NETW OR KS AND RELI GI OUS

I NNOVATI O N I N THE ROMAN EMPI RE

A. C. F. Collar

Submitted by Anna Caroline Folly Collar, to the University of Exeter as a thesis for the
degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Ancient History, July 2008.

This thesis is available for Library use on the understanding that it is copyright material and
that no quotation from the thesis may be published without proper acknowledgement.

I certify that all material in this thesis which is not my own work has been identified and
that no material has previously been submitted and approved for the award of a degree by
this or any other University.

i
 Abstract

Why do some religious movements succeed and spread, while others, seemingly equally
popular and successful at a certain time, ultimately fail? It is from this starting point that
this thesis approaches religious success or failure in the Roman Empire: exploring a new
analytical method for understanding religious change: network theory. The thesis forms two
parts.
Part I sets out the theoretical frameworks. The focus of network theory is on the
processes by which innovation spreads: how interconnectedness facilitates change.
Although some innovations might be ‘superior’, viewing success or failure as the result of
interplay between inherent qualities of a religious movement and the structure of the social
environment in which it is embedded means it is possible to reduce value judgements about
superiority or inferiority. The discussion then turns to religious change. The key point is
that sociologists of religion can explain something of the processes of religious conversion
(or ‘recruitment’) and the success or failure of a religious movement through an analysis of
social interactions. Finally, I explain how I shall use networks both as a heuristic approach
and a practical modelling technique to apply to the epigraphic data, and detail some of the
previous application of networks to archaeological test cases.
Part II applies these methods to the epigraphic data of three religions. In Chapter
Four, I examine the cult Jupiter Dolichenus, arguing that the previous explanations for the
success of the cult are untenable, showing from the epigraphy that the cult spread through a
strong-tie network of Roman military officials. In Chapter Five, I look at the development
of Jewish identity in the Diaspora, showing that, during the second century AD, Diaspora
Jews began to actively display their Jewish identity in their epitaphs. I argue that this re-
Judaization represents the ‘activation’ of an ethno-cultural network, as a response to the
destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem and the crushing of the Bar Kokhba rebellion; the
visible remains of the rabbinic reforms. In Chapter Six, I discuss the cult of the ‘Highest
God’, Theos Hypsistos, taking Mitchell’s argument further to suggest that the huge increase
in the dedications during the second-third centuries is not simply a reflection of the
epigraphic habit, but rather, that the cult of Hypsistos was swelled by the Gentile god-
fearers, as a result of the changes happening within Judaism itself at this time.
ii
 Contents

Title, with declaration i

Abstract ii

Contents iii

acknowledgements iv

List of maps v

Abbreviations vi

Introduction 1

1. Theoretical Framework I: Evolution, Networks, Innovation 7

2. Theoretical Framework II: Sociology of Religion. Religious Innovation & 30

Conversion

3. Methodology: Networks in Archaeology. Analytical Models 52

4. The Cult of Jupiter Dolichenus. 70

Military networks on the edges of Empire

5. The Jewish Diaspora. 131

Ethnic networks and the activation of Jewish identity

6. The Cult of the ‘Most High God’. 188

God-fearers and the redefinition of the Jewish-Gentile relationship

Epilogue 246

APPENDIX: CONCORDANCE OF EPIGRAPHIC MATERIAL 248

BIBLIOGRAPHY 327

iii
 Acknowledgements

I have many people to thank here. Primary of these is my supervisor Stephen Mitchell,
whose intellectual generosity and vision has made this thesis possible. He has consistently
allowed me the freedom to pursue new lines of thought, and offered his lucid criticism,
careful guidance and unstinting support. I cannot thank him enough. My ideas have also
been fundamentally shaped by the innovative work of Carl Knappett, whose incisive and
intelligent discussion has always demanded more of me. Without his influence I should be
a laggard indeed. My thanks also go to Elena Isayev and Martin Millett, for such a
stimulating and enjoyable viva.
A number of institutions have generously supported my research, both financially
and in kind: The AHRC, The British Institute at Ankara, The British School at Athens, the
Kluge Center at the Library of Congress and the Forschungsstelle Asia Minor in Münster.
My thanks go to Elmar Schwertheim and Engelbert Winter, who welcomed me to the
Forschungsstelle, and who incorporated me into the Dülük Baba Tepesi excavation team. In
my third year I was fortunate enough to be a British Council fellow at the Kluge Center, the
staff of which I thank for their great hospitality. I am indebted to Irad Malkin for pushing
for the inclusion of my networks paper in the first volume of the special edition of the
Mediterranean Historical Review. I am grateful to Tom Elliott at the Ancient World
Mapping Center for the use of the Barrington Atlas. The chapter on Jupiter Dolichenus has
been greatly improved through conversations with and corrections by Michael Blömer, my
thanks to him for sharing with me his considerable knowledge. Leif Isaksen helped develop
my views on networks; my thoughts on innovation and evolution have benefited from
conversations with physicists and philosophers: Jake Snow, who has given me dense
science books, and far more besides; Harry Platanakis, who has offered me encouragement,
and interested and demanding debate; and Jonathan Davies, who has pushed me in the last
few months to think more deeply about evolution and emergence. I am also extremely
grateful to Pete Lockley for proof reading this for me.
During my second year at Manchester University, I was privileged enough to be
taught by Geoff Stone, who rekindled my love of the ancient world and who has supported
my efforts ever since, to whom I offer my warmest thanks. Jessica Bogo, Stefanie Reetz
and Elsa Suckle were great friends to me during my time in America, and Amie Brautigam,
and Jørgen, Jasper and Zoë Thomsen provided a much-needed surrogate family. Tristan
Carter made my time at Ankara much more fun; and Michael Scott, Amalia Kakissis and
Jill Hillditch did the same for me in Athens, as well as back in Cambridge and Exeter.
Working with the Classics and Ancient History staff and postgraduates at Exeter has been a
pleasure, my thanks to all of them, especially to my office companions of the last year,
Pauline Hanesworth, Gillian Ramsey and Anna Blurtsyan, who have all offered helpful
suggestions and encouragement. My time at Exeter would have been far less without Cassie
Hague, Susannah Cornwall, Bee Taylor, Sandra Lohmann, Sarah Lorimer and especially,
my blood, Rebecca Catto. Their support, brilliance and humour have kept me sane. Pete
Vardon has punctuated this year with adventure and misadventure, and has put up with me
in between. Finally, my enormous love and thanks go to my family, for all their emotional,
intellectual and financial support: my mum, Alison Carter, for her patience, humour and
unfailing belief in me; my inspirational and hilarious sisters Beth and Clio; and my
iv
wonderful and encouraging grandparents, Eileen and Leslie Carter. Lastly, I thank my dad,
Nigel Collar, for goading, challenge, and argument, and for always reminding me of the
value of knowledge for its own sake. This is for him.

v
 List of Maps

Chapter 4: the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus

Map 4a – Distribution 125

Map 4b – initial proximal point analysis 126
Map 4c – ppa: First century BC-AD 150 127
Map 4d – PPa: AD 150-211 128
Map 4e – PPA: AD 212-253 129
Map 4f – PPA: AD 253-300 130

Chapter 5: the Jewish Diaspora

Map 5a – testified movements across the Diaspora 181

Map 5b – distribution 182
Map 5c – initial proximal point analysis 183
Map 5d – PPA: first and second centuries AD 184
Map 5e – PPA: third century AD 185
Map 5f – PPA: fourth century AD 186
Map 5g – ppa: fifth-sixth centuries AD 187

Chapter 6: the cult of the most high god

Map 6a – distribution 241

Map 6b – initial proximal point analysis 242
Map 6c – PPA: Hellenistic to the first century BC 243
Map 6d – ppa: The first century AD 244
Map 6e – PPA: The second-third centuries 245

vi
vii
 Abbreviations

Epigraphic Corpora

CCID M. Hörig, E. Schwertheim, Corpus Cultus Iovi Dolicheni

CIJ J. -B. Frey, Corpus Inscriptionum Judaicarum
CIL Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum
IJO 1-3 D. Noy, A. Panayotov, and H. Bloedhorn; W. Ameling; D. Noy and H.
Bloedhorn; Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis vols. I-III
JIGRE W. Norbury and D. Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Egypt
JIWE D. Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe I
SEG Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum
TAM Tituli Asia Minoris

Other abbreviations

AA American Antiquity
AJA American Journal of Archaeology
AJP American Journal of Philology
AJS American Journal of Sociology
AJSLL The American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures
APA Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association
ASR American Sociological Review
AW Antike Welt
BA Biblical Archaeologist
BMCR Bryn Mawr Classical Review
CJZC Corpus jüdischer Zeugnisse aus der Cyrenaika
CQ The Classical Quarterly
DM Damaszener Mitteilungen
EA Epigraphica Anatolica
HSCP Harvard Studies in Classical Philology
HThR Harvard Theological Review
IM Istanbuller Mitteilungen
viii
JAOS Journal of the American Oriental Society
JECS Journal of Early Christian Studies
JJS Journal of Jewish Studies
JPE Journal of Political Economy
JQR The Jewish Quarterly Review
JRA Journal of Roman Archaeology
JRS Journal of Roman Studies
JSJ Journal for the Study of Judaism
JSS Jewish Social Studies
JSSR Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion
MA Mediterraneaneo Antico
MHR Mediterranean Historical Review
NRSV New Revised Standard Version
PNAS Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of
America
RMP Reviews of Modern Physics
SIAM Society for Industrial and Applied Mathematics
TLS Times Literary Supplement
WA World Archaeology
ZPE Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

ix
 Introduction

Why do some religious movements succeed and spread, while others, seemingly equally
popular and successful at a certain time, ultimately fail? It is from this starting point that
this thesis approaches the question of religious success or failure in the Roman Empire. It
presents and explores the application of the analytical method of network theory for
understanding religious change. Instead of focusing on the intrinsic qualities of a religious
innovation to ‘explain’ its success, this approach highlights the role that the
interconnectivity of the network plays in driving success or failure. By considering the
connectivity of the network, it is possible to explain why some ostensibly valuable
innovations are unsuccessful.
The chronological framework extends from the Hellenistic to the early Byzantine
era, but the focus of the thesis is on the evidence from the Imperial period, the first to third
centuries AD, partly because the majority of the epigraphic evidence dates from this period.
By this time, the land encompassed by Imperial rule stretched from Spain to the Crimea,
and from Scotland to southern Egypt. Under this administration lived a huge variety of
people, speaking any number of languages or dialects, and worshipping any number of
local or global deities. The Roman government of this plethora of social, linguistic and
religious forms provides a veneer of similarity, of a new lingua franca, of a ‘globalised’
environment, but how genuine was this? Even if the sameness was superficial, the trappings
of Roman administration and the necessity of defending borders entailed a number of
universalising features being imposed on the landscapes and the people. Most physically
present were the roads and bridges that were built to facilitate the movement of the military,
the accoutrements of the military, and the long-distance communication that the Empire
required. Alongside these physical additions to the landscape came the ideological
reminders of participation in Empire – the statues and monuments to Imperial rule,
bathhouses, temples, and the presence, along the limes, of the soldiers themselves. Latin as
well as Greek became a pan-Empire language, used for documents (albeit more rarely) even
1
to the borders with Parthia, brought with the administration of the provincial governors or
with the soldiers of the legions. But for all these unifying factors within the Roman Empire,
the varieties of local identities below the surface did not disappear. There is evidence for
‘resistance’ to the Romans and to ‘Romanisation’, both active (for example, the revolting
province of Judaea) and passive (for example, non-adoption of ‘Roman’ culture). Equally
there is evidence for the eager adoption of Roman practices or names, as markers of status
or political allegiance.
Religious movements spread across this environment with differing degrees of
success. This thesis will investigate three kinds of network that were operative in the
Roman world and the roles they had in the dissemination of new religious information:
military, ‘ethnic’ and cultic. Each of these networks has different configurations and ways
of spreading information.

The thesis essentially forms two parts. The first sets out the theoretical frameworks that are
being drawn on, questioned, and developed. The second consists of an exploration of three
case studies from the ancient world and examines bodies of epigraphic evidence that show
the operation of three kinds of network – military, ‘ethnic’, and religious.
Chapter 1 sets out the theoretical framework for understanding change, and the
various approaches to the study of innovation and the transmission of innovation. The
framework is multidisciplinary: drawing on theory from biology, physics, mathematics,
anthropology, sociology and archaeology. The chapter begins with an examination of the
dominant conceptual paradigm for understanding change: evolution by natural selection.
This paradigm can be usefully applied to cultural change, and explain the emergence of
novel cultural forms. The main focus of the discussion, however, is on the process by
which innovation spreads, using network theory as understood from literature in physics,
sociology, and anthropology to explain the properties of interconnectedness that facilitate
change. By assessing success or failure as the result of interplay between the inherent
qualities of a religious movement and the structure of the social environment in which it is
embedded it is possible to reduce subjective value judgements about the superiority or
inferiority of a religious innovation. Because innovations can both be alien introductions
and arise ‘naturally’ from within an environment, considering the connectivity of the
2
network means it is possible to explain why some ostensibly valuable innovations are
sometimes unsuccessful. Central to these explanations of social change is the theory of the
diffusion of innovations. This body of theory is mainly drawn from sociology, which
discusses vulnerability and status in the process and transmission of innovations; and from
physics, which takes these observations and quantifies them mathematically, drawing
conclusions about the boundaries and connectedness of networks that can result in the
phenomenon of ‘information cascade’.
Chapter 2 sets out the second theoretical framework being used in the thesis. Using
theory from the sociology of religion, this chapter moves the discussion of change
specifically back into the sphere of religion, and investigates the processes of innovation,
adoption and diffusion as they are understood in sociological terms. The sociological
research into the processes of conversion to modern religious movements forms a
counterpoint to the theories of the previous chapter, and is complementary to network
theory. The central point is that sociologists of religion can go some way to explaining the
processes of religious conversion (or ‘recruitment’) and the success or failure of a religious
movement through an analysis of social interactions. This does not undermine the
importance of the values of the religious movement, but suggests that an analysis
combining an understanding of the ideology and the social system can present a fuller
picture of the spread, success or failure of religious innovations.
Chapter 3 sets out the network methods I will use in my approach to ancient
religious data, both as a heuristic way of approaching and as a practical modelling
technique to apply to the epigraphic data. I then outline some previous applications of the
network approach to archaeological test cases that have informed my study. Analytical
methods that are examined are Proximal Point Analysis as a model for settlement growth
and centrality in the Early Bronze Age Cyclades by Cyprian Broodbank; the
interrelationship of dispersion-colonisation networks during the emergence of ‘Greek’
identity in the Archaic period, as proposed by Irad Malkin; the more scientifically driven
utilisation of complexity theory and power-laws to explain the emergence of power and
hierarchy in the Neolithic as detailed by R. Alexander Bentley; and the collaborative work
of Carl Knappett with physicists Tim Evans and Ray Rivers for understanding the
interactions of sites and the costs of maintenance in the Aegean Bronze Age.

3
 I then move on to apply these methods to the ancient evidence. My first case study
in chapter 4 examines the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus. The god was originally a local Near
Eastern storm god from the region of Doliche in Commagene, but like other ‘Oriental’
religions, during the middle Imperial period, the cult spread along the Danube and Rhine
valleys, the German limes and along Hadrian’s Wall. The previous explanations for the
success of the cult – the participation of the Roman legions in Eastern campaigns; the
presence of Syrian recruits within the structure of the army; and zealous Syrian traders –
are all argued to be untenable. By contrast, it is shown from the epigraphy that the cult
spread through a highly connected strong-tie network of Roman military officials. This is
supported by a network analysis, and a network explanation for the end of the cult of
Dolichenus is proposed.
My second case study in chapter 5 looks at the material pertaining to the Jewish
Diaspora from the Hellenistic period to late antiquity. During the second century AD the
Jews of the Graeco-Roman Diaspora became very concerned with the active display of
their Jewish identity in their epitaphs. It is argued that this represents the ‘activation’ of the
ethnic/ethno-cultural network of the Jewish Diaspora, as a response to the destruction of the
Temple in Jerusalem in AD 70 and the crushing of the Bar Kokhba rebellion in Judaea in
AD 135. Although the epigraphic habit is partly responsible for the increase in inscriptions
at this time, the marked difference between the epigraphy from before and after the fall of
the Temple is striking, and it is suggested that this represents a ‘re-Judaization’ of the
Diaspora, to be understood as the visible remains of the rabbinic reforms enacted in
Judaism at this time. Finally, it is suggested that the network can be described as having
been ‘vulnerable’ to the religious innovations of the rabbis, an observation which may in
turn shed light on the parallel success of Christianity in this period.
My final case study in chapter 6 is related to the Jewish Diaspora, but is concerned
with the cult of the ‘Highest God’, Theos Hypsistos. As the title is the translation of the
Hebrew name for God, El Elyon, the cult has been associated with Judaism. There is a huge
increase in dedications to the cult during the second-third centuries AD, but the inscriptions
relating to the cult are often extremely brief. Instead of focusing on this rather limited
information contained in the inscriptions, we can understand the cult as a totality from the
distribution pattern of its evidence, and show that it did not have a long-range diffusive
appeal. Mitchell made the connection of the cult with the god-fearers – theosebeis –
associated with the Jewish synagogues. This group of people are often referred to in the
4
literature, but appear quite infrequently in the epigraphy in comparison with the cult of
Theos Hypsistos. If the epigraphic habit can be held solely responsible for the increase in
dedications to Theos Hypsistos, then why do the dedications of the god-fearers not also
increase at this time? I here take Mitchell’s argument further, and suggest that the huge
increase in the dedications is not simply a reflection of the epigraphic habit, but rather that
the cult of Hypsistos was swelled by the god-fearers, as a result of the changes happening
within Judaism itself.
The use of networks and network theory offers a new and rewarding method of
analysing ancient historical subjects of innovation and the spread of ideas. Although there
are certainly some issues with the approach that need further theorising and further
application, I hope that this thesis will demonstrate the potential and value of the
methodology.

5
Part i

theory

6
 Chapter 1.

Theoretical Framework. 1

Evolution, Networks, Innovation

Introduction

This chapter sets out several approaches to the study of innovation and the transmission of
innovation, and provides the theoretical framework that will then be used to approach the
spread of religious innovations in the Roman Empire. The theories that will be examined
here are drawn from a number of disciplines: biology, physics, mathematics, anthropology,
sociology and archaeology. These have been used to explain the transmission of a wide
range of data: genes, cultures, information, technologies, diseases and ideas. Although the
range of starting data and disciplines means there are some important differences between
these approaches, the core ideas about the transmission of innovations have much in
common.
The point of commonality between all these theoretical approaches is the
importance of the environment – the connectivity of the network – in determining the
success or failure of an innovation. This perspective is not simply reliant on a ‘progressive’
view of the intrinsic superiority of the innovation itself. Although some innovations might
ostensibly be more valuable than others, subjective and historically determined value
judgements about the superiority or inferiority of an innovation are replaced by viewing
success or failure as the result of the interplay between the inherent value of an innovation
and the environmental structure to which it belongs. Innovations can either be alien
introductions or arise ‘naturally’ from within an environment. In either case it is possible
for the connectivity of the network to explain why some innovations that seem ostensibly
valuable are sometimes unsuccessful, while others make headway.

1
A shortened version of this chapter has been published in the Mediterranean Historical Review, vol. 22, no.
1, June 2007, pp. 149-162, entitled ‘Network Theory and Religious Innovation’; and in a Routledge collected
volume (forthcoming).
7
 Seen from this perspective, social, cultural, and religious change, whether gradual
or sudden, can be viewed as a process resulting from the network interconnections. This
network can be actively manipulated as well as passively receptive to the introduction of an
innovation, but the most important aspect is the nature and connectivity of the network
itself, and its ability to transmit information.
This chapter begins by locating the grounds of the argument within archaeological
research, the role of evolution as the paradigm for understanding innovation, and change in
both biological and cultural terms. Having argued that evolution by natural selection can go
some way to explaining the emergence of novel cultural forms, the chapter then discusses
the process by which innovation spreads, using theories that have been developed in
physics, sociology, and anthropology to explain the properties of interconnectedness that
facilitate change. Central to these explanations of social change is the theory of the
diffusion of innovations. This body of theory is mainly drawn from sociology, which has
introduced the notions of vulnerability and status in the process and transmission of
innovations, and from physics, which quantifies them mathematically, drawing conclusions
about the boundaries and connectedness of networks that can result in the phenomenon of
‘information cascade’.
The chapter concludes by examining some of the issues that arise from
mathematical network theory and its applicability to social situations, including the
vertical/horizontal divide in the transmission and adoption of new religious ideas.

Cultural Change, Evolution, and Innovation

Archaeology, by its very nature, takes a long view, recording continuity and change in the
material record of human activity. Continuity or change can be macro-scale: for example,
the transition from hunter-gatherer existence to that of settled agriculture; meso-scale: for
example, the adoption of the potter’s wheel; or micro-scale: for example, the developments
in the burial practices of a particular community. The extent of continuity or change is
analysed by constructing and comparing typologies of material culture and these typologies
can span great periods of time. However, chronological reconstruction, as a historical
8
approach, tends to minimize variability in the material evidence and attempts to build
‘seamless narratives.’ James McGlade and Sander Van der Leeuw suggest that this is
because archaeology sets out to reconstruct long-term history and has been conditioned ‘to
pursue coherence and similarity as the mainsprings of classification: disorder, discontinuity
and difference have no place in this scheme; they are aberrant categories which must be
underplayed or judiciously edited out of the interpretive and explanatory discourse.’2 This
is partly a result of a residual philosophical positivism in the discipline. The dominance of
the conception of history as a strict linear process is as much a part of ancient history as it is
part of archaeology. McGlade and Van der Leeuw have criticised the search in archaeology
for sequential narratives, and advocate instead a diffuse, ‘dissipative structures’ approach
within an understanding of evolutionary change,3 an approach that can be usefully applied
to ancient history.
Understanding why change happens requires an understanding of the processes by
which changes are wrought: from innovation to dominance. What’s New?, Van der Leeuw
and Robin Torrence’s collection of papers on innovation4 begins with a challenge to the
view current in archaeology during the 1980s, where stasis had come to be regarded as the
norm, and change as an aberration: ‘even when archaeologists do question why something
changed, the answer is usually sought in terms of the ‘need’ for change or the ‘benefit’ and
‘value’ of the new behaviour, with much less regard for the costs.’ 5 The approaches
published in the volume built on sociological studies that sought to understand innovation
and adoption not as a single event which has a simple cause and effect, but rather as a
complex, ongoing process of the production of cultural variety, working from conception to
legitimisation. Intrinsic to this is the study of the innovations that did not become dominant,
or which happened only on a small scale – ‘understanding the reasons that lie behind the
refusal to implement a new technology provides important insights into the way economic,
social, and ideological factors constrain and determine behaviour’.6

2
Van der Leeuw, S. E., and McGlade, J., eds., Time, Process, and Structured Transformation in Archaeology,
London: Routledge, 1997, p. 5.
3
Van der Leeuw and McGlade, Structured Transformation, p. 11.
4
Van der Leeuw, S. E., and Torrence, R., eds., What’s New? A closer look at the process of innovation,
London: Unwin Hyman, 1989.
5
Van der Leeuw, Torrence, What’s New?, p. 2
6
Van der Leeuw, Torrence, What’s New?, p. 5.
9
Evolution: a paradigm for change
The dominant paradigm for understanding change is that of evolution. There are certain
value-laden problems inherent in applying the commonly understood notion of Darwinian
evolution by natural selection to cultural systems and society. The ‘survival of the fittest’
means that the ways of living and interacting that have been eradicated by other cultural
‘norms’ should somehow be considered ‘inferior’, or at least, have failed because they were
unable to adapt – they were not ‘fit’ enough. A fuller discussion of the nature of the issues
involved will be beneficial here, because the concept is such a powerful one, and so
engrained in Western thought processes.
The structure of an organism is fully contained within its genetic code, its DNA, of
which the organism inherits a hybrid of its parents’ at conception, and is programmed to
develop in particular ways to create a replica of its own particular species. Individual
ontogenetic development is subject to environmental pressures, as, for example, in the
water plant, arrowroot, which changes leaf shape depending on the depth of water it
germinates in.7 The reconfiguration of parent genes in the offspring of every generation –
ontogenesis – is not the same as the evolution of a species – phylogenesis – although new
beneficial traits in the offspring may lead to the reproduction of those traits.
Darwin’s account of evolution, put simply, was ‘the separation of causes of
ontogenetic variation, as coming from internal factors, and causes of phylogenetic variation,
as being imposed from the external environment by way of natural selection.’ 8 It has been
generally taken as standard evolutionary thinking that biological innovations (essentially,
randomly occurring genetic mutations – genetic drift) internal to the organism are only
successful if they favour survival or reproductive success in a particular environment, i.e.
that the organism adapts to that environment. Species variation therefore results from the
‘best fit’ of these random biological innovations into differing, pre-existent environments.
An implication of adaptationist evolutionary thinking is that the situations now
dominant are those that are the ‘fittest’ for their particular environment. 9 The theoretical
7
See Wilson, E. O., Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge, New York: Knopf, 1998, p. 137. For similar
examples see also Maynard Smith, J., Shaping Life: Genes, Embryos and Evolution, New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1999.
8
Lewontin, R. C., ‘Gene, Organism and Environment’, in Cycles of Contingency: Developmental Systems and
Evolution, Oyama, S., Griffiths, R. D., and Gray, P. E., (eds.), Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 2001, p. 59.
9
There is not space to discuss this further here, but there is a discussion to be had about whether ‘natural
selection’ is still appropriate to describe the situation of many species teetering on the brink of extinction.
Active hunting to extinction of species over the past 300 years as a product of human global expansion; the
10
physicist Peter Allen has modelled the process, which requires a level of ‘error-making’ in
the evolutionary process and postulated that the system operates at a sub-optimal level. He
argues that because there exists ‘apparently random or highly eccentric behaviour, which at
that time is meaningless, and on average loss-making. However, in order to maintain
adaptivity to the environment, some stochastic, risk-taking behaviour is retained by
evolution. In short, then, evolution is both driven by, and leads to microscopic diversity and
individual variability.’10 The system, (if it can be so defined) although less than optimally
efficient, apparently runs at the best level to maintain diversity.
Gould and Lewontin have spearheaded the critique of this adaptationist notion of
evolution. They argue that it is misleading for evolutionary biology to attempt to explain all
features of diversity as explicitly resulting from the adaptive process. Analogously, the
spandrels of San Marco, so ‘elaborate, harmonious and purposeful’, are not claimed to be
the cause of the surrounding architecture.11 This is because the adaptationist notion of
evolution understands speciation, or phylogenesis, through the metaphor of problem and
solution – ‘the environment “poses the problem”; the organisms posit “solutions”, of which
the best is finally “chosen”. The organism proposes; the environment disposes.’ 12
Lewontin’s counter-proposal argues that instead of evolution being viewed as an essentially
adaptive process, whereby organisms mutate, develop and survive in response to their
environment, it is better conceptualised as a process of construction. ‘Genes, organisms and
environments are in reciprocal interaction with each other in such a way that each is both
cause and effect’.13 ‘Environments’ and ecological ‘niches’ that are so perfectly suited to
every variant of biological life do not simply exist extrinsically from the organisms that
inhabit them: they are created by the animal themselves ‘as a consequence of their own life
activities.’14 The environment of an organism is determined by what that organism finds
relevant: ‘organisms do not adapt to their environments; they construct them out of the bits

present anomalous dominance of our own species, and the transformation or destruction of various
environments by humans is actively obstructing the ability of other organisms that share our environment to
‘evolve’. Can it really be argued that these animals, birds, fish, plants, and human societies that are now
extinct simply did not ‘adapt’ quickly enough to their changing environment?
10
Allen, P. M., ‘Modelling innovation and change’, in Van der Leeuw, S. E., and R. Torrence, eds., What's
New?: A Closer Look at the Process of Innovation, One World Archaeology, London: Unwin Hyman, 1989,
p. 271.
11
Gould, S. J., and Lewontin, R. C., ‘The Spandrels of San Marco and the Panglossian Paradigm: A Critique
of the Adaptationist Programme’, in Proceedings of the Royal Society of London. Series B, Biological
Sciences, Vol. 205, no. 1161, The Evolution of Adaptation by Natural Selection, 1979, pp. 581-598.
12
Lewontin, ‘Gene’, p. 60.
13
Lewontin, ‘Gene’, p. 61.
14
Lewontin, ‘Gene’, p. 64.
11
and pieces of the external world.’15 In this conception of evolution by natural selection,
change is not simply a response to external, uncontrollable factors. The oppressive notion
of ‘best fit’ is sidelined: evolution becomes a mutually constructive dialectic between
organism and its environment.

Evolution and cultural change

These approaches and critiques in biology are relevant here, because the paradigm of
‘natural selection’ has been frequently used in discussion and analysis of the processes of
cultural change. Boyd and Richerson have developed the view that culture is a part of
biology, defining culture as ‘the information affecting [their] phenotype acquired by
individuals by imitation or teaching’.16 Culture is seen as an inherited system, and cultural
variation is then the result of either errors of repetition (as in random genetic mutation),
active imitation (a process that cannot exist in genetic evolution); or systematic change,
including guided variation (where an inherited system is modified by an individual in light
of their own experience), and bias (either direct, because the individual has a number of
options to choose from; or indirect, where a choice is made because it links to another
individual who is being used as a model for something else).
Boyd and Richerson conclude that both guided variation and direct bias are often
relatively weak factors in explaining change, and that imitation rather than learning is
responsible for much change in cultural traits. They argue that indirect bias is largely
responsible for propagating cultural traits, in a similar way to natural selection – ‘it seems
likely that individuals characterized by some cultural variants will be more likely to survive
or attain social positions that cause them to be imitated than individuals characterized by
other variants. When this is true, natural selection will increase the frequency of those
variants.’17 Observation and imitation of successful individuals can lead to these
characteristics being ‘locked-in’ and propagated, leading to diversity and ‘runaway traits’
similar to that of sexual selection in animals. This echoes the wave-of-advance model,
describing the spread of advantageous genes through a population, where any trait that

15
Lewontin, ‘Gene’, p. 64.
16
Boyd, R., and Richerson, P. J., Culture and the Evolutionary Process, Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1985, p. 283.
17
Boyd and Richerson, Culture, p. 285.
12
exists alongside the advantageous one is carried along with it, regardless of intrinsic
superiority: described as ‘cultural hitchhiking’.18
Shennan points out that biologists and evolutionary theorists have been concerned
with ‘how cultural traditions are handed on and modified through time’, in other words,
with the conditioning of people into a cultural environment through learning. In a similar
way, social theorists such as Bourdieu and Giddens have argued for the creation of a
‘habitus,’ of an environment as the daily production and reproduction of the
‘institutionalized practices of their society.’19 Shennan concludes that a combination of
Boyd and Richerson’s emphasis on cultural transmission with Giddens’ aim of explaining
how societies persist across time and space provides ‘a justification for the long-standing
archaeological assumption that it is change and not stability which needs explaining’.20
In archaeology in particular, material culture operates ‘precisely as an endogenously
generated transmissible environment […] channelling future decisions in particular
directions and acting as a source of cultural transmission, in addition to, and conditioning,
the imitation and teaching/learning processes’.21 This view of the evolution of culture and
ideas correlates usefully with the constructionist argument in biology: that culture and
environment are locked into a mutually creative process.22

Understanding the processes of change

Theories of cultural evolution provide a link between micro-scale action and macro-scale
social properties. Shennan, summarising the argument of Harre,23 writes that ‘for social
change to occur, small-scale changes must spread through populations and a Darwinist
perspective provides an appropriate way of viewing this.’ It is the processes by which
18
Ackland, G. J., Signitzer, M., Stratford, K., Cohen, M. H., ‘Cultural hitchhiking on the wave of advance of
beneficial technologies’, in PNAS, vol. 104, no. 21, 2007, pp. 8714-8719.
19
Shennan, S., ‘Cultural Transmission and Cultural Change’, in Van der Leeuw, S. E., and R. Torrence, eds.,
What's New?: A Closer Look at the Process of Innovation, One World Archaeology, London: Unwin Hyman,
1989, p. 332, using Bourdieu, P., Outline of a Theory of Practice, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1977, and Giddens, A., The Constitution of Society, Cambridge: Polity Press, 1984.
20
Shennan, ‘Transmission’, p. 339.
21
Shennan, ‘Transmission’, p. 342.
22
It should be noted that Richard Dawkins coined the term ‘meme’ to describe the way that ideas propagate
via human consciousness, likening the process to that of genetic propagation through organisms over
generations. The theory has come under considerable attack from various angles, and will not be discussed
here because the emphasis of the theory is on the ‘memetic value’ of the idea itself, rather than on the process
by which it is transmitted. Dawkins, R., The Selfish Gene, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976, p. 189-201.
23
Shennan, ‘Transmission’, p. 342, using Harre, R., Social Being, Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1979.
13
social change occurs – the spread of the small-scale changes through populations – that is
the focus of this thesis.
The theory of emergence in the natural and physical sciences is also concerned with
this link between micro and macro: but the emphasis of the theory is on the process by
which this occurs. The mainstay of emergence is that complex phenomena result from
relatively simple inputs. Emergent behaviour basically describes the self-organising
properties of systems, and the resulting ‘collective action’.
It is a given that any innovation must both be determined by and possess an inherent
value within the context in which it was developed. The structure of the environment
determines and limits both the nature of the innovation itself and how profoundly the
innovation will spread. It is the inherited, vertical aspect of the culture that determines the
nature of an innovation, and it is the environment, or the connectivity of the network, the
horizontal aspect, that determines that innovation’s propagation.

Innovation, Change and Network Theory

Understanding how the structure of the environment in which an innovation happens can
determine the profundity of its transmission is key to understanding why some innovations
are successful, and others fail. By conceiving an environment as a network, a space
characterised by interconnected nodes, whose interconnections have the ability to affect
each other, it is possible to analyse success or failure without sole recourse to a value
judgement of the nature of the innovation itself.
There is a vast body of literature on network theory, especially in physics and
sociology. In sociology, ‘network’ has been used to describe ‘the structure of a society
through abstracting from the concrete population and its behaviour the pattern or network
(or ‘system’) of relationships between actors in their capacity of playing roles relative to
one another’.24 The term is developed to include ‘the further linkage of the links themselves
and the important consequence that, what happens so-to-speak between one pair of ‘knots’,

24
Nadel, S. F., The Theory of Social Structure, London: Cohen & West Ltd, 1957 p. 12, quoting Parsons, T.,
Essays in Sociological Theory, pure and applied, Glencoe, Ill: Free Press, 1949, p. 34.
14
must affect what happens between other adjacent ones.’25 It is the change in perspective
afforded by studying interconnectedness that gives the theory its weight: how and why
information travels across the network is a result of the connections, not just of the
individual nodes.
Advances in computing technology and the potential of in silico modelling have to a
large extent driven the rapid development of network theory by mathematicians and
physicists, who have applied the principles to a huge range of subjects, both social and non-
social. What follows here is an overview of the key mathematical ideas: ‘phase transition’ –
the sudden dramatic shift from one network state to another; the ‘small-world’ network,
made up of clusters interlocking with each other through weak and strong ties; the ‘short
path-length’ property of the small-world network which allows any two individuals to
connect relatively easily; and ‘power laws’, where certain nodes are hubs in the network.
The sociological theory of the diffusion of innovations and the relationship of individual
thresholds with regard to innovation are shown to be central to the process of ‘information
cascade’: the success (or failure) of a particular innovation.

Phase transition
Network theory in mathematics derives from random graph theory. Mathematicians have
long known that on a randomly connected network a ‘phase transition’ between
disconnection and connection occurs – when the network is connected enough for most of
the nodes to have joined up into clusters, with a few interconnecting links between the
clusters – through the addition of a relatively small number of new links. The result is the
joining of these isolated groups into one interconnected cluster, known as the ‘giant
component’.26 The network undergoes a dramatic and sudden leap from one state to the
other. Physical examples of phase transition include the magnetisation of iron molecules, or
the freezing of water. What the giant component does is allow communications across the
whole network; i.e. when a network is not connected by the giant component, events are
only felt locally. Absence of centrality is associated with phase transition and is vital to

25
Nadel, Social Structure, p. 16.
26
The ‘normal component’ is the term for the set of nodes to which a node belongs, i.e. its ‘cluster’, which
nodes it is linked to. See Watts, D. J., Six Degrees: The Science of a Connected Age, New York: Norton,
2003, p. 45-6.
15
understanding the spread of information across networks. No single molecule causes a
piece of iron to magnetise. It is a decentralised, ‘emergent’ process.
Small events, behavioural switches, and individual choices percolate through the
system and can lead to widespread change, and they could come from anywhere. Far from
the centre determining the action on a network, the centre is created by that action. Watts
states that ‘the network centrality of individuals, or any centrality for that matter, would tell
us little or nothing about the outcome, because the centre emerges only as a consequence of
the event itself.’27

Small worlds, short paths and overlaps

But randomly connected graphs or networks are not representative of the real world. Social
networks are by nature neither entirely regular nor entirely random: they are made up of
close-knit (regular) clusters, formed by geography, religion, family and so on, intersected
by long-distance (random) links, for example, somebody with whom nobody else in the
cluster has any contact. This is known as a ‘small-world’ network. 28 As would be expected,
the occurrence of close-knit communities – the clustering of neighbouring nodes – is more
frequent than the occurrence of long distance connections. The long distance connections
are then the links that transgress the boundaries of a local cluster, becoming shortcuts to
other clusters in the network. It is a global network phenomenon that arises from local
network interactions: the ‘small-world’ has a ‘short path length’ (i.e. direct access) to other
clusters and individuals.
A short path in a social network can be either a ‘weak’ or ‘strong’ tie, where
‘strength’ and ‘weakness’ refer only to the fidelity of the connection. Strength of an
interpersonal tie was defined by Granovetter as ‘a combination of the amount of time, the
emotional intensity, the intimacy (mutual confiding), and reciprocal services’.29 ‘Weak’ ties
are therefore ties without these characteristics, representative of indirect or random
contacts. They act as low fidelity ‘bridges’ between different groups, and ‘the fewer
indirect contacts one has the more encapsulated he will be in terms of knowledge of the

27
Watts, Degrees, p. 53.
28
Watts, D., and Strogatz, S. H., ‘Collective dynamics of ‘small world’ networks’, Nature, vol. 393, 1998.
29
Granovetter. M., ‘The Strength of Weak Ties’, AJS, vol. 78, no. 6, 1973, p. 1361.
16
world beyond his own friendship circle’. 30 Where ‘strong’ ties breed local cohesion, which
can ‘lead to overall fragmentation’31 – i.e. groups become too inward looking and therefore
separate from other groups, converse to their name, Granovetter observed ‘weak’ ties to be
extremely powerful at facilitating transmission across the network. This is because they
cross network distance, (the number of nodes one has to pass through to reach the desired
node) directly accessing totally separate clusters or individuals. This ability to cross social
distance makes weak ties particularly important for certain types of diffusion in social
networks. This is especially relevant to diffusion that does not require frequent contact or
trust – for example, disease, or passing on information about new jobs. 32 These types of link
do not, however, generally exert great influence on people where fundamental issues of
change or adoption of new ideas are concerned.33
This is because, in Granovetter’s terms, most social ties are ‘strong’, and are
responsible for ‘local cohesion’. They are reflective of fundamental facets of human
identity, which can be defined (somewhat simplistically) by group membership. By
belonging (or choosing not to belong) to certain groups, people acquire aspects of identity
that drive the makeup of their social network. Most of these groups are clusters, ‘strong tie’
groups – trusted people, who may form ‘closed triads’ – the sociological term for a
situation where all three people know each other – or else have other markers of strength,
such as frequency or length of contact. 34 Socially, it is these people that form the core of an
individual’s environment, and so exert most influence on an individual when it comes to
‘complex’ transmission of ideas or information.
Mathematically however, the diffusion of information through these strong ties of a
local social network is problematic. The path length of strong ties is long, i.e. the
information must make lots of little hops through the different clusters and may take a long
time to travel from one side of the network to the other. However, empirical social network
data has shown that strong ties can still have a relatively short path length, that allow
information to pass through the strong-tie social network relatively fast: Shi et al. found
that removing the weak ties in a test case did not disconnect the network; rather, ‘the
30
Granovetter, ‘Strength’, p. 1371.
31
Granovetter, ‘Strength’, p. 1378.
32
See Granovetter, ‘Strength’; Watts, Degrees, p. 49.
33
The issue is more complex than presented here, as certain individuals – especially in the case of religious
diffusion, missionaries – who come into a community as a ‘weak’ tie may well possess a characteristic such
as great charisma, knowledge, status, or wealth which will make them more likely to be influential.
34
Shi, X., Adamic, L., Strauss, M., ‘Networks of Strong Ties’, published as arXiv:arch-ive.condmat/0605279,
at http://arxiv.org/abs/cond-mat/0605279, 2006, p. 1.
17
network sheds some nodes and shrinks modestly.’ 35
They conclude that a high-fidelity
strong-tie social network, made up of overlapping clusters, spreads information at almost
the same efficiency as the network linked together with long-distance weak ties. A
combination of the two is the most accurate representation of the real world – where both
overlaps and weak ties connect the network. Like the giant component in physics, these
connections make what is known as ‘information cascade’ – equivalent to a phase transition
– possible on a social network.

Power laws and restriction of power laws

An important development in understanding the spread of information on networks resulted
from the discovery of Reka Albert and Albert-Laszlo Barabási that instead of following a
‘normal distribution’36 when plotted graphically, many real world networks are highly
skewed.37 The majority of nodes are poorly connected, while a few have massive
connectivity (i.e. the network features people who know ‘everybody’, particular airports, or
huge cities). The resulting graph follows what is known as a ‘power law’, which represents
many small nodes coexisting with a few very large ones. Power law networks have ‘hubs’,
nodes that are disproportionately well connected.
Albert and Barabási discovered this network property by running an experiment
where the network could grow. They modelled their growing network by starting with a
small group of nodes, and added new nodes one at a time. Each new node had two links
with which it could connect to the existing network, the more ‘senior’ nodes. ‘At each
moment all nodes have an equal chance to be linked to, resulting in a clear advantage for
the senior nodes. Indeed, apart from some rare statistical fluctuations, the first nodes in
Model A will be the richest, since these nodes have had the longest time to collect links.’ 38
Their developed model showed that hubs exist because of a combination of growth and
preferential attachment, i.e. the probability of a new node joining to an existing node is
proportional to the number of links that node already has. A node attracts new links largely

35
Shi et al, ‘Strong’, p. 2.
36
The line on the graph creates a curve indicative of the rule of the average – i.e. very few nodes, if any, have
no connections, and very few nodes, if any, have an excessive number of connections.
37
Albert, R., Barabási, A.-L., ‘Statistical mechanics of complex networks’, RMP 74, 2002, pp. 47–97.
38
Barabási, A-L., Linked – the new science of networks, Cambridge, MA: Perseus, 2002, p. 83.
18
on the basis of already having links: part of the reason hubs exist is because they attract
more frequent connections.
Seniority within a network is one of the main reasons a node will become a hub, but
other aspects of identity are also factors, for example, size, wealth, reputation, location,
efficiency, or power, and all of these are essentially chance variables. The chance variables
possessed by a node weight the network, causing the ‘lock in’ of fluctuations, which
amplifies differences over time and can ossify a network into a semi-static state.
Power laws have been found to occur frequently in many real-world situations, and
are demonstrated, for example, by the distribution of wealth, or the popularity of websites.
However, human social interactions are different and far subtler than any other kinds of
networks. Primarily, the limitations of people’s social contacts and environments mean that
they cannot necessarily choose to connect with a hub. Additionally, they may not want to:
the anthropologist Michael Schnegg39 observed that reciprocity and the recollection of
beneficial past acts restrict the development of hubs and power laws in social networks.
This leads to the conclusion that in social networks, maximum utility is not as important to
most members as reciprocal altruism and being fair – as supported by biological data. 40
‘Blending reciprocity and memory into transactions reproduces networks much better
correlated to the social world’.41 This is not to say that hubs do not exist in social networks.
Rather, they exist, but their ‘hub’ status does not automatically mean they are universally
powerful in attracting links, as opposed to known nodes within a social setting, with which
there has been positive historical interaction. Hubs do however play an important role in
transmitting information over a network. In order to understand how hubs function in
different network situations, it is necessary first to discuss the processes by which
information diffuses through a network.

39
Schnegg, M., ‘Reciprocity and the Emergence of Power Laws in Social Networks’, published as
arXiv:arch-ive.physics/0603005, at http://arxiv.org/abs/physics/0603005, 2006.
40
See Dawkins, Selfish Gene, pp. 183-88.
41
Schnegg, ‘Reciprocity’, p. 8.
19
Using the network – transmitting information
Network distance – the number of steps between two nodes – is more important in
analysing information transmission than physical distance.42 Distance is not measured in
just one way however, there are many types – geographical, social, professional – every
aspect of identity can be a measure of distance. People use knowledge of the identities of
their local network to assess the best route – the ‘shortest path’ through which to spread
information – known as ‘directed search’. Stanley Milgram’s letter sending experiment43 in
the 1950s provided evidence of the existence of short paths, and also that people are very
good at finding them. The multidimensional nature of social identity means that social
barriers can often be crossed in the process of transmission of messages or ideas, and this
allows the ‘six degrees of separation’ phenomenon to work.
A ‘search’ for another node, person, group, or ‘target’, can be conducted in two
ways. First, one can conduct a broadcast search, which shows no discrimination and where
every neighbour of every node is involved (which is how disease and computer viruses
work), with the effect of saturating the system. In a power law network, this type of search
is made easier because the chances of coming across a high-degree node (i.e. a hub with
many links) are high, as ‘the neighbours of the high-degree vertices [nodes] account for a
significant fraction of all the vertices in the network. On average, therefore, we need only
go a few steps along the chain before we find a vertex with a neighbour that has the
information we are looking for.’44 Second, one can conduct a directed search, where a node
uses the information it has regarding the most suitable route in order to get to the node it
wishes to reach (the six degrees of separation method).
Viruses perform broadcast searches across the network in order to spread
themselves as far as possible. The directed search is the intelligent search, where choices
are made based upon knowledge of nodal identity. People use knowledge of the identities
of their local network to assess the best route, the shortest path along which to spread
information. If knowledge of nodal identity can be used to seek out the most powerful hub
through which to spread information, the search is likely to be even more successful.

42
However, in the ancient world, physical distance constricts network closeness in a different way to modern
networks.
43
Milgram, S., ‘The Small-World Problem’, Psychology Today, vol. 1, pp. 61-67.
44
Newman, M., ‘The structure and function of complex networks’, in SIAM Review 45, 2003, p. 45.
20
 When the nodes in a network that are ‘vulnerable’ to a particular innovation can be
linked together through this process of search, they form what is known as a ‘percolating
vulnerable cluster’. The percolating vulnerable cluster allows information to cascade across
it. It can encompass anything from a massive power failure following the sabotage of a hub,
to a fashion trend or a financial bubble. This can be rapid, as with an out-of-nowhere
success story, or slow, as with the change of societal norms.
Information cascades, like phase transition in physics, are demonstrated by the
network as a whole displaying ‘emergent’ or ‘self-organising’ behaviour: when individuals
stop acting like individuals and behave as though part of an organised group. These
cascades are self-perpetuating – picking up ‘new adherents largely on the strength of
having attracted previous ones. Hence, an initial shock can propagate throughout a very
large system, even when the shock itself is small’.45 In social networks, small shocks
happen all the time, but the pandemic, or massive information cascade is extremely rare.
The system remains, on the whole, unaffected by most innovations. Yet some sweep
through the network. Why?


Vulnerability to innovation: thresholds and neighbours

Effective diffusion occurs when the nodes that are ‘vulnerable’ to the new idea, technology
etc. are ‘found’. If we focus on the connectivity of the network rather than on the inherent
value of the innovation, then it is possible to see that the shocks that trigger cascade do not
necessarily represent superior stimuli. The success of an innovation can rather be viewed an
indication of the network structure in which it happens to land, whether the local
environment is ‘vulnerable’ or ‘stable’ with regard to that particular innovation. There are
two ways of identifying a node as vulnerable: either ‘it has a low threshold (thus, a
predisposition for change); or […] it possesses only a very few neighbours, each of which
thereby exerts significant influence’.46
When people react to an innovation, they are generally making a social decision, led
by the opinions of others when they do not have enough information to make a rational
decision themselves. People have what is known as a ‘critical threshold’ where their
opinion about something can jump abruptly from one alternative to another. If in doubt

45
Watts, Degrees, p. 206.
46
Watts, Degrees, p. 233. This distinction may be particularly pertinent in modelling religious change.
21
about a course of action, people will refer to the actions of those around them. Additionally,
people are often reluctant to deviate from their local norm, as an act of self-preservation.
‘Many people consistently opt to minimise potential risk […] by observing and emulating
the actions of others. Even where we explicitly eschew the majority, we are rarely behaving
entirely as atomistic individuals or as pure contrarians.’ 47 In some situations, an individual’s
threshold may be very high, when complete unanimity of solicited opinion is required to
cause the individual to switch their opinion about something, and even then they may not
do so. Often, however, the threshold is much lower, when there are fewer obvious
differences between alternatives. It is at this level that neighbourly influence is vital to an
individual’s decision to switch, because ‘small shocks lead to big shifts in mass behavior
only if people happen to be very close to the borderline between alternatives.’ 48 If an
individual observes enough endorsement of a particular choice by people around him, he is
likely to change, especially if those people are part of socially powerful relationships,
regarded as being of higher status, or known to have made ‘good’ decisions in the past.
These reactions are part of a problem solving mechanism, which Herbert Simon 49 in
the 1950s described as ‘bounded rationality’.50 Rational behaviour is generally considered
all human beings’ goal, but cognitive constraints and lack of access to information restrict
an individual’s ability to act completely rationally in all situations. A number of
externalities affect behaviour. These include, amongst others, coercive externalities, the
‘peer pressure’ of gangs, where beliefs alter in response to the expressed beliefs of a
majority of others, and information externalities, where a decision is constrained by access
to knowledge.
If enough people surrounding an individual endorse a particular choice, the
individual in question is likely to switch. When an individual, ‘having observed the actions
of those ahead of him, follow[s] the behavior of the preceding individual without regard to
his own information,’ 51 he/she may help trigger an information cascade. The threshold of

47
Watts, Degrees, p. 210.
48
Bikhchandani, S, Hirshleifer, D, and Welch, I, ‘A Theory of Fads, Fashion, Custom, and Cultural Change as
Informational Cascades’, in JPE, vol. 100, no. 5, 1992, p. 994.
49
Simon, H. A., ‘A Behavioral Model of Rational Choice’, in Models of Man, Social and Rational:
Mathematical Essays on Rational Human Behavior in a Social Setting, New York: Wiley, 1957.
50
Non-human network information cascades will of course not be subject to bounded rationality. Instead, the
positions of hubs in relation to the node where the innovation (e.g. power failure) hits will be central to the
model.
51
Bikhchandani et al, ‘Theory of Fads’, p. 994.
22
individuals, their susceptibility to innovation, is central to understanding information
cascades in social networks.

Innovation: theory of adoption

There are differing degrees of susceptibility to innovation within a population. The variance
in thresholds creates a normal distribution, the graph pattern discussed above in relation to
power laws. There is a particular point on the graph that forms the core of diffusion, the
‘tipping point’:52 ‘from 10 percent adoption to 20 percent adoption is the heart of the
diffusion process. After that point, it is often impossible to stop the further diffusion of a
new idea, even if one wished to do so.’ 53 Within a population, there will be a number of
different types of person, displaying differing degrees of susceptibility to innovation, and
this will be subject to change depending on the nature of the innovation. In the 1960s,
Rogers, in his discussion of the adoption of technological and organisational innovation,
identified five groups in the population that have became the standard definitions for
degrees of susceptibility.54
Innovators. This group forms the first 2.5 percent of the population.55 Their main
characteristic is adventurousness. ‘Interest in new ideas leads them out of a local circle of
peer networks and into more cosmopolite social relationships. Communication patterns and
friendships among a clique of innovators are common, even though the geographical
distance between the innovators may be considerable. […] Control of substantial financial
resources is helpful to absorb the possible losses from an unprofitable innovation. The
ability to understand and apply complex technical knowledge is also needed. The innovator

52
See Gladwell, M., The Tipping Point, Great Britain: Abacus, 2000, which explores the phenomenon in
various social situations.
53
Rogers, E., Diffusion of Innovations, fourth edition, New York: Free Press, 1995, p. 259.
54
These categories and social characteristics are drawn from mainly modern case studies. There are some
important differences that should be highlighted if they are to be applied effectively to past societies. Aside
from obvious differences such as speed of communication and widespread permeation of the media, it is
worth questioning some aspects of the status of innovators: for example, financial independence, or
involvement in non-geographically based friendship circles. Intercommunication between local communities
might be a more useful model to think about for antiquity, as might patronage of innovators by elites, or at
least, technological innovation as an indicator of prestige. However, aside from these minor points, it seems
reasonable to assume that the categories are broadly applicable to past society, although identification of early
adopting individuals, for example, may prove difficult. An exception would be the apostle Paul, whose
manipulation of his own networks and active missions make him a clear opinion leader. See introduction to
Barabási, A-L, Linked.
55
For a discussion of the method used for the percentage divisions, see Rogers, Innovations, p. 262.
23
must be able to cope with a high degree of uncertainty about an innovation at the time of
adoption. […] While an innovator may not be respected by the other members of a local
system, the innovator plays an important role in the diffusion process: that of launching the
new idea in the system by importing the innovation from outside of the system’s
boundaries.’56
Early adopters. This group forms the next 13.5 percent. Of all categories, early
adopters are the most respected by their peer groups. They ‘are a more integrated part of the
local social system than are innovators. […] This adopter category, more than any other,
has the greatest degree of opinion leadership in most systems. Potential adopters look to
early adopters for advice and information about an innovation. […] This adopter category is
generally sought by change agents as a local missionary for speeding the diffusion process.
Because early adopters are not too far ahead of the average individual in innovativeness,
they serve as a role model for many other members of a social system.’ Early adopters help
trigger the critical mass when they adopt an innovation.57
Early majority. This category forms the next 34 percent of the population. They are
deliberators, and adopt an innovation just before the rest of the system. ‘The early majority
interact frequently with their peers, but seldom hold positions of opinion leadership in a
system. The early majority’s unique position between the very early and the relatively late
to adopt makes them an important link in the diffusion process. They provide
interconnectedness in the system’s interpersonal networks. [They] may deliberate for some
time before completely adopting a new idea.’58
Late majority. This group makes up the next 34 percent of the population. They are
sceptical about the new. They ‘adopt new ideas just after the average member of a system.
[…] Adoption may be both an economic necessity for the late majority and the result of
increasing network pressures from peers. […] The weight of system norms must definitely
favor an innovation before the late majority are convinced. The pressure of peers is
necessary to motivate adoption.’59
Laggards. The final group makes up the last 16 percent. They are the traditionalists.
‘They possess almost no opinion leadership. Laggards are the most localite in their outlook
of all adopter categories: many are near-isolates in the social networks of their system. The

56
Rogers, Innovations, p. 263-4.
57
Rogers, Innovations, p. 264.
58
Rogers, Innovations, p. 264-5.
59
Rogers, Innovations, p. 265.
24
point of reference for the laggard is the past. Decisions are often made in terms of what has
been done previously, and these individuals interact primarily with others who also have
relatively traditional values. Laggards tend to be suspicious of innovations and of change
agents. Their innovation-decision process is relatively lengthy, with adoption and use
lagging far behind awareness-knowledge of a new idea.’60
This schematic model needs some modification if it is to correspond to real
situations. In reality innovators and laggards form part of a continuous scale from
awareness to adoption, suggesting that the percentages are really only rough guides, and the
categories may need modification to apply to innovations in ideologies and beliefs. Many
factors affect an individual’s position on the scale, including age, education, environment,
class, gender, religion and financial and social status. It may also be that an individual will
occupy different categories in different situations, and depending on the nature of the
innovation. People also have varying degrees of trust in different sources of information.
Rogers generalised the characteristics of adopter categories under three headings:
socioeconomic status, personality values, and communication behaviour.
Socioeconomically, some of the characteristics of earlier adopters were better education
and higher social status – measured by variables such as income, occupational prestige, or
identification with a social class. In personality, they were less likely to have a relatively
closed belief system, a greater ability to deal with abstractions, greater rationality and
intelligence, the capacity to cope with uncertainty, a more favourable attitude towards
science, and higher aspirations. In communication terms, they were likely to have more
social participation, to be more highly interconnected through interpersonal networks that
reached beyond the local system, to have more contact with change agents, and to have a
higher degree of opinion leadership.

Innovators and opinion leaders

Rogers set out the division between ‘innovator’ and ‘early adopter. The innovator may be
an outsider, with stronger links to an extra-community world, perhaps something of a social
isolate within his geographical environment. The early adopter is by contrast tightly
enmeshed in the local community, and an opinion leader held in high regard by its
60
Rogers, Innovations, p. 265.
25
members. Layton61 responded by observing that: ‘in setting up a rather rigid set of analytic
categories, Rogers takes the (anthropological) observer’s position as a constant. Actors are
classified according to the extent that their responsiveness to innovation is in advance of, or
behind, that of the modal member of the population. Rogers, however, point out that the
judgement of an observer within that population will depend on the observer’s own
responsiveness to new traits.’ In other words, a person’s position is relational, both in their
own opinion and that of others. For example, some members of the community might class
an individual (positively or negatively) as an innovator; others might define the same
person as an opinion leader.
Layton observed that it is ‘those individuals who are the first to adopt innovations
who are of prime importance. They act both as a bridge and a buffer between their fellow
villagers and the outside world by bringing detailed knowledge of innovations into that
community’.62 The innovators must be connected to early adopters – opinion leaders – if the
innovation is to spread, let alone cause a cascade. Rogers observed that opinion leaders
were ‘not people at the top of things so much as people at the edge of things, not leaders
within groups so much as brokers between groups’.63 They are the strong-tie overlaps. They
must also be socially accessible, i.e. have greater social participation than those who follow
their opinions.
Finding and using the connectivity of opinion leaders is the most effective way to
spread information through a network. The interconnectedness of innovators to early
adopters, and of early adopters to the rest of the population can also be described
mathematically. This will help to illuminate the differences between types of information
cascade, and the ways people adopt innovations.

Boundaries, cascade, and cascade ‘failure’

The process of informational cascade relies on two related factors: vulnerability, which can
be either ‘inherent’ to the identity of the node, i.e. being an early adopter, or couched in
terms of neighbourly influence; and connectedness, the ability to transmit information to
61
Layton, R., ‘Pellaport’, in Van der Leeuw, S. E., and R. Torrence, eds., What's New?: A Closer Look at the
Process of Innovation, One World Archaeology, London: Unwin Hyman, 1989, p. 48.
62
Layton, ‘Pellaport’, p. 50-1.
63
Rogers, Innovations, (fifth edition) p. 317, quoting Burt, R. S., ‘The Social Capital of Opinion Leaders’, in
The ANNALS of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, vol. 566, no. 1, 1999, p. 37.
26
lots of other nodes. Watts uses the term ‘critical upper degree’ to describe a node’s
boundary between maintaining the status quo and adopting the innovation. ‘If a node has
more neighbours than its critical upper degree, then it will be stable with respect to single
neighbour influences, and if not, it will be vulnerable. Variability of degree – our
observation […] that some people have more friends or simply solicit more opinions than
others – is therefore central to the stability of individuals and consequently to the dynamics
of cascades.’64
An innovation can only spread if the innovators are connected to unstable nodes,
equivalent to early adopters: in Watts’ model, these are nodes that will switch ‘on’ if they
have one active neighbour. The more early adopters there are in a population, the more
likely the innovation is to cascade. ‘The larger the connected cluster of early adopters in
which the innovation lands, the further it will spread. If the vulnerable cluster that is ‘hit’
by an innovation (that is, the cluster containing an innovator) happens to percolate through
the whole network, then the innovation will trigger a global cascade.’ 65 It is this, the
‘percolating vulnerable cluster’ of unstable nodes that makes global information cascades
possible.
In mathematics, nodes are more stable the more neighbours they have – because
they are less likely to be influenced into adopting by just one of them. So a highly
connected node – a hub – will be the most stable in a network. By definition, stable nodes
cannot be included in a vulnerable cluster, so that in mathematics, the ‘vulnerable cluster
needs to percolate effectively in the absence of the most-connected nodes in the network’. 66
This is deeply counter-intuitive, as it would be expected that the hubs in a system to be the
most useful to the percolation process. This paradox will be examined further below.
Mathematically, cascades fail to occur for three reasons. First, if no node’s
threshold is low enough. In such cases, this might represent no ‘need’ for the innovation, or
the innovation does not persuade. Second, if the network is not sufficiently connected. A
disconnected network is vulnerable to innovation, but does not percolate fully; therefore the
innovation is unable to spread beyond the initial area. Third, if it is too well connected. In
this case the majority of nodes are stable because of neighbourly influence and so, even
though the network percolates fully, it cannot form a vulnerable cluster. This analysis
creates two boundaries within which information cascades can occur – the lower boundary,
64
Watts, Degrees, p. 234
65
Watts, Degrees, p. 235-6.
66
Watts, Degrees, p. 237.
27
below which the nodes have too few neighbours, and the upper boundary, above which the
nodes have become too densely connected.67
Full network cascades only happen if the innovation activates the vulnerable cluster
of highly connected nodes near the upper boundary, where the network around the cluster is
locally stable. The percolating vulnerable cluster is tightly integrated with the rest of the
network here, and so initially stable nodes will be exposed to multiple early adopters,
causing them to activate. These prerequisites are difficult to achieve, making the upper
boundary cascade very rare, but when an innovation does activate the vulnerable cluster
here, the high connectivity means the entire network will follow and global cascade occurs.
It is important to note that because upper boundary nodes are so well connected, it follows
also that ‘cascades are almost as likely to be triggered by an individual with an average
number of neighbours as someone to whom many people pay attention […] being simply
well-connected is less important than being connected to individuals who can be influenced
easily.’68
This means that to spread information at the upper boundary, network connectivity
is not as important as being connected to individuals with a low threshold. Conversely,
because nodes at the lower boundary are vulnerable to neighbourly influence, ‘highly
connected individuals are disproportionately effective in propagating social contagion.’69
This fits better with diffusion of innovation theory, which classes early adopters – opinion-
leaders with both long distance links and high social integration – as the most effective
promoters of new ideas or technology. There is an important difference between how
cascades happen at the two different boundaries: lower boundary cascades, i.e., partial
cascades, are therefore much more frequent than upper boundary cascades.

Problems and ways forward

There are a number of issues to be addressed when thinking about cascade across social
networks as opposed to mathematical network models. First of all, why are highly
connected nodes not effective at the upper boundary too? It has been shown that there are

67
See Watts, Degrees, p. 237-8.
68
Watts, Degrees, p. 243. This could aid understanding of how cults propagate, through deliberate ‘search’
for individuals with low thresholds or few friends to keep them ‘stable’.
69
Watts, Degrees, p. 240.
28
two types of cascade – lower boundary, where hubs play a central role in diffusion, and
upper boundary, where hubs are too inherently stable to be effective transmitters. This may
make sense mathematically, and perhaps works in some network examples, but it is socially
paradoxical. Early adopters, who by definition are respected opinion-leaders, are likely to
be well-connected nodes, possibly even a local hub, and certainly personalities who provide
overlaps between groups. In real terms, these well-connected individuals represent the most
effective way of spreading information. It is difficult to see how an innovation can spread
on a social network without these nodes being involved, regardless of their mathematical
stability.
This problem arises partly because identity has for simplicity’s sake been left out of
the mathematics. The node with many links may be regarded as active or passive (and this
could change depending on the situation) – in other words, social connections can run in
different directions: the node can be initiating the connection, or be being connected to.
Sometimes this will be a mutual relationship, but active and passive links need to be
distinguished in the developed model of social cascades. The frequency of the interaction,
and its fidelity, must be considered in the theorisation of diffusion in social networks: there
is connective directionality and asymmetry as well as variance in values of different group
participations.
How is the success or failure of an innovation judged? Is it by the time taken for an
innovation to be accepted, a general depth of understanding, or legitimisation by a social
leader; or is an innovation only to be counted as successful if it becomes the ‘norm’?
Additionally, it must also be asked how the new information is converted into knowledge
that is trusted and applied, not simply possessed.
The missing third link in the diffusive chain, the early majority – central to the
legitimisation of an innovation – has been left out of the mathematical model.
Mathematically, the network does not explain the legitimisation process – it ignores it by
making the stable nodes all identical, simply switching under the collective pressure of
being connected to many early adopters. Socially, this is not the case. Understanding
legitimisation is central to understanding how innovations go from being small pockets of
adoption to being cascades of information.
Perhaps this suggests that is not viable to talk about upper boundary, full network
cascades when thinking about the transmission of certain types of innovations across social
networks. Perhaps there are no ‘universal’ innovations, that apply to all human beings in all
29
societies: what actually happens is that ‘full’ network cascades can exist only in closed
networks – societies and groups where a particular norm will be in operation. Furthermore,
there is a distinction to be drawn between technological and ideological innovations and
their differing abilities to percolate fully across a network: technology can be empirically
tested, and religious belief cannot.

Spreading religious innovation: horizontal and vertical transmission

As noted by the cultural evolutionists in the earlier part of this chapter, information spreads
along both horizontal and vertical axes. Horizontal transmission refers to the imitative
process, by which Boyd and Richerson suggest much of cultural change occurs; whereas
vertical transmission requires a depth of knowledge and experience, for instance through
conditioned learning,70 the culture inherited from parents and lived environment. An
individual’s religious environment is generally inherited.
There are two separate cases to be considered with regard to religious innovation:
first, the generation of a new religious movement, and second, the adoption of an
established religious movement by new worshippers. The generation of a novel religious
movement might well result from horizontal ‘imitation’, but it will naturally ossify into a
format with a vertical transmission process, in much the same way as a genetic mutation
might be inherited and passed on through natural selection. The conversion to a religious
movement, whether recently or immemorially established, is a more complex process, and
it is this subject that the next chapter will seek to address.

Chapter 2.

Theoretical framework II: sociology of religion

Religious Innovation & Conversion.

70
See Knappett, C., Thinking Through Material Culture: an interdisciplinary perspective, Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005.
30
Introduction

This chapter moves the discussion of change specifically back into the sphere of religion,
and investigates the processes of innovation, adoption and diffusion as they are understood
in sociological terms. Sociological research into the processes of conversion found in
modern religious movements forms a more grounded counterpoint to the abstracted theories
explored in the previous chapter. The core theory of this chapter is the work of the
sociologist of religion Rodney Stark and his various co-authors, supplemented by re-
assessments, critiques and clarifications of their ideas and observations.
The central point of the chapter is that sociologists of religion can go some way to
explaining the processes of religious conversion (or ‘recruitment’) and the success or
failure of a religious movement through an analysis of social interactions. Stark and
Bainbridge71 have shown that although aspects of social status and background are
important to an individual’s general receptiveness to new religious movements, it is their
social contacts – their network – which are crucial to an individual’s actual recruitment to a
new religious organisation. ‘The basis for successful conversionist movements is growth
through social networks, through a structure of direct and intimate interpersonal contacts.
Most new religious movements fail because they quickly become closed, or semiclosed
networks. […] Successful movements discover techniques for remaining open networks,
able to reach out and into new adjacent social networks.’72 This does not mean that the
values of the religious movement are irrelevant, rather that an analysis that combines
understanding the ideology and the social system gives a more rounded picture of the
spread, success or failure of religious movements.
This is essentially the same logic as that of the network theories explored in the
previous chapter. Rather than assuming the superior quality of a religious stimulus that
proves to be successful as a given factor, recruitment to religious groups and their success
should be understood as a social process: the ‘direct and intimate’ contacts in people’s
social networks – the strong ties – drive religious change. Understanding religious
innovation and conversion from this perspective does not pass judgement on the ‘truth’ or

71
Stark, R., and Bainbridge, W. S., Theory of Religion, New York: Peter Lang, 1987.
72
Stark, R., The Rise of Christianity, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1996, p. 20.
31
beneficial qualities of the ideology, it instead engages with the social aspects of why
humans believe and why they change what they believe. This approach attempts to give a
more ‘objective’ explanation for why some religious movements succeed and some fail.
The ideology of a religion will always be part of the explanation for a movement’s success
in recruitment and growth. However, regardless of the persuasiveness of an ideology, or the
transcendence of a vision, ‘conversion’ does not happen in a social vacuum.
An overview of the theories pertaining to the creation and development of religious
organisations, the social environments, character and operations of church, cult and sect
movements, and the processes of conversion (or recruitment) to these movements are
discussed first. Following this, the trajectories of religious movements are examined, before
the chapter ends by outlining some of the issues that need to be considered in the
application of modern sociological theory to antiquity, namely, the differences between
monotheist and polytheist environments as spaces in which religious innovation and
conversion can happen.

The Creation of Religion: the Stark-Bainbridge model

In the late 1980s, Stark and Bainbridge formulated their controversial scientific theory of
religion based upon the rational-choice economic system of rewards, costs, and
compensators. It is a formal deductive theory of human action, based upon axioms and the
propositions that can be logically derived from those axioms. The knowledge of the
inevitability of death is at the heart of the theory, which they claim leads almost universally
to the creation of the ultimate unobtainable religious reward: eternal life. They argue for a
progressive ‘evolution’ of religion from magic to polytheism to monotheism, deducing that
over time, economic exchange mechanisms lead to gods of larger and larger scope, until
monotheism, or more specifically a duality between good and evil, emerges as a logical
conclusion. From this, they argue, come religions that do not provide specific
compensators. These ‘may run their course until God vanishes completely’, 73 and
secularisation is the end result.

73
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 112.
32
 The theory has received not a small amount of criticism. As with any economic
model, it is essentially reductionist. Some of the major issues with this conception of the
creation and development of religion need to be outlined. First, it comes from a positivist
standpoint, since it assumes that there exists a causal, non-random relationship between
social phenomena. Specific social situations consistently account for the appearance of
social phenomena, which are assumed to be universal. 74 Second, a quintessentially
American, capitalist perspective underpins the theory: the central notion is that actors are
‘constantly on the prowl for rewards and never seized with the notion that there are, in
principle, insurmountable social obstacles to achieving rewards. Should rewards not be
achieved, the actor does not retreat to a dark corner of the society and hatch a plot to
overthrow the system.’75 Rewards are distributed unevenly throughout society, and this is
largely determined by the personal characteristics of the actors. Third, the theory rests on
the presupposition inherent in rational-choice theory: that ‘rational’ beliefs and actions
always display logical consistency and are explained by reasons, whereas ‘irrational’
beliefs and actions are inconsistent and require explanation by causes.76 The observer
cannot distinguish between the rational or irrational beliefs internal to the actor that drive
an action: to the actor themselves, the action they choose to make is rational. When an actor
is called to defend an action that is ‘radically at variance with prevailing beliefs’, the
legitimisations chosen for it will bring the action into compatibility with the environment. 77
The reductionism of the theory also ignores the special status of religious belief within
conventional discourse and rationality. The belief in a higher power, which is beyond
rational explanation, means that religious activity is not subject to the same rules and does
not conform to the same patterns as other forms of behaviour. With other forms of activity,
for example, economic behaviour, if a certain course of action is unproductive, we abandon
it in favour of something else, whereas this is not the case in religious situations, for
example, the increase in prayer in times of distress, even though those prayers are
unanswered.78 Finally, the authors freely use the concept of ‘evolution’ to describe the

74
Simpson, J. H., ‘The Stark-Bainbridge Theory of Religion’, in JSSR, vol. 29, no. 3, 1990, p. 367-371.
75
Simpson, ‘Theory of Religion’, p. 371.
76
Wallis, R., and Bruce, S., Sociological Theory, Religion and Collective Action, Chapter Two, ‘Accounting
for Action: Defending the common sense heresy’, Northern Ireland: The Queen’s University of Belfast, 1986,
p. 16.
77
Wallis and Bruce, Theory, p. 18.
78
See Phillips, D. Z., Religion Without Explanation, Oxford: Blackwell, 1976, which offers a thorough
philosophical critique of attempts to rationalise religious behaviour by reducing it to conform with patterns of
secular activity.
33
process of religious development. Although they do recognize that this process can be
reversed, for example, following societal upheaval, the term is used without acknowledging
the (commonly misconceived) inherent value-claims of superiority, and the notion of
‘competition’ that evolution entails.
The modernist-atheist notion at the core of Stark and Bainbridge’s theory is that
religion is not sui generis and therefore cannot be accounted for on its own terms. Although
there are many issues that can be raised about the political and philosophical standpoints
from which the theory is generated, there are nevertheless many useful observations and
conclusions that are drawn about the social processes that influence the development and
success of religious movements. This first section gives a brief outline of the general
theory, before moving the discussion to the more relevant specifics of social tension,
recruitment to cults and sects, and the social interactions that are fundamental to this
process.

Rewards and Costs

The starting point of A Theory of Religion is that ‘humans seek what they perceive to be
rewards and avoid what they perceive to be costs’ 79 and that the human mind naturally
seeks explanations for how and why rewards may be obtained and costs are incurred. Stark
and Bainbridge propose that generally, it is fairly easy to find a successful explanation and
to solve the problem of obtaining a desired reward, but that sometimes, rewards are in
limited supply, and some, e.g. eternal life, do not exist at all. 80 They argue that many
rewards have a temporary nature and are destroyed when they are used, i.e. they are
consumed, and so must be acquired again and again. This leads to the exchange of rewards,
and therefore, the assumption that high exchange ratios are sought. Their final axiom is that
‘individual and social attributes which determine power are unequally distributed among
persons and groups in any society.’81 Although this has an inherent capitalist perspective, it
is generally true that a series of exchanges can result in asymmetry over time. It is used as
the basis for a series of propositions.

79
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 27
80
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 31
81
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 32
34
Power is the degree of control an individual has over their exchange ratio, based upon
various aspects of their inherited, achieved or ascribed statuses. Stark and Bainbridge
observe that ‘rewards that exist only in limited supply are particularly susceptible to the
exercise of power’ – and that as a consequence of higher exchange ratios, these rewards
will be likely to end up in the hands of those who are socially powerful and not of those
who are weak.82 The powerful then acquire a monopoly over rewards whose supply is
limited, and those rewards become less available to others. People are willing to pay high
costs for rewards that they desire greatly.
A difficulty arises from the axiom that states that certain rewards are in short supply
or may not exist at all. How do people assess this possibility? Stark and Bainbridge propose
that sometimes it is impossible to be certain that a reward does not exist; and that ‘when a
desired reward is relatively unavailable, explanations that promise to provide it are costly
and difficult to evaluate correctly’; and that ‘the more valued or general a reward, the more
difficult will be evaluation of explanations about how to obtain it.’ Explanations that set
limited time on the appearance of the reward are likely to be invalidated, which leads to the
next proposition, ‘in the absence of a desired reward, explanations often will be accepted
which posit attainment of the reward in the distant future or in some other non-verifiable
context.’83 These propositions set out to explain why people often continue to follow a set
course of action, even when they are incorrect or unproven. This explanation does not take
account of the fact that people may simply be operating at a level of normalcy within their
cultural framework and may involve a misapprehension of what is ‘rational’ or ‘irrational’
nature in specific religious belief systems.

Compensators
Stark and Bainbridge argue that ‘compensators’ are invented as a way to substitute for the
strongly desired reward: they are both a promise of a future reward and an explanation for
how to achieve it, and as such they are treated and exchanged as if they were rewards. Stark
and Bainbridge make the assumption that humans will always prefer rewards to
compensators, and will try to exchange compensators for rewards.84
82
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 33.
83
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 35.
84
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 37.
35
 From this, Stark and Bainbridge introduce religion. They argue from their series of
axioms and propositions that religion is a naturally emerging phenomenon across all human
societies. Their general compensators, those that act as substitutes for clusters of rewards,
or for rewards of great scope or value, can be ‘supported only by supernatural
explanations.’ Such general compensators are sought to explain the many questions that
humans have about their lives and sufferings. Some of these difficult questions require a
supernatural answer, because with ‘why’ questions, one is either condemned to ‘chance’ or
‘fate’. As Stark and Bainbridge write: ‘to seek the purpose of life is to demand that it have
one. The word purpose is not compatible with blind chance, but assumes the existence of
intentions or motives. These assume a consciousness. For the universe to have a purpose, it
must be directed by a conscious agent or agents.’85
This idea of universal purpose distinguishes religion from magic, and magic from
science. Magic is used to explain or manipulate specifics about the world; as opposed to the
general questions to which religion claims to offer answers. Magic can thus be empirically
evaluated and is adopted in societies lacking the means to test its efficacy. The modern
era’s new god, science, answers general questions without resort to ‘purpose’, and in most
cases, fulfils the criterion of empirical evaluation.86
Major issues have been raised with Stark and Bainbridge’s understanding of the
compensator and the reward, and their conception of human desire in general as being
entirely materialistic. Wallis and Bruce argue in response that the compensator does not in
fact provide a ‘substitute for the tangible this-worldly reward. It may make present misery
easier to endure while we wait to secure that reward in the future, but it is only the future
reward itself that can substitute for what we cannot have here and now.’ 87 They also
criticise the description of reward, as Stark and Bainbridge assume that rewards are only
viable if they are tangible, concrete and immediate. ‘Anything else somehow becomes
merely symbolic, unreal and thus a substitute for some present gratification.’ 88 The
promises of religion, then, cannot be desired for their own sake, but must always arise as a
substitute for something else, an assumption derided by Wallis and Bruce as ‘substantively

85
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 39.
86
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 41. This is not to suggest that science answers ‘why’ questions – generally
it offers answers to ‘how’ questions. As Stephen Hawking asked at the end of A Brief History of Time, the
‘how’ of the universe have begun to be answered, but the ‘why’ is a question for philosophy.
87
Wallis and Bruce, Theory, Chapter Three, ‘A Critique of the Stark-Bainbridge Theory of Religion’, p. 50-
52.
88
Wallis and Bruce, Theory, p. 52.
36
atheistic’ and repetitive of the ‘reductionist errors of Durkheim, Marx and Freud in
construing religion as reducible to mundane considerations.’89 They observe that since
much of sociology is ‘committed to uncovering hidden motives lying beneath public
rhetoric’, it tends to reject ‘the possibility that symbolic goals and values could really be
what actors sought in such enterprises.’90

Religious organisations and specialists

Although these are important criticisms of the methodologies inherent in the Theory of
Religion, Stark and Bainbridge nevertheless make some useful definitions and conclusions
concerning religion within society: ‘religion’ is a system to explain fundamental questions
about human life, and to provide general compensators in place of highly valued rewards.
Religious organisations are therefore ‘social enterprises whose primary purpose is to create,
maintain, and exchange supernaturally based general compensators.’ 91 The emphasis is on
the social dimensions of religion: the social functions of group membership and
reinforcement, and the fact that religious organisations provide immediate rewards
alongside supernaturally based compensators. These rewards are generally social –
leadership positions, status, respect, companionship – but they may also be financial, for
example the giving of alms, or the accumulated wealth of some religious leaders.92
Stark and Bainbridge go on to argue that societies will ‘evolve’ religious specialists
as a process of general specialisation. Because these specialists then enjoy a beneficial
relationship with the gods, and exert certain controls over the norms of the society, these
specialists will constitute an elite. Religious organisations and positions are accordingly
controlled by the powerful.93 While this may well be largely true in terms of social function,
it does not do full justice to the motivation of religious specialists. What about those
religious specialists who are outside ‘organisations’, for instance, ascetics and hermits? An
issue with these statements is the mutually reinforcing nature of the elite relationship to

89
Wallis and Bruce, Theory, p. 53.
90
Wallis and Bruce, Theory, p. 59.
91
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 42
92
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 43.
93
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 97-102. A counter-example to this might be the Quakers, who, although
there are priests in some churches, operate with a deliberately anti-hierarchical social arrangement whereby
each individual can express their faith in God.
37
power. In some cases, powerful people certainly seek power through membership or control
of religious specialisation (for example, the Medici family in Renaissance Florence and
their relationship with the Papacy) but this is not always the case. To describe desire for
religious leadership as either the preserve of the already powerful or as driven by a
functionalist desire for power or status misses out many of the internal factors that draw
people to these positions, for example, compassion, desire to initiate social care or repair, or
simply a profound personal spirituality. While these feelings are likely to find their
expression in a religious norm, it does not hold that the people who are ‘religious
specialists’ are motivated solely or primarily by desire for power or status. This again
highlights the problem identified by Wallis and Bruce, that the sociologist’s need to find an
explanation in social function is contradicted by the reasons given for his actions by the
agent.

Churches, sects, and social divisions

Religious organisations operate as part of a social environment. People join or are born into
these environments and as such, adopt the religions of those environments. Socialisation
conditions standards and norms, and religion can be defined as a chain that links the
individual into a community of past, present and future members, into a tradition or
collective memory that is the basis of that community’s existence.94
Within society, different religious organisations occupy different positions,
characterised essentially by the level of tension between them and their environment.
Tension, in this context, is shown by the extent to which a religious unit differs from the
socio-cultural standard. ‘Churches’ are characterised by low-key religious participation,
deal mainly in direct social rewards, and operate at low tension with the surrounding social
and cultural environment. ‘Sects’, by contrast, are characterised by fervent religious
commitment and rejection of the surrounding social and cultural environment – and place
their emphasis on compensators.95 The compensators offered by sects generally include
religious experiences, feelings of moral superiority, prayer and divine aid. These contrast
with the socially constituted rewards offered by churches, which include status and

94
Hervieu-Léger, D., Religion as a Chain of Memory, English edition, Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000.
95
As defined by Johnson, B, ‘On church and sect’, ASR 28.4, 1963, pp. 539-549.
38
community legitimacy, participation in organisations affiliated with the church, and the
socialisation of children.96
Sects are schismatic. They form as divisions from existing organisations in their
religious tradition, and are characterised by a move towards a high-tension relationship
with their environment. Schism is most likely to be linked to previously existing social
cleavages – ‘divisions of a network across which there are relatively few strong
attachments’ – and are most likely in groups that are strongly socially divided in this way. 97
Strong attachments are key to schismatic movement: these represent the most highly valued
members of an individual’s immediate network, and as such are those with whom that
individual’s exchange ratios are highest, to couch it in economic terms. 98 Sects largely tend
to be populated by the disaffected members of a religious environment, whose
powerlessness with regard to gaining rewards through exchange demands a series of more
efficacious compensators. Stark and Bainbridge argue that these moderately powerful but
relatively deprived disaffected members of society are offered an opportunity to increase
their own rewards and social status by organising a sect movement.99 Although it is difficult
to classify the desire to occupy a position of spiritual leadership as a simplistic functionalist
desire for power and status, this characterisation of a sect as a schismatic, high-tension
group formed of largely disaffected and powerless individuals seems to be reasonable.
Empirical studies suggest that distinctions between church and sect are often linked
to socio-economic status (SES), confirming Stark and Bainbridge’s theory, that ‘SES
should be positively associated with religious rewards and negatively associated with
religious compensators – with the exception that SES should be unrelated to belief in life
after death.’100 From Glock and Stark’s observations 101 of modern American religious
involvement, the upper and middle classes are predominantly involved with church based
religion. However, the vast majority of the unchurched population was found to be of a
disproportionately lower SES, an issue to which we shall return. 102 There was also a clear

96
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 46.
97
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 131.
98
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 133.
99
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, see p. 145-6.
100
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 47.
101
Glock C. Y., and Stark, R., American Piety: The Nature of Religious Commitment, Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1968.
102
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 48.
39
link found between the more highly educated sectors of society and lack of religious
belief.103

Deviance: Sects and Cults

Sociologists of religion have articulated the fundamental difference between a cult and a
sect. Stark and Bainbridge define a sect as a deviant religious organisation with traditional
beliefs and practices, as an intensification of the ‘norm’; as opposed to a cult, which
represents a deviant religious organisation with novel beliefs and practices. However, both
cults and sects operate at high tension within their surrounding social environment. Because
they are ‘deviant’ groups, they represent a departure from the cultural norms in ‘such a way
as to incur the imposition of extraordinary costs from those who maintain the culture’. 104
They raise the costs of exchange across the boundaries of that culture. As a result, ‘deviant’
groups in high tension with their cultural environment may incur punishment by the
followers of the ‘norm’, either by a conscious policy of imposing special costs upon the
deviants, by attempts to change their behaviour, or by driving away or destroying the
‘deviant’ group.105
Cults are innovative religious movements with novel beliefs, and as such, they form
part of a two (or more) -step process: first, they invent new religious ideas, and second,
they gain social acceptance for these ideas at least within a group large enough to sustain
them.106 Cults have been found to be most prevalent in societies that do not have a
dominant religious tradition supported by the elite: because the ‘deviance’ on which cult
formation and success is predicated is less likely to be punished in such an environment.
Anthropology, psychology and sociology propose three general approaches to the
generation of new cultic movements: the psychopathology model, the entrepreneur model,
and the subculture-evolution model.
The psychopathology model takes the creation of cult to be a response to an
individual’s personal or social crisis. It postulates a mentally unstable individual creating
compensators that meet his/her needs during a ‘psychotic episode’ which, if it coincides

103
How true might this be for the educated elites during the Roman period?
104
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 124.
105
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 125.
106
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 156
40
with a time of societal upheaval or crisis, where there are others with similar needs, may
result in a group of people whose needs are met by the founding individual’s set of
compensators.107 The entrepreneur model sees the creation of cults somewhat cynically, as
businesses that provide their customers with a product. The founders are then individuals
who are motivated largely by desire for profit, a notion generally derived from a prior
involvement with a successful cult. This leads to the use of previously experienced
formulae to create new compensators, leading to cult ‘lineages’ that share a number of
features.108 The subculture-evolution model understands the creation of cult as the
expression of novel social systems, small groups composed of a few intimately interacting
individuals, generally formed from populations involved with the occult milieu. They are
thought to be the result of failed collective attempts to gain scarce or nonexistent rewards,
which originated when a group committed itself to attainment of those rewards. By
collectively working towards this aim, they begin to exchange other rewards, and as their
attempts to gain the nonexistent or scarce rewards fail, they begin to also exchange
compensators. If this intra-group exchange becomes sufficiently intense, the group will
become encapsulated, in extreme cases undergoing social implosion. Once separated from
external control, the group develops and consolidates a novel culture. Successful cult
evolution then ends (or ends the beginning) with a new religious group faced with the task
of extracting resources from the surrounding environment.109
It is observed that over time, cults naturally become more introverted and intra-
connected. Exchanges become internalised and reinforce the social bonds of the religious
group. This is also described as ‘social implosion’, as the open network gradually becomes
more closed.110 Small high-tension sects are particularly vulnerable to this process, as they
move from schism with a traditional church toward religious innovation and eventual
socially closed cult status. Stark and Bainbridge qualify this with the observation that ‘to
the extent that a society does not punish religious innovation, small sects tend to evolve into
cults’111 – i.e. the group will begin to exchange novel beliefs as a result of their isolation.
Environments undergoing rapid cultural or social changes tend to produce situations
where cults or sects can form. Innovation in religion often happens in response to
encounters with new technology, or social crisis – war, famine, disease etc. The disruption
107
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, see p. 158-68.
108
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, see p. 168-78.
109
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, see p. 179-187.
110
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, see p. 185.
111
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 187.
41
to social networks following rapid cultural or social change creates new social needs or
conditions.112

Conversion, or ‘recruitment’

Moving on from the theoretical definitions and explanations of novel religious forms and
the social situations that produce religious innovation, we now turn to the process of
conversion, or ‘recruitment’.113 Breaking with an implicit culture, a set of communal
memories encapsulated in ritual and religious practice, is a remarkable act. Realigning
oneself to a different set of beliefs within any socio-cultural hegemony requires
extraordinary circumstances: how does this happen? How, why, and who join religious
groups, whether they are established churches, or new sect or cult movements? It is an
external, social process as well as an internal, psychological process. Both of these factors
must be considered.

Conversion: seven conditions?

Psychological and social reasons for conversion are not necessarily separate. Stark and
Bainbridge argue that those individuals who are likely to be recruited to a new (to the
individual, not necessarily to the world) religious group are those members of society who
are free to ‘deviate’114 from the accepted cultural norms. This is related to the degree to
which they have stakes in social conformity, i.e. social attachments, investments, and
involvements. It is argued that these members of society can be generally characterised as
‘deprived in terms of rewards, compensators, and self-esteem’.115

112
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, see p. 189.
113
Terminologically, Stark and Bainbridge discard the word ‘conversion’ because of the implication it has for
actual internal transformation of the individual, preferring instead to use ‘recruitment’ or ‘affiliation’ to
describe the social process of joining a religious organisation.
114
This is not to suggest that non-conformists are drawn automatically to religion. Choosing non-conformity
also allows access to a non-conformist society, with its own set of attachments, involvements and loyalties.
115
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 190-191.
42
 The Lofland-Stark conversion model of 1965 identified seven psychological and
social conditions that make an individual more open to ‘deviation’. The first three are
‘predisposing conditions’ and the last four ‘situational factors’: 1, experience of enduring
and acutely-felt tensions; 2, within a religious problem solving perspective; 3, resulting in
self-designation as a religious seeker; 4, the potential convert must come across the
religious group at a turning-point in his or her life; 5, form an affective bond with one or
more members; 6, neutralize or cut contact with outside non-members; and 7, experience
intensive interaction with other converts.116 These conditions are required for conversion to
a group considered deviant by the ‘norm’ in any given society – i.e. a cult or a sect. This
analysis, however, does not pose the question of the conditions relevant to a decision to join
a non-deviant religious group.
Empirical observations of a Buddhist cult in America in the 1970s caused Snow and
Phillips to challenge the Lofland-Stark model. 117 Citing G. H. Mead’s observation that
meanings of events are not intrinsic, but rather are conditioned by an individual’s current
situation, they argue that the psychological criteria for conversion are liable to charges that
these involve a retrospective re-characterisation of the past. Although this may be the case,
it is nevertheless important not to subsume the individual’s psychological reasons for
conversion beneath the wider social factors that the sociologist might argue to be the
‘driving factors’ of conversion. Wallis and Bruce argue against Marxist and functionalist
social accounts: ‘the presumption must be that [the actor’s] characterisations of their
actions and their accounts of why they are performing them are the correct ones’.118
There are clearly problems with interpretation post-event. These stem from both the
subjective nature of the individual’s accounts of conversion and from the attempted
‘objective’ understanding of wider social reasons that underpin conversion. Although
Lofland and Stark’s approach is essentially functionalist, their theoretical framework for
understanding the process of conversion does incorporate both psychological and social
factors. The issues with the model that are raised by Snow and Phillips from their empirical
work are also included here.

116
Lofland, J and Stark, R, ‘Becoming a world-saver: a theory of conversion to a deviant perspective’, ASR
30, 1965, pp. 862-875.
117
Snow, D., Phillips, C. L., ‘The Lofland-Stark conversion model: a critical reassessment’, in Social
Problems, vol. 27, no. 4, 1980.
118
Wallis and Bruce, Theory, p. 19-29.
43
 1) Tension
By ‘tension’, Lofland and Stark mean a strong, unmet desire, which is felt prior to the
affiliation with the new religious group. It is problematic to ascertain the role of ‘tension’ in
conversion, as it is possible to reinvent the tensions felt at the time of conversion to align
with feelings in the new, converted present. Snow and Phillips found that reported feelings
of tension may well have formed part of the reasons given for conversion, but they
conclude that ‘it is not necessarily a pre-disposing condition’. 119 It is possible to hypothesise
about the wider social tensions that might create a general mentality of unmet desire, on
which more below.
2) Religious problem-solving perspective
Lofland and Stark mean by this that, in order for conversion to be likely, there should be a
concordance of outlook between the way an individual approaches solving the problems he
faces and the potential methods of doing so – political, spiritual, psychological, etc.
However, Snow and Phillips’ research did not suggest that converts were necessarily in
possession of a religious problem-solving perspective, and so where it does exist, they
argue that it ‘constitutes a facilitative rather than a necessary precondition for
conversion.’120
3) Being a religious ‘seeker’
Lofland and Stark suggest that this religious problem-solving perspective leads into the
individual self-classifying as a ‘religious seeker’ someone who searches for ‘religious
meaning to interpret and resolve his discontent’’. 121 However, the subjects of Snow and
Phillips’ research did not show particular leaning towards religion prior to their conversion.
The authors also point out that an individual’s self-definition as a ‘seeker’ is subject to
retrospective reassignment. They conclude that this aspect of Lofland and Stark’s analysis
is not usefully applicable when attempting to understand why people convert, and certainly
does not constitute a necessary precondition.
4) Turning Points
The issue of retrospective re-assessment is equally applicable to the concept of a ‘turning
point’. Retrospectively, one can classify almost any event or non-event as a ‘turning point’
that led to the adoption of the new faith. However, the situations Lofland and Stark alluded
to as ‘turning points’ were objective, such as bereavement, divorce, losing a job, finishing
119
Snow and Phillips, Critical Reassessment, p. 435.
120
Snow and Phillips, Critical Reassessment, p. 438.
121
Lofland and Stark, ‘Becoming a world-saver’, p. 868.
44
school, moving house etc. Snow and Phillips’ research supported the conclusion that many
converts refer to their conversion in terms of a turning point, but that they do not
necessarily mean ‘objective’ turning points such as Lofland and Stark assumed. The
subjects of Snow and Phillips’ research defined their ‘turning points’ not as moments of
external caesura, but rather as the internal moment when they ‘come to align themselves
with the movement emotionally, cognitively, and morally – seeing themselves at one with
the group.’122 A turning point for any given individual is a subjective assessment of their
own situation and emotions, rather than one that can be objectively discerned.
These four criteria are all concerned with the individual’s internal emotional
landscape. As Wallis and Bruce argue these are certainly vital to an individual’s
susceptibility to and motivation towards conversion, but they are also extremely difficult to
ascertain after the event and are subject to retrospective editing. Furthermore, their
usefulness in an application of theory to the ancient world is severely limited. The last three
criteria are concerned with the external, social network factors involved in conversion.
5) Affective bonds
Building relationships with the other members of the religious organisation is the key for
recruitment of new converts: as Stark and Bainbridge put it, the ‘development of valued
new social relations with members – the affiliation process – is essential’. 123 Lofland and
Stark argue that people with few social relationships are more likely to be open to any kind
of new social exchange, and so more ready to accept those that bring religious affiliation
with them. In addition, if an individual’s closest and most valued social associates shift
their religious affiliation, the individual in question is quite likely to follow suit. 124 Snow
and Phillips’ research supported this analysis of recruitment, with 82 percent of their
sample found to have been recruited to the cult through pre-existing social bonds.125
6) Cutting outside contact
Lofland and Stark argued that full conversion was less likely without the cutting of extra-
group bonds. However, Snow and Phillips findings provided ‘little support for the
hypothesis’, linked to the fact that 82 percent of their subjects reported recruitment through
pre-existing social networks. They suggest that this observation might be to do with the
particular Buddhist cult they investigated, conversion to which may lead to the

122
Snow and Phillips, Critical Reassessment, p. 439.
123
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 233.
124
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 234.
125
Snow and Phillips, Critical Reassessment, p. 440.
45
strengthening of bonds particularly with family, co-workers and classmates outside the
cult.126 They suggest that the reason for this may be because of the particular non-
communal nature of the cult. Other communal religious groups may be more ‘demanding’
and might require the breaking of extra-group affective ties in order to convert fully.
However, the social ties of new members provide good new avenues along which a
religious movement can spread. The dichotomy may be characterised as the decision
between the maintenance of insularity and the necessity of expansion.
7) Intensive intra-cult interaction
Lofland and Stark suggest that intensive interaction with group members is necessary for
the transition of the initiate to becoming a full, devoted member of the religious movement.
Snow and Phillips’ observations fully support this, and they go on to suggest that ‘intensive
interaction is perhaps the most important factor in the conversion process once the prospect
has been informed about and brought into contact with the movement’.127
Therefore, Snow and Phillips’ research supports certain aspects of Lofland and
Stark’s criteria – namely, those that are concerned with the importance of social
relationships. This is because attempting to reconstruct the set of internal feelings that
converts experienced prior to their joining a religious group is both difficult and fallible,
whereas understanding something of their social relationships is generally easier. The most
relevant conclusion here is that social networks are shown to form a major part of the
explanation for conversion and for the growth of religious groups.

Wider social factors in the conversion process

The above analyses have been concerned with the conversion of the individual and the
factors that might make them individually susceptible. However, there are also wider social
factors that impact on the religious environment and increase the likelihood of conversion.
These are, broadly: instability, class, and deprivation.
One of the functionalist social explanations for conversion is the elevation of the
convert’s relative social status. We have seen that cults and sects are considered ‘deviant’
within an established religious milieu, and are categorised by a degree of tension with it.

126
Snow and Phillips, Critical Reassessment, p. 441.
127
Snow and Phillips, Critical Reassessment, p. 442.
46
Although the status of the religious group within that milieu is lower, because they are a
minority, because they represent or believe something that is ‘alien’, or because they may
have certain attached social stigmas, the status of individuals within the social structures of
the group is heightened relative to the outside world.
Potential recruits to deviant religious groups are generally drawn from socially
‘unstable’ sectors of society. Their instability and vulnerability is connected to non-
integration in a social network. This occurs at times of decreased attachments, investments
and involvements that are manifest in close social networks. 128 These can range from
seasonal employment to bereavement or relocation. In social network terms, people with
decreased attachments can clearly be viewed as ‘unstable’ or vulnerable. ‘Unstable’
individuals or families could therefore be understood as viewing an investment in the
relative higher status available within the ‘deviant’ group as worthwhile.
Class and deprivation, i.e., being a victim of unfair exchange ratios, also have an
effect on the likelihood of joining social movements, whether religious or secular.129 In 20th
Century America the upper and middle classes have formed the core of the church going
population. They are more likely to support the religious status quo, because the dominant
religious group and the political state are interconnected, and such groups are generally
supportive of the political and social situation as it stands. These observations suggest that
those attracted to ‘deviant’ religious organisations should be largely drawn from the
socially powerless and deprived. This may be true for America, where left-wing politics
remains weak;130 but Stark showed that, by contrast, in Europe, 131 the energy of social
groups with the least socio-economic power was quite likely to be channelled into leftist
political activism, i.e. into the fight for change. However, Stark’s research is based on
modern religious and political observations, and the political activism of the lower classes
cannot really be traced back into history further than the Industrial Revolution. What would
the situation have been in a predominantly peasant culture? It is tempting to argue that,
prior to the tendency towards secularisation of leftist politics, the traditional religious
environment underwent periodic ‘evolutionary’ sectarian spasms in response to social
unrest and upheaval among the lower classes.

128
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 229.
129
See Stark, R., ‘Class, Radicalism, and Religious Involvement in Great Britain’, ASR, vol. 29, 1964, p. 699.
130
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 49.
131
Stark, ‘Class’, pp. 698-706.
47
 The upper and middle classes, being in possession of better exchange ratios, i.e.
with better education, more money, and more social status, should therefore be less likely
to be receptive to affiliating with new religious groups, because they have no wish to
change the socio-political status quo. However, elites are not immune to the appeal of new
religious groups. Stark and Bainbridge explain this by suggesting that, although members
of the elite may be relatively powerful at a general social level, they can still suffer
individual deprivations that their social position cannot change: for example, they may seek
health or beauty or love. And although they may be part of a powerful class, they may not
be powerful individually.132 Stark and Bainbridge note however that elites are more likely
to be drawn to innovative cults as opposed to sects, because sects generally condemned or
attacked the elite. Cults, on the other hand, do not oppose the established church; and
because they represent religious innovation, those who adopt a new cult will have some
characteristics of the early adopters discussed in the previous chapter. Because elites are
more powerful, they have the resources with which to experiment, and fail, with religious
innovation. Elites can also have wider ranging social networks, making it easier for the cult
to spread through them.133

The Trajectories of Religious Movements

Once they are formed, new religious movements can generally be observed to progress in
two ways. Innovative groups that maintain high tension with their environment risk
punishment or ‘sanctions’ being imposed upon them from outside. This encourages
increased intra-group exchange, leading to the social implosion of the group; and the
resultant isolation limits the recruitment potential from external society. However, groups
such as these can continue to grow even when deeply isolated, both through intra-group
childbirth and through the recruitment of social isolates. 134 Isolates are not considered
‘useful’ with regards to religious growth, as they do not bring an extended social network

132
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 235.
133
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 236-7.
134
For example, the Amish population of Pennsylvania continues to grow despite the fact that they do not
admit outsiders, and have a 40% defection rate. The Mormon Church, although isolated in many ways, has a
strong proselytising element combined with high rates of childbirth, making it still one of the fastest-growing
religious movements of modern times (see Stark, R., and Bainbridge, W. S., ‘Networks of Faith:
Interpersonal Bonds and Recruitment to Cults and Sects’, in AJS, vol. 85, no. 6, 1980, pp. 1376-1395).
48
that may be tapped for further recruits. Most religious groups that do not reach a certain
size maintain high tension and isolation from the surrounding society, and eventually
collapse and die out. It is notable that there is an optimal size that will help to determine the
group’s success or failure – an observation corresponding to the ‘tipping point’ of
collective action.
Alternatively, the tension of a religious movement with the surrounding
environment can begin to dissipate. This is due either to increasing numbers of converts,
whose participation help to make the group the ‘norm’ in that particular environment.
Alternatively, tension can dissipate through the process of ‘social evaporation’. This
describes the process of defection by dissatisfied members, leaving a higher percentage of
members of the group who are satisfied. Stark and Bainbridge note that the ‘lower the
tension of a religious group, the more strongly will social evaporation tend to decrease the
tension of the group’135 with the opposite also being true. From this they then argue that the
more socially powerful participants will bring the rest of the group towards lower tension
with the surrounding environment. It is at this point that formerly ‘stable’ members of the
surrounding religious environment would be drawn towards the previously high-tension but
now low-tension religious group – because the group has a greater level of social
integration and it is here that social equilibrium will be found.
Stark and Bainbridge argue that, unless it is very socially isolated, a new religious
organisation will recruit members rapidly at formation, because there are wide availabilities
of statuses within the new group, as well as high exchange of compensators and rewards.
‘This proposition suggests that there is a crucial cut-off point in degree of isolation. New
organisations slightly too isolated, will become fully encapsulated, become confirmed in
their high tension, and fail to grow or change. Organisations that are born in slightly less
social isolation will be able to grow rapidly and at least have the opportunity to evolve in
response to success.’136 This is the equivalent of an innovation starting at the lower or upper
boundary in network theory terms – the connectivity of the social network drives the
ultimate success or failure of a religious movement. Successful religious movements
expand their numbers through existing social relationships, and generally move toward
lower tension with their surrounding environment. Most new religious movements will not

135
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 259
136
Stark and Bainbridge, Theory, p. 265.
49
prosper, and will remain at high tension or die out, once the extent of their social networks
have been exhausted.

Application to antiquity

Can the assessments of the sociology of modern religious movements work across a greater
time depth? In applying these theoretical frameworks to the adoption and spread of
religions in antiquity, there are a number of caveats to take into account. Primarily,
historical research is limited by the amount of evidence that is available, and by the
impossibility of empirical study. Aspects of social status or religious feeling may be seen or
inferred from epigraphic records or literature, but the problem always remains: ancient
historians have only a) what the individual in question wanted to present about themselves
to a wider public, and b) what archaeology has revealed so far.
In addition, there is the central methodological issue, which cannot be fully
explored here, of the dominant modern monotheistic tradition in which the sociologists of
religion make their observations. Can the same conclusions concerning innovation and
tension within a monotheist society be drawn about polytheist society? A polytheistic
environment is fundamentally different from a largely monotheistic environment, which
only came into existence in the ancient world during the fourth century AD. Polytheism
understood the world through a plurality of deities. Monotheism acknowledged one
supreme deity and the belief that one system should explain everything. Polytheistic society
should therefore be more accepting of novel religious forms, and in fact, it might be
impossible to think about religious ‘conversion’ as a concept to apply within a polytheist
society. People could and did dedicate to a number of deities, depending on many factors:
social background, position, status, time of year, geographical location, occupation and so
on. Sociological rules based in the observation of 20th century religious movements within a
monotheistic society should be reconsidered when attempting to understand the generation
and adoption of new cult forms in the ancient polytheistic world.


50
Elites and the dominant religious tradition: polytheism & monotheism
The reconsideration of sociological rules for polytheist society is far too large a subject to
tackle here, however, it will be useful to explore one issue a little further: Stark and
Bainbridge suggest that innovative cults are less prevalent in an environment where a
dominant religious tradition is supported by the socio-political elite. This is because when
there exists a mutually supportive relationship between this elite (essentially, the sector of
society which can exert control over the environment) and one hegemonic form of religious
expression, the opportunity for and acceptability of ‘deviance’ from either of these
powerful factors in society is limited.
The dominant, polytheistic religious tradition of the Roman Empire was supported
by the elite. It is true that within this, some conservative aristocrats and literati did
complain about the new, non-traditional religions that were paraded through the streets of
Rome – from Elagabal to Isis, Cybele to Mithras; and that tensions were felt at certain
times, manifested, for example, in the discrimination against alien religious forms. Jews
and Christians were persecuted, ostensibly for their religious ‘deviance’ but also, and
possibly more usefully, interpretable as being due to their political ‘deviance’ and refusal to
conform to the social and political norms of the Roman Empire.
Equally, however, there are plentiful examples of elite adherence to novel religious
forms – Judaism in particular (see Chapter Five); and the fact that so many new and alien
cults could flourish in Rome and across the empire supports the suggestion that during this
period, the attachment of the elites to traditional religious forms that Stark and Bainbridge
postulate was beginning to decline. This may in part be due to the nature of empire
creation: as the sphere of what was considered Roman expanded, and the social barriers to
leadership lessened (consider the emperors drawn from the ranks of the military) the
acceptance of other religious and cultural forms so increased. The polytheist cultural and
religious space shared by a multiplicity of deities grew with the accommodation of new
peoples, languages, and land acquisitions, and it may even be possible to see religious
innovation as a response to the encounter with the Roman Empire. Irad Malkin 137 has
argued that what was seen as Greek only came into being as a result of colonisation in the
Archaic period. Likewise, Greg Woolf138 has argued that Roman culture was shaped as the
Malkin, I., ‘Networks and the Emergence of Greek Identity’, MHR, 18, 2003, pp. 56-74.
137

Woolf, G., Becoming Roman: The Origins of Provincial Civilization in Gaul, Cambridge: Cambridge
138

University Press, 1998.

51
Empire expanded: that the quality of Roman-ness, or what was seen by Romans and their
subjects to be Roman, was only formed in response to the encounter with difference. The
social crisis that followed occupation and subjugation could have prompted periods of
intense religious development in a similar fashion to the creation of Roman-ness. It is
reasonable to suggest that new religious forms were created by the process of
Romanisation to serve the new, universal environment to which the empire’s inhabitants
now belonged.
Although the pre-Christian Roman Empire ostensibly possessed ‘traditional’
religious mores supported by the elites, it can nevertheless be viewed as an open, tolerant
environment where a plethora of cult forms could and did exist alongside each other. It was
not until Constantine’s conversion and the official labelling of the Roman Empire as
monotheist and specifically Christian, that this kind of supportive relationship between the
elite and a singular religious form took shape. The often violent putting down of the heresy
and schism that plagued the early Church shows this relationship between the dominant
elite and a hegemonic religious form quite clearly: and it is a situation substantially
different from the previous environment of polytheism.

The Pattern of Evidence and Social Networks

In an examination of whether these sociological observations of religion in the modern
period can be used for understanding religious innovation and conversion in antiquity, there
is no scope for ascertaining empirically the internal, psychological reasons people might
give for their adoption of a new religion. All we have are the patterns left behind by their
actions. That an actor’s rational decisions lie behind the pattern is of course a given, as is
the attractiveness of a cult. However, without knowledge of what those choices and that
attractiveness were, it only remains possible to test the social network properties identified
by Stark and Bainbridge, and attempt to reconstruct the social connections that introduced
the religious movements and influenced individuals’ reasons and rationality for
worshipping a particular deity or deities. We can only in exceptional circumstances
ascertain the individual’s reasons for following a particular religious movement, but we can
try to understand something of the reasons for the cult’s success or failure. It is, essentially
a pragmatic approach to the evidence that is available ‘after the event’.
52
 To do this, an examination of ancient social networks is vital. Harland distinguished
five common types social networks that drove religious or other associations. ‘There were
groups that drew primarily on (1) household connections, (2) ethnic or geographic
connections, (3) neighbourhood connections, (4) occupational connections, and (5) cult or
temple connections. These sets of social linkages are often interrelated with issues
concerning the self-understandings or identities of particular associations, and they also
provide clues regarding the economic and social standings of their members.’139
My case studies will examine the power of three kinds of social network to
communicate religious ideas: occupational, in the case of Jupiter Dolichenus; ethnic, in the
case of the Jewish Diaspora; and cultic, in the case of the cult of Theos Hypsistos.

139
Harland, P., Associations, Synagogues and Congregations, Fortress Press: Minneapolis, 2003, p. 29.
53
 Chapter 3.

Methodology: Networks in Archaeology.

Analytica l models

Introduction

Archaeologists need to be concerned with the operations of wider systems that influence
change in the material record, and they have offered many interpretive frameworks for
understanding them: from world systems theory to the ideas of punctuated equilibrium
drawn from chaos theory. Understanding change in antiquity through the theoretical
approaches discussed in the previous two chapters is still relatively new to the discipline. I
suggest that an approach that combines both the wider understanding of the network
properties that facilitate change, as discussed in Chapter One, and the social networks that
are fundamental to the transmission of religious innovation, as seen in Chapter Two, can be
usefully applied to religious data from the Roman Empire. This chapter sets out the
methods I will use in my approach, and critically examines a few of the ways in which
networks have previously been used as analytical models for archaeological and ancient
historical data.
I explain how I shall use networks both as a heuristic approach and as a modelling
technique in application to my religious epigraphic datasets. For my practical model, I use
Proximal Point Analysis (PPA) as a simple technique for examining the centrality and
isolation of nodes and areas in the network; more heuristically, I take the idea of the social
network of human interconnections as a facilitator of change, and use the opportunities for
discovering personal information that epigraphic data presents us with to move away from
physical and network geography towards an interconnected social geography.
Following this outline of how I shall apply network methods to my datasets, I
briefly examine and summarise some of the contemporary uses of the network model in
archaeology that have influenced my approach. A few archaeologists have begun to apply
54
aspects of network theory to archaeological data to focus on the interactions of the ancient
world. The examples outlined here are the use of Proximal Point Analysis as a model for
settlement growth and centrality in the Early Bronze Age Cyclades by Cyprian Broodbank;
the interrelationship of dispersion/colonisation and connective networks and the emergence
of a universalised Greek identity in the Archaic period as proposed by Irad Malkin; the
more scientifically-driven utilisation of complexity theory and power-laws to explain the
emergence of power and hierarchy in the Neolithic as detailed by R. Alexander Bentley and
the collaborative work of Carl Knappett with physicists Tim Evans and Ray Rivers for
understanding the interactions of sites and the costs of maintaining those site interactions in
the Aegean Bronze Age.
Finally, I will outline some problems: those inherent in epigraphic analysis, those of
network manipulation by individuals or groups, and those arising from the particular nature
of this study. The previous uses of network models in archaeology have been concerned
with longer-term social change, for example, the development of settlement patterns, or
technological change. Religious change in archaeology has not been studied in this way
before.

Networks in the present analysis

The decision to apply network theoretical methods to the epigraphic data pertaining to
various religious groups in the Roman Empire was driven by the observation of Stephen
Mitchell in his article on Theos Hypsistos: ‘The number of inscriptions for the cults of Zeus
and Theos Hypsistos is large and expanding rapidly. The geographical range which they
cover is huge, extending from Achaea and Macedonia to the eastern parts of Asia Minor
and to the edge of the Syrian desert, from Rostov on the Don to the Nile Delta […]
Hypsistos was one of the most widely worshipped gods of the eastern Mediterranean
world.’140 The inscriptions were also noted to be extremely uniform. How should such
uniformity across such a broad and varied geographical area be explained? My decision

140
Mitchell, S., ‘The Cult of Theos Hypsistos between Pagans, Jews, and Christians’, in Pagan Monotheism
in Late Antiquity, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998, p. 99.
55
was to approach the problem by studying the distribution pattern itself, rather than by
looking for an intrinsic factor in the cult that might explain its propagation. Instead of using
a top-down method to focus on the inherent quality of a religious idea, I undertake a
bottom-up analysis of the physical location of epigraphic data, the end result of the process
of transmission: the social routes that religious innovation moved across, the interactions
between people that drive religious change.
There are a number of reasons why inverting the approach in this way is important
for reappraising religious data. First, the approach is egalitarian: each dedication, however
simple, plays some kind of role in the wider picture of a cult. Second, there is no
assumption of centre. Centres and peripheries arise from interactions on the network, not
from judgements made by archaeologists. Third, it visualises otherwise invisible
ideological connections between people and places, and allows us to hypothesise on the
broader movements of ideas and the routes they took across the Mediterranean. By
combining an understanding of the general properties of networks that facilitate change
with that of the ‘structure of direct and intimate interpersonal contacts’ 141 that specifically
drive the transmission of religious innovation, the changing religious environment of the
Roman Empire can be understood in a new way.
My approach draws on previous applications of networks in archaeology, both in
theoretical and in practical terms. The practical technique I have chosen for my network
analysis is Proximal Point Analysis (PPA), which is most suitable for the scope of the
current application. The technique and Cyprian Broodbank’s application of it is outlined
below, where it is shown to be a useful tool for the visualisation of centrality and isolation
as a product of interactions on a network. My analysis will rely on real-world data to
allocate points, and although there will always be new information to add to the distribution
map and a developed version of the model will need to be flexible, my preliminary analysis
of network connectivity will reveal centrality, isolation and parochialism that should feed
back into the conclusions drawn from an analysis of the epigraphic data. Initially, an
egalitarian logic will be applied to all network nodes, which makes them all the same size
and shows no bias towards the data. Following this analysis as a starting picture of the
overall distribution pattern, points will then be mapped with the aim of expressing
something of the dynamic nature of diffusion: by using appropriate developmental time
periods; by building in ‘centres of gravity’ – i.e. places with known large communities, or
141
Stark, R., The Rise of Christianity, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1996, p. 20.
56
simply by making a distinction in the power of a node to attract new links, with places that
have two or more pieces of epigraphic data being more powerful than those with only
single epigraphic attestations.
The analyses are underpinned by the theoretical frameworks of the previous two
chapters and by some of the ideas that will be outlined here. Irad Malkin’s approach to
understanding the creation of identity in an expanding colonial world is one that could have
useful implications for thinking about widely-distributed cults, and specifically, about the
Jewish Diaspora, for example by considering how much the sense of Jewish identity in the
Diaspora came from the process of dispersion itself. Could this idea of a widely dispersed
religious network be applied to non-ethnically linked religious movements, such as the
cults of Jupiter Dolichenus or Theos Hypsistos? Malkin augments historical sources with
observable phenomena to identify points of contact along the network lines. This is broadly
similar to the way of approaching cult through the epigraphic data – supplementing the
primary evidence of objects and cult places with literary sources.
The more mathematically advanced analyses taken by the socio-physicists in Alex
Bentley and Herbert Maschner’s volume and by Carl Knappett, Tim Evans and Ray Rivers
are somewhat beyond the scope of this project and my own mathematical ability. Their
analyses suggest potentially illuminating methods for future investigations into religious
transmission using more advanced modelling techniques. However, it is the two concepts
articulated in Bentley and Maschner’s article on the ‘avalanche of ideas’ that shall be
considered particularly relevant in this study: that of change resulting from stochastic
network growth through emulation, and that of change as an emergent phenomenon caused
by self-organising properties of a network. However, the applicability of these terms will be
considered only after a full exploration of the epigraphic data, and the examination of three
types of network as facilitators of the transmission of new religious information: the
military network and Jupiter Dolichenus; the ethnic network of the Jewish Diaspora; and
the religious network of the cult of Theos Hypsistos.
The reasons for my choice of these three religious groups in particular are related to
my involvement with Stephen Mitchell’s Pagan Monotheism in its Intellectual Context
project at Exeter. My initial task was to further investigate the cult of Theos Hypsistos. This
cult is connected to the Jewish Diaspora, an examination of which was therefore a natural
progression. My decision to analyse the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus as a comparative study

57
arose as a result of my involvement in the excavation of the site of Doliche in Turkey with
the Forschungsstelle Asia Minor team at the Universität Münster.

58
Previous network methods in archaeology

This next section outlines four uses of network models in previous studies of archaeological
subjects, the most detailed of which is the PPA of Broodbank, the technique I have adopted
because of its simplicity. It is important to note that all these examinations are concerned
with the modelling of super-social patterns: of the interactions that led to development of
settlements in the EBA Cyclades; of the creation of what constituted ‘Greek’ identity
through encounter with ‘other’; of the emergence of hierarchy in the Neolithic; and in the
expansion and collapse of interactions between sites in the Aegean. My data are very
different. Epigraphy has the potential to be used to span and incorporate both the macro-
and the micro-scales of analysis: by focusing on both the overall distribution patterns and
on the individual life the partial record of which is in the stone itself. This thesis aims to
synthesise the interpretations offered by these different scales.

Application One: Settlement growth in the EBA Cyclades

Broodbank142 uses Proximal Point Analysis to understand the growth of settlement,
centrality and interaction in the Early Bronze Age Cyclades, factoring into his analysis
problems such as distance, inter-island visibility, and method of travel. He simulated
interaction networks in the Cyclades, before comparing his results to the actual material.
Proximal Point Analysis (PPA) is a ‘simple and transparent’ 143 technique to predict
patterns of interaction between distributed points. It takes as a starting convention the
assumption that each point connects with those three points nearest to it, and these
interconnections then build networks. It is a gravity model, where centres develop over
time. The distribution of points in a real world environment is generally uneven, so some
points will collect more than three links because of their geographical positioning – because
they become the closest target for other points to connect to. The method assumes that
communities interact most intensely with their closest geographical neighbours. It is
important to note that PPA indicates relative degrees of connection, rather than absolute
142
Broodbank, C., An Island Archaeology of the Early Cyclades, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2000.
143
Broodbank, Cyclades, p. 180.
59
presence or absence. PPA has been used to explore centrality and isolation, by theorising
which points are best connected and where the most effective communication routes appear
to be. A strength of the method, as Broodbank points out, is that the model has an inbuilt
egalitarianism, because ‘all points can be evenly weighted and initially treated without
assumptions about hierarchy.’144 It is a simple technique, but one that offers a good
unbiased starting point from which to explore ancient networks, and one that makes no
assumptions about the data.
Broodbank’s field of analysis is the EBA Cyclades, where the known data is quite
unevenly spread. Some places have been extensively surveyed, whilst others are relatively
archaeologically unknown. Broodbank suggests three ways of dealing with this
discrepancy, which is obviously not an uncommon problem in most archaeological
analyses. The first method assigns an arbitrary number of points to an island or area, and
follows fixed rules about the nature of their interaction, dismissed by Broodbank as a
technique that would create an ahistorical network. ‘Unless the points represent real
distributions of people, what emerges is a study not of how islanders interact, but of how
islands as geographical entities do.’145 Physical geography can only explain so much about
human interaction patterns.
The second uses known site information, although unless relatively complete this is
problematic for settlement analysis because of the discrepancy and accident involved in
discovery of sites, and the reconfiguration of the network that is necessary whenever a new
site is discovered. Another issue is that many sites may not have been contemporaneous,
and the network will therefore present a false picture. However, Broodbank observes that
‘if such information is accessible, the scope for analysis is all but unlimited.’ 146 It is this
approach that I will be using in my PPA, the reasons for which will be detailed below.
The third approach, and the one that Broodbank uses, is to take a rough sketch of
what is known from the data, and to simulate distribution over the entire area, following
certain rules. This bases the model in reality, but also predicts possible areas of high
archaeological interest. ‘If a sufficient sensitivity to contexts and changes can be attained,
PPA of island groups can transcend deterministic analysis, and develop into a relatively

144
Broodbank, Cyclades, p. 181. This is certainly an extremely useful starting point for simulative network
analysis; however, in developing the technique to apply to real-world data, it may be equally important to
factor in knowledge of hierarchies, gravity and centres.
145
Broodbank, Cyclades, p. 181-2.
146
Broodbank, Cyclades, p. 182.
60
subtle tool for investigating the many ways in which culture and history may develop
within, but also profoundly rework, the configurational features of a given islandscape.’147
Broodbank allocated one point to an island (or group of small islands) per 150km 2
of landmass, which worked out as about one point per larger island. Population growth was
simulated by lowering the area in which a point was allocated first to 100km 2, then to
75km2, and finally to 50km2. His four analyses simulated a population increase from about
0.7 people to about 2.0 per square km, both of which fall within the postulated population
for the time.
The PPA analysis first showed that during the periods when population was lower,
the overall network was more homogeneous, and as the population increased over time, sub
clusters become more clearly defined. Second, it showed that treating an island as an
individual entity is useless at this stage in Cycladic history, and that ‘the establishment of
populations is better assessed in terms of networks of mutually sustaining communities’ 148
which transcend insular boundaries. Third, as population increased, maritime links decline
in importance to the larger islands, which become more introspective and self-supporting;
by contrast, for the smaller islands it is increasingly necessary to maintain them. This ties in
with the fourth observation, that isolation can mean two things: first, the relative difficulty
in making and maintaining contact with others, called by Broodbank ‘remote’; and second,
the self-sufficiency that comes with dense occupation, called ‘parochial’.
Isolation was measured by physical distance from neighbouring nodes: all points on
average over 20 km (this is above the one-day, one-way travel range that Broodbank set)
from their nearest neighbour have the potential to be classed as remote, and those points
whose average distance to their nearest neighbour is 10 km or less (within a one-day there-
and-back range) have the potential to be classed as parochial. Reciprocity is factored into
understanding the network by making a rule that identifies areas as remote as being ‘only
those that need outside contacts more than outsiders need them, as identified by points at
least one of whose three links represents a non-reciprocal connection, and adds that an
area’s remote status increases in extremity if this applies to two or three of its links.’149
Many of the smaller islands were found to be remote, but surprisingly, so was the
larger island of Syros. Broodbank suggested inherent nodal factors that might account for
the smaller islands’ remoteness, including lack of mineral resources or arable land, which
147
Broodbank, Cyclades, p. 183.
148
Broodbank, Cyclades, p. 187.
149
Broodbank, Cyclades, p. 191.
61
would make them unattractive for larger islands’ interaction networks. Syros, however,
possesses fertile land, and theoretically, should be easy to reach. What is more, the
remoteness of Syros was marked and continuing through the sequence, and highlights the
value of the method for overturning intuition, which may be false. 150 The PPA illustrated
areas of interest and anomalies in the ancient network, which would not have always been
intuitively predictable.
Broodbank therefore dismisses these inherent, nodal explanations for network
centrality that might be intuitively postulated: arable land, mineral resources, or good
harbours. He points out that specialisation in response to agricultural poverty can be applied
across most of the Cyclades, that none of the major sites are close to mineral resources, and
in fact are often at some distance from these areas, and that good harbours are largely
irrelevant at this period because of the use of canoes. 151 Environmental determinism for the
emergence of settlements is therefore strongly denied as a causal explanation. Instead,
Broodbank concludes that it is the interactions between land and sea, and island and
settlement groups, which should be considered the driving force of settlement centrality.
Centrality can be measured in two ways, both through the efficiency of interaction, i.e. the
‘short path lengths’ between sites, and by intensity of interaction, marked by the number of
links to other sites, i.e. the ‘hub’ status of a site.
The PPA method can visualise growth, development and decay through analysis of
connectivity. Broodbank used the model to investigate reasons why settlements emerge in
the places they do, and whether current knowledge of sites is roughly in accordance with
the simulated model. He asked why settlements that can be classed as centres emerge in EB
II, and specifically, why the Grotta-Pelos culture shifted its deposition from Paros to other
islands. He reasons that centrality in the interaction networks of the Cyclades drives
settlement location.152
The simulation of population growth in the EBA Cyclades matched 50% of the
archaeologically known centres. ‘What this tells us is that the changes in local interaction
networks resulting from population growth have a fundamental effect on the location of
communication centres.’153 Further exploration of the three sites the model ‘missed’ reveals
this is more successful than it might seem at first.

150
Broodbank, Cyclades, see p. 193.
151
Broodbank, Cyclades, see p. 237-8.
152
Broodbank, Cyclades, see p. 237.
153
Broodbank, Cyclades, p. 239.
62
 A centre was predicted in the north of the island of Tenos, where there is no known
settlement. There is, however, a large settlement at Chalandriani-Kastri, on the northeast
edge of the ‘remote’ island of Syros. Broodbank suggests that the centre which ought to
have emerged at Tenos was suppressed by the Chalandriani-Kastri settlement, or
alternatively that the centre for this part of the Cyclades was consciously relocated to Syros.
He reiterates that relocation would not be for reasons internal to Syros, but rather explains it
through the visual control the position affords for the surrounding seascapes. ‘What
Chalandriani-Kastri […] sought to control was not Syros or Keros, nor neighbouring
islands per se (they probably had little to do with the far sides of Andros, Tenos and
Mykonos, or Naxos, Amorgos and Ios), but rather the maritime and coastal islandscapes,
complete with their traceries of people’s movements and other activities, that stretched out
in front of them.’154 Psychological control as a factor in certain strategic locations is
highlighted convincingly as a result of this kind of network analysis.
Another simulation ‘miss’ was Agia Irini on Kea. However, this site, situated close
to the mainland Peloponnese, had a different function within the interaction networks.
Instead of being a locally networked site, Agia Irini acted as a gateway into the Cyclades
from the mainland, forming a centre at an inter-regional scale. However, access to and
importance within different networks cannot explain the analytical miss of Skarkos on Ios.
This ‘stands out as the only large settlement that cannot be convincingly interpreted as a
communication hub. Combined with the doubts about its overall similarity to the other
major EB II sites, this strengthens the possibility that Skarkos was indeed a different kind
of community with different reasons for existing’.155
On the whole, Broodbank’s PPA simulates and predicts a network of sites and
attachments which is not dissimilar to what is known from real world data. What it misses,
however, are sites with cross-network positions, and sites that seem to have a different kind
of function. At this period in history, the analysis shows that ‘the crucial scale of centrality
has proved to be that of the local networks, suggesting that all these centres, save Agia
Irini, emerged through bottom-up processes, rather than as the result of top-down, long-
range factors. This need not imply that these centres subsequently confined themselves to
the scales of activity to which they owed their origins.’ 156 As a combined predictive-

154
Broodbank, Cyclades, p. 242-4.
155
Broodbank, Cyclades, p. 244.
156
Broodbank, Cyclades, p. 245.
63
explanatory model, the simple technique of the PPA helps to fill in data gaps and highlight
potential areas of interest.
Because of the different nature and different aims of my study, some of the
predictive elements of Broodbank’s PPA are not relevant. I am not attempting to simulate
where we might look for new epigraphic finds; rather, I am attempting to ascertain
something of the connections that led to the distribution patterns of religious data, i.e. the
records of individual religious choices, and why they were made. Of the three methods
Broodbank describes, the second is the therefore most appropriate to my data: using ‘real-
world’ information. Although the problems of discrepancy, accident of discovery, and the
possibility for reconfiguration are of course to be acknowledged, the amount of available
data still present a good opportunity for this application of this ‘real-world’ approach. One
of the particularly useful observations that Broodbank makes is that of the differing types of
isolation: remoteness and parochialism. These kinds of network configurations will appear
in my PPA analyses, and, because they will refer to actual known data, highlight areas of
interest in terms of the ‘quality’ of the religion in those areas. Broodbank uses PPA to
analyse a possible demographic change from a modelling perspective, before comparing it
to actual data. I invert this sequence, analysing the actual epigraphic data first, before using
a PPA to model the possible interconnections to compare with the conclusions drawn from
the epigraphic analysis.

Application Two: Networks and Identity

Malkin157 has used theorised interactions to challenge assumed hierarchies of centre and
periphery in his analysis of the creation of Greek identity. His focus is the early
colonisation movements during the Archaic period, where, he argues, what constituted
‘Greek-ness’ was still being defined. Many different aspects of identity were involved in
the process – regional, colonial relations to the mother city, linguistic, religious and ethnic
– but that it was the confrontation of the colonising ‘Greeks’ with new people and cultures
in the places they colonised that articulated how Greeks saw themselves and which
therefore drove the formation of what came to be understood as Greek identity.

157
Malkin, I., ‘Networks and the Emergence of Greek identity’, in MHR 18, 2003, pp. 56-74.
64
 Using the notion of difference from an alien ‘other’ as a mechanism of group self-
definition is a commonly used model for colonisation. Malkin argues the case of the co-
creation of notions of ‘self’ with that of ‘other’ with regard to the Archaic period: the
‘commonalities of the colonial experience, combined with the extended and increasingly
varied geographical horizons, had taught Greeks that the variety among them was far less
than that which they were encountering overseas. Awareness of ‘sameness’ occurs not
when people are close to each other (in fact, that is when they pay particular attention to
their differences) but when they are far apart. It is distance that creates the virtual centre.
The more the connecting cables are stretched, the stronger they become.’158
Malkin observes that the experience of colonists in new landscapes and
environments, and the contact with new people and languages led to the definition of what
it was to be a colonist through the recreation of known sacred landmarks and reproduction
of certain civic monuments. It was this cross-colonial fertilisation that began to exemplify
‘Greekness’, and percolated back to the ‘old so-called ‘centre’’, 159 informing the creation of
what and who was Greek and what and who was non-Greek. He argues that these kinds of
definitions were needed to express the new hyper-ethno-linguistic identity that was
exemplified by the colonial experience.160 The further use of mythology and founding
stories created an intellectual network that began to view itself as of equivalent ‘oldness’ in
the colonies as in the metropoleis.161
One of the central observations Malkin makes is that the direction of the flow on the
network could and did change over time. Initially, the interactions of mother city and
colony were ‘symbolically cast in ‘kinship’ terms’, but ‘in reality the multidirectional,
accumulating links are more significant than the true origins.’ 162 It is the interactions on the
network that build the identity of the nodes.

Application Three: Complexity Theory and Archaeology

Bentley and Maschner163 et al. have taken a more mathematically-scientifically modelled
approach to the application of complexity theory to archaeological problems. They write in
158
Malkin, ‘Networks’, p. 59.
159
Malkin, ‘Networks’, p. 71.
160
Malkin, ‘Networks’, p. 63.
161
Malkin, ‘Networks’, p. 65-6.
162
Malkin, ‘Networks’, p. 67.
65
their introduction to the collection of papers in Complex Systems and Archaeology that ‘a
goal of complexity theory is to discover how the movements at a small scale translate into
emergent phenomena at a larger scale, or, if that is not possible, at least what emergent
properties can be expected.’164 The collected volume brings together archaeologists and
anthropologists using networks at different levels, both highly mathematically, such as in
the work of Bentley himself, and also those using complexity theory more as a
methodological starting point for understanding archaeological phenomena.
Bentley’s research is particularly focused on the phenomenon of scale-free networks
and the creation of power laws. He uses the model of scale-free networks to identify power
laws of inequality in Neolithic Europe, and in the lengths of long barrows in southern
England. He plots the length of barrows, and argues that what can be seen is a curve
beginning with normal distribution, but having the graphic tail of a power law. He uses this
observation to argue the case that ‘over time, the rich seem to become richer with these
Neolithic long barrows, which suggest that status in Neolithic Wessex accumulated within
a scale-free network.’165
An issue that might be raised here is Bentley’s discovery of power laws within
many different environments: whilst it is helpful to be able to discuss increasing inequality
in a society, does it really count as a power law when, for instance in the Neolithic barrow
example, the curve starts off following a different distribution? This does not mean that the
use of the model is not illuminating, just that care must be taken in identifications and the
conclusions that are drawn from them. When a power law can be identified, Bentley
concludes, it ‘may offer an insight into the transition to new forms of society, especially
through contact with other groups.’166
More relevant here is Bentley and Maschner’s work on information cascade,
‘avalanches of ideas’ in the volume.167 They explore two explanations for the phenomenon
of large-scale and sudden change that might well be applicable to my data. The first is that
of events ‘occurring within a constantly growing, interconnected network, in that one
triggering event may give rise to multiple consequent events’: 168 an approach that can

163
Bentley, R. A., and Maschner, H. D. G., eds., Complex Systems and Archaeology, Salt Lake City:
University of Utah Press, 2003.
164
Bentley and Maschner, Complex Systems, p. 5.
165
Bentley, R. A., ‘Scale-Free Network Growth’, in Complex Systems, p. 41.
166
Bentley, ‘Scale-Free’, p. 42.
167
Bentley, R. A., Maschner, H. D. G., ‘Avalanches of Ideas’ in Complex Systems, pp. 61-73.
168
Bentley and Maschner, ‘Avalanches’, p. 61.
66
incorporate contingency and punctuated change. This model is arboreal, in that all
subsequent events can be linked to a single original event. The other explanation they
explore is that of self-organised criticality, which is ‘less deterministic than the network
growth model’,169 and has the potential to capture more complexity.
They use the first model of stochastic network growth to explain power laws found
in citation curves and to explain the spread of ideas on Neolithic pottery. They examine the
case study modelled by Bentley and Shennan170 that implies that pottery styles were copied
preferentially from nodes that were already well-connected – hubs – and these were the
prestigious households. Horizontal transmission of ideas, emulation and prestige are key
factors in this explanation of mass change. They make the important observation that ‘in
studying cultural evolution, we may need to place more emphasis on transmission rather
than focusing exclusively on natural selection.’171
The second model, that of self-organisation, offers a different explanation for how
cultural change is enacted. This is a ‘rhizomatic’ model, where change is a result of a
‘‘slowly-driven, interaction-dominated threshold system’’ (Jensen 1998:126) that naturally
gravitates toward a critical state in which some perturbations only trigger small changes,
while others can cause an avalanche of consequent events.’172 They use the model as a
useful one for describing technological evolution, which tends to be a punctuated process.
Thresholds and low-level interactions are key to this kind of transition. Both of these
explanations for the phenomenon of sudden religious change can be found in antiquity, and
will be examined in my own case studies.

Application Four: Networks and Relational Space

Knappett (in archaeology) and Evans and Rivers (both theoretical physicists) have
collaboratively developed the network model in their use of complex mathematics as a way
to understand ‘the articulation of the physical and relational dimensions of regional
interaction networks’173 in the Bronze Age Aegean. By building a computer programme
where parameters can be changed, they have run simulations of expansion and collapse in
169
Bentley and Maschner, ‘Avalanches’, p. 62.
170
Bentley, R. A., and Shennan, S. J., ‘Cultural Transmission and Stochastic Network Growth’, in AA, Vol.
68, No. 3, 2003, pp. 459-485.
171
Bentley and Maschner, ‘Avalanches’, p. 67.
172
Bentley and Maschner, ‘Avalanches’, p. 67.
67
the interactions between Crete, the Cyclades and the mainlands of Greece and Asia Minor.
This allowed them to test the hypothesis that challenges ‘site centrism’, by treating sites as
secondary and the interactions between them as primary, and to argue that the interactions
themselves ‘might contribute to the size and status of the sites in question’.174
One of the most important parameters that Knappett, Evans and Rivers set is that of
cost of interaction and the consequences of cost. Long distance links are more likely to be
maintained if a node is large and wealthy, with the opposite also being true. ‘This forces us
to realise that if a network is indeed created over a large asymmetrical grid of this kind,
then large sites are likely to feature. Furthermore, large sites searching for information
about resource availability are much more likely to target other large sites in that quest.
This means that gravitational pull needs to be taken into account also when we examine
such networks – the tendency of like to seek out like.’175
In developing their network analysis from Broodbank’s PPA model, they further
incorporate asymmetry, directionality, and the costs involved in maintenance of
interactions. This model begins to be able to manipulate some of the social conditions of
the network. I attempt to consider some of these issues in my own analyses, but a full-scale
mathematical analysis is beyond the scope of this thesis. However, I do factor into my
network analyses (albeit un-mathematically) some of the principles they outline, such as
that of ‘gravitational pull’.

Some issues relevant to the current analysis

We have seen that network theory (in various forms) can be applied to the spread of certain
phenomena in the ancient world, but none of these is religious, even in a broad definition.
The combination of network analytical techniques with those of the sociology of religion is
therefore an important augmentation to this subject.

173
Evans, T., Knappett, C., Rivers, R., ‘Using statistical physics to understand relational space: A case study
from Mediterranean prehistory’, in Complexity Perspectives on Innovation and Social Change, in D. Lane, D.
Pumain, S. van der Leeuw and G. West, (eds.) Berlin: Springer, 2007, p. 19 (forthcoming).
174
Evans, Knappett, Rivers, ‘relational space’, p. 2.
175
Evans, Knappett, Rivers, ‘relational space’, p. 9.
68
 The development of powerful computing technologies has made possible analyses
of datasets that were previously prohibitively large. There are, however, some problems
with the application of network theory to archaeological data. Bentley admits that the
identification of network connections in the archaeological record is much more
challenging than with modern data, and that ‘we have no hope of quantifying them with the
degree of detail possible in graph-theoretical models or for modern datasets such as for co-
authors. Nonetheless, they existed, and the small world and scale-free network model still
offer qualitative insights for prehistoric networks of agents and connections.’176
A major issue is the fact that there are only limited amounts of data – and these
present only limited amounts of information about individuals and their connections. There
are also wider factors to consider that are relevant to the period in question here: the
‘epigraphic habit’ of the first-second centuries AD, the active manipulation of the network,
and the structures that formed part of the Roman Empire, including ‘global’ features such
as the Imperial cult or the trappings of universal ‘civilisation’, architectural uniformities
and civic institutions, such as bath-houses.

Literacy and the Epigraphic Habit

The term the ‘epigraphic habit’ has been coined to describe the enormous rise in
inscriptions that is observable in many parts of the Roman Empire between the first and
third centuries AD, especially between AD 50 and 250. It seems that the pattern is related
to the Romanisation of the Empire and to the articulation of social status, but MacMullen
warns against using this patterning of the data to support grand theories, for example, that
of the decline of Rome.177 Epitaphs form by far the largest body of epigraphic data. 178 The
growth in funerary memorial inscriptions during the Roman period is marked also by the
naming of the commemorator, as well as the deceased.
Meyer argues that one of the main reasons for the erection of funerary monuments
was the proclamation of status179 and that interest in affirming status varies according to the
value of the status in relation to the rest of the population, going some way to explaining

176
Bentley, R. A., ‘Introduction to Complex Systems’, in Bentley and Maschner, Complex Systems, p. 19.
177
MacMullen, R., ‘The Epigraphic Habit in the Roman Empire’, AJP 103, 1982.
178
Meyer, E., ‘Explaining the Epigraphic Habit in the Roman Empire’, JRS, 1990, p. 75.
179
Meyer, ‘Epigraphic’, p. 83.
69
the variation in the habit over time. In the earlier periods of the Empire, status was more
coveted and more of a privilege, and as such, records of it were part of an agenda of self-
aggrandizement linked to the mode of expression through memorialisation. Meyer argues
that this trend varied across the Empire, and the East was apparently less concerned with
expressions of Roman citizenship and status, although Mitchell notes that the relative rarity
of Roman citizenship in eastern cities probably indicates that it was still a genuine
privilege, especially in the first century AD.180 Following the granting of universal Roman
citizenship by Caracalla in AD 212, the status ‘value’ of that citizenship diminished
considerably, and the marking of it in epitaphic form apparently declined. 181 A secondary
aspect of the increased volume of epigraphic monuments is the implication that a larger
proportion of the population could read them.

Active vs. Passive – network manipulation

Studying the networks that facilitated religious change is the study of a process that is not
necessarily deliberately directed; however, it quite often can be. Although the examination
of the processes of religious transmission has great potential to illuminate passive aspects
such as centrality and isolation, what it does not fully take into account is the potential for
the active manipulation of the network by individuals or by groups. Mission and
missionaries have contributed fundamentally to the spread of Christianity, as exemplified in
the early period by the active missions of the apostle Paul. Sophists and rhetors played an
important role in the communication of information and ideas in the ancient world. Traders
with investments in certain innovations or technologies would also have had reasons to
actively manipulate the network. Charismatic individuals have the power to direct or
attempt to direct action on a network; in fact, they may sometimes possess ‘hub’ status – as
Paul is argued to have done by Barabási in his introduction to Linked.182 Although locating
these individuals in the historical record is virtually impossible, a future direction of

180
Mitchell, S., Pers. Comm.
181
However, it is notable that following the universal grant of the Constitutio Antonina, the name Aurelius
was extremely widely adopted and widely recorded, especially in Asia Minor, as a marker of the individual’s
Roman citizenship. This too might stand in opposition to Meyer’s claim that an interest in marking citizen
status declined at this point.
182
Barabási, Linked.
70
network research might attempt to simulate the effects of hub-like charismatic individuals
on a network.

State ‘Mission’
The coercive power of the Roman state is another dimension of network manipulation that
is relevant to understanding the real world situation. The centralisation of control of taxes
and laws, among other trappings of Imperial governance, imposes a hierarchical structure
onto the environment. When the manipulation of the network by a centralised power
becomes too strong, the ability of the network to be freely dynamic is limited. As Stark and
Bainbridge pointed out (see Chapter Two), when religion and state join forces, their
combined power to manipulate the environment is hugely increased.
The Roman Imperial cult is a good example of a widely distributed cultic
phenomenon, centrally driven by a state ‘mission’ to create a level of respect and obedience
to the Roman leadership, manifest in religious form. It also served to formulate a dialogue
of patronage and mutual benefit on the provinces, and as a tool of the Empire acted as an
imposing reminder of the might of the Emperor and Roman ideals. Whether or not people
actually believed that the Emperor was a god is almost entirely arbitrary – they may well
have done. The refusal of early Christians to sacrifice to the Emperor may indicate some
kind of belief on the part of those who did offer sacrifice; but equally, the punishment
meted out upon the refusenik Christians is just as likely to have been because of their
apparent objection to Roman rule, rather than their non-belief in the divinity of the
Emperor.

These various issues of the epigraphic habit, network manipulation, and the force of the
Roman state will impact on the ways we interpret ancient data. Keeping them in mind, we
now turn to the application of network analytical methods to my three specifically religious
case studies: the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus, as an investigation of the role of the military
network in propagating religious innovation; the network formed by the Jewish Diaspora,
to examine the role shared ethnicity may have played in communication of new religious
71
information; and finally, the evidence for the cult of Theos Hypsistos, my original starting
point, and the assessment of a specifically religious network.

Part ii

application

72
 Chapter 4.

The Cult of Jupiter Dolichenus.

Military networks on the edges of empire

Introduction

In this chapter the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus is used as a test case for the diffusion of
innovative cults across the Roman Empire within the milieu of polytheism. The aim is to
illuminate the role military networks play in cult transmission. Through an assessment of
the epigraphic evidence and the pattern it forms, combined with the diffusion over time,
something can be understood about the connections between people who worshipped
Jupiter Dolichenus, where and why they adopted the cult, and the factors involved.
The Roman cult of Jupiter Dolichenus is distributed widely across the western
empire, especially along the northern frontiers in Germania and Britannia, like other
‘oriental’ deities such as Mithras or the Dea Syria. This patterning of the evidence alone
implies that Jupiter Dolichenus is a different manifestation from the Bronze and Iron Age
forms of the deity from which he descends; but a brief examination of the origins and forms
of the cult and historical developments in Syria prior to the Roman conquest will deepen
the picture of the transformation of the cult in the Roman period.
The explanation for the westward diffusion of the cult has always centred on the
participation of legions in eastern campaigns, a connection with Syrians in the Roman
army, and the zealous Syrian traders who influenced its transmission.183 This case study
explores these suggestions and proposes instead that the cult was diffused via the military
network of the officer class. The analysis of the epigraphic material on its own terms shows
that the traditional suggestions for the spread of the cult are inadequate, and demonstrates
the mobility of the officers in the Roman army. Following this, network analyses are used

183
Cumont, F., Oriental Religions in Roman Paganism, New York: Dover Publications, 1956 (originally
published 1911); Merlat, P., Répertoire des inscriptions et monuments figures du culte de Jupiter Dolichenus,
Paris: P. Geuthner, 1951; Speidel, M, The Religion of Iuppiter Dolichenus in the Roman Army, EPRO 63:
Leiden, 1978.
73
to visualise the evidence and support this hypothesis, beginning with a Proximal Point
Analysis (PPA) and then mapping the cult development over time through four PPA
networks in chunks of fifty years.
Finally, an investigation of the role of priests and the military-civilian interface adds
depth to understanding of the spaces, both physical and cognitive, for cults in Roman
military society, and the interaction between military and civilian on the borders of the
Roman Empire.

Origins

This section locates the origins of the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus within an intellectual and
religious framework. Jupiter Dolichenus is the name given to the Roman manifestation of
the Near Eastern storm god from the town of Doliche, now in southeast Turkey. The
plurality of sky-storm deities of the region were known variously in different earlier periods
and places as Adad (Early Bronze Age Mesopotamian), Hadad (Bronze-Iron Age Semitic),
Teshub (Bronze Age Hurrian/Hittite), Tarhunzas (Bronze-Iron Age Luwian), or Ba‘al
Shamin (Bronze Age Semitic). It is not suggested that these deities were identical, or
syncretised by the people who worshipped them, rather that there is an observable regional
theme of an all-powerful weather deity, whose individual characteristics blend with and
differentiate from each other in multiple ways. As Millar notes with regard to the cult of
Atargatis at Hierapolis, ‘it is futile to try to define exactly what the deity, or her cult, really
‘was’. In attempting to do so modern observers have a painful tendency to show no more
logical self-awareness than ancient ones, and to forget that ancient deities ‘were’ whatever
different things observers or worshippers chose to regard them as.’184
It is Hadad/Zeus Hadados that is found in the region of Doliche. From the later Iron
Age to Roman periods, the worship of Hadad/Zeus Hadados in the Near East was focused
on a number of temples aside from Doliche: Aleppo, Hierapolis/Membij (although
subordinate to his consort, Atargatis by this period, possibly always), and Damascus. 185 In

Millar, F., The Roman Near East, Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1993, p. 244.
184

Bunnens, G., ‘The storm god in Northern Syria and Southern Anatolia from Hadad of Aleppo to Jupiter
185

Dolichenus’, in Hutter, M., and Hutter-Braunsar, S., eds. Offizielle Religion, locale Kulte und individuelle
74
these temples he is the Hadad of that locality, and many of these places provide evidence of
some regional continuity between the Iron Age and Roman periods.
It seems that during the Imperial period, however, the Hadad of Doliche underwent
a transformation from a major west-Semitic deity whose worship was essentially fairly
localised, into the pan-Roman Jupiter Dolichenus. The ‘Dolichenus’ epithet is
unequivocally linked to this period. Why was it that the cult of Doliche spread so
profoundly across the western Empire?

Historical background of the region

The area of southeast Turkey and northern Syria from where the cult originated borders the
Syrian Desert and formed both the western edge of the various Bronze and Iron Age
empires that were largely focused on the fertile crescent of Mesopotamia and Iran, as well
as the eastern fringe of the Hittite Empire focused on Anatolia and of the post-Hittite
Luwian-Aramaean culture labelled variously as Late Hittite or Syro-Hittite.186
The Bronze Age centres were mostly destroyed, and some were never reoccupied.
The region does not appear to have suffered major cultural or ethnic disjuncture however,
even with the destruction and incorporation of the Iron Age centres into the Assyrian
empire in the late eighth century BC. 187 This lack of visible break is argued to indicate a
new ethnic group, the Aramaeans.188 The Assyrians settled extensively in both fortified
palatial structures as well as across the landscape, testified to by the evidence for a
‘multitude de petits établissements ruraux’.189 The subsequent Achaemenid Empire unified
a number of different states and people into one system. 190 Grainger deduces from the lack
of archaeological evidence from this period that taxation and foreign rule had left the region
with few cities, and that the population ‘was all but exclusively rural. This was in a country

Religiosität, AOAT 318, 2004, p. 65.

186
Novák, M., ‘Arameans and Luwians – processes of an acculturation’, in W. H. van Soldt, ed., Ethnicity in
ancient Mesopotamia, papers read at the 48th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Leiden 1-4 July
2002, Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, 2005, pp. 252-256.
187
Akkermans, P. M. M. G., and Schwartz, G. M., The Archaeology of Syria, Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2003, p. 361.
188
Novák, Arameans, p. 253.
189
B. Lyonnet, ‘La présence achéménide en Syrie du Nord-Est’, in Briant, P. ed., L’archéologie de l’empire
achéménide: Nouvelles recherches, Persika 6, Paris: De Boccard, 2005, p. 131.
190
Kuhrt, A., Sherwin-White, S., From Samarkhand to Sardis, London: Duckworth, 1993.
75
which had been thickly sown with cities four centuries before.’ 191 The lack of evidence
usually means the period has been defined archaeologically as between post-Assyrian and
pre-Hellenistic, and has been interpreted as representing a time of depopulation, supported
by the archaeological absences in some sites that were important in the earlier Iron Age,
such as Aleppo, Carchemish, Tell Rifaat and Hama, which were all relatively unused in this
period.192 Foreign imports, such as numismatic material or Attic pottery, have been used to
date archaeological layers to this time.
With the results of new archaeological research in the region this view is changing,
and as Millar argues,193 lack of evidence does not necessarily mean that there were no
people. Graves from Deve Höyuk and Tell Ahmar testify to garrisoned Persian soldiers
along the Euphrates, and the Royal Road ran south of the Tur Abdin through Harran to
Carcemish, as a major trade and communications route. Nomadic or semi-nomadic
populations are more difficult to locate archaeologically, but certainly existed in the area.194
Fuensanta and Charvat also support the view that the Achaemenid presence in the area of
the Euphrates-Tigris was of a commercial nature, especially connected with the control of
the iron resources of the region.195
If there had been genuine decreased inhabitation of the Achaemenid landscape of
Syria, the sanctuaries surely would have undergone decline also. This does not appear to be
the case, and Bambyce/Mabbog (Hierapolis) was still minting coins during the time of
Alexander’s conquest,196 providing evidence for its retention of its status as a cultic and
political centre. These coins bear, moreover, Aramaic legends referring to various priests of
the cult, including one called ‘servant of Hadad’,197 which make explicit the indigenous
Aramaic culture of the area. The major Hadad sanctuaries of Aleppo and Doliche also have
no particular archaeological evidence for disjuncture or discontinuity from the Iron Age to
Hellenistic period, and Mazzoni and others argue by contrast that the Persian period saw a
flourishing of these cult centres as supra-regional sites.198 It has been suggested that after
191
Grainger, J. D., The Cities of Seleukid Syria, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990, p. 7.
192
Grainger, Syria, p. 27.
193
Millar, F., ‘The Problem of Hellenistic Syria’, in Kuhrt, A., Sherwin-White, S., eds., Hellenism in the East,
London: Duckworth, 1987, pp. 110-133.
194
Lyonnet, achéménide, p. 143.
195
Fuensanta, J. Gil, Chavet, P, ‘Birecik achéménide et l’age du fer IIIB dans le sud-est anatolien’, in P.
Briant, ed., L´archéologie de l´empire achéménide: Nouvelles recherches, Persika 6, Paris: De Boccard, 2005,
p. 152.
196
Grainger, Syria, p. 26.
197
Millar, ‘Syria’, p. 126.
198
Mazzoni, S., ‘Temples in the City and the Countryside: New Trends in the Iron Age Syria’, DM 13, 2002,
pp. 89-99.
76
the collapse of the pre-Achaemenid Iron Age city states there was a shift towards new cult
centres. Without a picture of the transformation of the sacred landscape, it is difficult to
retain the picture of decline or change in the general population under the Achaemenids.
Undoubtedly, however, Alexander’s conquest and the subsequent Macedonian rule
shifted the (elite at least) focus of the region towards the Greek-speaking world. The
Seleukid Empire retained the scope of the Achaemenid Empire before it, and with it the
core administration centres in Mesopotamia and north Syria. 199 Seleucus I certainly founded
or re-founded a number of cities in north Syria c. 303 BC, including Antioch, Apamea,
Seleucia and Laodicea, which Grainger argues marks the beginning of a re-urbanisation
process of the rural population – native people who would have been hostile to the
Macedonian settlers.200 Iron Age tells were re-used as the acropoleis for Apamea and
Beroia, and the Greek or Macedonian settlers were given substantial portions of land. 201
The (re)creation of these centres in north Syria changed the appearance of the landscape in
physical and social terms, but as Millar points out, only in this area. 202 The rest of Syria was
not subject to similar mass-colonisation, and the survival of non-Greek culture is evident
across the whole region.
In terms of the cult of Doliche, what is noteworthy is that there is no dateable
Hellenistic evidence for the cult under the name Dolichenus. The cult existed, with the god
addressed as Zeus, Hadad, or Zeus Hadados, and probably also Theos Epekoos, a popular
epithet in the area, but there is no evidence for the cult of ‘Dolichenus’ per se. It is
reasonable to conclude that the name of the town of Doliche itself became the focus for the
Roman cult only, and prior to this, the deity was addressed as the local Ba’al, Hadad, being
given the Greek name Zeus and so making explicit the point that the people engaged in his
worship were both native Aramaeans as well as Greek colonists. With the arrival of the
Romans, the god naturally also became known as Jupiter, and the affixing of the
Dolichenus epithet makes it clear that the site of Doliche, as opposed to Aleppo or
Hierapolis, was the local focus for the Romans in the region. What reasons were there for
this?

199
Kuhrt & Sherwin-White, Samarkhand.
200
Grainger, Syria, p. 110.
201
Grainger, Syria, p. 111-113.
202
Millar, ‘Syria’, p. 116.
77
Doliche
The town of Doliche, about 10km north of the modern Turkish city of Gaziantep, could
have been one of the ‘four cities of Commagene’ mentioned in an inscription on a bridge in
the north of Commagene built during the reign of Septimius Severus.203 Hellenistic-Roman
Doliche was situated between the important centres of Edessa, Harran, Samosata and
Antioch and major roads passed through it, as indicated by the Roman milestones from the
area.204 In the valleys to the north of the town, two Roman bridges also indicate the
direction of the roads leading to Samosata, probably an important Commagenian city and
site of the later Roman legionary fortress for XVI Flavia Firma.205 Remains of the
Hellenistic-Roman town are seen in the quarries, the double cave Mithraia, and various
Latin and Greek inscriptions and architectural fragments. There are two surviving rock-cut
churches, and the town was a bishopric until the 11th century AD.
The sanctuary to the god who became known as Jupiter Dolichenus 206 was located
on the summit of Dülük Baba Tepesi, a prominent hill c. 1211m high, to the south of the
town of Doliche. The hill is visible for at least 20km in every direction, and from some
places, for example, the Roman temple at Kösk in the hills to the northeast, this distance is
closer to 50km. It is possible to see the Tepe from the citadel of Aleppo, 207 and, on a clear
day, one can see from the hill itself the distinctive sanctuary-tumulus of Nemrud Dag, c.
150km away to the northeast.
Knowledge about the exact Iron Age use of the site is limited, however. It is clear
that it was significant during this period, as a large number of Iron Age seals have been
found, and an Achaemenid bull’s head capital reused within a later context confirms
monumental pre-Hellenistic architecture. An Iron Age ash deposit c. 1.5m thick, containing
enormous quantities of animal bones,208 could be interpreted as the remains of a festival
similar to the spring fire-festival at Hierapolis described in passage 49 in Lucian’s De Dea
Syria:

203
Butcher, Kevin, Roman Syria and the Near East, London: The British Museum Press, 2003, p. 114.
204
See also the Tabula Peutingeriana.
205
Knox M’Elderry, R., ‘The Legions of the Euphrates Frontier’, CQ, vol. 3, no. 1, Jan 1909, pp. 44-53.
206
The site has been under excavation since 2001 by a German team from the Forschungsstelle Asia Minor at
the Universität Münster, under the direction of Prof. Dr. Engelbert Winter. My thanks are due to them for
allowing me to participate in the excavation. See excavation reports: Blömer, M., and Winter, E., ‘Der Dülük
Baba Tepesi bei Doliche und das Heiligtum des Iupiter Dolichenus’ (Vorbericht 1, 2), IM 55, 56, 2005, 2006.
207
See photograph on p. 74 of Gonella et al, Die Zitadelle von Aleppo und der Tempel des Wettergottes: neue
Forschungen und Entdeckungen, Münster: Rhema, 2005.
208
See the 2007 excavation report (forthcoming).
78
 ‘They cut down tall trees and set them up in the court, and after that they bring goats
and sheep and other live animals and hang them from the trees; together with them
are birds and clothes and gold and silver objects. Everything once complete, they
carry the offerings round the trees and set fire to them: the whole lot immediately go
up in flames. Many people come to this festival from Syria and all the surrounding
countries, and they all bring their own offerings and have standards fashioned in
similitude.’209

It is known from inscriptions that an annual holocaust took place in April for Bel at
Palmyra, and at Harran in the medieval period,210 so it is not unreasonable to extrapolate
that a similarly large sacrificial festival took place on the hill at Doliche. This testifies to
the supposedly ‘diminished rural population’ being committed to their local religious cults
during this period. There is no evidence for Bronze Age use of the site, 211 and if this really
is the case, as it seems, then there is a question as to when and why the hill was chosen as a
suitable site for this cult. Had there been a location that was abandoned after the Bronze
Age destructions, or was this an entirely new cult centre? Was it simply a local temple, or
did it form part of a cultic network?
The existence of the Hellenistic-Roman temple is confirmed from the quantities of
monumental architecture – sculptural fragments of architrave, columns and reused high-
quality ashlar masonry – the excavation of an extensive basalt paved area, and roof tiles
stamped IERATIKH. The paving formed a (presumably public) temenos-piazza. The
temple may have been destroyed during the c. AD 256 expeditions of the Sassanian king
Shapur I, who names the town of Doliche as one of the places he annihilated, 212 although
there is no clear destruction level to prove this. At any rate, the temple is not mentioned
after this, and there is further late antique use of the site as well as evidence for Christian
and Islamic occupation.
The position of the hill, with sight lines into the northern mountains as well as
across the southern plains, may have afforded it a role in the surveillance of the area; and
the temple at least would have had a symbolic domination of the surrounding countryside.

209
Lightfoot, J. L., On the Syrian Goddess, Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, 2003.
210
See Lightfoot, Syrian, p. 503-4.
211
Although much earlier seal-stones have been found, presumably ‘heirlooms’, deposited at a much later
date.
212
Sprengling, M., ‘Shahpuhr I, the Great on the Kaabah of Zoroaster, AJSLL, vol. 57, no. 4, October 1940,
pp. 341-429.
79
Early iconography
There is great diversity and complexity in the Bronze and Iron Age depictions of the
various manifestations of the storm god, as Hadad, Teshub or Tarhunzas, shifting across
regions and times. Some general observations that can be made across all these is that he is
most often bearded with long hair, with a crown, conical headdress or cap, and wears an
Egyptianising kilt or a so-called ‘oriental robe’, i.e. non-Greek style tunic and trousers.
Distinctions in type have been argued for through the presence or absence of horns on the
conical headdress.213 Generally, his attributes are an axe, and either a thunderbolt or a long
staff/spear with foliate end. Representations from Doliche and the surrounding area show
the god on the back of a bull,214 holding a thunderbolt and axe, but the style is archaic,
almost indistinguishable from representations of the god a thousand years earlier. In
addition, he is often associated with an eagle, possibly related to the winged disc, a
common feature of the early iconography.215
In the region, the storm deity was naturally associated with the destruction wreaked
by flash flooding. Deighton216 argues that the indigenous Anatolian ‘weather god’
controlled rivers and ground waters; and is associated with rain only by proxy – finding
resonance with the literary presentation of the Babylonian Adad – ‘Let him block below,
and not raise flood-water from the springs.’ (SBV, Atrahasis II/iv.) Drijvers217 observes that
Lucian (DDS 12, 13) attributes the founding of the temple of Atargatis at Hierapolis to
Deucalion, after the great flood, and suggests that ‘the oldest tradition linked the flood and
its destructive and life-giving power to Hadad alone and his semeion, and perhaps that
Atargatis gradually became more important as representative of the life-giving power of the

213
Bunnens, G., ‘The storm god in Northern Syria and Southern Anatolia from Hadad of Aleppo to Jupiter
Dolichenus’, in Hutter, M., and Hutter-Braunsar, S., eds. Offizielle Religion, locale Kulte und individuelle
Religiosität, AOAT 318, 2004.
214
The few extant representations of the storm god Ba‘al from the Canaanite Late Bronze and Iron Age I
periods (c. 1500-1000 BC) do not show him with a bull, he either stands alone, often in a smiting stance, or on
seals and amulets he is sometimes depicted as standing on a lion or horse – see Cornelius, I., The Iconography
of the Canaanite Gods Reshef and Ba‘al, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 140, Göttingen: University Press
Fribourg Switzerland, 1994, and Novák, Arameans, p. 256. By contrast, the Hittite Teshub, and the Iron Age
Hadad of Aleppo are represented on the back of a bull and/or two mountain deities, or ascending a bull-
drawn chariot. The connection of the storm deity with the bull has been argued persuasively by Novák to
relate to the syncretism of the moon god with the storm god during the post-Hittite Aramaean period – see
Novák, Arameans, p. 256.
215
This has usually been interpreted as a solar disc, but Novák argues, it could also be taken as a lunar
symbol, showing ‘the crescent of the new moon and the disc of the full moon.’ Novák, Arameans, p. 256.
216
Deighton, H. J., The ‘Weather-God’ in Hittite Anatolia, Oxford: BAR International Series 143, 1982.
217
Drijvers, H. J. W., Cults and Beliefs at Edessa, Leiden: Brill, 1980, p. 95-6.
80
water.’ By the time of the Roman adoption of the cult, any associations the god had with
either the destructive or life-giving qualities of water in the earlier periods had vanished or
were not transmitted.

Iconography of the Roman cult

When Jupiter Dolichenus is depicted in the western Roman Diaspora, he is almost always
dressed in a standard Roman military outfit: leather panelled kilt, cloak, sword, greaves and
embossed breastplate. This is an oft-noted style in the representation of deities from the
east, and so cannot be taken as a distinctive feature of Jupiter Dolichenus. Various other
aspects, however, are characteristic of the cult in the west: his usual attributes are a
thunderbolt and an axe; and the most distinctive feature is that he is very often depicted
standing on the back of a bull.
There is a high level of uniformity in the Roman depictions of the deity, with only a
few anomalies, some examples naked, or in ‘Oriental’ robe and trousers. Butcher suggests
that the images of Dolichenus ‘were faithfully replicated in various media across the
empire, but in each case the image referred to an original statue, associated with a particular
place.’218 There is no archaeological evidence to indicate what kind of cult statue might
have existed in the sanctuary at Doliche, or even if there was one. A newly discovered
basalt stele from the site,219 dated to the Roman period, represents the god and goddess on
the back of a bull and hind respectively. It is stylistically almost identical to Bronze and
Iron Age representations of the deities. It has also been argued to replicate the cult statue, 220
contra Butcher, which if it is the case, indicates a profound difference between how the cult
was conceived in its Syrian homeland and the form in which it was transmitted across the
Western empire. Even if it does not represent the cult statue, it nevertheless highlights this
dramatic opposition of styles. Jupiter Dolichenus in Doliche was deeply stylistically
connected to his Bronze and Iron Age past, connecting the people who worshipped him into
a long artistic, religious and presumably literary tradition. The cult in the west, by contrast,
is linked to the Hadad of Doliche only through the god’s stance on the bull and his
attributes, his epithet, and the infrequently occurring phrase, ubi ferrum nascitur, ‘where
218
Butcher, Syria, p. 336
219
See excavation reports, 2007 (forthcoming).
220
M. Blömer, pers comm.
81
iron is born’. This phrase has been taken to refer to the iron mines of the Taurus
Mountains,221 and if this interpretation is correct, represents an example of precise
knowledge of the god’s region of origin. No doubt the worship of Jupiter Dolichenus was
accompanied or fostered by ancient stories or songs, perhaps describing the rolling thunder
over the iron-rich mountains, but without this supplementary evidence to link the region of
Doliche to the Roman cult Diaspora, what is apparent is that the cult underwent a major
transformation.

Speidel’s argument: The Dolichenian Pantheon

Sanders noted the popularity of the cult of Dolichenus with the army in 1902, suggesting
that Commagenian cohorts would have propagated their ancestral worship. However he
suggests that its success more generally was due to Syrian traders, slaves from the region,
and the zealousness of the priests.222 Cumont likewise claimed that its popularity with the
Roman army was due to the presence of Commagenian traders and soldiers within the
ranks. In his 1978 book, The Religion of Jupiter Dolichenus in the Roman Army, Speidel
agrees that these people must have worshipped their native deity, although he notes that
there are very few Commagenians actually known from the evidence. He acknowledges
that ‘while other units recruited from the Orient, or campaigning there, took an active part
in spreading the cult, the Commagenian units proper cannot be shown to have made a
difference.’ His argument, by contrast, is that there was something innate in the cult that
caused its success: ‘Obviously, it took more than native zeal to win the world for a little-
known local god, however old: the cult must have possessed an intrinsic appeal, at least for
other Orientals.’223
He goes on to argue that this intrinsic appeal was the theology of the cult. He then
attempts to reconstruct something of what this theology might have entailed, and his main
point is that the presence of other deities both iconographically and in dedications proves
the existence of a ‘Dolichenian Pantheon’.

221
There is no iron in Doliche itself. On the history and importance of iron production in Commagene from
the Hittite period onwards, see Roesch, K., ‘Kommagene – das Land ‘ubi ferrum nascitur’, in AW, 6, 1975,
pp. 15-17.
222
Sanders, C. S., ‘Jupiter Dolichenus’, JAOS, vol. 23, 1902, pp. 84-92.
223
Speidel, Dolichenus, p. 8.
82
 It is true that Jupiter Dolichenus was sometimes paired with Juno Dolichena, and
this makes a superficial theological link to the well-known partnership of Hadad and
Atargatis in Syria. The cult of Atargatis as the Dea Syria spread in a similarly profound
fashion across the western Empire, her consort Hadad subjugated. Unlike the
Atargatis/Hadad partnership at Hierapolis, and in a similar way to the spread of the cult of
the Dea Syria alone, in the Roman Dolichenian Diaspora, Jupiter is dominant, if Juno is
shown at all. When she is, she wears a long dress and cloak or veil, holding both a mirror or
poppy seed head, and a staff, and occasionally a peacock. She is iconographically different
from Atargatis, as she stands on the back of a deer, while Atargatis’ animal is the lion.
Atargatis was a regional goddess in her own right, with her own particular cult and
iconography. A goddess on a hind, possibly a local version of Atargatis, seems to have been
worshipped at Doliche alongside Jupiter Dolichenus/Hadad. 224 Juno Dolichena in the
Roman Diaspora is not as central, and the cult does not seem to revolve around their divine
partnership. This is another marker of the transformation of the cult by the worshippers in
the process of transmitting it from the region of Doliche to the rest of the Roman world.
Speidel’s proposed pantheon consists of Juno and the pairings of Apollo
Kitharoidos with Diana Lucifera, Sol Invictus with Luna, and the Dioskouroi. He sees them
as deities in their own right within the pantheon, with meaningful roles in Dolichenian
doctrine, although the exact nature of their roles or the theology of the cult he leaves
unanswered. He attempts to answer, however, speculating that the pairing of Apollo and
Diana is perhaps equivalent to ‘the Iranian-Commagenian Mithras and Anahita […] Or is
Apollo here a healer god […] and does Diana stand for Nemesis; or are the two meant to
symbolize emperor and empress?’225 He takes Lucian’s report about the collection of
statues at Hierapolis as support for the interpretation of a pantheon of Dolichenus.
There is, however, no real archaeological evidence for a wider pantheon such as this
at Doliche itself, although there has been found the aforementioned stele of the god and
goddess, an altar with a depiction of a deer,226 and an altar with an enthroned goddess with
two lions, in the style of Atargatis. 227 If a pantheon associated with Dolichenus really can be
224
See especially the newly discovered stele of the god and goddess, mentioned above.
225
Speidel, Dolichenus, p. 23
226
See Winter, E., ‘Die Grabung auf dem Dülük Baba Tepesi’, in PATRIS PANTROFOS KOMMAGHNH,
Neue Funde und Forschungen zwischen Taurus und Euphrat, Asia Minor Studien, Band 60, Bonn: Habelt,
2008.
227
See Blömer, Winter, ‘Dülük’, p. 197. The discovery at the site of images of the goddess with both lions and
deer may be relevant to the role of Juno Dolichena, but this is not the place for a detailed discussion of this
issue.
83
discerned in the western evidence, then it was apparently a response to the needs of the
western worshippers, rather than a wholesale exportation of an archetypal Commagenian
cult form from the sanctuary in Doliche. Although some aspects of a pantheon of the
Atargatis cult are detectable in Hierapolis, there is very little evidence in the corpus for the
worship of Jupiter Dolichenus with any other deity aside from Juno, or very occasionally
Sol. The examples Speidel gives of the inclusion of Apollo and Diana are few, and he
admits that ‘Apollo and Diana were worshipped by the equites singulares Augusti since the
early second century, which may also have contributed to their appearance on this
plaque.’228 He gives further examples of Apollo and Diana as local gods of soldiers in the
Balkans, making it likely that these deities were included in dedications because they were
sacred to the worshippers themselves, rather than as a formal part of the cult of Dolichenus.
It seems that the so-called pantheon reveals more about the needs and backgrounds
of the people dedicating than about the theology of the cult itself. The pantheon Speidel
finds does not necessarily have a greater significance other than that the worshippers of
Jupiter Dolichenus were from a polytheistic background, accustomed to dedicating to a
number of different deities for different reasons, at different times or in different places.
This would suggest that the majority of the cult followers worshipped Jupiter Dolichenus as
he came to them, supplementing their dedications as they were accustomed, and as is
exemplified in the dedication from Hadrian’s Wall, where Juno is also addressed as the
local deity, Caelesti Brigantia (CCID 565).229
My approach here, in opposition to Speidel’s, is to look at the development and
trajectory of the cult from a network perspective. Instead of taking the intrinsic appeal of
the cult as the point of central importance, the focus here will be the connectivity of the
networks of people that were involved in the cult transmission.

Hypothesis: Activation of a Roman Military Network

Speidel, Dolichenus, p. 24.

228
229
All references to the body of material pertaining to the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus come from Hörig, M.,
and Schwertheim, E., Corpus Cultus Iovi Dolicheni (CCID), Études préliminaires aux religions orientales
dans l’Empire romain, Leiden: Brill, 1987.
84
The cult of Jupiter Dolichenus in the Roman world is found concentrated in the northern
and eastern borders: in Dacia, both Pannonias, both Moesias, Raetia, Noricum, both
Germanias, and in Britannia. The earliest evidence for the cult in the West dates to the
beginning of the second century AD, but as Schwertheim notes, 230 some knowledge of the
cult can be assumed prior to this, shown through inscriptions recording the rebuilding of
temples to the god – for example at Voreda in Britannia (CCID 577). Although certainly
present earlier, it is particularly during the second century AD that the cult increased
dramatically in popularity across the military zones of the northern and western provinces
of the Roman Empire.231
The western transmission of the cult of Dolichenus has been associated with the
general Roman trend of increased popularity of cults originating in the east – including for
example, Mithras, Isis, and the Dea Syria. Scholars have explained this phenomenon by
appealing to the quality of the eastern cults, judged to have an intrinsic pull on human
passions, in contrast to the ‘cold and prosaic’ Roman religion. 232 The way the worship of
the Syrian deities in particular diffused so profoundly has been suggested, again by
Cumont, to be initially through Syrian slave populations during the second century BC, and
then because of the ‘veritable colonization’ of the Latin provinces by Syrian merchants.233
Likewise, the popularity of the cult with soldiers has been suggested to result from
the presence of Syrian recruits or regiments within the wider structure of the Roman army:
‘Syrian troops – and, to a lesser extent, Syrian merchants, slaves and freedmen – carried the
cult of this obscure divinity far and wide through the Roman world.’234
In addition, Cumont and Merlat235 suggest that Jupiter Dolichenus became a semi-
official tutelary deity of the army, through a particular appeal to itinerant soldiers in his
simple function as a protective battle-god. If this is the case, or unless there is something
missing from the interpretation of the earlier storm god type, then it highlights the Roman

230
Schwertheim, E., ‘Iupiter Dolichenus, der Zeus von Doliche und der kommagenische Königskult’, in
Studien zum antiken Kleinasien: Friedrich Karl Dörner zum 80. Geburtstag gewidmet, Forschungsstelle Asia
Minor im Seminar für Alte Geschichte der Westfälischen-Wilhelms-Universität Münster, A. Schütte, D. Pohl,
J. Teichmann (Eds.) Asia Minor Studien, Band 3, Bonn: Habelt, 1991, p. 37.
231
The ‘epigraphic habit’ of the second and third centuries AD must of course be taken into account, but
cannot entirely explain the enormous increase in popularity of the cult in the early second century.
232
Cumont, Oriental, p. 28.
233
Cumont, Oriental, p. 105-108.
234
Cook, A. B., Zeus, vol. 1, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1914, p. 607.
235
Cumont, Dolichenus, p. 1278, 1903, Merlat, P., Jupiter Dolichenus, essai d’interpretation et de synthese,
Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1960, p. 100 ff.
85
transformation from his earlier manifestations, as the Bronze and Iron Age storm god is not
explicitly martial.236
Speidel responded by arguing that the military aspect of the cult had been
overstated, and that ‘less than two in five of the cult’s inscriptions mention soldiers.’ 237 My
updated total is c. 121/430 using military terms of any sort, and a further 48 probably
connected to the military via immediate context or inference, amounting to c. 169/430.
Military dedications therefore still account for roughly two in five pieces of evidence;
Speidel concluded that ‘hardly more than half the dedications come from the military.’ 238
His wording is negatively phrased to support his point: because much of the hinterland of
Noricum, the Pannonias, the Moesias and Dacia, as well as Italy, Dalmatia and Thrace were
‘largely free from garrisons’;239 the civilian aspect of the cult had been overlooked. By
rectifying the dichotomy that previous scholars had seen between military and civilian
worshippers, Speidel argued that defining the cult of Dolichenus as a ‘military cult’ is in
opposition to the evidence. The cult’s success with the military was therefore not because it
was simple, but precisely because it offered more to its military followers than just
protection and victory, who followed ‘as complex a creed as the civilians’.240
Aspects of both these arguments are true. There was a definite transformation of the
deity for the Roman audience; and there is no division between what soldiers and civilians
believed. With these statements of earlier scholars in mind, I here re-approach the evidence
with the aim of understanding what the transformation of the deity entailed, and how the
cult diffused so widely and swiftly. The ideology and nature of the god has always been
identified as the central factor for understanding the reasons for the cult’s popularity.
Drawing on the conclusions made by sociologists of religion detailed in Chapter 2, and
given that nothing is known about the cultic theology or ideology for Jupiter Dolichenus, I
here shift the explanation given for the adoption of or conversion to the cult away from the
intrinsic value of the god towards an approach that understands this as a social process,
relating to status and established communication networks. To make sense of the diffusion

236
Although the stele from Tell Ahmar (c. 8th century BC) is dedicated to Tarhunzas as god of the army (see
Bunnens, G., A New Luwian Stele and the cult of the Storm God at Til Barsib-Masuwari, Peeters: Louvain,
2006). My thanks to Michael Blömer for bringing this to my attention.
237
Speidel, Dolichenus, p. 11, n. 35. Merlat counted 80/264, Speidel 97/254.
238
Speidel, Dolichenus, p. 39.
239
Speidel, Dolichenus, p. 38.
240
Speidel, Dolichenus, p. 11.
86
pattern, the focus here is not the nature of the god himself, but the networks that facilitated
the spread of his worship.
I show here that the cult diffused across a military network that was already in
position. The generally homogeneous depictions of the god as well as the relatively short
time period in which the diffusion took place can be described as the activation of a
network – the cult travelled in a coherent and unified form through established social
networks. The people who adopted the worship of the deity were already in place, forming
an open system of communication – who were they, and what did they have in common?
When, and why did they choose Jupiter Dolichenus? Can the cult patterning inform the
interpreter about the centralisation of the cult form, or is the pattern reflective of people’s
social networks?
The role of ethnic groups, i.e. Syrians, and the role of occupational groups, i.e.
traders, will both also be further investigated. I expect to find that the role of traders in the
diffusion of the cult was negligible, as in social terms, traders are naturally on the outside of
the strong-tie social networks that need to be infiltrated in order to spread a new religious
belief. Syrians, who were themselves traders as well as soldiers and priests, may prove to
be more powerful in the dynamics of the cult transmission. Where possible from the
epigraphy, observations about the different kinds of roles played by Syrians, and the
varying degrees of influence these had will be explored.

Military Status: the army and civilians

The military cult diffusion can be thought of in terms of relative status. It has been
supposed that the cult travelled to the west via Syrian recruits and regiments who continued
to worship their traditional local god within their new social context of the Roman army, or
was adopted by legions serving in the region of Doliche who took it back with them to the
west.
In Syria itself, the Syrian soldiers serving there presumably continued their worship
of Hadad/Dolichenus as before. As local men who knew the land, the people, and the
language, they may have had an element of status within the ordinary ranks of the army. It
is likely that local men were also appointed to the officer class for the same reasons. Non-
Syrian soldiers and officers on campaign in the region or stationed near Doliche would
87
have been exposed to the cult of a Jupiter-type god, both through their Syrian colleagues
and because the temple exerted a level of dominance in the landscape. The name of Zeus
Hadados/Dolichaios would swiftly have been translated by them into Jupiter Dolichenus.
Beyond the Syrian homeland of Jupiter Dolichenus, I argue that the cult was
transmitted across military networks already in position. Innovative religious movements
pass through strong-tie social relationships – families, close friends, and neighbours – but
in a military environment, these roles are played by comrades-in-arms. The strong-tie
relationships would exist among close colleagues of similar rank. Among the infantry, these
are comrades who live and fight together, closely tied by geography and friendship. In the
officer class, these relationships often involve geographical distance, but with regular and
repeated communication links. The social networks linking officers provides a clear
explanation for the spread of the cult through the army at such speed, and across the Roman
Empire to such profundity. As men of higher status to start with have considerable
influence over their subordinates, it might be expected that the cult would filter down to the
lower status soldiers also. If this hypothesis were correct, then it would be expected to find
large numbers of officer class military men, for example, centurions, represented in the
epigraphic evidence, as well as some dedications by lower status military men. The
presence of Syrian recruits or legions would be expected to play an important role earlier in
the diffusion, but tail off as the movement gathered adherents. The cult had priests, but their
function and offices are largely unknown. It may be that if a continued Syrian presence is
found, it will be in the administering of the cult.
Dedications with no explicit indication of a military connection by my count total
257/430, well over half. However, some of these simply have no inscription at all, military
or otherwise, and many of them are found in close proximity to the military dedications and
military zones. It may be that many of the civilians represented in the evidence are actually
‘invisibly’ connected with the military – i.e. as partners (only after Septimius Severus as
legitimate wives) and families of the soldiers.241
This transmission to the non-immediate family civilian populations near the army
occupied territory can also be explained through relative social status. The hypothesis for a
military-to-civilian diffused cult involves understanding the status of the soldiers and
officers as a special and clearly delineated sub-group within a frontier setting. The
The ban on marriage for serving soldiers was created by Augustus and dissolved by Septimius Severus in
241

AD 197. See Phang, S. E., The Marriage of Roman Soldiers (13 BC – AD 235). Law and Family in the
Imperial Army, Leiden: Brill, 2001, p. 3.
88
relationship of locals to the occupying army was undoubtedly complex, with the obvious
likelihood of hostility as well as compliance. The members of the army would, however,
have been in possession of higher status, simply through being the arm of the state: in
control of the land, the taxes, and requiring huge quantities of physical support.
Connections with the local population would have been multifaceted, and again, if close
ties were made, religious beliefs might have passed across them. This might imply that non-
Roman civilians who were attracted to the soldier’s cults viewed them as markers of a
relative elite identity. If this hypothesis were reasonable, it would be expected that the
evidence from non-military contexts might be found to be Romanising in some way,
through experiment with nomenclature, adoption of Roman titles, or other expansion of the
spheres of identity. The epigraphic material will be able to show some of these things if
they exist. Some civilian dedications, however, clearly represent independent cult
followers. These will be examined for unifying features, such as ethnicity, immigrant status
or ties to a particular place.

Issues
Some important caveats to add here are concerned with the nature of epigraphic evidence.
The epigraphic habit, especially of the Romans within the context of the army, must be
recalled. Most of the inscriptions from Roman Britain, for example, are found in highly
militarized zones – on Hadrian’s Wall, and around the veteran cities of the south and east.
The fashion of inscribing stones had not penetrated into the ‘blank’ areas of the country,
and so the skewing of the evidence should not then be taken to mean there were no Romans
or other people worshipping Jupiter Dolichenus in those areas where the cult is unattested.
This in fact is quite likely to have been the case, but it is important to note that there were
areas of widespread general epigraphic silence.
There is also the intrinsic problem that those who can afford inscribed dedications
are those who already possess a higher-than-average income and social status. Lower status
offerings of comestible or degradable materials will not be represented, and many small
metal votives are not likely to have survived.242 However, this problem is equally applicable
242
It is worth considering also the performative nature of setting up altars or dedications, and the physical acts
of prayer and sacrifice that are generally lost to the modern interpreter. Inscriptions sometimes mention more
than one dedicant, families, or whole troops of comrades-in-arms. These people may not have been able to
89
across all studies that rely on epigraphy, and although it is important to remember the bias
in the evidence, it should not necessitate its dismissal. In this case, there are enough
inscribed dedications from persons of humbler status (slaves, freedmen, ordinary soldiers)
to suggest that the epigraphic picture is not impossibly skewed towards higher status
individuals.

afford an inscribed dedication individually, but could record their belief as a community. It may be imagined
that they were set up in the presence of all of them and so the dedication becomes a communal event.
90
Epigraphic Analysis

This section examines the epigraphic material to create a sociological profile of the cult
worshippers. By building up a picture of the characteristics and iconography of the cult, and
the ethnicities and occupations of the worshippers and priests from the evidence of their
dedications and buildings, it will be possible to examine the hypotheses outlined above.

The Nature of the Evidence

The evidence for the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus can basically be divided into four types.
There are buildings that are archaeologically attested, ‘Dolichenums’, that are identified as
such through inscriptions or clear iconography, these number nineteen, of which three are
slightly uncertain. There are twenty-two other buildings or sacred places to the god that are
archaeologically unknown but attested from the epigraphy, of which four are uncertain. By
far the largest of the types of evidence are votive inscriptions, generally on stone altars,
columns, or statue bases that are explicitly to Jupiter Dolichenus, this group numbers 308,
of which some are from the archaeological context of a known Dolichenum. Finally, there
is evidence not explicitly connected to Dolichenus worship, but that is associated with the
cult for various reasons. Some of these reasons are good – seven non-explicit dedications
are from clear contexts, fifty bear clear iconography of the cult and six are dedicated to
Juno and are connected by context, but some are more uncertain or subjective, for example,
the bronze hands and triangles.
Bronze hands are a cult offering also found associated with other cults – for
example, Theos Hypsistos (CCID 44).243 Four hands are explicitly dedicated to Jupiter
Dolichenus, from Moesia Inferior (CCID 70), Dacia (or the Ukraine) (CCID 177), Nida
(Heddernheim) in Germania Superior (CCID 520) and Cappadocia (CCID 43).244

243
This dedication has been included in the corpus for Dolichenus on the strength of its form only. I suggest
that it does not belong here, and should be considered alongside the cult evidence for Theos Hypsistos, see
chapter 6.
244
Aside from these definite dedications, three other bronze hands have been found, uninscribed and without
clear iconography, that may relate to the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus. They come from Dacia (CCID 171),
Thrace (CCID 53; 55), and Pannonia Inferior (CCID 189).
91
 The bronze triangles245 by contrast relate more specifically to the cult of Dolichenus
and are sometimes found in clusters. They are often divided into registers, with, alongside
Jupiter on the back of a bull, representations of various other deities 246 including: Juno, an
eagle in the top register, busts of Sol and Luna, the Dioskouroi, Hercules, Sarapis, Minerva,
and Nike. Two were found in the hoard from Mauer-an-der-Url (CCID 294; 295) and two
in the Dolichenum at Nida in Germania Superior (CCID 511; 512); two from Trisisamum
in Noricum (CCID 327, 328); and two from Lussonium in Pannonia Inferior (CCID 201;
202). Two are alleged to be from Syria but were both bought in the Munich art market
(CCID 6; 7). If the iconography of the triangles can be used to understand the nature of the
cult, then the two supposedly originating from Syria are remarkable in their difference to
the western triangles: they show only the god, presumably Dolichenus, the busts of the Sun
and Moon, and on one, another god, or a priest (CCID 6). The triangles from the west, by
contrast, which largely feature depictions of other deities, suggest that the ‘pantheon’ is a
western feature.
The silver votive palms and sheets are all either from the hoard at Mauer-an-der-Url
in Noricum (fourteen) or from Nida (Heddernheim) in Germania Superior (five). The
survival of these clusters of delicate items is surely accidental, and they were a common
type of dedication but generally do not survive. 247 Men with clear military links dedicated
all the votives from Nida. By contrast, the votives from Mauer-an-der-Url are notable for
the extremely high proportion of women represented; the total hoard is twenty-six items, of
which individual women gave ten. There are in general very few female dedicants in the
cult. When women do appear, it is most often within a family dedication, with a male
family member, or with children. The exceptions are these ten fronds, and the only known
inscription from Tungrorum in Belgia, (L’Année Epigraphique 2002, 1011).

245
It has been suggested by my colleague, M. Blömer (Münster) that the triangle might represent the top of
the semeion of Atargatis, linking the Dolichenus cult more strongly with that of Hadad/Atargatis at
Hierapolis. They are generally interpreted as functioning as cultic standard-tops, to be carried on a pole in
procession or stood in a particular place of worship, perhaps the ‘sign of Dolichenus’ mentioned in an
inscription from Dura Europus (CCID 39).
246
Much of Speidel’s argument for the so-called Dolichenian pantheon rests on the iconography on the
triangles.
247
See the hoard of silver leaves from Vichy dedicated to Jupiter Sabasius, in Moore, C. H., ‘The Distribution
of Oriental Cults in the Gauls and the Germanies’, APA, vol. 38, 1907, p. 117.
92
Military and non-military characteristics
There are a number of criteria for defining a dedication as military. Primarily, there is the
explicit mention of military terms – generally either a particular rank within the army, or
the name of a legion. Of the 430 dedications, 59 are without inscription, leaving 371
inscribed monuments.248 121 of these dedications can be explicitly connected to the Roman
army. In addition, there are forty-eight further dedications (some inscribed, some not) that
are assigned to the military through physical context or close geographical association.
Proportionally, these amount to almost half the total number of inscribed dedications.
Within the group classed as military dedications, there are individuals, groups of soldiers,
officers, and officers or individuals on behalf of their comrades.
Criteria for classification of dedications as explicitly non-military are harder to
define, as many of the inscriptions do not give any details about the worshippers, but the
main other occupations that are mentioned are traders and priests. Dedications by women
might usually be classed as ‘civilian’, but here, depending on their context, they are likely
to be connected to the military. There are also some dedications without any indication of
profession that are found in the hinterlands, away from the military borders.
The traditional hypotheses will be examined first: the exposure to the cult of legions
that had been used in the eastern campaigns; the influence of Syrian troops within the army;
and finally, the role of trade and traders, especially Syrians. After showing these hypotheses
to be unsound, I then investigate the role of the communications network of higher status
army officers. In the final section, the non-military evidence will be examined to ascertain
the part that Syrian priests played in the diffusion; the military-civilian interface; and
dedications from the hinterlands.

Chronological framework and initial dispersion

Over 200 of the dedications are undated, which accounts for roughly half the total of
inscribed and uninscribed monuments. Dating for the remaining evidence is either precise,
through record of the exact date of inscription, or approximate, through reference to the
ruling Emperor or other officials. Probable dating applies to the rest, using style of letter

248
Uninscribed dedications without a useful context are unhelpful in the following analysis. They will
however be included in the assessment the pattern of the evidence, in the section on network analysis.
93
cutting or other typology, context or independent knowledge, or scholarly opinion. The
range of those that can be reasonably accurately dated is the first century BC-first century
AD in the region of Doliche (CCID 22; 23) to c. AD 300 in Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria in
Moesia Superior (CCID 111). The epigraphic habit has been mentioned previously, but it is
useful to recall again the huge general increase in epigraphic material between the second
and third centuries AD. Even so, the geographical breadth of the cult by the early second
century is particularly remarkable. It is here also worth noting that the lack of Dolichenus
dedications post AD 300 confirms the decline in public display of pagan cult in the fourth
century, and the particular decline of this cult, the reasons for which will be examined later.
It is unsurprising that the earliest evidence comes from the region of Doliche, but
there is little epigraphic material and it is difficult to assert exact dates. The majority of the
evidence comprises stelai and reliefs of the deity. The style of these representations is often
archaizing, making them additionally difficult to date accurately. In the inscriptions from
Syria, the deity, where he is addressed at all, is called ‘the great-sighted god’ (CCID 28);
‘the listening god’ (CCID 6); the ‘holy god’ (CCID 20); ‘Theos Dolichenus’ (CCID 2);
‘Zeus Megistos of Doliche’ (CCID 33; 34); or simply ‘the god’ (CCID 9). The name
Jupiter Dolichenus in the region seems to appear in the second-third century, at Hierapolis
(L’Année Epigraphique 1998, 1430) and Dura Europus (CCID 32; 39). These dedications
have explicit military connections.
The western diffusion is first explicitly testified to at the end of the first century AD.
The cult is found in Rome in a dedication by a praefectus vigilum in AD 92 (CCID 434),
although this is a disputed date. However, the next dated piece of evidence is only 33 years
later, in a dedication discovered in a building identified as a Dolichenum at Lambaesis in
north Africa from AD 125 (CCID 620). The cult here apparently already had a reasonable
following, as it records the dedication of the temple. Temples are additionally found during
the reign of Antoninus Pius in Carnuntum (CCID 217), Balaklawa in Chersonesus Taurica
(L’Année Epigraphique 1998, 1156), and at some point between 120-160 in Voreda
(Plumpton Wall) in Britannia (CCID 577), these last two clearly fairly well established, as
both were already undergoing restoration at this time. In 138, the cult is found at
Praetorium Latobicorum in Pannonia Superior (CCID 275), in Dacia at Pojejena de Sus at
some point before AD 132 (CCID 172), and in Apulum, also in Dacia, and on Hadrian’s
Wall in Britannia during the reign of Antoninus Pius (CCID 151; 564). It is not
unreasonable to assume that these dedications may have been housed in a sacred building
94
or space of some kind, and that the cult enjoyed a level of popularity beyond these few
surviving inscriptions.
These early pieces of evidence are notable for the geographical breadth they span –
from North Africa, Britannia, Dacia and Pannonia, to the north shore of the Black Sea. It is
clear that this is no organic diffusion through areas of geographical proximity to Doliche.
Of these nine dedications, six have an explicit military connection: the legatus pro praetore
who dedicated the temple at Lambaesis; the centurion of II Augusta on Hadrian’s Wall; the
centurion of a vexillatio of I Italica at Balaklawa who undertook the restoration of the
temple; the prefect of the cohors II Gallorum in Britannia who also restored the temple
there; the prefect of the cohors V Gallorum, who dedicated in Dacia; and the beneficiarius
consularis of XIIII Gemina at Praetorium Latobicorum. This supports the proposition that
wealthy and powerful men within the army influenced the spread of the cult westward.
What does seem clear, however, is that the initial dispersion of the cult to the
corners of the empire was through military avenues. Following this, the number of
dedications made between c. AD 160 and the end of the Severan dynasty increases
dramatically. This suggests that, if it is true that legions that served in the east brought the
cult back with them, then the campaigns against the Parthians by Lucius Verus between AD
162-66, and those of Septimius Severus c. AD 198 should be of central importance in
explaining this exponential rise in popularity at this time. Does the evidence support this
interpretation? Or does the cult diffuse of its own accord, through other lines of
communication?

The role of the eastern campaigns in the cult diffusion

One of the main explanations offered for the success of the cult in the west assumes that
legions drafted to the east were exposed to the cult in its homeland, and took it back with
them to the west when the campaign was over. To ascertain if there are correlations to be
found between participation in eastern campaigns and the presence of the cult in those
legions, dedications by members of legions that had served in Syria are discussed here.
The eastern campaigns that will be useful to examine are: Trajan’s Parthian wars
between 114-117; the quashing of the Bar Kokhba revolt under Hadrian between 132-135;
Lucius Verus’ Parthian expedition between 161-167; Septimius Severus’ campaigns against
95
Pescennius Niger in 195 and against the Parthians in 197-8 and again in 208; and possibly
also the third century campaigns – Caracalla’s in 215, Severus Alexander’s between 230-
232, and Gordian III’s in 238.

Trajan’s Parthian wars – 114-117

Five legions found in the dedications to Dolichenus are known to have taken part in the
campaigns of Trajan against Parthia: I Adiutrix, III Augusta, X Fretensis, XVI Flavia, and
XXX Ulpia Victrix. I Adiutrix moved from Pannonia to participate in the Dacian wars, and
remained in Dacia. After Trajan’s wars it returned to Pannonia and was based in Brigetio.
Vexillationes of III Augusta, based usually in Lambaesis, fought in Trajan’s campaign, and
it is known that at least 43 Syrian soldiers were recruited to the legion at this time. 249 X
Fretensis was based in Judaea and Syria and had been involved in other campaigns in the
area. It was this legion that destroyed Qumran, and besieged Jerusalem, Machaerus and
Masada, before being stationed in Jerusalem following the Jewish war. XVI Flavia was
formed from the disgraced XVI Gallica, and sent to the eastern provinces as punishment by
Vespasian. After being involved in Trajan’s campaigns, Hadrian sent it to Samosata. XXX
Ulpia Victrix was raised by Trajan c. AD 100 to fight in the Dacian wars. It was based in
Dacia, although it is likely that part of the legion participated in the Parthian campaigns.
Most of the inscriptions dedicated by members of these legions are, however, dated
much later than the period of Trajan’s wars: all the dedications by III Augusta date to the
third century (CCID 615; 616; 621-624; 626; 627; 630); a dedication by X Fretensis is
found between 167-180 (CCID 138); XVI Flavia in 211 (CCID 32); and two inscriptions
of XXX Ulpia Victrix, dating from 211, (CCID 547); and 228 (CCID 541). It is
implausible that the participation of these legions in Trajan’s campaign can have had any
influence on these cult dedications, some a century later.
There are four inscriptions of I Adiutrix, three from the Dolichenum in Brigetio, the
legion’s camp, and another from Aschaffenburg in Germania Superior, (CCID 538). The
Aschaffenburg altar is dated to 191, which means it can be discounted here, but the
dedications from Brigetio are either undated or broadly placed in the second half of the
second century. It may be that they are earlier rather than later, and it is possible the legion
was exposed to the cult in Syria and brought it back to Pannonia; however, even if this were

Pollard, N., Soldiers, Cities and Civilians in Roman Syria, Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press,
249

2000, p. 117.
96
so, it still leaves a considerable gap between the time of military engagement and the
evidence. The legion also took part in Septimius Severus’ campaigns in the closing years of
the second century, which will be examined below. It seems fairly apparent that the
dedicants from these legions did not adopt the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus while on Trajan’s
campaigns, and alternative campaigns or explanations must be sought.
The one inscription that might plausibly have a connection with this campaign is
mentioned above – the dedication from Lambaesis dating to AD 125 of the temple to
Dolichenus by the legatus pro praetore Sextus Iulius Maior, a senator from Nysa on the
river Maeander in Asia. Although there is no explicit mention of his legion, it must be III
Augusta. It is not necessarily improbable to hypothesise that he encountered the cult of
Doliche while leading a vexillatio of another legion in the east when he was more junior,
dedicating the temple a decade later.

The Bar Kokhba revolt – 132-135

Four legions that dedicate to Dolichenus are known to have taken part in suppressing the
Bar Kokhba revolt in Judaea: III Cyrenaica, X Fretensis, X Gemina and XI Claudia. III
Cyrenaica was in Alexandria, used in campaigns in the region against the Parthians, and the
Jewish wars of 66-70 before its involvement in Bar Kokhba. X Fretensis had been heavily
involved in the fighting in Judaea, and was stationed in Jerusalem. X Gemina was in
Germania Inferior until AD 103 before moving to Aquincum and then Vindobona in
Pannonia, where it remained until the fifth century. Vexillationes of the legion were
involved in Bar Kokhba. XI Claudia was in Brigetio until AD 104, before moving to
Durostorum in Moesia Inferior, where it remained until the fifth century. Some
vexillationes took part in quelling the Bar Kokhba revolt.
Both the inscriptions for III Cyrenaica are from the Esquiline Dolichenum and date
from 191, too late to reasonably make a case for connection with Bar Kokhba. Likewise,
the dedication by the member of X Fretensis in Dacia dates from between 167-180 (CCID
138), also too late. Similarly, the five inscriptions of X Gemina, from Pannonia Superior
and the Esquiline Dolichenum in Rome: two are un- or broadly dated to the second century
(CCID 222; 277), but the other three date between 180-218 (CCID 223; 270; 415), also too
late to reconstruct a plausible connection with involvement in Bar Kokhba. The only
dedication of XI Claudia is undated (L’Année Epigraphique 2001, 1733).

97
 As well as the fact that the dates of the dedications are too far removed from the
legions’ involvement in the campaign, it is also unlikely that quashing the Bar Kokhba
rebellion played any part in the diffusion of the cult of Dolichenus, simply because Judaea
is some way from the north Syrian homeland of the cult. It is possible that legions may
have marched through the region of Doliche en route, but it seems implausible to speculate
that the cult would have had time to transmit during a relatively short stay.250

Lucius Verus’ Parthian expedition – 161-167

The campaigns of Lucius Verus against Parthia are a more likely candidate for how the
military might have been exposed to the cult in its homeland, as it is precisely at this period
that the dedications begin to increase dramatically. Supporting this, seven legions who
make Dolichenus dedications are known to have been involved: II Adiutrix, III Cyrenaica,
IIII Flavia, V Macedonica, X Gemina, XIIII Gemina, and XVI Flavia. II Adiutrix was
based in Aquincum after Trajan’s Dacian wars, and vexillationes were involved in the
campaigns of Lucius Verus. III Cyrenaica was based in Egypt, and had served in the region
on previous occasions. IIII Flavia was in Moesia Superior and had fought in Trajan’s
Dacian wars, before being involved in Lucius Verus’ campaigns. V Macedonica returned to
Moesia in AD 71 after successes against the Parthians and in the Jewish wars. Trajan used
it in his Dacian wars, before Lucius Verus took it on his Parthian campaigns. The legion
afterwards returned to Porolissum. X Gemina was in Pannonia until the fifth century, with
vexillationes taking part in Verus’ wars. XIIII Gemina was involved in Trajan’s wars in
Dacia between AD 101-106, and then posted to Carnuntum, c. 114, where it stayed for the
next three centuries. XVI Flavia had been camped at Samosata since the period of Hadrian.
One undated inscription by a veteran of II Adiutrix was found in the legionary camp
at Aquincum (CCID 183). The deity is addressed as Jupiter Dulcenus Heliopolitanus,
making a connection to Syria through the Heliopolis locative, but also syncretising
Dolichenus with the popular Jupiter Heliopolitanus. The misspelling of Dolichenus as
‘Dulcenus’ represents a mishearing or second-hand appropriation of the deity’s name, as it
is clearly Latinised and has implications of sweetness. Without an accurate date, it is
impossible to draw further conclusions from this inscription.

250
Although further archaeological investigation is necessary in order to ascertain the scale of military
involvement in the area of Doliche.
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 As noted above, both dedications by III Cyrenaica are from the Esquiline, dating
from 191. The thirty year lag between the legion’s involvement in the wars of Lucius Verus
suggest that these dedicants did not adopt the cult during their time on campaign, but via
another route. Likewise, the time gap is a problem for interpreting the one inscription
mentioning IIII Flavia in this way, as it dates from between 185-192 (CCID 449). One of
the dedications accounting for V Macedonica in the evidence is undated (CCID 404); the
other is an altar found in Samum in Dacia that dates to AD 243 (CCID 131), which is far
too late to associate with this campaign. The inscriptions pertaining to X Gemina date
between 180-218 (CCID 223; 270; 415), or are unspecific (CCID 222; 277); the minimum
twenty-five year lag is also too long to reconstruct picking the cult up with Verus’
campaigns. Both inscriptions that mention XIIII Gemina are unconnected with deployment
in Syria: as one was dedicated between AD 235-238 (CCID 232), and the other in 138 (or,
according to CIL, in 159) – but either dating is too early (CCID 275). The one dedication
by XVI Flavia is too late, 211 (CCID 32).
Intuitively, it is reasonable to think that the participation by the military in the
campaigns of Lucius Verus near the homeland of the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus might be in
some way responsible for bringing the cult back to the west. However, further examination
of the evidence for this claim has shown it to be untenable, with all the dedications by
members of the legions involved occurring after too great a time lag.

Septimius Severus’ campaigns – 195, 197-8 and 208

Like the campaigns of Lucius Verus, the eastern engagements of the African emperor
Septimius Severus have also been hypothesised as a time when the cult of Jupiter
Dolichenus might have been further adopted and disseminated back to the west. The nine
legions who dedicate to Dolichenus who were involved are: I Adiutrix, I Italica, I Parthica,
II Italica, IIII Scythica, VIII Augusta, XI Claudia, XIIII Gemina, and XVI Flavia. I
Adiutrix, whose base camp was at Brigetio, marched on Rome in support of Septimius
Severus, and was involved in all of his campaigns in the east. I Italica, based at Novae in
Moesia, also supported Septimius, besieging Pescennius Niger in Byzantium with XI
Claudia, fighting in the battle of Issus in 194. It may have been further involved in the
Parthian campaigns. I Parthica was raised c. 195 specifically for these campaigns, and the
legion remained in the east, at Singara (Sinjar, Iraq) until 360. II Italica was raised by
Marcus Aurelius c. 165 and stationed in Lauriacum (Lorch) in Noricum. It was used against
99
Pescennius Niger and in the Parthian campaigns. IIII Scythica were based at Zeugma, fifty
kilometres from Doliche itself, and was involved in these campaigns of Septimius. VIII
Augusta was based somewhere on the Rhine, later at Strasbourg. XI Claudia, based in
Durostorum in Moesia Inferior, fought alongside the other Moesian legion I Italica against
Pescennius Niger at Issus. Septimius Severus himself had commanded XIIII Gemina, based
at Carnuntum. XVI Flavia was at Samosata.
The four dedications of I Adiutrix are all too early to have been affected by these
wars, being either undated, broadly dated to the second half of the second century (CCID
253; 241; 242), or precisely to 191 (CCID 538). One inscription mentions II Italica, from
Virunum (Zollfeld) and dates to the second half of the third century (CCID 342). This is
too long a time gap to propose a direct link between the eastern campaigns and the cult
presence, moreover, the altar was found in a building tentatively identified as a
Dolichenum, testifying to the cult’s presence at an earlier date. Two inscriptions by
members of VIII Augusta are known, both dated prior to these campaigns (CCID 538;
539). The inscription of XI Claudia is undated (L’Année Epigraphique 2001, 1733), but is
from Novae, the headquarters of I Italica, the legion they fought alongside against
Pescennius Niger. However, this dedication may not relate to this period at all, and reflects
instead the communications that existed between geographically close camps. The two
inscriptions of XIIII Gemina have been discussed above, neither dated to a period that
could associate the cult with the eastern campaigns, and moreover, a Dolichenum is attested
in Carnuntum by the period of Antoninus Pius.
Two of the four inscriptions of I Italica are too early, being dated to 139-161
(L’Année Epigraphique 1998, 1156; 1158); but the other two may not be. One from
Novae, the legion’s headquarters, is dated broadly to the second-third century (CCID 74),
and one from Dionysopolis in Moesia, is dated precisely to 214 (CCID 71), and may result
from engagement in Septimius Severus’ campaigns. Likewise, the one inscription of I
Parthica dates from 206, found in Obernburg, was given by a vexillatio of XXII
Primigenia that were led by a centurion of I Parthica (CCID 537). As the dedication is by
the soldiers of XXII Primigenia themselves, it has little to do with I Parthica’s involvement
in Septimius’ campaigns, although if the centurion were Syrian, which is not unlikely given
the date of the inscription and his legion’s genesis, then he may have been an adherent of
the cult in its place of origin who brought it with him to XXII Primigenia. However, what
seems more likely is that members of XXII Primigenia already worshipped the god, and the
100
centurion of I Parthica had very little to do with its transmission. What it certainly does
show is the vast movement of officers across the empire, which will be discussed further
below.
Not unreasonably, it might be expected that the legions based in the region, IIII
Scythica (Zeugma) and XVI Flavia (Samosata), would have adopted the cult of Jupiter
Dolichenus early and fairly extensively. However, only four dedications to Dolichenus by
these legions are known: three by IIII Scythica, one from the Aventine Dolichenum (CCID
404), and two from Dura Europus (CCID 32; 35); and one by XVI Flavia, also from Dura
(CCID 32). The Aventine inscription and one of the Dura inscriptions are undated, and the
other two are precisely dated to 211. Vexillationes of both legions were present in Dura at
this time, and the Dolichenum there seems to have been a purely military installation. 251
This is good evidence for the campaigns of Septimius Severus having an effect of the
dispersion of the cult, but not in the way conventionally suggested. The men of these
legions, more than any others, would have had the opportunity to discover the cult and
temple of Doliche, as they were stationed very close by. However, they did not apparently
adopt the cult before the end of the second century, after they had been based at Zeugma
and Samosata for a century or so. This seems to indicate that interaction with other legions
during Septimius’ campaigns may have been the driving factor in the adoption of the cult
here, rather than geographical proximity to its homeland, as it may be with the inscriptions
of I Italica and I Parthica discussed above.

The third century expeditions

Caracalla’s expedition between 215-217, that of Severus Alexander between 230-232 and
Gordian III from 238 are all somewhat late to account for the adoption and spread of the
cult of Jupiter Dolichenus in the west, as a large proportion of the dedications are dated to
the end of the second century and beginning of the third. Caracalla and Gordion used I
Adiutrix, whose base was in Brigetio in Pannonia. The Dolichenum there was established
by the end of the second century, before these campaigns; and the other dedication by this
legion from Aschaffenburg dates from 191 (CCID 538). Caracalla also used III Cyrenaica,
but both the dedications associated with this legion are also from 191 (CCID 408; 409).
The only legion that dedicates to Dolichenus and that took part in the campaigns of

251
See Pollard, N., ‘The Roman army as ‘total institution’ in the Near East?’, The Roman Army in the East,
ed. D. Kennedy, JRA supplementary series no. 18, Ann Arbor: JRA, 1996, p. 222.
101
Alexander Severus is XXX Ulpia Victrix. However, that members of this unit picked the
cult up in Syria can be immediately discounted, as both dedications date from before the
campaign (CCID 547; 541). Gordian III also used II Adiutrix and possibly XXII
Primigenia. II Adiutrix was based in Aquincum with vexillationes used against the
Sassanids, however, the one dedication to Dolichenus, found in Aquincum, is undated (see
above). XXII Primigenia was based in Mogontiacum in Germania Superior, remaining
there until around the third century. Vexillationes also helped build the Antonine Wall. All
five of the dedications by this legion are dated prior to their involvement with the
campaigns in the east (CCID 508; 524; 531; 536; 537).
It is clear from this analysis that there is very little in the evidence to support the
notion that the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus was picked up by soldiers engaged in any of the
eastern campaigns. In this case, there must be other reasons to account for its diffusion
through these various legions. The other central explanation given has been the presence of
Syrian recruits bringing the cult with them from their homeland, which will be examined
next.

The role of Syrian recruits

Analysts from Cumont onwards have also attributed the success the cult of Jupiter
Dolichenus in the army in part to the presence of Syrian recruits, who zealously continued
their worship of the deity of their homeland in the army, influencing and converting their
comrades. Moore writes that, ‘for the most part the cult came into the Rhine valley from the
valley of the Danube and the provinces contiguous to it, as did the worship of Mithras. We
know that the legions in Moesia were filled from Asia, that in Dacia there were two or three
cohortes Commagenorum, as well as many Asiatics settled there by Trajan. Some of these
would naturally have brought this worship with them.’252
Does the evidence support this reasonable explanation? Evidence taken here to
represent Syrians in the army is direct: explicit mention of Syrian ethnicity through name,
hometown or province. The use of Greek is not enough to postulate an explicitly Syrian
connection, although it could certainly represent easterners in general. The discussion looks

252
Moore, ‘Oriental Cults’, p. 122-123.
102
at both whole units that were raised in Syria or the region, as well as the presence of
individual recruits or groups of recruits within the wider structure of the army.
A few military units were raised in the east and were probably composed largely of
Syrians, at least at their inception. Legio I Parthica was raised by Septimius Severus for his
Parthian campaigns. However, as noted above, the one dedication (CCID 537) to Jupiter
Dolichenus mentioning this legion makes no explicit link to Syria, although the centurion in
command was almost certainly Syrian and had been involved in the eastern campaigns. It is
dated to 206, so it is too late within the corpus to extrapolate any central involvement in the
diffusion of the cult; moreover there is no evidence to suggest that his connection with
Jupiter Dolichenus did not in fact arise from his time in Germany with XXII Primigenia.
An altar from the legion’s base camp at Mogontiacum supports this. The centurion of XXII
Primigenia, Domitius Aesclepiades, from Arethusa in Syria, (CCID 524) dedicated it
between 211-217, after the cult is first found in the legion. Moore suggests that, ‘in his
transfer from legion to legion the centurion remained faithful to the god of his native
country.’253 This may be so, but his is one of the only pieces of evidence for this being the
case. The relatively late date moreover suggests that his role as a Syrian in spreading the
cult of his native country was minimal – there were already worshippers of Dolichenus in
his legion five years before his dedication.
That some cohorts were originally from Syria is suggested by their names, and it is
possible that they were levied from the region during or following Trajan’s Parthian
campaigns. Veterans of I Canathenorum (from Canatha, in the heart of Syria Trachontis)
dedicated an altar in Serviodorum in Raetia in 163 (CCID 485), a relatively early date in
the evidence, making it plausible that these veterans had brought the deity with them from
Syria. Similarly, the cohort I Damascenorum was based in Friedberg in Germania Superior
between 120-160, and at some point during the second century Tiberius Claudius, a
centurion of the cohort, dedicated a silver votive sheet in Nida (Heddernheim) (CCID 518).
The cohort II Flavia Commagenorum was in Dacia following Trajan’s Dacian Wars. If
these soldiers were in Dacia this early, then they should be heavily implicated in the
popularity of the cult in that province, supporting Moore’s thesis. Unfortunately, the only
piece of evidence explicitly pertaining to the unit is undated: an altar from Micia given by
the prefect of the cohort (CCID 159). It is however notable that many of the dedications
from Dacia explicitly name Jupiter Dolichenus as being ‘of Commagene’ (for example,
253
Moore, ‘Oriental Cults’, p. 122.
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CCID 146; 147; 152; 160; 162), plausibly connected to a strong Commagenian presence in
the region, II Flavia Commagenorum being part.
The cohort XX Palmyrenorum was the principal garrison at Dura Europus.254 A
papyrus text from Dura records Aelius Avitus as centurion of an unspecified legion and
praepositus of the cohort in 239 (CCID 39), but the cult at Dura seems to be late, and
unconnected with the temple at Doliche or Syrian recruits in particular.
It is notable that there are in fact very few individual recruits with Syrian
connections represented in the evidence. The earliest individual with a potentially Syrian
cognomen is Caius Julius Marinus, a miles of the Classis Praetoria Misenensis. He
dedicated a stone deer’s head in the Esquiline Dolichenum at some point prior to 212
(CCID 411). A man with the same name is found later in the second century dedicating a
bronze hand at Nida (CCID 520); he is probably the same man, but he had moved up the
ranks and was by this point a centurion of the Numeri Brittonum Gurvedensium. Dating
from the same period and also found in Rome, Caius Julius Dionysius dedicated to the
paterno deo Comageno (CCID 433). He was a miles of the same Classis, and names
himself of the natione Surus. It seems that the cult in this fleet has strong connections to the
Commagenian homeland, perhaps indicating that it arrived in it early on.
A few Syrians may well be present in the legion III Augusta, which was based in
Lambaesis: an altar from Lepcis Magna was dedicated between AD 208-210 by a centurion
of the legion, Titus Flavius Marinus, whose cognomen may indicate a link to Syria (CCID
615). An altar from Thanadassa (‘Ain Wif), dating from AD 210-211, was dedicated by
Marcus Caninius Adiutor Faustinianus, who was both the prefect of cohors II Hamiorum
and the praepositus of a vexillatio of III Augusta. Hamiorum may have been from the
Syrian city of Hama, and was on the Numidian front with Septimius Severus (CCID 616).
Finally, an altar dating from 222-238 (CCID 627) was given by a centurion, Valerius
Rufus. He may be from Syrian Antioch,255 as a tombstone is known that reads: D. M. L.
Valeri L. f. Rufi domo Antiochia (CIL VIII 2997). If this is the case, then he may have been
part of the replenishment of the legion by men from III Gallica by Elagabalus c. 219. III
Gallica was on duty in Syria, but is not mentioned in any Dolichenus dedication. There was
a temple to Dolichenus in Lambaesis from 125, and so these potentially Syrian members of

254
Butcher, Roman Syria, p. 55.
255
See commentary in the CCID by Hörig and Schwertheim, no. 637.
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the legion a century later can be discounted as genuine forces in the adoption of the cult
here.
Another man probably from Syrian Antioch is Flavius Antiochianus, the prefect of
the cohort I civium Romanorum equitatae, and also leader of the cohort IIII Vindelicorum
(CCID 527). He dedicated an altar in Germania Superior in 211.
Aurelius Theoteknos, whose cognomen is a translation of the Syrian Barlaha,
dedicated a stele from the Dolichenum area of Dura Europus (CCID 35). He was general of
the legion IIII Scythica, and it seems quite likely that he was ethnically Syrian. The rest of
the inscriptions from Dura all date to the third century, his pseudo-praenomen Aurelius
makes it reasonable to place this dedication with them, which is again too late to be useful
in thinking about the routes of the cult diffusion.
The individual soldiers found in the corpus that potentially have a Syrian connection
number but a handful, and the units with Syrian connections are also very few. The rest of
the evidence is all too late and too sparse to support Cumont and others’ argument for a
zealous Syrian contingent in the military.
The only really plausible connection with Syrian recruits carrying the cult with them
is found in the evidence for the cohorts I Canathenorum, I Damascenorum, and II Flavia
Commagenorum. These units seem to be the most likely candidates for the initial
introduction of the cult into the western provinces. If this were the case, then the earliest
evidence for the cult should be in Dacia (II Flavia Commagenorum), Germania Superior (I
Damascenorum) and Raetia (I Canathenorum). However, the earliest evidence, as seen
above, is from Africa, Pannonia Superior, Britannia, and the Chersonesus Taurica, as well
as the altar from Apulum in Dacia. The earliest evidence from Raetia is the dedication from
163 by the veterans of I Canathenorum discussed above. The earliest from Germania
Superior dates to 191, and the dedicant is from Savaria in Pannonia Superior (CCID 538),
so I Damascenorum can be discounted as having influenced the adoption of the cult.
It seems from this that Moore’s suggestion is correct, contra Speidel’s assertion that,
because there is such meagre evidence, the influence of II Flavia Commagenorum should
be discounted (see above). The Commagenian connection explicitly expressed in the
dedications from Dacia has already been discussed, and one of the earliest pieces of
evidence comes from Apulum. It can legitimately be argued that the cult was introduced
into Dacia by the Commagenian cohort and the settled Syrians in the population. The only
other locations where Commagene is explicitly mentioned are Pannonia Superior and Rome
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– both places where the cult is earliest attested. If the introduction of the cult into the west
can be aligned with the presence of II Flavia Commagenorum, then what is to be
understood from the striking lack of Syrian recruits in the rest of the evidence? This can be
explained if it is accepted that the cult was not diffused by Syrian recruits, but instead by
powerful military men who had adopted the cult in Dacia. The cult originally had a strong
connection with Commagene, but as it was transmitted beyond natives of Syria and
Commagene this connection became less important. The influence of easterners on the cult
diffusion has been overstated, as it is also suggested that Syrian traders played a part in the
transmission, which will be discussed next.

Supplying the army: the influence of traders

The final explanation given for the diffusion of the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus has been the
presence of Syrian traders.256 However, there are an extremely small number of traders in
the evidence, and from that number, only two make themselves known clearly as Syrians.
Moreover, although the status of traders as long-distance weak ties makes them very
important in, for example, the diffusion of disease, technological innovation or information
requiring little social change, their social ability to influence people concerning religion is
very limited because they are outside the tight social networks that religious information
and change travels across.
However, there clearly are some traders that dedicated to Jupiter Dolichenus. It is
my suggestion here that traders were introduced to the cult through their role in the
supplying the army. The find locations where traders are attested, which all have
connections with the military, supports this argument.
The dedications by traders are found all across the empire, mainly dating to the
early third century. One with an explicit military connection has been found in Rome:
Publius Aelius Miron dedicated two items to Dolichenus in 218, probably in the Esquiline
Dolichenum (CCID 415; 416). He is connected to the legion X Gemina in an unknown
capacity. That legion was based at this time in Vindobona in Pannonia.
A limestone relief dedicated in Brigetio by Domitius Titus dates to the second-third
century AD. He had been decurion at Seleucia Zeugma (CCID 239), and is argued by
256
Cumont, Oriental, p. 25.
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Hörig and Schwertheim to be a former decurion now occupied in trade ‘like many Orientals
before and after him’.257 Hörig and Schwertheim class him as a civic decurion of Syrian
origin, but it is unclear whether his role was civic or military – as it is not stated, and
associations of veteran soldiers had decurions. Either way, he has connections with the
military both through the find spot, the base camp of I Adiutrix, and his link with Zeugma,
IIII Scythica’s base.
In 221, Lucius Viducius dedicated a slab in Eboracum (York);258 and Claudius
Fronto, town councillor and trader from Aquincum in Dacia dedicated a column in Augusta
Traiana in Thrace (CCID 52). The cohors I Athiotorum had built a Dolichenum during the
reign of Septimius Severus (L’Année Epigraphique 1999, 1374), it is likely that this
column was dedicated in this building, placing it most probably in the third century. In 217
at Mogontiacum, base camp of XXII Primigenia, an altar was given by Caius Julius
Maternus (CCID 525); two silver votives from the hoard at Mauer-an-der-Url in Noricum
that possibly date to the reign of Commodus were given by the trader Augustus Aurelius,
one to Hercules (CCID 306); and one to Jupiter (CCID 311). An unnamed person, known
simply as ‘Surus’, offered another votive here. There is nothing to indicate that Augustus
Aurelius was a Syrian, but there is the possibility that he was this unnamed person.
In Dacia, two inscriptions by explicitly named Syrian traders have been found – a
column from Apulum was dedicated at the turn of the second-third century by Aurelius
Alexander and Flavius Suri (CCID 153); and an undated altar from Ulpia Traiana
Sarmizegetusa was given by Gaius Gaianus and Proculus Apollophanes Suri (CCID 169).
The same Gaianus is also found on another Dolichenus inscription in his role as part of the
builder’s guild (CCID 165).
Some dedications are undated, but those that are clearly dated come from the
beginning of the third century, making it even more unlikely that these men had any
influence on the success of the cult. From this, it is apparent that there are fewer Syrian
traders represented in the evidence than has been previously suggested, and that the impact
of traders in general and Syrian traders in particular in the spread of the cult of Dolichenus
was minimal. It seems likely, in fact, that these traders picked up the cult from their
dealings with the military, and not the other way round.

257
See commentary in the CCID by Hörig and Schwertheim, no. 239.
258
See Irby-Massie, G. L., Military Religion in Roman Britain, Leiden: Brill, 1999, Catalogue no. 395, p. 278.
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 

The communications network of Roman military officials

With all of the traditional explanations for the success of the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus in
the west proving to be untenable or unlikely, what then can account for its popularity and
the profundity of its diffusion? What does the exponential rise in dedications from c. 160
onwards represent? The epigraphic habit of course must be remembered, but I suggest here
that the enormous success of the cult at this time can be understood as an information
cascade – the activation of a military network that was already established.

Administration: structure & communication

The generals of the army were also provincial governors, the legates of the Emperor, titled
legati Augusti pro praetore or, in certain regions, proconsul. A general’s staff would have
consisted of two groups – his bodyguards, the singulares, and his administrative support
staff, the men engaged in the issue of orders and information. Goldsworthy writes that,

‘We can do little more than guess at the composition of the commander’s ‘staff’
proper. Titus seems to have had centurions seconded from their units in his
immediate following and Arrian had both centurions and decurions close to him (BJ
6. 262, Ectaxis 22). We know that many officers did serve away from their units in
the retinues of magistrates and commanders, but it is impossible to do more than
guess at their precise function. For instance, would a general have sent an order to a
subordinate via an officer such as a centurion or merely have used one of his
bodyguard as a messenger? It might have been useful for an officer, with a better
appreciation of the situation than a ranker, to carry orders, since the recipient could
have questioned him about the general’s intentions.’259

It is reasonable to assume that the communications network of the army consisted of

middle-ranking officers, and that this class of soldier were regularly moving between
legions and across the Empire. As early as 1907, Clifford Moore noted that the role of
officers in the diffusion of cults was important – referring to a dedication to Jupiter

259
Goldsworthy, A. K., The Roman Army at War – 100 BC-AD 200, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996, p. 123-4.
108
Sabasius, he observes that ‘the place of the dedicator’s origin, the colony Emona in
Pannonia, shows how a centurion, transferred from one province to another, might be an
important agent in the diffusion of foreign cults.’260
An overview of the epigraphic material illuminates this argument further. There are
twenty-four known centurions that dedicate to Jupiter Dolichenus, two of which seem to
have had a connection to the Praetorian Guard. There are also fourteen prefects, five
signiferi, five tribunes, five beneficarii, three legati propraetores and one general. There
are also two primipili, five miles, eight optiones, five veterans of unspecified rank, and two
custodians of the armoury. It is clear that the overwhelming majority of the dedicants from
the military inscriptions are men of middling-high status. Although there are foot soldiers
and veterans of unspecified rank, by far the largest social group is that of centurions,
prefects, and tribunes. There are in addition a number of men with special status: signiferi,
aquiliferi, primipili and a dux ripae, the commander of the river Euphrates border.
Although as previously mentioned there is an issue concerning the disposable income
necessary for inscribed dedications, the evidence provides an unequivocal picture of the
officer class of the Roman military being closely involved with the cult of Jupiter
Dolichenus.

The mobility of the officer class

The Commagenian cohorts in Dacia, officers among them, had brought the cult into the
sphere of the military. The proposal here is that because officers were highly mobile and
communicating frequently, this fact and their shared status created strong-tie bonds
between them, despite, and perhaps because of, geographical distance. This resulted in an
active physical and emotional network across which innovation and information was able to
flow. The cult of Jupiter Dolichenus became established through and spread across this
network of interactions. The mobility of the officer class can be clearly seen in the
epigraphic material.
The Esquiline Dolichenum, suggested by Speidel to be primarily a military temple,
is shown to be particularly cosmopolitan, with officers and soldiers from across the empire
donating there. Centurions of III Cyrenaica, based in Alexandria, augmented the sacrarium,
260
Moore, ‘Oriental Cults’, p. 116.
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added columns to the assembly and donated a nymphaeum as well as other cultic
installations (CCID 408; 409) in 191, representing the expansion of the building. Two men
have been encountered before: the miles Caius Julius Marinus, of the Classis Praetoria
Misenensis – based in Misenum in Campania – gave a stone deer’s head prior to 212
(CCID 411), he is probably the same man as the centurion of the same name in Germania
Superior (CCID 520); and in 218, Publius Aelius Miron, who was associated in some way
with X Gemina, who were based in Vindobona in Pannonia, dedicated there twice, (CCID
415; 416). The Aventine Dolichenum was less cosmopolitan, but still there is an inscription
from here that was dedicated by an eques who was also a priest (CCID 404), marked with
the eagles of V Macedonica and IIII Scutica (Scythica). This represents a considerable
journey from either IIII Scythica’s base camp in Zeugma, or V Macedonica’s at Potaissa in
Dacia, showing the long-distance travel undertaken by more senior soldiers; this is
particularly interesting as he is also a priest. The travel and role of priests, especially Syrian
priests, will be examined further below.
The scenario in the provinces shows similar movement of officers. That men moved
across the British frontiers is demonstrated by an undated altar from Aesica (Great
Chesters) on Hadrian’s Wall, that was dedicated by Lucius Maximus Gaetulicus, a
centurion of XX Valeria Victrix, stationed at Chester (CCID 561), also found dedicating to
Apollo at Newsteads (RIB 2120). Centurions of II Augusta, which was based at Glevum
(Gloucester) and Isca Augusta (Caerleon) are found dedicating on Hadrian’s Wall: between
138-161 Marcus Liburnius Fronto at Condercum (CCID 564), he may be the same
Liburnius Fronto from XX Valeria Victrix known from RIB 2077; and in the first half of
the third century a dedication from Magis was given by an officer who was also in
command of a vexillatio of VI Victrix, based at Hadrian’s Wall (CCID 575). Another altar
from Magis shows the international links of the frontiers, as it was given by Julius
Valentinus, ordinatus of Germania Superior (CCID 576) A later dedication from between
235-238 at Camboglanna was given by Flavius Maximianus, a tribune of cohort I Aelia
Dacorum, and ex evocato of cohors I Praetoria Maximinia (CCID 572).
In Germania, the Aschaffenburg altar was dedicated in 191 by the former aquilifer
of I Adiutrix, whose base was in Brigetio in Pannonia. He was a local recruit to that legion,
originally from Savaria, the regional capital of Pannonia. He had by this point worked his
way up to centurion status, part of the command of VIII Augusta (CCID 538). Longer
international movements are shown by the dedication in Gross-Krotzenburg in 211 by the
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prefect of the cohort I civium Romanorum equitatae, Flavius Antiochianus, (CCID 527); he
was also leader of the cohort IIII Vindelicorum, based in Caesaraea in Mauretania. The altar
from Obernburg (CCID 537) has already been discussed in relation to the campaigns of
Septimius Severus, but it shows also the transfer of officers from legion to legion. Dating
from 206, it records the dedication by a centurion of I Parthica while he was leading a
vexillatio of XXII Primigenia, based in the provincial capital at Mogontiacum.
Unsurprisingly, vexillatio members of XXII Primigenia are found in dedications from
around the German frontiers: a horned altar was given in Saalburg in 205 (CCID 508);
another altar from Obernburg was given in 207 (CCID 536); and an altar from the
Dolichenum in Stockstadt was dedicated in 214 (CCID 531). Another altar from this
Dolichenum was given by the prefect of the cohort I Aquitanorum, Titus Fabius Liberalis
(CCID 530), a man with the same name commanded a vexillatio of legio VI Victrix, usually
based on Hadrian’s Wall. Lucius Caecilius Caecilianus, a prefect of I Aquitanorum gave a
base and an altar in this temple (CCID 532; 533): he is also known from Aelia Augusta
Mercurialis Thaenitanorum in Africa.
Pannonia was home to the legions of X Gemina at Vindobona and XIIII Gemina at
Carnuntum. Carnuntum was seemingly a cult centre for Jupiter Dolichenus, with a
Dolichenum in the town from the mid second century at the latest. 261 It received dedications
by visitors from other military units aside from the home legion of XIIII Gemina: Gaius
Spurius Silvanus, a centurion of X Gemina, dedicated a base between 180-183 (CCID 223);
Atilius Primus, a second century centurion of XIII Gemina but ex evocatus of X Gemina
dedicated a limestone relief of Dolichenus on a bull (CCID 222). His legion was based in
Apulum in Dacia at this point; but he clearly retained his connection with both his earlier
legion and the centre of worship.
The officers of the two legions are found across the region: Marcus Aurelius
Valentinus, beneficiarius consularis of XIIII Gemina, dedicated an altar in Praetorium
Latobicorum, on the route into Dalmatia and Italy, on the 1 st November 138262 (CCID 275).
In Savaria, between the Tenth’s base in Vindobona and that of the Fourteenth’s in
Carnuntum, two consular beneficarii of X Gemina dedicated an altar in 208 (CCID 270).
Officers of other military units are also well represented in Pannonia. Valerius
Aelianus, a signifer of XIII Gemina, based at Apulum, gave an altar at Emona (CCID 273);
261
Fourteen other inscriptions were also found in Carnuntum; the town as a cult centre will be discussed in
greater detail below.
262
Or, according to CIL, in 159.
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and much further south in Aquae Balissae, two altars were dedicated by centurions, one of
an unnamed legion, Secundius Restutus (CCID 277), and one dated between 198-208, by a
centurion of VII Gemina, whose usual base was in Tarraco in Hispania (CCID 276). A
further international link is perhaps made through his wife’s name, Atticillia, which may
make a link with Athens.
The province of Dacia, as might be expected given that it was here the cult was first
adopted by the military, has a few early examples of very long-distance movement of
officers. The prefect of the cohort V Gallorum, Quintus Petronius Novatus, gave an altar in
Pojejena de Sus that must date to pre-132, as the cohort was back in Moesia Superior by
roughly this date (CCID 172). His wide-ranging career is known from another dedication
from Mauretania. Likewise, Publius Caius Valerianus, centurion of X Fretensis, based in
Judaea, gave an altar in Domnestri in Dacia between 167-180 (CCID 138). Marcus
Aurelius took detachments to fight the Marcomanni in Dacia. This seems to indicate clearly
that although the legion was based in the Near East, the cult of Dolichenus was only
encountered on the limes of the Danube.
Proving that the cult was popular across Dacia and until the end of the date range of
the evidence (and just before the evacuation of the province), an altar from Samum dating
from 243 was dedicated by a beneficiarius of V Macedonica, Publius Aelius Proculinus.
The base camp of the legion was at Potaissa, nearly 75km south of the find spot (CCID
131).
The connections Moesia Superior had with the rest of the empire is shown in a
dedication of a bronze badge in Iulia Concordia in Italy by a centurion of IIII Flavia, based
in Moesia, given between 185-192 (CCID 449). Iulia Concordia is on the route between the
frontier and Rome, and this inscription supports the suggestion that it was the officers
taking information between the generals and Rome. The more local interactions of the
troops in Moesia are shown by an undated relief dedicated by a member of XI Claudia that
was found in Novae, headquarters of I Italica (L’Année Epigraphique 2001, 1733).
Dura Europus as a Euphrates frontier town received dedications by legions from
elsewhere: a member of XVI Flavia, based in Samosata (CCID 32), in 211, and by
Aurelius Theoteknos of IIII Scythica (CCID 35), who were at Zeugma.
North Africa also provides examples of the movement of high-status officials. A
man who was both prefect of cohors II Hamiorum and praepositus of a vexillatio of III
Augusta, whose base was a considerable distance away in Lambaesis gave an altar dating
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from 210-211 in Thanadassa (CCID 616). In Lambaesis itself, the legatus Sextus Iulius
Maior, who dedicated the temple there in 125, was a native of Asia Minor (CCID 620);
there is also later evidence of international links, in the dedication from post-253 by
Tiberius Memmius, son of Tiberius Palatina Ulpianus Roma, (i.e. of the Palatini tribe in
Rome), who was prefect of the cohort II Civium Romanorum and also tribune of III
Augusta. In addition, his wife has a Greek name, Veratia Athenais (CCID 622).
The summation of this evidence is that the officer class of the Roman army
dedicating to Jupiter Dolichenus were highly physically mobile, supporting the suggestion
that it was these men who were instrumental in carrying the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus to
the far reaches of the Roman Empire. Because their interaction network is almost
completely invisible, these inscriptions provide important proof that communication and
travel by this group of people was commonplace and expected. It will be very helpful to
visualise the hypothetical networks that might have existed, to ascertain whether the same
conclusions can be drawn from a network analysis as can be from an epigraphic analysis.

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Visualising the Network

This analytical method assesses the pattern of the evidence as a totality. A distribution map
(Map 4A) shows the places where the dedications have been found, clearly illustrating that
the cult follows the Rhine and Danube valleys, with some outlying clusters in Britannia and
the region of Doliche: limited information that offers no further insight into the routes of
transmission. By linking the nodes into a network, it is possible to visualise the
communication routes suggested here to be central to understanding the diffusion of the
cult.
An initial Proximal Point Analysis (PPA) captures the ‘end picture’ of the data and
links every known node to its three closest neighbours. This model shows the centrality and
isolation of places on the network. It is a preliminary analysis and clearly not a reflection of
the actual connections that existed between these sites, and moreover covers the whole date
range. What it does allow is an initial observation of the geographically determined
network: the empty spaces, long-distance overland or maritime links, and some of the
constraints the terrain had on communications.
A directed PPA responds to what is known of the date range of the evidence, by
mapping the find spots in blocks of fifty years. Each find location is once again linked to its
three closest neighbours, two of which are required to be already established. This analysis
helps to visualise the spread of the cult in actual terms, highlighting centres of diffusion
and, because of the requirement of prior establishment, suggests a more centralised
diffusive method. The spread of a cult is likely to have been a more organic process of
contact and adoption, but this analysis serves as a hyper-real version of the picture.

Proximal Point Analysis (Map 4B)

The initial PPA of the cult find spots allows some clear observations to be drawn. The
network and connectivity in the region of Doliche in Syria are almost entirely separate from
the rest of the western network. The tight, integrated network created by the sites round
Doliche is unsurprising, and reflective of the local nature of the cult in this region. The
analysis also highlights the relative isolation of the cult in Dura Europus, Caesarea and
114
Cappadocia, here due to geographical distance. The separation of this part of the network
from the rest, however, may reflect a different quality of the cult in these more distant
places, i.e. that they are not necessarily part of the local cult network round Doliche. In fact,
the cult finds support this interpretation: the cult at Dura has been demonstrated to be a late,
military arrival, not necessarily connected with Doliche itself; the one find from Caesarea is
dated to the second-third century and was dedicated by a Latin-named man in Greek (CCID
30), probably representative of a man out of his usual context; and the one find from
Cappadocia is a bronze hand, a portable offering (CCID 43). What is also missing is the
western link to Rome that important military cities in this area certainly had. Dorylaion
provides the only link across into the west, and its isolation is clear, as is the greater
likelihood of it being connected with the cult in Thrace, rather than Doliche.
By contrast, the western network is highly connected, with few areas being very
isolated. Places that do appear to be somewhat isolated and have long-distance links are the
North African sites at Lepcis Magna, Thanadassa and Lambaesis; Saldanha in Hispania; the
sites of Massalia and Antibes in Gallia, Ager Morinorum in the north; and Brancaster and
Isca Silurum in Britannia. Although it might be viewed as problematic that the distances
between these sites is so great and that the network could not reflect a plausible link
between them, it is profoundly useful to visualise these long-distance links. What the
analysis does highlight is the remoteness of these cult find locations and so suggests
potential routes that might have brought the cult to them. The find at Isca Silurum, for
example, is quite likely to have a connection with the military cult on Hadrian’s Wall;
likewise Brancaster. Equally, the other isolated sites in the Mediterranean are mainly port
sites, and as such are quite likely to have been connected. The finds from these places again
might support the slightly different network quality in this area: the marble statuette from
Massilia was found in the harbour, suggesting it resulted from a shipwreck (CCID 602); the
inscription from Antibes is fragmentary and uncertain (CCID 601); the one find from the
Iberian peninsula was given by a veteran of VII Gemina, whose base was in modern León
(CCID 609) and the find from Turris Libisonis (CCID 468) may make reference to
Ravenna, possibly to be interpreted as meaning the Classis of the city, known from two
other Dolichenus inscriptions. These dedications round the north shore of the
Mediterranean seem likely to be connected with the sea, and are linked with Italy via North
Africa to Misenum, base of the Classis Praetoria Misenensis. The finds from North Africa

115
all have military connections, making it extremely likely that the dedications from the
Mediterranean have some link with the early temple and cult known from Lambaesis.
What is also striking in the western Mediterranean is the apparent separation in the
cult networks of the north and south of Italy. Although the PPA has not identified Rome as
a major hub, this divide is not simply reflective of a problem with the analysis. Northern
Italy was close to the frontiers, and the finds fall along the path of the overland route into
and out of Rome. Southern Italy was not, and the connectivity of the southern network
centres on Misenum and the bay of Naples. The finds from the southern Italian sites also
suggest a different quality of the cult, and indeed some of the finds are not explicitly to
Dolichenus. It is the only place in the west that Greek is represented (CCID 467), although
this is unsurprising in the ancient Greek colony of Naples; there are two magical alphabets
with no explicit link to Jupiter Dolichenus (CCID 465; 466); and there is a Syrian priest at
Tarracina (CCID 462). Two finds from Ostia make explicitly military (or naval) links with
the south through their mention of the Classis Praetoria Misenensis (CCID 440; 441). The
complete lack of connectivity between the two areas prompts the suggestion that there were
two separate routes for the cult diffusion and adoption in Italy – from the military frontiers
in the north, and via naval connections with the Classis Praetoria Misenensis in the south,
perhaps bolstered by eastern immigrants to Rome and the region.
The main body of the rest of the network is tightly integrated, and follows, with
very few deviations, the geographical features of the northern frontier, concentrated in
particular on the Danube and Rhine valleys. The mountainous interiors of the Alps,
Dalmatia and Thrace present themselves as a clear obstacle to the cult transmission, and it
is noteworthy that although this analysis has no geographical costs or directionality
included, the network resulting from the positions of the find spots implies geographical
barriers. More importantly however, these barriers were also social – plenty of people lived
in these regions, but they were not exposed to the cult because they did not interact with the
people who transmitted it, showing these mountainous regions to be socially as well as
geographically isolated. Religious innovation moved through receptive social space:
highlighted by the cult’s success in the mountains of Dacia. This represents, superficially,
as equally inaccessible geography as Dalmatia or the Alps, but the cult was instead
profoundly popular, thanks to the presence of the Roman army.
The network of the evidence follows the military frontiers of the Rhine, Danube and
northern Britannia, with particularly tight clusters round the legionary base camp at
116
Mogontiacum and Hadrian’s Wall. These network formations represent a level of internal
isolation, where interaction is very introspective, and perhaps implies a very rapid adoption.
In the case of Germania Superior, the evidence supports this claim of rapid, ‘faddish’
adoption, with the greatest number of dedications from between 190-217. In Britannia, of
those that can be dated, the largest number of dedications do fall into the first half of the
third century, but the date range is much greater. Elsewhere the cult pattern is more evenly
distributed, with some important ‘corridors’, for example along the lower Danube from
Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria to Novae in Moesia, from where the cult spreads more freely; or the
upper Danube through Raetia. This is likely correlative to the spaces that the military
inhabited.
Some parts of the network seem to be offshoots from the main body running along
these frontiers: the pocket in Moesia Superior; the path into Thrace via Cabyle; and the
chain of sites along the Dalmatian coast. These places are some distance from the main
military communications arteries, and the local networks they are part of reflect this, with
the networks in Thrace and Moesia Superior being quite clustered, and that along the
Dalmatian coast quite extended. It is notable that all these sites, bar Augusta Traiana, are
single dedication find spots, suggesting immediately that these areas were cultic
backwaters, anomalous in some way. In fact, the evidence supports the identification of
these places as unusual: the dedications from the Dalmatian coast either reveal nothing
about their dedicants or were given by priests of the cult, one of whom is Syrian (CCID
123). In Thrace, there is also a dedication by Greek priests at Cillae (CCID 54); but there
are also military connections. The cohort I Athiotorum built the temple to Dolichenus in
Cabyle (L’Année Epigraphique 1999, 1374), and two of the dedications from Augusta
Traiana make explicit links to Porolissum in Dacia (CCID 50) or Aquincum in Pannonia
(CCID 52). Again, in the Moesian cluster, there are priests, possibly oriental (CCID 115); a
Greek servus vilicus (CCID 116); and a Syrian with connections to the army – possibly a
veteran – (CCID 126). It is a high percentage of both easterners and cultic officials to find
in such a small dataset. The interface between military and civilian, and the role that priests
and Syrians played in this interface will be further discussed below. The network
highlighted these nodes because of their geography, but their geographical configuration
also highlights them as of a different social makeup.


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Developing Networks over time (Maps 4C-4F)
Following from these initial observations of clustering and isolation in the pattern, the
following Proximal Point Analysis will build in the date range of the evidence. By plotting
the distributions in chunks of fifty years, the analysis reveals a clearer picture of the
diffusion of the cult over time and places that can be identified as centres. Once again,
nodes connect to their three closest neighbours, at least two of which must be already
established.

First century BC-AD 150: Map 4C

The first map is fairly simple, with a cluster of links only in the region of Doliche. The fact
that only a few sites in the west have early dedications means that the links here are very
long, reflecting both the breadth of the Roman Empire at this point and the great distances
the people involved in the cult were spread across. As has been seen above, members of the
military did indeed travel all across the empire, so what initially looks unnaturally distant is
an important visualisation of the huge range of this communications network.
It is striking that because of the distances involved, Doliche has only one long-range
link, to Balaklawa in the north of the Black Sea. I suggest that this reflects a real division
between the cult in Doliche and the west: but the link ought to run through Dacia, where the
Commagenian cohort was based. In fact, the Balaklawa dedication (L’Année Epigraphique
1998, 1156) was given by a member of I Italica, based at Novae in Moesia, shifting the real
network closer to Dacia. The single link to Doliche and the focus of the network in the west
on the central sites of Rome, Praetorium Latobicorum, Carnuntum and Apulum would
appear to confirm my argument from the epigraphy that the cult was adopted independently
of any involvement with eastern campaigns.

AD 150-211: Map 4D
The end date of 211 was chosen because many inscriptions can be dated to before or after
the death of Septimius Severus, and the map shows the extraordinary increase in cult
dedications. What is immediately clear is that the triumvirate of Carnuntum, Apulum and
Praetorium Latobicorum are centres of diffusion, with many links radiating into their local
area as well as over much greater distances. Carnuntum has most connections with the
Rhine sites; Apulum linking with Moesia Inferior and Superior as well as Dacia; and
118
Praetorium Latobicorum acting as a bridge between both of these areas and Italy and
Dalmatia. Balaklawa acts as a centre only for the new sites in Moesia, underlining the
maritime link that was made between these two areas on the previous map.
Rome as a centre is on a smaller scale than might be expected, linking with Africa
and internal Italy rather than the provinces. This suggests that the cult was not diffusing
from the city but rather that people were coming to Rome, and dedicating while there. The
number of military inscriptions supports this suggestion.
The network in Britannia appears quite introspective, although the links that are
made between the cult cluster in Germania Inferior and that on Hadrian’s Wall provides a
deepening of the corridor of cult diffusion along the Rhine between Britannia and the centre
at Carnuntum.
The network around Doliche grows a small amount with the introduction of Dura
Europus, but does not gain any further connections with the western network, unsurprising
given the geographical distances involved. The cult at Dura is known to have been a
preserve of the military, suggesting that although it connects with the much earlier sites in
the region, this gives something of a false impression of its nature.

AD 212-253: Map 4E
The third map in the series demonstrates the increasing popularity of the cult of Jupiter
Dolichenus in the first half of the third century, with the network thickening but essentially
retaining the same shape. The major change is seen in the clustering of the network at the
edges. In Britannia, it is particularly introspective, but the crop of new dedications in
Germania Inferior and the coast of Moesia Inferior suggests that this was a period of
increasing local interactions.
By contrast, in the centre of the network around Carnuntum, Apulum and
Praetorium Latobicorum, there are markedly fewer new cult locations, with a few in
northern Dacia and some along the course of the Danube.
Some new coastal sites in Italy and Sardinia increase the centrality of Rome in this
period, but the general picture remains the same: Rome was a place of cult reception rather
than diffusion. The network around Doliche expands with the dedications from Caesarea,
Perrhe and Hierapolis. These new sites are probably connected with the military networks

119
seen in the west, as the Dura dedications above, and indeed, a soldier gave the Perrhe
dedication.263

AD 253-300: Map 4F
Although there are a few dedications from this period, only two occur in a new site,
Gerulata, near Carnuntum (CCID 235) and Stobi (CCID 48), which hardly changes the
network at all. Other places where late dedications are found include Rome (CCID 384);
Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria (CCID 111); Dura Europus (CCID 33); and Lambaesis (CCID 621-
623), but in these places simply represents a continuation of the cult. However, there are
only a few late dedications: the cult’s popularity was waning. Reasons that might explain
this decline include the devastation of the area round Doliche, and possibly the temple
itself, by Shapur I, increased pressure from other religious movements (in this case the
likely candidate would be Christianity) or because the network itself had begun to dissolve.
These suggestions will be examined in further detail in the final section of this chapter.
The above network analyses have supported the conclusions drawn from the
epigraphy that there was a cult network separation between the region of Doliche and the
west. The initial Proximal Point Analysis has highlighted the anomalies in the network, and
the geographical and social spaces and barriers that enabled or hindered cult diffusion.
Through the four temporally developing networks, the analysis has demonstrated the
probable cult centres, and also the increasing localisation of interactions towards the middle
of the third century.

Beyond the military: networks and receptive social space

The discussion above has focused on the transmission of the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus
through military avenues, diffusing across the Roman Empire via the in-place network of
officials in the army. However, as noted above, only half of the dedications can be
connected with the military. This final section places the rest of the dedications in context:
263
Blömer, M., Facella, M., ‘Ein Weihrelief für Iupiter Dolichenus aus der Nekropole von Perrhe’, PATRIS
PANTROFOS KOMMAGHNH, Neue Funde und Forschungen zwischen Taurus und Euphrat, Asia Minor
Studien, Band 60, Bonn: Habelt, 2008, pp. 189-200.
120
examining the centres of diffusion highlighted by the network analysis, the role of Syrians
and priests, and the military-civilian interface.

Centres of diffusion
Three places were highlighted in the network analysis as centres of diffusion, because they
appear early in the evidence: Apulum in Dacia, and Carnuntum and Praetorium
Latobicorum in Pannonia Superior. The evidence supports Apulum and Carnuntum as
correctly identified, but Praetorium Latobicorum is a network ‘miss’, and an alternative
regional centre at Virunum is suggested.
Apulum was base camp for XIII Gemina when Dacia was under Roman control, and
appears in the evidence in the period of Antoninus Pius (CCID 151), where Jupiter
Dolichenus is addressed with the phrase, nato ubi ferrum exoritur, born where iron springs
forth, thought to refer to the iron-rich Taurus mountains. A total of five inscriptions are
known. XIII Gemina is implied in CCID 155 and 156, and explicitly mentioned in 154,
given by the Syrian priest Flavius Barhadados on behalf of the legion. The god of
Commagene and a priest of Antioch (perhaps the same Flavius Barhadados?) are mentioned
in CCID 152; and Syrian traders dedicated CCID 153. These pieces of evidence make both
strong Syrian and military connections, and as the cohort II Flavia Commagenorum are
known from Dacia, it makes it reasonable to support the network identification of Apulum
as a place for cross-fertilisation of religious ideas and a regional centre of the cult of Jupiter
Dolichenus.
Carnuntum was base camp for XIIII Gemina and a Dolichenum is known from the
evidence by the period of Hadrian (CCID 217). The town was a major redistribution point,
situated on the Danube and as the end point of the overland Aquileia-Carnuntum route.264
Sixteen dedications come from Carnuntum, eleven from the Dolichenum in the ‘civilian’
quarter of the city. However, explicitly military inscriptions come from both the civilian
city (CCID 222; 223) and the legionary (CCID 232), suggesting that the division of the two
areas is somewhat arbitrary, and that soldiers and civilians intermingled freely in
Carnuntum.

264
Fulford, M., ‘Territorial Expansion and the Roman Empire’, in WA, vol. 23, no. 3, 1992.
121
 Two dedications were given by military men not of XIIII Gemina: CCID 223, given
by a centurion of X Gemina and CCID 222, given by a centurion of XIII Gemina,
previously of X Gemina. XIII Gemina was at this time based in Apulum, a considerable
distance away, implying that this man retained strong ties both to his old legion and old
temple. These dedications support the notion implied by the network analysis that the
Dolichenum in Carnuntum was an important inter-regional cult centre, and this assertion is
backed up by the Oriental priests – Antiochus and Marinus – known from CCID 229. Many
other priests are also known here, but do not have any obvious Syrian connections (CCID
219; 220; 221), and CCID 221 also mentions a Greek scribe, Zosimus, which suggests the
presence of native Greek speakers in Carnuntum. It could be hypothesised that the town, as
an established place of interaction between civilian and military, was also a place where the
more esoteric aspects of the cult were discussed and expounded by priests of the cult from
both east and west. The role of priests of Dolichenus will be discussed in further detail
below.
Three dedications have been found in Praetorium Latobicorum, and although the
worship of Dolichenus was established early here – a beneficarius of XIIII Gemina donated
in AD 138 (CCID 275) – it does not appear to have been a major centre of diffusion. The
other two inscriptions make no explicit military connections, but three men who donated to
Jupiter Dolichenus and Jupiter Heliopolitanus call themselves fratres (CCID 274), which
may refer to either military or religious brotherhood. A temple certainly stood here at least
by end of the second century, as an inscription mentions the building and furnishing of the
temple (CCID 640).
The network analysis therefore picked out two of three major centres of cult
diffusion, and they are noteworthy because of the presence of Syrians and priests of the
cult. The evidence from Praetorium Latobicorum does not support the suggestion that it
was a centre. It may be that there is further evidence from the site that has not yet been
found, but also, because the analysis is simply weighted by date, Praetorium became a
centre in network terms, but the ‘real’ centre should instead be looked for nearby, perhaps
at Poetovio, Aquae Balissae or Virunum. Jupiter Dolichenus was worshipped at Virunum as
early as c. the mid-second century, and eight inscriptions have been found in the
Dolichenum there. Some Syrians are known at Virunum too (CCID 330; 335), lending
support to the suggestion that it might be the centre missed by the network analysis.

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 

Syrians and priests

It would appear from the above analysis that Syrians or Orientals found in the Dolichenian
corpus are connected with the centres of cult diffusion in some way: not, as has been shown
above, as members of the military diffusion, but in another function, perhaps as officials of
the cult. Where a Syrian states an occupation, it is almost invariably non-military, and
moreover, a large number of Syrians or Orientals are also identified as priests.
That the priesthood was a specific occupation is clearly visible from the epigraphic
evidence. Speidel suggests that perhaps ‘oriental religions needed holy men of special birth
or initiation […] to direct the rites of worship and guard the doctrines of the faith’ 265 and
that this is particularly evident in the cult of Dolichenus.
There are eighty-six priests known from the evidence, 266 doing the dedicating
themselves in thirty-five instances, or being mentioned in a dedication in twenty-four
instances. A single priest either dedicating or being mentioned occurs thirty-six times; two
or three priests together twenty-four times. Just under half (forty-one) of all the priests
known are of oriental background, twenty-four with explicitly Syrian or Semitic names, and
seventeen with Greek names. Only six of this total also makes a connection to the military.
A further forty-five known priests reveal no information about their ethnicity, and only
seven of these make an explicit connection with the army.
It is clear that there was a high number of Orientals or Syrians in the priesthood,
suggesting that within the cult of Dolichenus, cult officials were religious specialists with a
connection to the region of Doliche or to Syria, ‘imported’ to administer the cult on the
frontiers. However, the presence of an equal number of men without explicitly Oriental
names or links suggests also that non-Syrians were accepted into the priesthood, and trained
on the job or in situ by the established priests. The relatively high number of triads or dyads
of priests support this interpretation: in a number of cases, a non-Oriental name will appear
alongside Syrians or Greeks (CCID 60; 61; 77; 207; 371; 408).
In all cases, the connections with the army are very infrequent, implying that priests
were a separate class. However, cult administration and military participation were not

265
Speidel, Dolichenus, p. 46.
266
Not, however, from eighty-six separate inscriptions.
123
mutually exclusive, and the example of Ulpius Chresimus (a Parthian priest in Rome, who
also seems to have been part of the army – CCID 419; 420) leads Speidel to conclude that
there was no Roman policy to preclude a soldier from being involved in the priesthood.
This suggestion may be supported by the markedly uneven geographical distribution of
priests. Nineteen can be identified in Rome; twelve are known from Moesia Inferior; seven
from Dacia; and six from Pannonia Superior, while there are no known priests in Britannia
or Germania Inferior, and only two from Germania Superior. It would be reasonable to
suggest that more religious administrators are found in places where the cult was most
popular, as implied by the evidence from Dacia, Moesia and Pannonia. However, it fails as
an explanation when it is recalled that there are enormous numbers of worshippers in
Britannia and the Germanies, suggesting that in these places, the cult operated differently.
The evidence may simply be unfortunately lacking, but this is very unlikely. In the northern
provinces, it may be that priests of Dolichenus either did not name themselves as such, or
people who were not specifically trained as priests administered the cult.
The conclusions that can be drawn from this evidence is that priests of the cult were
regularly transported or transporting themselves to the west from Syria and the eastern
provinces for the purpose of administration of the cult. They presumably formed a regularly
communicating network of religious ‘brethren’ of Jupiter Dolichenus, but that this was not
an entirely Oriental preserve. The numbers of non-Oriental names, coupled with the gaps in
the evidence for priests and Syrians in the northern provinces, combine to suggest firstly,
that non-Orientals were trained in the priesthood of Dolichenus and secondly, that in some
areas, the distinction between religious official and ordinary worshipper may have been
considerably more blurred.

The military-civilian interface

Roughly half the inscribed dedications to Jupiter Dolichenus can be identified as military, a
further thirty-six given by priests, and the ten or so traders known from the evidence have
been dealt with above. This still leaves a considerable number of dedications that either
give no indication of their military or non-military status, or were dedicated by civilians.
Who were they, and what can be understood from their inscriptions about the cult’s arrival
and adoption?
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 Although there are so many inscriptions without a clear military marker, it is
nevertheless difficult to find ‘purely’ civilian contexts along the Danube and Rhine limes.
The presence of the army in these border zones was fairly ubiquitous, and the epigraphic
evidence for civilians in these areas show that most are closely connected to military
contexts, for example, the close interactions between military and civilian in Carnuntum,
discussed above.
Dedications by women are an obvious example of the inclusion of civilians within
the cult. However, although the cult of Dolichenus was apparently more inclusive than the
cult of Mithras, female dedicants are still infrequent: the votives from Mauer-an-der-Url;
the lone cult dedication from Belgia (L’Année Epigraphique 2002, 1011); the two women
whose dedications constitute the finds from Trieste (CCID 445, 446); and Magunna, who
gave an altar in Blatobulgium in Britannia (CCID 555). It is generally the case that where
women are found in the dedications, it is within a familial structure either as wives, mothers
or daughters.
Serving soldiers were not allowed to marry until the time of Septimius Severus, and
the paucity of native named women in the evidence – Claudius Rufinus’s wife, Octavia
Comsilla in Virunum (CCID 331); Magunna in Blatobulgium (CCID 555); and Matugena
in Mauer-an-der-Url (CCID 314) – confirms that, although plenty of relationships between
native women and military men must have existed, these relationships were not formalised.
The women from the rest of the family dedications generally have ordinary Roman names;
although occasionally Greek or Oriental names are attested, Veratia Athenais in Lambaesis,
(CCID 622); Marina in Mauer-an-der-Url (CCID 305); and Apollonia in Sucidava in Dacia
(CCID 176).
The local civilian populations would have been engaged in providing the necessities
for the conquering armies – food, building materials, clothing and equipment. There is
some evidence of the supply chain that existed to provide the peripheries of the empire with
this support from the core, for example, grain from Egypt, or oil from Baetica. 267 Much of
the army’s supplies must have been sourced locally, as tax in kind for the empire. Civic
decurions that may have been involved in this interaction are found a number of times,
some of whom were also explicitly connected to the military: a municipal decurion of
Murselensium is found in Acumincum (CCID 208); a town councillor from Aquincum
found in Thrace, see also below (CCID 52); the decurion of the colony of Apulum (CCID
267
Fulford, ‘Territorial Expansion’, p. 298-99.
125
157); three civic leaders, one of whom was a veteran and decurion (so probably an example
of a military decurion) in Porolissum (L’Année Epigraphique 2001, 1707); another
municipal decurion who was also connected with the military in Brigetio (CCID 238); a
town councillor of Dionysopolis in Moesia who was also a beneficiarius of I Italica, (CCID
71); and the decurion from Seleucia Zeugma found in Brigetio in Pannonia who may or
may not have been civic (CCID 239). It is clear that many of the men involved in running
the towns were ex-military officials, and even when there is no military connection, the
location and context of the town is in the military zone.
People who were definitely civilians are more readily found in the non-border
zones, Italia, Dalmatia and Thrace. Some fairly clear conclusions can be drawn from a brief
survey of these data.
In Dalmatia, four out of seven inscriptions mention Greek or Syrian names:
Euphemus at Arupium (CCID 121); the priests Flavius Faladus and Domitius Apollinaris at
Narona (CCID 124); the priest Aurelius Germanus Barhala and his Syrian wife at Salona
(CCID 123); and a man who explicitly calls himself Syrian from Prizren, in the high
mountains of Illyria (CCID 126). His dedication also makes a military connection and also
features Asclepius, Hygeia and Telephoros, suggesting that this man associated Jupiter
Dolichenus with healing deities. Another priest is known (CCID 125), suggesting that the
cult’s occurrence in the province was largely to do with the religious officials who
administered it. This suggestion that that cult in Dalmatia was the preserve of easterners is
supported by the fact that each of the seven dedications are single finds, there is no
evidence for wider communities of Jupiter Dolichenus worshippers, and the find spots are
mainly located in settlements on the coast. Dalmatia is very mountainous internally, and
the cult does not appear to have spread to the native civilians.
In Thrace, the earliest evidence is dated to the period of Septimius Severus,
suggesting that the cult in this province was a fairly late arrival. This first dedication is
military – recording the building of the temple to Dolichenus in Cabyle (L’Année
Epigraphique 1999, 1374). The rest of the dedications from the province either have
connections with Oriental or Greek priests (CCID 50; 51; 54) or link to the northern
frontiers (CCID 52). Even though the dedication is by a civilian trader, it has an implicit
link with the military because the dedicant was originally from Aquincum.
Italy provides a number of inscriptions to Jupiter Dolichenus that have no clear
military link, but often, these are single finds. A lone dedication suggests that there was not
126
necessarily a wider community of worshippers. An organisation of veterans in Ateste
accounts for the only group of worshippers known outside of Rome (CCID 451). This may
help to indicate the nature of the dedicants in the lone find spots: a candidatus dedicated at
Brixia (CCID 453), and other men dedicate singly at Padua (CCID 450), Aecae (CCID
461), and Bononia (CCID 454). Perhaps they had encountered the cult during military
service. Speculations aside, there are explicitly military dedications all dating from the 180s
from Ravenna (CCID 456), Ostia (CCID 440; 441) and Iulia Concordia (CCID 449),
places where there is more than one piece of evidence, supporting the notion that the
introduction of the cult into northern Italy was via the military. Two freedmen are found in
Italy, one in Ariminum who has an Oriental connection (CCID 458); and one in Tusculum
(CCID 444). Priests account for the dedications from Caesena (CCID 457) and Tarracina
(CCID 462)
From this analysis of the evidence for ‘civilian’ worshippers, it is clear that there are
still strong ties to the military. Where there are dedications without clear links to the army,
they have Syrian connections, and are most often dedications by priests. The cult did not
transmit profoundly into the civilian populations where there were no military networks to
facilitate that transmission.

Conclusions: Networks and places for new cults

This chapter has shown that the traditional explanations for the success of the cult of Jupiter
Dolichenus within the military and in the west are not sufficient. Understanding the
adoption of the cult as a social process driven by social networks, by contrast, allows the
evidence to be viewed from a different angle, and supports the interpretation that this
particular innovative religious movement was transmitted swiftly across a network of
military officials. The evidence suggests also that the cult came to a sudden end. Can this
same network explain the reasons for this?

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The end of the cult: a network explanation
Various suggestions have been made for the sudden end to the cult: that the temple in
Doliche may have been destroyed by the Sassanian invasions of Shapur I in the mid-third
century and that this caused the ‘centre’ of the cult to fall apart; or that it could not compete
with other new religious movements, specifically Christianity. Both of these explanations
rely on an intrinsic quality of the cult itself: either that when the god’s temple at Doliche
was shown to be fallible, people lost faith in the god himself, or that the ideology espoused
by Christianity was superior. I have shown in this chapter that the cult of Jupiter
Dolichenus spread across the social network of official military men that communicated
frequently. The end of the cult can be explained in the same way.
The fifty years following the death of Severus Alexander in 235 was a time of
considerable internal discord, described as a period of ‘military anarchy’268 marked by ‘the
habit of treason’.269 The mounting pressures on the Rhine and Danube frontiers as well as
losses in Syria, led to rivalries in the military, civil war and a succession of pretenders to
the Imperial throne. Decius supplanted Philip the Arab in 249, and left the Danube border
open to the Goths and various other invading tribes, who had been pushed into the Balkans
by the incursions of nomadic tribes from central Asia. Decius was killed fighting in the
Balkans in 251 and the governor of the Moesias was proclaimed emperor by his troops,
only to be usurped by his successor in 253, who survived three months.
Rome’s frontiers were in disarray and under attack from all sides, and, moreover,
plague had decimated the army and the empire when Valerian was proclaimed in 253, and
‘restored some measure of discipline in the military forces’.270 The frontiers of the north
and the east required two supreme military commanders, and Valerian’s son Gallienus
attempted to take control of the Rhine-Danube borders while Valerian confronted Shapur in
the east, was captured by him and died in 260. In the years that followed, Spain and Gaul
elected a civilian empire and set up their capital in Bordeaux, Zenobia expanded Palmyra’s
empire to Antioch and lower Egypt, and the emperor Claudius ‘Gothicus’ defeated and
settled the Goths on the Danube. His successor Aurelian evacuated the army and civilians
from Dacia in 270, and moved on to destroy Palmyra and the Gallic empire, earning the
title ‘Restitutor Orbis’ in 273.271 Diocletian’s appointment of Maximianus as Caesar was a
268
Boardman, J., Griffin, J., Murray, O., eds., The Roman World, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986, p.
443.
269
Cary, M., Scullard, H. H., A History of Rome, 2nd Edition, London: Macmillan Press, 1975, p. 508.
270
Cary, Rome, p. 509.
271
See Cary, Rome, p. 509-516.
128
different approach to government, acknowledging that, with unstable frontiers on all sides,
a unified empire was impossible under only one man.
The military and political turbulence of this period coupled with the plague meant
that the established military communications of central Imperial governance crumbled. This
network and the military officials were the backbone of the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus,
supported by the Syrian priests. The area of Doliche having been overrun by Shapur meant
it was unlikely that cult officials from Syria were able to interact with their compatriots in
the west, and, moreover, the cultic heartlands of Dacia in the west were evacuated. With
these various fractures all occurring at the same time, the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus could
not sustain beyond the end of the third century, although the few dedications between 253-
300 testify to its limping on in certain places: Rome, Gerulata in Pannonia, Colonia Ulpia
Ratiaria, Virunum and Lambaesis.

Networks and cognitive space

Speidel observed that the cult followers cover a wide range of social classes, but they are
found mainly on the frontiers and in cosmopolitan cities, places inhabited by ‘floating’
populations. Senatorial elites, soldiers, traders, freedmen, slaves, and aristocrats in the
imperial service272 are all represented, and are all to some extent removed from their usual
social environment. It has been shown that the cult disseminated across a network of
military men that was already in place, men outside of their traditional context, and so, in
Stark’s terms, ‘free to deviate’ from their traditional deities, open to new religious forms,
especially those espoused by other members of their social class. Transient people have
reconfigured social networks; they are likely to be vulnerable to the social benefits of cult
membership. The uncertain collective cognitive space at the edges of an empire means it is
entirely logical that new cults spread quickly in these places.
They did not, however, transport the cult back to the places from which they had
‘floated’: and as has been seen, the internal landscapes of Spain, France, Italy, Greece,
Thrace and Asia Minor are almost entirely untouched by the cult. Where the cult is found in
these places, it is most often as a single dedication, suggesting that, without the social
network of fellow worshippers, they did not continue to revere Jupiter Dolichenus when
272
Speidel, Dolichenus, p. 76.
129
they returned home to their traditional gods. It seems that worshippers engaged with the
cult in a temporary way during their time on the frontiers, where the cult was ‘fashionable’.
The cult of Jupiter Dolichenus ‘jumped’ certain areas: Asia Minor and Greece in the
east and Hispania and Gallia in the west. Speidel suggests that these lacunae can be
explained because the cult had no appeal for the ‘conservative people of the countryside or
in cities with stable populations’.273 This classification of the populations of these places as
‘conservative’ makes value judgements about both the nature of the cult of Jupiter
Dolichenus and about the people who worshipped or did not worship him. The inhabitants
of these areas were simply not part of the military networks that transmitted the cult: it was
not the case that there was no cognitive space for religious innovation in these areas, or no
social need for it, as will be seen in the case of Theos Hypsistos (chapter 6).

273
Speidel, Dolichenus, p. 76.
130
 Chapter 5.

The Jewish Diaspora.

Ethnic networks and the activation of Jewish identity

Introduction

This chapter uses the Jewish communities in the Roman Empire as a second case study for
the investigation of the role networks play in the transmission of religious information. The
aim here is to examine the communicative power of the network of the Jewish Diaspora
and to explore how, when and why it was used to diffuse new ideas about Jewish identity.
Assessing the pattern formed by the epigraphic material and how it changed over time
draws a bottom-up picture of the developments in the Diaspora, and allows an
understanding of how ordinary people marked their ethno-religious identity, and the
reasons why the way they did this might have changed.
Numerous studies discuss the accommodation of Jews within Gentile society; the
different levels of Jewish acculturation; and the religious and cultural engagement between
Gentiles and the Jewish minorities. By contrast however, this case study examines how
Jewish identity was internally re-formed: it is argued that, if the rabbinic reforms were
necessitated by the destruction wrought in Judaea between AD 66-135, this cataclysm also
‘activated’ the ethnicity of the Diaspora Jews, and that a dramatic reiteration of Jewish
identity can clearly be seen in the epigraphic data from across the Diaspora.
The analysis begins with a brief survey of the central historical events and scholarly
opinion regarding Diaspora Jewry and sources of Jewish difference and disconnect in their
Graeco-Roman environment. The focus is then on the epigraphic data (methodologically
slightly suspect as it may be, pace Rutgers274), although literary sources are used as an
occasional supplement.275 The epigraphic evidence illuminates the differences in Jewish

Rutgers, L. V., The Hidden Heritage of Diaspora Judaism, Leuven: Peeters, 1998, p. 31-41.
274
275
The literature has been noted to be widely varying in reliability as evidence: ranging from Josephus’
exaggerated claims for the legal status of Alexandrian Jews to the conceivably Jewish nomenclature in
summary papyri fragments.
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self-identification in the Diaspora before and after the sixty years or so between the
destruction of the Temple and the quashing of the Bar Kokhba revolt. It is argued that,
before the destruction of the Temple, Jews in the Diaspora did not need to define
themselves as Jewish, because there was an inherent centre to their religious life. Post-
destruction, the real and cognitive centre of Judaism was gone, changing Jewish existence
forever. Judaism itself of necessity transformed as a result. Likewise the Jews in the
Diaspora, and the religious authorities in Palestine utilised the newly activated ethnic
network of the Diaspora to transmit the tenets of rabbinic halakhah, shown epigraphically
as a renewed knowledge of the wider Jewish network. This is visible in terms of self-
classification as ‘Jewish’, references to the Old Testament and Jewish Law, the use of
Hebrew, and of explicitly Jewish symbols and names.
Network models are used to support this hypothesis by visualising how information
might have been transmitted across the Diaspora. This begins with a Proximal Point
Analysis (PPA) of the entire Hellenistic-Roman Diaspora, highlighting centrality and
isolation from the geographical patterning alone; and then moves into a developed PPA
network, mapping the ‘Hebraization’ process between the second and fifth centuries AD.
These analyses highlight the dialogue that took place intra Diaspora and reconstruct the
potential routes used to spread new religious information across the network.
Finally, it is suggested that the spread of rabbinic halakhah can be understood an
information cascade across the network of the Jewish Diaspora, and if this is the case, then
it is suggested that this same phenomenon of information cascade may be instructive when
thinking about the rise of Christianity.

Background: Jews in a Gentile world

It is first necessary to situate the Diaspora within an historical framework. At various

points, the Jews were dispersed, whether through enforced resettlement as prisoners of war
or as refugees from conflict in Judaea, or voluntarily due to economic incentives. This
section comprises a brief look at accounts of early dispersions and perceptions of Jewish
identity in the early Diaspora. The discussion then moves on to assess scholarly opinion on
132
the various issues that being Jewish in the Hellenistic-Roman environment entailed, and
how it impacted on both Jews themselves and their Gentile neighbours.
In different periods and places, and for different individuals, the integration or
separation of Jews within the Graeco-Roman environment ranged from total assimilation to
rigorous separatism. The Jewish experience differed widely across time and space, and as
such, it is extremely difficult to make claims about the Jewish Diaspora as a totality.
However, regardless of the variations inherent in Jewish participation or non-participation
with their Diaspora environments, the presence of any culturally and ethnically different or
separate group in a dominant276 population causes a level of ‘dissonance’.277 At certain
times, but by no means at all times, this was surely the case for both the Jewish settlers and
for their various neighbours in the Roman Empire.
The aspects of Jewish identity most likely to cause ‘dissonance’ would have been
those most difficult to reconcile with Roman life. This included both practical social issues
such as food prohibitions, circumcision, Sabbath observance, and family values, and
theological issues such as belief in one abstract, aniconic God. These aspects of Jewish
religious or cultural practice are then taken as markers representing ‘Jewishness’. While it
is true that the real picture of the Jewish Diaspora is far more subtle than this simplistic
labelling allows, it is these socio-religious aspects of Judaism that became its indicators,
and so it is these that allow a modern observer to attempt to reconstruct the situations of
Jews in the Graeco-Roman world.

The Graeco-Roman Diaspora

The actual history and the perceived notions about the history of the Diaspora are difficult
to disentangle. The testimonies we have to the early dispersions are almost entirely
Biblical, although they are supplemented by later Jewish authors such as Josephus, who
estimates, for example, the numbers of Babylonian Jews who returned to Israel during the
Achaemenid period. It is fair to say that the Assyrian and Babylonian deportations
happened when ‘the religion of Israel was still much more fluid, less consolidated and less
276
Although the varying populations across the Roman Empire may not have had a dominant ethnicity, there
were dominant cultural aspects.
277
See Collins, J. J., Between Athens and Jerusalem, New York: The Crossroad Publishing Company, 1986,
p. 8, following L. Festinger, A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance, Evanston, Ill., and White Plains, N.Y.: Row,
Peterson & Co., 1957.
133
differentiated from paganism than it became later’.278 Judaism needed to flex and respond to
the new situation of the Jewish people, and a considerable part of the O.T. is given to
theological explanations for the various destructions and deportations wreaked upon the
Jewish nation during the Assyrian and Persian periods. Dispersion is seen as a
punishment279 by God for the sins of the Jewish people: at Gen. 15.13, God says to
Abraham, ‘Know of a surety that your descendents shall be immigrants in a land not their
own, where they shall be slaves, and be oppressed for four hundred years’.280
The articulation of Jewish identity through expulsion and exile is a major theme of
the O.T. Exodus records the enslavement and oppression of the Israelites and their
expulsion281 from Egypt. The subsequent return to the Promised Land under the guidance of
Moses is marked by the detailed exposition of Jewish separation and difference: through
the details and laws of garment and sacrifice given to Moses on Sinai, affirmations of the
superiority of the Israelites, and commands to show no tolerance for other religions in
Judaea and to destroy their idols and temples. Exodus and Leviticus mark out God’s
requirements of the Jews, detailing the practical Laws that mark the Jewish people’s
covenant with God, and it is here that the status of the Hebrews as distinct is really
explicitly stated, linking with the themes of expulsion and rejection. The Jews’ minority
experiences and the hostility shown them by their environments create an initial separatist
understanding of Judaism. It is notable that this also entails self-reflexive, tolerant morals:
at Lev. 19:33, God’s commandment to the Jewish people is not to oppress the alien in their
midst, because they were once aliens in Egypt.
It is apparent that the early determined and strengthened Jewish self-identification,
and Judaism only took a ‘normative’ shape as a response to the destruction of the first
Temple and the initial dispersion into Babylon: defining more strongly what constituted
being Jewish became more necessary as an ethnic minority. The physical distances between
communities combined with the heightened perception of difference between themselves

278
Schürer, E., The history of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ, vol. III.i, revised version: Vermes,
E., Millar, F., Goodman, M., Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1986, p. 5. All references to Schürer hereafter are to
the revised edition of the text, marked as Schürer2.
279
It is instructive to recall the present-day ultra-Orthodox Iranian Jews whose agreement with the political
authorities in Iran that Israel should not exist stems from an understanding of dispersion as the will of God:
divine punishment of the tribes of Israel, as demonstrated at Lev. 26:33, ‘You I will scatter among the nations,
and I will unsheathe the sword against you’.
280
All Biblical quotations are taken from the NRSV, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995.
281
Peter Schäfer notes the dichotomy between the version of the story in Exodus, which tells it as a voluntary
departure of the Jews, and the Egyptian and Graeco-Roman traditions of the story where the Jews were
expelled for ethnic reasons. Judeophobia, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1997, p. 15.
134
and their Gentile neighbours can be usefully understood as an illustration of Irad Malkin’s
elegant suggestion that the ‘distance creates the virtual centre’.282
Following these earlier exiles into the east, according to Josephus the dispersion of
the Jews into Asia Minor began under Antiochos III, c. 210-201 BC. 283 Alexander enforced
resettlement of some Jews in Egypt, and the Letter of Aristeas records the transportation of
one hundred thousand Jews to Egypt following Ptolemy’s invasion of Judaea, and the
settlement of thirty thousand of these in military colonies, adding to the already established
communities.284 Although he allows for the possibility of coercion, Collins views the early
western Diaspora as ‘not due to any external compulsion’, 285 and the massive growth of the
population of Jews in Egypt and the Hellenistic world as an economic response to
‘commercial intercourse’, a view shared by Lightstone. 286 Aside from the Hellenistic
resettlements, Pompey is known to have captured and transported Jewish prisoners of war
to Rome when he took Judaea in 61 BC, and many Jewish slaves were sold after the
crushing of the Bar Kokhba rebellion. 287 It seems therefore that much of the origin of the
western Diaspora can be linked with enforced resettlement, but it must also be assumed that
some Jews in the Graeco-Roman period moved and added to the communities outside
Judaea of their own free will. Voluntary as opposed to enforced exile entails a profoundly
different cognitive reaction to and interaction with the Gentile environment. For example,
to what extent was Judaea perceived as the ‘homeland’ by voluntary exiles, did it come to
be viewed as simply the religious centre, rather than political or cultural? How did Jews
define themselves within a chosen alien society and how did these societies themselves
respond to Jewish belief and practice?

282
Malkin, I., ‘Networks and the Emergence of Greek Identity’, in MHR 18, 2003, pp. 56-74.
283
Josephus, Ant. 14. His quotation of a letter at 12.147-53 records the transportation of 2000 Jewish families
to fortresses and strategic places in Phrygia and Lydia, who were given land and permitted to live by their
own laws. The authenticity of the documents Josephus uses has been questioned, and it may be that this letter
was an apologetic document penned by Jews themselves. Barclay, J. M. G., Jews in the Mediterranean
Diaspora, Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1996, pp. 260-262.
284
Letter of Aristeas, 12-14.
285
Collins, Jerusalem, p. 3.
286
Lightstone, J. N., ‘Migration (Forced and Voluntary), Communication and the Transformation of Judaism
in the Greco-Roman Period: Prolegomena’, paper given at the CSBS meeting, 2006, p. 2.
287
Schürer2, History, vol. I, p. 553.
135
Aspects of Diaspora
This section briefly examines aspects of Jewish culture that were potential sources of
disconnect or interest between Diaspora communities and their neighbours, and some of the
scholarly opinion about the integration or rejection of Jews in the Diaspora. Marking of
Jewish identity through adherence to food laws, the practice of circumcision, keeping of the
Sabbath and worship of a single deity comprise the most recognisable and stark social and
theological divisions between Jews and Gentiles. In particular the food laws and Sabbath
observance, (and to a lesser extent and within certain environments such as the gymnasium
only, circumcision), would have been the most obvious to non-Jews, and which can be
taken as standard public markers of Jewishness. 288 It is notable therefore, that it is these
aspects that are often played down in Hellenistic Jewish literature, in order to find social
favour and acceptance.289 Theoretically, adherence to the Laws entails deeply ghettoised
living arrangements, but for most of the time and in most places Jews seem to have lived
side by side with Gentiles in the cities and countryside. There are, however, some examples
of Jewish districts in Hellenistic Egypt and according to Josephus, also in Sardis, where
some resident Jews are likely to have had decreased contact with the Gentile world. Barclay
makes the important point that levels of assimilation were likely to have been different
between genders: ‘the least assimilated Egyptian Jews were Jewish women who lived in
wholly or largely Jewish districts’.290 However, what is apparent from Barclay’s analysis of
the sources is that adherence to these supposedly canonical regulations differed widely both
within different communities and more generally across the Diaspora in its entirety.
Moreover, levels of assimilation or strictness differed across time.
The advent of Roman control of the Mediterranean led to issues about who had
access to Roman citizenship and its privileges. A major point of conflict between Jewish
and Roman norms occurred in the context of military service, both because Jewish-Roman
soldiers could not observe the Sabbath and because they were obliged to show loyalty
through religious acts, which were incompatible with strict Judaic observance. Otherwise,
Jewish monotheistic belief in the face of a dominant polytheist culture seems to have been
problematic only when brought into relief against the social aspects of traditional pagan
religious involvement: i.e. the partaking of sacrificial meat at communal civic festivals. The
political situation in Alexandria at the turn of the millennium, where social demarcations
288
Collins, Jerusalem, p. 7.
289
Collins, Jerusalem, p. 143.
290
Barclay, Jews, p. 118.
136
had been historically drawn between Greeks and non-Greeks, highlights the problems
involved in deciding citizenship. The Alexandrian Greeks were automatically given Roman
citizen status, whereas the rest of the population of Egypt, including the Jews, were subject
to the laographia, or poll tax, introduced by Augustus in 24/23 BC.291 The apostasy that
Roman citizenship required was violently rejected by the author of 3 Maccabees, but the
exemption from the tax and the benefits of citizenship was still an aspiration for some Jews,
and some did apostatise.292 Tiberius Julius Alexander, nephew of Philo, is the most famous
example of an Alexandrian Jew giving up his heritage in order to participate fully within
the administrative structures of the Roman world, having a public career, and eventually
becoming prefect of Egypt.293
However, although there were certainly problems at times, aspects of Judaism were
also clearly attractive to Gentiles. Jewish monotheism was understood by some within the
Hellenistic-Roman world as part of an abstract philosophical framework, and was clearly
attractive to certain sectors of the community, which will be explored further in the analysis
of the spread of Jewish beliefs beyond the boundaries of ethnicity, forming part of the
discussion of the cult of Theos Hypsistos in the following chapter. It is noteworthy that
Judaism was particularly appealing to the upper classes in Rome, with famous examples of
‘Judaizers’ being Poppaea, mistress and then wife of Nero, or Domitian’s cousin and his
wife, who were respectively executed and exiled on charges of atheism. 294 The appeal to
elites (although not elites only) is an important social aspect of Judaism, and shows that
Jewish beliefs and culture cannot have been considered as entirely contemptible to Romans
as Juvenal’s Satire 14 might imply.

The Temple and the Synagogue

As a direct result of exile in Babylon and the destruction of the first Temple, the essential
centre of what had originally constituted Judaism was removed, and a new type of
community-based centre was of necessity instigated: the replacement of the Temple with a

291
Barclay, Jews, p. 49.
292
See Collins, Jerusalem, pp. 102-111.
293
Barclay, Jews, p. 105-106.
294
Josephus, Ant. 20.195; C.A.2.255, 280; Dio, Roman History, 67.14.1-3. See also Mitchell, S., ‘Herod’s
People: Roman-Jewish Sympathies in the rise of Christianity’, in TLS, March 6, 1998; Liebeschuetz, W., ‘The
Influence of Judaism among Non-Jews in the Imperial Period’, in JJS, Vol. LII, No. 2, 2001, pp.235-252.
137
proto-synagogue arrangement, and prayers and the reading and exposition of scripture for
animal sacrifice. Pilchik’s observation that Ezekiel ‘already knew of the assemblies of the
exiled in Babylonia, those informal gatherings for prayer and study where the community
and the faith was kept alive,’295 indicates that this was a natural result of dispersion.
Irad Malkin has argued that ‘distance creates the virtual centre’ 296 in his analysis of
the beginnings of a universal notion of ‘Greekness’ and a recognisable Greek identity
during the colonisations of the Archaic period. It has been forcefully argued by Niehr 297 that
this post-exilic period during which the second Temple was rebuilt was marked by the
fundamental development of the central notion of Judaism as an aniconic faith. He claims
that the destruction of the first Temple also involved the destruction of the cult statue of
YHWH, and that various O.T. books, Psalms in particular, make (somewhat obfuscated)
reference to this statue. For example, at Dt. 4:12, 15, the visibility of the face of God is
denied, ‘you saw no form’. This, Niehr argues, reflects the fact that the actual statue, the
physical ‘face of God’, had been destroyed. If this supposedly central tenet of Judaism took
shape only during this later period, and as a response to the destruction of an earlier cult
form, then it is reasonable to assume that other aspects of Jewish identity were also created
as a response to destruction and exile, supporting Malkin’s theory of the importance of
distance in the creation of unity.
A couple of examples from sixth-second century Egypt support the notion that the
‘unity’ of Judaism was still not fully formed. During the post-exilic period when
Deuteronomy was written, the command that the Jewish God shall only have one Temple
(Dt. 12:2-27) was either unknown or disregarded: the Jewish military colony at Elephantine
is recorded in a papyrus document from 410 BC, and their temple to ‘Yaho’ had existed
from before 525 BC.298 It is not certain what exactly happened in this temple, but the
passage demonstrates that in the earlier stages of the Diaspora, Jewish identity was
apparently not bound to the singular Temple in Jerusalem. This group of mercenary soldiers
outside Palestine at least felt it to be no contravention of Jewish law to establish their own

295
Pilchik, E. E., Judaism outside the Holy Land, New York: Bloch Publishing Company, 1964, p. 10.
296
Malkin, ‘Networks’, p. 59.
297
Niehr, H., ‘In Search of YHWH’s Cult Statue in the First Temple’, in van der Toorn, K., (ed.), The Image
and the Book, Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East,
Leuven: Peeters, 1997, pp. 73-95.
298
Schürer2, History, vol. III.i, p. 39.
138
temple, and may even have perceived this to be a necessary way of showing their piety to
the God of Israel.299
Later still it seems that notions of the Laws were flexible enough for the exiled High
Priest of Jerusalem, Onias IV, to build a temple to the Jewish God in the military colony of
Leontopolis in the mid-second century BC. Jewish cult was enacted there by priests and
survived until c. AD 70. However, it was never regarded as legitimate in Palestine, and the
Egyptian Jews apparently also continued to revere Jerusalem as the focus of their
religion,300 suggesting that by this stage the centrality of the Temple was universal.
The proto-synagogue arose originally as a response to the Babylonian exile, but
became an intrinsic part of the way Judaism was practiced. The synagogue of the Graeco-
Roman Diaspora, as a place for gathering, prayer and instruction, had developed further
under the influence of Hellenistic civic institutions. It acted as an architectural, cultural, and
religious focus for Diaspora communities, a role that further increased after the destruction
of the second Temple in Jerusalem in AD 70.

Gentile reactions to Diaspora: Anti-Semitism

At various moments, certain Diaspora communities suffered extreme persecution by their
neighbours – the pogrom in Alexandria in AD 38 documented by Josephus and Philo being
the most well known and most violent – but also the destruction of the temple at
Elephantine in 410 BC, and the various expulsions from Rome. Peter Schäfer argues that
these pogroms and the Graeco-Roman literature concerning Jews reveals a level of anti-
Semitism in Graeco-Roman society: ‘To what degree the Jews were separate is not
important […] The only crucial question is what the Greco-Egyptian and Greek authors
made out of it. They turned Jewish separateness into a monstrous conspiracy against
humankind and the values shared by all civilized human beings, and it is therefore their
attitude which determines anti-Semitism’.301

299
It also shows that in this period Jews were involved in mercenary warfare outside Judaea in sufficient
numbers to merit building another temple in the first place, supporting Collins’ observation that in some
cases, Jews joined the Diaspora of their own accord.
300
Schürer2, History, vol. III.i, pp. 145-147.
301
Schäfer, Judeophobia, p. 209-10.
139
 Although there is certainly hostility towards the Jews in some literature, 302 as well as
evidence of certain civic authorities hindering the free practice of Judaism, 303 the term ‘anti-
Semitism’ has extremely strong historical connotations, and its use is inflammatory when
regarding events and attitudes of two thousand years ago. The pogroms generally represent
brief episodes driven by external political unrest; and the literature is also written with
certain political aims in mind. Tacitus’ abusive digression, for example, is related to the
Roman destruction of the Temple and the capture of Jerusalem. These violent episodes and
the examples of hostile literature in no way comprise the whole story of Jewish existence in
the Diaspora, nor of the Graeco-Roman responses to Judaism. The elite Roman Jewish
sympathisers have already been briefly mentioned above, and Josephus and the Acts of the
Apostles testify to the Jewish community’s open door policy towards Gentiles, in other
words, to Gentile interest in Jewish society and religion and the acceptance Jews showed to
them. Attitudes towards proselytes and god-fearers will be further discussed below. These
examples stand against the notion that there was in general a strong level of Graeco-Roman
‘anti-Semitism’ in antiquity, although the chronology is important. There is more evidence
of toleration and sympathy in the first century BC/AD up to the war of 66-70 and the fall of
the Temple. Following this, there is more evidence for Roman anti-Jewishness, in particular
under Domitian, and especially under Hadrian, whose war of 132-5 seems to have been
driven by active anti-Jewishness.
As Drijvers points out, ‘our literary sources […] stress the differences, so that
Gentiles, Jews and Christians appear as almost totally different groups in society. […]
Religious texts stress ideological differences; religious practice is often a shared experience
of a basically social character.’304 Literary elites represent one aspect of society, one
viewpoint, and are subject to propagandising or political machinations. The evidence for
the daily lives and interactions of Jews and their neighbours presents a different kind of
story. Drijvers envisages the city he studies, late antique Edessa, as a place where Jews,
Christians and Gentiles interacted frequently: ‘[They] did their shopping at the common
market-place, suffered from the same diseases, epidemics and wars, and therefore shared a
lot of ideas and concepts about which they talked with each other. They were buried in the
same cemeteries, caves around the city, and got the same education if they could afford it.
302
For example, Juvenal’s Satires; Tacitus, Histories 5.4-5; the Graeco-Egyptian Apion, who disseminated
ideas such as those propagated by Tacitus and against whom Josephus wrote his counter-apologetic.
303
Schürer2, History, vol. III.i, p. 150.
304
Drijvers, H., ‘Syrian Christianity and Judaism’ in The Jews among the Pagans and Christians, Lieu, J.,
North, J., & Rajak T., (eds.), London: Routledge, 1992, p. 128-9.
140
They lived on each other’s doorsteps, shared common experiences and usually spoke the
same language.’305
Generalisations about Gentile attitudes towards Jews that are drawn from a few
literary sources present a one-sided version of a much more complex and much more
interesting story. Although it is important to know what the Graeco-Roman literary elites
were writing and thinking, it is equally important to know what divided or brought together
the average Jew and the average non-Jew in their everyday lives. The epigraphic material
goes some way to recovering these interactions, and suggests that the general attitude
towards Diaspora communities living within the general population of the Roman Empire
was not permanently hostile. Rather, much of the evidence points to a level of integration
and acceptance of the Jews as part of a plethora of different ethnicities and religious views
that were found across the Empire. As Rutgers argues, the situation was ‘subject to
continuous ups and downs’.306

Expansion of ‘ethnicity’ I: Jewish-Gentile intermarriage

It has been assumed that Diaspora communities existed because of the active or passive
dispersion of ethnic Jews. This belief is based on the assumption that Mosaic Law was
rigidly observed, and does not take into account the potential for populations to expand
exogamously, through marriage with non-Jews, or through attracting Gentile proselytes.
Marriage to non-Jews is banned at various places in the Pentateuch, and the book of
Ezra condemns the wives and children of intermarriages to be ‘cast off’ at 10:11-44. This
indicates that when Ezra was composed in the fifth-fourth century BC, Mosaic Law was not
unequivocally adhered to. To what extent did later Diaspora populations observe these
prohibitions? There is scant epigraphic data referring to marriage outside Judaism. Only
JIGRE, 40 from Leontopolis, or IJO 1, Ach6 from Larissa, provide possible evidence for
intermarriage. Likewise, there is sparse literary evidence: Acts 16:1-3 records Timothy, the
son of a Jewish mother and a Greek father, and Josephus mentions the marriage also
recorded in the Acts (24:24) between the high-status Jewess Drusilla, descendent of Herod,
and Felix, the Roman procurator of Judaea.307 This paucity of evidence might suggest that
305
Drijvers, Christianity, p. 128.
306
Rutgers, Heritage, p. 22.
307
Josephus, Ant. 20.141-144.
141
the Law was generally upheld and that Jew-Gentile unions were rare. However, those Jews
who married non-converted Gentiles probably assimilated with the Gentile community
more fully, perhaps discarding markers of their Jewish identity and are so invisible in the
archaeological record.308 Equally, Gentiles who converted and married into Judaism may
have taken on Jewish names or identified themselves by Jewish attributes, and so are
likewise indistinguishable.309 It is possible that attitudes to intermarriage varied, but within
the Jewish populations that continued to attest themselves as Jewish, it can be assumed that
Mosaic Law was largely adhered to, but was flexible enough to incorporate converted
Gentiles.
However, there are practical considerations concerning Jew-Gentile marriage, or
indeed, marriage outside the home community. One of these is how large a population has
to be to sustain non-incestuous endogamy. Broodbank, 310 in his study of settlement patterns
in the early Bronze Age Cyclades, uses the guideline figure of 400 individuals (i.e. between
40-80 families) as the minimum number of people required to sustain non-incestuous
endogamy. Certainly many Jewish communities, including the metropoleis of Rome,
Alexandria, and Antioch, were large enough for exogamy to be unnecessary, but this may
have not been the case in other, more peripheral Diaspora communities.
An archaeologically or epigraphically known synagogue should therefore be
understood to indicate that the community was large enough to sustain itself. Although
there is the inherent methodological problem of chance in archaeological and epigraphic
survival, where there is no synagogue attested, it might be plausible to view the community
as auxiliary, and propose that these places had a need for more communication with the
Gentile environment, or to suppose that connections by marriage were made through
longer-distance contacts to Jewish groups in other locations. Depending on the size and
growth rate of communities too small to sustain endogamously, it might be hypothesised
that they died out or disappeared, either because the Jewish population married Gentile
partners and were gradually absorbed into the Gentile world, or because they tried to retain
their endogamous practice but simply ran out of reproductive steam. It could be argued,
308
Support for the decrease in assimilation following intermarriage is provided by recent sociological studies
of exogamy in modern Jewish communities; see Barclay, Jews, p. 411, using Ellman, Y., ‘Intermarriage in the
United States’, JSS 49, 1987, 1-26.
309
There is also an important methodological issue, pointed out by Daniel Stoekl Ben Ezra in his review of
IJO 3, that records of Jewishness on epitaphs probably represents only the Jewish ‘hard core’, BMCR,
2005.02.23, http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/bmcr/2005/2005-02-23.html.
310
Broodbank, C., An Island Archaeology of the early Cyclades, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2000.
142
therefore, that dedicated synagogue buildings are only represented when the community
was large enough to sustain one, and that prior to this, people met in private houses, open
air or other spaces. Indeed, has been argued that the synagogue grew out of the private
house as meeting place.311

Expansion of ‘ethnicity’ II: Judaizers, proselytes, god-fearers & mission

If there is scant primary evidence for Jewish-Gentile intermarriage, then the evidence for
inclusive Jewish attitudes towards proselytes and god-fearers suggests that, by proxy,
attitudes towards mixed marriages may have had an inherent level of flexibility that has
been obscured. It is important to recognise that communities had the potential to grow
through incorporation of Gentiles. Judaism was ‘especially attractive to women’, 312 and
‘there is no evidence positively to refute the hypothesis, which has been widely canvassed,
that converts made up a great proportion of the Jewish population.’ 313 For Goodman, this
shows that the Jewish nation had ‘accepted the principle that it was open to anyone to
integrate him or herself into its political and social community simply by acceptance of
Jewish religious customs’ and that ‘the potential flexing of communal boundaries entailed
by such a notion is quite astounding’.314
Accepting non-Jews into Judaism, providing they conformed to the social and
religious strictures of the faith, is not, however, the same as the conduction of active
mission to gain converts. It has been the standard position of various scholars since Schürer
that, because Christianity was a missionary religion, active proselytising must have been a
practice shared with contemporary Judaism. Literary sources are cited as exposing this
habit, for example, the comments of Valerius Maximus and Cassius Dio that the expulsion
of the Jews from Rome in 139 BC and in AD 19 was a reaction to active Jewish
proselytism,315 snippets of literature that suggest Jews were proud of winning proselytes, 316

311
Harland, P. A., Associations, Synagogues and Congregations: Claiming a place in Mediterranean society,
Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003, p. 31.
312
Collins, p. 163, among others. Reasons suggested are family values, i.e. lifelong monogamy and sacredness
of all children, social values that were both adopted by Christianity.
313
Goodman, M., Mission and Conversion: Proselytizing in the Religious History of the Roman Empire,
Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994, p. 63.
314
Goodman, Mission, p. 61.
315
See Goodman, Mission, p. 68.
316
For example, Josephus on the royal converts of Adiabene – Ant. 20.34-48.
143
or Jesus’ admonition of the Pharisees and scribes at Matthew 23:15, who would ‘cross sea
and land to make a single convert.’ These passages have all been used to argue that active
Jewish proselytism must have existed before 100 AD.
Goodman finds the evidence used to present the case for active Jewish mission in
this period substantially lacking, and in fact, equally interpretable in the opposing way. He
argues, for example, that the comments of Valerius Maximus and Dio could be taken as
indicative of a heightened Roman awareness both of Jews and of proselytism, rather than
proof of active mission. Likewise, he shows that, before AD 100, the term ‘proselyte’ was
very rare, and could apply to both Jews and Gentiles. He argues that the text of Matthew, so
often used to support the claim for Jewish mission, was written at the end of the first
century and in fact reflects the change in meaning that the term proshvluto" was undergoing
at that time, coming eventually to mean solely ‘a Gentile who has become Jewish’. The
passage in Matthew is argued by Goodman to be an admonition of the Pharisees for
attempting to persuade other Jews to follow Pharisaic halakhah, norms of behaviour, rather
than an example of a general Jewish trend to gain Gentile proselytes.317
Goodman argues that Jews in the first century AD did not see any particular value
in active proselytising of the Gentiles, and that the conversion of potential partners before
marriage, and the circumcision of male domestic servants do not signify missionary zeal,
but rather, a desire to ‘reinforce the group’s boundary and solidarity, not to open it up to the
outside.’318 The fact that there were proselytes should not be understood as indicating a
Jewish desire to win them, and the acceptance of proselytes into the Jewish religious and
social group was at this stage essentially passive. Although Goodman argues that Jews
before AD 100 may have engaged in apologetic mission to win sympathisers, he does not
see evidence for a proselytising mission to seek full converts. The range and fluidity of
terms found in the evidence, from proselytes to god-fearers, Judaizers, and sympathisers,
supports this interpretation.

317
See Goodman, Mission, pp. 69-90.
318
Goodman, Mission, p. 78.
144
Jewish reactions to Christianity: changing attitudes to proselytism?
However, Goodman argues that the situation began to change during the Talmudic period,
between c. AD 100-500. In the latter part of this period, converting to Judaism (especially if
the convert had previously been a Christian) began to be punished by the Roman-Christian
state. Laws against circumcision, endorsing capital punishment for doctors performing the
operation, and the confiscation of the property of converts to Judaism are found in the
Codex Theodosianus. In addition, the advent of Christian mission may have changed the
Jewish attitude towards proselytism.
All this might imply that in the middle and later Roman Empire, Jews were engaged
in active mission to both pagans and Christians. However, it can also equally be interpreted
to mean that the impetus was with the convert and the Jews themselves simply accepted
converts as they always had done.319 Christian ‘Judaizing’, i.e. fraternising with Jews or
attending synagogue meetings, was ‘almost endemic’ 320 – for example, John Chrysostom’s
congregation in Antioch – but Chrysostom is castigating his Christian flock for going to the
synagogue, rather than accusing the Jews of tempting away his congregation. Some
evidence that might indicate an active Jewish proselytism can be found in the rabbinic
texts, although it is far from unanimous. Goodman suggests that, after the Temple
destruction and certainly by the third century, and despite the Roman strictures on
proselytising, some rabbis were enthusiastic about Jewish mission and saw it as a duty. 321
The most plausible reason Goodman sees for this change in attitude is the need to compete
with Christianity, which was proving successful at winning converts away from both
paganism and from Judaism.
This may be the case. However, Judaism also underwent a massive change
independent of Christianity, and the rabbinic period was marked by the composition of the
Mishnah c. AD 200, as a summary of practice aimed at universalising norms of behaviour,
‘halakhah’. Tessa Rajak states that ‘the process reached its climax, though in no sense its
conclusion, with the massive and heterogeneous compilation of the sixth century, known to
us as the Babylonian Talmud.’322 Rabbinic halakhah encouraged the sharpening of Jewish
identity and the renewed adherence to reiterated Jewish Laws.

319
Albeit with some Rabbinic illiberalism at certain times – see Goodman, Mission, chapters 4-6.
320
Goodman, Mission, p. 143.
321
See Goodman, Mission, pp. 145-153.
322
Rajak, T., ‘The Jewish Community and its Boundaries’, in The Jews among Pagans and Christians,
London & New York: Routledge, 1992, p. 12.
145
 My approach here then is to examine the epigraphic evidence for Diaspora
reflections of these developments in Judaea. I argue that in this period, Jewish identity
underwent a fundamental reappraisal, and becomes deliberately and explicitly visible to us
and to their contemporary Gentile neighbours through the increasing use of Jewish names
and the use of Jewish symbols in the monumental evidence from the Diaspora. We can thus
at this stage begin to see how widespread the communities of the Graeco-Roman Diaspora
really were, and can usefully apply network analysis to them to understand the connectivity
of the ‘ethnic citizenship’323 of Judaism; the communication routes along which the rabbinic
ideas might have spread, and how the dispersed Jewish community might have interrelated
between its scattered parts. Although this is a picture of Judaism in the later Empire, it may
have some usefulness as a model for the connectivity of the earlier Diaspora. The
universally renewed notion of Judaism and of the Jewish nation as a whole set down in the
Mishnah was a response to the destruction of the Temple and of Judaea. The transmission
of the newly reiterated tenets of halakhah it advocated to the Jews of the Diaspora can be
understood as the ‘activation’ of a network built on an understanding of shared ‘ethnicity’.

Hypothesis: Utilisation of a Network of Shared Ethnicity

The Jewish Diaspora was spread throughout the Roman world, reaching Hispania, southern
Gallia and Pannonia by the fourth century AD, as well as the ancient communities beyond
the eastern borders of the Roman Empire in Babylon. However, communities were most
densely located closer to Judaea in the major cities and the eastern provinces of Egypt, Asia
Minor, Greece and Cyprus. The breadth and depth of the dispersion was due also to the
creation of commercial opportunities resulting from the Roman Empire and the preceding
Hellenistic kingdoms, as well as being a consequence of forced settlements, and periodical
replenishments by refugees and prisoners of war.
The Diaspora was a network of ethnically linked groups of people, with a universal
notion of Jewish Law and the distinctiveness of the Jewish people and faith, as set out in
the Torah. Some of the Laws, especially related to food restrictions, had been allegorised

323
Liebeschuetz, ‘Judaism’, p. 249.
146
by the Hellenistic Diaspora literary elites, and taken as symbolic of the social and moral
separation that maintained Jewish righteousness. 324 Since the concepts of religion were
transmitted in book form, which increased the potential for standardisation, transportation
and access, there was an intrinsic unity to the Jewish religious community. Because shared
Jewish identity involved most aspects of daily life, ethnic links can be understood as
‘strong-ties’, and could therefore be extremely powerful for the transmission of social and
cultural information and innovation. The Jewish Diaspora offers then a unique network
with which to examine the communicative power of shared ethnicity in the Hellenistic-
Roman world. Defining ‘ethnicity’ can sometimes be a complex issue, as ethnicity itself is
subject to reconstruction and redefinition by different people in different environments. The
epigraphic data generally masks subtleties of this kind however, and so can only be taken at
face value: those who chose to define themselves as Jewish are understood to be ethnically
Jewish. My hypothesis here, then, is to test the communicative power that ought to be
inherent in such an ethnic network.
I show that the epigraphic evidence, as the record of the lives of ordinary Jews, the
largely static minority populations making up the Diaspora, undergoes a stark change,
beginning in the second-third centuries AD. In the early Hellenistic-Roman Diaspora, Jews
integrated with Gentile communities, adopted Hellenised names and practices, and engaged
with certain aspects of Graeco-Roman culture to a degree. Even though the Diaspora was
considerable by this period, there is very little evidence for Jewish self-identification,
limited to particular socio-political contexts: emancipation of slaves and the collective
dedications of prayer-houses in Egypt.
The destruction of the Temple and the fifty years that followed changed the lives of
Jews in the Diaspora dramatically. Following the cataclysm in Judaea, the epigraphy
reveals the widespread dissemination and adoption of explicitly Jewish names, symbols and
language. This could be argued to be a uniform response to the rising tide of intolerant
Christianity, but this explanation presupposes a universal Christian attitude to Jews, which
is implausible at this early date; and, moreover, the process began before Christianity had
been adopted as the state religion of the Roman Empire. Rather, the Hebraization of the
Diaspora should instead be related to the internal change in Judaism, which occurred after
the destruction of the Temple and of Judaea. By recognising and interpreting the visible
symbols of the new universalised halakhah of the rabbinic reforms, we may analyse these
324
For example, by the author of the Letter of Aristeas, see Barclay, Jews, pp. 138-150.
147
as a demonstration of how, at this time, the ethnic community of the Jews created a
vulnerable, dynamic network based on strong-tie ‘familial’ connections.

Epigraphic Analysis

There are some features of the epigraphic record that can be used to identify Jewish
communities in the Diaspora, although there are certain caveats that must be borne in mind:
the epigraphic habit of the second century, the epitaphic nature of most of the available
epigraphy, and the fact that Jews who did not feel themselves to be so strongly aligned to
the core community might be less likely to present their Jewish identity epigraphically.
Essentially, these people are lost to the modern observer. Only individuals whose Jewish
identity is explicitly revealed by inscriptions, or who are securely located within an
established Jewish context, are included in the body of material studied here.
The inscriptions are predominantly in Greek, even in Italy, which suggests that
Italian Jews were strongly linked to the Greek-speaking world, as Greek was the
contemporary lingua franca for most of the Diaspora. The identifying features of Jewish
inscriptions include the mention of the synagogue, proseuche – the ‘prayer-house’, or
sometimes the gerousia as a place of gathering and worship. It is sometimes difficult to be
entirely sure about the Jewishness of these terms, as non-Jews use all three to describe
places of meeting. Likewise, offices within these domains – archisynagogos, gerousiarch,
and presbyter – are all found in non-Jewish contexts, and so texts that mention only of one
of these offices without further Jewish indicators are not included. In later examples, Rabbi
is quite clearly Jewish, but it should be noted that the term does not necessarily denote
someone who had ‘formal’ priestly rank. Other clear indicators are the occurrence of
Hebrew in the inscriptions, the use of Semitic personal names, and the depiction of Jewish
symbols, (the menorah, lulab, etrog and shofar being the most common). We also
sometimes encounter specific reference to the Laws or the Sabbath.
This analysis relies on the various corpuses of Jewish inscriptions, Frey’s Corpus
Inscriptionum Judaicum, (CIJ), Ameling’s, Noy and Bloedhorn’s, and Noy, Panayotov and
Bloedhorn’s Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis vols. I-III (IJO 1-3), Horbury and Noy’s
148
Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Egypt (JIGRE), and Noy’s Jewish Inscriptions of
Western Europe (JIWE), supplemented by the revised Schürer. Unless otherwise stated, the
inscriptions are in Greek, and these make up more than two thirds of the 900+ items of
evidence used here.

The Diaspora before AD 70

The synagogue (or other form of proseuche, prayer/meeting place) had become the local
focus of Diaspora Judaism, and the exposition of Law and the reading of the sacred texts
happened in these spaces. Goodman argues that it was here, by separating or being
separated from their traditional land, that Jews were required to articulate anew the tenets
of their faith and Law, craft the constituents and boundaries of Judaism, negotiate
flexibilities and define themselves as had not been necessary in the Judaean homeland. 325
This process involved both the stricter imposition of certain prohibitions and the
suppression of divisive aspects in order to define the place of the Jews within the Graeco-
Roman environment.
However, the epigraphic evidence from pre-AD 70 shows very little sign either of
relaxation of Jewish regulations or the tightening of Jewish boundaries. Jewish personal
names and the use of the term Ioudaios or Ebraios as a marker of Jewish ethnicity were the
most important epigraphic indicators, suggesting a commonly understood and unified
notion of being Jewish, and a need to mark it. On the other hand, the use of non-Jewish
personal names indicates a level of integration within Graeco-Roman society.
A survey of the earlier Diaspora evidence shows that the occasions where Jews
explicitly name themselves as such were very limited. The use of Ioudaios (and it is
Ioudaios rather than Ebraios at this stage, a point to which we shall return) is rare, and is
confined to inscriptions that refer to slaves or ex-slaves, who indicated themselves to be
Jewish seemingly as an indicator of heritage and place of origin. It is otherwise only found
in Egypt. The statement of their Jewish identity by Egyptian Jews in the Hellenistic period
seems likely to be an indicator of their status under Greek rule and established claim to
certain social and political privileges.

Goodman, M., ‘Jews, Greeks, and Romans’ in Jews in a Graeco-Roman World, M. Goodman, (ed.),
325

Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998.

149
 Inscriptions recording the manumission of Jewish slaves are found quite widely
dispersed across the early Diaspora. One of the earliest, ca. 300-250 BC, was found in
Oropus in Boeotia. It was set up in the Amphiareion, to record the emancipation of
Moschos son of Moschion ‘the Jew’. Moschos appears to have received instruction from
the gods Amphiaraus and Hygeia in a dream that he should be set free (IJO 1, Ach45, also
CIJ I, p. 82.) Because Moschos refers to the pagan Greek deities, and makes his dedication
within the sacred precinct of the Amphiareion following incubation there, this inscription is
taken as the earliest evidence on the Greek mainland for a Hellenized Jew. Although this is
clearly the case, it is also true that Moschos understands himself still as Jewish.
More explicitly Jewish slaves were being emancipated in Greece in the mid-second
century BC. Inscriptions from Delphi record the manumission of Ioudaios, and a decade
later Antigona, with her daughters Dorothea and Theodora (IJO 1, Ach42; 43). They are
called to; gevno" jIoudaivon, of the race of the Jews. They may have been prisoners of war
from the Maccabaean period.326 Ergasion the Samaritan (IJO 1, Ach41) was a member of a
pagan group in Athens in the fourth or third century BC; it is unclear whether he was
stating his faith and/or ethnicity.
Inscriptions in the west that explicitly define the person as being Jewish are only
found in Aquileia on the Adriatic in the first century BC, where a freedman, Lucius Aiacius
Dama, possibly from Damascus, calls himself Iudaeus (CIJ I, 643); and at Villamesias in
the Spanish hinterland where a Latin epitaph records Alucius Roscius, 327 a freedman
defining himself as a Jew (JIWE, 188). The inscription is however only loosely dated
between the first and third centuries AD, and he may therefore have been enslaved after any
of the revolts in Judaea or the Diaspora.
In Gorgippia on the north shore of the Black Sea ‘Jews by race’ are mentioned in a
manumission text dated to AD 59-60 (IJO 1, BS23). A manumission text from Phanagoria
dating to AD 52 consecrates three slaves328 to the proseuche, with the synagogue of the
Jews providing guardianship (IJO 1, BS18). Four further manumission inscriptions from
Panticipaeum of the first-second century mention the permission or guardianship of the
synagogue of the Jews/Jews and god-fearers (IJO 1, BS5; BS6; BS7; BS9). The Jewish
synagogue was apparently a locus for the legal transaction of slaves.
326
See Schürer2 Vol. III.i, p. 65, or Williams, M. H., The Jews among the Greeks and the Romans – A
Diasporan Sourcebook, Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998, p. 5.
327
His name is unusual, and ‘Alucius’ may be connected with the Celtiberian name, Allucius.
328
Two of the slaves have unusual, possibly Iranian names, Karsandanos and Karagos, which might indicate
some kind of interaction between Persia and the Black Sea region.
150
 The Jews of Egypt often state their Jewishness during the Hellenistic period
apparently for a distinct political purpose, to be understood in the context as a marker of
separation, probably from the Egyptians rather than the Greeks. Plentiful papyrus fragments
from the third-second centuries BC use explicitly Jewish names, mention the proseuche and
the term jIoudaivon.329 These are found across lower and middle Egypt and supported by
evidence from inscriptions, for example, the third century BC proseuche at Schedia was
dedicated ‘by the Jews’ (JIGRE, 22) like that at Crocodilopolis (JIGRE, 117); the second
century BC ‘Jews of Xenephyris’ dedicated the gate to their proseuche (JIGRE, 24); there
are also similar dedications by the Jews of Nitriai (JIGRE, 25) and Athribis (JIGRE, 27).
Men with Greek names (Theodotus son of Dorion, Ptolemy son of Dionysios) who call
themselves ‘the Jew’ dedicate at the temple of Pan at El-Kanais from the second-first
century BC (JIGRE, 121; 122).330 There is no later evidence from Egypt for this kind of
self-definition, perhaps related to the hostility towards the Jews at certain points during the
Roman period.
Few individuals stated their Jewish heritage or ethnicity in the period before the fall
of the Temple, and when they did, they did so for different reasons. In Egypt the Jews had
the distinct politico-legislative purpose of distinguishing themselves from the Egyptian
populace to secure privileges from the Hellenistic rulers. In the Black Sea, the Aegean and
the West where singular rather than collective marking of Jewish identity is found, there is
a clear connection with freedom from enslavement. The general absence of explicit
statements about Jewish ethnicity in the rest of the epigraphic evidence for the Diaspora in
the period pre-AD 70 is therefore all the more striking. The literary evidence records that
Rome had a Diaspora community by the second century BC, and Josephus records the
dispersion of the Jews into Asia Minor and the west under the Seleukids. 331 The only
epigraphic evidence from Asia Minor at this time is a late Hellenistic inscription from
Caunos in Caria that records members of a Samaritan family, of whom at least the father,
Simon, was originally from Shechem, the Samaritan capital under Mount Gerizim. The rest
of the family have Greek names, including Dionysia and Cleopatra (IJO 2, 24). There is

329
See Schürer2, History, Vol. III.i, pp. 46-57.
330
The editors of Schürer had dated these inscriptions to the second century AD, see History, Vol. III.i, p. 58,
but I here adopt the revised date suggested by Noy in JIGRE.
331
Josephus, Ant. 14. His quotation of a letter at 12.147-53 records the transportation of 2000 Jewish families
to fortresses and strategic places in Phrygia and Lydia, who were given land and permitted to live by their
own laws. The authenticity of the documents Josephus uses has been questioned, and it may be that this letter
was an apologetic document penned by Jews themselves. Barclay, Jews, pp. 260-262.
151
epigraphic evidence for Jews or Samaritans in Athens and Delos in the second century BC:
Simon, son of Ananias in Athens (IJO 1, Ach33), and the murdered Jewish women
Heraclea and Marthina from Delos (IJO 1, Ach70; 71). A Jew named Ioudaios manumitted
his slave Amyntas in Delphi, which is ‘a rare example of a Jew manumitting a slave in a
pagan temple’ (IJO 1, Ach44). It is possible, because Ioudaios is a personal name also used
as an ethnic, that Ioudaios was a freedman himself. There were Jews in Cyrenaica and on
Cyprus during the Ptolemaic period according to Josephus,332 and the Cypriot community is
known also from three Phoenician inscriptions from the fourth century BC. The names are
Semitic: Haggai, son of Abdi (IJO 3, Cyp6); Muttun-Astart, son of Azariah, son of Muttun,
son of Shalom, the chief of the scribes (IJO 3, Cyp7); and Shalom, son of Asaphyahu (IJO
3, Cyp8).
From this assessment of the earlier epigraphic evidence, and the absence in most
places of explicit statements of Jewish identity, it should be deduced that Jews in the pre-
AD 70 Mediterranean Diaspora responded to the Graeco-Roman world by assimilating to a
degree that meant it was either unnecessary or even perhaps undesirable to identify oneself
explicitly as Jewish in inscriptions. This is supported by the fact that although Jews
sometimes used Biblical names, theophoric names such as Heraclea at Delos, Dionysia at
Caunos and Muttun-Astart, ‘gift of Astarte’ on Cyprus hardly indicate piety towards the
Jewish god. The evidence of Moschos’ incubation in the Amphiareion or the dedications in
the temple of Pan suggests that using pagan temples was not necessarily inappropriate or
incompatible with possessing Jewish ethnicity in the Hellenistic period.
The lack of explicit statements of Jewish identity in inscriptions may be due in part
to a strong centralised religious and financial relationship within the Diaspora to the
Jerusalem Temple, implying an inherent Jewish identity that did not need external
expression. The probable reference to the Day of Atonement on Delos (IJO 1, Ach70)
shows knowledge of and participation in the Jewish festival year. These connections
between Jerusalem and the Diaspora communities are also visible in the actions of Judaea’s
rulers. Inscriptions from Delos and Syros honouring King Herod the Great (IJO 1, Ach38-
9; 74) show that the Diaspora was intimately connected to political events in Judaea; and an
inscription dating from 4-39 AD from Delos (IJO 1, Ach69), found in the propylon of the
temple of Apollo, is an honorific by the Athenians for Herod Antipas. It is suggested that he
improved the propylon, and supports the notion that the community on Delos in particular
332
Josephus, Ant. 13.284 (Cyprus); C. Ap. ii 4 (44) (Cyrenaica).
152
was very much engaged with the political structures in both Athens and Judaea, and also
that the leaders in Judaea were involved with Diaspora communities even to the extent of
making donations to pagan buildings.
Delos, with its status as a free port and major commercial centre, emerges as an
important Diaspora focal point where Jews clearly interacted frequently with Greeks and
people from across the Greek world. In the first century BC, four people with Greek names
dedicated to Theos Hypsistos, the Greek translation of the Hebrew El Elyon, including
Zosas from Paros (IJO 1, Ach60), and some of these inscriptions were found in GD80, the
building that has been identified by some as the synagogue (IJO 1, Ach61; 62; 63). These
may either be Greeks dedicating to the Jewish God, to Theos Hypsistos as a distinct cult 333
or Jews adopting Greek names, but either way, they show the high level of interaction
between Jews and Gentiles during the late Hellenistic period. The dedication by the man
from Paros perhaps even implies an intra-archipelagian community with Delos at its
spiritual and physical centre. The abundant epigraphy of Delos contrasts with the poverty of
epigraphic evidence in Rome and Asia Minor, whose Jewish communities are only attested
by literary sources. This may simply be a pocket of epigraphic ‘fashion’ at Delos, but may
also indicate the relative wealth and self-confidence of its Jewish population.
It seems clear from the lack of ordinary Jews in the Diaspora explicitly named as
such, and the special situations of those who are, that before the destruction of the Temple,
the notion of Jewish culture and ethnicity in the Diaspora was somehow inherent and not
prominently advertised. Jews did not need to state their Jewishness, and Goodman’s
argument that simply being in the Diaspora necessitated, for ordinary Jews, the renewed
articulation of the tenets of Jewish Law and the reinforcement of boundaries is certainly not
epigraphically clear. Jews were given pagan names, Jewish rulers donated to pagan
buildings, and Gentiles were interested in Jewish cult. Because Jerusalem was the centre in
certain absolute and specific religious and fiscal terms, Judaism before AD 70, with a book
and a singular Temple at its heart, was understood by Jews to be fully formed. Jews
engaged with and responded to the circumstances of their life in the Diaspora without
losing this sense of attachment to the Jerusalem temple, which was at the centre of their
religion. However, when the emotional and religious heart of Judaism, enshrined in the
Temple, was destroyed, how did the Diaspora react?

333
This will be discussed further in Chapter 6.
153
 

The destruction of the Temple

The Jerusalem Temple in the Hellenistic-Roman period was a solid financial and religious
focus for the Diaspora: both through the annual didrachma Temple tax levied on all men
over 20, in accordance with the command of Dt. 12:26 that ‘the sacred donations that are
due from you, and your votive gifts, you shall bring to the place that the LORD will
choose’, and the substantial numbers of pilgrims.334 The generation of normative and
accessible Jewish writings in Greek335 may have aided this notion of centre. Paying the
Temple tax would certainly have been an important part of every ordinary male Jew’s life,
who was thereby required to undertake long-distance travel to the central administrative
and religious point. In Jerusalem, there would have been opportunity for discussion of Law
and scripture as well as for interaction with other members of Diasporan and Palestinian
Jewish communities. One piece of epigraphic material provides proof of the Diaspora
relationship with the Temple, the donation of flooring by a man from Rhodes (IJO 2, 10)
from the rubble of a Herodian palace south of the Temple, also destroyed in AD 70.
Goodman claims that for the Romans, the destruction of the second Temple in 70
AD was a act of political machismo and posturing by Titus following the Jewish revolt,
essentially an insignificant event in ‘a comparatively minor provincial backwater’. 336 For
the Jews in Judaea, however, the destruction of the Temple marked a major change in the
way Judaism was practised and how it thought about itself. The combination of the
decimation, subjugation and poverty of the people of Judaea, the renaming of the province
Syria Palaestina, and the destruction of the Temple itself had enormous psychological,
spiritual and financial consequences, kick-starting the period of the Bar Kokhba revolt and
the rabbinic reforms, that led to the composition of the Mishnah c. AD 200. What about the
situation in the Diaspora? The editors of Schürer argue that given the Temple tax and the
pilgrimages recorded by Philo and Josephus, the destruction must have been of profound
import. The subsequent revolts in Cyprus, Egypt and Cyrenaica are manifest reactions to
the destruction. The destruction is lamented in Diaspora works of literature, such as the

334
As recorded by Philo, De Spec. Leg. i 12 (69); and Josephus’ reckoning of the numbers attending the
festivals in Jerusalem at 2,700,000, B. J. vi 9, 3 (425). See Schürer2, History, vol. III.i, pp. 148-149.
335
Including the LXX, Sibylline Oracles, 2 Maccabees, and the letter of Aristeas, see Collins, Jerusalem, p.
61-86.
336
Goodman, Mission, p. 43.
154
Fourth and Fifth Sibylline Oracles.337 Josephus, writing Contra Apionem probably in the
period following the assassination of Domitian, located the essence of Judaism in the rites
of the Temple.338 What then for Judaism when the rites of the Temple were no more? ‘The
only centre left to the people was the Torah.’339
Aside from the psychological import, the most immediate changes for the majority
of Diaspora Jews would have been the transformation of the Temple tax into the fiscus
Judaicus, now payable to the Romans, and, in certain places, the influx of Judaean
refugees. Prisoners of war swelled numbers in the Diaspora communities in Italy, with
refugees from the conflict probably fleeing to places geographically proximate to Judaea.
One such prisoner of war in Italy was Claudia Aster, an Imperial freedman’s prisoner-slave
from Jerusalem recorded in a Latin epitaph from between 70-95 AD in Naples (CIJ I, 556).
In Athens, a few first century AD epitaphs may represent refugees from Judaea: Matthaia
from Aradus, married to a man from Sidon (CIJ I, 715f); Ammia of Jerusalem (IJO 1,
Ach26); Ammia, daughter of Philo, a Samaritan, who married a man from Antioch (IJO 1,
Ach35); and Theodora, daughter of Themison, a Samaritan (IJO 1, Ach36). Likewise, a
dedication from the Serapeion on Delos by Praulus of Samaria, dating from 100 AD (IJO
1, Ach68); the first century epitaph of Justus from Tiberias in Taenarum on the southern tip
of the Peloponnese (IJO 1, Ach55); and a first century AD list from Rhodes that includes a
man from Jerusalem (IJO 2, 9), may all represent first or second generation refugees.
However, the longer-term effects of the destruction of the Temple on the Diaspora
communities were cognitive, seen in the revolts that took place in the following fifty years.
Judaea as a centralising force must have lost considerable power, and with the most
important centre of gravity of the Diaspora network removed, the opportunity for travel to
and the exchange of information and ideas with the perceived homeland was gone. How did
the Jews both in Judaea and the Diaspora deal with the challenges to their faith and their
status as the chosen people? It has been argued that, like the Bar Kokhba revolt, the various
violent revolts in the Diaspora over the next fifty years, in Cyrenaica, Cyprus and Egypt,
marked the ‘powerful messianic expectations’340 of the dispersed Jewish nation following

337
Collins, Jerusalem, p. 152.
338
See Goodman, Mission, p. 45.
339
Schürer2, History, Vol. I, p. 513.
340
Schürer2, History, p. 149, quoting the argument of M. Hengel, ‘Messianische Hoffnung und politischer
“Radikalismus” in der “jüdisch-hellenistischen Diaspora”. Zur Frage der Voraussetzungen des jüdischen
Aufstandes unter Trajan 115-117 n.Chr.’, D. Hellholm (ed.), Apocalypticism in the Mediterranean world and
the Near East, 1979, pp. 655-86.
155
the destruction of the Temple. However, the revolts were all quashed, and instead, the most
important reaction to the destruction of the centre is to be seen in the rise of rabbinic
Judaism, which promoted a greater focus on the texts of the Torah and stricter adherence to
the Laws governing norms of behaviour – halakhah: it was ‘precisely the annihilation of
Israel’s political existence which led to the triumph of rabbinic Judaism.’341

The transmission of rabbinic Judaism in the Diaspora

The epigraphic evidence for the Diaspora shows a massive increase in explicit statements
of Jewish identity from the second century onwards. I argue that this should be interpreted
as evidence that the new religious authorities in Palestine used the tightening strong-tie
‘familial’ connections of the ethnic network of the anxious, vulnerable Diaspora to transmit
the religious and social discipline of rabbinic Judaism. The reforms of rabbinic Judaism
arose in Judaea, beginning in the years following the destruction of the Temple and the Bar
Kokhba revolt, emphasising reading and interpreting the Torah and standardising norms of
behaviour.342 This re-construction of Judaism following the cataclysms and the new
universalised halakhah are clearly manifest in the records of the ordinary people of the
Diaspora. The indicators found on Jewish monuments that reflect an increased awareness of
a common Jewish practice, history and behaviour include specifically Jewish symbols, i.e.
the menorah, lulab, etrog, and shofar, as referents to a universalised ritual and the religious
calendar,343 and the use of Hebrew as a marker of education and a revived knowledge of the
sacred texts, the Torah, Jewish Law, and Jewish history. Additionally the increasing use of
specifically Jewish name forms also provides a subtle indication of the universal
engendering of a more strongly defined Jewishness, matched by the trend during the third-

341
Schürer2, History, Vol. I, p. 555.
342
Rajak, ‘The Jewish Community‘, p. 11-12.
343
The menorah is the seven-branched lamp that had stood in the Temple before its destruction by Titus and
the transportation and parade of Jewish cult items in Rome. The lulab (palm branch) and etrog (citrus) are
associated with the Feast of Tabernacles (Sukkot); the shofar is the trumpet used to sound the new moon and
the beginnings of certain feasts.
156
fourth centuries AD for individuals to defines themselves as ‘Jews’ or, more specifically,
‘Hebrews’.344
It has been argued by Williams that the Hebraization of names in the Diaspora
during the fourth-fifth centuries was a reaction to Christianity’s appropriation of Biblical
names and the impositions of ‘increasingly intolerant attitudes of the Christian emperors
towards people of other religions.’345 It might be argued therefore that increase in these
other indicators of Jewishness might also be a reaction to Christianity. However, because
these changes begin to be enacted across the Diaspora before Christianity was the state
religion, I instead suggest that this represents the internal transformation of Judaism, which
was a reaction to the devastation of Judaea and the destruction of the centre of the religion.
That the Jews of the Diaspora felt a strong emotional connection with Judaea is evident
from two fourth century or later inscriptions from Acmonia in Phrygia – IJO 2, 169, a
prayer for all the fatherland, and IJO 2, 170, a prayer for peace in Israel and Jerusalem.

Marking ethnicity and education through piety toward the Laws

References to events in Jewish history, festivals, and the patriarchs indicate knowledge of
and participation in a Jewish world beyond the local environment. However, there are only
a very few instances in the epigraphy: the second century BC inscription from Rheneia
(IJO 1, Ach70), that may make reference to the Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur; the fourth
century AD epitaph from Catania which mentions the patriarchs (CIJ I, 650, see below); or
the text from Argos that specifically mentions the patriarchs, ethnarchs and the honour of
the Sages (CIJ I, 719). It must be assumed that although these were well known Jewish
institutions, whose history was explained in the synagogue or proseuche, they were
inappropriate for the grave.
The Jewish Law346 is mentioned more often, most frequently in the west: Rome,
Italy and Sicily. Across the rest of the Diaspora, the Law is mentioned on one inscription

344
This change in terminology has been linked to the destruction of Judaea as a province, but may be better
explained by the renewed emphasis on Jewish history.
345
Williams, M. H., ‘Semitic Name-Use by Jews in Roman Asia Minor and the Dating of the Aphrodisias
Stele Inscriptions’, in E. Matthews, (ed.), Old and New Worlds in Greek Onomastics, Proceedings of the
British Academy, 148, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007, p. 192.
346
Mosaic Law, meaning food restrictions, circumcision, Sabbath observance and prohibition of
intermarriage.
157
each from Macedonia, Greece, Asia Minor and Egypt. Ten inscriptions from Rome
mention the Laws. From the Via Appia cemetery (dated between the second and fourth
centuries) there are the epitaphs of Eukarpos, philonomos, which is decorated with a
menorah (CIJ I, 111); Eusebius, nomomathes, (CIJ I, 113); Krispina, a philentolos – (CIJ
I, 132); an unnamed nomomathes, whose grave is decorated with a menorah and a lion (CIJ
I, 193); an unnamed nomodidaskolos, (CIJ I, 201) which also uses the formula from
Proverbs 10:7, ‘the memory of the righteous is a blessing’, discussed below; and a
philolaos, philentolos and philopenes (CIJ I, 203). The use of laos in this context generally
refers to the Jewish people. An inscription that may refer to the Law is a Latin epitaph in
Greek letters for a woman who is described as being a ‘good disciple’ in (CIJ I, 215), an
indication that the Jewish population was speaking Latin but that Greek was still the written
language. From the Via Portuensis come the epitaphs of Eusebis, a didaskalos nomomathes
(CIJ I, 333); and a plaque in Latin dated to the beginning of the second century for Regina,
‘obedient to the Law’ (CIJ I, 476). A Latin and Greek epitaph records Victorina who died
in 330, dikaia, osia, philentolos; her epitaph is marked with a menorah, etrog and shofar
(CIJ I, 482). A sarcophagus from the Via Nomentana is inscribed in Latin to Julia Irene
Arista, who ‘was filled with the virtue of God and the faith of the chosen people, who
observed the Laws exactly’ (CIJ I, 72). Quite a number of epitaphs from the Roman
cemeteries end with the formula ‘sleeps in peace with the righteous’, and ‘righteous God’ is
also found occasionally across the rest of the Diaspora. Righteousness in this context means
pious adherence to the Laws, and also suggests that the Jewish belief that those who had
lived a righteous life became angels was fairly widespread.
The Law is mentioned elsewhere in Italy. A Greek metrical epitaph from Lorium on
the coast near Rome remembers Rufinus, ‘god-fearer, learned in the holy Laws and
wisdom’ (JIWE, 12).347 The mention of the Laws in Jewish inscriptions is generally a
phenomenon of late antiquity – and therefore it is my suggestion that this inscription should

347
This inscription has provoked considerable controversy, with arguments proposed for its Jewish, Christian
or pagan character. Rufinus is explicitly called qewsebhv", i.e. a Gentile devoted to the Jewish God, but the
reference to the ajgivwn te novmwn has been argued by many to be an indication that he was a full Jew, for
example, Palmer Bonz, M., ‘The Jewish Donor Inscriptions from Aphrodisias: are they both third century,
and who are the Theosebeis?’, in HSCP, 96., p. 291-292. Levinskaya also thinks Rufinus is likely to be
Jewish: Levinskaya, I., The Book of Acts in its Diaspora Setting, vol. 5, Grand Rapids, Mich: W.B. Eerdmans,
1996, p. 67. The god-fearers and the case of Rufinus will be discussed in Chapter 6; here, it is simply notable
that Gentiles could still be considered as pious as Jews. The reforms of the rabbis did not exclude Gentiles or
deny their ability to know God and Jewish Law. They simply clarified their status. This inscription shows that
Judaism was still open to Gentiles, and marks Rufinus’ participation in and knowledge of a wider Jewish
world.
158
be similarly dated. A third century synagogue donation from Ostia records the building of
the synagogue and ‘ark for the holy law’ by Mindius Faustus (JIWE, 13). A Hebrew and
Latin epitaph from Catania for Aurelius Samohil and his wife Lasiferina (JIWE, 145)
requests respect for the patriarchs and for the Jewish Laws. It dates from AD 383, and
Fergus Millar348 uses it as a clear example of an unambiguously Jewish person combining
the secular and Jewish dating systems. He questions who is meant by the ‘patriarcha’: the
biblical patriarchs, local Jewish officials, or contemporary Jewish patriarchs in Palestine.
The last interpretation is settled on, and would imply a ‘relatively integrated and
homogenous Jewish world, in which all or most of the communities in the provinces of the
Roman Empire observed a Judaism closely resembling that ‘rabbinic’ Judaism of Palestine,
which was just giving birth to the ‘Palestinian’ or ‘Jerusalem’ Talmud – or which the
Talmud presents to us as ‘the’ Judaism of late Roman Palestine’. 349 The use of Latin
suggests that in Sicily by this point some (possibly more highly educated) Jews were using
Latin as their first language; however, another two epitaphs from Catania dating to the
fourth-fifth century are in Greek, for presbyters, Irenaeus and Jason, who did ‘not offend
the Law’ (JIWE, 148; 149). Across the water in Rabato on Malta, a graffito from the
fourth-fifth century catacombs records Eulogia, a presbyter and gerousiarch, as a lover of
the Law (JIWE, 163).
Further east, allusions to the Laws are much less common. In Stobi, a column dating
from the second-third century documents the building of various parts of the synagogue by
the Roman citizen Tiberius Polycharmos, the father of the synagogue, and ‘follower of all
the Jewish prescriptions’ (CIJ I, 694). A third-fourth century epitaph from Argos records
Aurelius Ioses as invoking the power of the Law (IJO 1, Ach51). This inscription also
mentions the patriarchs (here thought, as in Catania, to refer to the contemporary office in
Palestine), ethnarchs and the honour of the sages, making a strong link back to Judaea and
the Palestinian Judaism heritage, supporting Millar’s suggestion about the Sicilian
inscription. The only inscription that refers to Jewish Law in Asia Minor is the setting up, at
some point after AD 212, of a heroon in Apamea in Phrygia (IJO 2, 179) by Aurelius
Rufus and his wife Aurelia Tatiane. It invokes knowledge of the Laws of the Jews in a
curse formula to prevent the grave being reused by anyone else. Finally, a late Roman

348
Millar, F., ‘Jews of the Graeco-Roman Diaspora’, in The Jews among the Pagans and Christians, Lieu, J.,
North, J., & Rajak T., (eds.), London: Routledge, 1992.
349
Millar, ‘Jews’, p. 98.
159
Greek and Hebrew epitaph from the Roman tower in Alexandria, records Lady Roua
(possibly Ruth), daughter of Borouch, as being Law-abiding (JIGRE, 15).
The references to the Law largely date from the fourth-fifth century, which supports
Millar’s suggestion that in this period the communities of the Diaspora were following a
common Judaism directed by Palestine. It is also quite likely that these people represent the
better-educated end of the spectrum of Jews in the Diaspora who may have been involved
in the teaching or exposition of Laws. This is supported by the use of the formula from
Proverbs and the terms nomomathes and nomodidaskalos on texts from Rome. It is also
evident that reference to the Law is much more common in the Latin West than in the East.
A reason for this could be that, as the centre of the Empire and because of the large and
well-established Jewish community there, the dialogue between the Jewish leaders in Rome
and the authorities in Judaea was more regular. This perhaps then resulted in a more
involved exegesis and deeper knowledge of Torah in the western communities than in those
in the east, and as a consequence, the communications between Rome and the other western
Diaspora communities involved a greater level of prescription, manifest in reference to the
Laws. It may also be that the eastern Diaspora communities were older than those in the
West, mostly dating in their origins before the fall of the Temple, and preserved their own
traditions more effectively. It is notable that Hebrew makes more progress as a sacred script
in the West than in the East, where Greek always remained heavily predominant.

The ‘activation’ of ethnicity through symbol, language & onomastics

However, inscriptions that mention Jewish history or contemporary Palestinian patriarchs,
or that imply knowledge of Jewish Law represent only a small percentage of the Jewish
epigraphic corpus. During the third-fourth centuries, what becomes widespread across the
Empire is the use of Jewish symbols, names and the formulaic use of Hebrew. This is partly
to do with the epitaphic context of most Jewish inscriptions, where it was easier to use a
symbolic ‘shorthand’ to denote religious or ethnic affiliation. But such symbols had
markedly not been used in the earlier period. The sudden and dramatic increase in the use
of these explicit identifiers should be connected with the universalising reforms of the
Palestinian rabbis, and therefore with an increased knowledge of standardised Torah and
the ritual calendar, festivals, and the use of the Hebrew language. Assessing the distribution
160
patterns of these epigraphic innovations, which were markers of pan-Judaic culture, will
therefore reveal places in the Diaspora that had early contact with the Palestinian reforms,
and illuminate something about the routes and speed of information transmission across the
ethnic network.
During the first century AD, Hebrew was only very occasionally used in the
Diaspora. It is used for a graffito from Pompeii (CIJ I, 562),350 and possibly on an
inscription from Tyre (IJO 3, Syr9). The real revival of the language only begins in the
second-third centuries, coinciding with the introduction of the menorah as a universally
recognised symbol. During the second-third centuries the menorah occurs only in Greece
and Egypt, whereas Hebrew is found only in Egypt and places proximate to Judaea. In
Egypt the language and the symbols occasionally appear together; for example, during the
second century, a Hebrew inscription for the son of Lazarus from the Christian cemetery at
Antinoopolis is decorated with a menorah and lulab (JIGRE, 119). There is however little
other evidence for Jews here. It seems that this man’s tomb was specifically differentiated
as Jewish, although it was acceptable or necessary for him to be buried in a Christian
cemetery. Likewise at Al-Minya, the Hebrew inscription for Judan is marked with three
menorahs, two shofars, and an etrog and lulab (JIGRE, 118). It is particularly noteworthy
that these Hebrew Egyptian inscriptions that use the menorah also use specifically Jewish
names, suggesting that these aspects were closely linked. During the second-third centuries
all three occurrences of the menorah on Greek inscriptions in Greece also feature Hebrew
or Semitic names. In Athens the menorah appears with a lulab and etrog on the grave of
Beniames (Benjamin), son of Lachares, probably an Attic name (IJO 1, Ach27). He was a
provscolo", which may indicate that he belonged to a specifically Jewish school in Athens.
The menorah also appears on the epitaph for ‘Lady Panto, daughter of Maronius’ (a
Semitic, if not biblical form) from Arcadia (IJO 1, Ach52), and on an epitaph from Plataea
for Issachar, son of Heraclides (IJO 1, Ach46). Benjamin and Issachar are the sons of
Greek-named fathers, which supports the notion that the use of the menorah and the use of
Hebrew names were part of the same scheme of re-Judaization.
However the use of Hebrew is mainly found at this stage in places close to Judaea
or well-established Jewish centres. Cohen from Berytus and Joseph from Phaine in Syria
were buried in Beth She‘arim, Joseph’s epitaph using the Hebrew shalom (IJO 3, Syr39;
350
Another graffito from Pompeii in Latin reads ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’, which necessitates knowledge of
Genesis and also suggests a fire-and-brimstone style of preaching, as it is thought to relate to the destruction
of the city by earthquake before the eruption (CIJ I, 567).
161
25). The longest Biblical Hebrew inscription from antiquity is the text of Dt. 6:4-9, carved
on lintels in Palmyra, and probably dates from the third century (IJO 3, Syr44-47). Further
afield, at Panticipaeum, part of the Hebrew inscription wishes peace on the deceased young
man, who is named in Greek as Isaac (IJO 1, BS13). Hebrew is also used in a synagogue
dedication at Alexandria (JIGRE 17). Again it is clear that the use of Hebrew is connected
with the use of Hebraizing names.
The use of the menorah increases massively during the third century. It is found at
Panticipaeum (IJO 1, BS10-12; 15), where some of these inscriptions also use Hebraizing
names, Seimon (15) and Samouelos (12); the rest use Greek names or there is no name
attested. In Asia Minor, the menorah, lulab, shofar, and etrog are found on the epitaph of
Aurelius Alexandros at Claudiopolis (IJO 2, 152) and on the grave of Aurelius Ethelasios
and Aurelia Thamar, the son of a Macedonian, who was an ajnagnwvsto", a ‘reader’ at
Nicomedia (IJO 2, 156). The latter text makes an explicit link between the reading of
scripture and the use of Jewish symbols and names, as well as pointing to movement
between northwest Anatolia and Macedonia. At Dorylaion the menorah appears on the
grave of Esauos, Menothemis, and Aponymios(?) (IJO 2, 185), again the symbol appears
alongside a Hebrew name, and the unusual Greek name Menothemis may be an indirect
allusion to Jewish Law. At Hierapolis in Phrygia a sarcophagus simply marked Ioudeon
uses the menorah, it is thought it was perhaps intended to mark the collective property of
the Jews (IJO 2, 187); it is also found on a sarcophagus for Marcus Aurelius Gaius
Theodorianos and his wife Aurelia Zenonis and their children, Sanbathios and Zenon.
Sanbathios is named again in the last section as Aurelius Sanbathios, Ioudaion, presumably
marking his Roman citizenship granted after AD 212 (IJO 2, 200). At Corycus the
menorah is used on the grave of Aurelius Eusanbatios, who was a citizen and a councillor
of Corycus, and his wife Matrona (IJO 2, 236). It goes on to read, ‘do not despair, no-one
is immortal, save he who is one, who brought us here into the sphere of the planets’. The
first part of this phrase is commonly found in Jewish epitaphs, and the second reflects the
belief that the souls of the righteous dead would become stars, the angels of God. There is
clearly here a concordance between the Jewish symbol, the name invoking the Sabbath, and
the knowledge of a Jewish religious text. Elsewhere in the east during the third century, the
menorah is found on Cos on the grave of Eutychos (IJO 2, 7); on a stamp or seal from
Morphou on Cyprus, with a lulab and etrog, which reads ‘I receive fair hopes’ (IJO 3,
Cyp2); at Dura Europus in an Aramaic graffito from the later synagogue (IJO 3, Syr89);
162
and at Beth She’arim, in a Greek and Hebrew epitaph recording Daniel son of Adda from
Tyre (IJO 3, Syr7).
On the Balkan Peninsula, the menorah is found on three third century inscriptions
from Phthiotic Thebes (IJO 1, Ach18; 20; 21). One is a memorial for Peristeria,
archegissa; she may be the wife of an archegos or an ‘archegoness’ in her own right;
another is for Theodotus and Leontia, (Theodotus was a translation of the Hebrew
Jonathan); and the last for Paregorius and Eutychia. Paregorius was a name widely used by
Jews and corresponds to the Hebrew Menachem, ‘consoler’. A further epitaph from Thebes
for Saoul and Anna is possibly a little later, dating from the third-fourth century (IJO 1,
Ach17). At Philippopolis, mosaic flooring in the synagogue was donated by Cosmanius,
also called Joseph, and decorated with a menorah, lulab, and etrog (IJO 1, Thr1); at Solva
in Pannonia a Latin inscription in Greek letters records Judah and Cassia, and is decorated
with a menorah (CIJ I, 676); the menorah is found in a tomb in an otherwise pagan
necropolis in Doclea in Dalmatia (Duklju, near Podgorica-Titograd, IJO 1, p. 20, Dalmatia
introduction, fn 2); and at Hydrantum on a Greek and Hebrew epitaph (CIJ I, 632), where
the Hebrew reads ‘sleep in peace with the righteous’. From this evidence, it is once again
clear that the use of Jewish symbols and names were linked. However, the use of Hebrew in
the third century was not adopted so readily, perhaps due to the strong local tradition of
Hellenized Jewish communities, which continued to use Greek as the lingua franca.
The Hebraization of the Roman Jewish community is testified to by the 115 or so
examples of the use of Jewish symbols from Rome, most dated to the second-fourth
centuries. The menorah is the commonest, and most often appears alone, but also variously
with the lulab, shofar, etrog and aron (shrine for the Torah scrolls). These are also
sometimes found alone. Notably only 26 of these 115 inscriptions also feature Hebrew,
mention Jews or Hebrews, or use explicitly Jewish names. The absence of Hebrew suggests
that the majority of the Roman community was fairly poorly educated, but perhaps the
absence of names or explicit mention of Jews or Hebrews suggests that the community was
more closely integrated into their Latin environment, that in the context of a Jewish
cemetery it was unnecessary to state one’s Jewishness, or even that it was imprudent, in this
context at period, to draw attention to one’s Jewishness through the use of Hebrew names.
The formula from Proverbs 10:7, ‘the memory of the righteous is a blessing’, or versions of
it, are found in the Via Portuensis on the grave of Makedonis, son of Alexander, from
Caesarea in Palestine (CIJ I, 370); on the Via Appia on the grave of a gerousiarch,
163
Theophilos (CIJ I, 119); on the grave of the nomodidaskalos mentioned above (CIJ I,
201); and on that of Hilaros, the archon of the synagogue of the Volumnenses (CIJ I, 343).
These men are all connected with the leadership of the synagogue or else are explicitly
foreign, suggesting that knowledge of the text was perhaps confined to these more educated
people, or that the use of these formulas was particularly appropriate for community
leaders.
In the fourth century, the Hebraization process becomes really apparent across the
Empire. In the west beyond Rome, the communities of the Diaspora eagerly take up the
trend; a reason for this might be that, aside from the inland centre at Venosa, they are all
coastal communities that may have been exposed to direct influence from Judaea. This is
particularly the situation represented by a Greek and Hebrew epitaph from Brusciano with a
menorah, lulab and shofar, for Rabbi Abba Maris (JIWE, 22), whose Aramaic name and
title suggests that he was perhaps an ‘imported’ religious expert. The menorah is found
with the lulab and shofar at Naples in a Latin and Hebrew epitaph for ‘Flaes the Hebrew’
(JIWE, 37). On Sicily the menorah appears in the catacombs at Syracuse (CIJ I, 652); at
Acrilla on the tomb of a child, Jason (JIWE, 155); and on three epitaphs from Catania,
once with an etrog, and once on a Latin and Hebrew epitaph for Samuel and Lasiferina,
discussed by Millar, above (respectively JIWE, 146; 150; CIJ I, 650). The menorah, lulab
and shofar are found on five Latin/Latin and Hebrew inscriptions from Sulcis and Porto
Torres in Sardinia (CIJ I, 657; 658; JIWE, 173; 175; 176), the name Juda is used twice. A
menorah is also found on an epitaph from Rabato on Malta for ‘Dionysia, also called Irene’
(JIWE, 166), and in North Africa at Carthage, where the menorah is frequently represented
in the extensive Jewish necropolis, and also at Sullecthum and Thagura, Oea in Tripolitania
where the epitaph of a female presbyter is decorated with a menorah, on a Hebrew
inscription from Thaenae and in Numidia at Henchir Fouara, near Tebessa (CIL VIII,
16701).351
Across the Adriatic in the fourth century, the menorah is found as decoration or as a
Jewish marker of portable objects, on a lamp from Narona (IJO 1, p. 20, Dalmatia
introduction, fn 1) and a bronze seal of Eustathios from Stobi (IJO 1, Mac2). Two
menorahs are found on the Latin-in-Greek epitaph of Anastasios and Decusana and their
son Benjamin at Aquincum (CIJ I, 675), and aside from the use of the Biblical name, it is
also attached to a Heis Theos inscription, of which there are very few in the Jewish corpus:
351
Schürer2, History, III.i, pp. 62-64.
164
found otherwise only in Syria and in one example of Samaritan Hebrew from Thessalonica
dating from the fourth-sixth century (IJO 1, Mac17), which uses the blessing text of
Numbers 6:22-27.352 This feature and the use of Greek to express Latin make this
inscription unusual, as is the find spot: it is the only known Jewish inscription from the
important Roman military camp of Aquincum. That both inscriptions decorated with a
menorah found in Pannonia use Greek letters to express Latin (see above epitaph from
nearby Solva) perhaps reveals something about the transmission of the symbol and the
people involved: it seems that Latin was their preferred language, but Greek was deemed to
be the ‘proper’ language of Jewish epitaphs.
In the east, Hebraization spreads profoundly during the fourth century, manifested
predominantly in the use of the menorah. In Asia Minor the menorah is found at Chalcedon
(IJO 2, 150; 151); both are epitaphs for Jewish-named sons of Greek-named presbyters,
Jacob, son of Leontios, and Sanbatis, son of Gerontios. Sanbatis’ tablet also features a
lulab, etrog and shofar. The menorah appears in a synagogue at Priene; 353 and as a graffito
in the theatre at Aphrodisias (IJO 2, 17); but remarkably, only twice in the great synagogue
at Sardis (IJO 2, 55; 135), where one is a fragment of an actual marble menorah, the other
is on a stamp-amulet. It might seem extraordinary that such a wealthy and well-known
building during this period should provide only these two examples of the symbol;
however, this is easily explained because it is the synagogue building itself that is known
from Sardis, rather than the epitaphs that generally comprise the majority of the rest of the
Jewish corpus. The menorah was a simple way of marking Jewish identity in death. As an
actual central feature of community worship, the menorah itself was present as a feature of
the synagogue and part of the ritual itself and did not need to be depicted. The Hebraization
of the community at Sardis is instead seen in the fact that Hebrew is used a number of times
here, (IJO 2, 56; 105-109), one records Shemarayah son of Elijah (56), another Yohanan
(107), as indeclinable Hebrew names. Further Hebraizing names are recorded in the
synagogue dedications, as discussed by Williams.354
Elsewhere in Asia Minor the menorah appears at Ephesus on a piece of marble
barrier, associated by inscription with the altar (IJO 2, 31); and at Philadelphia on the
epitaph of Joseph, and on part of a funerary table decorated also with ivy, lulab, and etrog,

352
Amulets also often use Biblical texts, but they are not included here because although they represent the
wider dissemination of Jewish culture and religious ideas, they are portable and not specifically Jewish.
353
Rutgers, Heritage, p. 102.
354
Williams, ‘Semitic’, pp. 173-197.
165
for Hesychios and Judas (IJO 2, 50; 51). The name Hesychios in this context is thought to
translate Noah. In Hierapolis in Phrygia the menorah continues to be used and is found
alongside a lulab and shofar on the grave of Tryphon, Ioudeos (IJO 2, 194). At Tavium the
menorah is used on the grave of Sarah (IJO 2, 166), and in Sebastopolis, all three Jewish
inscriptions have the menorah (IJO 2, 159-161). One is in Greek and Hebrew, for
Lampetis, archon (160), one for Sarah, presbyter (161), and the last is for a child,
Despoina, and is also decorated with lulab and shofar. At Seleucia ad Calycadnus two
menorahs appear on the grave of Theodorus (IJO 2, 245), and at Corycus the motif of
paired menorahs features on three epitaphs (IJO 2, 232; 237; 239). One is for ‘Abas, son of
Symon, most pious under the priests’ (232); there is also Eusambatios, Ioudeos, a perfumer
(237) and Julius, another perfumer (239). This coincidence of Jewish names, Jewish self-
definition and the use of the menorah is echoed by other contemporary epitaphs from
Corycus – Samoes (IJO 2, 241), Samuel (IJO 2, 242), and Moses the Hebrew (IJO 2, 240).
Rabbi Samuel, archisynagogos of Phrygia, is known in a Greek and Hebrew epitaph from
Docimeion (IJO 2, 184). Curses from Deuteronomy are used on epitaphs to deter thieves in
Acmonia, dating from 248-9 (IJO 2, 173; 174), and in Laodicea ad Lycus in the second-
third century (IJO 2, 213). An epitaph from Laodicea Catececaumene in Lycaonia ends by
mentioning ‘the wrath of the undying God’, which, although is not necessarily directly
Biblical, is clearly related to the descriptions of the Jewish God in the Pentateuch (IJO 2,
227).355
Elsewhere in the east during the fourth century, the menorah is found again at
Panticipaeum on epitaphs for men with Biblical names – Samuel and Symeon (IJO 1,
BS14; 16). The only known inscription from Chersonesos is a Hebrew graffito by
Hananiah, dated to the fourth-fifth century, probably from the synagogue there (IJO 1,
BS2). In AD 385-6 Sambathion the archon was remembered in Hebrew at Byblos (IJO 3,
Syr30). Hebrew occurs on the epitaph of Anna at Corinth (IJO 1, Ach49), where the
synagogue of the Hebrews is attested by the third century (CIJ 1, 718) and on Syros in the
Aegean the typical Jewish symbols were carved onto the rocks on the shore with
inscriptions invoking the Lord’s help for a safe voyage (IJO 1, Ach72; 73): Eunomios,
whose name recalls the Jewish Law, asks the Lord’s help for himself and his Naxian crew
(72), and Heortylis ‘the Jew’ dedicates in the name of the living God for his safe return
355
For the influence of Jews on Christianity at Laodicea Catacecaumene, see Mitchell, S., ‘The Cult of Theos
Hypsistos between Pagans, Jews, and Christians’, in P. Athanassiadi and M. Frede, (eds.) Pagan Monotheism
in Late Antiquity, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999, p. 123.
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(73). These distinguished the Jewish prayers from sixteen similar texts put up by Christian
crews. Rabbi Atticus is known from a column from Lapethos on Cyprus, (IJO 3, Cyp1). In
Macedonia and Thessaly the menorah, lulab, etrog and shofar are again found at
Philippopolis on the mosaic flooring of the synagogue (IJO 1, Thr2), this time dedicated
by a man called Isaac; at Larissa a menorah appears on an epitaph for Alexander, prostates
and scholasticus (IJO 1, Ach5). He is clearly a local patron of some kind, and probably
also involved in the exegesis of the texts. It also occurs twice at Beroea (IJO 1, Mac8; 11),
once on the grave of the three-year-old Theodosius, described as Ebreos. The epitaph of
Sophia of Gortyn reads mnhvmh dikeva" ij" ew`na, which Noy and Bloedhorn suggest is
derived from the phrase in Proverbs 10:7, the memory of the righteous is a blessing (IJO 1,
Cre3). Sophia was also an archisynagogissa, suggesting that she was educated and of some
standing within the synagogue community. It is notable that in the fourth century, the use
of Hebrew is still quite rare.
During the fourth-fifth centuries, the use of Jewish names, symbols and Hebrew
proliferate more widely. At Bizye in Thrace, the epitaph of the presbyter Rebecca is
decorated with menorah and etrog (IJO 1, Thr3); at Almyros, that of Juda and Asteria
(Esther?) has a menorah (IJO 1, Ach24); and menorahs are found on two epitaphs from
Athens (CIJ I, 712; 713). One of these features only Greek names; the other is dated a little
later and has a lulab and shofar and is for Theodoula and Moses. In Asia Minor, a menorah
is depicted on an inscription reading ‘a prayer for all the fatherland’ at Acmonia, Hebrew is
attested a little earlier in a text calling for peace to Israel and Jerusalem and ‘this place’
(IJO 2, 169; 170). The only Jewish inscription from Heraclea-Perinthos is an epitaph
decorated with a menorah, lulab, etrog, shofar and fire shovel (IJO 1, Thr4); and a
menorah, lulab, shofar and etrog feature on the epitaph of Samuel son of Jacob at
Docimeion (IJO 2, 183). Psalm 136:25, ‘who gives food to all flesh, for his grace is
everlasting’ is inscribed on a block decorated with a menorah from Nicaea (IJO 2, 153);
and at Tavium, three inscriptions have menorahs, two with the name Matheios (IJO 2, 163-
165). A menorah is used at Corycus on the grave of Anastasios and Jacob (IJO 2, 234); and
painted onto a pillar from the Hippodrome at Tyre, presumably marking a stall (IJO 3,
Syr10). Hebrew is found in Smyrna on the grave of a presbyter and son of Jacob (IJO 2,
41).
The fourth, fifth and sixth centuries sees the process of Hebraization spreading
much more profoundly in the west. Hebrew, Hebraizing names and the menorah occur in
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Sicily during the fourth-fifth centuries. The only two epitaphs from Sofiana respectively
use the name Judas Sabatias and the menorah (JIWE, 157; 158), likewise at Agrigentum,
where of the two inscriptions testifying to the community, one bears a menorah and the
other mentions a poor Jew (CIJ I, 654; JIWE, 160). On mainland Italy, Venosa emerges
clearly as a major Jewish centre, with almost all of the inscriptions using Hebrew, Jewish
names or the menorah (CIJ I, 569-570; 575; 578; 579; 581; 584-586; 593-597; 599-600;
606-614; 616; JIWE, 43; 107). One of these epitaphs records an elegy made ‘by two
apostuli and two Rabbis’ (611) – which is probably evidence of a direct link to Palestine.
Jewish communities are either expanding across the rest of southern Italy in this period or
else are motivated to take up these markers of their Jewish identity, as several inscriptions
from Naples use Hebrew or are decorated with the menorah and other Jewish symbols
(JIWE, 31-37; CIJ I, 558-559), one of which mentions a Rabbi (JIWE, 36). Likewise the
use of Hebrew, the menorah and the formula from Proverbs 10:7, ‘the memory of the
righteous is a blessing’, are found at Oria, and Anna is recorded as one who ‘knew the
Laws of her faith and saw the face of God’ (CIJ I, 634-5); and a menorah is part of the
synagogue mosaic decoration at Bova Marina (JIWE, 140).
In the north of Italy and Hispania, a similar scenario of ‘packaged’ Hebrew, Jewish
symbols and Hebraizing names occurs. In Milan, two fifth century epitaphs use Hebrew
and the menorah and other symbols, one is for an Alexandrian man called Jose (CIJ I, 644;
646). In Tortosa, an epitaph mentioning Rabbi Juda (JIWE, 183) and at Tarraco, an epitaph
for a Rabbi and archisynagogos from Cyzicus both use Hebrew (JIWE, 186, IJO 2, 148);
and an early medieval epitaph from Auch in France uses Hebrew, the menorah, and was
carved by Ionas (CIJ I, 671). More fleeting evidence for the percolation of Hebrew in this
period is found in the examples of a poorly preserved Hebrew inscription from Bari (CIJ I,
633); a fragment of amphora from Ravenna (JIWE, 10); and a lamp inscribed with the text
of Proverbs 6:23, ‘Because the commandment is a lamp, and the law a light’ from Nola,
dated to the seventh century (CIJ I, 554).
That the Diaspora Jews had an in-depth knowledge of the text of the O.T. in
Hebrew or Greek is not clear from the epigraphic record. Selected passages of the Hebrew
Bible were singled out, the use of Proverbs 10:7 and the Deuteronomic curses being the
most frequent. These clearly were particularly appropriate to their epitaphic context, and
although the rest of the Hebrew O.T. or Septuagint were presumably known to a degree,
they rarely appear in epitaphs. This suggests that knowledge of the literature was essentially
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oral, captured perhaps in the strong representation of names linked to Jewish history: in
particular Jacob (twenty-one); Isaac (ten); Sara/h (eleven) and Abraham and Solomon
(three each). The name Juda/h/s is found forty times, by far the most popular Hebrew name,
which was presumably adopted for its unmistakeable ethnic connotations.
However, what is apparent from this survey is that there are some areas that are
almost entirely empty of Hebrew – namely, the interior of Asia Minor, most of Greece, and
Dalmatia and the northern provinces. Hebrew is, by contrast, well diffused across the
communities of southern Italy and the western Mediterranean. What causes this divide in
language use between east and west? Hebrew was brought to the Diaspora, but only
adopted in some places. Why? A possible reason for this patterning might be the coastal
location of many of the sites in the west Mediterranean, i.e. that maritime trade and
immigration routes brought people with new religious information directly from other
places, crossing, as it were, network distance. However, in addition the use of Hebrew may
indicate highly educated status, representing not only a literate person, with the ability to
read Torah in the original but also the presence of somebody with the ability to carve it. On
a more secondary level, as the majority of the Hebrew inscriptions are funerary formulas,
most often reading ‘peace’ or ‘blessings’, it may represent social emulation or superficial
adoption of the language, spreading almost like a ‘fashion’.
The interior of Asia Minor, which is so full of Jewish communities, is however the
most interesting lacuna in the use of Hebrew. It might be suggested that, as these
communities are fairly close together geographically and also in some senses quite isolated,
this would have entailed a level of social introspection and conservatism. It is clear
however, that the Jews of Asia Minor readily adopted use of the symbol of the menorah,
but that the use of Hebrew did not take root. It is notable that when Hebrew is found in Asia
Minor, it occurs in places with large Jewish communities: Sardis, Acmonia, and Smyrna.
The most likely explanation of this phenomenon is that Greek was embedded as the
language both of everyday life and of worship in the Jewish communities of Asia Minor,
and this simply prevented the wider adoption of Hebrew, although it did not prevent these
communities from adopting the other cultural markers of their religion as part of the wider
development of Jewish identity in later antiquity.

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Movements of people and ideas across the Diaspora
It is abundantly clear that the epigraphic evidence undergoes a major change from the third
century onwards, with an enormous increase in Jewish self-identification, manifest in the
use of Jewish names, terms, symbols and Hebrew. This observable phenomenon can only
be adequately explained as the epigraphic reflection of the transmission of rabbinic reforms
to the ordinary people of the Diaspora, as visual evidence for the spread of universalising
halakhah. The infrequent but notable occurrence of rabbis in the evidence, some of who
clearly originated elsewhere, suggests that there may have been a clear pattern of sending
out religious authorities to aid the process of Hebraization in the Diaspora. The rabbis are
found more widely in Spain and Italy, than in the Greek-speaking East: Rabbi Atticus on
Cyprus (IJO 3, Cyp1), Rabbi Arbiades at Naveh in Syria (IJO 3, Syr36); and Rabbi
Samuel, archisynagogos of Phrygia in Docimeion (IJO 2, 184). This supports the above
suggestion that the eastern Diaspora was perhaps more inward looking and perpetuated its
earlier traditions even after the transformation of Judaism in the mid second century.
However, aside from the possibly centralised movements promoted by the religious
authorities, other types of migrations and interactions across the Roman Empire will have
also contributed to the introduction and acceptance of new religious information and norms
of behaviour.
Particularly, people who travelled long distances across the Diaspora from the
region of Judaea might be suspected as being harbingers of religious innovation. Examples
from the epigraphy include: in 100 AD, Praulus of Samaria, who was included on a list in
the Serapeion on Delos (IJO 1, Ach68); in the second century, a man from Jerusalem found
in Iasos, supporting a pagan festival, who may have been granted metoikos status by the
city (IJO 2, 21); in the mid-third century, a decurion in the cities of Ascalon and Damascus
who was of the Terentine tribe of Scythopolis, found in Ostia (JIWE, 15); between the
second-fourth centuries, ‘Jews of Israel’ in the Via Nomentana cemetery in Rome (CIJ I,
21); Ionios (perhaps a Hellenised form of Jonah) from Sepphoris (CIJ I, 362); and the wife
of a man from Caesarea, presumably in Palestine (possibly Mauretania) (CIJ I, 25), both
buried in the Via Portuensis cemetery in Rome; a man from Tiberias found in Senia on the
Dalmatian coast, during the fourth-fifth century (IJO I, Dal2); and in the fifth century a
child of ‘Syrianos’ in Venosa (CIJ I, 579).
The strong-ties of marital links will have aided the diffusion and acceptance of
ideas. Early evidence for long-distance marriages is provided by Debbora from Antioch (in
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Pisidia) who was married to a man from Sillyon in Pamphylia and recorded in Apollonia in
Phrygia in the first-second century (IJO 2, 180). A much later inscription from the region
of the Via Portuensis records Sigismund (perhaps a Burgundian), whose wife Sarra appears
to be from Hydrantum (CIJ I, 499); the wife of a soldier in a Jewish troop of Emesenes
who was buried in Iulia Concordia in the fourth-fifth century, suggesting either that the
soldier had married her as a local, or that she had accompanied him from Emesa on
deployment (CIJ I, 640); and later still, a seventh-eighth century inscription in Hebrew
from Tarentum is for the wife of Leon, son of David of Melos, making a link with the
Aegean islands (CIJ I, 621).
As well as longer-distance travel, there is also evidence for more localised
movements, probably reflective of the more commonplace shorter-distance interactions in
the Diaspora. These people act as low-level connectors of the network. For example, in the
second-third century, epitaphs from Corycus record a man from Anemourion, further south
along the coast of Cilicia (IJO 2, 233), and a couple who were citizens of Seleukia, fifteen
miles away (IJO 2, 236). In the mid-third century, Amathbel, a Palmyrene, was
remembered at Dura Europus (IJO 3, Syr90); and the Persian language inscriptions from
the synagogue at Dura testify to the cross-border connections with Persia (IJO 3, Syr111-
126). Post-AD 212, Aurelius Heortasius, son of Iulianus, died in Hierapolis in Phrygia but
was a citizen of the nearby Lydian city of Tripolis (IJO 2, 191). In the third-fourth century,
Aurelius Alexandros, who was from nearby Gordiene, died on the territory of Claudiopolis
(IJO 2, 152); in the fourth century, a man from Hypaipa gave a donation to the synagogue
in Sardis (IJO 2, 95); between 200 and 352, an Antiochene gerousiarch was buried in
Apamea-on-the-Orontes (IJO 3, Syr74); and in the same place at the end of the fourth
century, an archisynagogos of Antioch was mentioned in the synagogue (IJO 3, Syr53). In
the west, in the sixth century, a family from Saranda, in modern southern Albania, moved
across the Adriatic to Venosa (JIWE, 107).
The movement was mainly east to west, reflecting the continual migratory flows
from the Near East to Rome, which are particularly evident in evidence from late
antiquity.356 In the first century, a Roman citizen named Gaius Seius Ptolemy, a Samaritan,
died in Sicily at Termini Imerese. His name and the use of chaire on his tombstone suggest
an Egyptian link (JIWE, 161). In the second century, the son of Menippos from Samaria
died in Kamiros on Rhodes (IJO 2, 11); during the second-fourth centuries, a man from
356
See Noy, D., Foreigners at Rome, London: Duckworth with The Classical Press of Wales, 2000, pp. 54-84.
171
Laodicea (either Laodicea on the Lycus or Laodicea Catececaumene in Asia Minor) was
buried in the Via Portuensis (CIJ I, 296); in the third century, Antiochus the Samaritan was
buried in Hipponion (JIWE, 138); in the fourth-fifth century, Benjamin, prostates of
Caesarea, was buried in Naples (JIWE, 30). This could be the Palestinian but could also be
the Mauretanian city, because JIWE, 31, also from Naples, is the fifth century epitaph of a
Gaudiosus, explicitly from Mauretania. In the fifth century in Beroea in Macedonia, the
community was being bolstered by Egyptian Jews, for example, Joses the Alexandrian (IJO
1, Mac6); and in AD 539 a Samaritan woman died at Salonae in Dalmatia (IJO I, Dal4).
However, it was not entirely one-way flow. That the Jews of the Diaspora were
interacting with the Judaean homeland is testified to by two epitaphs from Jaffa, one for an
elder ‘of the synagogue of the Cappadocians’ who was from Tarsus in Cilicia (IJO 2, 249),
the other mentioning Symmachos from Chios (IJO 2, 4). It is well known that Beth
She’arim was a resting place for many better-off Jews (even of senatorial rank – IJO 3,
Syr26) from the eastern Diaspora communities, with Jews from Tyre (IJO 3, Syr6; 7; 8),
Sidon (IJO 3, Syr17; 18), Byblos (IJO 3, Syr32), Iamour (IJO 3, Syr21), Antioch (IJO 3,
Syr74), Palmyra (IJO 3, Syr51), and Berytus (IJO 3, Syr26) all found there.
Plotting these movements (see Map 5A) reveals quite clearly that the inter-
community movements and interactions have a strong east to west bias; however, it is
notable that there are no really clear ‘centres’ in the western Diaspora. It might be expected
that Rome would exert more of a gravitational pull, but this is not the case, with people also
moving (or being moved) to the coast and interior of Asia Minor, Greece, and southern
Italy. What is worth noting too is that many of the inscriptions that mention another place
of origin come from places on the coasts, implying that harbour towns were particularly
attractive destinations for immigrants, and that these often also stated their place of origin
on their epitaphs.
From this assessment, it is apparent that Jews in the Diaspora were regularly
moving across it from their own volition as well as from external compunction. The
tangible movement documented by these inscriptions adds an important real-world
dimension to the argument for the less visible movement of ideas, suggested by the
progressive Hebraization of the rest of the Diaspora. It will therefore also be helpful to
visualise the hypothetical networks that might have existed, to ascertain what the network
analysis adds to the epigraphic analysis.

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 

Visualising the Network

This section takes the epigraphic data and uses network principles to hypothesise on the
now largely invisible communication routes and potential avenues of information
transmission across the Jewish Diaspora. A distribution map (Map 5B) shows the places
where Jewish inscriptions have been found, clearly demonstrating that the communities
were concentrated in Greece and Asia Minor, with some in Sicily, Egypt, and the Near
East: limited information that simply takes a snapshot of all the evidence, and offers no
insight into the interactions between them. By linking the nodes into a network, it is
possible to visualise the communication links that are suggested here to be central to
understanding the diffusion of rabbinic halakhah.
An initial Proximal Point Analysis (PPA) of every piece of epigraphic data captures
the ‘end picture’, linking every known node, regardless of date, to its three closest
neighbours. This first model highlights clusters, isolated communities, and centres. It is a
preliminary analytical model and clearly not a reflection of the actual connections that
existed between these sites. What it does allow is an initial observation of the
geographically determined Diaspora network: the empty spaces, long-distance overland or
maritime links, and some of the constraints that terrain imposed on communications.
The second series of network maps are a developed version of the PPA. These
networks visualise the Hebraization process between the second and sixth centuries AD,
mapping therefore only those finds that use Hebrew, Jewish symbols, or make explicit
reference to Israel. This series responds to what is known of the date range of the evidence,
by mapping the find spots in hundred year blocks, and it builds in Judaea as the place from
which the reforms were disseminated. Rome is also treated as an auxiliary centre of gravity.
Each find location is once again linked to three other locations. However, instead of these
being the three closest neighbours: one is always Judaea, and one must be a pre-existing
link, except in later cases when there are three established nearby neighbours. This analysis
helps to visualise in actual terms the spread of information across the Diaspora,
highlighting the growth of localised centres, clusters and routes of information
transmission. The spread of halakhah was driven by the rabbinical centres of Palestine,
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which is clear from the hyper-real picture the maps present, but these also highlight the
potential routes of a more organic process of contact and adoption. On the maps, a site with
only one epigraphic find is written in lowercase lettering; a site with more than one find or
an inscription that reveals a community or synagogue is in uppercase.

Proximal Point Analysis: Map 5C

Even though the initial PPA is a static picture with inherent limitations, it has a useful
function as a preliminary snapshot of the geographical pattern of data, nearest neighbours
and interactions of the Diaspora communities. It highlights places of geographical isolation
and connectivity on the grounds of physical location alone.
Immediately clear are the long distance links across the western and northern
Diaspora, as opposed to the tightly geographically integrated eastern networks of Asia
Minor, Egypt and Syria. In the west, the island sites on Ibiza, Malta, and Sardinia clearly
provide important links between Hispania, North Africa and Rome; Ibiza in actuality
emerging as an inter-regional centre. Rome’s gravitational pull is however probably
underrepresented, although it does emerge as a centre. There is a clear disconnect between
southern Italy, which was linked via Hydrantum to Greece (Hydrantum was a major port
for immigration from Greece and Epirus) and the northern sites, which concentrate around
the Po valley and link with the northern provinces and the Dalmatian coast. This may quite
reasonably reflect a divide between the two areas and highlight patterns of local interaction
and the different origins of their Jewish communities. The sparser network in the northern
Adriatic is composed mainly of single finds, suggesting that the Jewish presence here was
more superficial and involved longer links. This is borne out by the epigraphy: for
example, the Latin epitaph from Aquileia is for a slave, possibly captured during Pompey’s
wars in Judaea (CIJ I, 643). The only evidence from Ravenna is an amphora fragment
inscribed in Hebrew (JIWE, 10), and the find from Concordia is a Latin epitaph of a
woman whose husband was a soldier from Emesa (CIJ I, 640). The larger sites with more
established communities are later: the synagogue in Brescia dates from the fourth century.
Likewise, the inscriptions from Mediolanum do not date to before the fifth century AD.
The most striking thing about the western Diaspora is the separation of Magna
Graecia from the rest of Italy, and the clear importance of Sicily as a local network,
174
connecting with Rabato on Malta, Carthage and Naro in Africa Proconsularis and the tip of
Calabria. Tauromenium is a local centre at the Italian end of the island; Rabato serves as an
offshore communications hub between Sicily and Tripolitana. Another interesting area is
the a little pocket of introspection in the sites along the Danube limes in Pannonia, which
must be connected either with participation in or supply of the military camps – indeed, the
praepositus stationis of a camp at Spondilla made a dedication in the synagogue at Intercisa
(CIJ I, 677). The long-distance links into Raetia and Germania Superior are somewhat
misleading, as both of the finds at Regensburg and Badenweiler (CIJ I, 673; 674) are
portable amuletic texts that may not actually have been used by Jews per se; although they
do show that Jewish religious ideas were attractive and taken far beyond places where there
were established communities.
Moving into the eastern Empire, although northern Greece, Moesia Inferior and
Thrace also have diffused long-distance links, westward into Dalmatia via Stobi and
Doclea, and eastwards into Bithynia through Chalcedon, their communities were bigger
with attested synagogues. The missionary journeys of Paul into northern Greece also testify
to the importance of these places in the Jewish Diaspora, and also to the
intercommunication between them, regardless of their geographical distribution. This area
of the network clearly also forms an important corridor into Dalmatia, as well as connecting
down into Athens and southern Greece. The network of southern Greece is tightly
integrated, unsurprisingly with a centre at Athens. The area links to southern Italy via
Patras, and to Crete via Taenarum on the southern tip of the Peloponnese. Eastwards the
connection across the Aegean to Asia Minor is via Syros, Delos and Ikaria into Teos,
Ephesus and Chios. Crete also connects northwards to the rest of Greece via Melos.
The network in Asia Minor is tightly integrated and evenly spaced, presenting a
picture of regular short-distance interactions, and is most even along the coast of Ionia and
Caria, extending into the coastal islands. Nysa and Teos emerge as centres, and although
there were probably synagogue buildings in both places, there is no indication that these
were local centres of diffusion, and perhaps instead should be better characterised as
communication corridors between the surrounding communities. Although this analysis
takes no account of geographical costs or directionality, the network reflects the
geographical features of the landscape. The sites in Lycia, Pisidia and Pamphylia mainly
connect amongst themselves and along the coast of Cilicia, rather than across the high
mountains of internal Lycia. This creates a pocket of introspection, supported by the fact
175
that most of these are single inscription find spots. However, this pocket does link up into
Phrygia to Apollonia, noteworthy in particular because the inscription here makes explicit
the connection: it is the epitaph of Debbora, of Pisidian Antioch, who married a man from
Sillyon in Pamphylia (IJO 2, 180). Apart from this link to the south, the sites in Phrygia are
also somewhat separate, although linked also to Caria and Ionia through the Eumeneia-
Hierapolis-Aphrodisias corridor. The Phrygian network extends north into the sites of
Bithynia across a slightly more diffuse network via Cotiaeon and Germa. Amastris provides
the only link to the communities of the north shore of the Black Sea, which is otherwise
completely isolated. The centrality of Panticipaeum and the isolation of the Black Sea sites
is quite reflective of reality. Although the Jewish Diaspora extended eastwards into Persia,
the border between Rome and Parthia must have restricted communications in this
direction. In the high Anatolian plateau there is another network of somewhat isolated
communities in Cappadocia, which links through Laodicea Catececaumene into Phrygia,
and via Tyana across the Taurus Mountains south into Tarsus.
On first impressions, the network on Cyprus also appears introspective, with only a
couple of links out of the north to the coast of Cilicia. The high mountain ridge between
north and south seems not to divide the network, until it is recalled that in the early period,
Jews are epigraphically attested only on the eastern side of the island at Kition in the fourth
century BC (IJO 3, Cyp7-9), and in the first century BC at Kourion (IJO 3, Cyp5). The
link to the Near East at that time is explicit – the inscriptions at Kition are in Phoenician.
There were many Jews in Salamis, as attested at Acts 13:4. The strong communications
between Cyprus and Judaea continued, as the Jews revolted under Trajan, demonstrating
interaction with Palestine and the rest of the Diaspora. However, the network connectivity
has been skewed by the post-banishment357 return of Jews to the island in the third-fourth
centuries, when they are found at Salamis, Golgoi, Lapethos and Morphou. This has
reconfigured the network structure on the island by masking the links Kition and Kourion
had with Phoenicia, creating a stronger internal network, and highlighting instead the new
links to Cilicia.
The network in Syria shows two clusters, the coastal cities and the pocket of
communities inland in Trachontis. The network in northern Syria is more diffuse, with a
hub at Antioch, which connects to Dura Europus and Edessa. These two sites look isolated,
but this may be misleading as the Jews in Dura and Edessa probably communicated with
357
Cassius Dio, Roman History, LXVIII, 32, 1-3, see Schürer2, History, Vol. III.i, p. 68.
176
Persia, especially in the former case. Egypt and Cyrenaica are the only parts of the network
that are entirely isolated. In Egypt, the communities form a long line of interconnected sites
along the Nile. This prediction is quite accurate, as the Egyptian Diaspora was well
established and, as a consequence, fairly introspective. The PPA misses Alexandria as a
major Mediterranean hub, but the lack of an emergent centre in Egypt suggests that the
population was evenly diffused and integrated. Cyrenaica is also entirely introspective. The
rest of North Africa is, by contrast, fairly well integrated into the western networks via
Sicily, Sardinia, and Ibiza.
This initial analysis captures pockets of isolation, and this reflects the real situation
that may be supposed in the hinterlands of Asia Minor, Egypt, Cyrenaica and the Black
Sea. It is notable that two of these more introspective areas, Egypt and Cyrenaica, were
regions where Jewish rebellions occurred. Corridors of communication exist between North
Africa and Sicily, between Greece and Asia Minor via Delos, and between Thrace and
Bithynia via Chalcedon. The divide between north and south Italy is probably indicative of
reality, although the gravitational pull of major cities is absent, and as a result the major
Jewish communities in Rome, as well as Alexandria and Jerusalem, do not look very
important. This is partly to do with the fact that this model does not have different costs
built in for land and sea connections – a more complex version of this analysis would factor
in these differentials. This analysis is also only built on epigraphic data, and a more
developed version should also include the literary evidence for Diaspora communities,
which would add a more realistic gravity to these three major cities.

Networks over time: the process of Hebraization (Maps 5D-5G)

Following from these initial observations of clustering and isolation, the following
Proximal Point Analyses build in the date range of the evidence for the Hebraization of the
Diaspora. Only evidence using Hebrew, Jewish symbols or making an explicit mention of
Israel or a Rabbi is used here. Once again, new nodes connect not strictly to their three
closest neighbours, but, as explained above, to Judaea and to one established connection,
except in later cases when there are three neighbours close by. This builds into the network
the role of Judaea as the place from which the reforms were disseminated as well as

177
attempting to simulate more localised contact and exposure Hebraization. Rome is also
treated as a centre of gravity.
Although this skews the maps towards having very long-distance links and makes
Judaea a heavy centre, it acts as a counterpoint to the initial, un-weighted PPA and creates a
picture of more ‘realistic’ interaction patterns, the idea of rabbinic ‘mission’ to the
Diaspora, in which places were first exposed to the halakhic reforms, and subsequent
localised spread of information. The analyses cannot reflect how communities declined, as
the evidence is too unclear to ascertain this, so once a piece of epigraphic evidence is
recorded; it is assumed that Jews continued to be present. The exception to this rule is
Pompeii, which, although it is not removed from the network itself, because doing so would
reconfigure the earlier network, receives no new links after AD 79.

Map 5D: first and second centuries AD

This map comprises the sparse evidence for the early stages of Hebraization after the
destruction of the Temple in AD 70 and the Bar Kokhba revolt of the 130s. The links are
naturally very long: to Ibiza, Rome, Pompeii, Athens and southern Greece, and middle
Egypt. Some are not connected with the rabbinic reforms, for example, the fragment of
amphora, inscribed with Hebrew (or Samaritan Hebrew) from Ibiza simply implies long-
distance trade with Judaea, and the evidence from Pompeii is connected with slaves
presumably taken to Italy after the Jewish Wars. However, the targeting of the established
communities in Rome and Athens, and to a lesser extent Egypt, is fairly clear. It is however
more interesting at this stage to look at the gaps in the network, which in Cyrenaica and
Egypt can be connected with the quashing of revolts, but in Asia Minor is quite striking.
Presumably, attempts to bring the reforms into these well-established communities (as
highlighted by the missionary journeys of Paul through the synagogues of Asia Minor)
were less successful, because these were so well established and perhaps too tightly
integrated to be socially receptive to the innovation.

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Map 5E: third century AD
The jump in the network connectivity in the third century is impressive. What is
immediately clear is that Hebraization was not an organic process, spread through
geographically proximate places, but rather a pan-Empire phenomenon: from Caesarea in
Mauretania to Pannonia, from Sicily to the Black Sea. Many of the places where
Hebraization is found at this stage are coastal – Carthage, Catania, Hydrantum, Kos and
Corycus, which highlights the importance of geographical position within the network for
exposure to and acceptance of new religious ideas. However, the sites in the hinterland of
Asia Minor also begin to open up at this stage, notably in Phrygia and Bithynia. A reason
for this might be found in the contemporaneous flourishing of Christianity in internal Asia
Minor, which although it did not drive the process of Hebraization, provided a localised
change in the dynamics of the Jewish communities. Corycus on the Cilician coast is
disconnected with the rest of Asia Minor and connects instead with Cyprus, where a vow of
Rabbi Atticus and a limestone seal with Jewish symbols were found in this period (IJO 3,
Cyp1-2). Hebraization is also found spreading into Syria, although only to a superficial
degree at this stage. The process does not continue in Egypt.

Map 5F: fourth century AD

The process of Hebraization in this period does become more organic in Asia Minor, Syria
and Sicily. The communities on the coast of Ionia are drawn inland towards the tightly
interconnected sites in Phrygia. Phrygia, via Docimeion and Dorylaion, is the connective
corridor to the sites in Bithynia, with Nicomedia emerging as a centre between the Black
Sea sites and the rest of Asia Minor. This highlights an increase in cross-Euxine
connectivity centred near the Bosphorus that may in part reflect the transferral of the capital
of the Roman Empire to Constantinople. A similarly tight network emerges in the sites
round the southeast corner of Sicily, also including Malta; and likewise in coastal Syria and
inland in Trachontis. The network between the communities on the heel of Italy probably
represents a similarly introspective process. The evenly distributed pattern of Hebraization
seen in the well-established communities of Thessaly and Macedonia may result from
exposure to the phenomenon, Hebraization being seen already in the third century in
Phthiotic Thebes and Philippopolis. The network in the western Mediterranean appears to
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have been far more centralised than in the east, reflecting the continuing importance of
Rome. The apparent lack of an eastern centre outside of Judaea is therefore particularly
noteworthy in contrast.

Map 5G: fifth-sixth centuries AD

The final map shows a deepening of the process of Hebraization, especially at a localised
level. The notable growth in the east is in the region of Constantinople, creating an area of
introspection, doubtless reflecting the new capital’s gravitational pull. In the west,
Hebraization is spread through the locally integrated networks of communities in Sicily and
Calabria. The geographical distances involved in the western network are much longer than
in the east, suggesting that the network was of a different quality. It seems to indicate that
either the west was more centralised around the Roman hub, or alternatively that the places
on the coast of Spain were more cosmopolitan and had long-distance links elsewhere. This
latter suggestion is supported by the find from Tarragona, recording a Rabbi Latous from
Cyzicus (JIWE, 186). The sites along the coast of Spain and into southern France actually
make up an almost separately interacting network, which may reflect the disintegration of
the centralising Roman force: it was during this period that the western provinces came
under barbarian control and the Empire split.

What this has shown is how Hebraization as the visible remains of the pan-Judaic
universalising reforms might have travelled across the Diaspora. The analyses have shown
that it was a centralised process, occurring throughout the Roman Empire during and after
the third century. It may be that certain large Jewish communities were targeted, for
example, Sardis, Athens, and Rome. It has shown the difference in the network structure in
east and west, in particular the more regular eastern network, especially in Asia Minor,
implying a more organic adoption, based on localised interactions. Further, the models have
highlighted areas of introspection and more gradual diffusion (Sicily and Syria), and shown
that some places were more receptive to new information than others. It has also
illuminated some interesting lacunae – namely, Egypt, and to a lesser extent, northern
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Syria. The revolt in Egypt resulted in the destruction of a large part of the Jewish
population there, which offers some kind of explanation for the lacuna. Also missing is the
large Jewish community of Antioch, who are known from literary sources and from
inscriptions from elsewhere in northern Syria. The civil unrest between the Jews and
Gentiles may account in part for the absence of epigraphic evidence.

Conclusions: Activating ‘familial’ networks of ethnicity

This chapter has shown that the Jewish communities in the Roman Empire underwent a
Diaspora-wide process of Hebraization. The destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem and the
subsequent quashing of the Bar Kokhba and other Diasporan revolts changed the situation
of Jewish communities both in Judaea and in the Diaspora. Without an actual centre to the
religion, Judaism ultimately turned inwards. A newly heightened sense of persecution
activated the familial ethnic bonds already in existence, making a strong-tie network that
promoted religious innovation. The rabbinic reforms were spread in this way.

‘Information cascade’ in the Diaspora: Hebraization and Christianity

The rapid and universal process of Hebraization, manifest epigraphically in the use of
Hebrew, Jewish symbols and the pan-Empire rise in popularity of explicitly Jewish names,
can be understood as the result of an information cascade. The strong-tie ethnic
connectivity of the Jewish Diaspora that was activated in the years following the
destruction of the Temple and the Bar Kokhba revolt made the network increasingly
susceptible to religious innovation. The Jewish Diaspora became a percolating vulnerable
cluster, and the religious authorities in Palestine used it to transmit the rabbinic reforms.
Christianity made a similar use of the same the strong-tie ethnic network and the
sense of anxiety and persecution that was latent in the Jewish communities at the end of the
first century, except that it took Christians in the opposite direction from the Jews. Pauline
Christianity was marked by the application of linguistic terms for close family to all those

181
who lived in the community of Christ. The creation of ‘pseudo-family’ is a commonly used
persuasive rhetorical device to highlight the ethnic bond between Paul and his audiences –
Paul addresses the mob in Jerusalem in Aramaic at Acts 22, calling them ‘brothers and
fathers’, and again when he addresses the council of chief priests at 23:6 – and it has the
effect of creating a cognitive strong-tie network between them. The Acts of the Apostles
always refers to the Christian ‘believers’ as ‘brothers’ (for example, Acts 1:15; 3:17) and as
such, reinforced the social ties that bound them. Christianity was able to persuade and
convert effectively both by utilising the actual strong-tie familial network of the Jewish
Diaspora and by simultaneously manufacturing a new one for believers in Christ.
Because the Jews in the Diaspora were ready for change, the network they formed
was utterly vulnerable to the religious innovations brought by people who preached change.
Martin Hengel has argued358 that the Jews in the Diaspora had strong messianic hopes in the
decades following the destruction of the Temple, which were manifest in the various revolts
and also in the person of Simon Bar Kokhba. At the same time, the sect of Christianity
believed that it offered a messiah, and also an explanation for the cataclysm – punishment
of the Jewish people by God for failing to recognise the divinity of His Son. Rabbinic
halakhah and Christianity are different manifestations of the same cognitive response to the
disasters that befell the Jewish people, and both required an internal change in the religion:
promoting better adherence to Laws and moral codes. Both used the same type of strong-tie
network to transmit their message, both of which swept across the Roman Empire.

358
See footnote 340.
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 Chapter 6.

The Cult of the ‘Most High God’.

God-fearers and the redefinition of the Jewish-Gentile

relationship

Introduction

This chapter examines the evidence for the cult of ‘Theos Hypsistos’ – the highest God – as
a third investigation of the role networks play in the spread of new religious ideas. ‘Theos
Hypsistos’ is the Septuagint translation of the Hebrew El Elyon, and the cult has long been
associated with Judaism. The evidence is found mostly in Greece, Asia Minor and the
eastern Roman Empire, and spans from the second century BC in Macedonia until the fifth
century in Phoenicia, reaching a zenith of popularity in the second to third centuries AD.359
The interpretation of the cultic evidence has sparked no small amount of controversy, and
some scholars have proposed that the material should be divided between the ‘Jewish’ and
‘pagan’ usages of the title.360 However, Mitchell has shown that this process of attempting
to divide the evidence only serves to highlight how difficult it is to do so, and I agree with
his argument that the evidence should be understood to represent one cult with a level of
internal unity, broadly to be termed aniconic and ‘monotheistic’.
The arguments are as follows. Mitchell presented the case for a unified cult of
Theos Hypsistos, associated more or less with the Jewish Diaspora, a group of
‘Hypsistarians’ or ‘Hypsistari’, who should also be identified in the theosebeis or god-
fearer inscriptions associated with the Jewish community. Other scholars have argued that
359
This has been argued to be a result of the epigraphic habit rather than an indicator of a rise in popularity of
the cult – see Mitchell, S., ‘The Cult of Theos Hypsistos between Pagans, Jews, and Christians’, in Pagan
Monotheism in Late Antiquity, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998, pp. 108-110. However, there may be
associated reasons for an increase in the particular use of the name Theos Hypsistos, which will be examined
here.
360
See in particular Trebilco, P., Jewish Communities in Asia Minor, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1991; Bowersock, G., ‘The Highest God with particular reference to North Pontus’, Hyperboreus 8, 2002, pp.
353-363.
188
the body of material represents a common term for the highest god, which was used to
describe a variety of different deities. Interpreting the same body of material, Stein argues
that the inscriptions testifying to these cults (Hypsistos alone, Zeus Hypsistos and Theos
Hypsistos) ‘cannot be regarded as one and the same cult of pagan-Jewish character. One
should rather distinguish between different cults of pagan origin, of Jewish origin and those
which comprise elements of both’. He also disagrees with Mitchell’s analysis and argues
that ‘the theosebeis are not to be identified with the adherents of Theos Hypsistos.’ 361
Similarly Bowersock argues that Theos Hypsistos is not always one and the same god,
linked with Judaism, rather, that the cult term was applicable to many different gods, the
Jewish god among them. Wallraff also shares the view that there was nothing like a
coherent cult of Theos Hypsistos, and argues that there was no specific ritual or specific
priests of the cult. He sees no evidence clearly suggesting monotheistic tendencies, but
prefers to describe the cult with the term ‘henolatry’ or ‘henotheism’.362
Mitchell, by contrast, suggests that the difficulty in dividing the Jewish and pagan
usage of the term reveals much about the nature of the cult and the religious climate in the
Roman Empire, Asia Minor in particular, arguing that ‘the judgement is entirely arbitrary’
and that the cult ‘had room for pagans and for Jews. More than that it shows that the
principal categories into which we divide the religious groupings of late antiquity are
simply inappropriate or misleading when applied to the beliefs and practices of a significant
proportion of the population of the eastern Roman empire’.363 Mitchell argues that the
Hypsistos inscriptions form a unified corpus of material, representative of one aniconic
cult, basically monotheistic or henotheistic in nature, closely linked to the monotheism of
the Jews.364
That the inscriptions form a unified corpus is the point from which this analysis
starts. Although the individual items of epigraphic evidence are often very brief and
somewhat broadly dated, some useful conclusions may still be drawn from them. The data
is analysed in three sections. The first looks at the material from the Hellenistic period-first
century BC. The tentative suggestion is made that interactions with Samaritans/Jews on
361
Stein, M., ‘Die Verehrung des Theos Hypsistos: ein allumfassender pagan-jüdischer Synkretismus?’, in EA
33, 2001, 119-126.
362
Wallraff, M., ‘Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity. Remarks on a Recent Publication’, in MA 6, 2003, pp.
534-5.
363
Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 115.
364
Caveats to add to this are the dedications in some areas, especially Thrace, which represent an
anthropomorphic Zeus figure; and the oracle from Oinoanda in Lycia, which defines a cohort of angels or
subordinate deities. This shall be examined below.
189
Delos may have been instrumental in the early propagation of the cult. The next section
examines the material until the end of the first century AD, and the final section analyses
the epigraphy from the second-third centuries AD. The number of dedications increases
enormously during this final period, and suggests three general conclusions: that the cult
transgressed social divides; that worship was conducted in a variety of places; and that the
spaces in the Roman Empire where the cult is absent are revealing as to its nature and
relationship with Judaism. Especially given the scant information that can be gleaned from
the epigraphy, understanding of the cult is increased through a visualisation of a network
analysis, beginning with a Proximal Point Analysis (PPA) and then mapping the cult
development over time through three PPA networks that follow the temporal divisions
made in the epigraphic analysis.
The hypothesis proposed here is that the profound spread of the cult of ‘Theos
Hypsistos’ in the second-third centuries is not simply a result of the epigraphic habit, but
also represents the Gentile response to the tightening of boundaries within Judaism.
Judaism in this period was undergoing a major renewal following the destruction of the
Temple in AD 70 and the putting down of the Bar Kokhba revolt in 135. It was argued in
the previous chapter that, beginning around the second-third centuries, the Jewish
communities of the Diaspora were re-Judaized, and that this process is visible
epigraphically in the exponential rise in explicitly Jewish names, symbols and the use of
Hebrew. It is suggested that this process must also have impacted on the Gentile god-
fearing community that had long been attached to the synagogues and to worship of the
Jewish God. Although the rabbinic reforms did not explicitly separate Gentiles from
Judaism, the reiteration of the Laws made the boundaries between them starker, and this
may have had the effect of distancing them from Jewish society. The religious network of
erstwhile god-fearers continued to worship the God they believed in, just as a separate cult,
that of Theos Hypsistos. This is not to suggest that the separation between Jews and
Gentiles lasted, as the Aphrodisias inscription of late antiquity, possibly dating from the 5 th
century, lists god-fearers alongside Jews (and proselytes) and shows that, by this stage,
Jews and Gentiles were once again closely associated. But the gaps in the evidence for god-
fearers and proselytes in the second and third centuries need to be explained. The
suggestion here is that the popularity of the cult of Theos Hypsistos at this time can go
some way towards offering an explanation.

190


191
Origins: Translating the Name of God & Gentile god-fearers

In the third century BC, the Greek translators of the LXX used the term Theos Hypsistos to
describe the Jewish God in his mystical function as El Elyon, as opposed to YHWH or
Adonai. However, the occurrences in the Hebrew of the combined form El Elyon are
extremely limited. At Gen. 16:18-19365 and 22, the Tetragrammaton and El Elyon are
cognate: ‘And King Melchizedek of Salem brought out bread and wine; he was priest of
God Most High. / He blessed him and said, ‘Blessed be Abram by God Most High, maker
of heaven and earth; and blessed be God Most High, who has delivered your enemies into
your hand!’, and ‘But Abram said to the king of Sodom, ‘I have sworn to the LORD, God
Most High, maker of heaven and earth’. The combination of El and Elyon is found again in
the Psalms, Ps. 78:35 and 56, ‘They remembered that God was their rock, the Most High
God their redeemer.’ / ‘Yet they tested the Most High God, and rebelled against him.’
However, otherwise, the references are simply to Elyon alone, the Most High. This
occurs much more frequently, especially in the poetic verses, for example, in Ps. 9:2 ‘I will
sing praise in your name, O Most High’; 18:13 ‘The LORD also thundered in the heavens,
and the Most High uttered his voice; 46:4 ‘There is a river whose streams make glad the
city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High’; 47:2 ‘For the LORD, the Most High, is
awesome, a great king over all the earth’; 91:1 ‘You who live in the shelter of the Most
High’. It is also used throughout 2 Esdras especially, for example: 4:2 ‘do you think you
can comprehend the way of the Most High?’; 7:33 ‘The Most High shall be revealed on the
seat of judgement’; 7:42 ‘only the splendour of the glory of the Most High’; and in a
particularly notable section, 7:79 ‘If it is one of those who have shown scorn and have not
kept the way of the Most High, who have despised his law and hated those who fear God’.
This refers to the Jews as ‘those who fear God’, but came to be used for Gentile
worshippers of the Jewish deity.
This combined name of God is also found a few times in the N.T., where Jesus is
called jIhsou` uiJe; tou` qeou` tou` uJyivstou at Mark 5:7 and Luke 8:28. Other places that
mention Jesus in connection with the name Hypsistos are found at Luke 1:32 ( uiJo"
uJyivstou); 1:35 (duvnami" uJyivstou); and 1:76 (profhvth" uJyivstou). In other N.T contexts
the expression does not necessarily connote any link to Jesus, for instance in Acts 16:17,

365
All Biblical quotations are taken from the NRSV, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995.
192
where the slave girl cries out that Paul and his companions were ‘slaves of the Most High
God’, and in Heb. 7:1 in reference to Melchizedek as the priest of the Most High God. It is
apparent that use of the term Theos Hypsistos within either the Old or New Testament texts
is rare. However, Hypsistos alone is rather more common.
Mitchell notes that, because the term is originally Jewish, there has been a strong
academic bias to divide those Hypsistos inscriptions that are ‘Jewish’ from those that are
‘pagan’. His opinion, to the contrary, is that: ‘most ‘pagan’ or ‘Jewish’ examples of the
term Theos Hypsistos are formally indistinguishable from one another and that the
arguments for assigning them to either category are rarely decisive’.366 Instead he argues
that it is more fruitful to view this as shared terminology between pagans and Jews, and
should as such prompt questioning at a deeper level about the nature of the common ground
between worshippers of ‘Theos Hypsistos’ and the Jews of the Diaspora.

Common ground in Hellenistic literature

Jewish and Gentile literary examples of this shared ground are detailed by Collins, 367 who
examines early Greek commentators on Judaism, for example, Hecataeus, Strabo and
Varro, and finds them in general respectful of Judaism and interested particularly in its
philosophical aspects: ‘it appears then that there was a dimension of Judaism which was
quite attractive to the Hellenistic world. This was its philosophical dimension, its ethical
code, and aniconic God.’368
Although this attitude was not representative of the entire Hellenistic environment,
similar philosophical standpoints existed among the educated elites of the Hellenistic
world. Collins notes that the fragments of Jewish sibylline writings preserved in Theophilus
and Lactantius attest God as one in both unity and uniqueness, eternal, invisible and self-
begotten, reflecting a philosophical Judaism that is ‘indistinguishable from philosophical
Hellenistic religion’. They mention no specifics associated with Jewish religious identity,
and so Collins concludes that there is ‘no clear distinction between the ethics of Judaism
and those of a God-fearer, or even of a philosophically minded pagan’.369
366
Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 112.
367
Collins, J., Between Athens and Jerusalem, Jewish Identity in the Hellenistic Diaspora, The Crossroad
Publishing Company: New York, 1986.
368
Collins, Jerusalem, p. 8.
369
Collins, Jerusalem, p. 153.
193
 Similarly, the gnomic writings of Pseudo-Phocylides are soft on polytheism and
idolatry, implying instead a practical Jewish monotheism.370 Collins argues that this is in
order to minimize ‘the disjunction from Hellenistic civil and social life required of the
convert to Judaism, but also of the Jew who wished to participate fully in Hellenistic life,
and the God-fearing pagan, who may not have broken with polytheism at all’. 371 It is
apparent that the aspects of Judaism more difficult to reconcile with pagan civic life and
values were played down by the Jewish writers at the time.372

After the destruction of the Temple: A change in attitude

This is in marked contrast to some of the later Jewish writings. The Jewish trend towards
hostility seemingly begins only after AD 70. Regardless of individual political attitudes, it
is, after all, difficult to imagine the general Jewish population being particularly tolerant of
or welcoming to Gentiles after various Emperors and the Roman administration had
destroyed their Temple, imposed harsh religious and financial restrictions upon them as a
distinct group, and massacred Diasporan and Judaean Jews. It is unsurprising to find this
attitude reflected in the literature. Probably composed in the period leading up to the
Egyptian revolt, the fifth sibylline oracle in particular perpetrates ‘vehement anti-Roman
rhetoric’ and a general negative attitude to Gentiles.373 Although this bitterness is also
levelled at the Egyptians, it is Rome that is denounced as immoral, and because it was
Rome that destroyed Jerusalem, is anathematised as the new Babylon. A saviour is
fantasised, who, at one point, will restore Jerusalem and the Temple (vs. 422). However, as
Collins writes, ‘not only will the restored Judea enjoy peace. It will be freed from ‘the
unclean foot of the Greeks’ (264) and sexual immorality (430). More clearly than in any
previous document of the Egyptian Diaspora, the exaltation of Jerusalem is accompanied
by the destruction of other nations.’374
Pharisaic Judaism in its strictest form was not interested in Gentiles, as Yahweh was
regarded as the God specifically of Israel; but this view was ‘fundamentally surmounted by
the prophetic idea of God. […] If God is one, he is not only God of the Jews but also of the
370
Collins, Jerusalem, p. 145.
371
Collins, Jerusalem, p. 146.
372
See also Schürer2, History, vol. III.i. pp. 153-155.
373
Collins, Jerusalem, pp. 122-128.
374
Collins, Jerusalem, p. 127.
194
gentiles.’375 Although not actively hostile, the rabbinic reforms of the Mishnah made clear
distinctions between the Laws for Jews and the Laws for Gentile proselytes, as we shall see
below. The open hostility towards Gentiles as expressed by the sibylline literature and the
Diasporan revolts at the turn of the first-second century, and by the renewed differentiation
between Jews and Gentiles set out in the rabbinic reforms in the following decades, must
have had an impact on everyday Jewish-pagan interactions.
Therefore, in an investigation of the cult of Theos Hypsistos as a cult with common
ground between Jew and pagan, of prime importance is the understanding of something
about those Gentiles who worshipped the Jewish God. Gentile proselytes and god-fearers
have been briefly mentioned in the previous chapter, but here their status and position with
regard to Judaism will be examined in more detail.

Proselytes in Judaism
The writings of the rabbis draw clear distinctions as to the duties and rights of proselytes,
including marriage rights (for example, female proselytes were forbidden from marrying
priests, and their daughters could only do so if one of the parents was a Jew by birth). 376
The editors of Schürer conclude that, ‘the very care with which these distinctions are drawn
shows that in essentials proselytes were regarded by the rabbis as of equal status with born
Israelites in regard to duties and rights.’377 The fact that the rabbis set out the status of
proselytes so explicitly, and the testimony from Acts 2:10, referring to Jews and proselytes
from every nation gathered in Jerusalem, are evidence for the many Gentile converts to
Judaism. Yet the epigraphic material that makes explicit reference to full proselytes is
extremely limited, there are only fifteen explicit records of full proselytes in the Jewish
corpus.378 There may be many more, not identified as such but sometimes hinted at
epigraphically by double names (a person ‘also called’ a second name, often more
Jewish),379 but this lack of actively described proselytes is striking. This could either be

375
Schürer2, History, vol. III.i. p. 159.
376
Schürer2, History, vol. III.i. p. 175, referring to mYeb. 6:5, mKid. 4:7, mBik. 1:5.
377
Schürer2, History, vol. III.i. p. 175-76.
378
Rutgers, L. V., ‘Archaeological Evidence for the Interaction of Jews and Non-Jews in Late Antiquity’, AJA
96, no. 1 (Jan., 1992), p. 115: ‘the evidence for proselytes to Judaism in Rome itself is unfortunately scarce in
the extreme’.
379
Schürer2, History, vol. III.i, p. 174-75.
195
taken to mean that, once entered into fully, the Jewish community did not find it necessary
for proselytes to mark their status on their epitaphs; or by contrast that the Jewish
community was largely exclusive, with clear boundaries and definitions of who was and
who was not actually Jewish, and to what extent. It may be most useful to take both of these
statements as true, and suggest therefore that when the term proselyte was used in
inscriptions, it referred specifically to a person who died while still in the middle ground
between Gentile and Jew, still occupying the liminal position of a convert as they were
gaining full Jewish status. Another possible explanation for the rarity of proselytes in the
epigraphic evidence has been suggested: that the term may have been comparable to the
Roman status of freedman, libertus, which only lasted for the lifetime of the freed slave; his
descendants became full citizens, liberi. Similarly the status of proselyte would therefore
have been liminal in the sense that it marked the transition of one family’s status from
gentile to Jew, but lasted only for the first generation.380
Who were these liminal people, and where were they? Seven of the explicitly
recorded proselytes are from the Roman cemeteries, dated to between the second and fourth
centuries AD. The inscription CIJ I, 37 refers to the archon of the Jews of the Subura
region as a protector of proselytes and father of widows and orphans. This implies that
proselytes within the synagogue were of a comparable social vulnerability to widows and
orphans, that all these groups required special protection, and also that proselytes were
quite numerous. The various people across Rome who are recorded in death as proselytes
include Eirene, a three-year-old adoptive ‘ward’ (qrepth) of ‘Jews of Israel’, (CIJ I, 21);
Crescens Sincerius, called by his mother Iudaeus proselytus, in Latin (CIJ I, 68); a
proselyte sister, Crysis, remembered by her brother Mannacius (CIJ I, 222 which is also in
Latin); an unnamed Ioudea proselytos who is also called theosebes (CIJ I, 202); a man –
probably a slave – with a Greek name, Nicetas, memorialised by his patron, Dionysias, in
Latin (CIJ I, 256); Felicitas – probably also a slave, her social vulnerability particularly
marked by the word peregrina – had been a proselyte for six years and was also
remembered by her patron in Latin (CIJ I, 462); and Veturia Paulla, an 86 year old woman
who had been a proselyte for sixteen years but who achieved the position of mother of the
synagogues of Campus and Volumnius.381

Mitchell, S., Pers. Comm.

380

See Murray, M., Playing a Jewish Game: Gentile Christian Judaizing in the First and Second Centuries,
381

CE, Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2004, p. 13.

196
 The epitaphs are found across the city, in the Via Portuensis, Via Nomentana and
Via Appia cemeteries. There are notably more in Latin than in Greek, suggesting that these
were Romans recorded in their mother tongue. The two cases of family members recorded
as proselytes pose an interesting question – namely, why would blood-related siblings or
children be defined as proselytes rather than full Jews? The epitaphs are found in the
Jewish cemeteries. Do they reveal, as Eirene does explicitly, a Jewish culture of adoption of
unwanted Gentile children, or Jewish-Gentile intermarriage, the children of which were not
defined as fully Jewish, as, for example, Timothy in Acts 16, which would make Crysis
either a half-sister or adoptive sister, and Crescens the adopted son of his mother; or
perhaps, that the families from which these proselytes emerge were already Jewish
sympathisers – i.e. ‘god-fearers’, an interpretation supported by CIJ I, 202 where the
deceased is called both theosebes and proselyte. The individuals who became proselytes
had opted for full ‘conversion’ to Judaism, presumably including circumcision for males.
This interpretation suggests the label was a badge of distinction, and the other, non–
proselyte, family members responsible for the burials were happy to see it made clear on
the gravestones.382
Aside from the much later example from the fifth century of a proselyte in Venosa
(CIJ I, 576), there are only a few other proselytes attested in the entire Jewish epigraphic
corpus of over 900 inscriptions. One is a man from Tyre who, in the first century, was
buried in an ossuary in Jerusalem, remembered in both Greek and Hebrew (IJO 3, Syr9).
Also in Jerusalem in this period are found Ioudas (CIJ II, 1385), Diogenes (Bagatti-Milik,
21383), and Salome (Bagatti-Milik, 31). Another is Ariston from Apamea-on-the-Orontes,
who was also memorialised on an inscription on an ossuary from Jerusalem in the first
century BC/AD. The Greek and Aramaic inscription reads ‘Ariston. Ariston of Apamea,
Judah the proselyte’ (IJO 3, Syr72). Judah was the commonest name for proselytes, 384 but
it is unclear whether Ariston and Judah are the same man, with Judah the name taken upon
full conversion. It is also possible that the inscription refers to two people, where it should
be assumed that these were not blood relations, but may again represent adoptive family.
These examples provide explicit support for Acts 2:5-10, that records devout Jews ‘and
proselytes’ from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. Other proselytes are Sarra,

382
Mitchell, S., Pers. Comm.
383
Bagatti, B., and Milik, J. T., Gli scavi del ‘Dominus Flevit’ Parte I: La Necropoli del Periodo Romano,
Tipografia dei PP. Francescani, Jerusalem, 1958.
384
See commentary in IJO 3, Syr72, p. 115.
197
in Cyrene (CJZC,385 12); and an unnamed proselyte in an Aramaic inscription from Dura
Europus, dating from AD 244-5 (IJO 3, Syr84).
Eirene provides evidence for a culture of adoptive family within Judaism. Other
proselytes may have been part of sympathetic god-fearing Gentile families who were
thoroughly familiar with Judaism, no doubt as a result of synagogue attendance (cf.
Josephus in Contra Apionem). This explanation implies that members of sympathetic
Gentile families that underwent the full conversion to become proselytes did so with the
full and supportive approval of their families. This suggests that the contiguity of god-
fearer families to the full Jewish community was a crucial network tie.
What is most apparent from this handful of inscriptions, however, is just how few
proselytes there are in the evidence. Given what is known about the numbers of proselytes
from the various literary sources, it is extremely surprising to find such a small quantity
attested in the epigraphy. An explanation that might account for this is that, once proselytes
were fully incorporated into Judaism and the Jewish social network, they were considered
as Jews and as such, it was not necessary to mark their status on their epitaph, or, as
suggested above, the status did not continue to be marked into the second generation.

God-fearers in Judaism
However, the more epigraphically common people at the edge of Judaism are the god-
fearers. They are well known from Acts, where at 13:16 Paul says to the synagogue in
Antioch in Pisidia, ‘Israelite men and those who fear God’, oi phoboumenoi ton theon, and
implied at 14, when Paul and Barnabas speak in the synagogue of Iconium and convert ‘a
great number of both Jews and Greeks’. They are markedly not called proselytes, and are
now generally understood as those people with varying degrees of interest in Judaism or
participation in the activities of the synagogue, but who had not undergone full conversion.
They were Gentiles who attended synagogues, a ‘formal group attached to a Jewish
community, and distinguished both from Jews and from full proselytes’. 386 The terms for
god-fearer are metuens in Latin387 and theosebes, sebomenos or phoboumenos in Greek.

385
Lüderitz, G., Corpus jüdischer Zeugnisse aus der Cyrenaika, Weisbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert, 1983.
386
Schürer2, History, vol. III.i. p. 166.
387
The heretical Judaizing group of Caelicolae mentioned by St Augustine in Africa may be the same as god-
fearers, as this is the Latin term used to translate sebomenoi in the Acts. See Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 125.
198
However, again, there are not a particularly great number attested epigraphically,
considering the evidence from the literary sources. The inscriptions seem to be in the
individual’s mother tongue, as when found in Italy, they are in Latin and when in the east,
in Greek. A few of the eastern god-fearers appear to be of high-status – they donate, for
example, buildings, mosaic decorations, a menorah, but many are ordinary people. That
they were integrated into the wider community is indicated by the fact they are known to
have had seats in the theatre.
In the west, there are relatively few attested god-fearers, and they are generally from
the later imperial period. Three are known from Rome, all memorialised in Latin. Amelios
Valens, from the Via Salaria cemetery was a fifteen-year old Roman of the equestrian class
(CIJ I, 5), so of a high status background. The other two are both from the Via Appia
cemetery, and so date from the second-fourth centuries AD. A woman, Eparchia, is
designated a god-fearer by the Greek term, theosebes, (CIJ I, 228) she also has a Greek
name, yet the inscription is in Latin. She may have been an immigrant from the provinces,
as perhaps suggested by her name. Larcia Quadratilla’s epitaph was cut into a previous
inscribed stone; she is named as a Romanae metuens (CIJ I, 285).
A Greek metrical epitaph from Lorium on the coast near Rome remembers a young
man, Rufinus, aged 21, a ‘god-fearer, learned in the holy Laws and wisdom’ (JIWE, 12). I
have suggested in the previous chapter that, because references to Jewish Law seem
generally to be a phenomenon of late antiquity, this inscription should be placed at the later
end of the dating scale. Rufinus is explicitly called qewsebhv"; however, the ajgivwn te
novmwn have been argued to mean that he was an exceptionally pious full Jew. 388 There is
no mention of any other Jewish edifice, or any symbol or name to support this
identification, as might be expected of such an apparently pious Jew, considering the
process of Hebraization that Diaspora Jewry was undergoing at the time. It seems from this
conspicuous absence that Rufinus should be thought of as a particularly devout young
Gentile man, qewsebhv", as described, perhaps unable to become a full convert due to the
laws against proselytising and circumcision at the time. An inscription for Marcus, a god-
fearer in Venosa, is in Latin and dates from the fourth-fifth century (JIWE, 113). The only
other mention of god-fearers in the west is a Latin epitaph dating from the third-fifth
centuries389 from Pola, now in Croatia. It is for Aurelia Soteria, religioni(s) iud(a)eicae
388
See the brief discussion in the previous chapter, p. 157, note 347.
389
The fact these people all had Aurelii names suggests that they were proud of their Roman citizenship and
indicates that these inscriptions should be dated earlier in the third century, closer to the Constitutio
199
metuenti, ‘of the Jewish religion, god-fearer’ (CIJ I, 642). Her sons, Aurelius Soter and
Aurelius Stephanus, dedicated the stone for her, and moreover, Aurelia Soteria herself had
set up an epitaph for her foster-daughter, Aurelia Rufina (CIJ I, 641). This was apparently
an extended family, suggesting that the Jewish familial ideology of adoption was
transferred to Gentile god-fearers.390
There are two god-fearer inscriptions that pose more interpretative difficulties. In
the Black Sea region, there was a large community of Jews at Panticipaeum by the first
century AD, and a manumission text there refers to the sunagogh`" tw`n jIoudaivwn kai; qeo;n
sebw`n, which could either be interpreted as the ‘synagogue of the Jews and god-fearers’ or
as the ‘synagogue of the Jews who are also god-fearers’ (IJO 1, BS7). Because there is no
other explicit mention of god-fearers in the Black Sea region, it has been argued that the
second interpretation is correct,391 however, there are many inscriptions in the region to
Theos Hypsistos, and IJO 1, BS4 refers to Theos Hypsistos and the proseuche. Should this
inscription then be understood as Jewish, or as belonging to the cult of Hypsistos as a
separate entity? The common ground is abundantly clear. Likewise, inscriptions from the
theatre in Miletus from the second-third century name the places where Jews and god-
fearers sat (IJO 2, 37; 38), but again the wording is unclear and both the interpretations of
meaning Jews who are also god-fearers, or Jews and the associated group of theosebeis
have been suggested, although it is now generally accepted that the term theosebes refers to
a Gentile god-fearer.
There are other examples of god-fearers in Asia Minor. The term is found a few
times, and all the inscriptions are in Greek. An Imperial period epitaph from Cos is for
Eirene the god-fearer (IJO 2, 6), and at Tralles in the middle of the third century, Claudia
Capitolina made a donation of foundations and the marble cladding of the steps –
presumably of the synagogue. She is described as ajxiologwtavte, which, like lamprotatos,
indicates senatorial or equestrian class. She is also called qewsebh;" (IJO 2, 27), and as her
husband is known to have been a Roman senator and priest of Zeus Larasios, 392 she is a
classic example of a high-status woman with an interest in Judaism. An earlier but similar
case is found at Acmonia, where Iulia Severa restored the synagogue (IJO 2, 168). She was

Antoniniana in AD 212, as opposed to the fifth century.

390
Supported by the inscription from the Bosporan kingdom that refers to the ‘adopted brothers who worship
Theos Hypsistos’, (96; 98; 100; 101).
391
Simon, M., Le Christianisme antique et son contexte religieux. Scripta Varia II, Wissenschaftl. Unters. z.
N.T. 23, Tübingen, 1981, Siegert, F., ‘Gottesfürchtige und Sympathisanten’ JSJ 4, 1973.
392
See commentary in IJO 2, 27, p. 141.
200
a local high-ranking lady from the time of Nero, and high priestess of the Imperial cult. It is
apparent that this position was entirely compatible with being involved with the synagogue,
and although not specified, it might be supposed that her patronage of the synagogue
indicates god-fearer status.
In the ‘all-holy synagogue of the Hebrews’ in Philadelphia in the third-fourth
century, Eustathios, a god-fearer (theosebes), made a donation of a basin, from himself and
his sister-in-law Athanasia, for the memory of his brother Hermophilos (IJO 2, 49).
Athanasia’s name may indicate a connection with Christianity.
There was a large Jewish community at Sardis, attested in the literature from the
first century BC393 but probably established some time before. The synagogue provides
evidence of god-fearers (theosebeis) dedicating there during the fourth-sixth centuries until
the destruction of the building (IJO 2, 67; 68; 83; 84; 123; 125; 132). Two pieces of mosaic
flooring were certainly given before AD 378, by Aurelius Eulogios (68) and Aurelius
Polyippos (67). Other fourth century dedicators include a man who simply calls himself
Eutychianos (123) and there is a group of god-fearers who donated together (125). Between
the fourth and sixth centuries, Aurelius Hermogenes ‘citizen of Sardis’ records his donation
of a menorah (132), and Leontios is recorded twice in the fifth-sixth centuries (83; 84).
These inscriptions reveal that god-fearers were still a recognised sub-section of the Jewish
community, even as late as the destruction of the city by Persia of the city in AD 616. They
were wealthy enough to donate substantial pieces of the synagogue building, they were
‘citizens’, and the lower-status god-fearers clubbed together in order to display their piety.
The stele recording Jews and god-fearers in Aphrodisias published by Reynolds and
Tannenbaum in 1987 ‘provides the conclusive evidence for the reality of a defined category
of Gentile ‘God-fearers’ attached to a Jewish community’ 394 and was originally dated to the
third century AD (IJO 2, 14). It has recently been reappraised, divided into two separate
inscriptions, and dated much later – with Chaniotis and Ameling suggesting the fourth
century for the earlier inscription and the fifth century for the later; whereas Williams goes
further and suggests the fifth-sixth century, in particular, sometime after the plague of the
540s.395 Williams’ reason for dating the stele so much later than originally suggested is
because of the considerably higher proportion of indeclinable Semitic names represented,
393
Josephus, Ant. 14.235.
394
Schürer2, History, vol. III.i, p. 26.
395
See Williams, M. H., ‘Semitic Name-Use by Jews in Roman Asia Minor and the Dating of the Aphrodisias
Stele Inscriptions’, in E. Matthews, (ed.), Old and New Worlds in Greek Onomastics, Proceedings of the
British Academy, 148, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007, p. 191.
201
which she argues reflects a process of deliberate ‘Hebraization’ as a response both to
Christian appropriation of Biblical names during the early Byzantine period and the
oppression of the Jews by the increasingly intolerant Christian state.
There is therefore good epigraphic evidence for Gentiles devoted to the synagogue.
The Acts of the Apostles and the epigraphic evidence from Panticipaeum, discussed above,
show that, like proselytes, Gentile god-fearers were part of synagogue life as early as the
first century AD. However, it is notable that, although there are a couple of examples of
god-fearers that date from the first century, most of the epigraphic evidence is considerably
later, dating from the third century onwards. Why are no god-fearers attested in the
intervening period?

God-fearers and Theos Hypsistos

The link between the Gentile god-fearers and the cult of Theos Hypsistos is made explicitly
by Cyril of Alexandria, who, at the end of the fifth century, said that worshippers of Theos
Hypsistos called themselves theosebeis, who also worshipped the ‘Earth and Heaven, the
Sun and the Moon, and the brightest stars’. Gregory of Nazianzus made a connection
between the worshippers of Hypsistos and the Jews. Mitchell argues from these explicit
literary testimonies, from the very similar geographical distribution of Hypsistos and god-
fearer inscriptions, and from the inscriptions from Tanais, that record the ‘god-fearing
(sebomenoi) adopted brothers who worship Theos Hypsistos’ (96, 98, 100, 101), that
theosebes was therefore a ‘specific, technical term used to describe themselves by the
worshippers of Theos Hypsistos’.396
However, aside from these inscriptions from Tanais, almost all of the god-fearer
inscriptions detailed above are explicitly connected with the synagogue or a Jewish
community, and as noted, most are later than the third century. The cult dedications to
Hypsistos, by contrast, almost never make an explicit connection with a Jewish place of
worship; indeed, there are independently known sanctuaries to Hypsistos, for example, at
the Pnyx in Athens, Oinoanda in Lycia, and at Iasos in Caria. This suggests that the
worshippers of Theos Hypsistos and those who called themselves god-fearers, although
connected, are to be differentiated.
396
Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 119.
202
 It is here proposed that, although the cult existed beforehand, the large body of
Hypsistos inscriptions from the second-third centuries in particular can be interpreted as
representative of a sect-like Judaism formed by Gentile god-fearers. When and why might
these people have formed or joined the cult, and moved away from the religious outskirts of
the synagogue to form a movement in its own right? Some internal change must have
facilitated this process.

Hypothesis: Necessary Activation of a Network of Believers

The epigraphic evidence for the cult of Theos Hypsistos is found across Greece, Asia
Minor and the eastern Roman Empire, with the major body of inscriptions dating from the
second to third centuries AD (see Map 6A). The worshippers range in status and
occupation, there are Roman colonists and slaves represented, and the cult was popular
with women. The appeal of the god, as noted by Mitchell, was therefore apparently
exceptionally wide ranging – from peasant farmers to city dwellers, slaves to slave-owners,
men and women, and covered all sorts of professions. This strongly suggests that the cult
did not transmit across professional groupings or guilds, i.e. that the routes of diffusion
ought to be looked for elsewhere – family, friends, neighbourhood, etc. This is in marked
contrast with, for example, the transmission routes of the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus. Since
nothing really links these people in terms of status or of occupation, then how did the cult
come to be adopted by all of them?
What these people do have in common is the name they used to address their deity.
The general lack of associated iconography suggests that the cult of Hypsistos was
aniconic; and the absence of any real syncretism with other deities supports the notion that
the cult was essentially monotheistic or henotheistic. If it were the case that all the name
‘Hypsistos’ represented was a superlative given to any local god considered to be the Most
High, then it would surely be reasonable to expect to find those deities named. With the one
obvious exception of Zeus, this is very rarely the case. Therefore, this name is better
understood to refer to one deity, a cult in common between these divergent people in
divergent places. Unlike the Jupiter Dolichenus worshippers, there is no apparent network
203
of occupation and status, and unlike the Jewish Diaspora, there is no common bond of
ethnicity to link these people. The hypothesis tested here therefore takes the name they use
in common as an indication of a religious network.
The cult must have originated somewhere. The translation of the Torah into Greek
with the use of the term ‘Theos Hypsistos’ to describe the Jewish God as El Elyon, and the
common ground between Hellenistic philosophy and the philosophical aspects of Judaism
coincide with the first attestations of the term ‘Hypsistos’ in Greek contexts. It might be
expected that this would have taken place in Egypt, but this was not apparently the case,
possibly because Egypt was too riven with social tensions. Instead, it is proposed that the
origins of the cult of Hypsistos among the Greeks should be sought in Delos, as a long
established and sacred point of juncture between the Hellenistic kingdoms, a free port and a
place where cultures, ethnicities and religions could cross-fertilise.
However, the main emphasis of the following section is on the cult in its own right,
and its development in chronological terms. It is proposed that, as a result of the profound
impact of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in AD 70 and the subsequent revolts
and decimation of the Jewish populations in Judaea, Cyrene, Egypt and Cyprus, the
situation for the Gentile god-fearers in Judaism changed. It is hard to see how relations
between Jews and Gentiles could have continued as before during this time of great
upheaval. The temporary separation of Jew and Gentile in the second to third centuries was
part of the earliest reactions to the destruction and the nascent dissemination of the rabbinic
reforms. These Gentile god-fearers, then, without their Jewish community structure to
gather in, found a place within the existing, somewhat Judaizing cult of Theos/Zeus
Hypsistos.

Epigraphic analysis

As Mitchell has already collected most of the evidence for the cult of Hypsistos, references
here are to his catalogue.397 Material published since 1999 is included with full references.
The inscriptions are largely simple, often indicating the name of the dedicant and the name

397
Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, pp. 128-147.
204
of the deity, and most have no iconographic features. Almost all the dedications are in
Greek. The aim here is to understand the development of the cult, so the approach to the
material is chronological. It is unfortunate that many of the inscriptions are only roughly
dated, but the concentration of evidence in the second and third centuries, and its virtual
disappearance in the fourth century, serve to tell us something about the cult’s trajectory.
The material is organised into two main temporal stages: the earliest attestations and the
first century AD; and the period following, the second and third centuries AD.

The earliest attestations

The term ‘Hypsistos’ is first found epigraphically in the Hellenistic period, when it is
generally used to refer to Zeus, or, much more occasionally, to an unnamed Theos. The
inscriptions discussed here are dated either to the Hellenistic period, understood
traditionally as meaning between Alexander’s death in 323 BC and the annexation by
Rome of Greece in 146 BC, or roughly to the second-first century BC.
The inscriptions have been found in Macedonian Edessa, where Charis Alexandros
and Demetrios Charitos dedicate to Zeus Hypsistos (41); in Odessus on the Black Sea,
where ‘the one also called Papias built this house and the doors and dedicated them in
prayer in the place of Zeus Hypsistos’ (81); at Delos, where an inscription is for Zeus
Hypsistos and the unnamed ‘gods of the dedicated altar’ (110a) on Mount Cythus, where
there is an attested sanctuary of Zeus Hypsistos;398 on the islands of Imbros, where a
dedication to Zeus Hypsistos was given by Athenaios (113); and Skiathos, where the
inscription to Zeus Hypsistos mentions the city and makes reference to a building, perhaps
a sanctuary (118); likewise at Iasos in Caria, where two boundary stones to Zeus Hypsistos
(129; 130) may have marked a sanctuary, as a dedication simply to Hypsistos was also
found (131); in nearby Miletus there is another dedication to Zeus Hypsistos (134); and in
Mylasa in Caria, a lease document was made by ‘the crown-wearer, Aristeos son of
Melanos son of Apollonios, priest of Zeus Hypsistos and Agathe Tyche’ (137). Caria was
briefly ruled by Macedonia under Philip V c. 200 BC, which makes an important link in
this period between these two areas with attested Zeus Hypsistos worship.

Noy, D., Panayotov, A., Bloedhorn, H., IJO, vol. I, Eastern Europe, Tübingen: Moer Siebeck, 2004, p.
398

218.
205
 Inscriptions that use Theos instead of Zeus are more rare in this period, and when
they do occur, are directly related to Jewish communities. A straightforward use of Theos
Hypsistos by explicitly named Jews comes from Athribis in the second-first century BC:
‘…Jews of Athribis dedicated the proseuche to Theos Hypsistos’ (285). An inscription
from Alexandria that, although it does not explicitly name Jews, mentions the proseuche
and so has been argued to be Jewish, reads ‘to Theos Hypsistos, the temple precincts and
the proseuche and the places next to it’ (283). Additionally, Theos Hypsistos is invoked in
two virtually identical epitaphs from Rheneia, the burial island of Delos, dated between the
second and first centuries BC (IJO 1, Ach70; 71; Mitchell, 110). The editors of IJO 1 state
that the reference to Theos Hypsistos here is clearly to ‘the Jewish God, as indicated by the
following phrase, ton Kyrion ton pneumaton kai pasis sarkos, which is almost an exact
citation of the LXX text of Num. 16.22 and 27.16.’ They find further Septuagint parallels,
including a reference to the ‘Lord who sees everything, and the angels of god’ which ‘do
not presuppose a special angelic cult. They are invoked to carry out God’s vengeance.’ 399
Thus all the Hellenistic attestations of Theos Hypsistos have explicit Jewish connotations.
The fact that most of these early inscriptions identify the deity as Zeus rather than
Theos suggests primarily that the people dedicating were Greek and Macedonian, supported
by the personal names that occur in the inscriptions, whereas the dedications to Theos
Hypsistos in this period are closely connected, sometimes explicitly, with Jewish
communities. It is expedient to recall the Letter of Aristeas, probably composed in the mid-
second century BC, where it is stated that the Jews worship the same god that the Greeks
know by the name Zeus.400 The use of the term ‘Zeus Hypsistos’ began in the Greek world
in precisely the same period as the Jews were translating the Torah into Greek and using
‘Theos Hypsistos’ to describe the Jewish God. There are also a number of dedicated
sanctuaries to the god in this period; some built structures and others apparently open-air
spaces. This variance within the space for veneration of the god reveals that the
worshippers were not following a set paradigm, but, rather, adapted to the situations they
found themselves in. Certainly at this time there was no definitive understanding of how the
space Diaspora Jews should gather and worship in should be construed.
However, during the first century BC, the distinction that might be drawn between
‘Jewish’ or ‘Greek’ use of the term Hypsistos becomes less apparent, and Zeus and Theos
IJO 1, p. 238-239.
399

See Bartlett, J. R., Jews in the Hellenistic World. Josephus, Aristeas, the Sibylline Oracles, Eupolemus,
400

Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985, p. 14; Collins, Jerusalem, p. 179.

206
become more contiguous. This supports Mitchell’s point that, ‘instead of assuming that the
inscriptions need to be sorted into Jewish and pagan groups we should try to see if they
make sense as a single body of material, treated on its own terms’. 401 Two inscriptions from
the Fayoum in Egypt demonstrate this quite clearly: the first, dating from 69-57 BC,
mentions a religious guild of Zeus Hypsistos worshippers (287), and the second, dated to 29
BC, is to the Theos Megas Megas Hypsistos on behalf of Epitychia also called Dionysia,
and her husband Harpochras (286). Epitychia and Harpochras might well have been Jews,
and Jews were certainly present in the Fayoum during the second century BC, as Eleazar
and his wife Eirene set up a stele during this period (JIGRE, 115). However, this shows the
difficulty in making a distinction between the ‘Jewish’ and the ‘Greek’ cults, and that often,
distinguishing them in this way is based on arbitrary interpretative decisions.
Elsewhere in the Mediterranean, Zeus and Theos are both used. In Macedonia, the
dedications continue to be to Zeus. At Antigoneia, Quintus Markios Noumerios,
presumably a Roman colonist, dedicated a statue to Zeus Hypsistos (SEG XLVI, 726), and
at Edessa, Zoilos Alexandros dedicated to Zeus Hypsistos for his children (38). At Azoros
Elassonas in Thessaly, by contrast, Hermokles gave a stele decorated with an eagle simply
to ‘Hypsistos’ (SEG XLVI, 640). In Spitali on Cyprus, Aristokles Koukomes offered up
his prayer to Theos Hypsistos (265), and on Delos, Laodice and Lysimachus gave two
thanksgiving inscriptions to Theos Hypsistos (respectively 107; 108). The dedications of
Laodice and Lysimachus were found in a building on Delos, GD80, tentatively, but by no
means certainly, identified as a Jewish synagogue building by the contemporary offering
from there by Lysimachus and Agathocles (IJO 1, Ach65) that mentions the proseuche. It
has been argued from this that Laodice and Lysimachus must therefore have been
ethnically Jewish, but Mitchell makes the point that although GD80 may have been a
synagogue of the Jews, it is also true that ‘the sanctuary is also a Greek one, containing
dedications set up by persons with Greek names to Theos Hypsistos’.402 What is apparent
from the debate over the ‘synagogue’ and the Hypsistos dedications on Delos is that by this
stage, the use of Theos Hypsistos in a place where there were also known to be Jews does
not automatically mean that the dedication should be classified as Jewish.
The cultic divide is, however, quite apparent between inscriptions that, although not
necessarily made by Jews, can be closely associated with Jewish populations, i.e. the

401
Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 100.
402
Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 98.
207
Egyptian, Cypriot and Delian inscriptions, and those that cannot. The former group almost
all use Theos. The dedications from Macedonia, Caria, and the Aegean islands, aside from
Delos, all use Zeus. There are no explicitly known Jewish communities in these places at
this time, although there are established synagogues in Macedonia by the time of Paul, and
there were Jews in various cities in Caria by the first-second century AD. This apparent
lack of connection with Jewish communities has been taken as proof that the Hypsistos
dedications do not represent a single cult, and instead that it was a term applied to any god
considered to be ‘highest’. However, because the dedications are very simple, and at this
stage there are still very few of them, it is difficult to make generalisations. Moreover, the
features that connect them – the lack of any other named deities and the use of the term also
applied to the Jewish God – are notable. It might be more useful to consider that what this
‘divide’ represents is that those worshippers of Hypsistos who were regularly exposed to
Jewish practice and communities termed the deity Theos, perhaps that they considered
themselves to be god-fearers; whereas those worshippers whose local Jewish community
was not large enough to sustain a synagogue, or those who had only briefly encountered the
god – perhaps in a foreign location or second-hand – referred to Hypsistos by the name of a
god they recognised: Zeus.

Digression: Gerizim, Delos and the early Hypsistos dedications

Two places where the earliest Hypsistos inscriptions are found are also marked by the
explicit presence of Samaritans: Caria, and most notably, Delos. Evidence concerning the
ancient Samaritans is extremely limited, with a few epigraphic attestations and some
mentions in Jewish literature. The Samaritans were a schismatic Jewish sect that claimed it
was Mount Gerizim in Samaria, rather than Mount Zion in Jerusalem, that God had
intended as the site for his one Temple. They built their alternative temple there, revealed
by archaeological excavations conducted during the 1960s and dated to between 300-124
BC.403 During the later Hellenistic period, this temple was destroyed: according to
Josephus, in one of two expeditions by John Hyrcanus against Samaria, either c. 128 BC or
108 BC.404 It is difficult to ascertain the relationship between Jews and Samaritans: it has
403
Bull, R. J., Wright, G. E., ‘Newly Discovered Temples on Mt. Gerizim in Jordan’, HThR 58, 1965, pp.
234-237.
404
Josephus, Ant. XIII, 10.
208
been argued variously that the divide and animosity between them stemmed from the post-
exilic period, or from the Hellenistic conquest, when Alexander sanctioned the building of
the Samaritan temple, or, as Crown argues, that Samaritans were basically considered as
Jews until the period following Bar Kokhba.405 There was, however, certainly hostility
between them prior to this period, and the Samaritans apparently rejoiced at the destruction
of the Jerusalem Temple in AD 70.406
What is important here is that, following the Bar Kokhba revolt and the destruction
of Judaea, Hadrian built a temple to Zeus Hypsistos on Mount Gerizim, the remains of
which were discovered in the excavations of Bull and Wright. It seems that Hadrian, who
also enacted anti-Jewish legislation, rebuilt the temple of their rivals with the express
purpose of further humiliating the Jews of Judaea, so contributing to the division between
Jew and Samaritan. The epithet used for Zeus is the particularly noteworthy aspect of this
temple. 2 Maccabees records the suppression of Judaism in the Hellenistic period; 6:1-2
recalls that ‘the king sent an Athenian senator to compel the Jews to forsake the laws of
their ancestors and no longer to live by the laws of God; also to pollute the temple in
Jerusalem and to call it the temple of Olympian Zeus, and to call the one in Gerizim the
temple of Zeus-the-Friend-of-Strangers, as did the people who lived in that place’ (my
emphasis). Montgomery407 noted that Eusebius408 presents extensive extracts of Eupolemus,
who wrote at the time of Alexander. In sections 17 and 18, in a Midrash on the life of
Abraham, Gerizim is referred to as ojvro" uJyivstou, ‘the Mount of the Most High’. Josephus
records that the Samaritans petitioned Antiochus Epiphanes with the request that they
should be treated differently from the Jews, and that their temple, ‘which at present has no
name at all’, should be called the Temple of Jupiter Hellenios.409 Of course these accounts
are shot through with anti-Samaritan bias, but what they go some way to demonstrating is
that, in the Hellenistic period, it is not implausible to imagine that the name Zeus and the
epithet Hypsistos were associated with the Samaritan God, and perhaps even that some
Samaritans themselves addressed him by this name. The temple that Hadrian built to Zeus
Hypsistos should not, therefore, be thought an entirely new and baseless foundation.
405
Crown, A. D., ‘Redating the Schism between the Judaeans and the Samaritans’, JQR, New Series, vol. 82,
no. 1-2, pp. 17-50, 1991.
406
Gaster, M., The Samaritans: Their History, Doctrines and Literature, Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1923, p. 37.
407
Montgomery, J. A., The Samaritans: the earliest Jewish sect, their history, theology and literature, New
York: KTAV, 1968, p. 284.
408
Eusebius, Praep. Evang. IX, 17, 18, 26, 30-34, 39.
409
Josephus, Ant. xii 5.5.
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Moreover, it was not necessarily an act that would have displeased the Samaritans
themselves,410 rather, that they may well have viewed it as a pious act of rebuilding.
Hadrian was making a political statement as much as a religious one: by rebuilding the
temple on Gerizim under the name Zeus Hypsistos, he managed both to further humiliate
the Jews in Judaea, and at the same time, acknowledge the differences between the Jews
and the Samaritans and sanction Samaritan worship.
In the Hellenistic period, inscriptions testify to Samaritan populations in the
Aegean. In Athens, Ergasion the Samaritan is mentioned as part of a thiasos inscription,
dating to the fourth-third century (IJO 1, Ach41), he was clearly engaged with Gentile
activities. From the acropolis at Caunos, an immigrant family originally from Shechem
(Neapolis, modern Nablus, the Samaritan city in the foothills of Mount Gerizim) is attested
in the late Hellenistic period (IJO 2, 24). Crown argues that, after the destruction of
Shechem in the second century BC, the Samaritan Diaspora grew rapidly and should be
considered as having the same range as that of the Jews: through Egypt, Greece, North
Africa, Italy, Sicily and south into the lands adjacent to the Red Sea. 411 This may be the
case, but there is little supporting epigraphic evidence, partly because in general, no
distinction can be made between Jewish and Samaritan inscriptions of this period.
Delos is the exception however, where, as we have seen above, there was also a
mountain sanctuary to Zeus Hypsistos. The earliest inscription dates to between 250-175
BC, and reads: ‘The Israelites [on Delos?] who make offerings to the temple (on the) holy
Garizim [Argarizin] honoured Menippus (son) of Artemidorus, from Heraclion, himself
and his descendants, for constructing and dedicating from his own funds in a prayer
[=vow] of God… and crowned with a golden wreath and…’ (IJO 1, Ach66).
A very similar inscription was found with Ach66. This records that ‘the Israelites of
Delos who make offerings to the temple (on) Garizim crown with a golden wreath Serapion
(son) of Jason, from Knossos, for his beneficence to them’ (IJO 1, Ach67). This inscription
has been dated on palaeographic grounds to 150-50 BC, but may be closer in period to
Ach66.
It is clear then, that, like the Jews, Samaritans in the Diaspora paid an annual tax to
their temple on Gerizim, and that a Samaritan building of some sort existed on Delos.
Although the word proseuche is used here, it is apparent from the grammar that it means a
410
However, it is also true that the Samaritans had been adversely affected by Hadrian’s anti-Jewish law
forbidding circumcision.
411
Crown, ‘Samaritans’, p. 25.
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vow to God rather than a prayer-hall. The highly distinguished donors, Menippus and
Serapion, were not necessarily Samaritans; the names are otherwise unattested in Samaritan
or Jewish inscriptions. Because of the reference to Knossos, the editors of IJO think that
Heraclion is most likely a reference to Heraclion/Heraclea in Crete, but also consider the
possibility that this refers to another Heraclea, perhaps Heraclea under Latmus, which
would make another link to Caria.
The editors of IJO suggest that, because this is the first attestation of the term
‘Israelite’ to denote a Samaritan, this was specifically chosen to distinguish the Samaritans
from the Ioudaioi on the island, although alternatively it has been suggested to be a
reference to Samaritans as originating from the north part of Israel, as opposed to Judaea. 412
It is perhaps relevant that Ioudaioi are never explicitly mentioned in inscriptions from
Delos, although they are known to have lived there from various other sources.413
What these two inscriptions reveal is that non-Samaritan men from the wider
Aegean context were sufficiently connected with the Samaritan community on Delos to
make donations substantial enough to merit their crowning with the most expensive and
highly regarded golden wreaths, and the recording of these acts on stone for posterity; and
that the Samaritan community on Delos had pan-Aegean connections. More importantly,
these dedications highlight the unique position of Delos as a place where cultures and
ethnicities could intermingle and exchange.414 The island’s status during the Hellenistic
period as a free port facilitated trade, especially the trade in slaves. 415 People from across
the Mediterranean world interacted and grew wealthy here. It might be hypothesised that
the Samaritan community on Delos introduced the cult of Hypsistos into the Aegean,
perhaps worshipping alongside Greeks in the sanctuary to Zeus Hypsistos on Mount
Cythus. It may have been an ‘international’ sanctuary. This Jewish sect had already
acknowledged that their God, friendly to strangers, could be equated with the Greek Zeus,
and moreover, their later-rebuilt temple in Samaria was dedicated to Zeus Hypsistos. They,
like the Jews, honoured non-Samaritan donors and welcomed Gentile worshippers. Perhaps

412
See the argument presented in Kraabel, A. T., ‘New evidence of the Samaritan Diaspora has been found
on Delos’, in BA, vol. 47, no. 1, 1984, pp. 44-46.
413
For example, 1. Macc. 15.23 lists Delos as a place where the Romans sent a letter about the Jews in 140
BC.
414
This had long been the case – Susan and Andrew Sherratt remark on the growth, in the eighth century BC,
of ‘international’ sanctuaries at ‘nodal points on the maritime routes’, of which Delos was one. Sherratt, S.,
and Sherratt, A., ‘The Mediterranean economy in the early first millennium BC’, in WA, vol. 24, no. 3,
Ancient Trade: New Perspectives, 1993, p. 367.
415
Noy et al, IJO 1, pp. 210-219.
211
it could be surmised that people who had encountered the cult in their dealings with the
Samaritans on Delos transmitted the worship of Zeus Hypsistos back to the important and
predominantly coastal places from whence they came.

The Cult of Hypsistos in the Imperial period: The First Century AD

In the Hellenistic period and the first century BC, dedications to either Zeus or Theos
Hypsistos are relatively rare. During the first-third centuries AD, the instances of the term
Hypsistos increases massively. However, a survey of the material dated to the first century
reveals it to still be relatively small, and still quite varied. In some areas, the cultic
character seems relatively ‘pagan’, but elsewhere it could easily be described as Jewish or
at least, Judaizing. The dedications are found across the Mediterranean – from Gorgippia
on the Black Sea to Chersonesos on Crete. Although there are still only a few inscriptions
from this period, some notable conclusions can be drawn from them.
Many of the dedications are by Roman citizens. Two of these are from Mytilene:
first, a dedication decorated with an eagle and an olive wreath to Theos Hypsistos by
Marcus Pompios Lukaos with his wife Phoebe (115); and second, by a Roman family:
‘Gaius Cornelius Christios, Cornelia Phallousa, and Gaius Cornelius Secundus, wintering
in the islands, in thanks to Theos Hypsistos’ (116). This family was apparently en route,
perhaps to Asia Minor. Although no Jewish community is mentioned in Mytilene, Paul
crossed over to Asia Minor from Macedonia via the city in this period (Acts 20:14). Across
the water in Miletopolis in Mysia, Tiberius Claudius Syntrophos set up a dedication at the
command of Zeus Hypsistos Brontaios (185), the stele shows a figure of Zeus holding a
thunderbolt, depicted beside an altar, a herm, and a female figure lying on the ground.
Two dedications from Thrace provide evidence for the contiguity of the names Zeus
and Theos: the first, dating from AD 25, is a dedication from Selymbria by ‘Gaius Julius
Proklos in thanksgiving to the holy Theos Hypsistos, on behalf of Rhoemetalkes and
Pythodoros for saving them from the dangers of the war of Koilalitikon…’ (68); the second
is from Kavalla, dated to 36-48 AD, and was dedicated to Zeus Hypsistos by the
superintendent and workmen at the quarries, on behalf of the King of Thrace,
Rhoemetalkes, son of Cotys and his children (60). Jews are attested epigraphically in
Thrace in the Imperial period.
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 An inscription dated to AD 51 from Edessa is to ‘Zeus Hypsistos for the salvation of
Marcus Vibius Ambova’, which then lists a group of men and one woman, who are
variously Romans and Greeks/Macedonians: ‘C. Pontius Torquatus, P. Vettius Narcissus,
L. Liburnius Chrysippos, G. Flavius Alypos, Secundus son of Adymos, Melete daughter of
Apollodoros, Apollonides son of Theudas, M. Vibius Hermeros, Epaphras son of
Damothares, M. Antonios Moustios Crispus, set up when M. Attius Longus... was priest’
(SEG XLVI, 744). These men may represent a group of Zeus Hypsistos worshippers; they
are notably composed of Roman citizens and presumably, members of the local elite.
In Thessalonica, Titus Flavius Euktimenos, trikleinarchos, president of a dining-
group, dedicated to Theos Hypsistos (56); suggesting that here at least, the cult followed
traditional Greek parameters. In AD 74-5, Gaius Julius Orios was instructed in a dream to
make his dedication to Theos Hypsistos ‘the great saviour’, as a thanksgiving for making
him money, and saving him from the great danger of the sea (55). He may not have been a
merchant, but was certainly involved with maritime activity in some way. The inscription
also records the priest Marcus Vetius Proclus, suggesting that the cult had a body of
religious officials. It might be interpreted to mean that Marcus Vetius the priest was a
Jewish official in the synagogue, as there was a synagogue in Thessalonica with attached
sebomenon Hellenon by the time of Paul, however, the attestation of a priest of the cult of
Zeus Hypsistos at Edessa could also support the identification of this priest as an official of
the cult of Hypsistos as a separate entity.
These higher status inscriptions are concentrated in the northwest Aegean, where it
is notable that the cult is mainly that of Zeus as opposed to Theos. Lower status dedications
from the first century are by contrast rare, probably partly because these worshippers could
not afford dedications that survive. However, since there are some lower-status inscriptions
in the corpus, this may to some extent also reflect the demographic profile of the cult
followers. They are found more across Asia Minor and the southern Aegean, and notably,
most of them use Theos rather than Zeus. A dedication was given by Tation, to Helios
Theos Hypsistos in Pergamon (186), which connects the god with the sun; and in Prusa in
Bithynia, a simple collective prayer was offered to Zeus Hypsistos by the entire village
because of a gift of ten measures of corn given to them by Paterion (?) (189). In
Chersonesos in Crete, Tertula offered her prayer to Theos Hypsistos, decorated with an
eagle (121); almost identical is the dedication of Sozousa on Cyprus (262); and that of
Cosmos in Athens, which is probably first century, and which is decorated with a picture of
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a torso (22).416 It is notable that most of these places that use the term Theos have attested
Jewish communities at this time.
Finally, there are the manumission texts from the Black Sea. Three inscriptions
from Gorgippia are dated to the second half of the first century, and all use Theos Hypsistos
in the manumission formula (IJO 1, BS20; 21; 22). Another inscription that follows a
similar formula and so has been restored to read Theos Hypsistos is a thanksgiving plaque
for Metrotimus for salvation from megalon kindunon (IJO 1, BS27). In two of the three
manumission texts, Theos Hypsistos appears alongside a call for the protection of the freed
slave by Zeus, Earth and Sun (IJO 1, BS20; 22). This final call has caused some
commentators to claim that therefore they cannot be Jewish; yet conversely, some have
defined them so because all three also use the term ‘blessed’, eulogetos, regarded as
specifically Jewish at this date. In addition, BS20 mentions the proseuche, used to support
some commentators’ argument that it is a fully Jewish inscription. The editors of the IJO
explain the situation by arguing that the manumittor was Jewish and the pagan deities were
included for the benefit of the freed slave.417 This may be the case, as these inscriptions do
not mention the protection of the Jewish community, as found in examples from
Panticipaeum (BS5; 6; 9) or Phanagoria (BS18).418 However, IJO 1, BS21, which follows
exactly the same formula, contains no mention of the proseuche to argue for its being
Jewish, and no mention of pagan deities to argue against it. Although, as the editors note,
‘Kittel pointed out the illogicality of accepting one inscription as Jewish and not the
other’,419 what it shows is the tenuousness of some of the identifications and the common
terminology existing between these supposedly separate definitions of ‘pagan’ or ‘Jewish’.
These inscriptions therefore particularly highlight the methodological difficulties in
dividing ‘Jewish’ from ‘pagan’ inscriptions to Theos Hypsistos, as there is considerable
evidence in the Black Sea region for Jewish communities and the pervasiveness of Jewish
religious ideas and terminology. Instead of attempting to divide the Hypsistos dedications
into different ethno-religious boxes, the Gorgippia inscriptions should be regarded as
revealing the pan-Empire phenomenon of Gentile involvement in Judaism. Another

416
There is a strong association with healing in the cult in Athens, as seen in the dedications of the next
century, which often display body parts.
417
IJO 1, p. 307.
418
These three deities do have an abstract quality however, and that Helios has been found elsewhere in the
corpus suggests that perhaps this is representative of a traditional formula being used alongside Hypsistos that
is not at odds with the cult.
419
IJO 1, p. 310.
214
example from the area that makes the common ground very clear is the manumission of a
slave woman, Elpis, in Panticipaeum (IJO 1, BS7). She is released, except from a bond of
service to the proseuche, and this is done with the guardianship of the community of Jews
and god-fearers.420 As we have seen, ‘it is now the standard view among scholars that the
god-fearers were non-Jewish sympathizers with Jewish beliefs, Gentile attendees of Jewish
synagogues.’421 Why would the language god-fearers employed in epigraphic dedications
be any different to that of their ethnically Jewish co-worshippers? In other words, it is more
and more difficult to separate people in the epigraphic evidence.
It is these inscriptions from Gorgippia that truly mark the profound connection of
the cult term with Judaism at this time, and that Theos Hypsistos should be closely
associated with Jewish communities and Gentile involvement with the Jewish synagogue.
However, although this is the case in the Black Sea region, discerning this trend explicitly
elsewhere is not easy. As we have seen, the Hypsistos cult is found particularly in
Macedonia, Thrace and northern Asia Minor, and seems to be particularly popular with the
Roman colonist elite there. The Acts of the Apostles testifies to the many large Jewish
communities with attached Gentile god-fearers in Thessalonica, Beroia, and Philippi during
the first century, and it is well-known that Judaism had attracted high-status individuals in
Rome itself at this time – in particular, Nero’s wife Poppaea and Domitian’s cousin.422
Although many of these high status inscriptions are to Zeus, some are to Theos. The pocket
of cult in Macedonia might be taken as indicative of the elite being attracted to abstract
monotheism, whether explicitly related to Judaism or not. It is, however, possibly more
useful to regard the phenomenon as the cult spreading through this particular social
network of Roman colonists – people who travelled, were outside their usual social
networks, who were far from home – and so also in the associated local elites. With regard
to the lower status dedications that predominantly use Theos, nearby Jewish communities
can often be identified. There were Jews in Pergamon at the time of Cicero, and Josephus
refers to Jewish-Pergamene friendship;423 there were Jews long-attested in Athens, Crete

420
There is a slight grammatical issue with the text; leading to the suggestion that sebwn is a participle
referring back to the slave. According to the editors of the IJO, ‘this seems a very forced explanation’ (p.
282), and in the light of the term being found elsewhere in connection with Jewish communities, it is more
reasonable to assume that it refers to god-fearers as an integrated part of the Jewish community.
421
Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 120-121.
422
See Chapter 5, p. 140.
423
Josephus, Ant. xiv 10, 22 (247-55).
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and Cyprus;424 and although there are no Jews specifically in Prusa, there were Jews in
other cities in Bithynia at this time.425
What is also apparent is that even though the use of the term Hypsistos can often be
closely associated with Judaism, there was space for individual understanding of the deity.
By this time, Theos appears as regularly as Zeus, often contiguously, and there is as such
little distinction that can be drawn between them to claim they represent different cults.
What the choice of name instead should be taken to reflect is the background of the
worshippers. They used the familiar name of the highest God in the Greek pantheon to
describe a less familiar deity, an interpretation supported by the association of both names
with the image of the eagle. As Mitchell writes, the worshippers ‘chose a designation that
would have seemed self-evidently correct and appropriate, and which tells us something
about their personal religious convictions’.426 This reflection of personal religious belief is
also seen in association of the god with Helios in Pergamon, or even perhaps the inclusion
of Zeus, Earth and Sun in Gorgippia.

The second-third centuries AD

The number of inscriptions to Hypsistos, and Theos Hypsistos in particular, increases
dramatically during the second to third centuries. Mitchell has argued that this is a result of
the epigraphic habit, and should not be thought of as reflecting a rise in popularity: ‘the fact
that the great majority of the inscriptions for Theos Hypsistos belong to the later imperial
period cannot be taken as an indication that the cult was first introduced, or even became
more popular then.’427 It is very likely that this explanation does largely account for the
sudden boom in inscriptions to the deity in this period. However, it is worth investigating
the material further to discern whether the epigraphic habit also disguises a deeper change.
There were, by the first century AD, Jewish Diaspora communities with attached god-
fearers throughout most of Greece, Macedonia and Asia Minor, testified to by inscriptions,
commentators at the time, and the Acts of the Apostles. There is, however, no sudden

424
Epigraphic evidence for Jews in Athens and Cyprus dates from the fourth century BC; there were certainly
also Jews on Crete, testified to by I Mac. 15:23 and Josephus in numerous places. See Schürer 2, History, vol.
III.i p. 69.
425
See Schürer2, History, vol. III.i, p. 36.
426
Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 102.
427
Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 108.
216
increase in dedications made by god-fearers at this time, which would be expected if the
epigraphic habit were simply the explanation for the increase in Hypsistos dedications.

Gentile god-fearers, the destruction of the Temple, & Bar Kokhba

Why then, are the god-fearers, so present in the Acts of the Apostles and the literary
evidence, so absent in the epigraphy, given the epigraphic habit? As shown above, there are
relatively few god-fearers known from the epigraphic corpus. Yet the god-fearers have
been argued to have the same beliefs as the worshippers of Theos Hypsistos, and indeed, to
be the same group of people. The inscriptions from the Black Sea region in the first century
AD clearly show the connection between Judaism, god-fearers and the worship of Theos
Hypsistos. It is suggested here then, that alongside the epigraphic habit, an additional
reason for the massive increase in dedications to Theos Hypsistos at this time was because
the Gentile god-fearers who had worshipped him as attendees of the Jewish synagogue had
been ‘activated’, and were not able or did not wish to call themselves ‘god-fearers’ in this
period.
This problem of self-definition for the Gentile worshippers of the Jewish God
stemmed from the profound changes enacted in Judaism at this time. The psychological
trauma for Jews following the destruction of the Temple in AD 70 and the events of the
following sixty years cannot be underestimated. The imposition of the increased fiscus
Judaicus post-AD 70 further fuelled the pre-existing social tensions that led to the uprisings
in Egypt, Cyrenaica, Cyprus and Mesopotamia, and the subsequent destruction of the
Jewish communities in those places. The added insult of the foundation of Aelia Capitolina
on the ruins of Jerusalem led to the revolt of Simon Bar Kokhba and his followers and their
final defeat in 135. Judaea was ‘practically a desert’; and to ensure Jerusalem’s pagan
character, Hadrian drove out those Jews that remained and forbade all Jews from entering
Jerusalem on pain of death, a law that remained in place until at least the fourth century,
when Constantine allowed them to mourn the destruction of Jerusalem once a year. 428
Without the physical Temple at its core, and with no hope of Jewish political independence,

428
Schürer2, History, vol. I, p. 553-557.
217
the strictures and Laws of Judaism became a spiritual Temple, reconstituted and reiterated
by the rabbis in Judaea and Babylon. The composition of the Mishnah c. AD 200 and the
renewed emphases of rabbinic Judaism on adherence to the Law resulted in the
dissemination of these reforms, and, as argued in the previous chapter, the period between
the third and fifth centuries was marked by the Hebraization of the communities in the
Diaspora.
Prior to this, the destruction in Judaea produced a period of Jewish ‘anxiety’ and
anger, manifest in the Diasporan revolts. Equally, the Jewish uprisings and revolts across
the Roman Empire led to increased Roman stigmatisation of the Jewish communities. Both
Jewish unrest and Roman suspicion led to a level of mutual distrust and separation, with the
effect of the tightening of the boundaries of Judaism. That the iteration of explicit Jewish
identity is so clearly visible epigraphically in the process of Hebraization leads to the
question: how did the Gentiles attached to the synagogues, the non-Jews who worshipped
the Jewish God, react? It is here suggested that this period between the second and fourth
centuries, when the hostilities and tension between Jewish communities and the Roman
government was at its height, was marked by the reiteration of Jewish Law. The social
divisions already in existence between Jew and Gentile were heightened, and
consequentially, Gentile god-fearers would have been excluded to a degree from
participation in Jewish worship and life, and, moreover, may have harboured misgivings
themselves. With access to the God they believed in either denied or disapproved of, these
large communities of Gentiles could react in one of two ways: by either finding a place in
the swelling ranks of the Christians, or alternatively, by joining the partially formed and
quite widespread Judaizing cult and continue their worship under the Jewish name for God
– Theos Hypsistos.
The epigraphy is, however, notoriously uninformative. In this sense, the evidence
that supports this hypothesis is, to an extent, negative. Nevertheless, certain conclusions can
be drawn from an examination of the epigraphy. The range of people, occupations and
statuses suggest that the cult was not centralised in any way, but rather, was a ground-level,
grass-roots kind of movement that did not transmit via occupational, ethnic or elite
networks, which supports the notion that this was a religious network, perhaps already fully
or partially formed. The outdoor/extra-mural or reused places where people gathered
indicates that there may have been no physical space for the worshippers in the cities,
suggesting a less formalised sacral arrangement without specific hierarchies – a
218
consequence, perhaps, of cult followers rejecting the traditional space for worship, or
indicating that they had themselves been rejected. Finally, the geographical restrictions on
the spread of the cult suggest that it lacked long-range, independent diffusive appeal, and
had arisen at a more local level as a response to localised actions, interactions or exposure.
This hypothesis is not, of course, intended to apply to the entirety of the inscriptions
that refer to Hypsistos – it has been amply demonstrated that, even if some explicit
connections can be made with Judaism, this is by no means applicable to all of the evidence
all of the time. Instead, it is suggested here that the massive increase in dedications, in
particular those to Theos Hypsistos in the second-third century, may represent some kind of
‘epigraphic trace’ of those Gentile god-fearers that had previously been part of the Jewish
communities.

People, status & occupation

The snippets of information in the epigraphic record about people’s occupation or status
reveal the cult’s extraordinarily wide social range. That the cult had long been popular with
the Roman colonists and local elites in Macedonia has been seen above, and further
evidence for high status individuals is found in the later epigraphy: P. Aelios Arrianus
Alexandros, a Roman councillor of the Dacian colony of Sarmizegetusa dedicated to Theos
Hypsistos in Mytilene (117), making an explicit link between these places; Ulpius Carpos,
town councillor, prophet (profhvth") of the most holy Theos Hypsistos who was honoured
by the statio of the civic gardeners is attested in Miletus (135; 136); and Statius Rufinus, a
centurion (eJkatovnarcho") dedicated to Theos Hypsistos Epekoos in Nicomedia (192).
Servants and slaves are also found in the corpus: in Beroia, the servants of Eros son of
Eubiotos dedicate to Zeus Hypsistos (34); in Sparta the slave of Claudius Pratolaos offered
to Zeus Hypsistos (25); and Koronos, a publicus, civic slave, dedicated to Theos Hypsistos
in Knossos (120).
The occasional mentions of occupation in the later epigraphy testify to people of
both lower and middling status. In Kavalla in Thrace, Tarsas the blacksmith dedicated
simply to Hypsistos (61); in Acmonia, Aurelius Tatis Onesimos the bronze-smith dedicated

with his wife from his own means to Theos Hypsistos (205); Theon the builder dedicated to

219
Theos Hypsistos in Kition (245); in Nacolea, Gaius son of Manes dedicated to Hypsistos
for saving his cattle (219); in Apamea, Aurelius Paulus, also called Epithymitos, a doctor,
dedicated to Theos Hypsistos (214); in Miletus, there are shell-fishers who dedicate to the
aJgiotavto" Theos Hypsistos (136); and in Gortyn, Euphranor the flute-player and Zosimos
the goldsmith both dedicate to Theos Hypsistos (122; 123). A man from Kozani in
Macedonia, Chryseros Philippos, dedicated vines and trees to kyrios Zeus Hypsistos (46) –
which suggests he may have been a farmer, but also that he was probably a land-owner.
The dedication of vines may indicate knowledge of the golden vine in the Jerusalem
Temple, as mentioned by Josephus.429
The cult was popular with women, with dedications made by women accounting for
roughly 1/6 of the 336 known inscriptions. In some places, for example, the Pnyx, most of
the dedications are by women. Female dedicants are also found across the Greek islands
and mainland, Macedonia, Dacia, Crete and Cyprus, Rome, Asia Minor, and Phoenicia.430
They sometimes dedicate alone, sometimes for or with a family member. They are often
concerned with healing – or at least, in certain places the god was associated with
healing,431 and this power seems to have attracted more than the average numbers of female
dedicants. The adoption of the cult by women presents an interesting case – how did the
cult reach them? Their husbands or family may have exposed them to it, but equally, the
role of cultic transmission within ‘female’ contexts should not be overlooked. The high
number of women involved in the cult also links it with the demographic profile of Judaism
and Christianity, both known to have been particularly attractive to women. 432 The family
values espoused by both Judaism and Christianity favoured women and, moreover, women
were able to hold positions of authority within Jewish and Christian communities. Although
there are no immediate indicators within the present corpus of a similar situation in the
Hypsistos cult, there are only very few indications of any kind as to the cult’s internal
religious structure.
429
Josephus, Ant. XV, xi, 3.
430
Dedications made by women include: Athens: (2; 3; 6-10; 12; 14; 15; 21); Delos (107; 109); Sparta (28);
Beroia (37); Perinthus (63); Philippopolis (67); Serdica (71); Sarmizegetusa (78); Chersonesos, Crete (121);
Rome (125); Stratonicaea in Caria (144; 156); Ephesus (159); Saittai, Lydia (172); Thyateira (177; SEG
XLIX, 1709); Pergamum (187); Sebastopolis (193); Synaus (223); Seluecia ad Calycadnus (239); Sinope
(SEG LII, 1240); Pessinus, Galatia (SEG XLVI, 1703); Smyrna (162); Golgi (257; 259); Mathikoloni,
Cyprus (260); Paphos (262), and Byblos (268).
431
That the Jewish God was associated with the power to heal was widely believed in antiquity, and Jewish
holy names are found frequently in amulets and other healing or protective devices. See Liebeschuetz, W.,
‘The influence of Judaism among non-Jews in the Imperial Period’, JJS vol. LII, no. 2, 2001, p. 248.
432
Josephus records the people of Damascus who wished to eliminate the local Jews, but ‘feared their wives,
all of whom, with a few exceptions, had gone over to the Jewish religion.’ Jewish War 2.560-1.
220
 For example, there is the leader of a dining club in Thessalonica, mentioned above
(56), and a few dedications by priests. Although there is no reason to suppose that the cult
did not have priests in the usual way, some have argued that the priests from the corpus
should be viewed as priests of different deities. The only instance where this seems to be
the case is the dedication to Theos Hypsistos at Andeda in Pisidia by a priest of Mên
Ouranios, a native Anatolian moon-god (228). It has been argued that this represents either
a dedication to Theos Hypsistos by a priest of Mên (Mitchell), or alternatively that this is
evidence of the name ‘Theos Hypsistos’ being used to describe Mên Ouranios himself
(Belayche). The rest of the inscriptions that mention priests give no indication that they are
not priests of Hypsistos himself: in AD 100, Tryphon to Theos Hypsistos in Paphos (261);
by an unnamed man to Theos Hypsistos in Serdica (72); Hermogenous to Theos Hypsistos
in Pirot, Serbia (75); Diophantos Akiamos to Theos Hypsistos the ‘great god’ in
Philadelphia (171); in AD 172, Neikiphoros son of Hermokrates to Theos Hypsistos in
Thyaera in Lydia (175); Gaius Olympios Paulos to Zeus Hypsistos in Dion (SEG LIII,
598); in Beroia, two Roman citizens, P. Cornelius Rufus and Sextus Popillius Phil-,
donated to Zeus Hypsistos in their official function as diakonoi (‘deacons’) of the cult (36).
An epitaphic inscription for Gourdos from Iconium (237), which is clarified by another
inscription for the same man that states he was in fact a Christian. 433 Further terminology
similar to that of the Christians is found in a few inscriptions: in Serdica, one man uses his
full three names – Ponponius Theodoulos (69) – the second name could be considered
Christianizing. The only Hypsistos inscription known at Delphi was given by a doulos of
the god (31). The man is named as Titus Flavius Megalinos, making it likely that he was a
Roman citizen. The inscription is damaged, making it impossible to ascertain whether the
god was addressed here as Zeus or Theos, but it is decorated with a crescent moon.
However it should also be mentioned that observance of the moon is of course very
important for determining the Jewish ritual calendar.
‘Priests’ are found in the corpora of Judaism as much as in ‘pagan’ cults.
Conversely, Jewish sacral terminology is rarely found in corpora of pagan cults, so the
inscription from Pydna in Macedonia dating from AD 250 that clearly demonstrates the
crossover terminology between Judaism and the cult of Hypsistos is something of an
exception (51). The stele records a group who ‘meet together in religious worship of Theos
Zeus Hypsistos’. It is the religious offices that follow that make the inscription
433
See Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 123.
221
extraordinary: the archon Aurelius Nigerionos, the archisynagogos Aurelius Kypiona, and
the prostates Aurelius Severos.434 All of these terms were regularly used in the Jewish
synagogue, and in fact rarely occur outside a Jewish or Judaizing context. 435 This fact
suggests that, the cult of Hypsistos, even when addressed as Zeus, should at this stage be
cognitively connected in some way with Judaism. The list of following names includes
Roman citizens and many Aurelii; both women and men; and a potentially ‘god-fearing’ or
‘Christianizing’ name, Aurelius Theodoulos.
It is apparent that people from all different backgrounds and professions worshipped
Hypsistos: peasant farmers and city dwellers, slaves and slave-owners, men and women.
Aside from the pocket of elites in Macedonia, there are no apparent links that can be made
between these people in terms of status or of occupation, implying that the cult did not
transmit across the networks formed by professional groupings or guilds. How, then, did
the cult come to be adopted by all of them? The routes of diffusion ought to be looked for
elsewhere – through a pre-formed network that already incorporated this plethora of
professions and social statuses.

Places of Hypsistos worship

As seen above, there are a number of known or implied sanctuaries in the earliest evidence
for the cult of Hypsistos: the boundary stones that may mark a sanctuary space for Zeus
Hypsistos in Iasos (129; 130); the dedicated doors in the tovpon of Zeus Hypsistos in
Odessus (81); and the Zeus Hypsistos sanctuary attested on Mount Cythus on Delos.
Although there is some variation in the types of sanctuary space associated with Hypsistos,
it is clear that a number of these early sanctuaries were in the open air. In the Tosefta, R.
Judah mentions the ‘open air of the synagogue’, which implies that Jewish worship or
gathering could take place outside or in a place without a roofed structure, 436 in warmer
climes or, perhaps, in places before there was a large enough community to merit a

434
See also Cormack, J. M. R., ‘Zeus Hypsistos at Pydna’, in Mélanges Hélleniques offerts a Georges Daux,
Paris: Éditions E. de Boccard, 1974, pp. 51-55.
435
See Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 101, n. 41, Rajak, T., and Noy, D., ‘Archisynagogoi: Office, Title and Social
Status in the Graeco-Roman Synagogue’, JRS 83, 1993, pp. 75-93.
436
Zahavy, T., Studies in Jewish Prayer, Lanham: University Press of America, 1990, p. 72-73.
222
building. Because the Torah was holy, it consecrated the place it was in – ‘the presence of
the Torah made the building a sanctuary; study of the Torah thus became a cultic act.’437
In the later period of the cult, between the first-third centuries AD, there are some
other indications of the ritual space afforded the Highest God. A third century inscription
from Cotiaeum in Phrygia reads: ‘Aurelius Alexandros Timotheos and his wife Aurelia
Ammia, offered their vow to Theos Hypsistos in prayer, together with their children
Attikos, Artemon, Timotheos, Alexandros and Platon, set up the columns and the propylon’
(215), which reveals a sanctuary space with an entry area, but nothing more. Timotheos is
clearly wealthy. The pious name Timotheos, ‘he who honours God’, was certainly also used
by god-fearers/Christians (cf. Acts 16).
One of the largest sanctuaries to Hypsistos was in Athens, where worshippers
reused the Pnyx, carving fifty-eight niches and inscriptions into the back walls. It was
probably founded at the end of the first century. 438 Dedications have been found elsewhere
in the city, and are thought to have originated in the Pnyx. The contiguity of Zeus and
Theos here reinforces the interchangeable nature of the names, however, the majority of the
dedications are simply given to ‘Hypsistos’. Twelve of the inscriptions have a connection
with healing, either through representations of the body part or in the text itself, which may
make a connection with the Jewish God by proxy (see note 416). The Jewish community in
Athens was well established and is attested both in the epigraphic material (which also
represents Samaritans) and in Acts 17:16, which records also that there were sebomenoi in
the synagogue.
The niches in the back walls of the Pnyx sanctuary are particularly noteworthy, as it
is likely that these were places for the dedication of lamps. Many lamps, as well as
terracotta figurines, glass unguentaria and terra sigillata vessels were discovered in the
excavations of the sanctuary.439 Lamps form a major part of Jewish worship, being lit at the
beginning of the Sabbath, and Josephus440 records the spread of the practice of lamp
lighting amongst the Gentiles. It is quite likely that the presence of niches and the known
dedications of lamps to Hypsistos demonstrate Josephus’ claim. The third century
437
Van der Horst, P. W., ‘Was the synagogue a place of Sabbath worship before 70 CE?’, in Jews, Christians
and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue: cultural interaction during the Graeco-Roman period, Fine, S.,
(ed.), London: Routledge, 1999, p. 36.
438
Forsén, B., ‘The Sanctuary of Zeus Hypsistos and the date and construction of Pnyx III’, in B. Forsén, G.
Stanton, eds., The Pnyx in the History of Athens, proceedings of an International Colloquium organised by
the Finnish Institute at Athens, 7-9 October 1994, Helsinki: Vammalan Kirjapaino Oy, 1996, p. 49.
439
See Forsén, ‘Hypsistos’.
440
Josephus, C. Ap, 2.282, 39.
223
dedication of a lamp to Theos Hypsistos by Chromatis at Oinoanda illustrates this (234);
and the contemporaneous oracle set into the city wall just by her dedication and niche
indicates that this was the place where the worship of the deity occurred. The area is
outside and extra-mural, and carved precisely at the point of the old city wall which was
first struck by the rays of the rising sun.441 The text reads:

‘Born of itself, untaught, without a mother, unshakeable, not contained in a name,

known by many names, dwelling in fire, this is god. We, his angels, are a small part
of god. To you who ask this question about god, what his essential nature is, he has
pronounced that Aether is god who sees all, on whom you should gaze and pray at
dawn, looking towards the sunrise.’442

It is apparent from this that the worship of Hypsistos was here associated with the
reappearance of the sun, so therefore an outdoor sanctuary would be particularly important.
This suggests that the followers had quite specific times for gathering – lamps are only
really visible, necessary, or impressive in the dark – perhaps in keeping with the Jewish
Sabbath. Mitchell suggests that lamps represent the earthly version of the heavenly fire, and
indicates that individuals could partake in a universal god through their humble gift.
Further explicit dedications of lamps are known in the Hypsistos corpus. In first-
second century AD Hierocaesarea: ‘Teimotheos Diagoros Labrantidis and Moschion
Teimotheos his wife pray to Theos Hypsistos at this altar. Diagoras, Teimotheos, Pytheos,
the sons of Timotheos son of Diagoros Labrantidai set up these lamps to Hypsistos’ (169).
The use of the pious name Timotheos is again notable. At Pella, the dedication of an actual
lamp simply to Hypsistos was discovered, decorated with an eagle on a bucranium, dated to
the second century (SEG XLVI, 785). Another dedication that can be restored as pertaining
to lamp dedication is to Theos Hypsistos Epekoos from Tiberiopolis in Phrygia, dating to
the second-third century (225). The fact that all of these examples of lamp-dedication are
from the second century, and that they all use Theos, or simply Hypsistos may suggest that
this habit had been adopted from close contact with Jewish practice.
In Sibidunda in Pisidia, Artimas and Marcia made a dedication of incense and
columns – which might indicate a covered area – to Theos Hypsistos, whom they also
called the abstract Hagia Kataphyge – Holy Refuge (230). This is the translation in the

441
Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, pp. 87-90, referring to the argument of Hall, A. S., ‘The Klarian Oracle at
Oenoanda’, ZPE, vol. 32, 1978, pp. 263-268.
442
Translation Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 86; epigraphic reference 233.
224
LXX of ‘Divine Refuge’ in Psalm 31,443 and has meant that this dedication is thought to be
particularly Judaizing. In the mid-third century in Tanais there was an association of
worshippers of Theos Hypsistos who call themselves ‘brothers’ (92-98; 100; 101), and
although there are no explicitly known Jews from Tanais, this was also a particularly
Judaizing cultic group: ‘…in prayer to Theos Hypsistos Epekoos, the association for the
sacred things, Papas Chrestos and the synagogue…’ (102). This last inscription is dated
precisely to AD 244. With the mention of the synagogue, this could of course be
understood as a group of Jews in Tanais. However, the same issues apply as to the
Gorgippia inscriptions discussed above. These could equally be Gentile worshippers of
Hypsistos defining their cult building and their God with the same name as that of their
Jewish co-worshippers, in the same way as the cultic officials at Pydna in Macedonia; and
perhaps also indicate the close links that may have been retained between the Jews and the
erstwhile god-fearers. The identical situation is seen in the territory of Ancyra in the third
century in an inscription to ‘the great Theos Hypsistos and the heavens and the holy
messengers of him and with the same worshippers of the proseuche’ (202).
Writing in the fourth century, Pausanias444 supplements the epigraphy. He mentions
that in front of the entrance to the Erechtheion in Athens there was an altar to Zeus
Hypsistos, ‘where they sacrifice nothing that breathes, but they put sweet-cakes there and
the rite allows not even the use of wine’ (1.26.6). There were two altars to Zeus Hypsistos
at Olympia (5.15.5), in the south east of the sanctuary on the way to the hippodrome and in
the vicinity of an altar of the Fates and one of Hermes. There was cult for Hypsistos at
Corinth (2.2.8), where there were three statues, one with no title, one called Zeus of the
Underworld, and one Zeus the ‘All-highest’, all in the open air. It is unclear what these
statues looked like; the untitled one at least may have been aniconic in some way. At
Thebes, Pausanias’ discussion is about the gates of the city, and ‘by the High gates is a
sanctuary of Zeus the all-Highest’ (9.8.5). This last location sounds very like the sanctuary
at Oinoanda, discussed above, that was located at the highest point in the city near the city
wall; the statue of the god at Corinth was also in the open air. At Olympia and Athens, the
cult was able to be included in the sanctuary space of other deities.
In sum, this seems a somewhat disparate collection of Judaizing practice, buildings,
and reused or extramural public spaces, with no particular links to be discerned between
443
Another inscription that refers to Theos Hypsistos as ‘refuge’ was made by Dimitrios on Cyprus (256); this
dedication uses asuloi rather than kataphyge but may be an attempt to render the same concept.
444
Pausanias, Guide to Greece, vol. 1: Central Greece, trans. Levi, P., London: Penguin Books, 1971.
225
them. However, the emphasis is on altars in the open air and outside spaces. It also appears
that, in the second and third centuries, there are fewer attested sanctuaries to Hypsistos than
in the earlier period of the cult. However, a recently published inscription from
Thessalonica provides evidence that in the Imperial period the worshippers of Hypsistos
were sometimes able to build their own temples from scratch: ‘Zoilos son of Menon son of
Menandros son of Dionysios, and Kratisto daughter of Menon son of Sosibios of the tribe
of Antiochis, his wife, both from the tribe Antiochis (?) furnished the foundations of the
temple of Zeus Hypsistos from their own means’ (SEG LII, 650). What is particularly
noteworthy about this inscription is that these wealthy devotees of Zeus Hypsistos were
founding a temple for his worship in the second-third century AD. The cult of Zeus
Hypsistos had been popular among the elites of Macedonia since the Hellenistic period, and
in Thessalonica itself since the first century AD. What could account for this necessity to
build a new temple to a god that had been worshipped in the city for at least a century?
Most of the other inscriptions in Thessalonica are to Theos Hypsistos, and the Jewish
synagogue there is well attested. Could this inscription be understood as the foundation of a
separate Hypsistos temple as a result of the separation of Gentile god-fearers from the
synagogue?

Geographical Absences
There are some important places where the cult is not attested at this time. As Mitchell
suggests, it may be that the god was worshipped under a different name, or the worshippers
called themselves something different, for example, the Caelicolae in North Africa
mentioned by St Augustine (see note 327). This may be the case, but the simple fact that
the name Hypsistos is not used marks a fundamental difference between them. It is my
suggestion here that the geographical spaces where the cult is not attested show that this
was not a cult with long-range, independent diffusive appeal. By contrast, it is argued that
this shows that the cult had arisen at a local level, as a response to localised interactions or
exposure. In particular, in the same way that the patterns for the cult of Hypsistos and the
Jewish Diaspora can be fairly closely matched,445 the absences in the evidence for the cult

445
See Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’.
226
can be related quite closely to places where there were not large Jewish populations, or
where those populations had been destroyed.
The notable exception is Rome, where the Jewish population was very large, yet
there is only one inscription, in Greek, to Theos Hypsistos, given by Claudia Pistis, ‘the
faithful’ (125). As seen above, there are also very few god-fearers attested from Rome.
Certainly in the first century AD Judaism is known to have attracted Romans, and Poppaea
Sabina is called theosebes by Josephus. It seems likely that the absence of epigraphic
examples may be accidental; or perhaps that in Rome, the Gentile adherents of Judaism
were known by another name; or that, as the cult of Hypsistos did not have an established
precedent in the city, god-fearing Gentiles adopted Christianity instead.
In Rome and across the Latin west, oriental cults and gods with Greek names and
heritage were widely diffused, but the cult of Hypsistos is barely attested. An inscription to
Theos Hypsistos Epekoos was found in a cultic cave on the coast north of Otranto in
Calabria (SEG XLV, 1482), alongside other dedications in the cave to Hypsistos, Epekoos,
Aniketos, and Optimus Maximus. The inscription to Theos Hypsistos was dedicated by a
freedman of the Anicii invoking protection on behalf of his patrons and wishing a safe
journey for a ship, but aside from this cave and Claudia Pistis in Rome, the cult in Italy is
entirely absent. The situation is the same in the northern and western provinces of the
Roman Empire, where the only other known dedication is an amulet from Valentia on the
coast of Hispania (126). A few Jewish inscriptions are known from along the coast of
Spain, in Sardinia, and around the northern shores of the Adriatic, but as with the
considerable Jewish community attested in Sicily, the inscriptions are mostly dated to the
third century or later.
This was also clearly not a cult that made any impression in the Roman army, which
was such a fertile ground for the proliferation of new cult movements, as has been seen in
Chapter 4. The most obvious explanation for this is that worshippers were never part of the
military networks that spread religious information – but why not? The only Hypsistos
dedications from the militarised northern provinces are from Dacia, where the names Zeus
and Theos also appear alongside each other in Apulum and Sarmizegetusa. Iulius Ateimetos
dedicated a votive depicting ears to Theos Hypsistos (79); Aelia Cassia set up a
thanksgiving to Theos Hypsistos Epekoos (78); and Aelius Apolinarius, a ‘guardian’, and
Maxima addressed the deity as Zeus Hypsistos Epekoos (77). The appearance of the name
Aelius may indicate that these people were quite high status, perhaps having been given
227
Roman citizenship by Hadrian, or descended from people who had been. The only
inscription to Hypsistos solely in Latin is from Apulum, reading ‘to the highest Jupiter,
most superior (Iovi summo exsuperantissimo), ruler of divine and human affairs, arbitrator
of destiny’ (76). It seems that the dedicants are all relatively high status Romans, although
some have a Greek nomen, and use Greek as the language for dedications. Very few Jews
are known from the northern provinces, and none in Dacia: a fourth century Jewish
archisynagogos is found in Oescus in Moesia Inferior. Jews had fundamental issues with
Roman military service, although there are two known Jewish synagogues on the limes in
Pannonia. Because of the commercial and military connections of the northern provinces,
the populations of these places are quite likely to have been highly mobile, and these
Hypsistos worshippers in Dacia probably introduced the cult from elsewhere.
Egypt is almost completely devoid of evidence for the worship of Hypsistos in the
imperial period. Equally, there are no known god-fearers in Egypt, suggesting that the
social divide between Greek and Egyptian Gentiles and Jews in Egypt was too wide to
bridge. Both Zeus and Theos appear in the few pieces of Hypsistos material dating from the
Hellenistic period. However, there is only one dedication dated to the first-second century
AD, which is, notably, an inscription from the Jewish colony of Leontopolis, mentioning
Theos Hypsistos and the proseuche (288). Egypt was an area where, in this period in
particular, the interactions between Jew and Gentile had been rife with social tension,
leading to the pogrom in Alexandria and finally, under Trajan, the revolt and the
decimation of the Jewish population. Furthermore, there was apparently no established
body of Gentile worshippers of the Jewish God. The social tensions in Egypt, and the lack
of god-fearers go some way towards explaining the later absence of the cult of Hypsistos in
the region. The revolt and destruction of the Jews in Cyrenaica might also be recalled;
however, the differing situation on Cyprus is noteworthy. The Jews of Cyprus revolted
under Trajan also, massacring many non-Jewish inhabitants and destroying Salamis, for
which they were banned from the island. They seem to have begun to re-establish
themselves in the third-fourth centuries. In the intervening period, the cult of Hypsistos is
very well attested, with most of the inscriptions dating from the second-third centuries. It is
notable that every single dedication is to Theos Hypsistos and there is a fairly strong
healing connection. It is plausible to imagine that these might represent Gentile god-fearers
who developed the cult of Theos Hypsistos after the Jewish uprising and banishment. There
is no indication of what kinds of spaces they worshipped in.
228
 This survey of the areas where Hypsistos is not attested highlights the nature of the
religious network across which the cult diffused. The cult appears to have been highly
localised, spreading across a network that was already formed. It did not transmit over long
distances like other eastern cults – the extremely few epigraphic finds from Spain and Italy
are generally maritime or transportable items. The uniformity of the second and third
century dedications, and the fact that by far the majority of the inscriptions use Theos
instead of Zeus to address the god supports the notion that the dedicants at this time had
something in common: a prior affiliation with Judaism.

The Cult of Hypsistos: divergent trends

However, there is at this time also the indication of divergence within the cult of Hypsistos.
Some worshippers seem to want to incorporate aspects of traditional polytheism, visible in
the few dedications that make an association with other deities. For example, a
thanksgiving dedication by two men from Nysa in Lycia is for Theos Hypsistos with the
Metri Oreia, at the calling of all the gods and goddesses (232); and a dedication from Cos
mentions a pantheon associated with Zeus Hypsistos (105a): Hera Ourania, Poseidon
Asphaleios (an often-used epithet for Poseidon, meaning ‘he who secures from
earthquakes’), Apollo and ‘all the gods’. It appears that this individual certainly understood
the cult of Hypsistos in a more traditional polytheist sense, finding it necessary or desirable
to include the traditional Hellenic pantheon alongside Hypsistos. However, what is
apparent is that these few examples cannot be used to argue that the cult simply fits the
‘normal’ pattern of polytheism: that polytheist tendencies are so occasional supports the
notion that in general, the cult of Hypsistos was monotheistic. The exceptions underline the
rule.
A particular pocket of local tradition is seen in the survival of seventeen dedications
from Stratonicaea in Caria, most of which are to Zeus rather than Theos (140-156). The
earliest dedication is dated to the period of Antoninus Pius, with the rest being roughly
second-third century. Almost all of the dedications are to Dii; uJyivstw/ kai; qeivw/ – either
‘Zeus the highest God’, or Zeus Hypsistos with an abstract divine power, to theion.446
Angeloi also occur frequently, reminiscent of the ‘common Jewish idea that the righteous
446
Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 102.
229
dead become angels or mingle with the angels’. Pseudo-Phocylides refers to the heavenly
bodies as ‘blessed ones’ and says that the dead become theoi – neither of which, in Collins’
opinion, should be taken as deviation from monotheism. 447 These facets of the dedications
both suggest a strong Jewish aspect to the cult, as Pseudo-Phocylides refers to the righteous
Jewish dead as theoi that mix with the angels. Angel worship was part of the indigenous
religious culture from other places in Asia Minor, and this also links with the description of
God and his angels in the oracle from Oinoanda. The earliest known inscription, dated
between 138-161, is particularly notable, as it names a pantheon with Zeus Hypsistos –
Hekate Soteria, Zeus Capetolios and the Tyche of the emperor Antoninus Pius (140).
Mitchell suggests that this shows Zeus Hypsistos was one of the main civic deities of
Stratonicaea, alongside Hekate, who was known for her famous extra-mural sanctuary at
nearby Lagina, where an inscription following the formula of Stratonicaea has been found:
Dii; uJyivstw/ kai; qeivw/ tw`/ basilikw`/ (157). Both these prominent local gods were then
coupled in a familiar fashion with the emblematic Roman cults of Jupiter Capitolinus and
the Fortuna of the ruling emperor. This suggests that at Stratonicaea, to a greater degree
than elsewhere in the evidence, the worship of Zeus Hypsistos was part of mainstream civic
paganism. However, the association in the majority of the dedications with to theion
suggests that it had much in common with the Theos Hypsistos of other contexts.448
While some dedications from this period incorporate other deities, equally, some
worshippers are more Judaizing. Some of these, such as the dedication that mentions the
Hagia Kataphyge, the ‘synagogue’ building in Tanais, or Judaizing official terminology,
such as that at Pydna, have been discussed above. Some references may be more covert. In
Thessalonica, Quintus Urbanus set up a dedication to Zeus Hypsistos with Nemesis, qea;n
dikaivan, ‘goddess of righteousness’ (54), showing the association between the Hypsistos
cult and concepts of justice and vengeance within Greek thought and religious ideas. An
inscription from Nacolea in Phrygia (220) is to Theos Hypsistos with Hosio kai Di-, which
Mitchell is tempted to read as Dikaios, the abstract god of justice found often in Phrygia.449
Although there is a lack of space on the stone for the necessary letters, the frequency of the
terms in the region means that the use of Hosio kai Di- is almost enough to conclude that
this is what the stonecutter meant. Further support for this argument is found in an example
of Hypsistos in conjunction with Hosios kai Dikaios from north-east Lydia (SEG XLVIII,
447
Collins, Jerusalem, p. 145.
448
Mitchell, S., Pers. Comm.
449
Ricl, M., ‘Hosios kai Dikaios’, EA, 18, 1991, pp. 1-70; 19, 1992, pp. 71-103.
230
1427 now TAM V.3, 1637) where the stone was first cut to read Theos Hypsistos, with the
upsilon, psi and sigma overcut to read Hosios. It is, however, unclear as to whether this
dedication is to the Theos Hosios kai Dikaios – the ‘pious and righteous God’, or to Theos
and the ‘Holy and the Just’ as separate entities. The editors of SEG do conclude however,
that, in Phrygia, the cult of Hypsistos should be considered to be in some way associated
with the Holy and the Just. Although the dedications are largely uniform, there was clearly
room within the cult for the expression of individual’s personal religious beliefs or strong
local cults, especially in the later Imperial period.

It is clear that the cult of Hypsistos existed as an entity separate from Judaism to a greater
or lesser degree from the Hellenistic period onwards. We have seen also, however, that
many aspects of the epigraphic record link the cult of Hypsistos strongly to Judaism, and
although the material is often simple and not particularly revealing, the above examination
of the epigraphy has shown that a number of conclusions can be drawn from the corpus
taken as a whole. However, these conclusions are, to an extent, negative. First, that the cult
was not limited to any gender, sector of society (except perhaps in the case of the
Macedonian elites) or profession – the range of the people in the evidence are connected
solely through the common term used to address their deity – they form, in other words, a
religious network. Second, that the spaces where Hypsistos worship occurred were
somewhat heterogeneous; an implication being that there was not a fixed space for worship,
although there were certainly priests of the cult and a tendency towards open air sanctuary
space. This might further suggest that devotees did not necessarily have much choice of the
place in which they worshipped, but more important, it shows that a built physical location
was not a pre-requisite for the cult to thrive. Finally, that the places where the cult is not
attested, or is not attested during the later Roman Empire, are glaringly apparent. These
areas, in particular Egypt and the militarised northern provinces where ‘oriental’ cults were
so profoundly popular, were areas under the Empire without Jewish populations and the
associated god-fearers. The cult of Hypsistos could only move through receptive social
space.
The cult could not reach into social space where there were no existing networks to
facilitate transmission. One explanation that might help to incorporate these three aspects of
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the epigraphic evidence is that, in the second century, the numbers of the existing cult of
Hypsistos, which was fairly evenly distributed across the eastern Mediterranean and had
been influenced to a degree by Judaism, was swelled by erstwhile god-fearers, who brought
with them a partially formed network of believers. These were people from all social
backgrounds who had been associated with Judaism – men, women, poor, wealthy, from all
kinds of professions. At precisely the time that Judaism was undergoing radical change and
upheaval, and when Jew and Gentile relations were becoming in some places extremely
hostile, the cult of Theos Hypsistos boomed.
It will be helpful to supplement these hypothetical explanations by visualising the
connections that might have existed between the worshippers of Hypsistos themselves and
comparing them with the network for the Jewish Diaspora. The following network analysis
will add depth to the conclusions from the epigraphy.

Visualising the Network

Here the pattern of the evidence is assessed as a totality. Using networks allows the
hypothetical reconstruction of largely invisible communication routes and the avenues of
information transmission that framed and shaped the spread of the cult of Hypsistos. The
simple distribution map (Map 6A) shows the places where Hypsistos inscriptions have
been found, concentrated in Macedonia, Greece and Asia Minor: purely geographical data
that can offer no further information as to the development of the cult or its transmission.
Linking the nodes together into a network visualises the potential communication routes
between these places and reveals patterns and routes in the distribution as a whole.
An initial Proximal Point Analysis (PPA) of every piece of epigraphic data captures
the ‘end picture’ of the cult, linking every known node, regardless of date, to its three
closest neighbours. This type of model highlights clusters, isolation and centres. It is a
preliminary analysis of data that spans roughly six centuries and as such is not a reflection
of the actual connections that existed between these sites. However what it does do is allow
an initial observation of the geographically determined network: the empty spaces, long-

232
distance overland or maritime links, and some of the constraints the terrain had on
communications.
The three subsequent directed Proximal Point Analyses respond to what is known of
the date range of the evidence, by mapping the find spots in three temporal chunks to match
those of the epigraphic analysis. Each find location is once again linked to its three closest
neighbours, but because of the loose dating of these cult finds, only one of which is
required to be already established. This analysis helps to visualise the spread of the cult in
actual terms, highlighting centres of diffusion and building localised network pockets of
interaction. A comparison with the PPA of the Jewish Diaspora allows the relationship
between the two to be seen more clearly. On the maps, a site with only one epigraphic find
is written in lowercase lettering; a site with more than one find or an inscription that reveals
a building is in uppercase.

Proximal Point Analysis: Map 6B

The initial proximal point analysis of the Hypsistos evidence shows the concentration,
interconnectedness and evenness of the cult finds in Macedonia and western Asia Minor,
implying a localised and somewhat uniform diffusion. However, the networks of the more
distant areas are also noteworthy – namely, the separation of the networks in Bosporan
Cimmeria and Paphlagonia and Pontus and that of Egypt, the Negev and Syria. Crete and
Cyprus also represent introverted and somewhat disconnected clusters. These network
formations might indicate that the cult was of a different quality: and Cyprus, Egypt, Syria,
Bosporan Cimmeria, and to a lesser extent, Crete, are notable for the strong Jewish
connections in those places. In Crete, Cyprus and the Cimmerian Bosporus only dedications
to Theos Hypsistos are found; comparison with the network for the Jewish Diaspora will
help to further illuminate these connections. The interpretation of the network of
Paphlagonia and Pontus will also benefit from this comparison.
In the more tightly integrated network of Greece, Macedonia and Asia Minor, some
other features are immediately noticeable. The divide between Macedonia, Thrace and
Thessaly, and the southern Greek networks is quite apparent, and may indicate that the cult
was of a different form – there is certainly a divide in terms of address between these two

233
areas, with the southern locations, with the exception of Sparta, mostly choosing Theos
rather than Zeus.
The pathway across the south Aegean is through Delos, highlighting the island as a
bridge between southern Greece and Asia Minor. Through the north, it is between Thrace
and Mysia via Lemnos and Imbros, implying the connectivity of these areas.
Across Asia Minor itself, it is interesting that the sites in Lycia and Pisidia connect
up the river valleys into Phrygia, rather than across the mountains into Caria, reflecting the
geographical barriers and indicating that the cult in Lycia might be more strongly linked
with Phrygia. Likewise, the network around Byzantium, the Sea of Marmaris and coastal
Moesia connects into central Phrygia rather than across Thrace to Macedonia. These
features combine to highlight Phrygia as an area of central importance to the cult, and
create a hub with six links at Aizanoi. Other hubs are at Athens and Corinth, both places
where there are large known Jewish communities; Antigoneia in Macedonia, which seems
to have been highlighted for its between-ness – linking Dacia and Moesia Superior into
Macedonia and Thrace; and Emesa in Syria, a major cultic centre and certainly by the
fourth century AD, with a Jewish community large enough to support an entire regiment,
known from an inscription from Iulia Concordia (CIJ I, 640). It is notable that the network
is very evenly weighted and as such that there are very few nodes that have hub status. This
suggests that, rather than being a cult movement that was diffused centrally, it was a more
grass roots, localised ‘emergent’ process. This network pattern also supports the notion that
it does not really represent a ‘diffusion’ of ideas, rather the ‘activation’ of a pre-existing
group.
The more distant northern and western cult find spots, in Spain, Rome, and Dacia,
highlight their own isolation through the long links across huge stretches of water or land.
This offers a clue as to the routes by which the cult came to be found in these places – i.e.,
that these dedications were by people out of their ordinary context. It might be supposed
that the worshippers in Apulum and Sarmizegetusa were connected with the Roman
military and commercial operations in the area, and that these places had long-distance
connections with the rest of the Roman world is indicated by the inscription of a Roman
citizen and councillor of Sarmizegetusa attested in Mytilene in the second century (117).
The single find in Rome must presumably be connected with the Jewish community there;
and the two other western locations, Valencia and Torre dell’Orso in Calabria, also both
single finds, are surely connected with maritime activity. Indeed, the eu[ploia inscription
234
from Calabria makes this explicit (SEG XLV, 1482); and the find from Valencia is really
in a different category, as it is a portable lead amulet (126).

Directed Network Analysis (Maps 6C-6E)

Following from these initial observations of clustering and isolation in the pattern, the
following Proximal Point Analysis will build in the date range of the evidence. By plotting
the distributions in chunks, the analysis reveals a clearer picture of the diffusion of the cult
over time and places that can be identified as centres. Once again, nodes connect to their
three closest neighbours, one of which must be already established. What this sequence is
intended to show is the potential diffusion routes based solely on the date and pattern of the
evidence. This series of networks will then be compared with the networks for the Jewish
Diaspora.

The Hellenistic period to the end of the first century BC: Map 6C
The early cult network is simple: divided between that in Egypt and Cyprus and that in the
Aegean. In the network centred on the Aegean, it is notable that the locations are mainly
coastal – Delos, Imbros, Skiathos, Miletus, Iasos, Prusa and Odessus. These are at some
distance from each other, making the network distances fairly long, but their coastal
locations imply maritime links. The separation of the Aegean network is supported by the
fact that almost all of these are dedications to Zeus Hypsistos.
Delos, with five links, is shown to be crucial to the interconnectivity of the cult in
the Aegean, likewise Imbros provides a stepping-stone between the Aegean and Odessus
and Prusa. Although both of these are single finds, they reveal that the cult was quite well
established in both these places at this early stage, the inscription from Odessus recording
the donation of parts of a building to Zeus Hypsistos (81); and the dedication from Prusa
being on behalf of the whole village (189). The cult was not therefore simply superficially
adopted. The pockets of introspection in Caria and Macedonia represent localised cult
movements, focused respectively around Miletus and Iasos and Edessa.

235
 The separation of the Cypro-Egyptian network is quite striking, especially in
comparison with the initial PPA, which posed no links between them. The cult is surely
related to the considerable Jewish populations in both of these places, supported by the fact
that the dedications in both these areas use Theos, aside from the first century guild of Zeus
Hypsistos worshippers in the Fayoum (287). As noted above, two of the Egyptian
inscriptions also mention the proseuche. Egypt and Cyprus were closely linked; indeed
Cyprus was for a long time a major part of the Ptolemaic empire. Egypt also at various
times possessed Caria, Lycia, some Aegean islands and parts of Thrace and the Chersonese,
which serves to remind us of the pan-Aegean communications and taxation that took place
in the Hellenistic period.450

The first century AD: Map 6D

The following hundred years show a substantial expansion of the network, and also that it
does so quite evenly. It is at this period that the cult is first attested in the Black Sea region,
in internal Anatolia, in southern Greece, and stretches superficially into Rome to the west.
The network is very even, with most links fairly short and many nodes that have six
or seven links. Delos is slightly larger as a hub, with new links to Crete and Athens, but its
influence is essentially limited to the southern Aegean. At this stage, the island’s fortune
was in decline, and it is Imbros that acts as a major juncture between the cult in Macedonia
and the Sea of Marmaris. There is only one dedication from Imbros (113), however, so
what the network really highlights is the level of connectivity between Thrace and
Macedonia and northwest Asia Minor. It is pertinent to remember that it was at this time
that Paul made his crossing over into Macedonia from Troas, arriving in Philippi (Acts,
16:8-12).
The pocket of cult in Caria barely changes in this period, whereas the network in
Macedonia expands outwards and becomes less introspective, joining south into Greece,
north to Serdica and eastwards along the coast into Thrace. Again, Paul’s missionary
journeys throughout this area are expedient to recall, highlighting the actual connectivity

Rostovtzeff, M., Social and Economic History of the Hellenistic World, vol. 1, Clarendon Press: Oxford,
450

1941, p. 332-339.
236
and transmission of religious ideas that was happening at the time. A smaller pocket also
appears clustering around Prusa in the region of the Sea of Propontis.
It is quite illuminating that the network between Cyprus and Egypt hardly expands
and remains entirely separate. The lack of cult dedications in this period suggests that there
was no real social space for the cult. That this network does not join up with the Aegean
network suggests that the interactions between Cyprus and Egypt remained markedly
introspective, and just a little later than the temporal boundaries of this map, under Trajan,
the Jews of Cyprus revolted along with Cyrenaica and Egypt, proving that close
communications between the Jewish communities in both places were still in existence.

The second-third centuries: Map 6E

This last map in the series illustrates the extraordinary increase in the number of
dedications to Hypsistos in this period. The expansion of the network connectivity is quite
extreme, but it is immediately obvious that the shape of the network essentially retains the
same shape.
It is only in this period that the network between Egypt and Cyprus connects with
the rest of the cultic network in the Aegean, via Cyprus and the sites on the coast of Cilicia.
The cult on Cyprus itself becomes profoundly introspective, which may in part be reflective
of the broken link between Cyprus and Egypt following the Jewish revolts. The coast of
Phoenicia and Palmyra in the hinterland appear in this period, and connect into Cyprus.
Egypt gains no new nodes, clearly paralleling the destruction of the Jewish population
there, but links are made into Egypt from the new sites in the Negev in Judaea and Petra in
Nabataea. The find from the Negev is decorated with a menorah (281), indicating that this
was a fully Jewish dedication.
In Asia Minor, the network connects the coastal cities of Caria and Ionia, and
spreads into the cities of central Anatolia. Hierocaesarea and Pessinus emerge as local
centres, due to the presence of the cult in the previous century, however, even though these
sites have more than the average number of links, the resulting network is still extremely
decentralised. This makes apparent the speed and the profundity of the adoption of the cult
in these areas, supporting the interpretation of the epigraphy that it was not a centralised
cult, but rather, represents in some way the activation of a network already in place. It
237
additionally indicates the epigraphic habit being adopted as a sudden, emergent
phenomenon in these areas. This analysis also shows the same geographical barriers as the
initial PPA. Lycia and Pisidia connect up into Phrygia, while the knot of cult finds Caria
makes a tightly introspective network, implying the cult here has a traditional character;
although it does connect via Aphrodisias into Phrygia. Similarly, the cult network in Thrace
and Macedonia in particular becomes very tightly integrated, implying that this area the cult
was localised and standardised.
The expansion of the Roman Empire under Trajan into the province of Dacia early
in this period is made clear with the find from Apulum, with the network suggesting that
the person who dedicated came into this area from Moesia Superior. It is notable that the
cult found no followers further west along the Danube, when other eastern cults were
proving so popular among the soldiers in the Roman army; in fact, the only indication that
there might have been military interest is found in the location of the Hypsistos finds at
Sarmizegetusa. The cult is otherwise completely absent from the Danube valley, except at
the mouth of the river and a little along the coast. The people dedicating to this deity up in
the mountains of Dacia must then be connected with cult followers further south, made
clear by the network connections.

Network Comparison: the cult of Hypsistos and the Jewish Diaspora

A comparison of the two PPA analyses for both the Hypsistos material and the material
pertaining to the Jewish Diaspora reveals the striking similarity in their distribution. This
section refers to Map 5C in Chapter 5, and Map 6B here.
However, an immediately identifiable difference is that the Jewish Diaspora
permeates through the western Mediterranean, where the cult of Hypsistos is absent. This is
explained simply through the fact that much of this epigraphic evidence for the Jewish
Diaspora in the west is either superficial or dated to the third century or later. The cult of
Hypsistos is also clearly missing from North Africa. The Jewish network is heavily
introspective in Egypt, whereas the cult of Hypsistos is only found in the Nile delta region
and only superficially.
However, the similarities between the two networks far outweigh the differences.
The distributions for both in the eastern Mediterranean are virtually identical. In particular,
238
the position of Delos as a bridge between Athens and southern Greece to the Dodecanese
and the coast of Caria and Ionia is very similar. This is partly geographically determined
but also makes clear the unique position that Delos occupied in antiquity. A node with such
high network ‘betweenness’ like Delos would have provided fertile ground for the
exchange of information and religious ideas. Lycia and Pisidia are linked to Phrygia in both
the Jewish and Hypsistos networks, while the networks in Caria and Ionia are entirely
separate. Also similar are the networks round the Sea of Propontis.
The cats’ cradle of both networks in central Asia Minor is particularly notable, and
shows that interactions in this area would have been frequent and fairly intense. It is
important that in this area, no centre emerges for either network, suggesting that the
diffusion of ideas in Phrygia, Galatia and the hinterlands of Caria, Ionia and Mysia might
have been a particularly heterarchical process, driven by low-level localised interactions.
However, the network configurations in the eastern Mediterranean also show some
interesting differences. Although both groups share three of the sites in northern Asia
Minor (Amastris, Sebastopolis, Tavium), the networks they form are quite different. The
Jewish Diaspora links into the north shore of the Black Sea, into Bithynia and down into
Lycaonia, while Hypsistos forms an entirely separate network. However, a comparison of
these configurations and noting the points they share suggest that they probably shared
connective routes: cross-Euxine for Hypsistos, and between the eastern steppe and the coast
of Paphlagonia for the Jewish Diaspora. The Jewish communities of Asia Minor are, aside
from via the Sea of Propontis and Delos, apparently unconnected with Macedonia and
Greece, whereas the Hypsistos cult makes a strong link between Mysia and
Macedonia/Thrace: the recollection of Paul’s routes between the Jewish communities of
Asia Minor and the Aegean basin counters this somewhat false picture and remind us that
the networks were in actuality more similar. Likewise, the disconnection of Crete in the
Hypsistos PPA network is countered by the links into Melos and the southern Peloponnese
seen in the Jewish network, as well as in the developed Hypsistos PPAs.

These network analyses have supported the conclusions drawn from the epigraphy that the
cult of Hypsistos emerged in a decentralised fashion. Network hubs potentially had an early
effect in diffusing the cult, Delos being an obvious candidate, but also the sites of Miletus-
239
Iasos had an important effect on their local environment, and Hierocaesarea and Pessinus
during the first-second centuries. However, the network for the cult of Hypsistos is in
general extremely decentralised, and it is noticeable that in Macedonia, no site emerged as
having particular network centrality, supporting the suggestion that diffusion was
decentralised or ‘heterarchical’. The initial Proximal Point Analysis highlighted the areas in
the network that might be considered anomalous or of a different quality. Through the three
temporally developing networks, the analysis has further demonstrated the lack of cultic
centres, and the localised, emergent interactions that seem to have driven the cult of
Hypsistos. The comparison with the PPA network for the Jewish Diaspora reveal the
striking similarities between the diffusion patterns, and highlight some of the different
configurations of the networks, but also the potential points of contact between them.

Conclusions: Religious networks and competition

The epigraphic evidence for the cult of Hypsistos is not as informative as that for the cult of
Jupiter Dolichenus or that of the Jewish Diaspora, and moreover, the dating is often very
loose, so it is not easy to make substantiated claims regarding the nature of the cult or its
relationship to Judaism. Given these barriers, this chapter has gone some way to making
some broad proposals about the cult.
It has been suggested that Delos played a pivotal role in the introduction of the cult
of Hypsistos into the Greek world. Delos occupies a central position in both the epigraphic
and network analyses, and as an international cult centre and free port in the Hellenistic
period, people of considerable status from across the Mediterranean were frequent visitors.
The opportunity for the exchange of religious ideas is clear in such a context, and the high
status individuals who visited the island would have been in a good position to bring new
ideas back to their homelands, and have the social power to influence others.
It has been shown that the cult was diffused relatively evenly during the first
century AD, across the Mediterranean world, some areas more Judaizing, some more
pagan. At this period Jewish communities are also found in the same locations where the
cult is known. It has been argued that the cult underwent a major change during the second-
240
third centuries, when the attestations increase enormously and almost all use Theos rather
than Zeus. Rather than this simply being a product of the epigraphic habit, although this
certainly played a role, the facts that the cult crosses social divides and is not confined to
any professional or other group; has no fixed paradigm of space for worship; and is
markedly absent from certain areas – especially in the Western Mediterranean – where it
might have been expected to occur, together suggest the activation of a previously
established religious network. The increase in dedications at this time represents a
phenomenon with an emergent or ‘self-organised’ quality, arising across particular spaces
in the eastern Mediterranean, Anatolia, and the Black Sea world, all at the same time, due
to a series of localised interactions.
These are markedly regions where there were known Jewish communities.
Furthermore most of these environments, especially in the interior of Asia Minor, were
largely agrarian and populated on the whole by peasant farmers. New influxes of
immigrant settlers would have been quite exceptional. The low-level and regular
interactions between Jew and Gentile in these areas Hellenised the Jews and Judaized the
Gentiles – and this resulted in considerable Gentile attendance at Jewish religious
gatherings. The Acts of the Apostles records god-fearers in all the synagogues that Paul
visits – yet the god-fearers are almost entirely absent from the epigraphic record in Asia
Minor, with a few examples from either the first or the third centuries. If the epigraphic
habit as a ‘fashion’ spread over central Asia Minor in the second-third century, then why
did the god-fearers not also adopt this habit?
This analysis goes beyond Mitchell’s argument that these people who had been
associated with Judaism should also be found in the evidence for the cult of Theos
Hypsistos, and proposes that the reason that they did not call themselves ‘god-fearers’ in
the second-third centuries was because it was unattractive or even dangerous for gentiles to
associate themselves overtly with Judaism following the destruction of the Temple and the
revolt led by Simon Bar Kokhba. In the previous chapter, it was argued that the strong-tie
ethnic connectivity of the Jewish Diaspora was activated in the years following these
disasters, and that this made the network increasingly susceptible to religious innovation,
utilised by the religious authorities in Palestine to transmit the rabbinic reforms. These new
religious strictures must have had some effect on the Gentile god-fearers, and would have
led to a re-articulation of the relationship between Jew and Gentile. The god-fearers already
formed their own network as a result of their participation in the synagogue, and could
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either join the burgeoning messianic sect of Christianity, or the already established cult of
Theos Hypsistos. It is suggested here that many of them did – accounting, in part, for the
huge increase in dedications at this time.

The end of the cult

The dedications to Hypsistos drop off almost completely by the fourth century, with five
known inscriptions dated to this period. One from the Negev bears the explicit Jewish
symbol of the menorah (281); one from Hadriani in Mysia is explicitly Christian (184).
Might the type of religious network formed by Hypsistos worshippers account for the end
of the cult? It is apparent that during this period, god-fearers again begin to be found in the
epigraphic evidence, suggesting that the Jewish communities were opening up to the
outside once again. Christianity had boomed in popularity and was adopted as the state
religion of the Roman Empire at the beginning of the fourth century. The end of the cult of
Hypsistos was inevitable: with no particular bond of ethnicity, class or profession to link
the worshippers, the religious network was only as strong as the cult itself. Although
Christianity too crossed these kinds of social divides, it had a missionary core and impetus.
The example of Gregory of Nazianzus’ father, who died in AD 374, is a pertinent
illustration of the strong competition from Christianity that the cult of Hypsistos faced. He
had originally been a worshipper of Hypsistos, but had been converted some fifty years
previously, by a travelling group of Orthodox Christian bishops on their way to the council
of Nicaea.451 In the face of the powerful missionary ethic of Christianity, and the re-opening
of the doors of the Jewish synagogue, the cult of Theos Hypsistos was unable to survive.

451
Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 18.5 (PG 35. 990), in Mitchell, ‘Hypsistos’, p. 94-95.
242
 Epilogue

Networks of interconnections between nodes are used in the modern world to explain a
variety of types of change across a variety of disciplines, from disease epidemics to systems
failure. The aim of this thesis was to begin to explore how insights from network models
might be applied to the ancient world.
Understanding how the structure of the environment can determine the diffusion of
an innovation is key to understanding why some innovations are successful and others fail.
By conceiving of an environment as a space characterised by interconnected nodes, a
network, it is possible to analyse the success or failure of an innovation without recourse to
a value judgement about the nature of the innovation itself. The emphasis of network theory
is on the processes by which innovation and social change occur: the combination of the
inherited, ‘vertical’ aspect of the culture that determines the nature of an innovation, and
the environment, or the connectivity of the network, the ‘horizontal’ aspect, that determines
the profundity of that innovation’s propagation.
I have shown that network theory can be used both as a heuristic device and as a
practical modelling tool for re-approaching the subject of religious change in the ancient
world, allowing us to re-conceptualise the reasons for the success or failure of religious
movements. Instead of focusing simply on what the epigraphic data can tell the modern
observer, approaching the evidence from a network perspective has brought other aspects to
the forefront of interpretation. The distribution patterns as well as the social patterns of
epigraphic material can be analysed, showing the social networks that were in place that
facilitated the transmission and adoption of new religious information.
The three case studies examined here have illuminated different ways in which
religious movements operated in the ancient world. The analysis of the cult of Jupiter
Dolichenus has shown that the actual innovation of an entire cultic form can spread across a
strong-tie social network, and that the particular strong-tie network of the officer class of
the Roman military was conducive to the swift propagation and dissolution of novel
religious forms. The success (and failure) of Jupiter Dolichenus might be described as an
246
information cascade, a stochastic network growth triggered by a single change or adoption,
but that gave rise to multiple consequent events.
By contrast, the cult network of Theos Hypsistos has been shown to have properties
which suggest a state of self-organised criticality: in that a series of small interactions
between Jew and Gentile combined to create a fragile system, manifest in the god-fearers,
that was subject to mass change given the right environmental factors. The political
situation created by the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem and the beginning of the
rabbinic reforms was just such an environment for god-fearing Gentiles. The emergence in
the second-third centuries of the cult of Theos Hypsistos marks the epigraphic ‘trace’ of a
self-organised reaction to the tensions between Jew and Gentile.
The discussion of the spread of information across the ‘ethnic’ network formed by
the Jewish Diaspora might be described as combining elements of an information cascade
driven by a single event, with a network that displays a level of self-organised criticality.
The re-Judaization of the Diaspora following the destruction of the Temple in AD 70 and
the Bar Kokhba revolt was manifest in the epigraphy through the clear statement of Jewish
identity. This ‘fashion’ spread rapidly through the established religious format across the
‘activated’ network of the Jewish Diaspora, catalysed by external political factors and
events and driven by the rabbinic reforms, but also showing that the network was fragile
and ready for change.
Understanding change in ancient history can be aided by the incorporation and
further development of ideas in network theory. Although this thesis has presented only a
preliminary examination of the ways in which network thinking can be applied to ancient
historical subjects, I hope it has shown something of the potential in this method of
analysis. My analysis of these three religious movements from the broad viewpoint of
network theory has allowed the building of an alternative picture about the interactions that
created them. I hope to have shown that religious ‘conversion’ and change cannot simply
be attributed to the superiority of the religious innovation: it is fundamentally driven by the
social networks formed by the believers, and these networks are embodied by the patterns
in the epigraphic data.

247
 APPENDI X: CONC OR DA NCE OF

EPI GRAP HI C MATERI AL

1. Jupiter Dolichenus:

by catalogue number 249

by region 262

2. The jewish diaspora:

By catalogue number 275

By region 293

3. Theos Hypsistos:

By catalogue number 311

By region 319

248
 Jupit e r Doli c he nus


by catalogue number

Publication/s Location Region Type Date

A. Pellegrino, Les cultes de
Jupiter Dolichénien et de
Jupiter Héliopolitain à Ostie,
in: G. M. Bellelli and U.
Bianchi (eds), Orientalia Ostia Italia stone -
Sacra Urbis Romae.
Dolichena et Heliopolitana,
Rom 1996, S. 563-583, S. 564,
Fig. 3.
E. Sanzi, Sur une inscription
romaine en rapport avec le
culte dolichénien, in
Rome Italia sarcophagus -
Orientalia Sacra Urbis
Romae. Dolichena et
Heliopolitana, S. 257 ff.
G. L. Irby-Massie, Military
Religion in Roman Britain,
Eboracum (York) Britannia inscription 221 AD
Leiden/Boston/Köln 1999, S.
278.
G. L. Irby-Massie, Military
Habitancum - Risingham Britannia inscription 3rd century AD
Religion, S. 280.
G.L. Irby-Massie, Military
Maglona (old Carlisle) Britannia altar 197 AD
Religion, S. 279.
M. Hörig, E. Schwertheim,
Doliche - Dülük Syria altar 57/58 AD
CCID, 1987, 2
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 3 Doliche - Dülük Syria slab Pre-256 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 4 Doliche - Dülük Syria slab Pre-256 AD
Mid-1st century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 6 Doliche - Dülük Syria votive triangle
AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 7 Doliche - Dülük Syria votive triangle -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 8 Zafer, nr. Antep Syria stele -
End 2nd, beg. 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 9 Kekliktepe, nr. Antep Syria stele
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 12 Antep (Doliche) Syria sealstone 21 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 16 Tilhalit Syria stele -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 17 Maras - Germanikeia Syria stele 1st century AD
between Maras & sculptural
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 18 Syria Imperial
Birecik group
Kurdini Tepe, nr. First half 1st
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 19 Syria stele
Alacakilise century AD
Kurdini Tepe, nr.
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 20 Syria column drum
Alacakilise
Gonca Dagi, nr. Asagi First half 1st
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 21 Syria stele
Kalecik century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 22 Zeytintepe, nr. Baspinar Syria stele 1st century BC/1st
249
 century AD
1st century BC/1st
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 23 Zeytintepe, nr. Baspinar Syria stele
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 24 Kurcuoglu Syria stele -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 25 Kurcuoglu Syria stele -
1st/2nd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 26 Khaltan, in Tal des Afrin Syria stele
AD
1st/2nd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 27 Khaltan, in Tal des Afrin Syria stele
AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 28 Mastala Syria stele 2nd century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 29 Hierapolis - Membidj Syria stele -
2nd/3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 30 Caesarea Judea block
AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 32 Dura Europus Mesopotamia altar 211 AD
June-Oct 251
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 33 Dura Europus Mesopotamia altar
AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 34 Dura Europus Mesopotamia altar 251-53 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 35 Dura Europus Mesopotamia stele -
239 AD, 27/28
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 39 Dura Europus Mesopotamia text
May
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 40 Beka'a Syria hand -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 41 Lebanon Syria hand -
Comana Cappadociae -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 43 Cappadocia hand 1st century AD
Sar
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 44 Asia Minor Asia Minor hand -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 45 Asia Minor Asia Minor hand -
sculptural Mid-3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 48 Stobi
group AD
Augusta Traiana -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 50 Thracia slab 222-235 AD
Stamovo
Augusta Traiana - Stara 212-217 (214)
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 51 Thracia altar
Zagora AD
Augusta Traiana - Stara
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 52 Thracia column -
Zagora
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 53 Gorni Voden Thracia hand -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 54 Cillae - Cerna Gora Thracia base 202-211 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 55 Haskovo Thracia hand -
btwn Noviodunum and Moesia 212, 27 Feb-8th
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 60 column
Troesmis - Nikulitel Inferior Apr. 217
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 61 Troesmis - Meidanchioi tablet 218-222 AD
Inferior
Moesia sculptural
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 62 Troesmis - Cerna 222-235 AD
Inferior group
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 63 Histria statuette -
Inferior
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 64 Histria or Durostorum altar 198-209 AD
Inferior
Vicus Quintionis (nr. Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 65 altar 212-222 AD
Histria) Inferior
Moesia End 2nd, beg. 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 66 Tomis - Constanta statuette
Inferior century AD
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 67 Muratu slab -
Inferior
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 68 Tropaeum Traiani altar -
Inferior
Bezmer, prob. from Moesia First half 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 69 statuette
Durostorum Inferior century AD
250
 Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 70 Bizone - Varna hand 235-239 AD
Inferior
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 71 Dionysopolis - Balcik Inferior altar 214 AD

Moesia Beg. 3rd century

Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 73 Nikolaevka, nr. Varna votive table
Inferior AD
Moesia 2nd/3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 74 Novae - Steklen altar
Inferior AD
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 75 Novae - Steklen altar -
Inferior
Emporium Piretensium - Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 76 altar -
Gorsko Kosovo Inferior
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 77 Dragoevo, near Preslav altar 238-244 AD
Inferior
Moesia sculptural
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 85 Vinimacium - Kostolac -
Superior group
Pincum - Veliko Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 86 statuette 3rd century AD
Gradiste Superior
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 87 Karatas, near Kladovo altar post 211 AD
Superior
Moesia sculptural
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 89 Egeta - Brza Palanka -
Superior group
1-1st half 2nd
Moesia century AD or
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 90 Egeta - Brza Palanka statue
Superior 2nd/3rd century
AD
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 91 Egeta - Brza Palanka statuette -
Superior
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 92 Egeta - Brza Palanka statuette -
Superior
Moesia 2nd/3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 93 Egeta - Brza Palanka statuette
Superior AD
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 94 Egeta - Brza Palanka statuette -
Superior
Moesia Mid-3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 95 Egeta - Brza Palanka tablet
Superior AD
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 97 Egeta - Brza Palanka relief -
Superior
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 103 Romulianum? - Jasen votive triangle 3rd century AD
Superior
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 104 Romulianum? - Jasen tablet 3rd century AD
Superior
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 105 Romulianum? - Jasen tablet -
Superior
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 106 Romulianum? - Jasen statuette -
Superior
Bononia/Jasen - Junija Moesia 2nd/3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 107 statuette
Alba Superior AD
Moesia End 2nd, beg. 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 108 Vidin statuette
Superior century AD
Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria - Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 109 altar -
Arcar Superior
Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria - Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 110 altar -
Arcar Superior
Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria - Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 111 altar c. 300 AD
Arcar Superior

251
 Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria - Moesia Beg. 3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 112 altar
Arcar Superior AD
Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria - Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 113 altar 198-208 AD
Kosava nr. Arcar Superior
Beg. 3rd century
Moesia sculptural
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 114 Timacum Minus - Ravna AD
Superior group
Moesia votive Beg. 3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 115 Gracanica
Superior inscription AD
Moesia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 116 Kumanovo altar 216 AD, 1st Nov
Superior
Metulum - Beg. 3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 120 Dalmatia altar
Josephsthal/Munjava AD
Arupium - Vitalj near
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 121 Dalmatia column -
Otocac
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 122 Vrlika Dalmatia ? -
grave
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 123 Salonae - Salone Dalmatia -
inscription
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 124 Narona - Hama Dalmatia altar 193 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 125 Japra - Majdaniste Dalmatia base -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 126 Prizren Dalmatia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 130 Samum - Casei Dacia fragment -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 131 Samum - Casei Dacia altar 243 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 132 Samum - Casei Dacia altar 224 AD
Ilisua, district Bistrita- End 2nd, beg. 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 133 Dacia statuette
Nasaud century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 134 Certiae - Romita Dacia altar 238-244 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Porolissum Dacia ?
135/6
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 137 Buciumi Dacia altar 211-212 AD
Domnestri, municipality
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 138 Dacia altar 167-180 AD
Mariselu, area Bistrita
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 139 Gherla, in area of Cluj Dacia statuette -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 140 Napoca - Cluj Dacia altar 198-208 AD
-
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 141 Napoca - Cluj Dacia altar
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 142 Potaissa - Turda Dacia votive triangle -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 143 Potaissa - Turda Dacia altar -
End 2nd, beg. 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 144 Potaissa - Turda Dacia altar
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 145 Potaissa - Turda Dacia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 146 Ampelum - Zlatna Dacia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 147 Ampelum - Zlatna Dacia column -
End 2nd, beg. 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 148 Ampelum - Zlatna Dacia column
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 149 Ampelum - Zlatna Dacia column -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 150 Ampelum - Zlatna Dacia altar 238-244 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 151 Apulum - Alba Iulia Dacia fragment 138-161 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 152 Apulum - Alba Iulia Dacia fragment -
End 2nd, beg. 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 153 Apulum - Alba Iulia Dacia column
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 154 Apulum - Alba Iulia Dacia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 155 Apulum - Alba Iulia Dacia altar 198-211 AD
End 2nd, beg. 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 156 Kozlard, Coslar/Apulum Dacia votive table
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 157 Blaj/Apulum Dacia votive relief -

252
 Sibiu
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 158 Dacia ? -
Apulum/Sarmizegetusa
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 159 Micia - Vetel Dacia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 160 Micia - Vetel Dacia altar -
Sincrai, deployment 209-214. Feb.
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 161 Dacia altar
front for Aquae 211 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 162 Sibiu - Sacadate Dacia altar -
End 2nd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 163 Tibiscum - Caransebes Dacia altar
AD
Ulpia Traiana - Beg. 3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 165 Dacia altar
Sarmizegetusa AD
Ulpia Traiana -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 169 Dacia altar -
Sarmizegetusa
Ulpia Traiana -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 170 Dacia relief -
Sarmizegetusa
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 171 Catunele de Sus Dacia hand -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 172 Pojejena de Sus Dacia altar Pre-132?
First half 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 173 Racari, region of Dolj Dacia votive triangle
century AD
End 2nd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 174 Amarastii de Jos Dacia statuette
AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 175 Desa, near Ratiaria Dacia statuette -
Pre-mid-3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 176 Sucidava Dacia altar
century AD
Mychkovo (or else Second half 2nd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 177 Dacia hand
Myszkow in Ukraine!) century AD
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 182 Tokod, near Esztergom altar 222-235 AD
Inferior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 183 Aquincum - Obuda base Post-100 AD
Inferior
Pannonia sculptural
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 184 Aquincum? -
Inferior group
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 185 Aquincum stele 228 AD
Inferior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 188 Vetus Salina - Adony bust -
Inferior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 189 Vetus Salina - Adony hand -
Inferior
Pannonia Beg. 3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 200 Gorsium - Sarpentele altar
Inferior AD, or 202 AD
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 201 Lussonium - Komlod votive triangle 3rd century AD
Inferior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 202 Lussonium - Komlod votive triangle -
Inferior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 204 Lussonium - Komlod altar -
Inferior
Mursa - Klisa, near Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 205 altar -
Osijek Inferior
Acumincum - Stari Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 206 statuette -
Slankamen Inferior
Acumincum - Stari Pannonia End 2nd, beg. 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 207 statuette
Slankamen Inferior century AD
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 208 Acumincum - Surduk postaments -
Inferior
Burgenae - Novi Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 209 base -
Banovci Inferior
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 210 Sirmium - Srijemska Pannonia fragment 193-211 AD
253
 Mitrovica Inferior
Sirmium - Srijemska Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 211 altar -
Mitrovica Inferior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 217 Carnuntum - Pfaffenberg block 128-138 AD
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 218 Carnuntum - Petronell votive table -
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 219 Carnuntum - Petronell Superior altar -

Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 220 Carnuntum - Petronell base -
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 221 Carnuntum - Petronell altar 183 AD
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 222 Carnuntum - Petronell relief 2nd century AD
Superior
Pannonia base in altar
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 223 Carnuntum - Petronell 180-183 AD
Superior form
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 224 Carnuntum - Petronell statue -
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 226 Carnuntum - Petronell arm -
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 228 Carnuntum - Petronell votive table -
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 229 Carnuntum - Petronell altar -
Superior
Carnuntum - Bad Pannonia sculptural
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 230 -
Deutsch-Altenburg Superior group
Carnuntum - Bad Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 231 votive table -
Deutsch-Altenburg Superior
Carnuntum - Bad Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 232 votive table 235-238 AD
Deutsch-Altenburg Superior
Carnuntum - Bad Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 233 statuette 3rd century AD
Deutsch-Altenburg Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 234 Gerulata - Rusovce altar -
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 235 Gerulata - Rusovce block 4th century AD
Superior
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 237 Pannonia First half 3rd
Brigetio - Oszony slab
Superior century AD
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 238 Brigetio - Oszony fragment -
Superior
Pannonia 2nd/3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 239 Brigetio - Oszony relief
Superior AD
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 240 Brigetio - Oszony relief -
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 241 Brigetio - Oszony statue base -
Superior
Pannonia sculptural
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 242 Brigetio - Oszony -
Superior group
Pannonia Second half 2nd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 253 Brigetio - Oszony base
Superior century AD
Mullendorf, near Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 263 altar -
Eisenstadt Superior
Pannonia 2nd/3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 265 Savaria - Szombathely altar
Superior AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 266 Savaria - Szombathely Pannonia altar 2nd/3rd century
254
 Superior AD
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 267 Savaria - Szombathely altar -
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 268 Savaria - Szombathely bowl -
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 269 Savaria - Szombathely fragment -
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 270 Savaria - Szombathely altar 208 AD
Superior
Pannonia sculptural 2nd/3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 271 Savaria - Szombathely
Superior group AD
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 272 Savaria - Szombathely fragment -
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 273 Emona altar -
Superior
Praetorium Latobicorum Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 274 altar -
- Trebnje Superior
Praetorium Latobicorum Pannonia votive
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 275 138 AD, 1st Nov
- Trebnje Superior inscription
Aquae Balissae - Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 276 altar 198-208 AD
Daruvar Superior
Aquae Balissae - Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 277 altar -
Daruvar Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 282 Poetovio - Ptuj altar 189 AD
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 283 Poetovio - Ptuj stone 207 AD
Superior
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 284 Poetovio - Ptuj altar 3rd century AD
Superior
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 285 Lauriacum - Enns Noricum bowl -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 286 Lauriacum - Enns Noricum vase -
beg. 3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 287 Ovilava - Wels Noricum votive slab
AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 289 Bedaium Noricum text -
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 291 Noricum statuette -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) - sculptural
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 292 Noricum -
Mauer an der Url group
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 293 Noricum statuette -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 294 Noricum votive triangle -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 295 Noricum votive triangle -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 298 Noricum votive palm -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 299 Noricum votive palm -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 300 Noricum votive palm -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 301 Noricum votive palm -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 302 Noricum votive palm -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 303 Noricum votive -
Mauer an der Url
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 304 Locus Felicis (?) - Noricum votive sheet -
255
 Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 305 Noricum votive sheet -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) - Period of
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 306 Noricum votive
Mauer an der Url Commodus?
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 307 Noricum votive -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 308 Noricum votive sheet -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 309 Mauer an der Url Noricum votive -

Locus Felicis (?) -

Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 310 Noricum votive -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 311 Noricum votive -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 312 Noricum votive -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 313 Noricum votive sheet -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 314 Noricum votive palm -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 315 Noricum votive sheet -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 316 Noricum votive sheet -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 317 Noricum votive sheet -
Mauer an der Url
Locus Felicis (?) -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 318 Noricum votive sheet -
Mauer an der Url
Trigisamum -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 327 Noricum votive triangle -
Traismauer
Trigisamum - 260/70 AD/ end
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 328 Noricum votive triangle
Traismauer 2nd century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 330 Virunum - Zollfeld Noricum slab 189 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 331 Virunum - Zollfeld Noricum round altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 332 Virunum - Zollfeld Noricum round altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 333 Virunum - Zollfeld Noricum fragment -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 335 Virunum - Zollfeld Noricum altar -
Second half 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 342 Virunum - Zollfeld Noricum base
century AD
Piccottinni
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 344 Virunum - Zollfeld Noricum altar places between
197-207 AD
Mid-2nd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 345 Virunum - Zollfeld Noricum altar
AD
Horzendorf, near St. votive
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 346 Noricum -
Veit inscription
Lamprechtskogel, near
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 347 Noricum relief -
Waisenberg
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 349 Feldkirchen Noricum fragment -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 350 Colatio - Windischgraz Noricum slab -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 356 Rome Italia altar 150 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 357 Rome Italia altar 150 AD
Second half 2nd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 362 Rome Italia altar
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 363 Rome Italia relief 183 AD, 1
256
 March
Second half 2nd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 364 Rome Italia relief
century AD
Second half 2nd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 365 Rome Italia relief
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 367
Rome Italia relief -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 368 Rome Italia relief -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 370 Rome Italia slab -
Late 2nd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 371 Rome Italia relief
AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 372 Rome Italia altar 198-209 AD
First half 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 373 Rome Italia slab century AD

Second half 3rd

Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 375 Rome Italia slab
century AD
First half 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 376 Rome Italia slab
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 377 Rome Italia slab -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 378 Rome Italia base -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 379 Rome Italia round base -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 380 Rome Italia statue -
First half 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 381 Rome Italia slab
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 382 Rome Italia fragment 222-235 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 383 Rome Italia altar 244 AD, 10 Oct.
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 384 Rome Italia base 244 AD
Second half 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 385 Rome Italia slab
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 386 Rome Italia relief 3rd century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 401 Rome Italia fragments -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 402 Rome Italia inscription -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 403 Rome Italia inscription -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 404 Rome Italia column -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 405 Rome Italia relief -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 408 Rome Italia slab 191 AD, 31 July
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 409 Rome Italia slab 191/2 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 410 sculptural End 2nd century
Rome Italia
group AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 411 Rome Italia head Pre-212 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 414 Rome Italia slab 198-209 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 415 Rome Italia slab 218 AD
218 AD, 14
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 416 Rome Italia altar
March,
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 418 Rome Italia altar 3rd century AD
2nd/3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 419 Rome Italia relief
AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 420 Rome Italia relief -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 421 Rome Italia slab 201 AD, 11 Nov
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 422 Rome Italia inscription 200-208 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 423 Rome Italia base -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 424 Rome Italia inscription -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 425 Rome Italia inscription 270-275 AD?
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 426 Rome Italia slab -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 427 Rome Italia ? -

257
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 428 Rome Italia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 429 Rome Italia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 430 Rome Italia tablet -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 431 Rome - Tivoli Italia slab -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 432 Rome Italia block 196 AD, 29 June
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 433 Rome Italia round base Pre-212 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 434 Rome Italia inscription 92 AD?
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 440 Ostia Italia slab 186 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 441 Ostia Italia slab 191/2 AD
Mid-2nd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 442 Ostia Italia slab
AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 443 Ostia Italia tablet -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 444 Tusculum - Frascati Italia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 445 Tergeste - Trieste Italia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 446 Tergeste - Trieste Italia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 447
Aquileia Italia altar -
near Iulia Concordia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 448 Italia statuette 3rd century AD
(Lison)
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 449 near Iulia Concordia Italia badge 185-192 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 450 Padua Italia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 451 Ateste - Este Italia tablet Severan
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 452 Atria - Adria Italia tablet 222-235 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 453 Brixia - Brescia Italia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 454 Bononia - Bologna Italia slab -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 455 Ravenna Italia altar 193-217 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 456 Ravenna Italia inscription -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 457 Caesena - Cesena Italia relief -
2nd/3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 458 Ariminum - Rimini Italia altar
AD
2nd/3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 459 Ariminum - Rimini Italia altar
AD
Histonium - Il vasto
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 460 Italia column -
d'Aimone
Second half 2nd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 461 Aecae - Troja Italia ?
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 462 Tarracina - Terracine Italia statue -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 463 Misenum Italia fragment -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 465 Puteoli - Pozzuoli Italia slab -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 466 Naples Italia slab -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 467 Naples Italia relief Severan
Turris Libisonis - Porto
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 468 Italia inscription 211/212 AD
Torres, Sardinia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 475
Aquileia - Aalen Raetia votive triangle -
Beg. 3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 476 Aquileia - Aalen Raetia block
AD
End 2nd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 477 Faimingen Raetia relief
AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 480 Statio Vetonianis - Pfunz Raetia tablet Severan
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 481 Statio Vetonianis - Pfunz Raetia tablet Severan
163 AD, 11
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 485 Serviodurum - Straubing Raetia altar
April
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 491 Zugmantel altar -
Superior
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 493 Zugmantel Germania bull 222-235 AD

258
 Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 497 Kastell Alteburg altar -
Superior
Germania End 2nd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 499 Saalburg altar
Superior AD
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 500 Saalburg altar -
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 501 Saalburg altar -
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 508 Saalburg altar 205 AD
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 509 Saalburg altar -
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 511 Nida - Heddernheim votive triangle -
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 512 Nida - Heddernheim votive triangle -
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 514 Nida - Heddernheim Superior votive sheet -

Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 515 Nida - Heddernheim votive sheet -
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 516 Nida - Heddernheim votive sheet -
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 517 Nida - Heddernheim votive sheet 2nd century AD
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 518 Nida - Heddernheim votive sheet 2nd century AD
Superior
Germania Second half 2nd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 519 Nida - Heddernheim altar
Superior century AD
Germania Second half 2nd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 520 Nida - Heddernheim hand
Superior century AD
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 521 Nida - Heddernheim tablet -
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 522 Nida - Heddernheim altar -
Superior
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 523 Germania Beg. 3rd century
Mogontiacum - Mainz altar
Superior AD
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 524 Mogontiacum - Mainz altar 211-217 AD
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 525 Mogontiacum - Mainz altar 217 AD, 23 May
Superior
Aquae Mattiacorum - Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 526 votive table 194 AD
Wiesbaden Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 527 Gross-Krotzenburg altar 211 AD
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 529 Stockstadt inscription -
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 530 Stockstadt altar -
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 531 Stockstadt altar 214 AD
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 532 Stockstadt base -
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 533 Stockstadt altar -
Superior
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 534 Stockstadt Germania altar 211-217 AD
259
 Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 536 Obernburg altar 207 AD
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 537 Obernburg altar 206 AD
Superior
Aschaffenburg Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 538 altar 191 AD
(Obernburg) Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 539 Portus? - Pforzheim inscription Pre-185 AD
Superior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 540 Grinario - Kongen inscription -
Superior
Vetera - Furstenberg, Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 541 altar 228 AD
near Xanten Inferior
Colonia Agrippinensis - Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 547 tablet 211 AD
Koln Inferior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 549 Bonn statuette -
Inferior
Germania
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 550 Rigomagus - Remagen altar 250 AD
Inferior
Antonine Wall - Croy Beg. reign of
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 554 Britannia relief
Hill Commodus
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 555 Blatobulgium - Birrens Britannia altar -
Castra Exploratorum -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 556 Britannia altar -
Netherby
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 557 Habitancum - Risingham Britannia altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 559 Banna - Bew Castle Britannia altar -
Aesica (Hadrian's Wall)
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 560 Britannia altar -
- Great Chesters
Aesica (Hadrian's Wall)
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 561 Britannia altar -
- Great Chesters
Cilurnum (Hadrian's Early 3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 562 Britannia inscription
Wall) - Chesters AD
Condercum (Hadrian's
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 564 Britannia altar 138-161 AD
Wall) - Benwell
Corstopitum - Corbridge Beg. 3rd century
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 565 Britannia altar
on Tyne AD
Corstopitum - Corbridge
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 567 Britannia relief -
on Tyne
Camboglanna -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 572 Britannia altar 235-238 AD
Birdoswald
Magnis (Hadrian's Wall)
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 573 Britannia altar -
- Carvoran
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 574 Magis - Piercebridge Britannia inscription -
First half 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 575 Magis - Piercebridge Britannia base
century AD
Merlat puts it at
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 576 Magis - Gainford Britannia altar
217 AD
Voreda - Plumpton Wall
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 577 Britannia inscription 120-160 AD
(Old Penrith)
Branodunum -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 582 Britannia rim of jug -
Brancaster
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 586 Isca Silurum - Caerleon Britannia altar 161-169 AD
Ager Morinorum -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 596 Gallia base -
Halinghem
Between Antibes and
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 601 Gallia inscription -
Vallauris
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 602 Massilia - Marseilles Gallia statuette -
260
 Tarraconensis -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 609 Hispania altar -
Saldanha
Between 11th
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 615 Leptis Magna - Lepcis Africa altar
April 208-210
Between 210-
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 616 Thanadassa - Ain Wif Africa altar
211 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 620 Lambaesis - Lambese Africa slab 125-126 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 621 Lambaesis - Lambese Africa inscription Post-253 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 622 Lambaesis - Lambese Africa altar Post-253 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 623 Lambaesis - Lambese Africa altar Post-253 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 624 Lambaesis - Lambese Africa altar 222-235 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 625 Lambaesis - Lambese Africa base -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 626 Lambaesis - Lambese Africa altar 222-238 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 627 Lambaesis - Lambese Africa altar 222-238 AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 628 Lambaesis - Lambese Africa altar -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 629 Lambaesis - Lambese Africa inscription -
Second half 3rd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 630 Lambaesis - Lambese Africa altar
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 637 Minta - Sarmizegetusa Dacia column -
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 638 Gezmisaza Dacia altar -
Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 639 Carnuntum - Petronell altar -
Superior
Praetorium Latobicorum Pannonia
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 640 slab 196-197 AD
- Trebnje Superior
L’Année Epigraphique 1988,
Sibiu - Sacadate Dacia altar -
962
L’Année Epigraphique 1990,
Wallsee Noricum altar -
785
L’Année Epigraphique 1991,
Campania (Minturnes?) Italia tablet -
500
L’Année Epigraphique 1997, Pannonia
Neviodunum - Krsko altar -
1244 Superior
L’Année Epigraphique 1998, mid-2nd/mid-3rd
Rome Italia vase
183 century AD
L’Année Epigraphique 1998,
Ostia Italia slab -
273
L’Année Epigraphique 1998, Sacidava, near Rasova & Moesia
altar 222-235 AD
1143 Dunareni Inferior
L’Année Epigraphique 1998, Sacidava, near Rasova & Moesia 2nd/3rd century
slab
1144 Dunareni Inferior AD
L’Année Epigraphique 1998, Balaklawa, 10km s of Chersonisus
slab 139-161 AD
1156 Sebastopol Taurica
L’Année Epigraphique 1998, Balaklawa, 10km s of Chersonisus
altar -
1157 Sebastopol Taurica
L’Année Epigraphique 1998, Balaklawa, 10km s of Chersonisus
altar -
1158 Sebastopol Taurica
L’Année Epigraphique 1998, Balaklawa, 10km s of Chersonisus
table -
1159 Sebastopol Taurica
L’Année Epigraphique 1998, Balaklawa, 10km s of Chersonisus
bowl -
1160 Sebastopol Taurica
L’Année Epigraphique 1998, Khirbet Khalid, 2nd/3rd century
Syria base
1430 Hierapolis-Bambyke AD
Reign of
L’Année Epigraphique 1999,
Cabyle Thracia slab Septimius
1374
Severus
L’Année Epigraphique 1999,
Melleus? Africa slab -
1784
261
L’Année Epigraphique 2001,
Porolissum Dacia statuette reign of Gordian
1706
L’Année Epigraphique 2001,
Porolissum Dacia altar 238-244 AD
1707
L’Année Epigraphique 2001, Moesia
Novae - Svistov slab -
1733 Inferior
L’Année Epigraphique 2002, Atuatuca Tungrorum - 2nd/3rd century
Belgia block
1011 Tongres AD
SEG 1989, 1586 Nikopolis Syria seals -
SEG 1998, 1871 Doliche? Syria altar 200-250 AD
V. Najdenova, ‘Jupiter
Dolichenus in lower Moesia
Moesia
and Thrace’ ANRW II, 18, 2, Histria gravestone -
Inferior
Berlin 1989, S. 1362-1396, S.
1386f.

262
 Jupit e r Doli c he nus


by REGION

Region Location Type Date Publication/s

Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Lambaesis - Lambese slab 125-126 AD
620
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Lambaesis - Lambese inscription Post-253 AD
621
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Lambaesis - Lambese altar Post-253 AD
622
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Lambaesis - Lambese altar Post-253 AD
623
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Lambaesis - Lambese altar 222-235 AD
624
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Lambaesis - Lambese base -
625
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Lambaesis - Lambese altar 222-238 AD
626
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Lambaesis - Lambese altar 222-238 AD
627
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Lambaesis - Lambese altar -
628
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Lambaesis - Lambese inscription -
629
Second half 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Lambaesis - Lambese altar
century AD 630
Between 11th Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Leptis Magna - Lepcis altar
April 208-210 615
L’Année Epigraphique 1999,
Africa Melleus? slab -
1784
Between 210- Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Africa Thanadassa - Ain Wif altar
211 AD 616
Asia Minor Asia Minor hand - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 44
Asia Minor Asia Minor hand - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 45
Atuatuca Tungrorum - 2nd/3rd century L’Année Epigraphique 2002,
Belgia block
Tongres AD 1011
Aesica (Hadrian's Wall) - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia altar -
Great Chesters 560
Aesica (Hadrian's Wall) - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia altar -
Great Chesters 561
Beg. reign of Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia Antonine Wall - Croy Hill relief
Commodus 554
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia Banna - Bew Castle altar -
559
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia Blatobulgium - Birrens altar -
555
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia Branodunum - Brancaster rim of jug -
582
Britannia Camboglanna - altar 235-238 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
263
 Birdoswald 572
Castra Exploratorum - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia altar -
Netherby 556
Cilurnum (Hadrian's Wall) Early 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia inscription
- Chesters century AD 562
Condercum (Hadrian's Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia altar 138-161 AD
Wall) - Benwell 564
Corstopitum - Corbridge Beg. 3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia altar
on Tyne AD 565
Corstopitum - Corbridge Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia relief -
on Tyne 567
G. L. Irby-Massie, Military
Britannia Eboracum (York) inscription 221 AD Religion in Roman Britain,
1999, S. 278.
G. L. Irby-Massie, Military
Britannia Habitancum - Risingham inscription 3rd C AD
Religion, S. 280.
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia Habitancum - Risingham altar -
557
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia Isca Silurum - Caerleon altar 161-169 AD
586
Merlat puts it in Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia Magis - Gainford altar
217 AD 576
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia Magis - Piercebridge inscription -
574
First half 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia Magis - Piercebridge base
century AD 575
G.L. Irby-Massie, Military
Britannia Maglona (old Carlisle) altar 197 AD
Religion, S. 279.
Magnis (Hadrian's Wall) - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia altar -
Carvoran 573
Voreda - Plumpton Wall Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Britannia inscription 120-160
(Old Penrith) 577
Comana Cappadociae -
Cappadocia hand 1st century AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 43
Sar
Chersonisus Balaklawa, 10km s of L’Année Epigraphique 1998,
slab 139-161 AD
Taurica Sebastopol 1156
Chersonisus Balaklawa, 10km s of L’Année Epigraphique 1998,
altar -
Taurica Sebastopol 1157
Chersonisus Balaklawa, 10km s of L’Année Epigraphique 1998,
altar -
Taurica Sebastopol 1158
Chersonisus Balaklawa, 10km s of L’Année Epigraphique 1998,
table -
Taurica Sebastopol 1159
Chersonisus Balaklawa, 10km s of L’Année Epigraphique 1998,
bowl -
Taurica Sebastopol 1160
End 2nd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Amarastii de Jos statuette
AD 174
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Ampelum - Zlatna altar -
146
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Ampelum - Zlatna column -
147
End 2nd, beg. 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Ampelum - Zlatna column
century AD 148
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Ampelum - Zlatna column -
149
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Ampelum - Zlatna altar 238-244 AD
150
Dacia Apulum - Alba Iulia fragment 138-161 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
264
 151
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Apulum - Alba Iulia fragment -
152
End 2nd, beg. 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Apulum - Alba Iulia column
century AD 153
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Apulum - Alba Iulia altar -
154
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Apulum - Alba Iulia altar 198-211 AD
155
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Blaj/Apulum votive relief -
157
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Buciumi altar 211-212 AD
137
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Catunele de Sus hand -
171
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Certiae - Romita altar 238-244 AD
134
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Desa, near Ratiaria statuette -
175
Domnestri, municipality Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia altar 167-180 AD
Mariselu, area Bistrita 138
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Gezmisaza altar -
638
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Gherla, in area of Cluj statuette -
139
Ilisua, district Bistrita- End 2nd, beg. 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia statuette
Nasaud century AD 133
End 2nd, beg. 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Kozlard, Coslar/Apulum votive table
century AD 156
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Micia - Vetel altar -
159
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Micia - Vetel altar -
160
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Minta - Sarmizegetusa column -
637
Mychkovo (or else second half 2nd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia hand
Myszkow in Ukraine!) century AD 177
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Napoca - Cluj altar 198-208 AD
140
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Napoca - Cluj altar -
141
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Pojejena de Sus altar Pre-132?
172
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Porolissum ?
135/6
Reign of L’Année Epigraphique 2001,
Dacia Porolissum statuette
Gordian 1706
L’Année Epigraphique 2001,
Dacia Porolissum altar 238-244 AD
1707
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Potaissa - Turda votive triangle -
142
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Potaissa - Turda altar -
143
End 2nd, beg. 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Potaissa - Turda altar
century AD 144
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Potaissa - Turda altar -
145
265
 First half 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Racari, region of Dolj votive triangle
century AD 173
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Samum - Casei fragment -
130
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Samum - Casei altar 243 AD
131
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Samum - Casei altar 224 AD
132
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Sibiu - Sacadate altar -
162
L’Année Epigraphique 1988,
Dacia Sibiu - Sacadate altar -
962
Sibiu Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia ? -
Apulum/Sarmizegetusa 158
Sincrai, deployment front 209-214. Feb. Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia altar
for Aquae 211 AD 161
Before mid-3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Sucidava altar
century AD 176
End 2nd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia Tibiscum - Caransebes altar
AD 163
Ulpia Traiana - Beg. 3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia altar
Sarmizegetusa AD 165
Ulpia Traiana - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia altar -
Sarmizegetusa 169
Ulpia Traiana - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dacia relief -
Sarmizegetusa 170
Arupium - Vitalj near Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dalmatia column -
Otocac 121
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dalmatia Japra - Majdaniste base -
125
Metulum - Beg. 3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dalmatia altar
Josephsthal/Munjava AD 120
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dalmatia Narona - Hama altar 193 AD
124
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dalmatia Prizren altar -
126
grave Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dalmatia Salonae - Salone -
inscription 123
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Dalmatia Vrlika ? -
122
Ager Morinorum - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Gallia base -
Halinghem 596
Between Antibes and Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Gallia inscription -
Vallauris 601
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Gallia Massilia - Marseilles statuette -
602
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Bonn statuette -
Inferior 549
Germania Colonia Agrippinensis - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
tablet 211 AD
Inferior Koln 547
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Rigomagus - Remagen altar 250 AD
Inferior 550
Germania Vetera - Furstenberg, near Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
altar 228 AD
Inferior Xanten 541
Germania Aquae Mattiacorum - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
votive table 194 AD
Superior Wiesbaden 526
Germania Aschaffenburg altar 191 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
266
Superior (Obernburg) 538
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Grinario - Kongen inscription -
Superior 540
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Gross-Krotzenburg altar 211 AD
Superior 527
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Kastell Alteburg altar -
Superior 497
Germania Beg. 3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Mogontiacum - Mainz altar
Superior AD 523
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Mogontiacum - Mainz altar 211-217 AD
Superior 524
Germania 217 AD, 23 Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Mogontiacum - Mainz altar
Superior May 525
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Nida - Heddernheim votive triangle -
Superior 511
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Nida - Heddernheim votive triangle -
Superior 512
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Nida - Heddernheim votive sheet -
Superior 514
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Nida - Heddernheim votive sheet -
Superior 515
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Nida - Heddernheim votive sheet -
Superior 516
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Nida - Heddernheim votive sheet 2nd century AD
Superior 517
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Nida - Heddernheim votive sheet 2 century AD
nd
Superior 518
Germania Second half 2nd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Nida - Heddernheim altar
Superior century AD 519
Germania Second half 2nd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Nida - Heddernheim hand
Superior century AD 520
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Nida - Heddernheim tablet -
Superior 521
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Nida - Heddernheim altar -
Superior 522
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Obernburg altar 207 AD
Superior 536
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Obernburg altar 206 AD
Superior 537
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Portus? - Pforzheim inscription Pre-185 AD
Superior 539
Germania End 2nd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Saalburg altar
Superior AD 499
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Saalburg altar -
Superior 500
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Saalburg altar -
Superior 501
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Saalburg altar 205 AD
Superior 508
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Saalburg altar -
Superior 509
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Stockstadt inscription -
Superior 529
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Stockstadt altar -
Superior 530
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Stockstadt altar 214 AD
Superior 531
267
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Stockstadt base -
Superior 532
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Stockstadt altar -
Superior 533
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Stockstadt altar 211-217 AD
Superior 534
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Zugmantel altar -
Superior 491
Germania Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Zugmantel bull 222-235 AD
Superior 493
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Hispania Tarraconensis - Saldanha altar -
609
Second half 2nd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Aecae - Troja ?
century AD 461
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Aquileia altar -
447
2nd/3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Ariminum - Rimini altar
AD 458
2nd/3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Ariminum - Rimini altar
AD 459
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Ateste - Este tablet Severan
451
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Atria - Adria tablet 222-235 AD
452
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Bononia - Bologna slab -
454
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Brixia - Brescia altar -
453
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Caesena - Cesena relief -
457
L’Année Epigraphique 1991,
Italia Campania (Minturnes?) tablet -
500
Histonium - Il vasto Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia column -
d'Aimone 460
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Misenum fragment -
463
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Naples slab -
466
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Naples relief Severan
467
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia near Iulia Concordia badge?! 185-192 AD
449
near Iulia Concordia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia statuette 3rd century AD
(Lison) 448
A. Pellegrino, Les cultes de
Jupiter Dolichénien et de
Jupiter Héliopolitain à Ostie,
in: G. M. Bellelli, U. Bianchi,
Italia Ostia stone -
Orientalia Sacra Urbis
Romae. Dolichena et
Heliopolitana, Rom 1996, S.
563-583, 564, Fig. 3.
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Ostia slab 186 AD
440
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Ostia slab 191/2 AD
441
Italia Ostia slab Mid-2nd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,

268
 AD 442
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Ostia tablet -
443
L’Année Epigraphique 1998,
Italia Ostia slab -
273
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Padua altar -
450
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Puteoli - Pozzuoli slab -
465
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Ravenna altar 193-217 AD
455
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Ravenna inscription -
456
E. Sanzi, Sur une inscription
romaine en rapport avec le
culte dolichénien, in Bellelli,
Italia Rome sarcophagus - Bianchi (Eds.), Orientalia
Sacra Urbis Romae.
Dolichena et Heliopolitana,
Rom 1996, S. 257
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome altar 150 AD
356
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome altar 150 AD
357
Second half 2nd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome altar
century AD 362
183 AD, 1 Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome relief
March 363
Second half 2 nd
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome relief
century AD 364
Second half 2nd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome relief
century AD 365
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome relief -
367
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome relief -
368
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome slab -
370
Late 2nd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome relief
AD 371
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome altar 198-209 AD
372
First half 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome slab
century AD 373
Second half 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome slab
century AD 375
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
First half 3 rd
Italia Rome slab 376
century AD
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome slab -
377
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome base -
378
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome round base -
379
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome statue -
380

269
 First half 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome slab
century AD 381
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome fragment 222-235 AD
382
244 AD, 10 Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome altar
Oct. 383
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome base 244 AD
384
Second half 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome slab
century AD 385
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome relief 3 century AD
rd
386
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome fragments -
401
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome inscription -
402
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome inscription -
403
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome column -
404
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome relief -
405
191 AD, 31 Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome slab
July 408
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome slab 191/2 AD
409
sculptural End 2nd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome
group AD 410
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome head Pre-212 AD
411
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome slab 198-209 AD
414
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome slab 218 AD
415
218 AD, 14 Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome altar
March, 416
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome altar 3rd century AD
418
2nd/3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome relief
AD 419
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome relief -
420
201 AD, 11 Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome slab
Nov 421
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome inscription 200-208 AD
422
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome base -
423
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome inscription -
424
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome inscription 270-275 AD?
425
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome slab -
426
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome ? -
427
Italia Rome altar - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
270
 428
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome altar -
429
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome tablet -
430
196 AD, 29 Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome block
June 432
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome round base Pre-212 AD
433
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome inscription 92 AD?
434
Mid-2nd/mid-3rd L’Année Epigraphique 1998,
Italia Rome vase
century AD 183
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Rome - Tivoli slab -
431
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Tarracina - Terracine statue -
462
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Tergeste - Trieste altar -
445
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Tergeste - Trieste altar -
446
Turris Libisonis - Porto Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia inscription 211/212 AD
Torres, Sardinia 468
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Italia Tusculum - Frascati altar -
444
2nd/3rd century
Judea Caesarea block Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 30
AD
Mesopotamia Dura Europus altar 211 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 32
June-Oct 251
Mesopotamia Dura Europus altar Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 33
AD
Mesopotamia Dura Europus altar 251-53 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 34
Mesopotamia Dura Europus stele - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 35
239 AD, 27/28
Mesopotamia Dura Europus text Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 39
May
Bezmer, prob. from First half 3rd
Moesia Inferior statuette Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 69
Durostorum century AD
Moesia Inferior Bizone - Varna hand 235-239 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 70
btwn Noviodunum and 212, 27th Feb-8th
Moesia Inferior column Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 60
Troesmis - Nikulitel Apr. 217
Moesia Inferior Dionysopolis - Balcik altar 214 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 71
Moesia Inferior Dragoevo, near Preslav altar 238-244 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 77
Emporium Piretensium -
Moesia Inferior altar - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 76
Gorsko Kosovo
Moesia Inferior Histria statuette - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 63
V. Najdenova, Jupiter
Dolichenus in lower Moesia
Moesia Inferior Histria gravestone - and Thrace, in: ANRW II, 18,
2, Berlin 1989, 1362-1396, S.
1386f.
Moesia Inferior Histria or Durostorum altar 198-209 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 64
Moesia Inferior Muratu slab - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 67
Beg. 3rd century
Moesia Inferior Nikolaevka, nr. Varna votive table Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 73
AD
2nd/3rd century
Moesia Inferior Novae - Steklen altar Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 74
AD
Moesia Inferior Novae - Steklen altar - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 75
Moesia Inferior Novae - Svistov slab - L’Année Epigraphique 2001,
271
 1733
Sacidava, near Rasova & L’Année Epigraphique 1998,
Moesia Inferior altar 222-235 AD
Dunareni 1143
Sacidava, near Rasova & 2nd/3rd century L’Année Epigraphique 1998,
Moesia Inferior slab
Dunareni AD 1144
End 2nd, beg. 3rd
Moesia Inferior Tomis - Constanta statuette Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 66
century AD
sculptural
Moesia Inferior Troesmis - Cerna 222-235 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 62
group
Moesia Inferior Troesmis - Meidanchioi tablet 218-222 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 61
Moesia Inferior Tropaeum Traiani altar - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 68
Vicus Quintionis (nr.
Moesia Inferior altar 212-222 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 65
Histria)
Bononia/Jasen - Junija 2nd/3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior statuette
Alba AD 107
Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior altar -
Arcar 109
Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior altar -
Arcar 110
Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior altar c. 300 AD
Arcar 111
Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria - Beg. 3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior altar
Arcar AD 112
Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior altar 198-208 AD
Kosava nr. Arcar 113
sculptural
Moesia Superior Egeta - Brza Palanka - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 89
group
First half 2
nd

century AD or
Moesia Superior Egeta - Brza Palanka statue Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 90
2nd/3rd century
AD
Moesia Superior Egeta - Brza Palanka statuette - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 91
Moesia Superior Egeta - Brza Palanka statuette - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 92
2nd/3rd century
Moesia Superior Egeta - Brza Palanka statuette Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 93
AD
Moesia Superior Egeta - Brza Palanka statuette - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 94
Mid-3rd century
Moesia Superior Egeta - Brza Palanka tablet Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 95
AD
Moesia Superior Egeta - Brza Palanka relief - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 97
votive Beg. 3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior Gracanica
inscription AD 115
Moesia Superior Karatas, near Kladovo altar Post-211 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 87
216 AD, 1st Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior Kumanovo altar
Nov 116
Moesia Superior Pincum - Veliko Gradiste statuette 3rd century AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 86
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior Romulianum? - Jasen votive triangle 3rd century AD
103
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior Romulianum? - Jasen tablet 3rd century AD
104
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior Romulianum? - Jasen tablet -
105
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior Romulianum? - Jasen statuette -
106
sculptural Beg. 3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior Timacum Minus - Ravna
group AD 114
End 2nd, beg. 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Moesia Superior Vidin statuette
century AD 108
272
 sculptural
Moesia Superior Vinimacium - Kostolac - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 85
group
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Bedaium text -
289
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Colatio - Windischgraz slab -
350
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Feldkirchen fragment -
349
votive Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Horzendorf, near St. Veit -
inscription 346
Lamprechtskogel, near Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum relief -
Waisenberg 347
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Lauriacum - Enns bowl -
285
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Lauriacum - Enns vase -
286
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum statuette -
an der Url 291
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer sculptural Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum -
an der Url group 292
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum statuette -
an der Url 293
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive triangle -
an der Url 294
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive triangle -
an der Url 295
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive palm -
an der Url 298
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive palm -
an der Url 299
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive palm -
an der Url 300
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive palm -
an der Url 301
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive palm -
an der Url 302
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive -
an der Url 303
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive sheet -
an der Url 304
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive sheet -
an der Url 305
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Period of Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive
an der Url Commodus? 306
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive -
an der Url 307
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive sheet -
an der Url 308
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive -
an der Url 309
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive -
an der Url 310
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive -
an der Url 311
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive -
an der Url 312
Noricum Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer votive sheet - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
273
 an der Url 313
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive palm -
an der Url 314
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive sheet -
an der Url 315
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive sheet -
an der Url 316
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive sheet -
an der Url 317
Locus Felicis (?) - Mauer Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum votive sheet -
an der Url 318
Beg. 3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Ovilava - Wels votive slab
AD 287
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Trigisamum - Traismauer votive triangle -
327
260-70/ end 2nd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Trigisamum - Traismauer votive triangle
century AD 328
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Virunum - Zollfeld slab 189 AD
330
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Virunum - Zollfeld round altar -
331
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Virunum - Zollfeld round altar -
332
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Virunum - Zollfeld fragment -
333
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Virunum - Zollfeld altar -
335
Second half 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Virunum - Zollfeld base
century AD 342
Piccottinni puts
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Virunum - Zollfeld altar it between 197-
344
207 AD
Mid-2nd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Noricum Virunum - Zollfeld altar
AD 345
L’Année Epigraphique 1990,
Noricum Wallsee altar -
785
Pannonia Acumincum - Stari Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
statuette -
Inferior Slankamen 206
Pannonia Acumincum - Stari End 2nd, beg. 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
statuette
Inferior Slankamen century AD 207
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Acumincum - Surduk postaments -
Inferior 208
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Aquincum stele 228 AD
Inferior 185
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Aquincum - Obuda base Post-100 AD
Inferior 183
Pannonia sculptural Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Aquincum? -
Inferior group 184
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Burgenae - Novi Banovci base -
Inferior 209
Pannonia Beg. 3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Gorsium - Sarpentele altar
Inferior AD, or 202 AD 200
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Lussonium - Komlod votive triangle 3rd century AD
Inferior 201
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Lussonium - Komlod votive triangle -
Inferior 202
Pannonia Lussonium - Komlod altar - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
274
Inferior 204
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Mursa - Klisa, near Osijek altar -
Inferior 205
Pannonia Sirmium - Srijemska Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
fragment 193-211 AD
Inferior Mitrovica 210
Pannonia Sirmium - Srijemska Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
altar -
Inferior Mitrovica 211
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Tokod, near Esztergom altar 222-235 AD
Inferior 182
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Vetus Salina - Adony bust -
Inferior 188
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Vetus Salina - Adony hand -
Inferior 189
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Aquae Balissae - Daruvar altar 198-208 AD
Superior 276
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Aquae Balissae - Daruvar altar -
Superior 277
Pannonia First half 3rd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Brigetio - Oszony slab
Superior century AD 237
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Brigetio - Oszony fragment -
Superior 238
Pannonia 2nd/3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Brigetio - Oszony relief
Superior AD 239
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Brigetio - Oszony relief -
Superior 240
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Brigetio - Oszony statue base -
Superior 241
Pannonia sculptural Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Brigetio - Oszony -
Superior group 242
Pannonia Second half 2nd Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Brigetio - Oszony base
Superior century AD 253
Pannonia Carnuntum - Bad sculptural Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
-
Superior Deutsch-Altenburg group 230
Pannonia Carnuntum - Bad Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
votive table -
Superior Deutsch-Altenburg 231
Pannonia Carnuntum - Bad Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
votive table 235-238 AD
Superior Deutsch-Altenburg 232
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Pannonia Carnuntum - Bad
statuette 3rd century AD 233
Superior Deutsch-Altenburg
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Carnuntum - Petronell votive table -
Superior 218
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Carnuntum - Petronell altar -
Superior 219
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Carnuntum - Petronell base -
Superior 220
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Carnuntum - Petronell altar 183 AD
Superior 221
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Carnuntum - Petronell relief 2nd century AD
Superior 222
Pannonia base in altar Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Carnuntum - Petronell 180-183 AD
Superior form 223
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Carnuntum - Petronell statue -
Superior 224
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Carnuntum - Petronell arm -
Superior 226
Pannonia Carnuntum - Petronell votive table - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
275
Superior 228
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Carnuntum - Petronell altar -
Superior 229
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Carnuntum - Petronell altar -
Superior 639
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Carnuntum - Pfaffenberg block 128-138 AD
Superior 217
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Emona altar -
Superior 273
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Gerulata - Rusovce altar -
Superior 234
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Gerulata - Rusovce block 4 century AD
th
Superior 235
Pannonia Mullendorf, near Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
altar -
Superior Eisenstadt 263
Pannonia L’Année Epigraphique 1997,
Neviodunum - Krsko altar -
Superior 1244
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Poetovio - Ptuj altar 189 AD
Superior 282
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Poetovio - Ptuj stone 207 AD
Superior 283
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Poetovio - Ptuj altar 3rd century AD
Superior 284
Pannonia Praetorium Latobicorum - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
altar -
Superior Trebnje 274
Pannonia Praetorium Latobicorum - votive 138 AD, 1st Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Superior Trebnje inscription Nov 275
Pannonia Praetorium Latobicorum - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
slab 196-197 AD
Superior Trebnje 640
Pannonia 2nd/3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Savaria - Szombathely altar
Superior AD 265
Pannonia 2nd/3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Savaria - Szombathely altar
Superior AD 266
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Savaria - Szombathely altar -
Superior 267
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Savaria - Szombathely bowl -
Superior 268
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Savaria - Szombathely fragment -
Superior 269
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Savaria - Szombathely altar 208 AD
Superior 270
Pannonia sculptural 2nd/3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Savaria - Szombathely
Superior group AD 271
Pannonia Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Savaria - Szombathely fragment -
Superior 272
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Raetia Aquileia - Aalen votive triangle -
475
Beg. 3rd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Raetia Aquileia - Aalen block
AD 476
End 2nd century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Raetia Faimingen relief
AD 477
163 AD, 11 Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Raetia Serviodurum - Straubing altar
April 485
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Raetia Statio Vetonianis - Pfunz tablet Severan
480
Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,
Raetia Statio Vetonianis - Pfunz tablet Severan
481
276
Syria Antep (Doliche) sealstone 21 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 12
Syria Beka'a hand - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 40
sculptural
Syria between Maras & Birecik Imperial Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 18
group
Syria Doliche - Dülük altar 57/58 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 2
Syria Doliche - Dülük slab Pre-256 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 3
Syria Doliche - Dülük slab Pre-256 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 4
Syria Doliche - Dülük votive triangle Mid-1st C AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 6
Syria Doliche - Dülük votive triangle - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 7
Syria Doliche? altar 200-250 AD SEG 1998, 1871
Gonca Dagi, nr. Asagi First half 1st
Syria stele Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 21
Kalecik century AD
Syria Hierapolis - Membidj stele - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 29
End 2nd, beg. 3rd
Syria Kekliktepe, nr. Antep stele Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 9
century AD
1/2nd century
Syria Khaltan, in Tal des Afrin stele Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 26
AD
1/2nd century
Syria Khaltan, in Tal des Afrin stele Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 27
AD
Khirbet Khalid, 2nd/3rd century L’Année Epigraphique 1998,
Syria base
Hierapolis-Bambyke AD 1430
Syria Kurcuoglu stele - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 24
Syria Kurcuoglu stele - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 25
Kurdini Tepe, nr. first half 1st
Syria stele Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 19
Alacakilise century AD
Kurdini Tepe, nr.
Syria column drum Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 20
Alacakilise
Syria Lebanon hand - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 41
Syria Maras - Germanikeia stele 1st century AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 17
Syria Mastala stele 2nd century AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 28
Syria Nikopolis seals - SEG 1989, 1586
Syria Tilhalit stele - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 16
Syria Zafer, nr. Antep stele - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 8
1st century
BC/1st century
Syria Zeytintepe, nr. Baspinar stele Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 22
AD

1st century
Syria Zeytintepe, nr. Baspinar stele BC/1st century Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 23
AD
Augusta Traiana -
Thracia slab 222-235 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 50
Stamovo
Augusta Traiana - Stara
Thracia column - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 52
Zagora
Augusta Traiana - Stara 212-217 (214)
Thracia altar Hörig, Schwertheim 1987,51
Zagora AD
Reign of
L’Année Epigraphique 1999,
Thracia Cabyle slab Septimius
1374
Severus
Thracia Cillae - Cerna Gora base 202-211 AD Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 54
Thracia Gorni Voden hand - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 53
Thracia Haskovo hand - Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 55
sculptural Mid-3rd century
Macedonia Stobi Hörig, Schwertheim 1987, 48
group AD

277


278
 THE JEW I SH DI ASPORA


by catalogue number

Publication/s Region Location Type Date

Frey, J. -B.,
Corpus
Inscriptionum
Judaicarum I,
Rome:
Italia Via Flaminia 2nd-4th Century AD
Pontificio
istituto di
archeologia
cristiana, 1936,
1
CIJ I, 2 Italia Via Flaminia 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 3 Italia Via Salaria plaque -
CIJ I, 4 Italia Via Salaria plaque -
CIJ I, 5 Italia Via Salaria plaque -
CIJ I, 6 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 7 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 8 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 9 Italia Via Nomentana tablet -
CIJ I, 10 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 11 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 12 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 13 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 14 Italia Via Nomentana fragment -
CIJ I, 15 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 16 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 17 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 18 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 19 Italia Via Nomentana graffiti -
CIJ I, 20 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 21 Italia Via Nomentana plaque -
CIJ I, 22 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 23 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 24 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 25 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 26 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 27 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 28 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 30 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 31 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 32 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 33 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 34 Italia Via Nomentana plaque -
279
CIJ I, 35 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 36 Italia Via Nomentana fragment -
CIJ I, 37 Italia Via Nomentana fragment -
CIJ I, 38 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 39 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 41 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 42 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 43 Italia Via Nomentana stele -
CIJ I, 44 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 45 Italia Via Nomentana plaque -
CIJ I, 46 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 47 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 48 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 50 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 51 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 52 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 53 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 55 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 56 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 67 Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph -
CIJ I, 68 Italia Via Nomentana plaque -
CIJ I, 69 Italia Via Nomentana plaque -
CIJ I, 70 Italia Via Nomentana plaque -
CIJ I, 72 Italia Via Nomentana sarcophagus -
CIJ I, 73 Italia Via Labicana painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 75 Italia Via Labicana painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 77 Italia Via Labicana painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 87 Italia Via Appia graffiti 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 88 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 89 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 90 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 95 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 97 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 99 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 100 Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 102 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 103 Italia Via Appia ? 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 105 Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 106 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 108 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 109 Italia Via Appia sarcophagus 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 110 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 111 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 113 Italia Via Appia painted plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 118 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 119 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 120 Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 121 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 122 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 125 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 126 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 130 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 132 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 136 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 138 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 139 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
280
CIJ I, 140 Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 141 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 142 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 143 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 145 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 146 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 147 Italia Via Appia painted plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 148 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 149 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 150 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 151 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 152 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 153 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 155 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 156 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 157 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 161 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 163 Italia Via Appia graffiti 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 165 Italia Via Appia graffiti 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 166 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 167 Italia Via Appia painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 173 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 176 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 180 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 193 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 200 Italia Via Appia painted plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 201 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 202 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 203 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 206 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 209 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 210 Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 212 Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 213 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 215 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 217 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 221 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 222 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 225 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 228 Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 229 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 230 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 231 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 233 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 246 Italia Via Appia painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 248 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 249 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 250 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 252 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 254 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 255 Italia Via Appia graffiti 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 256 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 257 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 260 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 261 Italia Via Appia graffiti 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 263 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
281
CIJ I, 265 Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 268 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 269 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 281 Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 282 Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 283 Italia Via Appia sarcophagus 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 285 Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 287 Italia Via Ostiensis sarcophagus -
CIJ I, 290 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 291 Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 293 Italia Via Portuensis painted brick 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 296 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 298 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 299 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 300 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 301 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 304 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 306 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 307 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 309 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 310 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 312 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 315 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 316 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 317 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 318 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 319 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 321 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 323 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 324 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 325 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 327 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 328 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 329 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 331 Italia Via Portuensis painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 332 Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 333 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 334 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 335 Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 336 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 337 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 340 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 343 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 345 Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 346 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 347 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 348 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 349 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 351 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 353 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 354 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 355 Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 358 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 361 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 362 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 364 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
282
CIJ I, 367 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 368 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 369 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 370 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 371 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 372 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 373 Italia Via Portuensis painted brick 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 374 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 375 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 376 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 378 Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 379 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 380 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 382 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 383 Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 384 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 385 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 390 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 391 Italia Via Portuensis painted plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 392 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 394 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 395 Italia Via Portuensis painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 396 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 397 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 398 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 399 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 400 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 401 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 403 Italia Via Portuensis painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 405 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 408 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 409 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 411 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 413 Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 416 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 417 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 418 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 419 Italia Via Portuensis painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 425 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 433 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 456 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 457 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 458 Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 460 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 462 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 463 Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 464 Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 465 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 466 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 467 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 470 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 472 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 476 Italia Via Portuensis plaque beg. 2nd Century AD
CIJ I, 477 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 478 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 479 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
283
CIJ I, 480 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 481 Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 482 Italia Via Portuensis inscription AD 330, 14 May
CIJ I, 483 Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 494 Italia region of Via Portuensis fragment -
CIJ I, 496 Italia region of Via Portuensis sarcophagus -
CIJ I, 497 Italia region of Via Portuensis plaque -
CIJ I, 499 Italia region of Via Portuensis fragment -
First half 2nd Century
CIJ I, 533 Italia Castel Porziano fragment
AD
CIJ I, 534 Italia Ostia disc 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 535 Italia Porto plaque
CIJ I, 536 Italia Porto plaque
CIJ I, 537 Italia Porto plaque -
CIJ I, 538 Italia Porto plaque -
CIJ I, 539 Italia Porto fragment 2nd Century AD
CIJ I, 540 Italia Porto plaque
CIJ I, 543 Italia Porto plaque -
CIJ I, 548 Italia Porto fragment -
CIJ I, 552 Italia Fondi epitaph uncertain
CIJ I, 553 Italia Capua epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 554 Italia Nola lamp 7th Century AD or later?
CIJ I, 555 Italia Naples seal uncertain
CIJ I, 556 Italia Naples epitaph 70-95 AD
CIJ I, 558 Italia Naples epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 559 Italia Naples epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 561 Italia Puzzeoli epitaph? 1st Century AD
CIJ I, 562 Italia Pompeii graffiti pre AD 79
CIJ I, 563 Italia Pompeii amphora pre AD 79
CIJ I, 564 Italia Pompeii graffiti pre AD 79
CIJ I, 566 Italia Pompeii graffiti pre AD 79
CIJ I, 567 Italia Pompeii graffiti pre AD 79
CIJ I, 568 Italia Salerno inscription -
CIJ I, 569 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 570 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 575 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 576 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 578 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 579 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 581 Italia Venosa epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 584 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 585 Italia Venosa epitaph 4-5th Century AD
CIJ I, 586 Italia Venosa epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 587 Italia Venosa epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 590 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 593 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 4-5th Century AD
CIJ I, 594 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 595 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 596 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 597 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 599 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 600 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 606 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 607 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 608 Italia Venosa painted epitaph early 6th Century AD
CIJ I, 609 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
284
CIJ I, 610 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 611 Italia Venosa painted inscription early 6th Century AD
CIJ I, 612 Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 613 Italia Venosa painted epitaph early 6th Century AD
CIJ I, 614 Italia Venosa painted epitaph mid 6th Century AD
CIJ I, 616 Italia Venosa painted epitaph early 6th Century AD
CIJ I, 620 Italia Tarentum inscription -
CIJ I, 621 Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD
CIJ I, 622 Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD
CIJ I, 623 Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD
CIJ I, 625 Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD
CIJ I, 627 Italia Tarentum epitaph 3rd-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 628 Italia Tarentum epitaph 4th Century AD
CIJ I, 629 Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD
CIJ I, 630 Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD
CIJ I, 631 Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD
CIJ I, 632 Italia Otranto epitaph 3rd Century AD
CIJ I, 633 Italia Bari inscription 6th-8th Century AD
CIJ I, 634 Italia Oria stele 7th-8th Century AD
CIJ I, 635 Italia Oria epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 636 Etruria Civitavecchia epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
CIJ I, 637 Italia Ferrara inscription -
CIJ I, 638 Italia Brescia epitaph? 4th Century Ad?
CIJ I, 639 Italia Brescia epitaph? 4th Century or earlier
CIJ I, 640 Italia Concordia epitaph 4-5th Century AD
CIJ I, 641 Italia Pola inscription -
CIJ I, 642 Italia Pola epitaph 3-5th Century AD
CIJ I, 643 Italia Aquileia epitaph? 1st Century BC
CIJ I, 644 Italia Milan epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 645 Italia Milan epitaph -
CIJ I, 646 Italia Milan epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 650 Italia Catania epitaph 383 AD
CIJ I, 651 Italia Syracuse epitaph 4-5th Century AD
CIJ I, 652 Italia Syracuse epitaph 4-5th Century AD
CIJ I, 654 Italia Agrigentum epitaph 5th Century AD
CIJ I, 655 Malta Rabato catacombs Republican period?
CIJ I, 656 Italia Macomer ring -
CIJ I, 657 Italia Sulcis ring 4-5th Century AD?
CIJ I, 658 Italia Sulcis epitaph 4-5th Century AD
CIJ I, 665 Baetica Abdera epitaph 3rd Century AD
CIJ I, 667 Gallia Avignon seal 4th Century AD?
CIJ I, 669 Gallia Arles plaque -
CIJ I, 671 Gallia Auch donation 7th-8th Century AD
CIJ I, 673 Raetia Regensburg magical text 3rd Century AD
Germania
CIJ I, 674 Badenweiler magical text -
Superior
CIJ I, 675 Pannonia Aquincum epitaph 4th Century AD
CIJ I, 676 Pannonia Solva (near Gran) epitaph 3rd Century AD
synagogue
CIJ I, 677 Pannonia Intercisa (Duna-Pentele) 233-5 AD
inscription
CIJ I, 678 Pannonia Siklos epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
CIJ I, 679 Pannonia Sarajevo ring -
CIJ I, 681 Moesia Inferior Oescus epitaph 4th Century AD?
CIJ I, 693 Macedonia Thessaloniki epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 694 Macedonia Stobi donation 2nd-3rd Century AD
CIJ I, 709 Greece Delphi manumission text BC 158-7
285
CIJ I, 710 Greece Delphi manumission text BC 162
CIJ I, 711 Greece Delphi manumission text 2nd-1st Century BC
CIJ I, 712 Greece Athens epitaph 4-5th Century AD
CIJ I, 713 Greece Athens epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
CIJ I, 715 Greece Athens epitaph 6 Century AD?
CIJ I, 715e Greece Athens epitaph uncertain
CIJ I, 715f Greece Athens epitaph 1st Century AD
CIJ I, 715g Greece Athens epitaph 1st Century AD
CIJ I, 715i Greece Piraeus epitaph uncertain
CIJ I, 716 Greece Patras inscription -
CIJ I, 717 Greece Patras magical text -
synagogue
CIJ I, 718 Greece Corinth 3rd Century AD
inscription
CIJ I, 720 Greece Mantinea dedication 4th Century AD
CIJ I, 722 Greece Aegina mosaic floor 300-50 AD
CIJ I, 723 Greece Aegina mosaic floor 300-50 AD
CIJ I, 724 Greece Aegina magical text -
CIJ I, 725 Greece Rheneia epitaph end 2nd Century BC
Noy, D.,
Panayotov, A.,
Bloedhorn, H.,
(eds.),
Inscriptiones
Judaicae Dalmatia Narona stamp 4th Century AD
Orientis vol. I,
Eastern Europe,
Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 2004,
p. 20, fn 1.
IJO 1, Ach1 Greece Larisa epitaph 1st-4th Century AD
IJO 1, Ach5 Greece Larisa epitaph 4th-6th Century AD
IJO 1, Ach6 Greece Larisa epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Ach7 Greece Larisa epitaph uncertain
IJO 1, Ach9 Greece Kalyvia epitaph uncertain
IJO 1, Ach15 Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph uncertain
IJO 1, Ach16 Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph 3rd-7th Century AD
IJO 1, Ach17 Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 1, Ach18 Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Ach20 Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Ach21 Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Ach23 Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 1, Ach24 Greece Almyra epitaph 5th-7th Century AD
IJO 1, Ach26 Greece Athens epitaph 1st Century AD?
IJO 1, Ach27 Greece Athens epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Ach31 Greece Athens epitaph Roman
IJO 1, Ach33 Greece Athens epitaph 2nd Century AD BC?
IJO 1, Ach35 Greece Athens epitaph 1st Century AD?
IJO 1, Ach36 Greece Athens epitaph 1st Century AD?
IJO 1, Ach38 Greece Athens honorific 37-27 BC
IJO 1, Ach39 Greece Athens honorific 27-4 BC
IJO 1, Ach41 Greece Athens thiasos inscription 4th-3rd Century BC
IJO 1, Ach45 Greece Oropus manumission text 300-250 BC
IJO 1, Ach46 Greece Plataea epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 1, Ach48 Greece Corinth epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Ach49 Greece Corinth epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 1, Ach51 Greece Argos epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD

286
IJO 1, Ach52 Greece Arcadia epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 1, Ach53 Greece Coronea ephebic list 246 AD
IJO 1, Ach55 Greece Taenarum epitaph 1st Century AD?
IJO 1, Ach56 Greece Taenarum epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Ach60 Greece Delos vow 1-2nd Century AD
IJO 1, Ach61 Greece Delos vow 1-2nd Century AD
IJO 1, Ach62 Greece Delos vow 1st Century BC
IJO 1, Ach63 Greece Delos vow 1st Century BC
IJO 1, Ach65 Greece Delos vow 1st Century BC
IJO 1, Ach66 Greece Delos honorific 250-175 BC
IJO 1, Ach67 Greece Delos honorific BC 150-50
IJO 1, Ach68 Greece Delos list 100 AD
IJO 1, Ach69 Greece Delos statue 4-39 AD
IJO 1, Ach72 Greece Syros prayer 4th Century AD?
IJO 1, Ach73 Greece Syros thanksgiving 4th Century AD
IJO 1, Ach74 Greece Syros dedication 37-4 BC
IJO 1, BS1 Scythia Olbia building inscription 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 1, BS2 Black Sea Chersonesos graffito 4-5th Century AD
IJO 1, BS4 Black Sea Panticipaeum dedication 306 AD
IJO 1, BS5 Black Sea Panticipaeum manumission text 80 AD
IJO 1, BS6 Black Sea Panticipaeum manumission text 1-2nd Century AD
IJO 1, BS7 Black Sea Panticipaeum manumission text 1-2nd Century AD
IJO 1, BS9 Black Sea Panticipaeum manumission text 1-2nd Century AD
IJO 1, BS10 Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 1, BS11 Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 1, BS12 Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 1, BS13 Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 1, BS14 Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 4th Century AD?
IJO 1, BS15 Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
IJO 1, BS16 Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 4-5th Century AD?
IJO 1, BS17 Black Sea Phanagoria manumission text 17 AD
IJO 1, BS18 Black Sea Phanagoria manumission text 52 AD
IJO 1, BS19 Black Sea Hermonassa epitaph 1st Century AD
IJO 1, BS20 Black Sea Gorgippia manumission text 41 AD
IJO 1, BS21 Black Sea Gorgippia manumission text 93-123 AD
IJO 1, BS22 Black Sea Gorgippia manumission text 68 AD
IJO 1, BS23 Black Sea Gorgippia manumission text 59-60 AD
IJO 1, BS24 Black Sea Gorgippia manumission text 1-2nd Century AD
IJO 1, BS27 Black Sea Gorgippia thanksgiving 45-63 AD
IJO 1, BS28 Black Sea Tanais amphora 3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Cre1 Greece Arcades epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 1, Cre2 Greece Arcades epitaph Imperial
IJO 1, Cre3 Greece Kastelli Kissamou epitaph 4-5th Century AD
IJO 1, Dal1 Dalmatia Peratovci epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Dal2 Dalmatia Senia epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 1, Dal3 Dalmatia Salonae epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 1, Dal4 Dalmatia Salonae epitaph 539 AD
IJO 1, Dalmatia
Dalmatia Doclea tomb 3rd Century AD
(tomb 281)
IJO 1, Mac2 Macedonia Stobi seal 4th-6th Century AD
IJO 1, Mac3 Macedonia Stobi vow 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Mac4 Macedonia Stobi vow 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Mac5 Macedonia Stobi votive 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Mac6 Macedonia Beroea epitaph 5th Century AD
IJO 1, Mac7 Macedonia Beroea epitaph 4-5th Century AD?
IJO 1, Mac8 Macedonia Beroea epitaph 4th Century AD
287
IJO 1, Mac9 Macedonia Beroea epitaph 4th Century AD?
IJO 1, Mac11 Macedonia Beroea epitaph 4th Century AD?
IJO 1, Mac12 Macedonia Philippi epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 1, Mac14 Macedonia Thessaloniki epitaph 4th Century AD?
IJO 1, Mac15 Macedonia Thessaloniki epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Mac17 Macedonia Thessaloniki dedication 4th-6th Century AD
synagogue
IJO 1, Pan5 Pannonia Mursa 198-210 AD
inscription
IJO 1, Thr1 Thracia Philippopolis mosaic floor 3rd Century AD
IJO 1, Thr2 Thracia Philippopolis mosaic floor 4th Century AD
IJO 1, Thr3 Thracia Bizye epitaph 4-5th Century AD
IJO 1, Thr4 Thracia Perinthus-Heraclea epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 1, Thr5 Thracia Assenovgrad votive 2nd Century AD
Ameling, W.,
Inscriptiones
Judaicae
Orientis, Band Asia Minor Jaffa epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
II, Kleinasien,
Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 2004, 4
IJO 2, 5 Asia Minor Samos decree Imperial
IJO 2, 5a Asia Minor Ikaria inscription 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 6 Asia Minor Kermeti epitaph Imperial
IJO 2, 7 Asia Minor Kos town epitaph Imperial
IJO 2, 8 Asia Minor Palaispili epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 9 Asia Minor Rhodes list 1st Century AD
IJO 2, 10 Asia Minor Rhodes donation 18 AD
IJO 2, 11 Asia Minor Kamiros epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 14 Asia Minor Aphrodisias donation 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 15 Asia Minor Aphrodisias inscription 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 16 Asia Minor Aphrodisias inscription 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 17 Asia Minor Aphrodisias graffito 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 18 Asia Minor Aphrodisias list 4th Century AD
synagogue
IJO 2, 20 Asia Minor Hyllarima 3rd Century AD
inscription
IJO 2, 21 Asia Minor Iasos list 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 22 Asia Minor Iasos list 80-174 AD
IJO 2, 23 Asia Minor Iasos epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 24 Asia Minor Kaunos epitaph? late Hellenistic
synagogue
IJO 2, 25 Asia Minor Myndos 4th-6th Century AD
inscription
IJO 2, 26 Asia Minor Nysa building inscription 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 2, 27 Asia Minor Tralles donation 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 28 Asia Minor Tralles building inscription 1st Century AD
IJO 2, 30 Asia Minor Ephesus acclamation Imperial
IJO 2, 31 Asia Minor Ephesus barrier 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 32 Asia Minor Ephesus epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 33 Asia Minor Ephesus epitaph 200 AD
IJO 2, 34 Asia Minor Ephesus epitaph 212 AD
IJO 2, 35 Asia Minor Ephesus pastoral letter 531-37 AD
IJO 2, 36 Asia Minor Kyme building inscription 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 37 Asia Minor Miletus inscription 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 38 Asia Minor Miletus inscription 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 39 Asia Minor Miletus inscription 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 40 Asia Minor Smyrna inscription 124 AD
IJO 2, 41 Asia Minor Smyrna donation 4-5th Century AD

288
IJO 2, 43 Asia Minor Smyrna donation 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 45 Asia Minor Smyrna epitaph Imperial
IJO 2, 46 Asia Minor Teos donation 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 47 Asia Minor Hypaipa inscription 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 48 Asia Minor Magnesia ad Sipylon epitaph late Imperial
IJO 2, 49 Asia Minor Philadelphia donation 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 2, 50 Asia Minor Philadelphia epitaph late Imperial
IJO 2, 51 Asia Minor Philadelphia epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 53 Asia Minor Sardis inscription 200 AD
IJO 2, 54 Asia Minor Sardis epitaph? 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 55 Asia Minor Sardis amulet 3-5th Century AD
IJO 2, 56 Asia Minor Sardis epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 57 Asia Minor Sardis amphora 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 2, 59 Asia Minor Sardis amphora 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 2, 60 Asia Minor Sardis mosaic 321-5th Century AD
IJO 2, 62 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 268 AD
IJO 2, 63 Asia Minor Sardis prayer 4-5th Century AD
IJO 2, 64 Asia Minor Sardis prayer 341-438 AD
IJO 2, 66 Asia Minor Sardis prayer 4-5th Century AD
IJO 2, 67 Asia Minor Sardis donation 351-378 AD
IJO 2, 68 Asia Minor Sardis donation 324-378 AD
IJO 2, 69 Asia Minor Sardis donation 341-383 AD
IJO 2, 72 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 73 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 76 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 77 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 78 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 79 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 83 Asia Minor Sardis donation 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 84 Asia Minor Sardis donation 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 86 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 87 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 88 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 90 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 91 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 92 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 93 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 94 Asia Minor Sardis donation 5th Century AD
IJO 2, 95 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 97 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 98 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 100 Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD
IJO 2, 105 Asia Minor Sardis donation 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 2, 106 Asia Minor Sardis blessing 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 2, 107 Asia Minor Sardis inscription 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 108 Asia Minor Sardis inscription 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 109 Asia Minor Sardis inscription 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 114 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 118 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 119 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 121 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 122 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 123 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 124 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 125 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 129 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD
289
IJO 2, 132 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 133 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 134 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 135 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 136 Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 146 Asia Minor Thyateira epitaph 220-239 AD
IJO 2, 147 Asia Minor Cyzicus inscription 5th Century AD
IJO 2, 148 Asia Minor Cyzicus inscription 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 149 Asia Minor Amastris thanksgiving post 212 AD
IJO 2, 150 Asia Minor Chalcedon epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 151 Asia Minor Chalcedon epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 152 Asia Minor Claudiopolis epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 2, 153 Asia Minor Nicaea psalm 4th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 154 Asia Minor Nicomedia epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 155 Asia Minor Nicomedia epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 156 Asia Minor Nicomedia epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 157 Asia Minor Nicomedia epitaph uncertain
IJO 2, 158 Asia Minor Nicomedia epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 159 Asia Minor Sebastopolis epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 160 Asia Minor Sebastopolis epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 161 Asia Minor Sebastopolis epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 162 Asia Minor Germa epitaph? Byzantine?
IJO 2, 163 Asia Minor Tavium epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 164 Asia Minor Tavium epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 165 Asia Minor Tavium epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 166 Asia Minor Tavium epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 167 Asia Minor Aizanoi epitaph c. 175 AD
synagogue
IJO 2, 168 Asia Minor Acmonia 1st Century AD
inscription
IJO 2, 169 Asia Minor Acmonia prayer Late Antique
IJO 2, 170 Asia Minor Acmonia prayer 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 171 Asia Minor Acmonia donation post 212 AD
IJO 2, 172 Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph 243-4 AD
IJO 2, 173 Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph 248-9 AD
IJO 2, 174 Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 175 Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph post 212 AD
IJO 2, 176 Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 177 Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph 255-6 AD
IJO 2, 178 Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD AD
IJO 2, 179 Asia Minor Apamea epitaph post 212 AD
IJO 2, 180 Asia Minor Apollonia epitaph 1st-2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 181 Asia Minor Appia donation Byzantine?
IJO 2, 182 Asia Minor Diocleia epitaph 257-8 AD
IJO 2, 183 Asia Minor Docimeion epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 184 Asia Minor Docimeion epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 2, 185 Asia Minor Dorylaion epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 186 Asia Minor Eumeneia epitaph post 212 AD
IJO 2, 187 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 188 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 2, 189 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 190 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 191 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD
IJO 2, 192 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 193 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD
IJO 2, 194 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 195 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD
290
IJO 2, 196 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD
IJO 2, 197 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 198 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 199 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 200 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD
IJO 2, 201 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 202 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 203 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 204 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 205 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 206 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 207 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD
IJO 2, 208 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD
IJO 2, 209 Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD
IJO 2, 210 Asia Minor Cotiaeion epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 211 Asia Minor Cotiaeion epitaph Imperial
IJO 2, 213 Asia Minor Laodicea ad Lycus epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 214 Asia Minor Synnada epitaph 1-2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 215 Asia Minor Sibidunda votive 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 216 Asia Minor Termessos epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 218 Asia Minor Aspendos prayer 1-2nd Century AD
synagogue
IJO 2, 219 Asia Minor Side 220 AD
inscription
synagogue
IJO 2, 220 Asia Minor Side 363-390 AD
inscription
IJO 2, 221 Asia Minor Limyra epitaph Imperial
IJO 2, 222 Asia Minor Oinoanda inscription 2nd Century AD
IJO 2, 223 Asia Minor Tlos epitaph 1st Century AD
IJO 2, 224 Asia Minor Gdanmaa epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 225 Asia Minor Gdanmaa epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 226 Asia Minor Iconium epitaph 4th Century AD
Laodicea
IJO 2, 227 Asia Minor epitaph post 212 AD
Katakekaumene
IJO 2, 228 Asia Minor Sadahattin Hani epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 229 Asia Minor Aigai epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
IJO 2, 230 Asia Minor Diocaesarea prayer 4-5th Century AD
IJO 2, 231 Asia Minor Diocaesarea epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 232 Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 233 Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 234 Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 235 Asia Minor Korykos epitaph uncertain
IJO 2, 236 Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 237 Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 238 Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 2, 239 Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 240 Asia Minor Korykos epitaph late Roman
IJO 2, 241 Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 242 Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 243 Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 4th-6th Century AD
IJO 2, 244 Asia Minor Seleuceia ad Calycadnos epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 245 Asia Minor Seleuceia ad Calycadnos epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 246 Asia Minor Seleuceia ad Calycadnos epitaph Late Antique
IJO 2, 247 Asia Minor Selinus/Traianopolis epitaph 2nd Century AD
synagogue
IJO 2, 248 Asia Minor Tarsos 6th Century AD
inscription
IJO 2, 249 Asia Minor Tarsos epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
291
IJO 2, 250 Asia Minor Tarsos epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 2, 252 Asia Minor Nevsehir epitaph uncertain
IJO 2, 253 Asia Minor Nevsehir epitaph uncertain
IJO 2, 254 Asia Minor Nevsehir epitaph uncertain
IJO 2, 255 Asia Minor Nevsehir epitaph uncertain
IJO 2, 256 Asia Minor Nevsehir epitaph uncertain
IJO 2, 258 Asia Minor Tyana epitaph uncertain
Noy, D., and
Bloedhorn, H.,
(eds.),
Inscriptiones
Judaicae
Orientis, vol. III, Judea Beth She'arim epitaph uncertain
Syria and
Cyprus,
Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 2004,
App1
IJO 3, App2 Judea Beth She'arim epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 3, App3 Judea Beth She'arim epitaph uncertain
IJO 3, App4 Judea Beth She'arim epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 3, App5 Judea Beth She'arim epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD
IJO 3, App6 Judea Beth She'arim epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 3, App7 Judea Beth She'arim epitaph uncertain
IJO 3, App8 Judea Jerusalem ossuary uncertain
IJO 3, App9 Judea Jerusalem ossuary uncertain
IJO 3, Cyp1 Cyprus Lapethos vow 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 3, Cyp2 Cyprus Morfou seal/stamp 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 3, Cyp3 Cyprus Golgoi building inscription 4th Century AD
IJO 3, Cyp4 Cyprus Salamis inscription 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 3, Cyp5 Cyprus Kourion inscription 2nd-1st Century BC
IJO 3, Cyp6 Cyprus Kition epitaph 4th Century BC
IJO 3, Cyp7 Cyprus Kition epitaph 4th Century BC
IJO 3, Cyp8 Cyprus Kition epitaph 4th Century BC
IJO 3, Syr1 Syria Tyre epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr2 Syria Tyre epitaph uncertain
IJO 3, Syr3 Syria Tyre epitaph 2nd-7th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr4 Syria Tyre amulet 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr5 Syria Tyre dedication 4-5th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr6 Syria Tyre epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 3, Syr7 Syria Tyre epitaph 250-352 AD
IJO 3, Syr8 Syria Tyre epitaph 2nd Century AD
IJO 3, Syr9 Syria Tyre ossuary 1st Century AD?
IJO 3, Syr10 Syria Tyre pillar 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr11 Syria Tyre column 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr111-
Syria Dura Europus graffiti 253-4 AD
126
synagogue
IJO 3, Syr12 Syria Ornithopolis uncertain
inscription
IJO 3, Syr14 Syria Sidon stamp uncertain
IJO 3, Syr16 Syria Sidon epitaph uncertain
IJO 3, Syr17 Syria Sidon epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 3, Syr18 Syria Sidon epitaph 250-352 AD
IJO 3, Syr21 Syria Iamour epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 3, Syr22 Syria Chalcis ossuary 1st Century AD
IJO 3, Syr23 Syria Mutatio Heldua mosaic 605-6 AD

292
IJO 3, Syr24 Syria Berytus epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr25 Syria Berytus epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr26 Syria Berytus epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 3, Syr27 Syria Berytus amulet uncertain
IJO 3, Syr28 Syria Byblos epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr29 Syria Byblos epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr30 Syria Byblos epitaph 385-6 AD
IJO 3, Syr31 Syria Byblos epitaph 188-9 AD
IJO 3, Syr32 Syria Byblos epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr33 Syria Caesarea ad Libanum epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
synagogue
IJO 3, Syr34 Syria Tafas 4th Century AD
inscription
synagogue
IJO 3, Syr35 Syria Naveh 3rd-4th Century AD
inscription
IJO 3, Syr36 Syria Naveh epitaph 4th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr37 Syria Philippopolis epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr38 Syria Damatha inscription uncertain
IJO 3, Syr39 Syria Phaine epitaph 250-320 AD
IJO 3, Syr40 Syria Qatana officer list 3rd Century AD
IJO 3, Syr41 Syria Admedera inscription 5th-6th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr42 Syria Damascus amulet 3rd-4th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr44, probably 3rd Century
Syria Palmyra biblical inscription
45, 46, 47 AD
IJO 3, Syr48 Syria Palmyra graffito 7th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr49 Syria Palmyra epitaph 212 AD
IJO 3, Syr50 Syria Palmyra sale of tomb 3rd Century AD
IJO 3, Syr51 Syria Palmyra epitaph 3rd Century AD
IJO 3, Syr52 Syria Palmyra epitaph 3rd Century AD
synagogue
IJO 3, Syr53, 54 Syria Apamea on the Orontes 392 AD
inscription
synagogue
IJO 3, Syr55 Syria Apamea on the Orontes 392 AD
inscription
IJO 3, Syr56 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr57 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr58 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr59 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr60 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr61 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr62 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr63 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr64 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr65 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr66 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr67 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr68 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr70 Syria Apamea on the Orontes blessing 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr71 Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD
IJO 3, Syr72 Syria Apamea on the Orontes ossuary 1st Century BC/AD
IJO 3, Syr73 Syria Antioch on the Orontes uncertain
IJO 3, Syr74 Syria Antioch on the Orontes epitaph 200-352 AD
IJO 3, Syr75 Syria Djebel Sim'an inscription 272/3 AD
IJO 3, Syr76 Syria Aleppo amulet 4-5th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr78 Syria Edessa epitaph 1st-4th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr79 Syria Edessa epitaph 1st-4th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr80 Syria Edessa epitaph 1st-4th Century AD
IJO 3, Syr83 Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 244 AD

293
IJO 3, Syr84 Syria Dura Europus building inscription 244-5 AD
IJO 3, Syr85 Syria Dura Europus building inscription 244-5 AD
IJO 3, Syr86 Syria Dura Europus donation 244-5 AD
IJO 3, Syr87 Syria Dura Europus donation 244-5 AD
IJO 3, Syr88 Syria Dura Europus building inscription 244-5 AD
IJO 3, Syr89 Syria Dura Europus graffito 244-5 AD
IJO 3, Syr90 Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 254 AD
IJO 3, Syr91 Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 254 AD
IJO 3, Syr92 Syria Dura Europus graffito 240-1 AD
IJO 3, Syr93 Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 254 AD
IJO 3, Syr94 Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 254 AD
IJO 3, Syr95 Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 254 AD
IJO 3, Syr96-
Syria Dura Europus captions 244-5 AD
110
IJO 3, Syr127 Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 244 AD
IJO 3, Syr128 Syria Dura Europus graffito 244-5 AD
IJO 3, Syr129 Syria Dura Europus graffito 247-8 AD
IJO 3, Syr131 Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 254 AD
Noy, D., and
Horbury, W.,
Jewish
Inscriptions of
Egypt Alexandria epitaph late Ptolemaic
Graeco-Roman
Egypt,
Cambridge:
CUP, 1992, 1
JIGRE, 3 Egypt Alexandria epitaph early Ptolemaic
JIGRE, 4 Egypt Alexandria epitaph? early Ptolemaic
JIGRE, 6 Egypt Alexandria epitaph early Ptolemaic
JIGRE, 9 Egypt Alexandria dedication 2nd Century BC?
JIGRE, 10 Egypt Alexandria epitaph 3rd-2nd Century AD BC
JIGRE, 11 Egypt Alexandria epitaph late Ptolemaic
JIGRE, 12 Egypt Alexandria epitaph late Ptolemaic
JIGRE, 13 Egypt Alexandria dedication 37 BC
JIGRE, 15 Egypt Alexandria votive late Roman
JIGRE, 17 Egypt Alexandria votive Roman
JIGRE, 18 Egypt Alexandria honorific 3 AD
JIGRE, 19 Egypt Alexandria votive Roman
JIGRE, 20 Egypt Alexandria dedication late Ptolemaic-Roman
JIGRE, 22 Egypt Schedia dedication 246-221 BC
JIGRE, 24 Egypt Xenephyris dedication BC 140-116
JIGRE, 25 Egypt Nitriai dedication BC 140-116
JIGRE, 26 Egypt Naucratis statuette 30 BC-AD 14
JIGRE, 27 Egypt Athribis dedication 2nd-1st Century BC
JIGRE, 28 Egypt Athribis dedication 2nd-1st Century BC
JIGRE, 29 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 34 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 36 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 38 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 39 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 40 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph AD 8
2nd Century BC- 1st
JIGRE, 41 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph
Century AD
2nd Century BC- 1st
JIGRE, 42 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph
Century AD
JIGRE, 43 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph AD 5

294
 2nd Century BC- 1st
JIGRE, 54 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph
Century AD
JIGRE, 55 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 28 BC
JIGRE, 56 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 57 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 58 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 23 BC?
JIGRE, 59 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 60 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 55 or 4 BC
JIGRE, 62 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 63 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 65 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph AD 1
JIGRE, 74 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 5 BC
JIGRE, 76 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph AD 4
JIGRE, 81 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 84 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 27 BC
JIGRE, 86 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph AD 5
JIGRE, 88 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 93 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 52 or 1 BC
27 BC or 1st Century
JIGRE, 95 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph
AD
JIGRE, 96 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 58/7 BC
2nd Century BC-1st
JIGRE, 98 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph
Century AD
JIGRE, 100 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 26 BC
JIGRE, 101 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 102 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 103 Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 105 Egypt Leontopolis dedication 2nd Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 106 Egypt near Heliopolis epitaph 47 BC?
JIGRE, 107 Egypt near Heliopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 108 Egypt near Heliopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 109 Egypt near Heliopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 110 Egypt near Heliopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD
JIGRE, 115 Egypt Fayum donation 2nd Century BC?
JIGRE, 116 Egypt Fayum votive 29 BC
JIGRE, 117 Egypt Arsinoe-Crocodilopolis dedication 246-221 BC
JIGRE, 118 Egypt near Al-Minya epitaph? 2nd Century AD
JIGRE, 119 Egypt Antinoopolis epitaph 2nd Century AD
JIGRE, 120 Egypt Antinoopolis epitaph 2nd Century AD
JIGRE, 121 Egypt El-Kanais thanksgiving 2nd-1st Century BC
JIGRE, 122 Egypt El-Kanais thanksgiving 2nd-1st Century BC
JIGRE, 123 Egypt El-Kanais graffito 2nd-1st Century BC
JIGRE, 124 Egypt El-Kanais graffito 2nd-1st Century BC
Noy, D., Jewish
Inscriptions of
Western Europe, Italia Milan epitaph -
Cambridge:
CUP, 1993, 3
JIWE, 10 Italia Ravenna amphora 5th-6th Century AD
JIWE, 12 Italia Lorium metrical epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD
donation to
JIWE, 13 Italia Ostia 3rd Century AD
synagogue
JIWE, 14 Italia Ostia epitaph 1st-2nd Century AD
JIWE, 15 Italia Ostia honorific 253-60 AD
JIWE, 17 Italia Porto dedication 4th Century AD
JIWE, 22 Italia Brusciano epitaph 4-5th Century AD

295
JIWE, 30 Italia Naples epitaph 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 31 Italia Naples epitaph 5th Century AD
JIWE, 32 Italia Naples epitaph 5th Century AD
JIWE, 33 Italia Naples epitaph 5th Century AD
JIWE, 34 Italia Naples epitaph 5th Century AD
JIWE, 35 Italia Naples epitaph 5th Century AD
JIWE, 36 Italia Naples epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
JIWE, 37 Italia Naples epitaph 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 41 Italia Herculaneum graffito pre 79 AD
JIWE, 43 Italia Venosa epitaph 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 107 Italia Venosa epitaph 521 AD
JIWE, 113 Italia Venosa epitaph 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 138 Italia Hipponion epitaph 3rd Century AD
JIWE, 139 Italia Rhegium building inscription 4th Century AD?
JIWE, 140 Italia Bova Marina mosaic 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 143 Italia Taormina graffito 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 146 Italia Catania epitaph 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 148 Italia Catania acquistion of tomb 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 149 Italia Catania acquistion of tomb 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 150 Italia Catania acquistion of tomb 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 155 Italia Acrilla epitaph 4th Century AD
JIWE, 156 Italia Comiso amulet 3-5th Century AD
JIWE, 157 Italia Sofiana epitaph 5th Century AD
JIWE, 158 Italia Sofiana epitaph 4th Century AD?
JIWE, 159 Italia Sofiana amulet 3-5th Century AD
JIWE, 160 Italia Agrigentum epitaph 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 161 Italia Termini Imerese epitaph 1st Century AD?
JIWE, 163 Malta Rabato epitaph 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 166 Malta Rabato epitaph 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 173 Italia Sulcis epitaph 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 175 Italia Porto Torres epitaph 4th Century AD?
JIWE, 176 Italia Porto Torres epitaph 4th Century AD?
JIWE, 177 Majorca Santa Maria del Cami epitaph 4-5th Century AD
JIWE, 178 Ibiza Ibiza amphora 1st Century AD?
JIWE, 180 Hispania Elche mosaic floor 4th Century AD
JIWE, 181 Hispania Elche mosaic floor 4th Century AD?
JIWE, 183 Hispania Tortosa epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
JIWE, 185 Hispania Tarragona basin 5th-6th Century AD
JIWE, 186 Hispania Tarragona epitaph 5th-6th Century AD
JIWE, 187 Hispania near Tarragona epitaph 4th-6th Century AD
JIWE, 188 Hispania Villamesias epitaph 1st-3rd Century AD

296
 THE JEWI SH Di ASPOR A


By REGION

Region Location Type Date Publication/s

synagogue
Asia Minor Acmonia 1st Century AD IJO 2, 168
inscription
Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 2, 174
Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 2, 178
Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph 243-4 AD IJO 2, 172
Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph 248-9 AD IJO 2, 173
Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph 255-6 AD IJO 2, 177
Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 176
Asia Minor Acmonia prayer 4th Century AD IJO 2, 170
Asia Minor Acmonia prayer Late Antique IJO 2, 169
Asia Minor Acmonia donation post 212 AD IJO 2, 171
Asia Minor Acmonia epitaph post 212 AD IJO 2, 175
Asia Minor Aigai epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD IJO 2, 229
Asia Minor Aizanoi epitaph c. 175 AD IJO 2, 167
Asia Minor Amastris thanksgiving post 212 AD IJO 2, 149
Asia Minor Apamea epitaph post 212 AD IJO 2, 179
Asia Minor Aphrodisias donation 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 14
Asia Minor Aphrodisias graffito 4th Century AD IJO 2, 17
Asia Minor Aphrodisias list 4th Century AD IJO 2, 18
Asia Minor Aphrodisias inscription 5th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 15
Asia Minor Aphrodisias inscription 5th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 16
Asia Minor Apollonia epitaph 1st-2nd Century AD IJO 2, 180
Asia Minor Appia donation Byzantine? IJO 2, 181
Asia Minor Aspendos prayer 1st-2nd Century AD IJO 2, 218
Asia Minor Chalcedon epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 150
Asia Minor Chalcedon epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 151
Asia Minor Claudiopolis epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 2, 152
Asia Minor Cotiaeion epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 210
Asia Minor Cotiaeion epitaph Imperial IJO 2, 211
Asia Minor Cyzicus inscription 5th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 148
Asia Minor Cyzicus inscription 5th Century AD IJO 2, 147
Asia Minor Diocaesarea epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 231
Asia Minor Diocaesarea prayer 4th-5th Century AD IJO 2, 230
Asia Minor Diocleia epitaph 257-8 AD IJO 2, 182
Asia Minor Docimeion epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 2, 184
Asia Minor Docimeion epitaph 5th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 183
Asia Minor Dorylaion epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 185
Asia Minor Ephesus epitaph 200 AD IJO 2, 33
Asia Minor Ephesus epitaph 212 AD IJO 2, 34
Asia Minor Ephesus epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 32
Asia Minor Ephesus barrier 4th Century AD IJO 2, 31
Asia Minor Ephesus pastoral letter 531-37 AD IJO 2, 35
Asia Minor Ephesus acclamation Imperial IJO 2, 30
Asia Minor Eumeneia epitaph post 212 AD IJO 2, 186

297
Asia Minor Gdanmaa epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 224
Asia Minor Gdanmaa epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 225
Asia Minor Germa epitaph? Byzantine? IJO 2, 162
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 2, 201
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 2, 202
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 2, 203
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 2, 204
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 189
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 190
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 192
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 195
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 197
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 198
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 199
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 205
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 206
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 2, 188
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 187
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 194
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD IJO 2, 191
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD IJO 2, 193
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD IJO 2, 196
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD IJO 2, 200
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD IJO 2, 207
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD IJO 2, 208
Asia Minor Hierapolis epitaph post 212 AD IJO 2, 209
synagogue
Asia Minor Hyllarima 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 20
inscription
Asia Minor Hypaipa inscription 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 47
Asia Minor Iasos list 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 21
Asia Minor Iasos epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 23
Asia Minor Iasos list 80-174 AD IJO 2, 22
Asia Minor Iconium epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 226
Asia Minor Ikaria inscription 5th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 5a
Asia Minor Jaffa epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD IJO 2, 4
Asia Minor Kamiros epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 11
Asia Minor Kaunos epitaph? late Hellenistic IJO 2, 24
Asia Minor Kermeti epitaph Imperial IJO 2, 6
Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 2-3 C AD IJO 2, 233
Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 236
Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 238
Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 232
Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 237
Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 239
Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 4th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 243
Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 241
Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 242
Asia Minor Korykos epitaph 5th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 234
Asia Minor Korykos epitaph late Roman IJO 2, 240
Asia Minor Korykos epitaph uncertain IJO 2, 235
Imperial
Asia Minor Kos town epitaph IJO 2, 7
building
Asia Minor Kyme 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 36
inscription
Asia Minor Laodicea ad Lycus epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 2, 213
Asia Minor Laodicea epitaph post 212 AD IJO 2, 227
298
 Katakekaumene
Asia Minor Limyra epitaph Imperial IJO 2, 221
Asia Minor Magnesia ad Sipylon epitaph late Imperial IJO 2, 48
Asia Minor Miletus inscription 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 2, 37
Asia Minor Miletus inscription 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 2, 38
Asia Minor Miletus inscription 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 2, 39
synagogue
Asia Minor Myndos 4th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 25
inscription
Asia Minor Nevsehir epitaph uncertain IJO 2, 252
Asia Minor Nevsehir epitaph uncertain IJO 2, 253
Asia Minor Nevsehir epitaph uncertain IJO 2, 254
Asia Minor Nevsehir epitaph uncertain IJO 2, 255
Asia Minor Nevsehir epitaph uncertain IJO 2, 256
Asia Minor Nicaea psalm 4th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 153
Asia Minor Nicomedia epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 154
Asia Minor Nicomedia epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 155
Asia Minor Nicomedia epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 156
Asia Minor Nicomedia epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 158
Asia Minor Nicomedia epitaph uncertain IJO 2, 157
building
Asia Minor Nysa 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 2, 26
inscription
Asia Minor Oinoanda inscription 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 222
Asia Minor Palaispili epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 8
Asia Minor Philadelphia donation 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 2, 49
Asia Minor Philadelphia epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 51
Asia Minor Philadelphia epitaph late Imperial IJO 2, 50
Asia Minor Rhodes donation 18 AD IJO 2, 10
Asia Minor Rhodes list 1st Century AD IJO 2, 9
Asia Minor Sadahattin Hani epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 228
Asia Minor Samos decree Imperial IJO 2, 5
Asia Minor Sardis inscription 200 AD IJO 2, 53
Asia Minor Sardis mosaic 321-5th Century AD IJO 2, 60
Asia Minor Sardis donation 324-378 AD IJO 2, 68
Asia Minor Sardis donation 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 2, 105
Asia Minor Sardis blessing 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 2, 106
Asia Minor Sardis amphora 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 2, 57
Asia Minor Sardis amphora 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 2, 59
Asia Minor Sardis donation 341-383 AD IJO 2, 69
Asia Minor Sardis prayer 341-438 AD IJO 2, 64
Asia Minor Sardis amulet 3rd-5th Century AD IJO 2, 55
Asia Minor Sardis donation 351-378 AD IJO 2, 67
Asia Minor Sardis epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 56
Asia Minor Sardis prayer 4th-5th Century AD IJO 2, 63
Asia Minor Sardis prayer 4th-5th Century AD IJO 2, 66
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 132
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 133
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 134
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 135
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 136
Asia Minor Sardis inscription 4th Century AD IJO 2, 107
Asia Minor Sardis inscription 4th Century AD IJO 2, 108
Asia Minor Sardis inscription 4th Century AD IJO 2, 109
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD IJO 2, 114
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD IJO 2, 118
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD IJO 2, 119
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD IJO 2, 121
299
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD IJO 2, 122
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD IJO 2, 123
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD IJO 2, 124
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD IJO 2, 125
Asia Minor Sardis donation 4th Century AD IJO 2, 129
Asia Minor Sardis epitaph? 4th Century AD IJO 2, 54
Asia Minor Sardis donation 5th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 83
Asia Minor Sardis donation 5th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 84
Asia Minor Sardis donation 5th Century AD IJO 2, 94
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 268 AD IJO 2, 62
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 100
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 72
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 73
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 76
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 77
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 78
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 79
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 86
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 87
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 88
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 90
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 91
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 92
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 93
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 95
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 97
Asia Minor Sardis donation post 380 AD IJO 2, 98
Asia Minor Sebastopolis epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 159
Asia Minor Sebastopolis epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 160
Asia Minor Sebastopolis epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 161
Seleuceia ad
Asia Minor epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 244
Calycadnos
Seleuceia ad
Asia Minor epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 245
Calycadnos
Seleuceia ad
Asia Minor epitaph Late Antique IJO 2, 246
Calycadnos
Selinus/
Asia Minor epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 247
Traianopolis
Asia Minor Sibidunda votive 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 2, 215
Asia Minor Side synagogue 220 AD IJO 2, 219
inscription
synagogue
Asia Minor Side 363-390 AD IJO 2, 220
inscription
Asia Minor Smyrna inscription 124 AD IJO 2, 40
Asia Minor Smyrna donation 2nd Century AD IJO 2, 43
Asia Minor Smyrna donation 4th-5th Century AD IJO 2, 41
Asia Minor Smyrna epitaph Imperial IJO 2, 45
Asia Minor Synnada epitaph 1st-2nd Century AD IJO 2, 214
Asia Minor Tarsos epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 2, 249
4th Century AD
Asia Minor Tarsos epitaph IJO 2, 250
synagogue
Asia Minor Tarsos 6th Century AD IJO 2, 248
inscription
Asia Minor Tavium epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 2, 166
Asia Minor Tavium epitaph 5th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 163
Asia Minor Tavium epitaph 5th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 164

300
Asia Minor Tavium epitaph 5th-6th Century AD IJO 2, 165
Asia Minor Teos donation 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 46
Asia Minor Termessos epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 216
Asia Minor Thyateira epitaph 220-239 AD IJO 2, 146
Asia Minor Tlos epitaph 1st Century AD IJO 2, 223
building
Asia Minor Tralles 1st Century AD IJO 2, 28
inscription
Asia Minor Tralles donation 3rd Century AD IJO 2, 27
Asia Minor Tyana epitaph uncertain IJO 2, 258
Baetica Abdera epitaph 3rd Century AD CIJ I, 665
Black Sea Chersonesos graffito 4th-5th Century AD IJO 1, BS2
Black Sea Gorgippia manumission 1-2nd Century AD IJO 1, BS24
Black Sea Gorgippia manumission 41 AD IJO 1, BS20
Black Sea Gorgippia thanksgiving 45-63 AD IJO 1, BS27
Black Sea Gorgippia manumission 59-60 AD IJO 1, BS23
Black Sea Gorgippia manumission 68 AD IJO 1, BS22
Black Sea Gorgippia manumission 93-123 AD IJO 1, BS21
Black Sea Hermonassa epitaph 1st Century AD IJO 1, BS19
Black Sea Panticipaeum manumission 1-2nd Century AD IJO 1, BS6
Black Sea Panticipaeum manumission 1-2nd Century AD IJO 1, BS7
Black Sea Panticipaeum manumission 1-2nd Century AD IJO 1, BS9
Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 1, BS15
Black Sea Panticipaeum dedication 306 AD IJO 1, BS4
Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 1, BS10
Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 1, BS11
Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 1, BS12
Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 1, BS13
Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 4th-5th Century AD? IJO 1, BS16
Black Sea Panticipaeum epitaph 4th Century AD? IJO 1, BS14
Black Sea Panticipaeum manumission 80 AD IJO 1, BS5
Black Sea Phanagoria manumission 17 AD IJO 1, BS17
Black Sea Phanagoria manumission 52 AD IJO 1, BS18
Black Sea Tanais amphora 3rd Century AD IJO 1, BS28
building
Cyprus Golgoi 4th Century AD IJO 3, Cyp3
inscription
Cyprus Kition epitaph 4th Century BC IJO 3, Cyp6
Cyprus Kition epitaph 4th Century BC IJO 3, Cyp7
Cyprus Kition epitaph 4th Century BC IJO 3, Cyp8
Cyprus Kourion inscription 2nd-1st Century BC IJO 3, Cyp5
Cyprus Lapethos vow 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 3, Cyp1
Cyprus Morfou seal/stamp 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 3, Cyp2
Cyprus Salamis inscription 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 3, Cyp4
IJO 1, Dalmatia
Dalmatia Doclea tomb 3rd Century AD
(tomb 281)
Dalmatia Narona stamp 4th Century AD IJO 1
Dalmatia Peratovci epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 1, Dal1
Dalmatia Salonae epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 1, Dal3
Dalmatia Salonae epitaph 539 AD IJO 1, Dal4
Dalmatia Senia epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 1, Dal2
Egypt Alexandria dedication 2nd Century BC? JIGRE, 9
Egypt Alexandria honorific 3 AD JIGRE, 18
Egypt Alexandria dedication 37 BC JIGRE, 13
Egypt Alexandria epitaph 3rd-2nd Century BC JIGRE, 10
Egypt Alexandria epitaph early Ptolemaic JIGRE, 3
Egypt Alexandria epitaph? early Ptolemaic JIGRE, 4
Egypt Alexandria epitaph early Ptolemaic JIGRE, 6
301
Egypt Alexandria epitaph late Ptolemaic JIGRE, 1
Egypt Alexandria epitaph late Ptolemaic JIGRE, 11
Egypt Alexandria epitaph late Ptolemaic JIGRE, 12
late Ptolemaic-
Egypt Alexandria dedication JIGRE, 20
Roman
Egypt Alexandria votive late Roman JIGRE, 15
Egypt Alexandria votive Roman JIGRE, 17
Egypt Alexandria votive Roman JIGRE, 19
Egypt Antinoopolis epitaph 2nd Century AD JIGRE, 119
Egypt Antinoopolis epitaph 2nd Century AD JIGRE, 120
Egypt Arsinoe-Crocodilopolis dedication 246-221 BC JIGRE, 117
Egypt Athribis dedication 2nd-1st Century BC JIGRE, 27
Egypt Athribis dedication 2nd-1st Century BC JIGRE, 28
Egypt El-Kanais thanksgiving 2nd-1st Century BC JIGRE, 121
Egypt El-Kanais thanksgiving 2nd-1st Century BC JIGRE, 122
Egypt El-Kanais graffito 2nd-1st Century BC JIGRE, 123
Egypt El-Kanais graffito 2nd-1st Century BC JIGRE, 124
Egypt Fayum votive 29 BC JIGRE, 116
Egypt Fayum donation 2nd Century BC? JIGRE, 115
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD JIGRE, 29
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD JIGRE, 59
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD JIGRE, 81
2nd Century BC-1st
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph JIGRE, 41
Century AD
2nd Century BC-1st
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph JIGRE, 42
Century AD
2nd Century BC-1st
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph JIGRE, 54
Century AD
2nd Century BC- 1st
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph JIGRE, 98
Century AD
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 101
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 102
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 103
Egypt Leontopolis dedication 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 105
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 34
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 36
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 38
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 39
Egypt Leontopolis Epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 56
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 57
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 62
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 63
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 2nd Century BC/AD JIGRE, 88
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 23 BC? JIGRE, 58
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 26 BC JIGRE, 100
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 27 BC JIGRE, 84
27 BC or 1st Century
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph JIGRE, 95
AD
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 28 BC JIGRE, 55
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 5 BC JIGRE, 74
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 52 or 1 BC JIGRE, 93
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 55 or 4 BC JIGRE, 60
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph 58/7 BC JIGRE, 96
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph AD 1 JIGRE, 65
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph AD 4 JIGRE, 76
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph AD 5 JIGRE, 43

302
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph AD 5 JIGRE, 86
Egypt Leontopolis epitaph AD 8 JIGRE, 40
Egypt Naucratis statuette 30 BC-AD 14 JIGRE, 26
Egypt near Al-Minya epitaph? 2nd Century AD JIGRE, 118
Egypt near Heliopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD JIGRE, 107
Egypt near Heliopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD JIGRE, 108
Egypt near Heliopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD JIGRE, 109
Egypt near Heliopolis epitaph 1st Century BC/AD JIGRE, 110
Egypt near Heliopolis epitaph 47 BC? JIGRE, 106
Egypt Nitriai dedication 140-116 BC JIGRE, 25
Egypt Schedia dedication 246-221 BC JIGRE, 22
Egypt Xenephyris dedication 140-116 BC JIGRE, 24
Etruria Civitavecchia epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 636
Gallia Arles plaque - CIJ I, 669
Gallia Auch donation 7th-8th Century AD CIJ I, 671
Gallia Avignon seal 4th Century AD? CIJ I, 667
Germania
Badenweiler magical text - CIJ I, 674
Superior
Greece Aegina magical text - CIJ I, 724
Greece Aegina mosaic floor 300-50 AD CIJ I, 722
Greece Aegina mosaic floor 300-50 AD CIJ I, 723
Greece Almyra epitaph 5th-7th Century AD IJO 1, Ach24
Greece Arcades epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 1, Cre1
Greece Arcades epitaph Imperial IJO 1, Cre2
Greece Arcadia epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 1, Ach52
Greece Argos epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 1, Ach51
Greece Athens epitaph 1st Century AD CIJ I, 715f
Greece Athens epitaph 1st Century AD CIJ I, 715g
Greece Athens epitaph 1st Century AD? IJO 1, Ach26
Greece Athens epitaph 1st Century AD? IJO 1, Ach35
Greece Athens epitaph 1st Century AD? IJO 1, Ach36
Greece Athens epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 1, Ach27
Greece Athens honorific 27-4 BC IJO 1, Ach39
Greece Athens epitaph 2nd Century BC? IJO 1, Ach33
Greece Athens honorific 37-27 BC IJO 1, Ach38
thiasos
Greece Athens 4th-3rd Century BC IJO 1, Ach41
inscription
Greece Athens epitaph 4th-5th Century AD CIJ I, 712
Greece Athens epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 713
Greece Athens epitaph 6th Century AD? CIJ I, 715
Greece Athens epitaph Roman IJO 1, Ach31
Greece Athens epitaph uncertain CIJ I, 715e
synagogue
Greece Corinth 3rd Century AD CIJ I, 718
inscription
Greece Corinth epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 1, Ach48
Greece Corinth epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 1, Ach49
Greece Coronea ephebic list 246 AD IJO 1, Ach53
Greece Delos vow 1st Century BC IJO 1, Ach62
Greece Delos vow 1st Century BC IJO 1, Ach63
Greece Delos vow 1st Century BC IJO 1, Ach65
Greece Delos list 100 AD IJO 1, Ach68
Greece Delos vow 1-2nd Century AD IJO 1, Ach60
Greece Delos vow 1-2nd Century AD IJO 1, Ach61
Greece Delos honorific 250-175 BC IJO 1, Ach66
Greece Delos statue 4-39 AD IJO 1, Ach69
Greece Delos honorific 150-50 BC IJO 1, Ach67
303
Greece Delphi manumission 2nd-1st Century BC CIJ I, 711
Greece Delphi manumission 158-7 BC CIJ I, 709
Greece Delphi manumission 162 BC CIJ I, 710
Greece Kalyvia epitaph uncertain IJO 1, Ach9
Greece Kastelli Kissamou epitaph 4th-5th Century AD IJO 1, Cre3
Greece Larisa epitaph 1st-4th Century AD IJO 1, Ach1
Greece Larisa epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 1, Ach6
Greece Larisa epitaph 4th-6th Century AD IJO 1, Ach5
Greece Larisa epitaph uncertain IJO 1, Ach7
Greece Mantinea dedication 4th Century AD CIJ I, 720
Greece Oropus manumission 300-250 BC IJO 1, Ach45
Greece Patras inscription - CIJ I, 716
Greece Patras magical text - CIJ I, 717
Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 1, Ach17
Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 1, Ach23
Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph 3rd-7th Century AD IJO 1, Ach 16
Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 1, Ach18
Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 1, Ach20
Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 1, Ach21
Greece Phthiotic Thebes epitaph uncertain IJO 1, Ach15
Greece Piraeus epitaph uncertain CIJ I, 715i
Greece Plataea epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 1, Ach46
Greece Rheneia epitaph end 2nd Century BC CIJ I, 725
Greece Syros dedication 37-4 BC IJO 1, Ach74
Greece Syros thanksgiving 4th Century AD IJO 1, Ach73
Greece Syros prayer 4th Century AD? IJO 1, Ach72
Greece Taenarum epitaph 1st Century AD? IJO 1, Ach55
Greece Taenarum epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 1, Ach56
Hispania Elche mosaic floor 4th Century AD JIWE, 180
Hispania Elche mosaic floor 4th Century AD? JIWE, 181
Hispania near Tarragona epitaph 4th-6th Century AD JIWE, 187
Hispania Tarragona basin 5th-6th Century AD JIWE, 185
Hispania Tarragona epitaph 5th-6th Century AD JIWE, 186
Hispania Tortosa epitaph 5th-6th Century AD JIWE, 183
Hispania Villamesias epitaph 1st-3rd Century AD JIWE, 188
Ibiza Ibiza amphora 1st Century AD? JIWE, 178
Italia Acrilla epitaph 4th Century AD JIWE, 155
Italia Agrigentum epitaph 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 160
Italia Agrigentum epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 654
Italia Aquileia epitaph? 1st Century BC CIJ I, 643
Italia Bari inscription 6th-8th Century AD CIJ I, 633
Italia Bova Marina mosaic 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 140
4th Century AD or
Italia Brescia epitaph? CIJ I, 639
earlier
Italia Brescia epitaph? 4th Century AD? CIJ I, 638
Italia Brusciano epitaph 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 22
Italia Capua epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 553
First half 2nd
Italia Castel Porziano fragment CIJ I, 533
Century AD
Italia Catania epitaph 383 AD CIJ I, 650
Italia Catania epitaph 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 146
acquistion of
Italia Catania 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 148
tomb
acquistion of
Italia Catania 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 149
tomb
Italia Catania acquistion of 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 150
304
 tomb
Italia Comiso amulet 3rd-5th Century AD JIWE, 156
Italia Concordia epitaph 4th-5th Century AD CIJ I, 640
Italia Ferrara inscription - CIJ I, 637
Italia Fondi epitaph uncertain CIJ I, 552
Italia Herculaneum graffito pre 79 AD JIWE, 41
Italia Hipponion epitaph 3rd Century AD JIWE, 138
Italia Lorium metrical epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD JIWE, 12
Italia Macomer ring - CIJ I, 656
Italia Milan epitaph - CIJ I, 645
Italia Milan epitaph - JIWE, 3
Italia Milan epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 644
Italia Milan epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 646
Italia Naples epitaph 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 30
Italia Naples epitaph 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 37
Italia Naples epitaph 5th Century AD JIWE, 31
Italia Naples epitaph 5th Century AD JIWE, 32
Italia Naples epitaph 5th Century AD JIWE, 33
Italia Naples epitaph 5th Century AD JIWE, 34
Italia Naples epitaph 5th Century AD JIWE, 35
Italia Naples epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 558
Italia Naples epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 559
Italia Naples epitaph 5th-6th Century AD JIWE, 36
Italia Naples epitaph 70-95 AD CIJ I, 556
Italia Naples seal uncertain CIJ I, 555
7th Centuy AD or
Italia Nola lamp CIJ I, 554
later?
Italia Oria epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 635
Italia Oria stele 7th-8th Century AD CIJ I, 634
Italia Ostia epitaph 1-2nd Century AD JIWE, 14
Italia Ostia disc 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 534
Italia Ostia honorific 253-60 AD JIWE, 15
donation to
Italia Ostia 3rd Century AD JIWE, 13
synagogue
Italia Otranto epitaph 3rd Century AD CIJ I, 632
Italia Pola inscription - CIJ I, 641
Italia Pola epitaph 3rd-5th Century AD CIJ I, 642
Italia Pompeii graffiti pre 79 AD CIJ I, 562
Italia Pompeii amphora pre 79 AD CIJ I, 563
Italia Pompeii graffiti pre 79 AD CIJ I, 564
Italia Pompeii graffiti pre 79 AD CIJ I, 566
Italia Pompeii graffiti pre 79 AD CIJ I, 567
Italia Porto plaque - CIJ I, 537
Italia Porto plaque - CIJ I, 538
Italia Porto plaque - CIJ I, 543
Italia Porto fragment - CIJ I, 548
Italia Porto fragment 2nd Century AD CIJ I, 539
Italia Porto dedication 4th Century AD JIWE, 17
Italia Porto plaque CIJ I, 535
Italia Porto plaque CIJ I, 536
Italia Porto plaque CIJ I, 540
Italia Porto Torres epitaph 4th Century AD? JIWE, 175
Italia Porto Torres epitaph 4th Century AD? JIWE, 176
Italia Puzzeoli epitaph? 1st Century AD CIJ I, 561
Italia Ravenna amphora 5th-6th Century AD JIWE, 10
Italia region of Via fragment - CIJ I, 494
305
 Portuensis
region of Via
Italia sarcophagus - CIJ I, 496
Portuensis
region of Via
Italia plaque - CIJ I, 497
Portuensis
region of Via
Italia fragment - CIJ I, 499
Portuensis
building
Italia Rhegium 4th Century AD? JIWE, 139
inscription
Italia Salerno inscription - CIJ I, 568
Italia Sofiana amulet 3rd-5th Century AD JIWE, 159
Italia Sofiana epitaph 4th Century AD? JIWE, 158
Italia Sofiana epitaph 5th Century AD JIWE, 157
Italia Sulcis epitaph 4th-5th Century AD CIJ I, 658
Italia Sulcis epitaph 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 173
Italia Sulcis ring 4th-5th Century AD? CIJ I, 657
Italia Syracuse epitaph 4th-5th Century AD CIJ I, 651
Italia Syracuse epitaph 4th-5th Century AD CIJ I, 652
Italia Taormina graffito 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 143
Italia Tarentum inscription - CIJ I, 620
Italia Tarentum epitaph 3rd-6th Century AD CIJ I, 627
Italia Tarentum epitaph 4th Century AD CIJ I, 628
Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD CIJ I, 621
Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD CIJ I, 622
Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD CIJ I, 623
Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD CIJ I, 625
Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD CIJ I, 629
Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD CIJ I, 630
Italia Tarentum epitaph 7th-8th Century AD CIJ I, 631
Italia Termini Imerese epitaph 1st Century AD? JIWE, 161
Italia Venosa epitaph 4th-5th Century AD CIJ I, 585
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 4th-5th Century AD CIJ I, 593
Italia Venosa epitaph 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 113
Italia Venosa epitaph 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 43
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 575
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 576
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 578
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 579
Italia Venosa epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 581
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 584
Italia Venosa epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 586
Italia Venosa epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 587
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 590
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 594
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 595
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 597
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 599
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th Century AD CIJ I, 600
Italia Venosa epitaph 521 AD JIWE, 107
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 569
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 570
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 596
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 606
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 607
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 609
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 610
306
Italia Venosa painted epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 612
Italia Venosa painted epitaph early 6th Century AD CIJ I, 608
painted
Italia Venosa early 6th Century AD CIJ I, 611
inscription
Italia Venosa painted epitaph early 6th Century AD CIJ I, 613
Italia Venosa painted epitaph early 6th Century AD CIJ I, 616
Italia Venosa painted epitaph mid 6th Century AD CIJ I, 614
Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 100
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 102
Italia Via Appia ? 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 103
Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 105
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 106
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 108
Italia Via Appia sarcophagus 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 109
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 110
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 111
Italia Via Appia painted plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 113
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 118
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 119
Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 120
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 121
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 122
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 125
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 126
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 130
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 132
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 136
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 138
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 139
Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 140
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 141
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 142
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 143
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 145
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 146
Italia Via Appia painted plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 147
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 148
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 149
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 150
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 151
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 152
Italia Via Appia Plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 153
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 155
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 156
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 157
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 161
Italia Via Appia graffiti 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 163
Italia Via Appia graffiti 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 165
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 166
Italia Via Appia painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 167
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 173
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 176
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 180
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 193
Italia Via Appia painted plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 200
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 201
307
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 202
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 203
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 206
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 209
Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 210
Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 212
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 213
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 215
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 217
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 221
Italia Via Appia Plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 222
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 225
Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 228
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 229
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 230
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 231
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 233
Italia Via Appia painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 246
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 248
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 249
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 250
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 252
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 254
Italia Via Appia graffiti 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 255
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 256
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 257
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 260
Italia Via Appia graffiti 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 261
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 263
Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 265
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 268
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 269
Italia Via Appia inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 281
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 282
Italia Via Appia sarcophagus 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 283
Italia Via Appia Plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 285
Italia Via Appia graffiti 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 87
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 88
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 89
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 90
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 95
Italia Via Appia plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 97
Italia Via Appia fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 99
Italia Via Flaminia ? 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 1
Italia Via Flaminia ? 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 2
Italia Via Labicana painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 73
Italia Via Labicana painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 75
Italia Via Labicana painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 77
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 10
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 11
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 12
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 13
Italia Via Nomentana fragment - CIJ I, 14
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 15
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 16
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 17
308
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 18
Italia Via Nomentana graffiti - CIJ I, 19
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 20
Italia Via Nomentana plaque - CIJ I, 21
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 22
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 23
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 24
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 25
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 26
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 27
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 28
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 30
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 31
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 32
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 33
Italia Via Nomentana plaque - CIJ I, 34
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 35
Italia Via Nomentana fragment - CIJ I, 36
Italia Via Nomentana fragment - CIJ I, 37
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 38
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 39
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 41
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 42
Italia Via Nomentana stele - CIJ I, 43
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 44
Italia Via Nomentana plaque - CIJ I, 45
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 46
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 47
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 48
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 50
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 51
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 52
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 53
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 55
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 56
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 6
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 67
Italia Via Nomentana plaque - CIJ I, 68
Italia Via Nomentana plaque - CIJ I, 69
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 7
Italia Via Nomentana plaque - CIJ I, 70
Italia Via Nomentana sarcophagus - CIJ I, 72
Italia Via Nomentana painted epitaph - CIJ I, 8
Italia Via Nomentana tablet - CIJ I, 9
Italia Via Ostiensis sarcophagus - CIJ I, 287
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 290
Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 291
Italia Via Portuensis painted brick 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 293
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 296
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 298
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 299
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 300
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 301
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 304
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 306
Italia Via Portuensis Inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 307
309
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 309
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 310
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 312
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 315
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 316
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 317
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 318
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 319
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 321
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 323
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 324
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 325
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 327
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 328
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 329
Italia Via Portuensis painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 331
Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 332
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 333
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 334
Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 335
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 336
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 337
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 340
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 343
Italia Via Portuensis Fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 345
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 346
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 347
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 348
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 349
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 351
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 353
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 354
Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 355
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 358
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 361
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 362
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 364
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 367
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 368
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 369
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 370
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 371
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 372
Italia Via Portuensis painted brick 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 373
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 374
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 375
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 376
Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 378
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 379
Italia Via Portuensis Plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 380
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 382
Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 383
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 384
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 385
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 390
Italia Via Portuensis painted plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 391
310
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 392
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 394
Italia Via Portuensis painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 395
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 396
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 397
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 398
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 399
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 400
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 401
Italia Via Portuensis painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 403
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 405
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 408
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 409
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 411
Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 413
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 416
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 417
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 418
Italia Via Portuensis painted epitaph 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 419
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 425
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 433
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 456
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 457
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 458
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 460
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 462
Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 463
Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 464
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 465
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 466
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 467
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 470
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 472
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 477
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 478
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 479
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 480
Italia Via Portuensis fragment 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 481
Italia Via Portuensis plaque 2nd-4th Century AD CIJ I, 483
Italia Via Portuensis inscription 330 AD, 14 May CIJ I, 482
Italia Via Portuensis plaque beg. 2nd Century AD CIJ I, 476
Italia Via Salaria plaque - CIJ I, 3
Italia Via Salaria plaque - CIJ I, 4
Italia Via Salaria plaque - CIJ I, 5
Judea Beth She'arim epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 3, App5
Judea Beth She'arim epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 3, App2
Judea Beth She'arim epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 3, App4
Judea Beth She'arim epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 3, App6
Judea Beth She'arim epitaph uncertain IJO 3, App1
Judea Beth She'arim epitaph uncertain IJO 3, App3
Judea Beth She'arim epitaph uncertain IJO 3, App7
Judea Jerusalem ossuary uncertain IJO 3, App8
Judea Jerusalem ossuary uncertain IJO 3, App9
Macedonia Beroea epitaph 4th-5th Century AD IJO 1, Mac7
Macedonia Beroea epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 1, Mac8
Macedonia Beroea epitaph 4th Century AD? IJO 1, Mac11
311
Macedonia Beroea epitaph 4th Century AD? IJO 1, Mac9
Macedonia Beroea epitaph 5th Century AD IJO 1, Mac6
Macedonia Philippi epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 1, Mac12
Macedonia Stobi donation 2nd-3rd Century AD CIJ I, 694
Macedonia Stobi vow 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 1, Mac3
Macedonia Stobi vow 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 1, Mac4
Macedonia Stobi votive 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 1, Mac5
Macedonia Stobi seal 4th-6th Century AD IJO 1, Mac2
Macedonia Thessaloniki epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 1, Mac15
Macedonia Thessaloniki dedication 4th-6th Century AD IJO 1, Mac17
Macedonia Thessaloniki epitaph 4th Century AD? IJO 1, Mac14
Macedonia Thessaloniki epitaph 5th-6th Century AD CIJ I, 693
Majorca Santa Maria del Cami epitaph 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 177
Malta Rabato epitaph 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 163
Malta Rabato epitaph 4th-5th Century AD JIWE, 166
Malta Rabato catacombs Republican period? CIJ I, 655
Moesia Inferior Oescus epitaph 4th Century AD? CIJ I, 681
Pannonia Aquincum epitaph 4th Century AD CIJ I, 675
Intercisa (Duna- synagogue
Pannonia 233-5 AD CIJ I, 677
Pentele) inscription
synagogue
Pannonia Mursa 198-210 AD IJO 1, Pan5
inscription
Pannonia Sarajevo ring - CIJ I, 679
Pannonia Siklos epitaph 2nd-3rd Century AD CIJ I, 678
Pannonia Solva (near Gran) epitaph 3rd Century AD CIJ I, 676
Raetia Regensburg magical text 3rd Century AD CIJ I, 673
building
Scythia Olbia 2nd-3rd Century AD IJO 1, BS1
inscription
Syria Admedera inscription 5th-6th Century AD IJO 3, Syr41
Syria Aleppo amulet 4th-5th Century AD IJO 3, Syr76
Syria Antioch on the Orontes epitaph 200-352 AD IJO 3, Syr74
Syria Antioch on the Orontes ? uncertain IJO 3, Syr73
Syria Apamea on the Orontes ossuary 1st Century BC/AD IJO 3, Syr72
synagogue
Syria Apamea on the Orontes 392 AD IJO 3, Syr53, 54
inscription
synagogue
Syria Apamea on the Orontes 392 AD IJO 3, Syr55
inscription
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr56
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr57
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr58
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr59
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr60
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr61
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr62
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr63
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr64
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr65
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr66
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr67
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr68
Syria Apamea on the Orontes blessing 392 AD IJO 3, Syr70
Syria Apamea on the Orontes donation 392 AD IJO 3, Syr71
Syria Berytus epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr25
Syria Berytus epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 3, Syr26
Syria Berytus epitaph 5th-6th Century AD IJO 3, Syr24
Syria Berytus amulet uncertain IJO 3, Syr27

312
Syria Byblos epitaph 188-9 AD IJO 3, Syr31
Syria Byblos epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr32
Syria Byblos epitaph 385-6 AD IJO 3, Syr30
Syria Byblos epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr28
Syria Byblos epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr29
Syria Caesarea ad Libanum epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr33
Syria Chalcis ossuary 1st Century AD IJO 3, Syr22
Syria Damascus amulet 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr42
Syria Damatha inscription uncertain IJO 3, Syr38
Syria Djebel Sim'an inscription 272/3 AD IJO 3, Syr75
Syria Dura Europus graffito 240-1 AD IJO 3, Syr92
Syria Dura Europus graffito 244-5 AD IJO 3, Syr128
building
Syria Dura Europus 244-5 AD IJO 3, Syr84
inscription
building
Syria Dura Europus 244-5 AD IJO 3, Syr85
inscription
Syria Dura Europus donation 244-5 AD IJO 3, Syr86
Syria Dura Europus donation 244-5 AD IJO 3, Syr87
building
Syria Dura Europus 244-5 AD IJO 3, Syr88
inscription
Syria Dura Europus graffito 244-5 AD IJO 3, Syr89
IJO 3, Syr96-
Syria Dura Europus captions 244-5 AD
110
Syria Dura Europus graffito 247-8 AD IJO 3, Syr129
IJO 3, Syr111-
Syria Dura Europus graffiti 253-4 AD
126
Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 244 AD IJO 3, Syr127
Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 244 AD IJO 3, Syr83
Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 254 AD IJO 3, Syr131
Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 254 AD IJO 3, Syr90
Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 254 AD IJO 3, Syr91
Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 254 AD IJO 3, Syr93
Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 254 AD IJO 3, Syr94
Syria Dura Europus graffito pre 254 AD IJO 3, Syr95
Syria Edessa epitaph 1st-4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr78
Syria Edessa epitaph 1st-4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr79
Syria Edessa epitaph 1st-4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr80
Syria Iamour epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 3, Syr21
Syria Mutatio Heldua mosaic 605-6 AD IJO 3, Syr23
synagogue
Syria Naveh 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr35
inscription
Syria Naveh epitaph 4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr36
synagogue
Syria Ornithopolis uncertain IJO 3, Syr12
inscription
Syria Palmyra epitaph 212 AD IJO 3, Syr49
Syria Palmyra sale of tomb 3rd Century AD IJO 3, Syr50
Syria Palmyra epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 3, Syr51
Syria Palmyra epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 3, Syr52
Syria Palmyra graffito 7th Century AD IJO 3, Syr48
biblical probably 3rd Century IJO 3, Syr44,
Syria Palmyra
inscription AD 45, 46, 47
Syria Phaine epitaph 250-320 AD IJO 3, Syr39
Syria Philippopolis epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr37
Syria Qatana officer list 3rd Century AD IJO 3, Syr40
Syria Sidon epitaph 250-352 AD IJO 3, Syr18
Syria Sidon epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 3, Syr17

313
Syria Sidon stamp uncertain IJO 3, Syr14
Syria Sidon epitaph uncertain IJO 3, Syr16
synagogue
Syria Tafas 4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr34
inscription
Syria Tyre ossuary 1st Century AD? IJO 3, Syr9
Syria Tyre epitaph 2nd Century AD IJO 3, Syr8
Syria Tyre epitaph 250-352 AD IJO 3, Syr7
Syria Tyre epitaph 2nd-7th Century AD IJO 3, Syr3
Syria Tyre epitaph 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr1
Syria Tyre amulet 3rd-4th Century AD IJO 3, Syr4
Syria Tyre epitaph 3rd Century AD IJO 3, Syr6
Syria Tyre dedication 4th-5th Century AD IJO 3, Syr5
Syria Tyre pillar 5th-6th Century AD IJO 3, Syr10
Syria Tyre column 5th-6th Century AD IJO 3, Syr11
Syria Tyre epitaph uncertain IJO 3, Syr2
Thracia Assenovgrad votive 2nd Century AD IJO 1, Thr5
Thracia Bizye epitaph 4th-5th Century AD IJO 1, Thr3
Thracia Perinthus-Heraclea epitaph 5th-6th Century AD IJO 1, Thr4
Thracia Philippopolis mosaic floor 3rd Century AD IJO 1, Thr1
Thracia Philippopolis mosaic floor 4th Century AD IJO 1, Thr2

314
 THEOS HYPSI STOS


By catalogue number

Publication/s Region Location Type Date

Mitchell, S.,
‘The Cult of
Theos Hypsistos
between Pagans,
Jews, and
Christians’, in
Athanassiadi
Greece Athens thanksgiving 2nd Century AD
and Frede, (eds.)
Pagan
Monotheism in
Late Antiquity,
Oxford:
Clarendon Press,
1999, 1
Mitchell, 2 Greece Athens prayer 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 3 Greece Athens prayer 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 4 Greece Athens thanksgiving 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 5 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 6 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 7 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 8 Greece Athens prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 9 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 10 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 11 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 12 Greece Athens thanksgiving 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 13 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 14 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 15 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 16 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 17 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 18 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 19 Greece Athens prayer 1st Century BC/AD
Mitchell, 20 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 21 Greece Athens prayer Imperial

315
Mitchell, 22 Greece Athens prayer 1st Century AD
Mitchell, 23 Greece Athens prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 24 Greece Sparta prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 25 Greece Sparta prayer 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 26 Greece Sparta prayer 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 27 Greece Sparta prayer 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 28 Greece Sparta prayer 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 29 Greece Sparta prayer 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 30 Greece Sparta prayer 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 31 Greece Delphi dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 32 Ionian Islands Corcyra prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 33 Thessaly Gonnoi dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 34 Macedonia Beroia dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 35 Macedonia Beroia prayer 236 AD
Mitchell, 36 Macedonia Beroia dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 37 Macedonia Beroia dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 38 Macedonia Edessa dedication 1st Century BC
Mitchell, 39 Macedonia Edessa dedication 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 40 Macedonia Edessa prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 41 Macedonia Edessa dedication Hellenistic
Mitchell, 42 Macedonia Elymia prayer Imperial
Kerdylion
Mitchell, 43 Macedonia thanksgiving 1st-2nd Century AD
(Amphipolis)
Mitchell, 44 Macedonia Kozani (Malei) dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 45 Macedonia Kozani (Malei) dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 46 Macedonia Kozani (Malei) dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 47 Macedonia Kozani (Malei) prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 48 Macedonia Kozani (Malei) prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 49 Macedonia Kozani (Aiani) prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 50 Macedonia Kozani (Ano Komi) dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 51 Macedonia Pydna dedication 250 AD
Mitchell, 52 Macedonia Serrai (Verge) dedication 154 or 270 AD
Mitchell, 53 Macedonia Serrai (Verge) dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 54 Macedonia Thessalonica prayer 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 55 Macedonia Thessalonica thanksgiving 74-5 AD
Mitchell, 56 Macedonia Thessalonica dedication 1st Century AD
Mitchell, 57 Macedonia Thessalonica dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 58 Macedonia Thessalonica dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 59 Macedonia Trebeni prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 60 Thracia Kavalla dedication 36-48 AD
Mitchell, 61 Thracia Kavalla dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 62 Thracia Pautalia (Zelenigrad) dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 63 Thracia Perinthus dedication Imperial

316
Mitchell, 64 Thracia Perinthus or Selymbria dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 65 Thracia Philippopolis dedication Imperial
Philippopolis
Mitchell, 66 Thracia dedication Imperial
(Asenovgrad)
Philippopolis
Mitchell, 67 Thracia dedication Imperial
(Asenovgrad)
Mitchell, 68 Thracia Selymbria dedication 25 AD
Mitchell, 69 Thracia Serdica dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 70 Thracia Serdica dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 71 Thracia Serdica thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 72 Thracia Serdica dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 73 Thracia Serdica thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 74 Thracia Serdica (Gormasovo) prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 75 Thracia Pirot, Serbia prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 76 Dacia Apulum dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 77 Dacia Sarmizegetusa thanksgiving 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 78 Dacia Sarmizegetusa thanksgiving 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 79 Dacia Sarmizegetusa votive 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 80 Moesia Inferior Anchialis thanksgiving 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 81 Moesia Inferior Odessus? prayer 2nd-1st Century BC
Mitchell, 82 Moesia Inferior Tomis thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 83 N. Shore Black Sea Gorgippia list Imperial
Mitchell, 84 N. Shore Black Sea Gorgippia thanksgiving 1st Century AD
Mitchell, 85 N. Shore Black Sea Gorgippia manumission AD 41
Mitchell, 86 N. Shore Black Sea Gorgippia manumission AD 67
Mitchell, 87 N. Shore Black Sea Gorgippia manumission 1st Century AD
building
Mitchell, 88 N. Shore Black Sea Panticipaeum 306 AD
dedication
Mitchell, 89 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais prayer pre 156 AD
Mitchell, 90 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais prayer 156 AD
Mitchell, 91 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais dedication mid 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 92 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais dedication c. 200 AD
Mitchell, 93 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais dedication 220 AD
Mitchell, 94 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais dedication 225 AD
Mitchell, 95 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais dedication 225 AD
Mitchell, 96 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais dedication 212-29 AD
Mitchell, 97 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais dedication 228 AD
Mitchell, 98 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais dedication 228 AD
Mitchell, 99 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais prayer 230 AD
Mitchell, 100 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais prayer 212-29 AD
Mitchell, 101 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais dedication 220-240 AD
Mitchell, 102 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais prayer 244 AD
Mitchell, 103 N. Shore Black Sea Tanais prayer 3rd Century AD

317
Mitchell, 104 N. Shore Black Sea Rostov on the Don dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 105 Aegean Islands Cos prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 105a Aegean Islands Cos dedication 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 106 Aegean Islands Delos dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 107 Aegean Islands Delos dedication 1st Century BC
Mitchell, 108 Aegean Islands Delos dedication 1st Century BC
Mitchell, 109 Aegean Islands Delos dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 110 Aegean Islands Rheneia epitaphs 2nd Century BC
Mitchell, 110a Aegean Islands Delos dedication Hellenistic
Mitchell, 111 Euboia Eretria dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 112 Euboia Eretria dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 113 Aegean Islands Imbros prayer Hellenistic
Mitchell, 114 Aegean Islands Lemnos prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 115 Aegean Islands Mytilene thanksgiving 1st Century AD
Mitchell, 116 Aegean Islands Mytilene thanksgiving 1st Century AD
Mitchell, 117 Aegean Islands Mytilene prayer 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 117a Aegean Islands Mytilene prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 118 Aegean Islands Skiathos dedication Hellenistic
Mitchell, 119 Crete Knossos dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 120 Crete Knossos prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 121 Crete Chersonesus prayer 1st Century AD
Mitchell, 122 Crete Gortyn prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 123 Crete Gortyn prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 124 Crete Sybrita prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 125 Italia Rome prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 126 Hispania Valentia dedication 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 127 Caria Aphrodisias prayer ?
Mitchell, 128 Caria Aphrodisias dedication 1st Century BC/AD
boundary
Mitchell, 129 Caria Iasos Hellenistic
stone
boundary
Mitchell, 130 Caria Iasos Hellenistic
stone
Mitchell, 131 Caria Iasos dedication Hellenistic
Mitchell, 132 Caria Didyma dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 133 Caria Didyma thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 134 Caria Miletus dedication Hellenistic
Mitchell, 135 Caria Miletus dedication Hadrianic
Mitchell, 136 Caria Miletus dedication Hadrianic
lease
Mitchell, 137 Caria Mylasa 2nd-1st Century BC
document
Mitchell, 138 Caria Mylasa dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 139 Caria Rhodian Peraea (Pisye) thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 140 Caria Stratonicea dedication 138-61 AD

318
Mitchell, 141 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 142 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 143 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 144 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 145 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 146 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 147 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 148 Caria Stratonicea dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 149 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 150 Caria Stratonicea dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 151 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 152 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 153 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 154 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 155 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 156 Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 157 Caria Lagina thanksgiving 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 158 Caria Tralles dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 159 Ionia Ephesus votive 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 160 Ionia Ephesus dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 161 Ionia Ephesus thanksgiving ?
Mitchell, 162 Ionia Smyrna dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 163 Lydia Bagis prayer 165/6 AD
Mitchell, 164 Lydia Bagis (Aktas) prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 165 Lydia Maeonia prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 166 Lydia Maeonia (Kula) prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 167 Lydia Gölde (Kula) prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 168 Lydia Hierocaesarea prayer Imperial
Hierocaesarea
Mitchell, 169 Lydia dedication 1st Century AD
(Saricam)
Hierocaesarea
Mitchell, 170 Lydia prayer 3rd Century AD
(Teyenli)
Mitchell, 171 Lydia Philadelphia prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 172 Lydia Saittai (Borlu) dedication 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 173 Lydia Silandus dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 174 Lydia Silandus dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
Thyaera (lower
Mitchell, 175 Lydia dedication 172 AD
Caystrus valley)
Mitchell, 176 Lydia Thyateira prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 177 Lydia Thyateira prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 178 Lydia Thyateira prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 179 Troas Alexandria Troas thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 180 Mysia Apollonia on the dedication 2nd Century AD

319
 Rhyndacus
Mitchell, 181 Mysia Cyzicus prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 182 Mysia Cyzicus dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 183 Mysia Cyzicus thanksgiving 1st-2nd Century AD
funerary
Mitchell, 184 Mysia Hadriani 4th Century AD
epigram
Miletupolis
Mitchell, 185 Mysia dedication 1st Century AD
(Karacabey)
Mitchell, 186 Mysia Pergamum prayer 1st Century AD
Mitchell, 187 Mysia Pergamum prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 188 Mysia Pergamum dedication 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 189 Bithynia Prusa? thanksgiving 1st Century BC/AD
Mitchell, 190 Bithynia Nicomedia dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 191 Bithynia Nicomedia thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 192 Bithynia Nicomedia dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 193 Pontus Sebastopolis prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 194 Pontus Trapezus - -
Mitchell, 195 Paphlagonia Amastris dedication 45 AD
Mitchell, 196 Paphlagonia Amastris prayer 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 197 Paphlagonia Hadrianopolis thanksgiving 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 198 Paphlagonia Sinope dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 199 Paphlagonia Sinope prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 200 Paphlagonia Sinope prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 201 Paphlagonia Tieum dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 202 Galatia Ancyra dedication 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 203 Galatia Germa dedication 4th Century AD
Mitchell, 204 Galatia Tavium prayer 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 205 Phrygia Acmonia dedication 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 206 Phrygia Acmonia prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 207 Phrygia Acmonia gravestone 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 208 Phrygia Aezani prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 209 Phrygia Aezani offering 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 210 Phrygia Aezani prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 211 Phrygia Aezani prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 212 Phrygia Aezani prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 213 Phrygia Aezani prayer 257-8 AD
Mitchell, 214 Phrygia Apamea prayer 3rd Century AD
building
Mitchell, 215 Phrygia Cotiaeum 308-9 AD
dedication
Mitchell, 216 Phrygia Dorylaeum prayer 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 217 Phrygia Laodicea prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 218 Phrygia Nacolea prayer 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 219 Phrygia Nacolea prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD

320
Mitchell, 220 Phrygia Nacolea prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 221 Phrygia Synaus prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 222 Phrygia Synaus prayer 221-2 AD
Mitchell, 223 Phrygia Synaus prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 224 Phrygia Synaus prayer 211-2 AD
Mitchell, 225 Phrygia Tiberiopolis dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 226 Phrygia Tiberiopolis prayer 245-6 AD
Mitchell, 227 Phrygia Arslanapa prayer 253-4 AD
Mitchell, 228 Pisidia Andeda dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 229 Pisidia Sagalassos prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 230 Pisidia Sibidunda dedication 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 231 Pisidia Termessus dedication 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 232 Lycia Nysa thanksgiving 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 233 Lycia Oinoanda oracular text 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 234 Lycia Oinoanda prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 235 Lycia Patara prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 236 Lycaonia Iconium prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 237 Lycaonia Iconium epitaph 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 238 Cilicia Seleucia ad Calycadnus prayer 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 239 Cilicia Seleucia ad Calycadnus prayer 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 240 Cilicia Seleucia ad Calycadnus prayer 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 241 Cilicia Seleucia ad Calycadnus prayer 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 242 Cappadocia Hanisa prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 243 Cyprus Amathus prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 244 Cyprus Amathus thanksgiving 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 245 Cyprus Kition prayer 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 246 Cyprus Kourion prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 247 Cyprus Kourion prayer 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 248 Cyprus Hagios Athanasios prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 249 Cyprus Hagios Athanasios prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 250 Cyprus Hagios Athanasios dedication 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 251 Cyprus Limassol prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 252 Cyprus Limassol prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 253 Cyprus area of Limassol prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 254 Cyprus area of Limassol prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 255 Cyprus unknown provenance prayer 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 256 Cyprus unknown provenance prayer 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 257 Cyprus Golgi prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 258 Cyprus Golgi prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 259 Cyprus Golgi prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 260 Cyprus Mathikoloni prayer 2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 261 Cyprus Paphos prayer 100 AD
Mitchell, 262 Cyprus Paphos prayer 1st Century AD

321
Mitchell, 263 Cyprus Polemidhia dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 264 Cyprus Polemidhia prayer Imperial
Mitchell, 265 Cyprus Spitali prayer 1st Century BC
Mitchell, 266 Phoenicia Berytus votive Imperial
Mitchell, 267 Phoenicia Berytus votive Imperial
Mitchell, 268 Phoenicia Byblos dedication Imperial
-
Mitchell, 269 Phoenicia Byblos dedication

Mitchell, 270 Syria south of Damascus dedication Imperial

Mitchell, 271 Syria Palmyra dedication Imperial
between Palmyra &
Mitchell, 272 Syria prayer 114 AD
Edessa
Mitchell, 273 Syria Palmyra dedication 162-3 AD
Mitchell, 274 Syria Palmyra dedication 179 AD
Mitchell, 275 Syria Palmyra prayer 233 AD
Mitchell, 276 Syria Palmyra prayer 3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 277 Syria Palmyra prayer 1st-2nd Century AD
Mitchell, 278 Syria Palmyra thanksgiving Imperial
Mitchell, 279 Syria Sahin dedication 260-1 AD
Mitchell, 280 Palaestina Negev dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
Mitchell, 281 Palaestina Negev dedication 4th Century AD
Mitchell, 282 Arabia Petra dedication Imperial
Mitchell, 283 Egypt Alexandria dedication 2nd Century BC
Mitchell, 284 Egypt Alexandria dedication Ptolemaic
Mitchell, 285 Egypt Athribis dedication 2nd-1st Century BC
Mitchell, 286 Egypt Fayoum dedication 29 BC
Mitchell, 287 Egypt Fayoum dedication 69-57 BC
Mitchell, 288 Egypt Leontopolis dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
SEG L, 201 Attica Athens dedication 2nd Century AD
SEG L, 663 Thracia Byzantion dedication -
SEG L, 903 Crete Gortyn dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
votive
SEG L, 1225 Paphlagonia Amastris Imperial
epigram
SEG L, 1373 Cyprus Limassol dedication 3rd Century AD
SEG L, 1374 Cyprus Limassol dedication 3rd Century AD
SEG L, 1375 Cyprus Limassol dedication 3rd Century AD
SEG L, 1376 Cyprus Limassol dedication 3rd Century AD
SEG LI, 1549 Caria Rhodian Peraea (Pisye) dedication 150-300 AD
building
SEG LII, 650 Macedonia Thessalonica? 2nd-3rd Century AD
dedication
SEG LII, 1240 Pontus Sinope dedication 2nd Century AD
SEG LII, 1244 Galatia Tavium dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
SEG LII, 1431 Lycia Kibyra dedication -

322
SEG LII, 1458 Lycaonia Iconium dedication -
SEG LII, 1491 Cyprus Golgi prayer Imperial
SEG LII, 1492 Cyprus Golgi prayer Imperial
SEG LII, 1581 Syria Palmyra dedication -
SEG LIII, 597 Macedonia Dion dedication 2nd Century AD
SEG LIII, 598 Macedonia Dion dedication Imperial
SEG LIII, 599 Macedonia Dion dedication Imperial
SEG LIII, 600 Macedonia Dion dedication Imperial
SEG LIII, 1904 Arabia Petra dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
SEG XLIX,
Lydia Thyateira dedication Imperial
1708
SEG XLIX,
1709 Lydia Thyateira dedication Imperial

SEG XLIX,
Pamphylia Perge dedication -
1886
SEG XLVI, 640 Thessaly Azoros Elassonas dedication 1st Century BC
SEG XLVI, 659 Thessaly Phthiotic Thebes dedication 2nd Century AD
SEG XLVI, 726 Macedonia Antigoneia dedication 1st Century BC
SEG XLVI, 728 Macedonia Belbendos dedication Imperial
SEG XLVI, 743 Macedonia Drenovo dedication 200-250 AD
SEG XLVI, 744 Macedonia Edessa dedication 51 AD
SEG XLVI, 760 Macedonia Kyrros dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
SEG XLVI, 785 Macedonia Pella dedication 2nd Century AD
SEG XLVI,
Italia Torre dell'Orso dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
1482
SEG XLVI,
Pontus Amaseia dedication -
1617
SEG XLVI,
Galatia Pessinus dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
1703
SEG XLVII,
Macedonia Amphipolis dedication 1st-2nd Century AD
878
SEG XLVII,
Macedonia Thessalonica dedication Imperial
963
SEG XLVII,
Syria Palmyra dedication -
1938
SEG XLVII,
Syria Palmyra dedication 3rd Century AD
1939
SEG XLVIII,
Macedonia Beroia dedication -
736
SEG XLVIII,
Thracia Perinthus dedication Imperial
922
SEG XLVIII,
Lydia Philadelphia? dedication 242-243 AD
1427

323
SEG XLVIII,
Lycia Kibyra dedication Imperial
1595
SEG XLVIII,
Arabia Rasun dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
1923

324
 THEOS HYPSI STOS

By REGION
Region Location Type Date Publication/s
1st-2nd Century
Aegean Islands Cos prayer Mitchell, 105
AD
Aegean Islands Cos dedication 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 105a
Aegean Islands Delos dedication 1st Century BC Mitchell, 107
Aegean Islands Delos dedication 1st Century BC Mitchell, 108
1st-2nd Century
Aegean Islands Delos dedication Mitchell, 106
AD
1st-2nd Century
Aegean Islands Delos dedication Mitchell, 109
AD
Aegean Islands Delos dedication Hellenistic Mitchell, 110a
Aegean Islands Imbros prayer Hellenistic Mitchell, 113
Aegean Islands Lemnos prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 114
Aegean Islands Mytilene thanksgiving 1st Century AD Mitchell, 115
Aegean Islands Mytilene thanksgiving 1st Century AD Mitchell, 116
Aegean Islands Mytilene prayer 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 117
Aegean Islands Mytilene prayer Imperial Mitchell, 117a
Aegean Islands Rheneia epitaph 2nd Century BC Mitchell, 110
Aegean Islands Skiathos dedication Hellenistic Mitchell, 118
Arabia Petra dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD SEG LIII, 1904
Arabia Petra dedication Imperial Mitchell, 282
SEG XLVIII,
Arabia Rasun dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD
1923
Attica Athens dedication 2nd Century AD SEG L, 201
Bithynia Nicomedia dedication Imperial Mitchell, 190
Bithynia Nicomedia thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 191
Bithynia Nicomedia dedication Imperial Mitchell, 192
Bithynia Prusa? thanksgiving 1st Century BC/AD Mitchell, 189
Cappadocia Hanisa prayer Imperial Mitchell, 242
Caria Aphrodisias prayer ? Mitchell, 127
Caria Aphrodisias dedication 1st Century BC/AD Mitchell, 128
Caria Didyma dedication Imperial Mitchell, 132
Caria Didyma thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 133
boundary
Caria Iasos Hellenistic Mitchell, 129
stone
boundary
Caria Iasos Hellenistic Mitchell, 130
stone
Caria Iasos dedication Hellenistic Mitchell, 131
Caria Lagina thanksgiving 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 157
Caria Miletus dedication Hadrianic Mitchell, 135
Caria Miletus dedication Hadrianic Mitchell, 136
Caria Miletus dedication Hellenistic Mitchell, 134
Caria Mylasa lease 2nd-1st Century BC Mitchell, 137
325
 document
Caria Mylasa dedication Imperial Mitchell, 138
Caria Rhodian Peraea (Pisye) dedication 150-300 AD SEG LI, 1549
Caria Rhodian Peraea (Pisye) thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 139
Caria Stratonicea dedication 138-61 AD Mitchell, 140
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 153
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 154
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 143
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 144
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 145
Caria Stratonicea dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 150
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 141
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 142
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 146
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 147
Caria Stratonicea dedication Imperial Mitchell, 148
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 149
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 151
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 152
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 155
Caria Stratonicea thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 156
Caria Tralles dedication Imperial Mitchell, 158
Cilicia Seleucia ad Calycadnus prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 238
Cilicia Seleucia ad Calycadnus prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 239
Cilicia Seleucia ad Calycadnus prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 240
Cilicia Seleucia ad Calycadnus prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 241
Crete Chersonesus prayer 1st Century AD Mitchell, 121
1st-2nd Century
Crete Gortyn dedication SEG L, 903
AD
Crete Gortyn prayer Imperial Mitchell, 122
Crete Gortyn prayer Imperial Mitchell, 123
1st-2nd Century
Crete Knossos dedication Mitchell, 119
AD
1st-2nd Century
Crete Knossos prayer Mitchell, 120
AD
Crete Sybrita prayer Imperial Mitchell, 124
1st-2nd Century
Cyprus Amathus prayer Mitchell, 243
AD
1st-2nd Century
Cyprus Amathus thanksgiving Mitchell, 244
AD
Cyprus area of Limassol prayer Imperial Mitchell, 253
Cyprus area of Limassol prayer Imperial Mitchell, 254
Cyprus Golgi prayer Imperial Mitchell, 257
Cyprus Golgi prayer Imperial Mitchell, 258
Cyprus Golgi prayer Imperial Mitchell, 259
Cyprus Golgi prayer Imperial SEG LII, 1491
Cyprus Golgi prayer Imperial SEG LII, 1492
1st-2nd Century
Cyprus Hagios Athanasios prayer Mitchell, 248
AD
Cyprus Hagios Athanasios dedication 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 250
Cyprus Hagios Athanasios prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 249
Cyprus Kition prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 245
Cyprus Kourion prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 246
326
Cyprus Kourion prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 247
Cyprus Limassol prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 251
Cyprus Limassol prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 252
Cyprus Limassol dedication 3rd Century AD SEG L, 1373
Cyprus Limassol dedication 3rd Century AD SEG L, 1374
Cyprus Limassol dedication 3rd Century AD SEG L, 1375
Cyprus Limassol dedication 3rd Century AD SEG L, 1376
Cyprus Mathikoloni prayer 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 260
Cyprus Paphos prayer 1st Century AD Mitchell, 262
Cyprus Paphos prayer 100 AD Mitchell, 261
Cyprus Polemidhia dedication Imperial Mitchell, 263
Cyprus Polemidhia prayer Imperial Mitchell, 264
Cyprus Spitali prayer 1st Century BC Mitchell, 265
Cyprus unknown provenance prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 255
Cyprus unknown provenance prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 256
Dacia Apulum dedication Imperial Mitchell, 76
Dacia Sarmizegetusa thanksgiving 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 78
Dacia Sarmizegetusa votive 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 79
Dacia Sarmizegetusa thanksgiving 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 77
Egypt Alexandria dedication 2nd Century BC Mitchell, 283
Egypt Alexandria dedication Ptolemaic Mitchell, 284
Egypt Athribis dedication 2nd-1st Century BC Mitchell, 285
Egypt Fayoum dedication 29 BC Mitchell, 286
Egypt Fayoum dedication 69-57 BC Mitchell, 287
1st-2nd Century
Egypt Leontopolis dedication Mitchell, 288
AD
Euboia Eretria dedication Imperial Mitchell, 111
Euboia Eretria dedication Imperial Mitchell, 112
Galatia Ancyra dedication 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 202
Galatia Germa dedication 4th Century AD Mitchell, 203
1st-2nd Century
Galatia Pessinus dedication SEG XLVI, 1703
AD
1st-2nd Century
Galatia Tavium dedication SEG LII, 1244
AD
Galatia Tavium prayer 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 204
Greece Athens prayer 1st Century AD Mitchell, 22
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 10
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 11
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens thanksgiving Mitchell, 12
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 13
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 14
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 15
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 16
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 17
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 18
AD
327
 1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 19
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 20
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 23
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens thanksgiving Mitchell, 4
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 5
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 6
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 7
AD
1st-2nd Century
Greece Athens prayer Mitchell, 9
AD
Greece Athens thanksgiving 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 1
Greece Athens prayer 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 2
Greece Athens prayer 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 3
Greece Athens prayer Imperial Mitchell, 21
Greece Athens prayer Imperial Mitchell, 8
1st-2nd Century
Greece Delphi dedication Mitchell, 31
AD
Greece Sparta prayer 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 25
Greece Sparta prayer 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 26
Greece Sparta prayer 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 27
Greece Sparta prayer 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 28
Greece Sparta prayer 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 29
Greece Sparta prayer 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 30
Greece Sparta prayer Imperial Mitchell, 24
Hispania Valentia dedication 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 126
Ionia Ephesus thanksgiving ? Mitchell, 161
Ionia Ephesus votive 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 159
Ionia Ephesus dedication Imperial Mitchell, 160
Ionia Smyrna dedication Imperial Mitchell, 162
Ionian Islands Corcyra prayer Imperial Mitchell, 32
1st-2nd Century
Italia Rome prayer Mitchell, 125
AD
Italia Torre dell'Orso dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD SEG XLVI, 1482
Lycaonia Iconium epitaph 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 237
Lycaonia Iconium prayer Imperial Mitchell, 236
Lycaonia Iconium dedication SEG LII, 1458
SEG XLVIII,
Lycia Kibyra dedication Imperial
1595
Lycia Kibyra dedication SEG LII, 1431
Lycia Nysa thanksgiving 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 232
Lycia Oinoanda prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 234
Lycia Oinoanda oracular text 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 233
Lycia Patara prayer Imperial Mitchell, 235
Lydia Bagis prayer 165/6 AD Mitchell, 163
Lydia Bagis (Aktas) prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 164
Lydia Gölde (Kula) prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 167
Lydia Hierocaesarea prayer Imperial Mitchell, 168
Lydia Hierocaesarea (Saricam) dedication 1st-2nd Century Mitchell, 169
328
 AD
Lydia Hierocaesarea (Teyenli) prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 170
Lydia Maeonia prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 165
Lydia Maeonia (Kula) prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 166
Lydia Philadelphia prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 171
SEG XLVIII,
Lydia Philadelphia? dedication 242-243 AD
1427
Lydia Saittai (Borlu) dedication 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 172
Lydia Silandus dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 173
Lydia Silandus dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 174
Thyaera (lower Caystrus
Lydia dedication 172 AD Mitchell, 175
valley)
Lydia Thyateira prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 176
Lydia Thyateira prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 177
Lydia Thyateira prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 178
Lydia Thyateira dedication Imperial SEG XLIX, 1708
Lydia Thyateira dedication Imperial SEG XLIX, 1709
1st-2nd Century
Macedonia Amphipolis dedication SEG XLVII, 878
AD
Macedonia Antigoneia dedication 1st Century BC SEG XLVI, 726
Macedonia Belbendos dedication Imperial SEG XLVI, 728
1st-2nd Century
Macedonia Beroia dedication Mitchell, 37
AD
Macedonia Beroia dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 36
Macedonia Beroia prayer 236 AD Mitchell, 35
Macedonia Beroia dedication Imperial Mitchell, 34
Macedonia Beroia dedication ? SEG XLVIII, 736
Macedonia Dion dedication 2nd Century AD SEG LIII, 597
Macedonia Dion dedication Imperial SEG LIII, 598
Macedonia Dion dedication Imperial SEG LIII, 599
Macedonia Dion dedication Imperial SEG LIII, 600
Macedonia Drenovo dedication 200-250 SEG XLVI, 743
Macedonia Edessa dedication 1st Century BC Mitchell, 38
Macedonia Edessa dedication 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 39
Macedonia Edessa dedication 51 AD SEG XLVI, 744
Macedonia Edessa dedication Hellenistic Mitchell, 41
Macedonia Edessa prayer Imperial Mitchell, 40
Macedonia Elymia prayer Imperial Mitchell, 42
1st-2nd Century
Macedonia Kerdylion (Amphipolis) thanksgiving Mitchell, 43
AD
Macedonia Kozani (Aiani) prayer Imperial Mitchell, 49
Macedonia Kozani (Ano Komi) dedication Imperial Mitchell, 50
Macedonia Kozani (Malei) dedication Imperial Mitchell, 44
Macedonia Kozani (Malei) dedication Imperial Mitchell, 45
Macedonia Kozani (Malei) dedication Imperial Mitchell, 46
Macedonia Kozani (Malei) prayer Imperial Mitchell, 47
Macedonia Kozani (Malei) prayer Imperial Mitchell, 48
Macedonia Kyrros dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD SEG XLVI, 760
Macedonia Pella dedication 2nd Century AD SEG XLVI, 785
Macedonia Pydna dedication 250 AD Mitchell, 51
Macedonia Serrai (Verge) dedication 154 or 270 AD Mitchell, 52
Macedonia Serrai (Verge) dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 53
Macedonia Thessalonica dedication 1st Century AD Mitchell, 56
329
 1st-2nd Century
Macedonia Thessalonica dedication Mitchell, 57
AD
1st-2nd Century
Macedonia Thessalonica dedication Mitchell, 58
AD
Macedonia Thessalonica prayer 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 54
Macedonia Thessalonica thanksgiving 74-5 AD Mitchell, 55
Macedonia Thessalonica dedication Imperial SEG XLVII, 963
building
Macedonia Thessalonica? 2nd-3rd Century AD SEG LII, 650
dedication
Macedonia Trebeni prayer Imperial Mitchell, 59
Moesia Inferior Anchialis thanksgiving 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 80
Moesia Inferior Odessus? prayer 2nd-1st Century BC Mitchell, 81
Moesia Inferior Tomis thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 82
Apollonia on the
Mysia dedication 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 180
Rhyndacus
1st-2nd Century
Mysia Cyzicus thanksgiving Mitchell, 183
AD
Mysia Cyzicus prayer Imperial Mitchell, 181
Mysia Cyzicus dedication Imperial Mitchell, 182
funerary
Mysia Hadriani 4th Century AD Mitchell, 184
epigram
Mysia Miletupolis (Karacabey) dedication 1st Century AD Mitchell, 185
Mysia Pergamum prayer 1st Century AD Mitchell, 186
1st-2nd Century
Mysia Pergamum prayer Mitchell, 187
AD
Mysia Pergamum dedication 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 188
N. Shore Black
Gorgippia thanksgiving 1st Century AD Mitchell, 84
Sea
N. Shore Black
Gorgippia manumission 1st Century AD Mitchell, 87
Sea
N. Shore Black
Gorgippia manumission AD 41 Mitchell, 85
Sea
N. Shore Black
Gorgippia manumission AD 67 Mitchell, 86
Sea
N. Shore Black
Gorgippia list Imperial Mitchell, 83
Sea
N. Shore Black building
Panticipaeum 306 AD Mitchell, 88
Sea dedication
N. Shore Black 1st-2nd Century
Rostov on the Don dedication Mitchell, 104
Sea AD
N. Shore Black
Tanais prayer 156 AD Mitchell, 90
Sea
N. Shore Black
Tanais prayer 212-29 AD Mitchell, 100
Sea
N. Shore Black
Tanais dedication 212-29 AD Mitchell, 96
Sea
N. Shore Black
Tanais dedication 220 AD Mitchell, 93
Sea
N. Shore Black
Tanais dedication 220-240 AD Mitchell, 101
Sea
N. Shore Black
Tanais dedication 225 AD Mitchell, 94
Sea
N. Shore Black
Tanais dedication 225 AD Mitchell, 95
Sea
N. Shore Black
Tanais dedication 228 AD Mitchell, 97
Sea
330
N. Shore Black
Tanais dedication 228 AD Mitchell, 98
Sea
N. Shore Black
Tanais prayer 230 AD Mitchell, 99
Sea
N. Shore Black
Tanais prayer 244 AD Mitchell, 102
Sea
N. Shore Black
Tanais prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 103
Sea
N. Shore Black
Tanais dedication c. 200 AD Mitchell, 92
Sea
N. Shore Black mid 2nd Century
Tanais dedication Mitchell, 91
Sea AD
N. Shore Black
Tanais prayer pre 156 AD Mitchell, 89
Sea
Palaestina Negev dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 280
Palaestina Negev dedication 4th Century AD Mitchell, 281
Pamphylia Perge dedication SEG XLIX, 1886
Paphlagonia Amastris prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 196
Paphlagonia Amastris dedication 45 AD Mitchell, 195
votive
Paphlagonia Amastris Imperial SEG L, 1225
epigram
Paphlagonia Hadrianopolis thanksgiving 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 197
1st-2nd Century
Paphlagonia Sinope prayer Mitchell, 200
AD
Paphlagonia Sinope dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 198
Paphlagonia Sinope prayer Imperial Mitchell, 199
Paphlagonia Tieum dedication Imperial Mitchell, 201
Phoenicia Berytus votive Imperial Mitchell, 266
Phoenicia Berytus votive Imperial Mitchell, 267
Phoenicia Byblos dedication - Mitchell, 269
Phoenicia Byblos dedication Imperial Mitchell, 268
Phrygia Acmonia prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 206
Phrygia Acmonia dedication 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 205
Phrygia Acmonia gravestone 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 207
Phrygia Aezani prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 208
Phrygia Aezani prayer 257-8 AD Mitchell, 213
Phrygia Aezani offering 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 209
Phrygia Aezani prayer Imperial Mitchell, 210
Phrygia Aezani prayer Imperial Mitchell, 211
Phrygia Aezani prayer Imperial Mitchell, 212
Phrygia Apamea prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 214
Phrygia Arslanapa prayer 253-4 AD Mitchell, 227
building
Phrygia Cotiaeum 308-9 AD Mitchell, 215
dedication
Phrygia Dorylaeum prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 216
Phrygia Laodicea prayer Imperial Mitchell, 217
Phrygia Nacolea prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 219
Phrygia Nacolea prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 220
Phrygia Nacolea prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 218
Phrygia Synaus prayer 211-2 AD Mitchell, 224
Phrygia Synaus prayer 221-2 AD Mitchell, 222
Phrygia Synaus prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 221
Phrygia Synaus prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 223
Phrygia Tiberiopolis dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 225
331
Phrygia Tiberiopolis prayer 245-6 AD Mitchell, 226
Pisidia Andeda dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 228
Pisidia Sagalassos prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 229
Pisidia Sibidunda dedication 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 230
Pisidia Termessus dedication 2nd Century AD Mitchell, 231
Pontus Amaseia dedication - SEG XLVI, 1617
Pontus Sebastopolis prayer 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 193
Pontus Sinope dedication 2nd Century AD SEG LII, 1240
Pontus Trapezus - - Mitchell, 194
Syria between Palmyra & Edessa prayer 114 AD Mitchell, 272
1st-2nd Century
Syria Palmyra prayer Mitchell, 277
AD
Syria Palmyra dedication 162-3 AD Mitchell, 273
Syria Palmyra dedication 179 AD Mitchell, 274
Syria Palmyra prayer 233 AD Mitchell, 275
Syria Palmyra prayer 3rd Century AD Mitchell, 276
Syria Palmyra dedication 3rd Century AD SEG XLVII, 1939
Syria Palmyra dedication Imperial Mitchell, 271
Syria Palmyra thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 278
Syria Palmyra dedication - SEG LII, 1581
Syria Palmyra dedication - SEG XLVII, 1938
Syria Sahin dedication 260-1 AD Mitchell, 279
Syria south of Damascus dedication Imperial Mitchell, 270
Thessaly Azoros Elassonas dedication 1st Century BC SEG XLVI, 640
Thessaly Gonnoi dedication Imperial Mitchell, 33
Thessaly Phthiotic Thebes dedication 2nd Century AD SEG XLVI, 659
Thracia Byzantion dedication - SEG L, 663
Thracia Kavalla dedication 36-48 AD Mitchell, 60
Thracia Kavalla dedication Imperial Mitchell, 61
Thracia Pautalia (Zelenigrad) dedication 2nd-3rd Century AD Mitchell, 62
Thracia Perinthus dedication Imperial Mitchell, 63
Thracia Perinthus dedication Imperial SEG XLVIII, 922
Thracia Perinthus or Selymbria dedication Imperial Mitchell, 64
Thracia Philippopolis dedication Imperial Mitchell, 65
Philippopolis
Thracia dedication Imperial Mitchell, 66
(Asenovgrad)
Philippopolis
Thracia dedication Imperial Mitchell, 67
(Asenovgrad)
Thracia Pirot, Serbia prayer Imperial Mitchell, 75
Thracia Selymbria dedication 25 AD Mitchell, 68
Thracia Serdica dedication Imperial Mitchell, 69
Thracia Serdica dedication Imperial Mitchell, 70
Thracia Serdica thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 71
Thracia Serdica dedication Imperial Mitchell, 72
Thracia Serdica thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 73
1st-2nd Century
Thracia Serdica (Gormasovo) prayer Mitchell, 74
AD
Troas Alexandria Troas thanksgiving Imperial Mitchell, 179

332


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