion of the numismatic evidence here is, of necessity, a brief one.67 I
have principally consulted Bopearachchis catalogues of the collections of the Cabinet
64 Foucher (1947), 314, highlights the potential of individuals of mixed descent, familiar with Indian
languages and customs, to act as intermediaries between Greeks and Indians. His contrast with
Yavanas de race pure is, however, a somewhat artificial one: the example of Menander is given, but
this king is known as Milinda, a patron of Buddhism, in a P#li Buddhist text, the Milindapaha: Rhys
Davids (1890).
65On Antialkidas date, territory and relations with other Indo-Greek kings, see e.g. Tarn (1951), 313ff;
Narain (1957), 156ff.
66 Seldeslachts (2004), 249-250.
67A concise and well-referenced introduction to Graeco-Bactrian and Indo-Greek numismatics may be
found in Karttunen (1997b), 299ff, as well as Holts (1999b) study on the Diodotids and their coinage.
Guillaume (1990) provides an in-depth critique of the processes of scholarly reasoning and
categorisation involved in the study of these coins.
185
des Mdailles, Paris (1991a), and of the Smithsonian Institution, Washington D.C.
(1993), and the online databases of the Sylloge Nummorum Graecorum and the
American Numismatic Society.68
The coins of Antialkidas share monograms (here used to denote mints) with those
of a number of other Indo-Greek kings, placing them in around the same geographical
area.69 An especially close relationship may be posited with Lysias; the coinage of the
two kings displays the same monograms, and some examples exist of hybrid coins,
struck with opposite dies of each king. Whether or not Antialkidas and Lysias reigned
simultaneously, they were certainly using the same mints.70
A new reverse type appears on the coins of Antialkidas, which served as a
prototype for that of a number of his successors: Zeus enthroned with a sceptre in his
left hand and a winged Nike on his right palm, accompanied by the forepart of an
elephant.71 Antialkidas coins display bilingual legends, BASILE!S NIKHFOROU
appears as the equivalent term on the coins of other Indo-Greek kings. The
a)tialikidasa of the coin legends differs from the a'talikitasa of the inscription of
Heliodora (both are in the genitive case). Evidently, there was no standardised
transcription of the name current in an Indian script; note, however, that this
inconsistency in transcription was not restricted to foreign names at Besnagar, if we are
to identify Bh#gabhadra of the Heliodora pillar and the king named Bh#gavata of
another pillar inscription from the area as one and the same king (see A5-A6, below).73
Figure 5.5 Bilingual
Tetradrachm of
Antialkidas
68 http://www-cm.fitzmuseum.cam.ac.uk/coins/sng/sng_search.html; http://www.amnumsoc.org/search/.
69 See Bopearachchi (1993), 41, for the use of monograms and overstrikes to establish the
succession of Strato I, Lysias, Heliokles II and Antialkidas.
70 Bopearachchi (1991a), 280, (1993), 43.
71 Bopearachchi (1993), 41.
72 See e.g. Bopearachchi (1991a), 273-279, and (1993), 81-82, Plates 10-11 (Nos 147-157).
73For other Indian transcriptions of Greek names on coin legends, see Karttunen (1997b), 306-307;
on the often highly-dubious identifications of Greek names in Indian texts, see Seldeslachts (2004).
On Greek and Indian religious imagery on the coins of Indo-Greek kings, see A1, above, and
Karttunen (1997b), 309ff.
186
King Bh#gabhadras identity and status are a matter of debate. 74 He has been
identified with the ninth king of the .u&ga dynasty, Bh#ga/Bh#gavata, or with the fifth,
Odraka/Andhraka/Bhadraka. The evidence or lack of evidence however, appears
to be in favour of him being a local ruler. Material from the excavations at Sonkh
suggests that .u&ga rule did not extend beyond 120 at Vidi!#.75 A second pillar from
Besnagar bears an inscription dated in the twelfth year of one King Bh#gavata,
possibly the same king;76 as in the case of Antialkidas, above, Indian names might be
subject to variant spellings. The additional name or title K%s(putra [=K%-(putra] is most
likely a metronymic, meaning son of the lady from K#!$ (modern Benares/V%r%!as().77
The occurrence of the title tr%t%ra (Sanskrit tr%t+) saviour is curious. It is used to
translate the Hellenistic title Svtr on the coin legends of several Indo-Greek kings.78
Narain notes that this is an unusual epithet to be adopted by an Indian king, and must
have been given to him by Heliodorus, in the inscription which was engraved at his
instance. But we do not know why he chose the epithet Tr#t#ra, which means the
Saviour, for Bh#gabhadra, especially when this title was not adopted either by
Antialcidas or his immediate predecessors.79 Sircar gives the use of the title a similar
origin: This word which is a translation of Greek Soteros and found on the coins of the
Indo-Greek kings shows that a Greek (possibly Heliodorus himself) was responsible for
the draft of the record.80 We need not, however, pace Narain and Sircar, assume that
the title was given to Bh#gabhadra by Heliodora: the king may, for whatever reasons,
have adopted it himself. Either alternative raises some interesting questions. Does the
use of the title tr%t%ra, for example, suggest some fondness on the part of an Indian king
for Hellenistic-style royal titles, or even philhellenism? Was it simply a name to him, or
an honour to be earned or bestowed, as was the case at least in the early Hellenistic
West? Was it the habit of Indo-Greek kings to bestow such titles on their allies, and
74 For a full discussion, with references, see Narain (1957), 157; Narain accepts the identification with
the ninth %u&ga king. Note that Fleet (1909), corrected by Venis (1910), identifies an additional Indian
ruler, based on a misreading of the inscription.
75 Irwin (1975-76), 168, based on Hrtels then unpublished excavations; see now Hrtel (1993), 86.
76 Bhandarkar (1917), 190; Narain (1957), 157.
77 Fleet (1910a), 142, and (1910b), 127; Venis (1910), 814; Narain (1957), 171, n148.
78For a list of the titles used on coin legends by Indo-Greeks kings, and their Pr#krit translations, see
Karttunen (1997b), 304-305.
79 Narain (1957), 158.
80 Sircar (1965b), 89, n2. Sircar (1966), 343, gives tr%t%ra as a royal title of foreign origin.
187
what prestige, if any, would an Indian king have accorded it? The use of the title by
some of the Indo-Scythian and Kushan kings who succeeded the Indo-Greeks in the
North-West suggests that, in this later period, it had become something of a fossilised
royal title, to be repeated in much the same way as they adhered to aspects of the form
and style of their predecessors coinage, including the use of the Greek language on
legends. In the period of the Besnagar inscription of Heliodora, in a region outside the
sphere of Indo-Greek rule, the political and cultural implications of the use of the title
are best left open.81
In the absence of any firmer chronological anchor, this regnal date of Bh#gabhadra
cannot be used to date the inscription, although it does give us a minimum length for
his reign.
The second inscription on the pillar of Heliodora is on the side facing the platform
which, at the period of the pillars erection, bore the cult temple. The tone of the
inscription is ethical rather than political, facing inwards towards the sanctuary rather
than outwards for more public or political display.82
In Besnagar B, some have seen a reference to or influence from the great
Sanskrit epic the Mah"bh"rata.83 There is no direct quotation here, but there are
similarities to several passages from the Mah"bh"rata, and the general tenor of the
precepts recorded is familiar from Indian texts.84 Heliodora, as discussed above,
appears to have been au fait with aspects of Indian religion and thought, and this
should not surprise. In the inscription of Sophytos from Kandahar, Rougemont has
similarly seen an indirect reference to a line from the Odyssey, a Homeric touch not
unusual in the literary tradition of Greek epitaphs within which the inscription of
81 See Sircar (1965a), 331, on the use of titles of foreign origin such as tr%t%ra; 330-351, on Indian
royal titles and epithets in general, and on r%jan vs mah%r%ja, the use of the latter on coin legends being
an innovation of the Indo-Greeks.
82 Audouin and Bernard (1974), 16 n1.
83 Venis (1910), 1093; Raychaudhuri (1922). Bhattacharya (1932) quotes further passages from the
Mah"bh"rata in support of this theory; little commentary is provided, nor is the original Sanskrit
transliterated or translated.
84 Similar expression have also been cited from the Dhammapada: Salomon (1998), 267, for
references.
188
Sophytos is cast.85 The loose correspondence (Sophytos 11: fi"n efiw stea poll;
Odyssey 1.3: polln d'nyr$pvn den stea ka non gnv) seems to me to make
this an allusion which a Greek reader might find evocative, rather than any intentional
quotation. The theme of allusion to the Mah"bh"rata and Odyssey, however, even if
we may challenge the directness of the references, introduces other aspects of cultural
transmission, education and ethnicity which the inscriptions invite us to consider.
Opinions vary as to the implications of Heliodoras (possible) reference to the
Mah"bh"rata. Raychaudhuri contends that it is not unreasonable to think that
Heliodoros of Taxila actually heard and utilized the teaching of the Great Epic.
Evidently the Mah"bh"rata played an important part in the Hinduisation of the foreign
settlers of the Indian border-land. 86 Tarn, on the other hand, notes that, even if
Besnagar B does represent an indirect quotation from the Mah"bh"rata, this is not
conclusive evidence for Heliodoras personal acquaintance with the epic, as the
inscription may well have been composed by a local Indian scribe rather than the
yonad#ta himself.87
It is impossible to know if Heliodora was consciously referencing the
Mah"bh"rata, perhaps in the same way as it is difficult to know if someone who says
Its all Greek to me does so with the conscious intention of (mis)quoting
Shakespeare.88 The reference is there, as part of a wider network of cultural and
literary associations, but the value of the use of the phrase lies in its content and
familiarity, its source, if known, being secondary. We might draw a contrast with the
inscription from the Temenos of Kineas at Ai Khanoum, where the Greek text places
considerable emphasis on the source and process of transmission of the text of the
Delphic maxims, noting that Klearchos copied the precepts pifradvw. The
Mah"bh"rata reference in Besnagar B does not, I would argue, belong to a textual
tradition or scheme of reference and quotation. Similar expressions, as noted above,
occur elsewhere. What this phrase does, in fact, invite us to consider is the role of oral
tradition in the reinforcement and transmission of culture. This may be related to the
oral transmission and performance of epic verse a tradition in both Greece and
India89 but also occurs on a less formal level, in the phrases and proverbial
expressions which people repeat in everyday speech as familiar reference points and
reinforcers of shared background or cultural values. A certain degree of misquotation,
or flexibility, is inherent in such activity, and is generally irrelevant to the value of the
exercise, which is to repeat something familiar to both speaker and listener, perhaps
considered to state some deep cultural or social truth. In religious terms and the
position of Besnagar B on a pillar dedicated at a cult site means that we must consider
it in these terms much the same inter-relation of textual and oral culture may occur.
There is text, there is conscious, direct quotation, and there is the more flexible,
socially-reinforcing repetition of shared religious values. An analogy, if not a direct one,
which springs to mind is the continued use or familiarity of phrases from the King
James Version of the Bible in the present-day United Kingdom, despite the existence of
more modern translations, and a general decline in church-going.
The recognition of passages from the Mah"bh"rata and the Odyssey in the
inscriptions of Heliodora and Sophytos respectively is also interesting from the point of
view of how modern scholarship works someone who has had to read, translate and
comment upon long passages from an epic for an examination will be attuned to notice
quotation from or reference to it elsewhere and of how scholars imagine culture was
transmitted. The image of Greeks poring over their Mah"bh"rata or Indians over their
Homer, as a means of education or cultural induction, has a certain modern resonance.
The idea of culture being borne in literature, often in particular key texts (or set texts),
may also demonstrate the process of prioritisation in the transmission of the cultural
indicia which go to make up an individuals ethnic identity. Dio Chrysostom relates how,
on a visit to Olbia, he met a young Greek man who dressed like a Scythian but knew
his Homer, although not more recent Greek authors such as Plato.90 Cultural
transmission, and with this the construction of an ethnic identity, is a process of
selection, and the attributes retained are often telling.
89 For a contemporary cross-cultural comparison, see Dio Chrystostom 53.6ff, and Aelian 12.48 on
Indians reading Homer - a possible reference to Indian epics, although note the suggestion of
Karttunen (1997b), 285, that this may refer to the Indo-Greeks, not native Indians. That the
easternmost Greeks and their (artistic) descendents knew the story of the Trojan Horse may be seen
from the occurrence of two scenes in Gandh#ran reliefs: Allan (1946); Khan (1990). Note also the
ideas on literary culture as a vehicle of civilisation implicit in Plutarchs (De Alexandri Magni Fortuna
aut Virtute I 328C329D) assertion that Alexander taught the Gedrosians the tragedies of Sophocles
and Euripides.
90 Dio Chrysostom 36.11; Skydsgaard (1993), 124-125.
190
How we should refer to Heliodora is a question which provokes varying degrees of scholarly
angst. Most often, he is a Greek, with disquisitions on his cultural and religious identity
reserved for a longer discussion. He has also been represented as a foreign convert [to
Vai,!avism] 91 and a half-Indianized Greek. 92 The more doubts an author has about his
ethnic and cultural identity, the greater the number of brackets and subordinate clauses that
are introduced. The definitive Hellenistic-style designation of Heliodora is that of Karttunen,
who refers to him as a Greek (or at least someone using a Greek name even in an Indian
inscription):93 this is precisely the level of doubt over the ethnic implications of nomenclature
that the study of the evidence from other areas of the Hellenistic world should condition in us.
What we make of the ethnic identity and self-presentation of Heliodora is of critical
importance for what we judge to have been the range of identities experienced and openly
articulated by his epigraphically-unattested compatriots.
Ethnic identity is inherently fluid, and gains its force through articulation. What matters,
therefore, is what Heliodora thought he was, and what he was able to get away with
presenting himself as to the world with some degree of confidence. We might note that, like
Sophytos with his citation of Apollo and the Muses, Heliodora presents himself with reference
to Indian cultural and religious reference points. His cultural identity, as presented in the
inscription, is entirely Indian, with nothing Greek except his name and patronymic and the
name of his king. The significant difference from the inscription of Sophytos, however, is that
the Besnagar inscription does include some kind of ethnic indicator: Heliodora is a yonad#ta,
a Greek ambassador. (The usage and flexibility of the term yona/yavana and the position of
foreigners in contemporary Indian social structures will be discussed in greater depth below.)
In considering the implications of the use of this term, the question of authorship is key: is
Heliodora referring to himself as a yona, or is this simply how he was perceived and
designated by local peoples, with no reference to his own choice of identity? Unfortunately,
the inscription of Heliodora lacks the more personal tone and indications of personal
authorship of the inscription of Sophytos. But by the very commissioning of this monument
Heliodora is making a statement about his position and identity: the pillar is dedicated by him,
and his is the name of the dedicator which appears in the instrumental case.
In Greek, if he used it, Heliodoros might have called himself a Ellhn, a word which
never occurs in an Indian language assuming, of course, that he did not claim any more
regional Greek identity. In using the term yona, he is fitting himself to a local perception of
what he is, restricted by the repertoire of linguistic and cultural vocabulary available to him in
an Indian language. As was the case with the inscription of Sophytos, we might ask what
other choice he had. This was not simply a matter of vocabulary. The use of written
language, inscribed in stone, adds an automatic degree of formality, and when people
present their identity in a public context they will, for all sorts of social or political reasons, be
careful in selecting where they set the boundaries of that identity, and which elements of their
cultural background they wish to present. A Pr#krit dedication to V#sudeva would have been
neither the time nor the place for Heliodora to go off on a personal epigraphic tangent about
how his father was Greek, his mother Iranian, but his nurse spoke to him in G#ndh#r$ - or
any of the (I would suspect, more subtle and complicated) alternative permutations his
Greek cultural background may have undergone in order for him to arrive at his present
identity. There might well have been no appropriate time or place for such introspection or
conscious self-examination within the framework of either Greek or Indian modes of public
presentation. Whether the dedicator of the Besnagar pillar inscription thought of himself as a
yona or a Ellhn, as Hlidvrow or Heliodora is, ultimately, a question which we cannot
answer. Either yona or Ellhn would have been a rationalisation, a simplification of his
doubtless more complex personal identity into one which allowed him to be a member of a
distinct ethnic group, recognisable by other members of that group, and by outsiders.
We may, of course, perceive a contradiction between Heliodoras representation as a
yona and what he is actually doing in the inscription and the dedication of the pillar, actions
cast in a local Indian cultural mould. What a yona was in practice, from an Indians
perception, may already have been something which required rationalisation and
incorporation within the frameworks of their own socio-cultural systems. This process,
examined in the following section, will inevitably have been subject to individual variation,
and it was two-way: how yonas acted and presented themselves, and how Indian society
reacted to their presence and identity.94 It is therefore significant that Heliodora presents
himself in Indian terms in two different ways: in terms of culture and religion (as a bh%gavata)
but also in terms of how Indian society would have classified him (as a yona). Did Indian
language and religion, in the perception of local observers, serve to make him any less
Greek?
Heliodoras pillar inscription from Besnagar is a uniquely valuable piece of evidence for
Indo-Greek ethnic identity and (non-royal) self-presentation. In the absence of any Greek
public inscription from further south of the Hindu Kush than Kandahar, however, it lacks a
crucial element of official, Greek context, which may be only partially reconstructed from
evidence such as coin legends. The medium for this presentation a highly-visible pillar
(over 7 metres tall), at a prominent local cult site says much about the practical constraints
which might be placed on such expression, as well as the scope an Indo-Greek had for
encounter with, and adoption of, Indian religion and culture. Indo-Greek ethnic boundaries
remain indistinct, but offer us an invaluable insight into the social and political conditions
which acted upon the formulation and articulation of identities.
95 See Bayly (1999), 1ff, for an introduction to the problems of dealing with caste and its academic
literature.
96 Fussman (1996), 243 n1: We may assume, as in almost every society, Indian society at that time
[before the Muslim invasions] was made up of a number of groups. But we do not know whether
these groups were knitted into a fixed and hierarchized social frame bearing some resemblance to the
modern Hindu j"ti system or whether there was only one system of ranking, incorporating the many
groups of followers of Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Iranian religions into one and the same
scheme. If we can judge from some stray inscriptions, social groups of foreign origin, especially the
ruling clans, kept to quite unshastric family systems and rights of inheritanceThis scanty data is
enough to show that around the Common Era, Indian society was still far from functioning like the
ideal Hindu society depicted in the probably much later dharma$"stras; cf Bayly (1999), 25, on
change and development in the caste system.
97 e.g. Mandelbaum (1970), 323 and passim.
98 Deciding what does and does not constitute a caste system, even within South Asia, is itself a
complicated business: see e.g. Barth (1960), with critique by Dumont (1980), 209; a more flexible
approach is taken by Fussman (1977). For the problems of using ethnicity as an explanatory
framework for groups in modern South Asia, see Banton (1998).
99 /< V("% 10.90.12.
194
precisely, and the relationships which they may have with members of other +,$4=.100 A useful,
if simplistic, distinction is that of Geertzs model of/model for contrast, with 1%23% as a
theoretical model for Indian society, and +,$4 as a more realistic model of.101
Although there have been attempts to recognise var!a in the archaeological record,102
our evidence is for the most part literary. Greek writers such as Megasthenes recognised
that India had a rigidly-stratified social system in which endogamous groups occupied a
particular economic niche.103 In Indian texts, the information available for studying caste and
the reception of foreign groups, is diverse and open to considerable interpretation.104 Two of
the principal sources are the M%navadharma:%stra or Manusm+ti (Laws of Manu) and
Kau*ilyas Artha-%stra. Each can be dated only broadly, and is likely to represent the product
of more than one authorial or editorial hand.105 Both display a certain flexibility behind their
theoretical prescriptions on var!a and j%ti, especially in implementing strategies for coping
with incoming groups within the existing system.106 This, implicitly, gives us some
information on the social reality with which the system was confronted: pre-colonial kings
and their subjects did not treat caste norms as one-dimensional absolutes, but as reference
points to be negotiated, challenged or reshaped to fit changing circumstances.107
High-status foreign immigrants or invaders had to be accommodated in some way
within the norms of var!a and j%ti. The foreigner (Sanskrit mleccha; Pr#krit milakkha108) was
set clearly outside the pale of brahmanical society.109 Contact with mlecchas, or even travel
among them, was considered tainting not just by br%hma!as, but even by non-brahmanical
sects such as the Jains. Given the emphasis placed by br%hma!as on the accurate oral
transmission of sacred texts and their correct use in rituals, the non-Sanskritic speech of
mlecchas was a particular problem.110 The very term mleccha first occurs in the
.%$%>%?%52,67%3% 111 defined by speech, and the Vasi!*ha Dharmas#tra warns against learning
a mleccha language (@,=,).112 In Buddhist texts, too, mlecchas are noted for their incorrect
speech and deviation from the standard (in this case, M#gadh$ Pr#krit). The
SammohavinodanA states that:
[] the rest of the eighteen tongues beginning with the O*ta, the Kir#ta, the Andhaka,
the Greek and the Tamil, change; only this M#gadha tongue correctly called the perfect
(brahma) usage, the noble usage, does not change. 113
The Greek language is here included alongside mleccha languages. Other texts are more
explicit in giving the Greeks mleccha status, although it should be noted that the Sanskrit
yavana and Pr#krit yona or yonaka cannot, especially in later periods, always be assumed to
indicate Greeks in particular rather than westerners in general. In the Manorathap#ran(, the
yavana language is classed with Tamil and Kir#ta as a milakkha bh%s%. 114 Furthermore,
Greeks are noted for their non-adherence to the caste system, at least in any standard form.
In a remarkable passage in the Majjhima Nik%ya, the Buddha asks: Have you heard that in
Yona and Kamboja and other adjacent districts there are only two castes, the master and the
slave? 115 Greeks are regularly listed alongside other peoples of the North-West, such as
Kambojas and Scythians.116 In a neat reversal of the usual Classical perspective, they are a
group on the geographical fringes of the civilised Indian world: the foreigner, the mleccha, the
outsider who does not subscribe to the established norms of Indian society is not simply
117 Parasher (1991), 222-223. Barbarous is an apposite term in more ways than one, and illustrative
of the paradox of Graeco-Indian relations: two societies which were each, by the others criteria, to
some extent strange and uncivilised. That the Sanskrit barbara (barbarian, stammering, fool) is
cognate with the Greek brbarow seems beyond doubt, not only because of its phonological
similarity, but also because of its range of meanings, which take in notions both of barbarity and of
incorrect or uncouth speech. It is probably onomatopoeic in origin, mimicking the apparent babbling of
a foreign language. Whether it is a loanword, or reflects some common Indo-European inheritance, it
draws another striking parallel between Greek and Indian attitudes towards outsiders who did not
speak their language. Thapar (1971), 420, suggests that although Megasthenes does not describe
the Indians as barbarians, the Indian undoubtedly regarded him as a mleccha. They may even have
regarded him or, indeed, Heliodora - as a barbara. An interesting analogy occurs in several places in
2 Maccabees, where the Jewish author refers to Greeks (in Greek) as brbaroi: Gruen (2001),
348-349. The term may also occur in Central Asia, with reference to Greek settlements. See Bernard,
A Khanoum la barbare, in Bernard and Francfort (1978), 22: auraient-elles [local populations]
emprunt aux Grecs ce vocable dprciatif pour le retourner contre eux? Cet change de mauvais
procds est un peu trop joli pour tre vrai. Je crois plutt que les autochthones ont trouv dans leur
propre langue le mot quil leur fallait.
118 Parasher (1991), 86.
119 Naskar (1996), 125-126.
120 Singh (1991), 179.
121 Parasher (1991), 32, 124
122 Gombrich (1988), 50.
197
heterodox sects, such as Buddhism and Jainism.123 Cities may also have provided a more
conducive environment to the integration of foreigners.
The best scholarly analysis of this social flexibility and the literary explanations or
justifications of it is provided by Parasher (1991):
throughout this early period we find conscious attempts made by the dominant groups
to explain the existence of outsiders in Indian society with the help of origin myths etc.
These rationalizations within the indigenous perception, we argue, were well-formulated
strategies that allowed for absorption of extraneous elements but were determined
largely by the political and economic exigencies of the time.124
Parasher argues that political expediency was one of the key factors in determining the
cultural acceptance or rejection of mleccha groups. Mlecchas could be useful as military or
political allies, and brahmanical pronouncements on their low ritual status and the
inadvisability of contact with them were not going to stop this. In the early centuries AD,
however, there is still a great deal of literary emphasis on the threat of mlecchas and their way
of life to the maintenance of dharma and of var!a society, which demonstrates that political
expediency was not sufficient to lead to their complete acceptance. The Yuga Pur%!a dwells
at some length on the chaos arising from yavana and Saka invasions and the consequent
mixture of castes.125 The solution was to develop a good excuse for making established
immigrant communities no longer mlecchas, while maintaining the division with outside groups
which stayed further beyond the geographical scope of Indian society:
The 52,67%3%= were clearly aware of the rule of foreign dynasties but chose to ignore
them and sometimes their mleccha origins as it suited them. Political expediency may
have been one of the reasons for this, as court 52,67%3%= could not have maintained
their position without royal support. But when the foreign rulers adopted brahmanic
ways the question of dubbing them as mlecchas could not arise as then their behaviour
could not be considered uncivilized.126
It is partly for this reason that we find an apparent vagueness, or perhaps, a structured
flexibility 127 in the identification and nomenclature of foreign groups in Sanskrit texts: an
element of semantic elision was doubtless convenient. Within India itself, there was some
unease about those groups which had made the transition from mleccha to members of
Indian society. The memory of their non-Indian, non-var!a origins persisted, and stories
arose or were constructed to account for their current status.128
One popular option, was to designate an ambiguous group a mixed caste, or a group
of higher status which had been degraded by its negligence of ritual, or intermarriage with
other var!as. This became a favoured way of rationalising any number of groups, with
increasingly complicated morganatic permutations. The yavanas, as a militarily-powerful
ruling group, were considered 89%$24-%=.129 The yavanas were, however, 89%$24-%= with
complications, degraded 89%$24-%=, because of their known foreign origin. Manu includes
them in his list of castes which had sunk from 89%$24-% to :;"2% status by failing to perform the
rituals or to seek audiences with priests.130 Medh!tithis Bh!"ya131 (a commentary on Manu)
has a slightly different reason for this decline in ritual status: it has happened because the
groups in question inhabited border regions, in which there was no clear var!a division a
fitting point at which to recall the Majjhima Nik!yas statement that the Greeks have only two
var!as. Similar theories occur elsewhere, including the idea that the Greeks were the product
of the marriage of 89%$24-%= with lower groups.132
Although, as mentioned above, there were brahmanical prohibitions against travel in
foreign countries and contact with 7'()*% groups, this did not stop kings from campaigning
abroad. In addition, the duty of a king may have been to maintain var!a and the brahmanical
order, but he also had an obligation to respect and accept the validity of local customs.133
This can be observed in practice in the A!okan Edicts, which promote respect for Buddhist
monks and 52,67%3%=, but also explicitly state that all sects are not only to be tolerated, but
accorded respect.134 The Edicts were tailored to specific groups within the empire. The
Greek version, for example, uses current Greek philosophical terms to reinterpret rather than
simply translate the Buddhist terminology of the original. 135
For the most part, therefore, foreign groups whose political power demanded their
128 On this process, see Thapar (1974), who (usefully) treats the rationalisation of dynasties of low
origin and those of foreign origin as essentially the same phenomenon. Mythical origins for the
Yavanas are given in: Mah%bh%rata 1.165.30-38, 1.80.23-24; R%m%ya!a 1.55.15-20; M%tsya Pur%!a
34.29-30.
129The common sense of treating politically powerful groups as 89%$24-%=: Gombrich (1988), 50;
medieval dynasties of low social origin being accorded 89%$24-% status after seizing power:
Mandelbaum (1970), 435; the legendary non-89%$24-% origin of the Nanda dynasty: Mandelbaum
(1970), 454.
130 Manu 10.43.
131 10.44.
132 Hariva)-a 10.41-45; Gautama Dharmas#tra 4.21.
133 Parasher (1991), 128-131.
134 MREs 7 and 12: trans. Thapar (1997), 253, 255.
135 Schlumberger (1964).
199
example of the need to formalise the position of Greeks in an Indian socio-political context
and, crucially, recognition by Greeks that this was necessary.142
142 See Bernard (1985), 92, n5; Karttunen (1997b), 262-263, for discussion of the role of caste.
201
An appropriate conclusion to the case studies of Sophytos and Heliodora might be to extract
a few key threads from the arguments presented on each inscription, and draw them
together into a reconstruction of the spectrum of ethnic identities present in the Graeco-
Bactrian and Indo-Greek states. This, however, would be synthetic in more ways than one.
As reinforced constantly throughout the present study, the evidence from the Hellenistic Far
East does not permit us to draw up a comprehensive or representative picture of anything,
and any such conclusions risk weakening themselves by the weight of qualifications which
they would be forced to bear. Where the value of the exercise lies, however, is in leading us
to question the interpretative strategies which we employ in the face of sparse and diverse
evidence, and in contributing towards wider discussions of the ways in which ethnic identity
operated in the Hellenistic world. The summing-up for the case that Sophytos and Heliodora
were individuals operating in an ethnically-charged environment will therefore focus on the
wider Hellenistic context and implications of these two inscriptions, and the particular
circumstances to which each man was responding in his self-representation.
By way of widening the scope and simultaneously refining the basic issues, I shall at
this point introduce a third inscription into the discussion. My original intention in so doing
had been to highlight an example of intersecting Greek and Indian ethnicities from further
west in the Hellenistic world, a case study where the Egyptian evidence to which I have
occasionally made recourse for heuristic purposes might develop a more direct applicability.
During the course of collating the relevant bibliography, however, it became apparent that an
ethnic reading of this particular inscription might not, in fact, best address the key issues,
and even obscure its real social and cultural context. The following discussion is therefore,
to some extent, an attempt to resurrect and euphemise an interesting, but ultimately sterile,
line of enquiry as an opportunity to be self-reflexive. The issues which arise during this
process have, however, serious implications for the interpretations of the inscriptions of
Sophytos and Heliodora already presented.
The inscription in question was carved by one Sophon on a rock face by the temple of
the nineteenth-dynasty pharaoh Seti I at Kanais, on the eastern desert route between the
Nile and the Red Sea, some 55km east of Edfu. The original rock-cut Temple of Seti I was
dedicated to a number of gods, including the triad of Amun-Re, Re-Horakhty and Ptah.143 In
the Hellenistic period, the site became associated with the Greek god Pan. The inscription of
Sophon is one of a large number of Greek inscriptions engraved on the rock face to the west
of the temple, which cover a relatively wide chronological span in the Hellenistic and Roman
periods. That of Sophon may be dated only by its script, which places it in the late Hellenistic
period. 144
Pan Ed
ka Ephk
Sofn Indw
pr ato
To Pan, who gives easy passage and listens to prayer; Sophon the Indian, on his own
behalf.145
The ethnic reading of this inscription is best summarised by Salomon (1991), who discusses
it alongside the texts in Indian languages from the Roman-period Red Sea port at Quseir al-
Qadim (ancient Myos Hormos?). Indian traders, as well as Indian goods, clearly found their
way to Roman Egypt. As Kanais lies on a route between the Red Sea port of Berenike and
the Nile at Edfu, might this Sofn Indw have been one of these traders? The inscription is
in Greek, following the same formula as many of the other short texts which surrounded it.146
The personal and divine names in the inscription, Pan and Sophon, are Greek, but it has
been suggested that Pan might be identified with the Indian K+,!a, and that Sofn is a
Greek rendering of the Indian name Subh!nu. Salomons assessment of such interpretations
of this inscription is cautious, but clearly places it in the same broad category as the texts
from Quseir al-Qadim: if such an Indian Soph'n/Subh#nu really existed, he must have
belonged to a different class than [the Indian traders at Quseir al-Qadim] who, to judge from
their records left in their own languages, would seem to have been transitory travellers in the
west. Soph'n, on the other hand, would evidently have been a long-term resident of Egypt
Figure 5.6
Inscription of
Dorion from
Kanais: Bernand
(1972), Pl.54.
145 Text: after Bernand (1972), 100; trans: Salomon (1991), 735, following Wilcken and Hultsch.
146 e.g. Bernand (1972), 98-99.
203
assimilated to life there and who had taken to the Greek language and cultic practices.147
It would, of course, be highly convenient for the present discussion if Sophon were an
Indian. We might make some points about the potential of language and nomenclature to
assert an individuals cultural qualifications, persisting alongside an apparently contradictory
ethnic categorisation imposed by society. Reference might then be made back to the two
inscriptions discussed above, and our interpretations questioned. Did the Greek inhabitants
of Kandahar call Sophytos an Indian? How did Heliodora feel about being a yona? Was
Sophon the Indian, like these two individuals, constrained by the means of written
expression available to him? Would he have felt conspicuous or uncomfortable setting an
inscription in an Indian language alongside the otherwise uniform selection of Greek
formulae on the rock face at Kanais?
All such arguments are, ultimately, dependent on the presence of one word: Indw. In
its absence, nothing would lead us to consider this inscription and its author as exceptional.
Its formulaic nature may be seen from the many other dedications Pan Ed which
surround it. Sophon is unproblematic as a Greek name. In order to accept the various
speculations about Sophons identity, we would first have to be very sure that Indw is in fact
an ethnic. The direction which the present discussion was originally intended to take was
predicated upon just this assumption. As Bernand, in his publication of the Greek
inscriptions from Kanais, points out, however, there is good reason to doubt this. Indw
appears only rarely in Greek inscriptions from Egypt, and where it does, as in graffiti at Abu
Simbel, it indicates the profession of elephant-driver (cornac) rather than an ethnic origin.148
Other apparent ethnics, such as Arab or Troglodyte, might also be used to refer to an
occupation.149 Although Kanais lay on the routes to the Red Sea coast, used in the trade
with India, the eastern desert was also connected with the Ptolemaic elephant trade with
eastern Africa.150 One inscription from Kanais of the reign of Ptolemy II gives thanks for the
dedicators safe return to Egypt after taking part in an elephant-hunting expedition, and is
accompanied by a petroglyph of an elephant (Figure 5.6).151 Internal indications in the
inscriptions themselves give us no conclusive evidence as to whether Sophon was an
Indian ethnically, or merely professionally. The dedicators are a diverse group, bearing
various Greek and non-Greek ethnics. The inscriptions dated to the Hellenistic period for the
most part give an ethnic, occasionally a patronymic. In the Roman period, some professional
designations also appear, such as Giow flppew or Seou#row naklhrow.152
147 Salomon (1991), 735-736, and also for summary of the preceding arguments.
148 Bernand (1972), 100; Bernand and Masson (1957), 40.
149 Clarysse and Thompson (forthcoming 2006) II, 161, 175.
150 Burstein (1996).
151 Bernand (1972), 44-46, Plate 54.
152 Bernand (1972), 125ff.
204
What all this amounts to other than a cautionary tale on always following up footnotes
is a somewhat over-interpreted inscription which may make reference to an Indian, but
more probably a Greek elephant-driver. My interpretations of the inscriptions of Sophytos
and Heliodora, above, have taken as much account as possible of local context, but the core
of the discussion has been rooted in certain more theoretical arguments about ethnic identity,
culture and public display. The explicit agenda has been to provide an ethnic reading of the
two inscriptions. But how uncomfortable should Sophon-Subh!nu make us feel about
Sophytos-Subh#ti?
Although it does not invalidate the arguments advanced above, the case of Sophon
does caution us against over-ethnicising the evidence. The Indian connexions of Sophytos
are, of course, more certain than those of Sophon: he had a non-Greek patronymic and lived
in Kandahar. What the inscription of Sophon illustrates well is the way in which the evidence
may be mined for ethnic indicators, and the network of other social and cultural
considerations which we should, in fact, always bear in mind before deciding to label
something as ethnic. As argued above, the choice of the cultural material which is used to
express an ethnic identity is not always consistent with the more obvious artistic or even
onomastic criteria we might use to assign someone or something to a particular ethnic group.
Was Sophytos an Indian? We know nothing of his legal ethnic status assuming from the
pigama of 303 that something approaching this concept existed in third-century Arachosia
but he makes a calculated effort to assert a particular identity, and select the cultural
attributes he projects. Although his name gives us some insight into the more complex
background he actually possessed, these attributes may make him ethnically Greek. Here,
as elsewhere in the Hellenistic world, we may investigate the means by which people
constructed their identity, and the potential cultural and genetic conflicts inherent in this; but
we should also remain aware that the whole business of asserting an ethnic identity is
predicated upon a process of rationalisation, an effort and an apparently successful one
to make matters less complicated:
Potentially more difficult than the question of whether Sophytos was an Indian, is that of
whether Heliodora was a Greek. Here, we do have an ethnic, yonad#ta, which identifies him
as Greek. But for whose purposes and to whose satisfaction was this ethnic categorisation
effected? I have suggested above that this Indian designation may well have been one in
which Heliodora bore a certain amount of complicity. The case of Sophon, however, again
provides a caution. What we perceive as an ethnic may have a quite different primary
association, depending upon the context. Sophon is probably not ethnically Indian: it is his
profession which is more likely to bear the association with India, not the man himself. What
impact this would have had on peoples perception of Sophon and his personal identity is
uncertain. Was the skill of managing elephants considered profoundly non-Greek? If not of
Indian descent himself, did he spend time with Indians, or had he been trained by them? In
any case, the particular ethnic loading which we might automatically give the term Indw is
not necessarily the same as that which Sophon intended it to bear when he applied it to
himself, or that which others may have read into it. The parallel with Heliodora is not an
exact one, but we might still ask which association yona or d#ta was primary. Heliodora is
not just a Greek: he is a Greek with a particular status and role. What his inscription reveals
rather well is the constant interplay between social, cultural and ethnic semantics. What we
perceive as ethnic indicia religious practice, nomenclature, language-use may have been
considered more or less overtly ethnic by contemporaries. What is foreign to a modern
Classical scholar could well have been easily reconciled to an ancient Greek identity.
Despite this, there is little that is innocent about the projections of identity in the
inscriptions of Sophytos and Heliodora. Both are clearly aware of the potency of various
cultural associations, or choices of individual designation, and the inscription of Sophytos in
particular has an air of self-consciousness. The interest of these two inscriptions lies in the
number of issues which they make manifest, which we may merely insinuate elsewhere.
Cases such as that of Sophon, where we have little information and risk missing the salient
points entirely, are far more numerous. If we cannot draw assumptions and lessons across
from individual examples such as Sophytos and Heliodora, we can at least step back and
attempt to look at wider social and cultural dynamics. This was the exercise attempted in
Chapters 3 and 4, considering funerary and religious practice as arenas for the assertion of
group identity. These chapters discussed the boundaries and mechanisms which
communities might set in place to define or reinforce their identity. With Sophytos and
Heliodora, we have the opportunity to consider how individuals operated within such
constructed systems, defining matters on their own terms, and negotiating boundaries rather
than always abiding by them. The idea of ethnicity as a construct firmly asserted but
inherently open to manipulation is well-illustrated by these examples. The introduction of
the frustrating case of Sophon the Indian also reveals, however, the extent to which over-
sensitivity to ethnic concerns may impede consideration of the non-ethnic aspects of an
individuals identity.
204
Chapter 6
Conclusion
Making sense of the archaeological and epigraphic material from the Hellenistic Far East,
with its complicated intersections of cultural traits, demands a level of engagement with the
social processes behind its production. The principal stratagem adopted in the present study
has been the use of the concept of ethnic identity to structure our approach to the evidence;
this focus must not detract, of course, from consideration of the wider social and cultural
processes at work in the Hellenistic Far East.1 Chapter 2 discussed the Greek settlement of
the region, and explored the question of Greek interaction and intermarriage with local
populations. This laid the necessary groundwork for Chapters 3 and 4, which considered two
major categories of evidence, on funerary and religious practice. It was argued in Chapter 1
that ethnic identity may be identified not in objective cultural attributes, but in the way in
which an individual or group uses and conceives of their basic cultural toolkit. A common
methodological thread throughout Chapters 3 and 4 was the combined use of archaeological
and textual (epigraphic and literary) evidence. This combination of different forms of
evidence, in the present instance, is what supplies the context necessary to determine how
culture is being used. Chapter 5 took a closer look at two inscriptions whose cultural
reference points are to the modern analyst particularly difficult to reconcile with a clear
ethnic identity, and emphasised the constant interplay between cultural, ethnic and social
concerns.
There are areas which it has not been possible to consider here, and which the
emergence of new evidence from the Hellenistic Far East may allow us to explore further.
Evidence on language use, for example, is largely restricted to public inscriptions, with only a
few literary or administrative texts; less formal documents such as private letters are entirely
absent. Yet levels of competency in a language, and features such as accent or dialect, may
have a considerable impact on how the ethnic identity of writer or speaker is perceived.
Mllers recent study of the Akkadian used in diplomatic correspondence between
eighteenth-dynasty Egypt and the Hittite empire, for example, finds deviations (especially
phonological) from the standard: This really makes one wonder what the Hittite addressees
of our letters may have thought every time they received funny new mail from Egypt.2 We
might think of the heavily Iranianised Aramaic of the Hellenistic and Achaemenid Far
East, or the unexpected aspirations in the inscription of Sophytos,3 but it is clear that a
sociolinguistic study is at present beyond the scope of the evidence.
In Chapter 1, Section 1.3.2, I briefly noted the tendency of current Hellenistic studies to
problematise, as a way of resisting unhelpful (and inaccurate) generalisations.4 As far as
ethnic identity in the Hellenistic Far East is concerned, this problematisation should involve
taking account of interaction on an individual, or at least community, level, and the points at
which our perceived cultural indicia of ethnic identity may not coincide with the indicia
selected or emphasised by the agents themselves. One of the great virtues of the
sociological literature on ethnicity is its emphasis on the ways in which identities are
constructed and rationalised. If we admit that the relationship between cultural practices
(such as religion or language use) and a sense of identity may be a matter of negotiation,
rather than adherence to strict rules of conduct, then this at least provides us with a
constructive way of approaching the evidence, even if things remain far from straightforward.
It also serves to make us intensely suspicious of any suggestion of conflict between an
individuals projected identity and cultural practice: it is nearly always a matter of
rationalisation, or neutralisation of behaviour (see Chapter 5, Section 5.1), rather than direct
conflict.
We might therefore draw a distinction between problematisation as a useful
methodological strategy, and the benefits of seeking to de-problematise apparently difficult
or contradictory evidence. It will hardly do to suggest that the populations of the Hellenistic
Far East existed in a constant state of postmodern multicultural angst. On the contrary,
strategies were employed to allow individuals and groups to make sense of the social and
cultural forces at work in their society. The reason why people adopt such ethnic behaviour
of boundary maintenance and public reinforcement of communal cultural attributes is that, for
their own purposes, it works. The purpose of the exercise is not to enforce cultural norms,
but to regulate them in a way that responds to a groups practical needs. This may still
suggest, to an external observer, a degree of contradiction or hypocrisy, but for the agents
themselves, the construction and reinforcement of an ethnic identity allows them to
overcome or conveniently ignore these cultural contradictions. For people who
considered themselves Greek, for example, would it have mattered that the temple they
worshipped at follows a design we describe as Mesopotamian (Chapter 4)? I would suggest
that this apparent stylistic contradiction would have been of little or no import to those secure
in their notion of their own Greek identity. How an outsider might have perceived this may, of
course, have been different.
We cannot impose any uniform model for the modes of operation of Hellenistic
societies, but it is important to recognise that our complicated, problematic evidence was
produced, in each case, by a society with its own rules of conduct and ways of making sense
of the world. To take this beyond the abstract, the following section will consider how we
might imagine these strategies in operation.
4 Malkin (2001), 3: where ethnicity appears a confusing term we wish to illuminate that confusion,
hoping thus to problematize the issue. At the same time, precisely by refining its contextual
significance and its shifting modes of articulation and historical function, we hope to present a more
focused picture of its role.
206
In Chapter 1, I suggested that writing a traditional narrative history of the Hellenistic Far East
was not just impossible in the current state of the evidence, but an exercise of dubious
scholarly value. Proposed reconstructions of family trees and dynastic marriage alliances,
for example, often stray so far into the realms of supposition as to lose any real credibility
(Figure 6.1).5 Attempts to historicise the Bactrian Greek conquest of India by drawing on the
problematic Indian literary evidence, such as grammatical treatises, produce varying results.6
Yet our immediate response to such bodies of evidence is often to try to construct a
narrative, as a way of making sense of complex and unfamiliar material.
I do not claim that the present study has escaped this tendency. In Section 6.1, above,
I emphasised the ways in which constructing an ethnic identity allows people to rationalise
their cultural and social behaviour, and structure their interactions with other groups. It is
precisely this structuring and rationalising role which theories on ethnicity bring to the
analysis of the evidence from the Hellenistic Far East. In its own way, the act of applying a
theory or developing a methodology is also an attempt to construct a narrative, an image of
the way in which a community behaved and the social and historical processes underlying
this behaviour. Throughout my discussions of the material from the Hellenistic Far East, I
have also been aware of my tendency to look for parallels from other regions of the
Hellenistic world (especially Egypt) and more recent colonial societies. In Chapter 2, Section
2.4, some effort was made to conduct a cost-benefit analysis of the use of comparative case
studies. Chapter 5, Section 5.4, engaged more directly with the dangers of introducing
evocative parallels, through deconstructing the process of researching a possible Egyptian
comparison for the inscription of Sophytos. As far as its original purpose (introducing a valid
parallel) was concerned, this process was a failure although it did, in the end, contribute to
5 See the discussion in Holt (1999b), 67ff: Tarns reconstruction reads all too much like a steamy
chapter from the Julio-Claudian period of imperial Rome. His history of the Diodotid family hinges
upon the wives and widows of the dynasty, Agrippinas of another era who steered Bactria behind the
scenes. There are also, remarkably, a number of historical novels which take the Hellenistic Far East
as their setting: Parnicki (1991 = French translation of the Polish edition of 1955); Bradshaw (1991); T.
Holt (1999); Sonawani (2001).
6 Pata!jalis Mah"bh"#ya (c.mid-second century BC) illustrates the imperfect tense with the sentences
the yavana was besieging S!keta and the yavana was besieging Madhyamik!: see Narain (1957),
109-114. Note also the supposed inscription of Menander from Reh: Sharma (1980).
207
Figure 6.1 Family trees of the Graeco-Bactrian and Indo-Greek kings, according
to Narain (1957) (top), Green (1990) (below) and Tarn (1951) (overleaf).
208
209
the discussion in a quite different way. The availability of evidence, and simple luck, is often
as important as methodological rigour.
My emphasis, in line with current scholarship on other regions of the Hellenistic world,
has been on specific points of contact between cultures and communities. In Chapter 2, I
argued that intermarriage between the first generation of Greek settlers and local women will
have been widespread. The creation of mixed settlements (see Chapter 2) and the
presence of local Iranian names in the Greek treasury documents from Ai Khanoum provide
important evidence for wider social interaction. For the majority of the population of the
Hellenistic Far East, however, we might suggest that any contact and interaction with groups
of different cultural and ethnic backgrounds will have been extremely limited, with an equally
limited impact on their own sense of identity. The available evidence is, of course, heavily
weighted towards urban lites, the kind of people with the means (and the inclination) to set
up public inscriptions, construct mausolea for their dead, or dedicate offerings at important
cult sites. I do not propose that the intricate negotiations of ethnic and cultural identity
explored in Chapter 5, for example, can be held to characterise a whole society. What
concentration on points of contact does offer, however, is an opportunity to ground wider
notions of cultural interaction and ethnic identity in the specific. For example, the different
forms of cult practice within single temple complexes at Ai Khanoum or Takht-i Sangin
(Chapter 4) give an impression of a structured operational flexibility, which leads us to
question more abstract, impersonal assessments of influence in architectural or artistic style.
What narrative, then, might best fit the picture of ethnic identity and interaction in the
Hellenistic Far East which emerges from the analysis of the preceding chapters?
Modern colonial societies, as noted above, provide a rich but problematic repertoire of
potential comparisons for the Hellenistic world.7 Issues of particular pertinence to the
present study, such as intermarriage and lite acculturation, may be vividly illustrated through
recourse to case studies with which a modern audience can be expected to have a certain
familiarity, even if this familiarity derives largely from the mass media or fictional accounts.
Green, for example, imagines local peoples hellenising and vying to join the gymnasium, like
Indians under the British Raj angling for the entre to European club membership.8 The
parallel is extended into a number of different areas:
the acceptance of English as a lingua franca, and the appetite of numerous educated
Indians for such plums of power as they could grab within the system as it stood (along
with the social mores of club or cantonment), in no way mitigated the deep-abiding
resentment of British rule, much less made any inroads against Indias own long-
standing cultural and religious traditions. Further, just as a surprising number of
7 See e.g. Bagnalls (1995), 101ff, and (1997) discussions of Will (1985).
8 Green (1990), 316. Green (1990), xxi, recognises his tendency to find modern relevance and
resonance in the Hellenistic world.
210
Englishmen, despite their own rigid caste system and xenophobic assumptions, were
fatally seduced by the lure of Eastern mysticism, so the Indo-Greeks, in a very similar
situation, capitulated to some highly un-Greek local influences before they were done.
Indian legends and Indian scripts invaded their coinage. Even if the notion of
portraying the Buddha in human form was a Greek innovation, their sculpture and
reliefs and architecture absorbed far more than they imposed.9
In one regard, this analogy serves its purpose well, highlighting the range of motivations and
strategies exercised by local lites in their selective adoption of the cultural traits of the
dominant power. On the other hand, little insight is given into the social processes
underlying acculturation in the opposite direction.
For further illustration, we might make reference to Ligers (1979) study of the urban
physiognomy of Ai Khanoum. Familiarity with the modes of operation of modern colonial
societies, such as British India or French North Africa, conditions us to a certain extent to
view urban zoning in a colonial settlement as indicative of ethnic segregation or
ghettoisation. Ligers thoughts on the implications of the urban dynamics of Ai Khanoum
merit quotation at some length, for their awareness of the ethnic base-line of Hellenistic
Bactria and the complicated inter-relationship between social and ethnic identity:
tous ces traits se retrouvent dans les colonisations des temps modernes (Inde anglaise
et Afrique du Nord franaise).11
The issue of how the urban landscape of Ai Khanoum may reflect the patrolling of ethnic
boundaries has been discussed in Chapter 4. My intention here is simply to highlight the
language employed by Liger discrimination, une politique sgrgationaliste and the
conscious parallels he draws with modern colonisation. One term in particular, mtissage,
merits further discussion.
A key concern of the present study has been to establish how intermarriage and
interaction in the early days of the Greek settlement of the Hellenistic Far East may have
impacted upon the ethnic identity of subsequent generations. I argue that this will have given
some individuals the ability to exhibit situational variation in areas such as language use or
cult practice, but that ethnic identities were constructed along much more clear-cut lines,
which dictated appropriate forms of public behaviour in official contexts. Any notion of mixed
culture or mixed descent is absent from the epigraphic sources available to us, whatever we
may choose to read into the cultural cues contained in such inscriptions. Modern colonial
societies, however, provide us with a vocabulary to describe the offspring of intermarriage
between ethnic groups, such as the French mtis, Spanish mestizo, or Portuguese mestio.
Each of these terms emerged and acquired its connotations within a specific colonial
situation. What is notable is the tendency for mixed to develop into a distinct category and
status. In modern Canada, for example, Mtis is used both officially and self-ascriptively
to denote a group of mixed European-indigenous descent. According to the Mtis National
Council, a Mtis is a person who self-identifies as Mtis, is of historic Mtis Nation ancestry,
is distinct from other Aboriginal peoples and is accepted by the Mtis Nation.12 Individuals
of mixed descent, in other words, have come, over time, to form a new ethnic group.
Similarly, mestizaje has become an important concept in modern Mexican identity.13 In
British India, Eurasians or Anglo-Indians also formed a distinct group, largely because of their
rejection by both British and Indian society.14 Thinking about groups such as these the
ways in which they operate, their treatment by the central political authority may raise
issues of relevance to the Hellenistic world. Present-day Canadian Mtis, for example,
mostly speak English or French, but historically the language of many was Michif, a highly
complex French-Cree creole: 15 what might this suggest about the linguistic practicalities of
mixed descent, versus the requirements of operating in a wider society?
The point of introducing the notion of mtissage or mestizaje in the present discussion,
however, is that we may argue with some confidence that such official categorisations of
mixed descent would have been alien to the Hellenistic world. The political circumstances in
which groups of mixed descent might begin to assert a communal identity were lacking.
Anglo-Indians, for example, have tended to identify with Europeans, be resolutely
monolingual in English, and until the late eighteenth century would not have been classified
as a separate unit. Subsequent political and social exclusion and a dramatic decrease in
British-Indian intermarriage led to the consolidation of a discrete Anglo-Indian category. A
conscious Anglo-Indian identity may be argued to have developed only in response to
particular needs or times of crisis.16 The well-documented existence of such groups should
not blind us to the fact that hybridity is a difficult concept17 as, of course, is cultural
encounter or fusion without a genetic basis. The English language has trouble finding safe
terms for individuals or groups of mixed descent. We might note the same of Greek: terms
such as mijllhn (for which Liddell and Scott give half Greeks, half barbarians, mongrel
Greeks) or mijobrbarow are derogatory. Solely for the purposes of illustration, let us
assume that the Sophytos of the Old Kandahar inscription (Chapter 5) was of mixed Greek-
Indian descent, his official status as a Greek secured under the terms of the treaty of 303 BC
(Chapter 2). He speaks fluent BBC Greek and, after a career as a merchant, has retired to
Alexandria-in-Arachosia to rebuild his familys crumbling house and tomb, and devote himself
to literary pursuits. Would he call himself a mijllhn? It seems hardly likely. Whether a
member of the citys Greek lite might mutter it under his breath as he passed him at the
gymnasium is perhaps another matter.
One particularly evocative way I have found of imagining the social functioning of
Hellenistic ethnicity in all its increasingly complicated cultural and genetic permutations is
through John Steinbecks novel Tortilla Flat (1935). I hope that my recourse to a fictional
example may be justified, to some extent, by the precedent of Bagnalls discussion of the
Indonesian author Pramoedya Ananta Toer. Bagnall suggests that:
If we know what we are looking for, we can sometimes find indirect traces of it in
documentation created for some entirely different purpose The imaginative literature
growing out of the colonial experience thus seems to me at least as likely as works of
social science about that experience to help us grasp elements of life that we otherwise
would miss.18
Early twentieth-century California is a long way beyond any direct colonial experience, and
Tortilla Flat avoids the weighty social concerns of Steinbecks other works, such as The
Grapes of Wrath (1939) or In Dubious Battle (1936), but the introduction of Montereys
paisano community is nevertheless, for those with a predilection for such comparisons,
strikingly Hellenistic:
This definition, crucially, does not give us a straightforward answer to the question of what a
paisano is, but focuses rather on how his identity is constructed. There is a conflict between
the paisanos claim that he is ethnically Spanish, and the way in which he is categorised on
the basis of his skin colour and non-European descent, as well as his low socio-economic
status. His ethnic indicia are not those of the observer. I do not propose, of course, that this
fictional example presents us with a model for the Hellenistic Far East (the Ai Khanoum
acropolis as a Bactrian Tortilla Flat?). But if our interpretations must inevitably reflect a
desire to give some order, even a narrative structure, to the source material, then we can do
worse than use examples such as this to suggest some of the forms of everyday social
behaviour which underlie the archaeological or epigraphic record.
In the Hellenistic Far East, I would suggest that people may have drawn on mixed
heritage, or familiarity with a different culture, for their own ends using knowledge of a
second language in commerce or diplomacy, or perhaps making use of local family
connections but that this was not done within a framework which recognised mixed descent
or culture as a separate category for official purposes. To use a linguistic analogy, we might
speak of functional cultural bilingualism or code-switching, rather than creolisation: Droysens
Mischkultur reconfigured. As argued in Chapters 4 and 5, not all forms of behaviour or public
expression had to have ethnic connotations. A wide spectrum of practices might be
accommodated with an individuals claimed identity. Our interpretation of the material culture
of the Hellenistic world must therefore operate with reference to such highly-practical
processes of ethnic negotiation.
19 Steinbeck (1935), 4. How accurate or flattering Steinbecks fictional depiction of the real-life
paisano community is has proven a contentious question: Tortilla Flat was based loosely on a real
place but the name, needless to say, was not one coined by paisanos themselves: Fensch (1997).
214
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