Therasia’s 4,500-Year-Old Seal Impressions: The Earliest Known Form of Writing in the Aegean?

In a groundbreaking find on the tiny Aegean island of Therasia, archaeologists have uncovered two seal impressions on a 4,500-year-old pottery jar that may rewrite the early history of writing in the region. These impressions – stamped onto the handle of a large storage jar before it was fired – date to the Early Bronze Age (circa 2700–2300 BC). That makes them significantly older than the known scripts of Bronze Age Greece, challenging the long-held view that writing in the Aegean first emerged on Minoan Crete around 2000 BC. Some experts suggest that one of the Therasia seals might even represent the earliest evidence of a hieroglyphic-like writing system in the Aegean, predating Cretan hieroglyphs by centuries. While the researchers caution that these symbols are not writing in the strict sense, they acknowledge that the find offers an tantalizing glimpse at how organized symbols in the Cyclades could have laid cognitive groundwork for true writing.

Ancient Writing Systems of the Aegean: A Brief Background

For context, the civilizations of the Aegean Bronze Age developed writing relatively late compared to their Egyptian and Mesopotamian counterparts. The earliest known Aegean scripts appeared on Crete in the early second millennium BC – Cretan Hieroglyphic and the linear script known as Linear A – roughly around 1900–1700 BC. (Linear A was used by the Minoans and remains undeciphered, while the later Linear B script, adapted from Linear A, was used to write Mycenaean Greek in the 14th–12th centuries BC.) According to archaeological consensus, Cycladic and other Greek Bronze Age cultures before 2000 BC did not have true writing. They did, however, employ seals and symbolic marks for administrative or ownership purposes, much like other early societies. On the Greek mainland, for example, sites like Lerna have yielded clay sealings that show advanced sealing practices by the mid-3rd millennium BC. In contrast, evidence of such seals and seal impressions in the Cyclades (the islands that include Therasia) has been scarce and sporadic. This gap in the record left scholars wondering if the Cycladic people simply hadn’t developed complex symbol systems – or if we just hadn’t found them yet.

Against this backdrop, the Therasia discovery is striking. It suggests that an isolated Cycladic community was engaging in a form of symbolic record-keeping or communication long before Minoan writing blossomed. The seal impressions from Therasia come from an Early Cycladic II context (circa 3rd millennium BC), pushing the timeline of Aegean proto-writing back by several centuries. The find hints that the Cyclades, far from being culturally peripheral, may have played a foundational role in the lead-up to writing in the Aegean. As one report put it, the Cycladic islands could have sown “the intellectual seeds of writing… centuries earlier” than Crete.

The Therasia Discovery: A Bronze Age Time Capsule

The two ancient seal impressions were unearthed at a site called Koimisis on Therasia, a small volcanic island in the Santorini archipelago. During excavations of a Bronze Age settlement, a team of archaeologists led by Dr. Konstantinos Sbonias (Ionian University), along with Dr. Vassiliki Papazikou and Dr. Iris Tzachili, discovered a fragmentary pithos (large storage jar) in one of the rooms. This jar handle fragment turned out to be a time capsule: pressed into its clay surface were two distinct seal impressions, preserved perfectly since the jar was kiln-fired over four millennia ago.

Such stamped pottery is itself a rare find in Cycladic archaeology. The fact that two different seals were impressed on the same jar is even more intriguing. The impressions have been labeled THS.1 and THS.2 by the research team (with “THS” denoting Therasia). Scientific dating of the context confirms an age between 2700 and 2300 BC for the vessel and its stamps, predating any known writing system in the Aegean world. In other words, while the palaces of Crete would not see clay tablets and hieroglyphic seals for several centuries, the inhabitants of this small Cycladic island were already experimenting with marking their goods using organized symbols.

The archaeological context suggests that the jar was an imported item: petrographic analysis of the clay shows it likely came from Naxos, a larger island about 100 km away. This indicates active inter-island trade in the Early Bronze Age Cyclades. The jar may have been traded to Therasia carrying some commodity, and the seals could have been applied to denote the contents, ownership, origin, or some kind of status. The use of marked jars in commerce would be akin to a prehistoric form of branding or labeling, conveying information at a glance. It’s fascinating to imagine merchants of 2500 BC recognizing a seal mark as we recognize a logo today.

The Seal Impressions THS.1 and THS.2: Decoding Their Symbols

THS.1, the first seal impression, is by far the most extraordinary aspect of the find. Imprinted on the upper part of the jar handle, THS.1 consists of a sequence of abstract symbols arranged in what looks like three horizontal rows, almost like lines of text. The individual signs include shapes that resemble leaves, spirals, and other geometric or floral motifs. They are carved in a uniform size and aligned deliberately, creating the appearance of an inscription read in sequence. In total, there are multiple symbols repeated across this impression; the precise count is unclear due to some wear, but researchers report five to seven signs visible in each segment or “field” of the impression. The key point is that the symbols are not randomly scattered or purely decorative – they follow a deliberate order and layout.

Such an organized, repetitive layout is something very unusual for the Early Bronze Age Cyclades. As the Cambridge University study describes, THS.1 “features signs arranged in a linear sequence, creating the impression of an inscription”. In fact, the Therasia team notes that no other find from such an early Cycladic context shows a comparably structured sequence of signs. It appears that the seal used for THS.1 had multiple engraved faces (likely three sides) which were pressed in succession to create a continuous chain of symbols. Multi-faced seals – essentially a prism or stamp with more than one engraved surface – were rare in that era, which suggests that whoever wielded this seal had a special purpose in mind. The careful placement of THS.1 at the top of the handle (where it would be most visible when the jar was upright) underscores that it was meant to be seen and “read”. In essence, THS.1 looks less like a potter’s decorative flourish and more like a deliberate message in symbol form.

What might THS.1’s mysterious symbols mean? The honest answer is we don’t know – there is no Rosetta Stone for these prehistoric markings. However, archaeologists have proposed plausible functions. The linear arrangement strongly hints at a communicative purpose: perhaps the seal spelled out an owner’s name, a title, or the contents of the jar in an abstract way. Another idea is that it could be a kind of emblem or crest associated with a family or a trading group, conveying identity. The conceptual leap here is significant: THS.1 shows an attempt to use repeated symbols systematically, which scholars see as a “rudimentary communication system” – a stepping stone toward writing proper. While these symbols likely didn’t correspond to spoken words or sounds (as true writing does), they do appear to encode information beyond mere decoration. As one analysis put it, “their alignment and repetition imply a conceptual leap toward structured symbolic thought. This is a key step in the development of true writing.”

In contrast, THS.2, the second seal impression on the same handle, is of a different character. Stamped on the lower part of the handle, THS.2 bears a more traditional decorative motif typical of Early Bronze Age Cycladic art. Its design features geometric patterns – notably triangles and meandering lines – which are common on Cycladic seals and pottery. THS.2 doesn’t convey an obvious sequence or “text” but rather looks like an ornamental stamp or a marker of ownership or quality. Similar designs have been found on other islands, so this seal falls squarely in the known Cycladic glyptic (seal-carving) tradition. In essence, THS.2 likely served as a visual tag or a status symbol, perhaps indicating the maker or asserting a certain prestige, without encoding a specific message in the way THS.1 seems to.

Seal THS.2 displays decorative Cycladic motifs such as triangles and meanders, typical of the era’s aesthetic style. Credit: Konstantinos Sbonias, Iris Tzachili, Vasiliki Papazikou

The combination of both seal impressions on one object is especially enlightening. Having one seal that appears “textual” and another that is decorative on the same jar suggests a surprisingly sophisticated labeling system for such an early period. It’s as if one stamp was used to convey practical information (like content or origin) and the other to convey status or simply to beautify – a dual-purpose approach. This dual stamping implies the people of Therasia had a nuanced understanding of symbols, using them in multiple ways simultaneously. It’s a bit like how today a product might have both a barcode (for information) and a brand logo (for identity and appeal). The Therasia jar hints that even in 2500 BC, people had begun to deploy symbols in a layered fashion.

Trade, Identity, and “Proto-Writing” in the Cyclades

Why would a Cycladic island community start using such complex seal imagery? The clues lie in the interconnected world of the ancient Aegean. The fact that Therasia’s jar itself came from Naxos points to lively trade networks. Goods – whether olive oil, wine, grains, or other commodities – were moving among the islands. In such a context, seals could serve a practical need: marking containers to indicate ownership, origin, or contents. We know that in other ancient societies, administrative sealing was a precursor to writing. For example, in Mesopotamia, clay tags and cylinder seals were used to label goods long before cuneiform writing was fully developed. A similar dynamic may have been at play in the Cyclades. The Therasia seals might represent an early administrative or commercial notation system – a way to “label” a pithos so that everyone would know whose it was or what was inside, even if they couldn’t read in a literate sense.

The symbolic experimentation evident in THS.1 also had a cultural dimension. Cycladic art is famous for its stylized figurines and bold geometric patterns. The people of the Cyclades clearly ascribed meaning to visual symbols, whether in religious, personal, or economic contexts. The researchers note that multi-faceted seals like the one used for THS.1 are virtually unheard of in that era, which implies a conscious innovation. “The use of multi-faceted seals (with more than a single engraved face) was unusual at the time,” the study observes, “indicating the person who applied THS.1 aimed to communicate something more nuanced than a mere ownership mark.” In other words, the seal user on Therasia was pushing the envelope of what seal art could do – moving from simple marks towards a system of signs with its own internal syntax.

It is also telling that not long after this period, early forms of script do begin to appear on Crete. Scholars have long theorized that the idea of writing often evolves out of earlier accounting or labeling practices. The Therasia evidence fits that pattern: it sits at the nexus of trade, art, and communication. We see a community leveraging symbols for economic exchange (the jar, the trade from Naxos) and at the same time embedding those symbols with meaning and structure (the THS.1 “inscription”). This convergence of commerce and communication may have been the crucible in which writing was born. Indeed, the presence of two distinct seals on the jar – one possibly conveying functional info, the other a kind of signature or brand – suggests a society on the cusp of developing a true recording system.

Rethinking the Origins of Aegean Writing

The discovery on Therasia has profound implications for how we view the dawn of writing in the Aegean. Until now, the mainstream narrative placed the genesis of Aegean literacy on Crete, where the Minoans developed their scripts (Cretan Hieroglyphic and Linear A) in the Middle Bronze Age. The Cycladic islands, by contrast, were thought to have no part in that story – at least no direct contribution. They were often seen as secondary players who eventually fell under the cultural influence of Minoan Crete. But the Therasia seals upend this Crete-centric view. If the Cycladic people were already experimenting with quasi-script symbols centuries before the Cretan palace administrations, it suggests that the innovation of writing may have been a more distributed process across the Aegean.

Instead of a single “invention of writing” by the Minoans, we might envision multiple parallel experiments in symbolism happening in different places – with the Cyclades now emerging as a potential pioneer. Dr. Sbonias and his colleagues stop short of claiming that Therasia had a true script, but they argue that what we see at Koimisis “forms part of the cognitive and practical processes that led to the invention of writing.” In their measured view, THS.1 and similar seal impressions would represent a crucial developmental stage: not writing itself, but the missing link between simple iconography and full-fledged writing. It’s a bit like finding a proto-alphabet – something that isn’t quite an alphabet yet, but you can see how the pieces could eventually come together.

One exciting question is how this Cycladic experiment might relate to the scripts that came later. Could the Therasia symbols be an ancestor (or at least a cousin) of the Cretan Hieroglyphic signs? The orderly rows of THS.1 do bring to mind the pictographic tablets and seal stones of Minoan Crete that appear a few hundred years later. Some of the motifs – spirals or foliage-like shapes – even resemble symbols that turn up in later Cretan contexts, according to the researchers. It’s conceivable that as people moved and traded among islands, these ideas spread: the notion of using a multi-faced seal or a sequence of signs might have traveled or been reinvented on Crete, contributing to the emergence of the Minoan writing systems. If future excavations uncover more such sealings in the Cyclades, we might find direct links – for instance, a symbol on a Cycladic seal that matches one in Linear A’s repertoire. As one report noted, “If archaeologists unearth additional seals such as these, they could directly link them to the development of writing systems like Linear A and Linear B.”

At the very least, Therasia teaches us that the Cyclades were not simply passive bystanders in the story of writing. They were an active arena of innovation. The Cycladic islanders of 2500 BC were navigating a world of commerce and interaction, and in the process they were likely grappling with how to record and transmit information. This find forces historians to broaden their view and consider that the cradle of Aegean writing might not have been only the palaces of Crete, but also the small villages and trade outposts of islands like Therasia. In essence, the Aegean may have had multiple cradles of literacy.

Conclusion: A Small Island’s Big Contribution

Therasia’s Early Bronze Age seals offer a rare and illuminating snapshot of a transitional moment in human history – the moment when meaningful symbols edged closer to written language. The researchers have wisely urged caution: “the evidence from Koimisi does not support the existence of a formal script”, they explain, “it highlights the processes that led to the emergence of writing – particularly the use of seals as one of the earliest media for encoded symbolic transmission in the Aegean.” In other words, what was found on Therasia is not writing as we usually define it (there’s no alphabet or syllabary), but it is part of the story of how writing came to be. The Therasia seals show that even without a true writing system, people were already bridging the gap between art and information, using symbols with intention and consistency.

As research continues, this humble volcanic island could become a key reference point in Aegean prehistory. The Therasia seals, though limited in number, provide invaluable insight into the symbolic experimentation happening over four millennia ago. They might represent one of the earliest attempts by Aegean peoples to record meaning, assert identity, and communicate across time and space using marked signs. In a poetic sense, they are voices reaching out from 4,500 years ago, telling us that the urge to write – to make thoughts visible and permanent – was alive even in those early Cycladic communities.

The full significance of the find will become clearer if and when more examples come to light. Archaeologists are hopeful that similar seal impressions might be found at other Cycladic sites, strengthening the case that this was a broader practice and not an isolated quirk of Therasia. Each new discovery could help connect the dots between these proto-symbols and the later scripts of Minoan and Mycenaean civilization. As one commentary observed, the Therasia seals “may turn out to be a vital missing link in the story of how humans in the Aegean first began recording meaning”. It’s remarkable to think that a single jar handle, buried for millennia in volcanic soil, is now challenging us to reconsider where and how the written word was born in the Aegean. Such finds remind us that history is not a fixed script but a living draft – one that can still surprise us with new chapters from the distant past.

Divine Mother or Anatolian Priestess? Interpreting "Ma-te-re Te-i-ja" in Light of Maija Gierhart’s New Study on Linear B Tablets

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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In her 2025 Master’s thesis at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Mother Goddess or Divine Mortal? A Reconsideration of ma-te-re te-i-ja in PY Fr 1202, Maija Oline Gierhart offers a bold reinterpretation of one of the most enigmatic figures in the Linear B corpus: ma-te-re te-i-ja, recorded uniquely in the Pylos tablet PY Fr 1202. Long assumed to be a mother goddess—perhaps an early form of Demeter or even Kybele—this figure has been shrouded in scholarly speculation, often entangled in anachronistic assumptions or the urge to project later Greek religion onto Mycenaean material.

Gierhart’s thesis breaks from these inherited models. Through a careful contextual and linguistic analysis, she argues that ma-te-re te-i-ja should not be seen as a deity at all, but rather as a “divine mortal”—a priestly figure analogous to the Anatolian šiwanzanniš, a title known from Hittite texts and typically applied to queens who held ritual authority. This reinterpretation not only reconfigures our understanding of the PY Fr 1202 tablet but also situates Mycenaean religious practice within broader networks of diplomatic and cultic exchange across the Aegean and western Anatolia in the Late Bronze Age.

This article presents the main findings of Gierhart’s thesis in a clear, structured format, intended as an accessible and respectful representation of her original contribution.

Context: The Perfumed Oil Tablets from Pylos

PY Fr 1202 is part of a broader class of Linear B texts known as the Fr tablets, which detail the production and disbursement of perfumed olive oil from the palace of Pylos. These tablets, often linked to religious offerings, were economic records—administrative documents that nonetheless give precious insight into the ideological and ceremonial dimensions of Mycenaean society.

© Hellenic Ministry of Culture (HOCRED)
© The Palace of Nestor Excavations, Department of Classics, University of Cincinnati (photo by Emile Seraphis)
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Tablet PY Fr 1202, along with its counterpart PY Fr 1206, is distinctive for two reasons: it records an unusually large amount of oil (approximately 160 liters), and it includes a rare personal or divine name—ma-te-re te-i-ja. This name does not appear anywhere else in the corpus. The similarity in handwriting and findspot of PY Fr 1202 and PY Fr 1206 (both written by the same scribe, Hand 2, and found in Room 38 of the Palace of Nestor) has led scholars to treat them as thematically linked.

PY Fr 1206 refers to po-ti-ni-ja a-si-wi-ja—that is, “Potnia of Assuwa (Asia?),” likely a reference to a goddess associated with the Anatolian region of Assuwa. This tablet has been widely interpreted as evidence of either Anatolian cult importation into Pylos or cross-Aegean religious transactions. Gierhart uses this contextual framework to inform her reading of PY Fr 1202, while at the same time questioning the assumptions that have traditionally led to interpreting ma-te-re te-i-ja as a deity.

Challenging the “Mother Goddess” Paradigm

The designation ma-te-re te-i-ja has typically been read as a theonym, translated either as “Mother of the Gods” or “Divine Mother.” Gierhart systematically critiques these interpretations.

First, she addresses the linguistic construction. In Mycenaean Greek, te-i-ja (equivalent to Classical Greek θεῖα) is most likely an adjective meaning “divine,” not a genitive phrase like “of the gods.” Thus, the phrase more accurately reads “Divine Mother,” not “Mother of the Gods.” While this may seem a minor distinction, it significantly undermines efforts to identify the figure with the later Greek goddess Meter Theon (Μήτηρ Θεῶν) or the Phrygian Kybele. Gierhart notes that such identifications are rooted more in retrojection than evidence: Kybele’s cult is well-attested only from the Iron Age onward and is primarily Phrygian, not Mycenaean.

She also critiques the popular idea—based on early 20th-century scholarship—that the Minoan and Mycenaean world centered around a pan-Mediterranean “Great Mother Goddess.” Drawing on the critiques of scholars like Sarah Morris and Lisa Bendall, Gierhart argues that these universalizing models are methodologically flawed and often reflect modern cultural ideologies more than ancient realities.

The Anatolian Connection: Reinterpreting the Evidence

The core of Gierhart’s argument is comparative. She proposes that the title ma-te-re te-i-ja is a Mycenaean rendering of the Hittite šiwanzanniš—a priestly title, often translated as “mother of the god,” borne by royal women with ritual functions in Hittite religious life. The šiwanzanniš was not a deity but a queen or high priestess with sacral authority, capable of overseeing cultic offerings and public ceremonies.

By interpreting ma-te-re te-i-ja as a translation of this title, Gierhart reframes the Linear B tablet not as a record of worship toward a deity, but as a disbursement of oil—possibly a year’s worth—to a high-ranking woman, probably abroad. This reading is strengthened by the extraordinarily large quantity of oil involved, which far exceeds the amounts recorded for local deities such as Poseidon or Potnia.

She further points out that the month recorded on PY Fr 1202—me-tu-wo ne-wo, “Month of New Wine”—suggests that the offering coincided with a seasonal or ritual event. This, too, is consistent with gift exchange or ritual diplomacy between ruling elites across the Aegean and Anatolia.

Supporting Evidence: The Use of Theios in Early Greek

Gierhart reinforces her argument by turning to the usage of the adjective θεῖος (divine) in Homeric and Hesiodic poetry. There, the term is rarely used for major gods. Instead, it frequently describes mortals of high status—kings, warriors, and bards—and occasionally minor divine figures like river gods or nymphs. For instance, Thetis, the divine mother of Achilles, is called μήτηρ θεῖα—a strikingly close parallel to ma-te-re te-i-ja.

This suggests that, in archaic Greek usage as well as Mycenaean, theios may have connoted divine favor or sacred function without implying that the person so described was a full deity. It fits, therefore, with a mortal woman of ritual status: a queen-priestess, not a goddess.

Diplomacy, Identity, and Religious Exchange

What, then, was the nature of this priestess, and why would she appear in the Pylian archives?

Gierhart explores several possibilities. The recipient of the oil could have been an Anatolian noblewoman—perhaps even a former princess married into the Pylian elite. Hittite records mention political marriages between Anatolian women and Ahhiyawan (Mycenaean) kings. In such cases, these women often retained priestly roles. Alternatively, she might have remained abroad, and the oil represents a diplomatic gift dispatched across the sea.

She draws parallels with PY Fr 1206, where the oil offering to Potnia of Assuwa may also have been sent outside the Mycenaean sphere. Bendall has noted that the volume of oil in these tablets far exceeds typical local offerings and is consistent with ceremonial shipments—perhaps annual tributes or diplomatic gestures. Such interpretations place Mycenaean Greece within the interregional exchange systems of the Late Bronze Age, resembling the political and religious networks documented in Hittite and Ugaritic archives.

Conclusion: From Divine Name to Sacred Role

Maija Gierhart’s thesis contributes significantly to the study of Mycenaean religion and international diplomacy in the Late Bronze Age. By reinterpreting ma-te-re te-i-ja not as a goddess, but as a translated title for a sacred mortal, she draws attention to the nuanced ways in which language, identity, and ritual status intersected in palace societies.

Her analysis avoids both the overly theological and overly literal approaches of previous decades. Instead, she restores to the PY Fr 1202 tablet its true complexity—as a document reflecting the palace’s role not only in religious administration but in cross-cultural negotiation, religious diplomacy, and elite female agency.

In doing so, Gierhart opens a path toward reevaluating other ambiguous figures in the Linear B corpus, and more broadly, toward understanding the role of women in Mycenaean and Anatolian religious systems not merely as recipients of cult, but as actors, intermediaries, and holders of sacred power.

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Citation of Original Work:

• Gierhart, Maija Oline. Mother Goddess or Divine Mortal? A Reconsideration of ma-te-re te-i-ja in PY Fr 1202. Master’s Thesis, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 2025.

The Rare Square Theater of Calydon: Where Drama Met a Strange Geometry

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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Calydon/Kalydon: Mythic City and Sacred Sanctuary

Ancient Kalydon, in western Greece’s Aetolia region, was steeped in legend and worship. In Greek mythology it was founded by Aetolus and named after his son Calydon, and it gained renown as the setting of the Calydonian Boar Hunt—a famous saga in which the goddess Artemis, offended by King Oeneus’s neglect, sent a monstrous boar to ravage the land. Heroes like Atalanta and Meleager converged to slay the beast, linking Kalydon’s name with one of the best pre-Trojan War adventures. The city’s prestige continued into historical times as a major Aetolian center. Homer praised the “lovely” fertile plain of Calydon in the Iliad, and later geographer Strabo noted that Kalydon (and its neighbor Pleuron) had once been the “ornament” of Greece—though by his own era (1st century BC) they had faded into insignificance .

At the heart of Kalydon’s cultural identity was the Laphrion, a sprawling extramural sanctuary dedicated to Artemis Laphria and Apollo Laphrios. This sanctuary, just outside the city’s walls near the main gate, was one of the most important in Aetolia. Archaeology shows the cult was ancient: by the late 7th century BC there were two adjacent temples—one to Artemis and one to Apollo—adorned with painted clay roof tiles. The sanctuary was repeatedly expanded; a grand new temple to Artemis was erected in the 6th century BC, then rebuilt in stone around 400 BC, ultimately boasting a gold-and-ivory cult statue of Artemis crafted by artisans from Naupaktos. Artemis Laphria’s worship was renowned for its fiery annual festival, the Laphria, involving a spectacular sacrifice. Ancient accounts describe how during this festival a towering altar was piled with logs and live animals—deer, boars, wolves, bears, even birds—and set ablaze, with any creatures that leapt from the flames thrown back in by the participants. This dramatic rite underscored Artemis’s fierce aspect, and indeed the cult of Artemis Laphria was so esteemed that when Rome’s Emperor Augustus devastated Calydon and relocated its people, he had the magnificent statue of the goddess transported to Patras, where the Laphria festival continued in her honor. Apollo Laphrios, Artemis’s brother, was venerated alongside her at Kalydon, though Artemis clearly took center stage as the city’s divine protector. Together, their sanctuary was a focal point for regional gatherings, athletic games, and devotion. It is here, on the slopes of Mount Varassova overlooking the Gulf of Corinth, amid a place of myth and piety, that an intriguing architectural gem was discovered: the ancient Theatre of Kalydon, where drama quite literally met geometry.

Unearthing a Rare Square Theatre

Modern eyes first glimpsed Kalydon’s theater only by accident. In the 1960s, construction of a new national road cut across the east slope of Laphrion Hill (also called Lafriou), revealing tiers of stone seats buried in the earth. Initially, archaeologists mistook the remains for a bouleuterion (council hall), perhaps due to their atypical layout. It wasn’t until systematic excavations began—in 2001–2003 and again in 2011–2013 by the Greek Archaeological Service and the Danish Institute at Athens—that the true nature of the structure became clear. The dig uncovered a full-fledged theater, albeit one with a most unusual design. Unlike the familiar fan-shaped Greek theaters of the Classical and Hellenistic world, Kalydon’s theater had a “pi-shaped” plan: its cavea (seating area) wrapped around three sides of the performance space instead of forming a broad semicircle. In place of the typical circular orchestra, Kalydon offered a near-perfect square. The orchestra floor, about 16 by 14 meters in dimensions, forms an almost square stage at the center of the theater. The lowest tiers of seats meet at right angles, creating a rectangular, U-shaped audience arrangement that frames the square orchestra’s north, east, and west sides .

Three sides of the square orchestra in the unearthed theater of Kalydon have seating carved into the hillside. This pi-shaped layout (open to the south) is unique among Greek theaters, which usually featured circular orchestras and fully rounded seating tiers.

Archaeologists identified 31 rows of limestone seats in the theater’s auditorium, organized in straight tiers that form 90° corners at the orchestra’s northeast and northwest edges. This rectilinear geometry is striking—ancient Greek theaters “typically have circular orchestras and semicircular seating arrangements,” as the site’s investigators note. In Kalydon’s case, the lower nine rows of seats belong to an earlier construction phase (Classical period), while the remaining upper seats were added later during a renovation in the Hellenistic era. Intriguingly, the transition between the straight seating sections and the more curved upper tiers is smoothed by slightly rounded corners in the top rows, creating a continuous connection despite the square plan below. The result is a theater that is both angular and flowing—a carefully geometrical design that may reflect advanced architectural planning. In fact, an acoustic study of Kalydon’s theater found that its blueprint was likely calculated with “great care using geometrical shapes—the square, the diagonals, and quarter circles.” By the 4th century BC, Greek mathematicians like Eudoxus and Aristoxenus had formalized geometry and music theory, and the theater’s design seems to echo that sophistication. The square orchestra, for instance, could be inscribed with diagonals and quarters to align sightlines or acoustic focal points. Simulations suggest that in such a Π-shaped theater, the audience’s attention (and sound focus) would naturally center on the middle of the orchestra. The downside was some minor echo in the far corners of the seating, whereas fully semicircular theaters distribute sound more evenly. Thus, the architects of Kalydon achieved generally excellent acoustics in most areas of the audience seating, although later Greek theaters favored a curved design to eliminate those dead spots.

Despite its unorthodox form, the Theatre of Kalydon was a substantial venue. The cavea’s 31 rows could accommodate an estimated 5,000–5,600 spectators, a remarkably large crowd—far exceeding what the small city’s own population would have been. This theater's capacity suggests it served as a venue for significant events that drew attendees from the surrounding region, possibly during festivals or pan-Aetolian gatherings. To support so many viewers, the auditorium was partly hewn into the hillside’s soft sandstone and partly built up with earthen embankments and retaining walls, especially toward the open southern side. The absence of permanent stone staircases (klimakes) between seating sections suggests the use of wooden or removable aisles to access the rows. On the open end of the “U,” where the audience faces south, evidence of a stage building was uncovered, confirming the theatre’s theatrical function. Excavators found the foundations of a broad proskenion (stage facade) just east of the orchestra, including a stylobate that once held 10 to 12 columns. Several Ionic column bases and fragments of capitals survived, indicating the proskenium had elegant colonnades in the Ionic order. In front of the stage, rectangular post holes suggest there were doorways or movable panels, and a drainage duct led runoff to a square cistern—a smart bit of engineering to keep the orchestra dry during performances. Abundant terracotta roof tiles were also found around the stage, showing that parts of the stage building (perhaps a two-story skene at the back and a covered proskenion in front) were roofed. Actors may have performed on a raised logeion (stage platform) accessed by stone ramps flanking the proskenion. In essence, by the 3rd century BC, Kalydon’s theater had all the typical amenities of a Hellenistic theater—save for the atypical shape of its “stage” area.

a Sacred Space or a Showplace? Functions of the Square Stage

Why did Kalydon’s theater take on this rare square form? Its evolving role and the sanctuary's primacy in its construction likely provide the answer. Archaeologists have discerned at least two major construction phases at the site, suggesting the space did not begin as a standard drama theater. The earliest phase (the lower nine seat rows) may date to the Classical period (5th–4th century BC), before the Hellenistic-stage addition. Some scholars speculate that this original construction wasn’t a theater at all but perhaps a political assembly area or cult venue. Researchers even published the structure's discovery as a potential bouleuterion (town hall). Dr. Lazaros Kolonas, who led early excavations, proposed a compelling theory: the square orchestra might reflect an initial use for mystery cult rituals or religious gatherings, long before plays were staged there. The site’s proximity to Artemis’s temple supports this idea. We can imagine rows of spectators (or worshippers) seated on three sides of a square courtyard, observing sacred dances, sacrifices, or initiatory rites in honor of Artemis Laphria or Apollo. This configuration is almost reminiscent of a monumental temenos courtyard or an open-air ecclesiasterium, rather than a typical theater. Indeed, the sanctuary context suggests the space could have hosted ceremonial performances—perhaps chanting choirs, hymns, athletic displays, or reenactments during the annual Laphria festival—that benefited from a broad, flat floor. If the earliest phase served flexible cult purposes, the absence of a permanent stage building makes sense. Archaeologists noted a curious structural detail that might support this: a low retaining wall or terrace break behind the eighth row of seats, possibly demarcating the boundary of the original enclosure. Later, the community dismantled that wall and extended the seating upwards to expand the theater's capacity.

By the Hellenistic period (likely the 3rd century BC, based on pottery finds), Kalydon underwent a theatrical upgrade: the stone proskenion and skene were built, and the cavea was enlarged. From this point on, the complex functioned as a genuine theater for dramatic and musical performances. Rune Frederiksen, one of the site’s modern editors, argues that the peculiar form of the orchestra might have been well-suited to choral performances or pageants involving groups of singers/actors. A square orchestra could accommodate larger choruses or ensemble action that moved in formations different from the circular dances of classical Greek drama. It’s notable that Kalydon’s design essentially puts a premium on frontal viewing: the audience is concentrated on three sides focusing toward the center, which might have been advantageous for certain spectacles or even speeches. Yet Frederiksen and his colleagues do not exclude standard dramatic performances at Kalydon. The discovery of the stage house and ornate facade leaves little doubt that tragedies and comedies—or at least poetic recitations, concerts, and other entertainments—were held here in the city’s heyday. The theater’s impressive size also suggests an intent to serve a broad public. Perhaps during major religious festivals or regional assemblies, Kalydon’s square “theatron” hosted crowds from across Aetolia. Scholars have even speculated that the Aetolian League (the federal state to which Kalydon belonged) might have used the theater for large meetings or festivals, given the seating far exceeds the local populace. In any case, the theater’s function appears to have been multifaceted—a place where sacred ritual, civic gathering, and staged art all overlapped.

The subsequent fate of the theater aligns with Kalydon’s changing fortunes. Archaeological evidence indicates that the theater was no longer in use by the late Hellenistic period and most likely abandoned by the early 1st century BC. This time frame corresponds with the tumult of Roman conquest: after 31 BC, Augustus forcibly resettled the region’s population to his new city of Nicopolis, turning old Kalydon into ruins. In the theater itself, excavators found hints of secondary use—cooking pots, loom weights, and even two human burials—suggesting people sheltered or lived in the derelict structure after its theatrical life ended. One can imagine the grand stone tiers that once hosted Artemis’s devotees and theatergoers eventually becoming just another part of an abandoned hillside, frequented by farmers or squatters. Over time, nature and silence took over, until the modern world rediscovered this sleeping monument.

Theatrical Experiments: From Kalydon to Thorikos and Messene

Kalydon's theater stands out as a rarity of design, yet it is not entirely alone in defying the norms of Greek theater architecture. Throughout antiquity, especially in earlier periods, Greek builders experimented with different stage and seating layouts before the semicircular template became canonical. In fact, some of the earliest theaters known have layouts that make Kalydon’s seem less bizarre in context. A prime example is the Theatre of Thorikos in Attica—often cited as the oldest surviving stone theater (late 6th–5th century BC). Thorikos’s seating plan is elongated and irregular rather than a neat half-circle. Its rows form an almost oval or rectilinear shape, with a central section of seats nearly straight and only the flanks gently curved. Correspondingly, the orchestra of Thorikos is rectangular, about 16×30 meters—significantly longer than wide. The corners of that orchestra are slightly rounded where they meet the cavea, but essentially it is a long rectangle open on one side. Scholars believe this form reflects an early stage of theater development, when choral dances and ceremonies preceded the classical circular orchestra. At Thorikos, tellingly, a small temple of Dionysus stood adjacent to the orchestra, and a rectangular altar occupied part of the orchestra floor. The arrangement suggests that in 5th-century Thorikos, as perhaps in early Kalydon, the theatre area served double duty as a sacred performance ground for Dionysian cult rituals and proto-drama. Only later would standard round orchestras (of about 20 m diameter) become common—a transition that seems to have occurred around the mid-4th century BC. Kalydon’s square stage, then, might be considered a local holdover of an archaic form or a deliberate adaptation to cult practice, persisting into the Hellenistic age.

Another instructive comparison comes from Messene, a large city in the Peloponnese, where the Hellenistic theatre shows innovation of a different sort. The Theatre of Messene, built in the 3rd century BC, conformed to the usual circular orchestra design, but archaeologists have uncovered evidence that its stage buildings were moveable—a remarkable technical feat. Excavations revealed stone tracks (rows of cut grooves) on either side of Messene’s stage and a long storage room behind it. Researchers from Kumamoto University concluded that these tracks were used to roll a wooden proskenion/skene in and out, effectively creating a mobile stage backdrop. In other words, Messene’s architects engineered a way to slide the entire stage facade on wheels, likely to change scenery or convert the venue for different uses. This discovery, along with similar traces at Megalopolis and Sparta, proved that by the late Hellenistic period, Greek theaters could be technologically very advanced—capable of scene-shifting mechanisms over 2,000 years ago. While Messene’s experiment dealt with stage machinery rather than orchestra shape, it underscores a key point: ancient theaters were not all uniform. Different cities, at different times, tailored their theaters to their needs, whether ritual, artistic, or political. Kalydon chose an unusual geometric layout; Thorikos retained an oblong dancing floor; Messene toyed with movable stages. These variations remind us that Greek theater design was an evolutionary process, full of regional quirks and one-off solutions, rather than a monolithic tradition of carbon-copy amphitheaters.

Yet another compelling case, less frequently mentioned in general discussions but highly relevant, is the Theatre of the Demos Evonymos, located in the region of Trachones (modern Alimos) in southern Attica. This theatre, first excavated in the 1960s, is remarkable for its strictly rectangular orchestra—a design that predates and may even foreshadow the square orchestra at Kalydon. Dating roughly to the late 5th to early 4th century BCE, the Evonymos theatre is thought to have served one of the most important demes (districts) of the Athenian polis. The orchestra is laid out as a clean-cut rectangle, not only in floor plan but also in its functional conception: it likely accommodated formal dithyrambic or civic performances, which did not necessarily require the circular dance floor of later dramatic choruses. What makes the Evonymos theatre particularly valuable in this context is that it represents a pre-canonical phase in Attic theatrical evolution. Some scholars argue that rectangular orchestras were perhaps common in the earlier, locally-managed deme theatres before the influence of Dionysian theater architecture from Athens imposed standardized round orchestras. The lack of a curved koilon and the tight geometry of the orchestra at Evonymos show that performance space in the Classical period was still fluid, shaped by practical needs and local traditions more than aesthetic ideals. It is entirely plausible that Kalydon’s architects, working in a provincial and religious context, drew on such archaic Attic models or shared ritual precedents when opting for a rectilinear form.

Legacy of the Square Stage

Today, the ancient theater of Kalydon offers a fascinating glimpse into this diversity of Greek architectural and cultural practice. Often overshadowed by their more famous circular counterparts like Epidaurus, square or rectilinear theaters such as Kalydon’s are gems that illuminate the range of theatrical traditions. In Kalydon’s case, the theater’s very form captures a convergence of influences—religious ritual, civic life, and geometric experimentation. The theater sits at the intersection of drama and sanctuary, where performances can both honor the gods and entertain the people. As one walks among the weathered, blocky rows of its auditorium (some still in situ on the hillside of Evinochori), it’s easy to envision a perpetual front-row seat to history: to the chants of an Artemis cult choir, to the speeches of an assembly, or to the acts of a traveling theater troupe playing out under the Aetolian sky.

Rediscovered in modern times and still under study, the Kalydon theater continues to surprise archaeologists. Recent publications have meticulously documented its architecture in two volumes, confirming that what was once deemed a “so-called theatre or bouleuterion” is indeed a fully developed theatre—but one that bends the rules of Greek design. Its square stage and straight-edged koilon may have been unusual, yet they proved functional and resonant for its community’s purposes. In the broader history of theater architecture, Kalydon now holds a special place: a reminder that the ancient Greeks, famed for their love of symmetry and circles, sometimes thought outside the circle. Here, on the slopes of Kalydon, drama met geometry in the most literal way—leaving us a stone footprint of innovation, piety, and human creativity from over two millennia ago.

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References:

• Lazaros Kolonas, “Theatre of Kalydon – Description” (Diazoma.gr)

• Danish Institute at Athens, Calydon Excavation Project – site reports

• Rune Frederiksen & Olympia Vikatou (eds.), The Ancient Theatre at Kalydon in Aitolia (2024) – via BMCR review

• Tasos Kokkinidis, Greek Reporter: “The Rare Square Theater of Ancient Calydon” (2025)

• Signe Barfoed, “Rediscovering Artemis Laphria at Kalydon” – Proceedings of the Danish Institute at Athens IX (2019)

• Pausanias, Description of Greece 7.18.8–11

• Thorikos Theatre – Ancient Theatre Archive/Diazoma

• Kumamoto Univ. research on Messene theatre (ScienceDaily 2017) .

• Paga, Jessica, “Deme Theaters in Attica and the Trittys System” Published in Hesperia, Vol. 79, No. 3 (2010)

Foreign Words in Egyptian Magic Spells: Are They Minoan?

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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Sacred Sounds or Foreign Tongues? The Mystery of the Keftiu Incantations in Egyptian medical papyri: A Linguistic and Historical Assessment of Their Minoan Identity

Two brief magical incantations—(1) “sente kepe wej’ ejmentere kekere” and (2) “ebeksetesebeseje hmkt repej pewer’ smk”—appear in New Kingdom Egyptian medical papyri and are explicitly noted to be written in the “language of the Keftiu.” The term Keftiu is widely believed to refer to Minoan Crete and its people, based on iconographic and textual evidence from the 18th Dynasty and earlier. The first incantation comes from the so-called London Medical Papyrus (BM EA 10059), and the second from the Hearst Papyrus, now housed at the University of California, Berkeley. The first incantation concerns the so-called "Asiatic disease" (a case of disease from the Near East), and the second one refers to the disease samuna (possibly an infectious illness). These incantations were used as “spells” by Egyptian healers—possibly Minoan physicians residing in Egypt—to expel the evil believed to cause the illnesses.

These texts are among the rare direct attestations of what may be the Minoan language—transcribed into Egyptian script and preserved within magical-medical contexts. Because of the tantalizing nature of this possibility, they have been the subject of scholarly speculation since the early 20th century. But are they really Minoan? Or are they misunderstood renderings of Semitic, Anatolian, or other languages? What does current research say?

Minoan trade routs.

1. Historical Context and Early Interpretations

The first modern discussion of these texts came from Sir Arthur Evans, who included them in his monumental Scripta Minoa (1952). Evans noted that they were recorded in medical contexts and specifically labeled in the manuscripts as being in the language of the Keftiu. He cautiously interpreted them as perhaps representing the spoken Minoan language. Evans, however, remained cautious regarding the interpretation: he observed that only one word from the second incantation (hmkt) is clearly Egyptian, while all other elements appear foreign. He also noted that, although the texts seem to be “Keftiu” (i.e., of Cretan origin), the very reference to an “Asiatic” (Semitic) disease and possibly to two deities of Asiatic provenance raises questions about whether the incantations genuinely reflect Cretan (Minoan) content. In other words, Evans had already pointed out early on that these foreign words may not be purely Minoan but could include elements from the Near East.

In the early 20th century, scholars like W. Wreszinski, H. Th. Bossert, and A. H. Sayce examined these texts. Wreszinski first published the London Medical Papyrus (1912), noting that incantations 32 and 33 refer to diseases “ttmkm” and “smk” respectively and label one of them explicitly as in the “language of the Keftiu.”

London Medical Papyrus; fragment of text with Kaftiw incantations is marked by whitelines (source: Kyriakidis 2002: 215)

Bossert offered the most imaginative interpretation, claiming that the first incantation contains Anatolian deity names—Sandon and Kubaba (Kybebe)—embedded within it, suggesting a link to Hittite or Luwian religious traditions. Sayce also accepted that these fragments could be Minoan, but emphasized their unknown linguistic nature.

Arthur Evans, despite his deep interest, was cautious: he recognized only one clearly Egyptian word (hmkt in the second incantation), noting that the rest of the content appeared non-Egyptian. He accepted that the texts may represent Keftiu (i.e., Minoan) language, but warned that little could be said about them with certainty.

Other scholars, such as G. A. Wainwright, controversially suggested that Keftiu might actually refer to Cilicia rather than Crete, proposing a more Anatolian origin for these texts. However, this theory was eventually rejected by most Egyptologists and Aegean archaeologists, who maintain that Keftiu corresponds to Minoan Crete.

Text of the spell (image source – Wreszinski 1912: 151)

2. Structure and Transmission of the Incantations

The two incantations are brief, grammatically obscure, and written phonetically using Egyptian hieratic signs. In both cases, the scribes attempt to record foreign words in a readable Egyptian form. Only the second incantation contains determinatives—classifying signs that hint at grammatical categories like “man,” “disease,” “god,” or “motion.”

• First incantation (London Medical Papyrus, no. 32):
  sente kepe wej’ ejmentere kekere
  Possibly linked to deities (Sandon, Kubaba?) and described as treating “the disease ttmkm” (unknown).

• Second incantation (Hearst Papyrus):
  ebeksetesebeseje hmkt repej pewer’ smk
  Associated with “disease smk” and includes the Egyptian word hmkt, possibly a known term for a spirit or illness.

The inclusion of foreign language incantations in Egyptian medical texts was a recognized practice—certain magical texts incorporate Semitic or Nubian phrases. The explicit designation of these two as “Keftiu language” thus signals that the Egyptians themselves regarded them as foreign—likely from a region with ritual or medical authority.

Menkheperreseneb. From left to right: 'Prince of Keftiu', 'Prince of Hatti', 'Prince of Tunip' (Syrian figures) and Aegean figure, facsimile (after Davies 1936:Plate XXI). Source

3. Modern Linguistic Analysis and Interpretative Approaches

Contemporary scholarship has taken a far more cautious and methodological approach:

3.1 General Position

The scholarly consensus holds that the incantations are most likely non-Egyptian and non-Semitic in structure and phonology. However, this does not prove they are definitively Minoan. The incantations’ extreme brevity makes secure interpretation nearly impossible.

3.2 Minoan Hypothesis

Most researchers today accept that, since the texts are explicitly labeled “language of the Keftiu,” and Keftiu is strongly identified with Crete, they likely represent some form of the Minoan language—possibly in a magical register.

Evangelos Kyriakidis (2002) cautiously notes that although the incantations cannot be translated or grammatically parsed, their phonological patterns do not contradict what is known from Linear A. However, no Linear A word has been definitively matched to any element of the incantations.

3.3 Anatolian/hattic Hypothesis

Some linguists—especially Alexander Akulov—have proposed more radical theories: that the language of the incantations shows affinities with Hattic (a pre-Indo-European language of Anatolia). Akulov analyzes grammatical morphemes within the incantations that appear to follow Hattic-like verb structures, possessive suffixes, and pronominal markers.

He interprets, for example, sabujajəjədʒa in the second incantation as a compound verb with personal markers resembling Hattic constructions. However, this view is highly speculative and not widely accepted in mainstream Aegean or Hittitological studies.

3.4 Rejection of Semitic Hypothesis

Richard Steiner and others have decisively rejected the idea that the texts are in a Semitic language, despite the diseases being labeled “Asiatic.” While some words (e.g., samuna) may derive from Semitic roots, the grammar and structure of the incantations do not align with Semitic syntax.

Senenmut. Three remaining Aegean figures, facsimile (after Davies 1936: Pl. XIV). Source

4. Theological and Magical Elements

The second incantation includes two divine names (Ratsiya, Erupa and Amaya), with accompanying Egyptian determinatives marking them as gods. This suggests that the Keftiu language had a pantheon unknown to Egyptians, or at least unfamiliar deity names. These theonyms do not resemble known Egyptian, Semitic, or Greek deities clearly, though speculative links have been made to Rhea and Maia or Kubaba.

The presence of foreign deities within the incantation strengthens the case for an independent Minoan religious tradition, at least partially captured here in Egyptian transmission.

Conclusion

The two Keftiu incantations found in Egyptian papyri constitute a rare window into a language of the Late Bronze Age, which the ancient Egyptians associated with Crete. Contemporary research converges on the idea that these incantations likely reflect the Minoan (pre-Greek) language, though possibly enriched with “magical vocabulary” borrowed from neighboring cultures. The early theories of Evans and his contemporaries—that these are indeed Minoan texts transcribed in Egyptian script—have not been rejected. On the contrary, they remain the starting point and the most logical interpretation, now approached with greater scholarly rigor. Evans’ view is broadly accepted in principle (that the language is that of the Keftiu/Minoans), but the early attempts to "translate" the incantations are now largely considered invalid or speculative.

No clear linguistic evidence has yet been found linking these incantations directly to the known vocabulary of Linear A or any other Aegean language, primarily because we lack a deciphered lexicon for comparison. Minor similarities (such as the aforementioned KA-PA, I-JA, etc.) suggest continuity, but do not prove it. Meanwhile, efforts to connect the texts with Anatolian languages (like Hattic) offer a tempting image of a Minoan language that did not evolve in isolation, but rather was influenced by—and perhaps genetically related to—other languages. If true, this would position the Minoans linguistically closer to populations of Asia Minor, rather than as an entirely isolated case.

In any case, the Keftiu incantations remain an object of ongoing research and debate. It is noteworthy how such a short text has inspired such a wide array of theories—evidence of its significance for our understanding of prehistoric Aegean civilization. For now, the most prudent conclusion is: these phrases appear to be Minoan, but their content suggests a complex magical vocabulary with international influences. Their full decipherment will likely only come if and when Linear A is decoded or if new bilingual texts are discovered. Until then, the Keftiu incantations remain a mystery—a lingering echo of a language once spoken in the halls of Knossos, still beckoning us to uncover its secrets.

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REFERENCES

• Evans, Arthur J. – Scripta Minoa: The Written Documents of Minoan Crete

• Wreszinski, Walter – The Hearst medical papyrus

• Akulov, Alexander – A Minoan Deity from the London Medicine Papyrus

• Akulov, Alexander – Keftiw and Hattic Hypothesis

• Akulov, Alexander – Asiatic Disease Spell Revisited

• Kyriakidis, Evangelos – Indications on the Nature of the Language of the Keftiw from Egyptian Sources

• Steiner, Richard – Northwest Semitic Incantations in an Egyptian Medical Papyrus of the Fourteenth Century B.C.E.

• Giannakoulas, Alexandros – Black Asclepius, White Imhotep

The Panhellenic League: Evolution of an Early Greek National Ideal

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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The term Panhellenic means “all-Greek,” reflecting a vision of unity among the often fractious city-states of ancient Greece. Throughout classical antiquity, Greeks shared a common language, religion, and cultural heritage, yet political unity was rare, due to the city-state as a political and social formation system. The concept of a Panhellenic League – an alliance embracing all Hellenes – evolved over time as circumstances compelled cooperation. From the existential threat of the Persian invasions to the grand ambitions of Macedonian kings, the ideal of Greek unity was invoked to rally support and legitimize authority. This article traces the development of the Panhellenic ideal from its early manifestation during the Persian Wars, through Philip II’s unification of Greece, to Alexander the Great’s use of Panhellenism – notably exemplified by the Priene Inscription. It also compares these efforts to later Hellenistic leagues (Aetolian and Achaean), examining how shared culture, religion, and alliances fostered unity and continuity in the Greek world.

Panhellenic Unity in the Persian Wars

In the face of Persia’s massive invasion led by King Xerxes (480–479 BC), the Greeks for the first time formed a broad coalition to defend their homeland. In 481 BC, delegates from numerous city-states met at a Congress at the Isthmus of Corinth, setting aside rivalries to forge a Hellenic League against the “barbarian” invader. Thirty-one states – including Athens, Sparta, Corinth, Thebes, and others – pledged a common cause. Long-standing feuds were momentarily buried as they agreed to coordinate strategy and pool resources under Sparta’s leadership. This unprecedented alliance testified to a growing awareness of a shared Hellenic identity transcending individual polis interests. They swore oaths (reportedly “by Zeus, Poseidon and other gods”) to punish any Greek city that medized (sided with Persia) and to honor their mutual defense pact. Religious tradition buttressed this unity: for example, the league declared that if any Greek traitor aided Persia, one-tenth of that offender’s wealth would be dedicated to Apollo’s oracle at Delphi as punishment – a solemn spiritual deterrent. The oracle of Delphi itself played a unifying role, as Greeks jointly consulted its prophecies for guidance on how to survive the onslaught.

Though Greek unity was far from complete (many states remained neutral or under Persian sway, and Sparta and Athens still squabbled over navy command), the alliance achieved remarkable success. United Greek forces won decisive victories at Salamis and Plataea, halting the Persian aggression. In the aftermath, the Greeks commemorated their collective triumph in ways that emphasized Panhellenic solidarity. At Delphi, they erected the famous Serpent Column – a bronze tripod of intertwined serpents – inscribed with the names of all the Greek cities that stood together against Persia. This monument, dedicated to Apollo, symbolized how shared myths, gods, and resolve had bound the Hellenes in their hour of need. Similarly, festivals like the Olympic Games, which had long been open to all Greeks, took on added significance after the war as celebrations of a common Greek victory. The Persian Wars thus ignited the “first seeds of Panhellenism”, proving that when faced with a common enemy and inspired by common culture, the disparate Greeks could act as one people. The ideal of Hellenic unity — however fleeting in practice — had been vividly realized and would be remembered in later generations as a golden example of what the Greeks could accomplish together.

SerpentColumn, Delphi

Philip II and the Panhellenic Ideal

In the fourth century BC, the Greek city-states returned to internecine conflicts and power struggles. Yet the Panhellenic ideal did not disappear; instead, it was revived as a compelling political vision by thinkers like Isocrates and eventually put into action by Philip II of Macedon. Isocrates, an Athenian orator, watched decades of warfare between Greek poleis (notably the Peloponnesian War and its aftermath) and concluded that only a unified Greek effort against a foreign foe could end the cycle of chaos. In 380 BC, he wrote Panegyricus, urging Greeks to reconcile and jointly campaign against Persia. Later, in 346 BC, Isocrates penned an open letter To Philip, imploring the rising Macedonian king to assume leadership of a pan-Hellenic crusade. He argued that Greece’s infighting and the poverty of many Greeks could be solved by homonoia (concord) under a single leader and a common enterprise of conquest. Philip was to “unite the Greeks under his leadership in a crusade against Persia,” a radical proposal at the time. The idea was that by rallying all Hellenes to avenge the Persian wars and liberate Greek cities in Asia, Philip would both stop the fratricidal Greek wars and channel Greece’s energies outward. That a prominent Athenian intellectual would call on a Macedonian king to save Greece underscored the desperate straits of the divided city-states – and also heralded a new reality in which Macedon had become a powerful part of the Greek world.

Philip II proved receptive to this Panhellenic platform, though certainly his own imperial ambitions were at play. In 338 BC, after decisively defeating an alliance of southern Greek states at the Battle of Chaeronea, Philip positioned himself as the hegemon (leader) of Greece. The next year he organized the League of Corinth (also known simply as the “Hellenic League”), a federation of Greek city-states under Macedonian leadership. For the first time in history, virtually all of Greece (with the notable exception of Sparta, which initially refused to join) was politically united in a single confederation. At the league’s inaugural council in Corinth, delegates from each member state (elected in proportion to their military strength) agreed to a Common Peace among Greeks and officially declared war on the Persian Empire. Philip was appointed strategos autokrator (supreme commander) of this Panhellenic war of revenge. The league’s charter invoked the memory of Xerxes’ invasion and the desecration of Greek temples, framing the coming campaign as righteous retribution and a fulfillment of Greece’s age-old struggle against Asiatic despotism. By harnessing Greek resentment of Persia and the nostalgia for unity, Philip endowed his imperial project with an ideological cloak of Panhellenism.

Religion and shared culture were important in legitimizing Philip’s leadership. The Macedonian kings themselves had long claimed Greek ancestry (Philip traced his lineage to Heracles) and participated in Panhellenic institutions to prove their Hellenic identity. Philip famously competed in the Olympic Games – winning the horse race in 356 BC – and sponsored lavish religious dedications. After Chaeronea, he erected the Philippeion at Olympia, a grand circular shrine within the sacred Altis precinct. Ostensibly dedicated to Zeus, it housed gold-and-ivory statues of Philip, his queen Olympias, and their son Alexander (as well as Philip’s parents), effectively placing his own dynasty among the gods and heroes in a Panhellenic sanctuary. This striking commemoration sent a clear message: Macedon was now a principal defender of Greece, and Philip’s family shared in the divine favor that traditionally smiled upon Hellenic victors. By honoring Zeus at Olympia and presenting himself as a pious benefactor, Philip reinforced his appeal to Greek sentiment. He also leveraged the Amphictyonic Council at Delphi – intervening in the Fourth Sacred War (naming himself protector of Apollo’s shrine) – to further cast himself as the champion of Greek religion and stability. In these ways, Philip II wove together military might, diplomacy, and cultural patronage to make the Panhellenic ideal a reality under his hegemony.

Alexander the Great and the Panhellenic Ideal

Philip’s assassination in 336 BC briefly threatened the new league, but his twenty-year-old son Alexander III (the Great) quickly secured Macedonian power and was acclaimed as Philip’s successor in the Panhellenic crusade. Alexander inherited both the military apparatus of the league and its ideological mission. In 334 BC, he crossed the Hellespont into Asia as the elected hegemon of the Greeks, proclaiming himself leader of a united Hellenic invasion to “take revenge” for the Persian invasions of generations past. Early in the campaign, Alexander took deliberate steps to emphasize that he fought on behalf of all Greece (Sparta again excepted) and under the auspices of the Greek gods. For example, after winning the Battle of the Granicus (334 BC) – his first major victory against the Persians – Alexander sent 300 suits of captured Persian armor as a dedication to Athena on the Acropolis of Athens. Along with this offering, he ordered a bold inscription: “Alexander, son of Philip, and the Greeks – except the Lacedaemonians – dedicate these spoils from the barbarians of Asia.” This dramatic gesture served multiple purposes. It explicitly linked Alexander with the collective Greek effort (“Alexander… and the Greeks”), pointedly snubbed Sparta for its absence, and celebrated vengeance for the impieties of 480 BC (the armor hung in Athens as proof that the sack of the Acropolis had been avenged). By dedicating enemy spoils to Athena, Alexander cast himself as the pious avenger of the desecrated Greek gods. At the same time, as one modern historian noted, he was shrewdly “emphasizing the usually denied ‘Greekness’ of the Macedonians,” reminding all that Macedon now stood at the forefront of Hellas.

Alexander’s conduct during his campaign continued to invoke Panhellenic traditions to legitimize his expanding rule. He made a point of honoring the great Panhellenic sanctuaries and heroes: for instance, detouring to Troy to pay homage to Achilles (his legendary ancestor), dedicating a temple to Athena there, and reportedly running naked around Achilles’ tomb in symbolic respect. He visited Delphi before setting out, seeking a blessing (though the Pythia was initially reluctant to prophesize, Alexander boldly grabbed her until she exclaimed “My son, you are invincible!” – which he took as the oracle he wanted). After each major victory, Alexander sent a portion of the spoils to Greek cities and temples: to Delphi, to Olympia, to Dion (in Macedon, but a Panhellenic religious center for Zeus) and elsewhere. These acts reinforced his image as protector of the Greek faith and avenger of Persian sacrilege. Indeed, when he finally seized and burned the Persian capital Persepolis in 330 BC, contemporaries viewed it as retribution for Xerxes’ burning of Athens’ temples 150 years earlier – a tit-for-tat justice completed by the Panhellenic champion. By invoking the memory of the Persian Wars and continuously dedicating victories to the gods, Alexander maintained Greek goodwill and participation (at least nominally) in his war of conquest, even as his army pushed far beyond the original objectives.

Alexander grabs Pythia and drags her to the Apollo shrine to receive the oracle, by Louis Jean Francois Lagrenée. Public Domain

Later Hellenistic Leagues and the Legacy of Panhellenism

After Alexander’s untimely death in 323 BC, his empire fragmented and the direct political unity of the Greeks under a single hegemon was short-lived. Yet the ideal of Panhellenic unity and shared identity did not vanish. During the Hellenistic period (3rd–2nd centuries BC), new federations of Greek city-states emerged, most notably the Aetolian League and the Achaean League. These leagues, though regional rather than pan–Greek in scope, drew inspiration from earlier Greek alliances and maintained important aspects of cultural continuity.

The Aetolian League rose to prominence in Central Greece, originally a union of the Aetolian communities that expanded to include many other cities. It was a federal state (koinon) with its own assemblies and magistrates, demonstrating that Greeks could form a broader political structure while preserving local autonomy. The Aetolians, proud of their rugged independence, actively invoked Panhellenic themes to boost their standing. In 279 BC, when a horde of Gauls (Galatians) invaded Greece and threatened Delphi, the Aetolian League took the lead in defending the sacred site. The Gauls were repelled, and this feat was celebrated across Greece as a deliverance akin to the Persian War of old – Polybius even ranked it alongside the victories over Persia, and Pausanias later called the Gallic threat the greatest peril Greece had faced since Xerxes. In gratitude for saving Apollo’s sanctuary, the Delphic Amphictyonic Council admitted the Aetolian League as a member and granted it a place of honor in overseeing Delphi. The Aetolians then organized the Soteria (“Deliverance”) festival at Delphi, a new Panhellenic festival (with athletic and musical contests) commemorating the Greek victory over the barbarians. This was a deliberate echo of earlier Panhellenic games and helped project the Aetolians as inheritors of the legacy of Greek unity. Through their league, they championed themselves as protectors of Hellenism – even as they also used the league for expansion and power politics. Culturally, the Aetolian League’s prominence at Delphi and its festival of Soteria show a continuity of Panhellenic religious tradition: Greek states still came together for common worship and celebration of collective victories, now under Aetolia’s auspices.

The Achaean League, based in the Peloponnese, likewise provides an example of Greeks uniting in a federal structure with cultural cohesion. Revived in 280 BC, the Achaean League eventually bound together a dozen or more city-states including not just the Achaean heartland but cities like Corinth, Megalopolis, Argos, and others. It had a constitution with a federal assembly and annually elected strategos (general), pointing to a sophisticated attempt at shared governance among formerly independent cities. The league is often studied as an early model of federalism, demonstrating “how city-states could unite under a common political structure while retaining local autonomy”. Under dynamic leaders such as Aratus of Sicyon and later Philopoemen, the Achaean League not only fought wars (against Spartan kings and Macedonian interference) but also fostered a sense of collective identity among its members. They issued common coinage and coordinated policies, projecting an image of a unified Achaean state. Culturally, the member cities shared in religious festivals and traditions; for instance, the league likely sponsored games and observed common rituals (the Achaean assembly met at the sanctuary of Zeus Homarios at Aegium in early years, indicating a religious element to their unity). The League’s cultural contributions included economic and social integration of the Peloponnese and “fostering a sense of shared identity and cooperation among its member cities”. In many ways, the Achaean League attempted to revive the cooperative spirit of the Hellenic League, though on a regional scale and without a single monarch.

Despite the successes of these leagues in creating pockets of unity, they also highlight the limits of the Panhellenic ideal in an era dominated by powerful kingdoms and, eventually, Rome. The Aetolian and Achaean Leagues sometimes allied but often quarreled, and both leagues clashed with the Macedonian kings (and later with Rome) in struggles for power. Unlike the united front of 480 BC or the Macedonian-led league of Philip and Alexander, the Hellenistic leagues were parallel regional alliances – a testament to Greek resilience in self-organization, but also a sign that Greece remained politically fragmented. Even so, the endurance of these federations into the 2nd century BC demonstrated a continuity of the Panhellenic idea: the notion that Greeks were one people and should band together for common causes did not die. Members of the Achaean League, for example, saw themselves not just as citizens of their city but also as collectively “Achaeans,” and even used the league to negotiate as a single entity with foreign powers, much as a Panhellenic union might. In 146 BC, the Achaean League made a final, doomed stand against Rome in the Achaean War, a last echo of unified Greek resistance; its defeat and the sack of Corinth symbolically marked the end of Greek political independence. Yet even under Roman rule, the cultural concept of Panhellenism persisted – centuries later, the Roman Emperor Hadrian would establish a “Panhellenion” league of cities to hark back to the classical ideal of a unified Greece.

Conclusion

From the Persian Wars through the Hellenistic age, the Panhellenic ideal evolved in response to the needs of the time. Initially an ad hoc alliance for survival, it became an aspirational ideology used by leaders like Philip II and Alexander to legitimize conquest and empire-building as a form of collective Greek enterprise. Shared elements of culture and religion – common gods, sanctuaries, oracles, athletic games, heroic legends, and the age-old dichotomy of “Greek vs. barbarian” – were the glue that held this ideal together. These factors provided a sense of brotherhood among Greeks, even when political reality fell short of complete unity. Alexander the Great deftly leveraged Panhellenic traditions, from dedicating temples and treasures to Greek gods to guaranteeing the freedoms of Greek cities, thereby casting himself as the culmination of the Panhellenic dream of unity and revenge against Persia. The Priene Inscription is a tangible testament to how Alexander melded piety and policy to appeal to Greek sentiment – dedicating a temple to Athena and at the same time affirming his role as protector of Greek liberties.

The later federations of the Aetolians and Achaeans carried the torch of Greek unity in altered form, preserving the notion that Greeks could and should govern themselves cooperatively. While they never united all of Hellas, these leagues maintained cultural continuity with the Panhellenic ideal through federal institutions and the defense of common interests (such as safeguarding Delphi or resisting tyranny). In sum, the Panhellenic League was not a single continuous entity but rather a recurring vision – one that manifested in different guises from the stand at Thermopylae to the halls of Corinth, from Alexander’s edicts to the councils of the Achaean League. This vision of Greek unity grounded in shared heritage proved powerful and enduring, leaving a legacy that would inspire leaders and writers for generations and become an integral part of how the Greeks remembered their collective past.

References

1. Warfare History Network – Defending the Pass at the Battle of Thermopylae.

2. Sheldon, Natasha. The Temenos of Apollo, Delphi. History & Archaeology Online (2021).

3. Thomas R. Martin – An Overview of Classical Greek History from Mycenae to Alexander, Ch. 15, Sec. 19: “Isocrates on Panhellenism.”

4. Alexander’s Triumph at Granicus, Warfare History Network.

The Earliest Known Mathematical Tablets of Mesopotamia and Elam

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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Early mathematical tablets (c. 1900–1700 BC) from Mesopotamia and Elam, with their geographical origin and diagrams of their content.

Mesopotamian mathematics refers to the mathematical practices of the ancient civilizations of Mesopotamia (modern-day Iraq and surrounding regions), including Sumer, Babylonia, and Assyria. It is one of the earliest highly-developed mathematical traditions in history, predating Greek mathematics by many centuries. The Mesopotamians developed a sexagesimal (base-60) place-value numeral system​ and recorded their calculations on clay tablets in cuneiform script. Hundreds of these tablets – especially from the Old Babylonian period (c. 1900–1600 BC) – have been unearthed, covering a wide range of topics from practical computations for trade and agriculture to advanced algebraic and geometric problems​. For instance, ancient scribes drew up tables of multiplication and reciprocals, as well as tables of squares, cubes, and even exponential growth, and they could solve quadratic and cubic equations and calculate compound interest​plus.maths.org. Such accomplishments underscore a dynamic mathematical culture that thrived in Mesopotamia for over three thousand years​.

This long-lived mathematical heritage was not confined to Mesopotamia proper. In the neighbouring land of Elam (modern southwestern Iran), particularly at the city of Susa, archaeologists have discovered early mathematical tablets with similar content, indicating that advanced mathematical thinking spread across the region. In this bilingual article, we will explore some of the earliest known mathematical tablets – including Plimpton 322, the YBC 7289, YBC 7290, and YBC 11120 tablets from the Yale Babylonian Collection, and a notable tablet from Susa. Through these examples, we will examine the mathematical content of each tablet, their historical context and location, and how they demonstrate both the practical and abstract/theoretical mathematical understanding of the Mesopotamians.

The Plimpton 322 Tablet

Plimpton 322 is one of the most famous Mesopotamian mathematical tablets. It is a clay tablet from the Old Babylonian period (circa 1800 BC), believed to have originated from the city of Larsa in southern Mesopotamia. Roughly 13 cm wide and 9 cm tall (with part of the tablet broken, it is now preserved at Columbia University in New York (George A. Plimpton acquired it around 1922 and later bequeathed it to. The cuneiform text on Plimpton 322 is laid out as a table with four columns and fifteen rows. Each row corresponds to a set of numbers that form a Pythagorean triple—that is, integers (a, b, c) satisfying the equation a² + b² = c². In other words, the Babylonians clearly knew the relationship equivalent to the Pythagorean theorem long before Pythagoras, and they could find multiple examples of such integer solutions. The triples recorded on Plimpton 322 are neither few nor simple; in fact, the numbers involved are quite large, and there are far too many combinations to have been obtained by brute force trial-and-error, which implies that Babylonian scribes had systematic methods for generating Pythagorean triples. Modern research suggests they may have used algebraic techniques involving reciprocal pairs of numbers to produce these triples​.

The exact purpose of Plimpton 322 is still debated. Some scholars argue it may have served as a teaching tool or reference for school instruction—for instance, a master scribe could use it to generate problems about right triangles for students, using each row’s numbers as a different example. Others have noted its similarity to administrative lists, but the prevailing view is that it was intended for mathematical work. In any case, Plimpton 322 demonstrates an exceptionally advanced and abstract understanding of mathematics. By around 1800 BC, Babylonian scholars were not only aware of the right-triangle relationship but had tabulated 15 distinct solutions for it—a clear indication of theoretical interest. Notably, this occurs at least a millennium before the time of Pythagoras, showing that the principle of the Pythagorean theorem was known and used in Mesopotamia long before classical Greek antiquity.

YBC 7289 Tablet (Square Root of 2)

Another impressive example of Babylonian mathematical prowess is found on the tablet YBC 7289, part of the Yale Babylonian Collection. This small, circular clay tablet from the Old Babylonian period (18th century BC) contains an extremely accurate approximation of the square root of 2​. The tablet’s round shape and modest size suggest it was likely a student exercise in a scribal school – indeed, round tablets were commonly used by apprentice scribes for practice. On YBC 7289, a square is drawn, and numbers are inscribed relating to the square’s side and its diagonal. Along one side of the square is written “30” (presumably in some unit of length), and 1;24,51,10 is written along the diagonal​. In Babylonian sexagesimal notation, 1;24,51,10 represents 1 + 24/60 + 51/60² + 10/60³, which in decimal equals approximately 1.41421296 – a remarkably close value for √2 (since √2 ≈ 1.41421356), correct to at least five decimal places​. Below the diagonal, the product 42;25,35 is also written, which is exactly 30 × 1;24,51,10 (~42.4263888 in decimal)​. In this way, the scribe verified that for a square of side 30, the diagonal is ~42.43 in the same units, confirming the relationship 30 × 1;24,51,10 = 42;25,35. Essentially, the value 1;24,51,10 serves as the “diagonal coefficient” for the square – effectively the value of √2 in sexagesimal form. The approximation is so good that the square of 1;24,51,10 yields 1,59,59,59,38,1,40 in sexagesimal notation (nearly 2 exactly)​.

Beyond its numerical content, YBC 7289 highlights how Mesopotamians combined practical geometry with abstract number theory. On a practical level, finding a square’s diagonal given its side is useful for surveying land or constructing right angles in architecture. However, its appearance on a student tablet shows it was also used as a teaching example – instructors likely employed it to teach the concept of the diagonal and its non-integer value. Notably, the same numerical value (1;24,51,10) appears in other Babylonian sources, such as in coefficient lists for geometric computations​. This suggests that the Babylonians had general tables of constants – in this case, they knew that for any square, the ratio of diagonal to side is ~1.4142. Thus, YBC 7289 is clear evidence of a sophisticated theoretical awareness: an understanding of an irrational number (√2 cannot be expressed as a finite fraction) and the ability to calculate it with high precision. As modern scholars have noted, achievements like this – along with the Pythagorean triples of Plimpton 322 – demonstrate the advanced level of Babylonian mathematical education by 1800 BC​.

YBC 7290 Tablet (Trapezoid Area)

The tablet YBC 7290 highlights the practical side of Mesopotamian mathematics, as it contains an exercise in computing the area of a trapezoid – a problem directly related to land surveying and field measurement in antiquity. This clay tablet, also from the Old Babylonian period (c. 1800–1600 BC) and now in Yale’s collection, has on its obverse a drawn trapezoid with cuneiform notations specifying the lengths of the bases and the non-parallel sides​. Specifically, one base is given as 2;20 (sexagesimal, i.e. 2 + 20/60 = 2.333... in some length unit), the other base as 2;00 (2 units), and both slanted side lengths are 2;20​. The resulting area written within the figure is 5;03 20 (5 + 3/60 + 20/3600 in sexagesimal) square units​. From these numbers, we deduce the scribe applied a formula equivalent to taking the average of the two side lengths and the average of the two bases, then multiplying those averages to find the area​. In modern terms, this approximates the trapezoid area formula $A = \frac{(B_1+B_2)}{2} \times h$, except here the “height” $h$ was effectively estimated as the average of the slanted sides (a practical approach when perpendicular height was not directly measured). In essence, Babylonian surveyors used a rule of thumb for quadrilaterals: the area is the product of the average length of the sides and the average length of the bases​. While this formula is not exact for every trapezoid unless it is isosceles, it provides a reasonable approximation in many cases and would have been sufficient for practical survey needs.

YBC 7290 reveals how ancient scribes computed land areas – a task of prime importance for taxation and agriculture. At the same time, it showcases an abstract generalization: the scribe did not treat each field uniquely but applied a general formula (an average) that could be used in multiple situations. This indicates a recognition of underlying patterns in geometry: essentially, an empirical mathematical formula had been formulated. The presence of a figure diagram (with no text) on the reverse side​ suggests that the student also practiced drawing the shape, not just the arithmetic – a detail that provides insight into the teaching method: combining geometric drawing with calculation. This tablet, roughly contemporary with the previous examples (~18th–17th century BC), underscores that Mesopotamian mathematics included geometric rules with practical applications. Such ancient surveying rules, like the trapezoid area method, are forerunners of later geometric formulas and demonstrate how Mesopotamian scholars were beginning to articulate general principles about space and measurement.

YBC 11120 Tablet (Circle and π)

The tablet YBC 11120 from the Yale collection takes us into the study of circular measurements – specifically, the area of a circle. This Old Babylonian tablet (c. 18th–17th century BC) shows how the ancients calculated the area of a circle given its circumference. On the tablet, a circle is drawn accompanied by numerical annotations: the circumference is given as 1;30 (in some unit of length), and the square of that circumference is noted as 2;15​. Using these, the scribes computed the area by applying the formula $A = (;05) \times (\text{circumference})^2$, where “;05” in sexagesimal is 5/60 = 1/12​. In other words, they assumed the area of a circle equals one-twelfth of the square of its circumference. Translating this to modern notation: $A = \frac{1}{12} C^2$. We know that actually $A = \pi r^2$ and $C = 2\pi r$, so $A = \frac{C^2}{4\pi}$. Comparing with the Babylonian formula $A = \frac{C^2}{12}$, we see this corresponds to taking $\pi = 3$ (since $4\pi$ in the denominator becomes 12 when $\pi=3$)​. Indeed, the Babylonians often assumed $\pi \approx 3$ in practical calculations – for example, they typically took the circumference as 3 times the diameter, using the convenient approximation of 3 in most cases. In YBC 11120, following this rule, with a circumference of 1;30 (which is 1.5 in decimal), they obtained an area of 0;11 15, which equals 0 + 11/60 + 15/3600 = 3/16 = 0.1875 in decimal​. This is precisely the result given by $1/12 \times (1.5)^2$, confirming the use of the 1/12 constant (i.e. $\pi=3$). Notably, the scribes themselves indicate on the tablet that the factor 1/12 (written as ;05) was a “standard constant” employed in Babylonian computation​.

Despite this simplified value of $\pi$, the important fact is that the Babylonians had a procedure for finding a circle’s area – they understood that the area is related to the square of the perimeter (or equivalently the square of the diameter). YBC 11120 shows that scribes could adapt their methods (used for squares and rectangles) to curved shapes by introducing a constant into the calculation. It also suggests that although they usually used 3 for $\pi$, they were aware this was an approximation. In another tablet – discussed next, from Susa – we find that in special cases they employed a more refined value, $\pi \approx 3.125$ (25/8), to achieve higher accuracy​. Taken together, these circle computations reveal a blend of practicality and theoretical curiosity among Mesopotamian scholars: practical, because using 3 for $\pi$ was convenient for everyday purposes, but also theoretical, because there is evidence that learned scribes experimented with improving that constant when greater precision was desired.

The Susa Tablet (π ≈ 3.125)

The Susa tablet discovered in 1936 near Susa (in ancient Elam, modern southwest Iran) shows that Mesopotamian mathematicians did not always settle for π = 3, but sometimes pursued greater accuracy for π​. This tablet – published by E. M. Bruins in 1950 and later fully in 1961 by Bruins & Rutten – dates to the Old Babylonian period (19th–17th century BC) and is interpreted to yield π approximately 3.125, or $25/8$​. Specifically, the tablet’s text describes a geometric relationship: it states that the ratio of the perimeter of a regular hexagon to the circumference of the circumscribed circle equals a certain number. That number is given as 0;57 36 in sexagesimal (57/60 + 36/60²)​ – which in decimal is 0.96. This value essentially represents the fraction of the circle’s circumference relative to the hexagon’s perimeter: for a regular hexagon inscribed in a circle, the perimeter of the hexagon is 6r (where r is the radius), while the circle’s circumference is $2\pi r$. The ratio of these is $\frac{6r}{2\pi r} = \frac{3}{\pi}$. The tablet thus effectively asserts $\frac{3}{\pi} = 0.96$, which leads to $\pi = \frac{3}{0.96} = 3.125$​. Indeed, $25/8 = 3.125$, a value that differs from the true π (~3.1416) by only about 0.5%​. This improved approximation of π (3 + 1/8) is remarkable: although slightly low, it is significantly more accurate than the simple 3 that was normally used.

The Susa mathematical tablet underlines that there was a drive for theoretical exploration and precision when the context allowed it. While in everyday transactions or routine calculations the Babylonians deliberately used rounded values (like 3 for π) for simplicity, here we see a learned scribe engaging in a more nuanced geometric analysis. By examining a hexagon and a circle, he was essentially undertaking an early method to refine π via geometric comparison. This approach is reminiscent of similar efforts much later – for example, Archimedes in Greece (circa 3rd century BC) famously used inscribed and circumscribed polygons to approximate π. It appears, then, that the germ of such ideas was present in the ancient Near East over a millennium earlier.

We cannot be certain how, or if, such knowledge was directly transmitted to other cultures. However, Susa, being part of the Elamite and Babylonian cultural sphere, was later incorporated into the Persian Empire, which in turn interfaced with the Greek world. It is thus possible that the accumulated mathematical experience of Mesopotamia – including advanced notions of π and other constants – reached the Greeks indirectly through Persian rule and translations. Regardless of the transmission path, the very existence of this “π tablet” from Susa is evidence that the quest for mathematical accuracy and theoretical understanding had begun well before the classical era, within the civilizations of the ancient Near East.

Practical and Theoretical Knowledge in Mesopotamian Mathematics

The above examples show that Mesopotamian mathematics embodied both practical problem-solving and abstract theoretical exploration. On the one hand, tablets like YBC 7290 (trapezoid area) address immediate practical needs: measuring land, calculating areas for agriculture or construction, and handling economic computations (such as distribution of goods or interest on loans) were part of daily life, and mathematical methods were developed to serve these ends. Indeed, many Babylonian tablets are not “theorems” but tables and word problems related to commercial arithmetic, accounting, surveying, and engineering. On the other hand, we see tablets like Plimpton 322 and YBC 7289 delving into purely numerical or geometric ideas (e.g. Pythagorean triples, √2) with no obvious everyday application. The ancient scribes appeared comfortable moving between the real and the abstract: they could solve a concrete problem (such as a field’s area) and also engage with mathematical relationships for their own sake, showing a notable scientific curiosity. In fact, many of their “theoretical” problems were presented in the guise of practical riddles or story problems – for example, what we recognize today as quadratic equations appear in texts as problems about dividing plots of land or building projects – a didactic technique that allowed scribes to study abstract mathematics under the cover of realistic scenarios​.

This blending of utility and theory is closely tied to the educational system of ancient Mesopotamia – the so-called “tablet house” (edubba) scribal schools. There, student scribes first learned basics: they memorized multiplication tables, reciprocal tables, and metrological (measurement) lists needed for bureaucracy and commerce. As they advanced, however, they tackled complex problems requiring ingenuity and generalization. For instance, from Old Babylonian tablets we know they developed general methods for solving equations (algebra) framed as narrative problems: e.g. “finding the sides of a rectangle given its area and sum of sides,” “distributing grain with certain ratios,” etc. In such problems, scribes used equivalent transformations and steps that are essentially forms of algebraic solutions. As the historian Jens Høyrup has noted, even a fundamental discovery like the rule of the right triangle (what we call the Pythagorean theorem) likely emerged from the practical environment of lay surveyors – perhaps a scribe trying to compute land boundaries discovered the relationship, sometime between 2300 and 1825 BC, and then the knowledge was generalized and entered the teaching texts​. Once a new mathematical principle was found, it became part of the tradition and curriculum. This explains how we find the Pythagorean rule applied in seven different tablets from cities like Eshnunna, Sippar, and Susa​ – evidence that it had been incorporated as a broadly known result. In summary, the earliest mathematical tablets reveal a culture in which practical know-how coexisted with profound theoretical thought. The Mesopotamian mathematicians laid down foundational principles of number and measurement, achieving a level of abstraction and generalization that would (directly or indirectly) influence later developments in mathematics.

Legacy and Influence on Later Civilizations

The mathematical knowledge of Mesopotamia and Elam did not vanish with the passing of those civilizations – it influenced neighboring cultures and eventually became part of the broader stream of mathematical development. Several aspects of Babylonian mathematics appear to have been known or adopted by later peoples. One clear example is the division of the circle into 360 degrees and the use of the base-60 subdivision of time (minutes and seconds), which was taken up by the Greeks and remains in use to this day – a direct inheritance from Babylonian practice. During the Achaemenid Persian Empire (6th–4th century BC), which included Mesopotamia, and especially after Alexander the Great’s conquests (4th century BC), Babylonian astronomical and mathematical knowledge became accessible to Greek scholars. Greek astronomers such as Hipparchus and later Ptolemy explicitly utilized Babylonian records and sexagesimal computational methods for their calculations of planetary motions and celestial phenomena. It is well documented that Hellenistic astronomy heavily relied on the data and mathematical tools developed by the Babylonians (for example, lunar eclipse cycles and planetary position tables)​.

In the realm of pure mathematics, the transmission of knowledge is less directly attested, but there are suggestive hints and parallels. The famous Pythagorean theorem, for instance, was formally proved in Greek mathematics (in Euclid’s Elements during the 4th century BC) and attributed to Pythagoras (6th century BC), yet Babylonian tablets like Plimpton 322 show that the relationship $a^2 + b^2 = c^2$ was known and used over a thousand years earlier​. It is quite possible that scholars such as Thales of Miletus or Pythagoras himself – who, according to tradition, traveled eastward – encountered advanced Babylonian mathematics during their visits to Babylon (or via Egypt, which was also influenced by the Near East). Ancient authors describe Babylon as a center of astronomy and learning – disciplines inherently tied to mathematics. The Greek historian Herodotus and later writers acknowledged that the Greeks borrowed certain mathematical ideas from older cultures like Egypt; by the same token, knowledge from Mesopotamia likely found its way into Greek thought through the interconnected networks of the ancient world.

One concrete pathway of influence was astronomy: Babylonian astral science, with its sophisticated mathematical models, deeply informed Greek astronomy in the Hellenistic period. Concepts such as the zodiac, accurate eclipse prediction, and mathematical tables of planetary positions in Greece were built upon centuries of Babylonian observations and calculations. Moreover, some technical terminology and methods (for example, the use of reciprocal tables or certain algebraic solution techniques) may have traveled via scholars in the Seleucid era or via translations in major centers (like the Library of Alexandria). While Greek mathematicians developed a different style – more geometric and axiomatic – the foundational ideas, such as place-value notation, general algebraic problem-solving, and certain numeric constants, were part of the cumulative knowledge of the Near East that preceded them​.

In conclusion, Mesopotamian and Elamite mathematics provided an early blueprint for advanced mathematical thinking. This legacy was transmitted through time by both direct contact and the enduring utility of their innovations (for example, the sexagesimal system for measuring time and angles that we still use today). The ancient Greeks, and subsequently other civilizations, built upon this foundation, whether explicitly or implicitly. The clay tablets of Mesopotamia stand not only as archaeological artifacts but also as testimony to a seminal chapter in the global history of mathematics – one that set the stage for later mathematical achievements in the classical world and beyond.

References

• Eleanor Robson, Mathematics in Ancient Iraq: A Social History. Princeton University Press, 2008.

• Otto Neugebauer & Abraham Sachs, Mathematical Cuneiform Texts. American Oriental Society, New Haven, 1945.

• E. M. Bruins & M. Rutten, Textes mathématiques de Suse. Mémoires de la Mission Archéologique en Iran, vol. 34, Paris: P. Geuthner, 1961.

• Eleanor Robson, Neither Sherlock Holmes nor Babylon: A Reassessment of Plimpton 322. Historia Mathematica 28 (2001): 167–206.

• Jöran Friberg, Unexpected Links Between Egyptian and Babylonian Mathematics. World Scientific, 2005.

• Jens Høyrup, Lengths, Widths, Surfaces: A Portrait of Old Babylonian Algebra and Its Kin. Springer, 2002.

• Victor J. Katz (ed.), The Mathematics of Egypt, Mesopotamia, China, India, and Islam: A Sourcebook. Princeton University Press, 2007.

• Frank J. Swetz, Mathematical Treasure: Old Babylonian Area Calculation. Convergence (MAA), March 2014.

• David Gilman Romano, Athletics and Mathematics in Archaic Corinth: The Origins of the Greek Stadion. American Philosophical Society, 1993.

• Petr Beckmann, A History of Pi. St. Martin’s Press, 1971.

• “Before Pythagoras: The Culture of Old Babylonian Mathematics.” Exhibition Catalog, Institute for the Study of the Ancient World (NYU) & Yale Babylonian Collection, 2010.

• Marcus du Sautoy (presenter), “The Language of the Universe.” The Story of Maths (Episode 1). BBC Four, 2008.

The Mysterious Inscription of the Negau B Helmet and the Relationship Between Runic and Italic Alphabets

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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Historical Context and Archaeological Background

In 1811, a hoard of 26 bronze helmets was discovered at Ženjak (Negau), in what is today Negova, Slovenia​. These helmets date to the late Iron Age (ca. 450–350 BC) and are of the Etruscan vetulonic type, indicating they were Etruscan-made but found far north of Etruria​. The cache appears to have been ritually buried around 50 BC, possibly as an offering shortly before the Roman annexation of the region. Notably, helmets of this “Negau type” were often worn by priests or dignitaries by that time, suggesting the deposit had ceremonial significance​. This find reflects a cross-cultural milieu: Etruscan-crafted objects in a region inhabited by Celtic tribes (the Noricum area) and in proximity to Rhaetian and Illyrian cultures. It was in this context that one helmet, known as Negau B, bore a short but fascinating inscription.

The Negau B Inscription: Script and Reading

The Negau B helmet inscription is incised on the bronze helmet and is written right-to-left in a Northern Etruscan (North Italic) alphabet​. This script, sometimes called a sub-Alpine or Rhaetic alphabet, was derived from Etruscan and was used in the surrounding regions of Rhaetia, Noricum, Veneto, and Pannonia in the last centuries BC​. The inscription can be transliterated as: hariχastiteiva (often segmented as Hariχasti Teiva)​. (The symbol χ here represents a sound like [ḱ/h] or possibly a g, since Etruscan script lacked a distinct letter for voiced g.) The text is brief – essentially two word-like units – and lacks obvious dividers, though it is generally read as two terms.

Alphabetic characteristics: The letters belong to a North Italic epigraphic tradition, not the runic alphabet; earlier scholars once speculated the Negau inscription might be an proto-runic text, but it is now agreed to be in a genuine North Etruscan script that pre-dates the creation of the runes​. The letter forms closely resemble those of the Magrè alphabet (a Northern Etruscan variant), consistent with other inscriptions found in the Eastern Alps. The writing’s right-to-left direction is typical of Etruscan and Rhaetic writing, and the inscription shows no word-final inflections or punctuation marks. Due to the helmet’s corrosion and archaic letter-forms, reading the text has been challenging, and various interpretations have been proposed over the years.

Reading and transliteration: Most scholars today interpret the text as the personal name Harigasti followed by a second term teiva​. In epigraphic transliteration, it is often given as hariχas-ti teiva, where the -ti likely corresponds to the end of the name Hari-gastiz in Proto-Germanic (with -z not written). The entire inscription is thus read as Harigasti teiva, with a probable meaning relating to a person named Harigast. As we will see, the exact translation of teiva is debated, but this pairing of a name plus an epithet is the prevailing reading.

Linguistic Significance: Harigastiz, teiva, and the Germanic Sound Shift

If the Harigasti teiva reading is correct, the Negau B text holds great linguistic significance as an early Germanic-language inscription. Harigast (Proto-Germanic Harigastiz) is almost universally recognized as a Germanic personal name​. The name can be analyzed as hari- “army” and -gastiz “guest/stranger” – a compound structure typical of Germanic names. Its presence in a likely 2nd–1st century BC context makes it one of the earliest attestations of a Germanic name in writing. It suggests that Germanic-speaking individuals were present in or around the Alpine region by that time, interacting with literate cultures. Indeed, the village of Ženjak (Negau) was later (briefly) renamed Harigast during the Nazi period due to the prominence of this name on the helmet​, underscoring its interpretation as a Germanic personal name.

The second term teiva is what elevates the inscription from onomastic interest to broader linguistic importance. Scholars have proposed that teiva is a Germanic word cognate with Latin deus (“god”) – deriving from Proto-Indo-European deiwo-, “divine being, god”. In Proto-Germanic, the expected reflex of PIE d (as in deiwo-) is t (as in teiwaz) according to Grimm’s Law, the first Germanic sound shift. Thus, teiva is interpreted as related to Proto-Germanic *teiwaz “god”​. If so, the Negau helmet provides tangible evidence of Grimm’s Law in action: the Latin word deus (from deiwo-) corresponds to teiwaz > teiva in Germanic, demonstrating the shift of /d/ to /t/. This would make teiva effectively meaning “divine one” or “godly”. Tom Markey (2001) further argues that in this context teiva should be understood as “priest”, i.e. one who is god-related​. In other words, Harigast(i) teiva could mean “Harigast the priest” – paralleling how other Negau helmets list a person’s name followed by a religious or honorific title​.

From a historical linguist’s perspective, the implications for dating Grimm’s Law are significant. If the inscription indeed dates to the 3rd–2nd century BC (as many archaeologists maintain​), then the Germanic sound shift (which turned Proto-Indo-European d into t, etc.) must have been in effect by that time​. This pushes the timeline for Proto-Germanic differentiation well back into the mid-1st millennium BC. In fact, the Negau B text would be the earliest known example of a shifted Germanic word​, earlier than the next earliest evidence (e.g. Roman-era Germanic names or the 1st century AD testimony of Tacitus) by at least two centuries​. It’s essentially a pre-runic Germanic inscription, showing that Germanic speakers not only existed but were engaging with writing systems long before the Roman era.

Inscription on helmet Negau B. The inscription reads right-to-left.

Peter1936F - Own work

Interpretative Debates and Competing Theories

Despite the elegant interpretation of Harigasti teiva as “Harigast the priest” or “Harigast (the) divine,” there has been considerable scholarly debate. Competing interpretations highlight the challenges of reading such a short inscription in an ancient script:

• Tom Markey’s Germanic–Rhaetic Thesis (2001): Markey’s analysis is one of the most comprehensive modern studies. He accepts Harigasti teiva as a Germanic phrase, but suggests the inscription reflects a Germanic phrase mediated through Rhaetic​. Rhaetic was the language of the Alpine region, written in the same North Etruscan script, and likely spoken near Negau. Markey argues that the carver or context may have been Rhaetic, which could explain certain anomalies – notably the absence of an expected grammatical ending on Harigasti. In Proto-Germanic, a masculine name like Harigastiz might bear a final -z in the nominative, yet the inscription shows Harigasti with no -z. Markey proposes that a Rhaetic scribe inscribing a Germanic name might have omitted the unfamiliar ending​. He also draws parallels to the inscriptions on another helmet (Negau A): that helmet bears four short inscriptions which Markey reads as personal names with epithets or titles (e.g., Dubni banuabi “of Dubnos the pig-slayer”; sirago turbi “astral priest of the troop”; Iars’e esvii “Iarsus the divine”)​. Most of those names are Celtic, followed by what seem to be honorific or religious designations. By analogy, Hariχasti teiva would fit the same pattern: Harigast (name) followed by teiva (title)​. Markey thus envisions a multilingual interface at Negau, where a Germanic individual named Harigast was recorded by a Rhaetic (or heavily Rhaetic-influenced) scribe in an Etruscan script amid a primarily Celtic-speaking community​.

• Alternate Readings (Rhaetic or Venetic): Prior to the Germanic interpretation gaining favor, some scholars suggested non-Germanic readings. For example, A. Must (1957) interpreted the text as Hariχas Titieva, seeing it not as Germanic at all but as a Rhaetic personal name​. In Must’s view, the first element Hariχas could be Indo-European (but perhaps Venetic or another Alpine language rather than Germanic), and Titieva as an Etruscan or Rhaetic word – essentially positing a mixed-language name phrase​. This kind of interpretation underscores that with such limited context, scholars can arrive at very different linguistic attributions (Germanic vs. Celtic vs. Rhaetic), depending on how they assign sounds to the letters and parse the words. However, the identification of Harigast as a Germanic name has become “almost universally” accepted in recent decades​, largely due to the consistency of hari- and -gast elements with known Germanic lexicon.

• Jeremy J. Smith’s Critique (2009): Historical linguist Jeremy J. Smith urges caution about using the Negau helmet as proof of Grimm’s Law or early Germanic writing. He acknowledges that teiva has been argued as cognate with Latin divus/deus, indicating a d > t shift, and that many date the inscription to the 3rd–2nd century BC​. “The Negau helmet inscription is often taken as evidence for the operation of Grimm’s Law,” he notes​. However, Smith outlines several problems: (1) The dating is uncertain – while the helmet itself is 4th century BC, the inscription could have been incised later (some suggest even in the 1st century BC). Without a precise context, claiming it as 3rd century BC linguistic evidence is tricky. (2) The interpretation is not ironclad – Smith points out that teiva might not mean “priest” at all; it could be a second name or an epithet. He mentions the possibility that Harigasti Teiva might be understood on the model of Roman honorifics, akin to calling someone “Divine Harigast” (cf. divus Augustus, “the divine Augustus”)​. In that case, teiva could mean “divine” rather than specifically “priest,” and Harigast might even be an epithet or deified figure, rather than a literal person’s name + title. (3) Cultural context: Smith also raises an archaeological objection – traditionally, Germanic warriors of that era did not wear bronze helmets, preferring leather caps for mobility​. The Negau helmets are Etruscan-made and were likely part of a Celtic cultural context. How did a Germanic name appear on one? Smith notes that Germanic mercenaries serving Celtic chieftains (a practice recorded by classical authors) could explain it​. A Germanic warrior or priest named Harigast in a Celtic host might have adopted local equipment and been commemorated with an inscription in the local script. In sum, Smith does not deny the Germanic reading, but he cautions that using Negau B as “conclusive evidence” of the sound shift or of a broad Germanic literacy is problematic​. It’s a tantalizing data point, but one with uncertainties.

In light of these debates, the consensus today tentatively accepts Harigasti teiva as a Germanic phrase (hence its frequent citation in linguistic literature), but scholars remain careful about the interpretation of teiva and the broader implications. What is clear is that the script is North Italic, not runic, and thus the Negau inscription, while Germanic in language, “precedes the formation of the Runic alphabet”​. It represents a special instance of early Germanic writing outside the later runic tradition.

North Etruscan to Runic: The Question of Alphabetic Transmission

The Negau B helmet inscription holds a pivotal place in discussions of the origin of the runic alphabet. It is a concrete example of a Germanic-language text written in an Italic alphabet, suggesting a possible link between the alphabets of the ancient Italic peoples (like the Etruscans or Venetii) and the Runic script developed by Germanic peoples in the later centuries. Scholars have long proposed that the Elder Futhark runes (the oldest runic alphabet, in use by ~150–400 AD) were inspired by or even directly borrowed from Northern Etruscan alphabets​. The Negau B inscription, “dating to the 2nd century BC”, in a north Etruscan script but spelling a Germanic name (Harigast), is often cited as supporting evidence for this North Etruscan thesis​.

Key points in examining the runic connection include chronology, letter forms, and pathways of cultural contact:

• Chronology: If Germanic peoples were acquainted with writing by the 2nd or 1st century BC (as Negau B implies), there was a substantial time window for the adaptation of an alphabet before the first known runic inscriptions (~2nd century AD). The transmission process remains uncertain (as no “intermediate” Germanic inscriptions are known from 0–100 AD), but two main scenarios are debated​. One hypothesis is that knowledge of writing spread via West Germanic tribes along the Upper Rhine and Danube (contacts with Celto-Etruscan communities), eventually reaching the North; another posits East Germanic groups (like the Goths) learned writing from Alpine or Balkan interactions and carried it northward​. In either case, the late Iron Age cultural interactions evidenced by Negau make it plausible that Germanic elites had exposure to alphabets well before Roman influence. In fact, Giuliano and Larissa Bonfante have argued that Germanic peoples could have adopted a North Italic alphabet (specifically the Venetic script) as early as the 3rd century BC or earlier​. They note that after the Roman conquest of Cisalpine Gaul (200+ BC), the Venetic script fell out of use in its home region, potentially leaving an opening for its transfer to neighboring groups​.

• Letter Form Parallels: Scholars who support a North Italic origin for runes point to the graphical similarity of many rune shapes to letters in Alpine alphabets. For instance, the Elder Futhark letters ᚠ (fehu = F), ᚱ (raido = R), ᛃ (jera = J) and others closely resemble characters found in Alpine (Rhaetic) inscriptions and Etruscan writing. A study by Bernard Mees (2000) highlighted that only a few runes (perhaps 5 out of 24) have no clear counterpart in the Bolzano script (a form of Rhaetic alphabet), meaning the majority of runes do correspond in form to North Italic letters​. The angular, stroke-based form of runes, often thought to be an adaptation to carving on wood, is also characteristic of North Italic epigraphy on stone and metal, where straight lines are dominant and curves are minimized​. The Negau helmet’s letters, for example, are angular and suited to incising on metal. Such similarities strengthen the case that Germanic runes were not invented entirely from scratch or purely on the model of the Latin alphabet, but rather were inspired by the older alphabets of northern Italy which Germanic individuals encountered. The Negau B inscription shows that at least one Germanic individual did utilize a North Italic script. It is easy to imagine that over time, Germanic scribes might have adapted those letters to their own needs, eventually creating a distinct script (the runic futhark) by the early centuries AD.

• Possible Transmission Paths: The cultural conduit for this alphabetic transmission likely involved trade, war, and migration. The Eastern Alps in the late Iron Age were a crossroads: Celtic tribes (like the Taurisci and Norici) traded with the Etruscans and Romans, Rhaetian peoples inhabited alpine valleys, and Germanic tribes (such as the Suebi, and later the Marcomanni or even the Cimbri) periodically moved southward or served as mercenaries. We know from Roman historians (e.g. Diodorus Siculus) that Celts employed Germanic warriors by the 1st century BC​. These warriors could have learned of writing during their service. Another possibility is through diplomatic gifts or loot: an object like an inscribed helmet or a sword with an inscription could have reached Germanic territory and been imitated. By the time the first runic inscriptions appear in Denmark and northern Germany (e.g. the Meldorf fibula, c. 50 AD, or the Vimose weapons, 2nd century AD​), the concept of writing had likely been percolating through Germanic societies for generations. The Negau B helmet stands as tangible evidence of such early transmission – it shows that a Germanic name was rendered in an Italic script in a context predating any known runes. Thus, it bridges the gap between the Italic alphabetic tradition and the emergent Germanic runic tradition. As Jeremy J. Smith observes, “the North Italic system seems to derive from that used by the ancient Etruscans… North Italic lettering is seen by many scholars as a source – possibly the source – of the Germanic futhark”, given the clear parallels between the two systems​.

In summary, the Negau B inscription strongly supports the idea that the Italic alphabets (Etruscan, Rhaetic, Venetic) were the blueprint for the runic alphabet. It provides a chronological anchor in the 2nd–1st century BC for when Germanic peoples first accessed alphabetic writing. Combined with other evidence, it suggests the runes were likely created not in isolation, but through cultural contact and adaptation of these earlier scripts.

Cultural and Linguistic Interactions in the Late Iron Age

Both the inscription and the archaeological context of Negau B offer a rich picture of cultural interaction among Italic, Celtic, Rhaetic, and Germanic peoples. The helmet itself is Etruscan-crafted, the practice of dedicating helmets is common in Celtic ritual, the script used is North Italic (associated with Etruscan/Rhaetic writers), the content is arguably Germanic language, and it was buried in a region inhabited by Celts under looming Roman domination. This convergence highlights a multilingual and multi-ethnic environment in the Eastern Alpine late Iron Age.

Archaeologically, the presence of Celtic names with Latin or Etruscan titles on the other Negau helmets (e.g. Iarsus the divine on Negau A) suggests a fusion of Celtic personal names with Italic linguistic influence (the word esvii “divine” appears to be adapted from Latin divius). In that same setting, the name Harigast appearing shows that Germanic individuals were part of this cultural sphere. Perhaps Harigast was a Germanic druid or priest serving in a Celtic community, or a mercenary captain accorded an honorific epithet (teiva). The inscription might have been a dedication of the helmet to a sanctuary, identifying the giver or honoree. The fact that a Rhaetic/Etruscan script was used implies that someone in the community had the knowledge of writing – likely learned from the Italic world – and applied it to record names of varied linguistic origin.

Linguistically, the Negau B text exemplifies how languages can influence each other in contact zones. A Germanic phrase was written with letters designed for Etruscan/Rhaetic, requiring phonetic compromises (such as using χ for /g/) and possibly dropping Germanic inflections. It underscores that writing systems are not bound to a single language: scripts often jump cultural boundaries through trade or conquest. Here, writing was a medium shared across cultural lines – a Latin or Etruscan trader might have taught a local Celt or Germanic how to inscribe letters. The flow of religious concepts is also hinted: if teiva indeed relates to teiwaz “god”, it connects to a Proto-Indo-European concept of divinity (cf. Celtic Teutates, Latin deus) shared among different groups. Some scholars even speculate that “Harigast” might have been deified or mythologized, though evidence is scant. What is clear is that the Germanic pantheon would later include a war-god Tiwaz (Old Norse Týr), whose name comes from the same root as teiva. Thus, the Negau inscription might reflect not just linguistic but also religious syncretism, blending a Germanic name with a title derived from a pan-Indo-European word for a deity.

From a historical perspective, the Negau helmets (and B in particular) illuminate a period of dynamic interaction just before the Roman era. We see a snapshot of coexistence and exchange: Celtic chieftains, Italian traders, Rhaetian scribes, and Germanic warriors all in contact. The Roman conquest would soon overlay a new layer of cultural influence (Latin language and writing), but the inscriptions of Negau capture a pre-Roman snapshot of cultural globalization in antiquity. These findings align with other evidence of cross-regional links, such as Celtic mercenaries in Etruscan armies, or Germanic materials in Celtic graves.

Conclusion

The inscription of the Negau B helmet, though only a few characters long, has outsized importance for both archaeology and linguistics. It provides a rare glimpse of the Germanic language in the 2nd–1st century BC and demonstrates that Germanic speakers had access to writing well before the runic script was developed. If read as Harigast teiva, it likely records “Harigast the priest” or “Harigast the divine,” marking possibly the earliest recorded Germanic personal name and an attestation of the Germanic sound shift (Grimm’s Law) in progress​. The debates surrounding its interpretation – Germanic vs. Rhaetic, priest vs. god, early vs. late date – highlight the careful interdisciplinary detective work required to understand such ancient texts. Regardless of the exact reading, Negau B underscores the intimate connections between the Italic alphabets and the runic alphabet that would arise centuries later, supporting the view that the runic letters were inspired by North Italic scripts​.

Finally, the Negau B helmet stands as a testament to the cultural interactions of the late Iron Age: a single artifact encapsulating Etruscan artistry, Celtic ritual practice, Rhaetic writing, and Germanic language. It reminds us that ancient Europe was not a set of isolated ethnic blocks, but rather a web of contacts and exchanges. The Harigast inscription, therefore, is more than just an epigraphic puzzle – it is evidence of a protohistoric multicultural encounter, one that sowed the seeds for the rich tapestry of European linguistic and cultural development in the centuries that followed.

Sources:

• Teržan, Biba (2012). “Negau (Negova), Slowenien: Benedikt V,” in Sievers, Urban & Ramsl (eds.), Lexikon zur keltischen Archäologie.

• Markey, Tom (2001). “A Tale of Two Helmets: The Negau A and B Inscriptions,” Journal of Indo-European Studies 29 (1–2): 69–172. (Interpretation of Harigasti teiva as Germanic, with Rhaetic mediation)​

• Smith, Jeremy J. (2009). Old English: A Linguistic Introduction. Cambridge UP, p. 125.

• Mees, Bernard (2000). “The North Etruscan Thesis of the Origin of the Runes,” Arkiv för Nordisk Filologi 115: 33–82.

• Bonfante, Larissa & Bonfante, Giuliano (2002). The Etruscan Language: An Introduction.

• Wikipedia contributors. “Negau helmets.” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, last modified 2023.

Was Pharaoh Khafre the builder of the Sphinx?

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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Long shrouded in mystery, the Great Sphinx of Giza is a colossal limestone statue, resembling the body of a lion with a human head. A mainstream consensus in Egyptology holds that the Sphinx was carved during the 4th Dynasty (Old Kingdom) reign of Pharaoh Khafre (c. 2558–2532 BC), who built the second-largest of the Giza pyramids. Most modern scholars identify the Sphinx’s face as Khafre’s and view the monument as an integral part of his pyramid complex​. This report looks at the proof that connects the Sphinx to Khafre and shares the views of top Egyptologists based on different types of evidence: historical texts, archaeological context, style analysis, inscriptions, and geological data. It also notes any significant academic debate (such as minority views attributing the Sphinx to Khafre’s relatives) and briefly contrasts alternative or fringe theories for context. Throughout, the focus is on the consensus of mainstream Egyptology rather than speculative claims.

Historical Records and Ancient Texts

No textual record from Khafre’s own time explicitly mentions the Sphinx or its construction – a point often noted by scholars. The original name or purpose of the statue was not recorded in surviving Old Kingdom inscriptions; in fact, the Sphinx complex appears to have been left unfinished at the end of Khafre’s reign, so a formal cult or dedication may never have been established​. As a result, later historical sources become key.

New Kingdom texts: By the New Kingdom (c. 1400 BC), the Great Sphinx had come to be revered as a manifestation of a solar deity. The most famous text is the Dream Stele of Thutmose IV, erected between the Sphinx’s paws around 1401 BC​. The Dream Stele describes how Prince Thutmose (not yet king) fell asleep in the shadow of the sand-obscured Sphinx and had a dream in which the god – identified with Horemakhet (Horus-in-the-Horizon) and Khepri (the morning sun) – promised him kingship if the sand were cleared​. Crucially, the inscription on this stele links the Sphinx to Khafre. The text is damaged, but when first translated it was noted that a royal cartouche appears in line 13, likely that of Khafre​. This “mention of…Pharaoh Khafre…has long been taken as confirmation that the same pharaoh built the Sphinx”​. In other words, Egyptians of Thutmose IV’s time seemingly believed the Sphinx was associated with Khafre, perhaps preserving a memory of its builder​. (Some have debated this reading – fringe writers suggest the hieroglyphs might not name Khafre – but the mainstream view accepts the original interpretation that Khafre is named on the Stele​.) Aside from the Dream Stele, other New Kingdom inscriptions refer to the Sphinx by epithets (Horemakhet, etc.) and record restorations. For example, Thutmose IV’s Stele itself was actually carved on a reused door lintel from Khafre’s nearby temple, suggesting a conscious effort to connect the monument to Khafre’s legacy​.

Later Egyptian records: Another Egyptian text often cited is the Inventory Stela (sometimes called the “Stela of Khufu’s Daughter”), likely from the much later 26th Dynasty (Saite period, c. 670–525 BC). It purports to record that Khufu (Khafre’s father) found the Sphinx already buried in sand and carried out repairs to honour it​. The stela even claims Khufu built a temple next to the Sphinx. If the claim is accepted at face value, it implies that the Sphinx predates Khufu, which contradicts the Khafre attribution. However, Egyptologists overwhelmingly consider the Inventory Stela to be pseudo-historical – a later fabrication or allegory, not a factual Old Kingdom record​. Its style of hieroglyphic writing and the deities mentioned point to a first-millennium BC creation—likely an attempt by Saite priests to legitimise local cults by backdating them to the Old Kingdom​. Even Gaston Maspero (a 19th-century Egyptologist) speculated the Inventory Stela might copy an authentic 4th Dynasty document, but this theory is viewed with strong scepticism today​. In summary, apart from New Kingdom references (which already associate the statue with Khafre), no ancient inscription firmly credits any other pharaoh with building the Sphinx. The lack of Old Kingdom text is generally attributed to the monument’s unfinished state and long periods of abandonment when it was covered by desert sands​.

Classical sources: Greek and Roman writers had limited knowledge of the Sphinx’s origins. Herodotus (5th century BC) notably does not mention the Sphinx in his description of Giza’s monuments, possibly because it was once again buried by his time. Later writers, like Pliny the Elder (1st century AD), did mention the Sphinx but only as a marvel; Pliny repeats a folk belief that it was a tomb of a king named “Harmachis” (a Hellenised form of Hor-em-akhet) – indicating that even in antiquity its true history was obscure. These classical anecdotes neither confirm nor refute Khafre’s involvement; they mainly underscore that the Sphinx’s origin was a mystery even to later Egyptians and Greeks, reinforcing the importance of archaeological evidence to identify its builder.

Archaeological Evidence from the Giza Plateau

The physical and archaeological context of the Sphinx strongly supports its construction during Khafre’s reign. The Sphinx is not an isolated monument—it is tightly connected to Khafre’s pyramid complex; the arrangement of causeways, temples, quarries, and the Sphinx itself all suggest a single master plan in the mid-3rd millennium BC​.

• Location and Alignment: The Great Sphinx sits directly adjacent to Khafre’s Pyramid. It faces due east, situated just off the causeway that leads from Khafre’s pyramid down to what is known as the Valley Temple (a ceremonial temple near the Nile edge)​. In the 1850s, archaeologist Auguste Mariette excavated this Valley Temple and discovered a life-size diorite statue of Khafre within it​. The presence of Khafre’s statue in situ firmly links the temple—and, by extension, the area around the Sphinx— to Khafre’s reign. Mariette also uncovered a paved causeway connecting this Valley Temple to Khafre’s upper Mortuary Temple by the pyramid​, showing that the whole complex (pyramid, mortuary temple, causeway, valley temple) was designed together. The Sphinx is carved out of the bedrock immediately north of this causeway, and its enclosure forms part of the causeway’s southern wall. The arrangement suggests the Sphinx’s creation was incorporated into Khafre’s construction project – it is spatially and architecturally tied to Khafre’s pyramid layout, positioned as if to guard the causeway approach. Indeed, archaeologists have noted that the Sphinx’s location was likely chosen because a natural limestone hill there remained after quarrying blocks for the pyramids; carving it into a Sphinx made it a creative component of the site plan rather than leaving a random outcrop​.

• Sphinx and Temple Complex: In front of the Sphinx (to the east) lie the ruins of the so-called Sphinx Temple, discovered in 1925 by Émile Baraize​. The ground plan of this Old Kingdom temple is strikingly similar to Khafre’s Valley Temple nearby​. Both structures consist of large limestone core blocks with granite facing (in antiquity) and have an open central court flanked by pillars​. The similarity in architectural style and the alignment of the Sphinx Temple with the Sphinx itself indicate they were part of one project. Notably, Khafre’s Mortuary Temple (by his pyramid) contains a courtyard of the same dimensions and layout as the Sphinx Temple’s court, further hinting that the same architects or pharaoh were at work​. Egyptologist Zahi Hawass writes that these clues “tied the Sphinx to Khafre’s pyramid and his temples” in a single design​. It appears that Khafre planned a grand ceremonial complex: a pyramid, mortuary temple, causeway, valley temple, and the Sphinx with its own temple, all interconnected​.

• Quarrying Evidence – Integrated Construction: Perhaps the most compelling archaeological evidence comes from stone quarry analysis. The Sphinx was carved in place from the natural bedrock, which meant a U-shaped quarry ditch was excavated around the body. In the early 1980s, Mark Lehner (an Egyptologist) and Thomas Aigner (a geologist) conducted a “stone by stone” mapping of the Sphinx and Sphinx Temple. They discovered that the huge limestone blocks removed from around the Sphinx were reused to build the Sphinx Temple itself. Many of the core blocks in the temple walls contain the same geological strata in the same sequence as the layers in the Sphinx’s body, and those layers line up perfectly from the Sphinx into the temple masonry​. In other words, as ancient quarrymen carved the Sphinx out of the bedrock, they hauled the excess limestone away and immediately assembled it into the adjacent temple’s walls. Lehner and Aigner even “fingerprinted” the limestone fossils in the blocks to confirm they match the Sphinx pit layers​. This is strong evidence that the Sphinx and its temple were built at the same time. Since the Valley Temple next door is attributed to Khafre (by its contents), it follows that the Sphinx and Sphinx Temple were part of Khafre’s construction efforts as well​. Summarising this, the Smithsonian magazine noted: “The fossil fingerprints showed that the blocks used to build the [Sphinx] temple must have come from the ditch surrounding the Sphinx… hauled away… as the Sphinx was being carved.”​ This data directly ties the monument to Khafre’s reign when the quarrying for his pyramid complex was underway.

• Khafre’s Statues and Sphinx Iconography: Further linking the Sphinx to Khafre is the presence of multiple Khafre statues and sphinxes in his complex. Besides the diorite Khafre statue found in the Valley Temple​, archaeologists have noted there were likely sphinx statues associated with Khafre’s monuments. Inside Khafre’s Valley Temple are emplacement slots for a series of statues. According to a PBS/NOVA investigation, there were positions for four colossal sphinxes (26 ft long) – two flanking each of the temple’s two entrances​. While those statues are not preserved, their existence shows that Khafre employed the sphinx motif (human-headed lion) in his building program. This aligns with the idea that the Great Sphinx – the largest sphinx of all – was carved under Khafre’s auspices as the grand centerpiece of this theme. Indeed, an encyclopedic source states: “In his time, two sphinxes 26 ft (8 m) long were constructed at each of the two entrances to [Khafre’s] temple”. Such use of sphinx imagery in Khafre’s context makes it very plausible that the giant Sphinx is Khafre’s own portrait as a guardian “lion king”.

• Site Engineering Considerations: Egyptologists have also pointed out a telling piece of site engineering evidence: Khafre’s causeway has a drainage channel that runs off to the side – and it empties into the Sphinx enclosure. This would have been a bizarre design if the Sphinx (a sacred image) already occupied the hollow. Archaeologist Mark Lehner argued that the ancient builders would not direct runoff water to erode or flood an existing sacred statue’s enclosure​. Instead, the causeway and its drain were likely built before the Sphinx was carved. The fact that the channel terminates where the Sphinx would later be suggests the ground was intact when the causeway was built; only afterward did Khafre’s workers cut the Sphinx out, intersecting the drain’s path​. This sequencing supports Khafre’s timeline (causeway first, then Sphinx). If the Sphinx had been an older monument already present, Khafre’s engineers would have had to plan the drain differently to avoid “desecrating” the site​. The integration (and slight misalignment) of these elements makes sense if all were done in Khafre’s project rather than a later pharaoh intruding on someone else’s monument.

• Worker’s Cemetery and Town: In the 1990s, archaeologists (including Z. Hawass and M. Lehner) discovered a large labourer’s cemetery and a settlement southwest of the Sphinx. The cemetery held tombs of overseers and hundreds of simple graves of workers, with inscriptions and pottery dating it to the mid-4th Dynasty (Khafre’s era)​. Nearby, Lehner excavated the “Lost City of the Pyramid Builders,” a settlement of barracks and houses for thousands of workers, again dated to Khafre’s reign​. These finds show that a massive workforce was active at Giza during Khafre’s time – presumably the crews that built his pyramid and very likely carved the Sphinx. The scale of the project (the Sphinx is 240 ft long) would have required organised labour and provisioning, which is attested by this workers’ village in Khafre’s reign​. There is no evidence of a similar workforce in earlier periods at Giza, which argues against the idea of a much older Sphinx built by an earlier civilisation. The presence of bakeries, barracks, and tombs tied to Khafre’s project reinforces that all major constructions on the plateau – including the Sphinx – were achieved by the Old Kingdom state.

In sum, the archaeological evidence paints a consistent picture: the Great Sphinx forms part of Khafre’s pyramid complex, both physically and chronologically. As Dr. Hawass summarizes, “the Sphinx represents Khafre and forms an integral part of his pyramid complex”​. No finds at Giza definitively contradict this – on the contrary, every major discovery (statues, temple layouts, quarry linkages, worker settlements) bolsters the Khafre attribution.

Statue of King Khafre, Mustang Joe

Stylistic and Iconographic Analysis

Stylistic and iconographic evidence also plays a role in the Sphinx debate. The statue’s appearance – its facial features, headcloth, and proportions – can be compared to other known royal sculptures to see if it matches Khafre’s known iconography.

Royal iconography of the Sphinx: The Great Sphinx is depicted wearing the royal nemes headdress (the striped cloth seen on pharaohs like Tutankhamun’s mask) and originally had the uraeus (cobra emblem) on its forehead and a ceremonial false beard (fragments of the Sphinx’s broken beard have been found in excavations)​. These elements mark it clearly as a representation of a pharaoh, not just a random man or deity. The nemes and beard are symbols of kingship – for instance, the famous statue “Khafre Enthroned” from Khafre’s Valley Temple shows him with the same nemes and a similar beard shape, along with a falcon god protecting his head​. The fact that the Sphinx has these attributes is one reason most scholars believe it depicts a specific king – almost certainly Khafre – as opposed to being an earlier religious statue or a generic lion. The combination of a lion’s body with a king’s head itself is a powerful piece of iconography: it represents the pharaoh as a divine protector and embodiment of solar power. In the Old Kingdom, the pharaoh was often likened to a lion or to the sun god on the horizon; Khafre in particular emphasised solar connections (his pyramid aligns with the sun and he built a temple to the sun-god Re at Abu Gorab). Thus, carving his likeness onto a colossal lion facing the rising sun would fit Khafre’s ideology of kingship. The later name “Hor-em-akhet” (Horus of the Horizon) given to the Sphinx in New Kingdom times likely reflects the original intent – the pharaoh portrayed as a form of Horus guarding the horizon​.

Facial features and portraits: Although the Sphinx’s face is heavily eroded, Egyptologists generally observe that its broad contours and certain details resemble Khafre’s other portraits. The face is described as having a square jaw, high cheekbones, and a distinct expression. A small ivory statue of Khufu (Khafre’s father) exists, and a number of statues of Khafre have survived – these allow comparisons. Notably, Rainer Stadelmann, a prominent Egyptologist, conducted a detailed comparison of the Sphinx’s face to known royal images. Stadelmann concluded that the Sphinx’s visage did not match Khafre as well as it matched Khufu. He pointed out that the shape of the nemes headdress on the Sphinx and the style of the attached beard were more indicative of early 4th Dynasty art (Khufu’s time) than Khafre’s​. In a documentary interview, Stadelmann observed the “square face, a little bit [of a] bitter mouth, [and] protruding eyes” of the Sphinx and said “for me, [it’s] the same face” as Khufu’s statue​. This led him to propose that perhaps the Sphinx was originally conceived by Khufu (and might even portray Khufu), later appropriated by Khafre. However, Stadelmann’s view is a minority position (discussed more in the next section). Most experts see the Sphinx as fitting Khafre’s visage. The consensus view is that the face is indeed Khafre’s, albeit worn. For example, the curator of the Cairo Museum describes the Sphinx as bearing Khafre’s likeness in educational materials​. And the NOVA/PBS special on the Sphinx concluded unambiguously: “It is Khafre’s face that adorns the Sphinx”, acting as the protector of the king’s pyramid tomb​.

It’s important to note that assessing a 4,500-year-old weathered face can be subjective. Some forensic-style studies have been attempted (in the 1990s, a police artist claimed the Sphinx’s facial proportions didn’t match Khafre, stirring publicity), but Egyptologists caution that erosion and ancient repairs make direct comparison difficult. The headdress and general stylistic program (half man, half lion, wearing royal regalia) are clearly of the Old Kingdom royal style. There were no pharaohs before the 4th Dynasty that we know of who had such iconography, which again points to Khafre’s epoch as the logical time of creation. Additionally, a fragment of the Sphinx’s beard in the British Museum shows a pleated style thought to be consistent with 4th Dynasty artistic fashion (though some argue it might be from a later restoration)​.

Other Sphinxes in Egyptian art: The Great Sphinx is the earliest colossal sphinx, but smaller sphinx statues do appear around that era. For example, a sphinx head of Djedefre (Khafre’s brother) was found at Abu Roash, indicating that Khafre’s contemporaries also adopted the sphinx form. By the New Kingdom, sphinx statues (often with different heads, like rams or criosphinxes) were common. The Great Sphinx likely set a prototype. Its distinctly Old Kingdom style head – the nemes and facial shape – is quite different from New Kingdom sphinxes (which often have different crowns or more exaggerated features for later kings). This stylistic context supports the view that the Great Sphinx belongs to the Old Kingdom and most likely represents Khafre.

In summary, iconography and style strongly suggest the Sphinx is a royal monument of the 4th Dynasty. The mainstream view (espoused by experts like Zahi Hawass, Mark Lehner, etc.) is that the statue’s face is meant to be Pharaoh Khafre. Hawass notes that “the Sphinx represents Khafre,” and the statue’s features – as far as we can tell – align with Khafre’s known imagery​. While a few scholars have argued it might depict Khufu instead (based on subtle artistic cues)​., this is not widely accepted. Most find that the balance of stylistic evidence, combined with the overwhelming archaeological context, still points to Khafre as the Sphinx’s intended identity.

Inscriptions and Epigraphic Evidence (or the Lack Thereof)

One notable aspect of the Great Sphinx is the absence of contemporary inscriptions naming it or its builder. Unlike pyramids, which often have internal worker marks or later inscriptions identifying the pharaoh, the Sphinx bears no clear ancient labels. Egyptologists have several interpretations for this silence:

• Incomplete monument and cult: As mentioned, Mark Lehner’s research indicates the Sphinx’s associated temple was never finished in antiquity​. Blocks were left rough, and there is scant evidence of a functioning cult (no offering tables or extensive decoration from the Old Kingdom). Lehner concludes it is “doubtful whether a cult service specific to the Sphinx was ever organised” in Khafre’s time​. This could explain why Khafre left no dedicatory stela or inscription – he may have died before fully institutionalising the Sphinx’s ritual significance. The monument might have been simply one component of Khafre’s funerary complex, and once the king died, attention shifted to completing his tomb and mortuary cult. The Sphinx (lacking internal chambers) had no obvious place for an inscription to be carved, unlike a temple or tomb. Thus, no inscription explicitly says “Khafre built the Sphinx.” This gap, however, is an argument from silence and does not outweigh the other evidence tying it to Khafre.

• Dream Stele (New Kingdom): By Thutmose IV’s time, the association with Khafre was apparently recorded on the Dream Stele. As noted earlier, the stele’s text includes a royal name (likely Khafre’s) in the context of the Sphinx story​. Egyptologists like James Henry Breasted, when translating the stele in the 19th century, took this as confirmation that the Sphinx was believed to be “Khafre’s statue”. The Dream Stele doesn’t explicitly say “Khafre built it,” but the implication is that Thutmose IV is addressing the Sphinx as a divine image tied to Khafre’s identity or era. This is often cited as post-facto textual evidence in support of Khafre’s authorship, even though it was written 1,100 years after Khafre. The stele itself, importantly, was made of granite from Khafre’s own pyramid complex (reused lintel stone) and was positioned as if to restore or renew the Sphinx’s cult​. This suggests Thutmose IV (and his priests) saw the Sphinx as an old monument worthy of restoration – consistent with it being an Old Kingdom relic of Khafre’s time. In summary, the Dream Stele associates the Sphinx with Khafre in the ancient Egyptian record​.

• Inventory Stela (Saite, later period): The Inventory Stela is often brought up by those questioning Khafre’s role, because it tells a differing tale – that Khufu found the Sphinx (and an associated Isis temple) already existing and decayed, and he repaired them​. If true, that would mean the Sphinx predates Khufu (and thus Khafre). However, as discussed, this stela is considered historically unreliable. Its likely purpose was to boost the importance of a local shrine by connecting it to Khufu. Scholars like Selim Hassan (who excavated the Sphinx in the 1930s) and others note the stela’s content doesn’t align with Old Kingdom language or theology, and it lists deities in a way that fits the first millennium BC. Therefore, mainstream Egyptology does not accept the Inventory Stela as evidence that the Sphinx is older than Khafre – rather, they see it as later legend​gizamedia.rc.fas.harvard.edu.

• No Old Kingdom name: We do not know what Khafre (or his contemporaries) called the Sphinx. In contrast, Khafre’s pyramid was named (ancient name: “Wer(en)-Khafre” meaning “Khafre is Great”). The Sphinx might have simply been considered a manifestation of a god, not needing a separate name. By New Kingdom, it was called Hor-em-akhet and Bw-Ḥw (“Place of Horus”) and later still the Greeks used Harmachis. In Arab tradition, it gained the nickname Abu al-Hawl (“Father of Terror”). The lack of a known Old Kingdom name is expected if the Sphinx’s worship wasn’t fully developed then​.

In essence, while no inscription from Khafre’s time explicitly says he built the Sphinx, the circumstantial epigraphic evidence (Dream Stele) supports Khafre, and no credible ancient text assigns it to anyone else. Egyptologists often point out that many Old Kingdom royal works went uninscribed (for instance, Khafre’s Valley Temple itself had no inscribed labels; its attribution is known only from context and the statue finds)​. The Sphinx is another such case where context must substitute for inscription. Given the strength of that context, scholars remain confident in the Khafre attribution, and they interpret the silence as a result of historical happenstance (incompletion and burial by sand) rather than evidence of a different builder.

The Great Sphinx of Giza measures 240 feet long (73 m) and stands 66 feet high (20 m), oriented on a straight west-to-east axis, Giza, Egypt. This image was first published on Flickr. Original image by eviljohnius. Uploaded by Ibolya Horváth, published on 26 October 2016.

Geological Evidence: Weathering and Age of the Sphinx

In the 1990s, the Great Sphinx became the focus of a high-profile geological debate: does the weathering and erosion on the Sphinx indicate it is far older than Khafre’s era? This question was sparked by research from outsiders to Egyptology and has since been addressed by geologists and archaeologists on both sides. The mainstream geological view aligns with the Egyptological timeline (4th Dynasty), explaining the Sphinx’s erosion within known historical and environmental conditions​.

The Erosion Controversy: In 1992, Robert M. Schoch (a geologist) and John Anthony West (an independent researcher) proposed that the Sphinx’s enclosure shows heavy rainfall erosion, which could only be the result of prolonged wet climate thousands of years earlier than 2500 BC. They noted the Sphinx’s body and the walls of its pit have a “rolling,” undulating profile, with deeply weathered recesses, unlike the sharper wind-eroded tombs nearby. Schoch initially estimated the Sphinx might date to 7000–5000 BC or even earlier (circa 9000 BC in some statements) – essentially positing a lost civilisation predating dynastic Egypt​. This extreme redating was and is a fringe viewpoint. It elicited strong reactions: geologist James A. Harrell noted that Schoch’s arguments were purely geological and did not account for the rich archaeological context tying the Sphinx to Khafre​hallofmaat.com. To resolve this, mainstream geologists have re-examined the Sphinx’s erosion.

Mainstream geological interpretation: Studies by K. Lal Gauri (1993, 1995), James Harrell (1994), and others concluded that the observed erosion can be explained without abandoning the Old Kingdom date. Several key points from these studies:

• The Giza plateau’s Mokattam limestone has layers of differing hardness. The Sphinx’s body is composed of softer marl-like layers interbedded with harder limestone. When exposed to weather, the softer layers weather more rapidly, creating recesses, while harder layers stand out in relief​. This naturally yields a rounded, undulating profile over time – even under wind-driven sand erosion or limited rain. Harrell pointed out that nearby 4th Dynasty tombs (e.g., the Tomb of Debehen) at a similar elevation show flat walls but with the weaker layers beginning to recess due to wind/sand, consistent with early stages of what we see more exaggerated on the Sphinx​. In short, the Sphinx’s pattern could be a result of thousands of years of slow weathering of alternating layers, not necessarily intense rainfall ages earlier.

• Rainfall in Old Kingdom and later: While Egypt’s climate was largely arid by Khafre’s time, sporadic heavy rain events have occurred throughout history. W.F. Hume, a director of the Geological Survey of Egypt, documented sudden torrential rains in the desert that caused flash floods and cut deep channels in soft rock​. Such events, even if rare (once a century, say), over a few millennia can contribute to significant erosion. The Sphinx enclosure may have collected rainwater runoff in rare storms, periodically washing against the walls. Moreover, right after the Old Kingdom (c. 2200 BC), Egypt’s climate did become slightly wetter for a time; and again in the early first millennium BC there were episodes of greater rainfall. These could have hastened the rounding of the Sphinx’s features. Importantly, the Sphinx has spent most of its history buried up to its neck in sand, which actually protects the lower body from wind erosion but can trap moisture against the rock. Geologists note that damp sand against limestone causes salt crystallisation that breaks down the surface​.

• Active weathering today: Zahi Hawass has observed that even in modern times the Sphinx’s stone is deteriorating – flakes pop off due to salt and humidity changes​. Researchers agree that “the same erosion patterns cited by Schoch still continue on a daily basis” in the present climate​. This undermines the notion that only a prehistoric climate could produce the observed erosion. In fact, much of the damage may have accelerated in the last millennium or two, due to the rising water table and human activity. Thus, one need not invoke 10,000 BC rainstorms – normal weathering processes in an arid environment (wind, rare rain, dew and salt) are sufficient to explain the Sphinx’s condition​.

Mainstream geologists who studied the Sphinx (like Gauri et al. in Geoarchaeology 1995) concluded that the weathering is compatible with an age of ~4,500 years. For example, Gauri showed how combinations of wind erosion, wet sand, and chemical weathering could create the rounded profile in a relatively short geologic time​. Lehner notes that the hardest layers (e.g., the Sphinx’s head, which is a harder limestone member) have survived almost intact except for the nose, whereas the softer body is deeply weathered – a normal differential erosion scenario​. If the statue were many thousands of years older, arguably the head would also show much more extreme erosion or would have needed ancient restoration (for which there is no evidence prior to New Kingdom repairs).

To summarise the geological stance: There is no compelling geologic necessity to date the Sphinx earlier than Khafre. Egyptologist Kate Spence quipped that while the Sphinx’s erosion is “dramatic,” the leap to redate it to 7000 BC is “like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut” – unnecessary given simpler explanations (existing weathering processes and Khafre’s context suffice). Mainstream science recognizes Schoch’s observations but finds they are “amenable to an alternative interpretation… more consistent with archaeological orthodoxy.”​hallofmaat.com In other words, by aligning the geological evidence with archaeological evidence, the 4th Dynasty date holds firm.

Finally, it’s worth noting that even if the erosion suggested an older date, one would then have to explain why absolutely no artefacts, tools, inscriptions, or burials from a pre-2500 BC civilisation have been found at Giza – a huge problem for fringe theories. The geological consensus therefore reinforces the archaeological timeline: the Sphinx was carved in the mid-3rd millennium BC and has been shaped by natural forces since, requiring vigilant conservation today just as in ancient times.

Mainstream Scholarly Consensus and Debates

Within the Egyptological community, the overwhelming consensus is that Khafre was the builder of the Great Sphinx. This view is supported by virtually all the leading Egyptologists and institutions: the Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities (led by figures like Dr. Zahi Hawass), the American Research Center in Egypt, the Giza Plateau Mapping Project (Dr. Mark Lehner), and others have consistently attributed the Sphinx to Khafre’s reign. Hawass states plainly, “Most scholars believe, as I do, that the Sphinx represents Khafre”​and was an “integral” part of his pyramid complex. Likewise, textbooks and museum exhibits identify the Sphinx as likely carved under Khafre around 2500 BC​. This is sometimes called the “Khafre-Sphinx theory” (essentially the orthodox position).

However, academic discourse allows for some debate. A handful of Egyptologists have proposed variants on the attribution – notably suggesting either Khafre’s father (Khufu) or his half-brother (Djedefre) as the initiators of the Sphinx. It’s important to stress these are minority views, but since they come from credentialed scholars, they merit mention:

• Rainer Stadelmann’s Khufu hypothesis: Dr. Rainer Stadelmann (former director of the German Archaeological Institute in Cairo) argued that the Sphinx might have been started by Pharaoh Khufu (builder of the Great Pyramid) and only completed by Khafre or later. Stadelmann noted certain anomalies: the Sphinx’s axis is slightly off-center from Khafre’s pyramid and causeway, which he thought could imply it wasn’t originally part of Khafre’s symmetric plan​. He also pointed to stylistic elements (the nemes headdress shape, and the form of the “diadem” or uraeus and beard) that he believed were more characteristic of Khufu’s time​. In his view, Khufu – who had no large Sphinx of his own found – might have commissioned the statue as a guardian or as a form of the sun god for his necropolis, and Khafre later reused the idea. Stadelmann published this theory in 1999/2000, suggesting that the “Sphinx and Sphinx Temple was also built by Khufu rather than by Khafre”, essentially a Khufu origin for the Sphinx Temple that Khafre then built his causeway around​. To support this, he noted that the Sphinx Temple’s architectural style has some differences from Khafre’s Valley Temple, perhaps indicating an earlier phase​. He also tied in religious reasoning: Khufu’s Horus name and solar associations, and the Sphinx’s later name Hor-em-akhet (“Horus of the Horizon”), speculating that the Sphinx could have been a sun shrine created by Khufu as an embodiment of Ra-Horakhty on the horizon​. Despite these arguments, most experts remained unconvinced. Zahi Hawass responded that Stadelmann’s case, while intriguing, was not compelling against the body of evidence for Khafre​gizamedia.rc.fas.harvard.edu. No direct evidence of Khufu at the Sphinx has surfaced – e.g., no Khufu-era tool marks or inscriptions in the Sphinx enclosure. Furthermore, Khafre’s ownership of the Valley Temple and causeway is clear, and the Sphinx fits seamlessly into that context. So Stadelmann’s hypothesis is often acknowledged in scholarly literature but usually refuted as less convincing than the orthodox view. Mark Lehner’s analysis actually allows a nugget of Stadelmann’s idea: Lehner concluded Khafre was responsible for “most of the Sphinx,” but conceded that “Khufu might have started it.”​– meaning perhaps Khufu left a proto-sphinx or a shaped outcrop that Khafre later recarved. This is speculative, and Lehner emphasises Khafre’s role as primary. Essentially, even those open to Khufu’s involvement agree Khafre finished and shaped the Sphinx as we know it​.

• Vassil Dobrev’s Djedefre hypothesis: In the early 2000s, Dr. Vassil Dobrev of the French Archaeological Institute in Cairo announced a theory attributing the Sphinx to Djedefre, the son of Khufu and older brother of Khafre​. Djedefre ruled briefly after Khufu but built his pyramid at Abu Roash, north of Giza, which later fell into ruin. Dobrev suggests that during his short reign (c. 2528–2520 BC), Djedefre created the Sphinx at Giza as a tribute to his father Khufu. His reasoning: by the time Khufu died, the people were perhaps weary from pyramid-building, so rather than another giant pyramid at Giza, Djedefre sought a different way to honour Khufu and legitimise his own rule​. Propaganda motive: Dobrev argues the Sphinx would represent Khufu as a god (Ra-Horakhty), thereby reinforcing Djedefre’s connection to his illustrious father and the solar cult​. Supporting clues include Djedefre’s adoption of the epithet “Son of Re” (he was the first pharaoh to put “Ra” in his royal name), indicating a strong solar focus​. Also, in the boat pits around Khufu’s pyramid, some blocks bearing Djedefre’s name were found, showing Djedefre was involved in his father’s funerary arrangements​. Dobrev also notes a topographical point: in ancient times, visitors coming from Memphis would approach Giza from the south. From that southern approach, the Sphinx is seen in profile in front of Khufu’s pyramid​. It would present a spectacular image of a guardian watching over Khufu’s tomb, potentially fulfilling Djedefre’s goal of memorialising Khufu. This theory was publicised in media around 2004 (a UK Channel 5 documentary “Secrets of the Sphinx”) as a “solution” to the riddle​. However, like Stadelmann’s idea, it has not gained wide acceptance. Egyptologist Robert Partridge responded that Dobrev’s argument, while logical, lacked hard evidence: “insufficient evidence to prove his theory”​. The Giza excavations have not uncovered any inscription of Djedefre at the Sphinx, nor any direct sign of his work there. It remains possible Djedefre had some role (since the time gap between Khufu and Khafre is small – Djedefre reigned perhaps 8 years, then Khafre took over), but the mainstream still credits Khafre for actually carving the Sphinx. In effect, Dobrev’s scenario requires believing Khafre simply inherited the Sphinx from his brother – yet Khafre clearly built the temples and causeway around it. It’s more parsimonious that Khafre did the whole project. Thus, Dobrev’s theory is seen as an interesting but unproven alternative within academic circles​.

Beyond Stadelmann and Dobrev, no other mainstream Egyptologist has a serious published theory assigning the Sphinx to another pharaoh. George Reisner, who excavated at Giza in the early 20th century, briefly wondered if Djedefre could have started it (he doubted Djedefre’s character and thought him an usurper), but Reisner ultimately leaned to Khafre like others​. Selim Hassan’s definitive 1940s study of the Sphinx concludes with Khafre. Scholars like I.E.S. Edwards, Ahmed Fakhry, and more recently Miroslav Verner and Mark Lehner have all written that Khafre is the builder​. Jane A. Hill and Catharine Roehrig, in museum catalogs, describe the Sphinx as Khafre’s image. In sum, the majority view within Egyptology has remained stable for over a century – Khafre, circa 2500 BC, is seen as responsible.

It’s telling that even the proponents of alternative attributions (Khufu or Djedefre) still place the Sphinx firmly in the 4th Dynasty, only a generation or so away from Khafre. There is no credible academic suggestion that it comes from a radically earlier time or a different civilization. This brings us to the fringe theories, which venture far outside the mainstream and propose extreme chronologies or exotic builders.

Alternative and Fringe Theories – Comparison to Consensus

For completeness, we briefly outline the alternative or fringe ideas about the Sphinx’s origins, and how they contrast with the mainstream consensus:

• Pre-Dynastic / “Atlantean” Theories: Inspired by the erosion debate and legends, some have claimed the Sphinx is thousands of years older than Egypt’s Old Kingdom. Dates of c. 10,000 BC (the end of the last Ice Age) are often thrown about, linking the Sphinx to hypothetical lost civilisations. This idea gained traction through the work of John Anthony West and Robert Schoch, who, as noted, argued for a construction possibly between 7000–9000 BC based on presumed water erosion​. Others have extended this to even earlier, tying it to the legend of Atlantis (notably, Edgar Cayce prophesied that the Sphinx was built in 10,500 BC by Atlanteans and that a “Hall of Records” lies beneath it​). These theories are not supported by physical evidence. Mainstream archaeologists point out that no trace of high civilisation in Egypt (or elsewhere) exists from that period – the Neolithic peoples of 7000 BC left primitive dwellings and small settlements, nothing on the scale of the Sphinx. The fringe proponents often circumvent this by invoking aliens or lost continents, which places their claims well outside scientific plausibility​. As a result, Egyptologists do not take these ideas seriously. Hawass has openly derided the more extreme proponents as “pyramidiots” for advancing wild claims (such as secret chambers and alien technology) that distract from real research​. The consensus is that extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, and so far the fringe ideas have produced no verifiable evidence – only reinterpretations of the weathering (addressed above) and imaginative speculation. In fact, extensive surveys (seismic, drilling) around the Sphinx have not revealed any mysterious pre-dynastic chambers or hidden archives – only natural fissures and some small Old Kingdom tunnels used by treasure hunters.

• Cultural context vs. lost civilisation: Mainstream scholars emphasise how well the Sphinx fits into the context of Khafre’s 4th Dynasty court – artistically, religiously, and logistically. By contrast, placing it in 10,000 BC creates an inexplicable gap: one would have to believe that an advanced society sculpted the Sphinx (and perhaps began carving on the Giza site), and then all knowledge and progress vanished, only for Egyptians 6,000 years later to coincidentally build their pyramids right next to it. This scenario is seen as vastly less probable than the straightforward one: the Old Kingdom Egyptians themselves, whose ability to build pyramids and statues is well documented, carved the Sphinx. As geologist Harrell put it, the aim is to find an interpretation “more consistent with the archaeological orthodoxy”​hallofmaat.com – in other words, one that doesn’t require rewriting the entire history of civilisation. The orthodox view passes this test elegantly, whereas the fringe view forces a radical rewrite with no corroborating data.

• Reception of fringe theories: While fringe ideas get media attention, they have not penetrated academic discourse except as a foil to be refuted. For instance, in a 2017 review, the A.R.E. (Edgar Cayce’s foundation) still promotes the notion of a pre-10,000 BC Sphinx, but Egyptologists remain unmoved. Mark Lehner is a particularly interesting case: he originally went to Egypt as a young man funded by Cayce’s organisation, curious about the Hall of Records prophecy​. However, after years of empirical study mapping the Sphinx and excavating around it, Lehner became a staunch defender of the orthodox view​. He found nothing to suggest a lost civilisation and everything to suggest an Old Kingdom context. This transformation – from someone open to alternative ideas to a scientist persuaded by evidence – underscores how powerful the evidence for Khafre is. Lehner now works closely with Hawass and others to conserve the Sphinx and explore the Giza plateau within the framework of known history.

In comparison to these fringe notions, the mainstream consensus appears exceedingly well-grounded. It does not require any unknown peoples or drastic revision of timelines. It attributes the Sphinx to the same culture that undeniably built the surrounding pyramids and temples. As one encyclopedia entry succinctly put it: “Most archaeologists believe that the Sphinx was constructed about 4,500 years ago during the reign of Khafre… [Fringe] ideas are regarded with disbelief and derision by most mainstream scholars.”​. The contrast could not be more stark – virtually all qualified Egyptologists support the Khafre attribution (with only slight internal debate as to maybe Khufu or Djedefre’s roles), whereas the ideas of extreme antiquity come from outside the field and remain unsubstantiated.

Conclusion

After examining the full range of evidence, the mainstream Egyptological consensus remains that the Great Sphinx was built in the mid-3rd millennium BC for Pharaoh Khafre. This conclusion is supported by a convergence of archaeological data (the Sphinx’s alignment and construction interlocks with Khafre’s pyramid complex, and material from its quarry was used in Khafre’s temples)​, iconographic analysis (the Sphinx’s royal visage and regalia are consistent with Khafre’s other statues and with Old Kingdom royal art)​, and geological assessments (the weathering is explicable over 4,500 years and does not necessitate a dramatically earlier date)​. Crucially, no evidence from antiquity crediting another builder has stood up to scrutiny – later Egyptian records like the Dream Stele in fact reinforce Khafre’s connection​, and the lack of an Old Kingdom inscription is reasonably explained by the monument’s context and later history​.

Within academia, the Sphinx’s attribution is not a source of major controversy. A majority of Egyptologists echo the view of Hawass and Lehner that Khafre commissioned the Sphinx as part of his mortuary complex. A few scholarly proposals (Stadelmann’s and Dobrev’s) have suggested Khafre’s immediate relatives as alternatives, but those remain speculative and have not overturned the Khafre model. In each case, those hypotheses still keep the Sphinx within the 4th Dynasty royal family, essentially affirming that it was a product of the same high civilisation that built the Pyramids​.

In contrast, alternative theories that place the Sphinx in a long-lost epoch or attribute it to non-Egyptian sources are not supported by credible evidence and are rejected by experts​. The academic consensus is that such ideas, while popular in pseudo-archaeology circles, do not change the fundamental fact that the Sphinx is an Old Kingdom creation – in all likelihood, the work of King Khafre’s artisans. As the Nova documentary concluded: “It is Khafre’s face that adorns the Sphinx, which [stood as protector of] the mummified king as he traveled toward the pyramid, following the path of the sun”​. In the eyes of modern Egyptology, the Great Sphinx of Giza is thus understood as Khafre’s enduring legacy – a colossal guardian statue symbolizing royal power and the divine sun on the Giza plateau, built circa 2500 BC and contemplated ever since by those who seek to unravel its ancient riddle.

Sources: The conclusions above draw on the research and writings of numerous Egyptologists and geologists, including M. Lehner​, Z. Hawass​, R. Stadelmann​gizamedia.rc.fas.harvard.edu, V. Dobrev​, J. A. Harrell​hallofmaat.com, K. L. Gauri, and others, as well as translations of ancient texts like the Dream Stele​. These experts and sources collectively affirm the attribution of the Sphinx to Khafre and provide a multifaceted body of evidence in its favor, as detailed in the discussion above. The mainstream view remains robust, with leading Egyptological institutions continuing to uphold Khafre as the builder of the Great Sphinx of Giza​.

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References

• Lehner, Mark. The Complete Pyramids: Solving the Ancient Mysteries. Thames & Hudson, 1997.

• Hawass, Zahi. The Secrets of the Sphinx: Restoration Past and Present. The American University in Cairo Press, 1998.

• Lehner, Mark. The Archaeology of an Image: The Great Sphinx of Giza. Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 1991.

• Stadelmann, Rainer. “Die große Sphinx von Giza.” Archäologischer Anzeiger, 1991.

• Schoch, Robert M. “Redating the Great Sphinx of Giza.” Geoarchaeology, vol. 8, no. 6, 1993, pp. 427–439.

• Gauri, K. Lal, et al. “Geologic Weathering and the Age of the Sphinx.” Geoarchaeology, vol. 10, no. 2, 1995, pp. 119–133.

• Harrell, James A. “The Great Sphinx Controversy.” University of Alabama Geology Papers, 1994.

• Dream Stele of Thutmose IV (Translation and Commentary). UCL Digital Egypt Project.

• Verner, Miroslav. The Pyramids: The Mystery, Culture, and Science of Egypt's Great Monuments. Grove Press, 2001.

• National Geographic Special: "Riddles of the Sphinx". National Geographic Society, 1998.

• Lehner, Mark. The Giza Plateau Mapping Project: Project History and Overview. Ancient Egypt Research Associates.

• Hassan, Selim. The Sphinx: Its History in the Light of Recent Excavations. Cairo: Government Press, 1949.

• Reisner, George A. A History of the Giza Necropolis, Volume 1. University of Chicago Press, 1942.

• PBS NOVA Documentary: "Secrets of the Sphinx". PBS, 1997.

• Supreme Council of Antiquities (Egypt) – Official Website.
  
  

Ritual Closure of Monuments and Symbolic Respect for Space: The Cases of Lerna and Sissi

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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Deconstructing Theories of External Imposition

The recent study of the cemetery at Sissi in Crete reveals a unique ritual practice of the Minoans, interpreted as the symbolic "death" or closure of their tombs. Instead of gradually abandoning the communal graves, the inhabitants of Sissi, around 1700 BCE, undertook a deliberate and ritualized process marking the end of an era.

Specifically, the last dead were buried in small pits or ceramic vessels. Afterwards, they carefully dismantled the tomb walls, crushed some bones to blend with the soil, and celebrated with a large communal feast. The findings include thousands of pottery fragments, remains of cups, and kitchenware, all dated to the same period. These elements suggest a collective ceremony that signaled the final use of the burial grounds.

Figure 3. The archaeological site of Sissi, seen from the north. The white dotted line indicates the limits of the cemetery (Zones 1 & 9) (© Belgian School at Athens, N. Kress).

Finally, participants covered everything with a layer of soil and stones, sealing the site forever. Remarkably, centuries later, when burials resumed in the area, this specific location remained untouched, indicating a lasting respect for this ritual closure. This practice reflects a profound cultural transition and a conscious effort by the Minoans to close a chapter of their history with reverence and ritual significance. The discovery offers valuable insights into the social and religious perceptions of the time and enriches our understanding of Minoan civilization.

The practice of ritually "closing" significant spaces through careful burial and continued respect for tomb or building grounds is also observed in the prehistoric Aegean world. The case of the House of the Tiles at Lerna and the recent discoveries at Sissi in Crete demonstrate the same symbolic logic: the need for a conscious transition and an honorable disengagement from a past charged with social and sacred meaning.

Figure 1. Distribution of Prepalatial and Protopalatial tombs, with the location of the main cemeteries mentioned in the text (S. Déderix).

At Lerna, after the destruction of the House of the Tiles around the end of Early Helladic II (ca. 2400–2200 BCE), the inhabitants carefully emptied the building, set it on fire, and then erected a mound (tumulus) of 19 meters in diameter over its remains. This tumulus was demarcated with a stone ring, and for a significant period during the Early Helladic III phase, no new structures were built atop it—testifying to a profound respect for the space and the historical memory it embodied. A similar ritual strategy, with many parallels, is evident at Sissi.

This analogy suggests that both in mainland Greece and Minoan Crete, the societies of the Late Early Bronze Age did not experience change through violent external impositions but through internal processes of renewal, deeply rooted in a ritual understanding of time, memory, and space. This organized and respectful treatment of earlier monumental architecture stands in contrast to the traditional image of violent invasions or external elite dominance, once assumed by older theories regarding the arrival of the "Proto-Greeks" (in the case of mainland Greece).

Instead, it indicates that the local communities themselves chose to manage the end of an earlier social and political phase through conscious, ritualized closure. Building and maintaining the tumulus can be seen as a way for the community to remember their past and show their pride, without any signs of new power being forced upon them from outside.

Caskey, J.L., Blackburn, E.T., Lerna in the Argolid. A Short Guide, American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Athens, 1977. © American School of Classical Studies at Athens

Furthermore, the collapse of the "Corridor House" system was not immediately followed by the rise of new, stronger elite centers, but rather by a phase of social simplification and fragmentation, as indicated by the emergence of apsidal buildings and changes in burial practices. This gradual and endogenous transformation better aligns with scenarios of internal social evolution rather than models of abrupt external domination.

Thus, the cultural changes observed at the end of the third millennium BCE appear to be more closely tied to transformations in local economic, social, and ritual practices rather than to the arrival of foreign populations or imposed systems. The Early Helladic III culture, although distinct from its predecessor, nonetheless shows strong elements of continuity, reshaping and integrating the past through internal processes.

The situations in Lerna and Sissi help break down ideas about quick takeovers or outside influences and improve our understanding of prehistoric communities as active participants in deliberate local cultural changes, where managing space and memory was very important.

New genetic data reveal a strong Greek genetic footprint in Carthage

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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How and when did the first populations move into North Africa? What is the significance of the detected "Aegean/Greek DNA"? How did the Carthaginians maintain their cultural dominance? (9-minute read)

Carthage was founded in the late 9th century BCE (traditionally 814 BCE) as a colony of Tyre, at a time when Tyre was a thriving commercial center. Therefore, the first inhabitants were Phoenician settlers — Semitic populations from the Levantine coasts, descendants of the ancient Canaanites. However, from the very foundation of the city, it is likely that local Berber (Libyan) populations of North Africa coexisted in the area, with whom the Phoenician settlers interacted and possibly intermarried. The very name of the city (Qart-Ḥadašt, meaning "New City") denotes a new settlement in foreign territory, but its development was closely tied to the local environment. Archaeological and historical evidence suggests that Carthage quickly evolved from a small trading post into a prosperous city-state with its own "Carthaginian" civilization. This civilization was clearly Phoenician (Semitic language, religion, customs), but the ancestry of the city's population was not purely Phoenician.

A recent paleogenetic study shed the first light on the biological composition of the early Carthaginians. The so-called "Young Man of Byrsa"—a man from the late 6th century BCE discovered in a burial chamber at Byrsa Hill in Carthage—revealed through ancient DNA analysis a maternal lineage (mitochondrial haplogroup U5b2c1) that is rare and European, originating from prehistoric populations in the northern Mediterranean. Specifically, this mtDNA links the individual's ancestry to regions such as the Iberian Peninsula, Mediterranean islands, or the northern Mediterranean coasts. The discovery constitutes the first direct evidence suggesting that even the early inhabitants of Carthage could have mixed ancestry, including European elements. In other words, the presence of such an ancient European genetic marker (U5b2c1) in North Africa indicates that Phoenician settlers had incorporated individuals from earlier Mediterranean populations (e.g., from Sicily, Sardinia, or Iberia) into their communities. This initial genetic diversity aligns with the historical image of a port city open to various ethnic groups. Although Carthage may have been founded by a few dozen or hundreds of Phoenician settlers, within a few generations its population expanded through admixture with local and other northern Mediterranean peoples. Truthfully, we have long understood that the Phoenicians' cultural dominance in Carthage did not imply absolute demographic dominance. Many ancient Greek colonies also observed the same phenomenon.

This reality became even clearer in a recent large-scale study of 103 ancient genomes from Carthage itself and other Phoenician/Carthaginian sites. Researchers identified a recognizable "Carthaginian" genetic profile, but it bore minimal relation to the populations of ancient Phoenicia. Instead, it was primarily composed of European (Greek/Aegean and Sicilian) and North African genotypes.

The First Neolithic Expansions—Prehistoric Population Flows into North Africa

To understand how European genetic elements appeared in North Africa long before Carthage's founding, we must examine population movements during the Neolithic period. The transition from hunter-gatherer economies to farming and animal husbandry occurred in North Africa approximately 7,500 years ago. Two main theories exist: either that local Mesolithic populations gradually adopted Neolithic innovations or that incoming farmers migrated into the area, bringing their way of life. Ancient DNA now clarifies this process. Furthermore, recent genome studies of prehistoric skeletons in the Maghreb revealed clear ancestry shifts during the Neolithic transition: the earliest Neolithic burials in Northwest Africa primarily show European Neolithic ancestry. The evidence implies that the initial farmers who emerged in Morocco and Algeria were predominantly descended from Neolithic populations from southern Europe. Researchers conclude that migrant European farmers introduced agriculture to Northwest Africa, which then rapidly disseminated among local groups.

This pattern fits into the broader wave of Neolithic farmer expansions from the Near East into Greece and Europe. It is well known that early farmers began in Anatolia and the Levant, spreading gradually westward via coastal Mediterranean routes to the Balkans, the Italian Peninsula, Sicily, Sardinia, and Iberia. Archaeologically, the spread of Impressa/Cardial pottery along coastal zones reflects the so-called "Mediterranean route" of Neolithic expansion. Notably, the appearance of agriculture in northeast Africa (e.g., the eastern Rif in Morocco) is nearly synchronous with its emergence in southern Spain, around 5500 BCE, suggesting maritime transfer of people and ideas. Thus, the wider agricultural dissemination led to a significant expansion of Neolithic populations from Europe into North Africa.

Note that a single migratory stream did not limit the genetic history of North Africa during the Neolithic. In addition to the European Neolithic influx, later contributions from the Near East are detectable. During the Middle Neolithic period, around 5000 BCE, the Maghreb genetic profile shows the introduction of a Levantine element, coinciding with the arrival of pastoralism (cattle, sheep, goats) in the region. This finding suggests that groups of herders possibly migrated westward from the eastern Mediterranean or the Nile Valley, bringing new genetic influences. Ultimately, by the end of the Neolithic, populations of the Maghreb exhibited a mixed genetic profile, combining local Paleolithic/Mesolithic heritage, European Neolithic farmer ancestry, and Near Eastern admixture. This prolonged prehistoric admixture explains why certain ancient European haplogroups (such as U5) or "Sardinian-type" genetic elements later appear among North African populations.

Regarding specifically Mycenaean, Sicilian, or Sardinian populations and their connection to North Africa, the data are fragmentary but indicative. There is no documented direct mass migration of Mycenaeans into North Africa during the Bronze Age. However, the presence of Mycenaean artifacts in Egypt and possible contacts with Libya suggest some level of interaction. After the collapse of the Mycenaean civilization (~1200 BCE), groups from the Aegean participated in the so-called "Sea Peoples," who reached as far as Egypt. Among them were the Sherden (possibly from Sardinia) and the Shekelesh (perhaps from Sicily). Although these groups clashed with Egypt, some may have settled in Libya or Canaan. These late-Chalcolithic or early Iron Age movements may have had a limited impact on western North Africa, though a minor genetic contribution from Aegean/European Bronze Age populations cannot be ruled out.

Moreover, the genetic landscape of the Carthaginians later exhibits strong affinities with ancient Greek populations, possibly linked to these early European movements or to Greek colonies established in Africa.

As for Sicily and Sardinia, these two major Mediterranean islands acted as bridges for population movements. Especially Sicily, due to its proximity to the Tunisian coast, served as a natural channel: early Neolithic settlers could have crossed in either direction between Tunisia and Sicily. During the 3rd millennium BCE (the Bronze Age), Sicily received influences from the Aegean world (e.g., Mycenaean finds) and later from Phoenician and Greek settlers. Sardinia, on the other hand, remained relatively genetically isolated for millennia (modern Sardinians preserve a high proportion of ancient Neolithic ancestry). Nonetheless, the Sherden people's history suggests some early contact with the eastern Mediterranean. In historic times, Carthaginian expansion led to the establishment of Phoenician colonies in Sardinia (e.g., Tharros), prompting some local population movements. Overall, we can say that the genetic impact of Sicilian and Sardinian populations on North Africa is detectable indirectly: either through early Neolithic dissemination (European farmers reaching the Maghreb) or through later historical interactions (e.g., integration of Sicilians into the Carthaginian network).

Phoenician Expansion and Genetic Interactions in the Western Mediterranean

During the Iron Age (1st millennium BCE), the Phoenicians expanded their maritime trading network, establishing numerous outposts and colonies throughout the western Mediterranean. By the 11th–10th century BCE, Phoenician settlements appeared in Spain (e.g., Cádiz), the Balearic Islands, Sicily, Malta, Sardinia, and beyond. The genetic contribution of these Semitic settlers to local populations had long been an open question. Traditionally, it was believed that the "Punic" populations (i.e., the western Phoenician colonies such as Carthage) would exhibit a strong Phoenician (Levantine) genetic signature. However, large-scale ancient DNA analyses have overturned this assumption. Researchers discovered that populations in the western Mediterranean received limited direct genetic input from Phoenician mother cities (Tyre, Sidon, etc.).

Despite their intense cultural, economic, and linguistic influence, the original Phoenician cities contributed minimal direct DNA to the Punic populations of the central and western Mediterranean. The spread of Phoenician culture thus occurred not through mass migration but primarily through the diffusion of cultural models and the integration of local communities.

Specifically, every Phoenician-Carthaginian site studied shows remarkable heterogeneity regarding its inhabitants' origins. Researchers detected an "extremely heterogeneous" genetic profile in ancient skeletons from these sites. In almost all Punic communities — from Carthage itself to colonies in Iberia, Sicily, Sardinia, and North Africa — the majority of individuals exhibited ancestries similar to those of ancient Sicilian and Aegean populations (southern Europe), while a significant portion had North African ancestry. In contrast, direct Near Eastern/Semitic genetic input was minimal. This practically means that in Phoenician colonies, people of diverse backgrounds lived together: individuals of local North African descent alongside others of predominantly European (Sicilian/Greek) origin. The different Punic communities were connected via maritime "kinship networks." For instance, a pair of distant relatives (approximately second cousins) were found: one buried in a Phoenician city in North Africa, the other in a Phoenician settlement in Sicily. Such findings illustrate the cosmopolitan character of the Carthaginian network, where movement and intermarriage across different regions were common.

This theory also explains how Phoenician settlers, initially a demographic minority, eventually genetically assimilated local populations rather than replacing them. As geneticist Pierre Zalloua aptly put it, "The Phoenicians were a civilization of integration and assimilation — they settled wherever they traveled." Despite their broad and diverse biological ancestry, these mixed populations transmitted their cultural identity (language, religion, and technical knowledge).

The case of Carthage shows that a group can be very influential in trade and culture even if they are not the largest population, similar to some theories about how Indo-European languages spread, but the history, society, and population of northern Africa at that time were quite different.

In summary, the Carthaginian rulers spoke the Phoenician language and worshipped Phoenician gods, but their subjects and allies came from various Mediterranean nations. In the end, the genetic background of the Carthaginians in the western Mediterranean is spread out and varied, showing a blend of European and African genes with some small Semitic influences, instead of a clear "Phoenician" genetic identity. This conclusion aligns perfectly with historical accounts of the multiethnic societies of the western Mediterranean and highlights how population movements are inextricably linked to cultural interactions.

The Global Motif of Confronted Animals: Diffusion or Independent Development?

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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The motif of two animals standing face-to-face in a symmetrical arrangement appears with remarkable frequency in ancient arts and ritual representations around the world. It constitutes a universal visual theme, where two animals are depicted confronting each other, usually symmetrically, often flanking a central figure or symbol. This motif is found from Mesopotamia and Egypt to Greece, Etruria, and Persia, and also in cultures of Africa, Asia, the Americas, and Oceania. This article examines:

• The origin of the motif and its earliest appearances.

• Examples from various civilizations, with emphasis on Mediterranean and Near Eastern cultures (Mesopotamia, Egypt, Minoan-Mycenaean Greece, Etruscans, Persians, Hittites, Phoenicians, etc.), but also references from Africa, Asia, the Americas, and Oceania.

• Anthropological and psychological interpretations regarding the motif’s spread to geographically and culturally distant societies.

• A brief overview of the motif’s development and continuity from antiquity to the 19th century.

Origin of the Motif

The origin of the confronted animals motif is rooted in the prehistoric era of the Near East. The earliest known examples appear around the end of the 4th millennium BC in Mesopotamia. In prehistoric seals and vessels from the region, already by the 5th–4th millennium BCE, we find pairs of animals in symmetrical arrangement. For example, cylinder seals from Uruk (~3000 BCE) depict two opposing lionesses (often described as mythical "serpopards" with features of serpent and leopard). Many seals also show two facing goats flanking a Tree of Life at the center, often placed upon a platform or hill—a composition already recognized from the 4th millennium BCE. These early depictions establish a motif of symmetry: two animals in perfect balance around a central axis, offering aesthetic harmony and likely symbolic meaning.

At the same time, other Late Neolithic cultures show similar imagery. A frequently cited example is the seated deity of Çatalhöyük (Neolithic Anatolia, ~6000 BCE), flanked by two felines in symmetrical pose. Some scholars consider this figure a primordial example of the Mistress of Animals archetype in the prehistoric world. Though the deity likely symbolized fertility and protection, the layout with two confronted animals already provides one of the earliest samples of the motif.

Seated Woman of Çatalhöyük is a Neolithic Clay and Ceramic Artifact created in 6000BCE. It lives at the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations in Turkey. The image is © Nevit Dilmen, and used according to Educational Fair Use, and tagged Women and Goddess. Source

In Egypt and Mesopotamia of the 4th millennium BCE, we find parallel developments. A famous Egyptian artifact, the Narmer Palette (~3100 BCE), features on one side two large felines facing each other, their elongated necks intertwined in a symmetrical spiral design. These lionesses (originally interpreted as mythical "serpopards") are thought to symbolize the two kingdoms of Predynastic Upper and Lower Egypt, united under a single ruler. Their union, visualized through the interlinked animals, may reflect the consolidation under Pharaoh Narmer, with the lionesses representing the guardian deities of each kingdom (the lioness-goddesses Bast and Sekhmet). Thus, already at the dawn of history, the motif of confronted animals is associated with strong symbolism of unity and dominion.

Another ancient Egyptian artifact, the Gebel el-Arak knife handle (ca. 3400 BCE), depicts on one side a man—possibly a god or hero—between two confronting lions, which he grasps with his hands. This scene is an early instance of the related motif known as the Master of Animals, where a central human figure dominates between two symmetrically opposed animals. Overall, in both Mesopotamia and Egypt of the 4th–3rd millennium BCE, the motif appears fully developed: animals in opposing symmetry, either confronting each other or under the control of a central figure. The motif’s origin, therefore, can be traced to these early agrarian civilizations of the Fertile Crescent, from which it would spread widely.

Examples from Ancient Civilizations

Mesopotamia and the Ancient Near East

In the civilizations of ancient Mesopotamia, the motif of confronted animals appears from the earliest seal impressions and remains popular throughout the 3rd and 2nd millennia BCE. Sumerian and Akkadian cylinder seals often depict symmetrical scenes with animals—two lions or bulls facing each other, sometimes with a human or demigod hero standing between them, restraining the animals. A recurring theme is the "naked hero" battling two lions or bulls simultaneously, symbolizing strength and civilization’s triumph over wild nature.

In other depictions, a tree or sacred pole appears at the center, with two ibexes (or other animals) symmetrically flanking it, forming the image of the Tree of Life. This motif—of a tree flanked by confronted animals—is extremely common in the art of the ancient Near East and the Mediterranean. It is often interpreted as symbolizing fertility and the vital force of nature, with the animals either protecting or feeding from the tree.

In Hittite and broader Anatolian tradition, similar patterns emerge. Although monumental Hittite art of the 2nd millennium BC left fewer relief scenes of two confronted animals flanking a central deity, it is known that the Hittites adopted many motifs from Mesopotamia. The gates of Hittite cities, such as the capital Hattusa, were adorned with carved stone lions placed symmetrically at each side of the entrance as threshold guardians.

Additionally, Hittite seals and small reliefs from the 18th–17th centuries BC (during the Assyrian trade colony period in Anatolia) abound in scenes of heroes or deities battling symmetrically arranged animals. Later, in the imperial period of the Hittites, the motif of the god standing atop a deer (a hunting deity) emerged, symbolizing dominance over wild beasts, although it is not a direct instance of the confronted animals motif. Overall, the Near East developed a rich iconographic repertoire in which the symmetrical depiction of animals was often associated with sacred power and protection.

The Phoenicians and other Eastern Mediterranean cultures of the 1st millennium BC further disseminated these motifs. Phoenician ivory carvings and metal vessels frequently depict sacred trees flanked by symmetrical animals such as ibexes, sphinxes, or lions, reflecting influences from Mesopotamia and Assyria. The motif of the Tree of Life flanked by confronted animals appears, for example, in Phoenician jewelry and reliefs, possibly symbolizing divine blessing and guardianship—where the paired animals act as protectors of the central sacred symbol.

In Imperial Persia (Achaemenid period, 6th–4th century BCE), although official art preferred continuous friezes of processional animals, there are indications of continuity for the confronted animals motif. The famous friezes of Persepolis feature lions and bulls in dynamic interactions—not symmetrically confronted but often in combat. However, in Persian decorative art and textiles, the confronted animals motif flourished. A notable example is the Persian decorative medallion (roundel) in textiles and carpets, often depicting two animals facing each other within a circular frame—a motif rooted in the tradition of animal compositions from the Asian steppes.

This Persian tradition was transmitted via the Silk Road to China during the Tang dynasty, where Chinese weavers adopted the motif in their own designs. Thus, the pair of confronted animals, often framed within decorative borders, became an international motif in textile and minor arts of late antiquity.

Jade Openwork Disc with Dragon and Phoenix, China, 2nd century BC, Museum of the Mausoleum of the Nanyue King

Ancient Egypt

Beyond the Predynastic examples already discussed—such as the Narmer Palette and the Gebel el-Arak knife—the motif continued in various forms during the Pharaonic period. Ceremonial palettes from the late 4th millennium BC were often adorned with reliefs showing confronted animals. Besides lionesses, these included hippopotamuses, giraffes, geese, and other creatures. Even symmetrical representations of trees or palm fronds appeared, establishing a recurring motif of bilateral symmetry.

In Egyptian religious art, the motif became closely associated with protection and order. Confronted lionesses could symbolize guardian deities such as Bast and Sekhmet, flanking the pharaoh. In Egyptian mythology, the motif of two lions seated back-to-back (anti-confronted), known as Akeru, represented yesterday and tomorrow with the rising sun between them. Although reversed, this composition reflected the symbolic use of paired animals flanking a cosmic principle.

In the New Kingdom and later periods, the motif persisted through sphinxes and guardian lions placed in symmetrical pairs at temple entrances or palace avenues—such as the ram-headed sphinxes lining the processional avenue in Thebes. Relief scenes frequently depicted goddesses in animal form or with animal heads shown symmetrically. The goddess Hathor, for example, often appeared doubled as two cows flanking the sun or the pharaoh, underscoring cosmic balance and divine guardianship.

Minoan and Mycenaean Greece

In the prehistoric Aegean, the motif of confronted animals held a special place, often linked with nature deities. In Minoan Crete (2nd millennium BCE), the figure of the Mistress of Animals (Potnia Theron) appears in frescoes and seals, flanked symmetrically by animals. A well-known example is the Snake Goddess (~1600 BCE), depicted with uplifted arms holding serpents on each side—clearly a variation of the motif. These snakes, sacred symbols, flank the goddess symmetrically and emphasize her dominion over nature and apotropaic power.

Seals and frescoes from Minoan palaces show pairs of ibexes, bulls, or lions flanking central elements like trees or altars. Gold jewelry, such as the famous Bee Pendant from Malia, represents two bees or insects symmetrically facing a central orb—a microcosmic variation of the same visual logic.

THE “SNAKE GODDESSES” AND OTHER MINIATURE OBJECTS FROM THE TEMPLE REPOSITORIES

The most important cult objects from the Knossos Temple Repositories are the figurines of the “Snake Goddess.” They are named after the snakes twining around the body and arms of the larger figure and the two snakes that the smaller figure holds in her upraised hands.

The snakes symbolize the chthonic character of the cult of the goddess, while the feline creature on the head of the smaller figure suggests her dominion over nature. The exposed and voluptuous garments, consisting of a long flounced skirt, tight-fitting bodice, and a close-fitting bodice that exposes the figure's breasts, symbolize the fertility of women, the goddess, and, by implication, nature itself.

The large rock-crystal rosette and stone cross are astral symbols. Knossos–Temple Repositories, 1650–1550 B.C.

Photo by Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

In Mycenaean Greece (~1600–1100 BCE), the motif reached monumental scale in the Lion Gate at Mycenae (~1250 BCE). The relief above the gate features two lionesses standing symmetrically on a pedestal, their forepaws resting on a central column. The column is interpreted as a symbolic representation of a deity or sacred space, perhaps a stand-in for the Mycenaean Great Goddess. Some scholars believe it represents the palace gate or a sacred grove, with the lionesses acting as protectors of the royal and sacred precinct.

Mycenaean seals and rings also frequently depict heroes or deities grasping animals by the neck in symmetrical positions, echoing the Master of Animals motif.

Etruscans and the Western Mediterranean

In the 1st millennium BCE, the Etruscans of Italy adopted many Orientalizing motifs through trade with Greece and the Near East, including the confronted animals motif. A characteristic example is the Tomb of the Leopards in Tarquinia (~5th century BCE), where two leopards appear above a symposium scene, facing each other symmetrically. Though decorative, the animals also served as guardians of the banquet in the afterlife.

Similar motifs appear in Etruscan metalwork and ceramics, where pairs of feline or other animal forms flank sacred trees or objects. These were likely apotropaic or indicative of prestige. The Romans, continuing these traditions, embraced symbolic dualities such as the Dioscuri (twin heroes) depicted symmetrically or the Capitoline Wolf suckling the twins—another expression of dual guardianship.

In Carthage, a Phoenician colony in North Africa, the motif survived in adapted forms, particularly in the depiction of sacred trees flanked by confronted animals, echoing Phoenician and Mesopotamian prototypes.

Overall, across the ancient Mediterranean—from the Near East and Egypt to the Aegean and Italy—the image of two symmetrical animals facing each other recurs with striking consistency. Whether lionesses at city gates, sphinxes at tombs, goats flanking sacred trees, or winged creatures on jewelry, the motif was employed to convey power, sanctity, and protection.

Confronted leopards protect a banquet in the afterlife where Etruscan couples dine and are served wine from the ewers held by servers before the seating - mural in a Tomb of the Leopards burial chamber - necropolis of Tarquinia - Lazio, Italy

Other World Civilizations

Sub-Saharan Africa

In sub-Saharan Africa, although confronted animal motifs are not as systematically represented as in the ancient Near East, we find important and meaningful instances. A particularly notable example comes from the Kingdom of Benin (present-day Nigeria). The Benin bronze plaques of the 16th–17th centuries CE, which once adorned the royal palace, include depictions of the Oba (king) holding two leopards—one in each hand—standing symmetrically on either side. The leopard, considered the "king of the forest," symbolized the Oba’s alter ego and conveyed royal power and dominion over nature. This scene is a clear African expression of the Master of Animals motif and reveals the symbolic use of confronted animals to represent sovereignty and supernatural control.

Asia (Beyond the Near East)

In the Indian subcontinent, seals from the Indus Valley Civilization (ca. 2500–1900 BCE) show horned deities flanked by various animals—elephants, tigers, rhinoceroses, and buffaloes—though not always in perfect symmetry. The most famous, the so-called “Pashupati” seal, shows a deity in yogic posture surrounded by animals, a precursor to the later Hindu concept of Shiva as Lord of Beasts.

In Chinese tradition, mythical creatures like the dragon and phoenix often appear in symmetrical pairs, especially in imperial contexts, symbolizing the emperor and empress, or cosmic duality. Jade amulets from the Han dynasty show these creatures in a face-to-face arrangement. In the Mawangdui tomb banner (2nd century BCE), a human deity with outstretched arms holds serpents or dragons at either side—another example of a central figure with flanking animals.

In Southeast Asia and Oceania, traditional art also expresses the principle of symmetry. In Papua New Guinea and Indonesian carving traditions, we find representations of birds, reptiles, or totemic creatures in balanced, symmetrical positions, often in ritual or architectural contexts. While not as systematic as in the Fertile Crescent, the appearance of symmetrical animal pairs reveals a universal aesthetic and symbolic impulse.

Pre-Columbian Americas

In the Americas, the motif appears with regional variations. In Mesoamerica, the Aztec calendar stone features two massive serpents facing each other at the base, symbolizing cosmic cycles. The twin heroes of Mayan mythology, though anthropomorphic, reflect duality and symmetry as sacred principles. Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent deity, is sometimes depicted between flanking animals, signifying his control over the natural world.

In the Andean region, Chavín art (1st millennium BCE) presents the Staff God holding two animal-headed staffs, surrounded by rows of symmetrical animal forms (eagles, serpents, felines). The Sun Gate at Tiwanaku shows a central deity—possibly Viracocha—holding staffs and flanked by confronting animal forms. These examples, found across the globe, demonstrate the motif’s transcultural resonance.

Lithograph of Powhatan's Mantle

E. T. Shelton (photograph, ca. 1888); P. W. M. Trap (lithography, ca. 1888)

Anthropological and Psychological Interpretations

The recurrence of the confronted animals motif in such diverse and geographically distant cultures invites a deeper anthropological and psychological analysis. Why has this motif appeared independently or been adopted so widely? What symbolic or functional needs does it fulfill?

1. Aesthetic Symmetry

One foundational explanation lies in the human attraction to symmetry. Bilateral symmetry is a fundamental feature of the natural world—from the human body to countless animals and plants. Thus, the human mind is predisposed to perceive symmetrical arrangements as orderly, harmonious, and pleasing. Two animals in mirrored confrontation form a closed, balanced composition. Psychologically, such balance symbolizes order over chaos—a central concern for early civilizations seeking to impose structure on a hostile or untamed environment. Independent of any specific religious or cultural meaning, the motif likely proliferated simply because it appealed to the human eye and psyche.

2. Symbolism of Power and Control

In many instances, particularly where a human or divine figure stands between the animals, the motif conveys power and dominion. Anthropologists have long observed that the Master of Animals scene often reflects elite or royal ideology. The hero or god subduing two beasts becomes a metaphor for the ruler who tames the wilderness, enforces order, or defends civilization. Examples range from Mesopotamian cylinder seals of the king battling lions to the Benin Oba gripping leopards. Even when the human figure is absent, the animals flanking a sacred symbol may imply guardian functions. Lions at Mycenaean gates or leopards in Etruscan tombs operate as sentinels at thresholds—between life and death, profane and sacred.

3. Duality and Cosmic Balance

Many cultures organize their cosmologies around dualities: light and dark, male and female, life and death, and earth and sky. Confronted animals often express these paired principles in visual form. In the Narmer Palette, the lionesses may represent Upper and Lower Egypt unified. In China, the dragon and phoenix reflect yin and yang. A tree flanked by goats might signify the union of terrestrial vitality with celestial ascent. Scholar Elvyra Usačiovaitė points out that a typical ancient archetype features two mirrored figures with a tree between them—sometimes kings or gods, or even deity and devotee—suggesting cosmic cooperation or harmonious balance.

Psychologically, the confrontation of equal animals suggests rivalry brought into balance. Neither overpowers the other; the symmetry embodies equilibrium, perhaps symbolizing the stable world order desired by ancient peoples. The motif may reflect a deep psychological need in humans to endure the weight of a world that surrounds and defines them before they even understand or choose it. People are born into a world already full of laws, symbols, natural forces, and social expectations—all of which exert pressure and seem overwhelming.

The symmetrical depiction of animals, especially when flanking a central figure, creates a sense of balanced order where one can safely stand and recognize themselves as an active being. Whether the central figure is a hero, a deity, or a symbolic human, its position between two facing beasts conveys the hope that chaos can be ordered and that the powers of nature can be controlled or coexist in harmony. The motif thus becomes a vessel for a timeless human desire: to believe that we are not at the mercy of the world, but that there is a center of meaning or strength that transcends and supports us.

4. Religious and Ritual Function

The motif is frequently found in religious or ceremonial contexts—on altars, temple gates, tombs, and sacred items—suggesting it served a spiritual purpose. Animals might embody guardian spirits, divine protectors, or totemic ancestors. Their symmetrical stance flanking a sacred object or space may act as an invocation, ward, or symbol of divine presence. The motif may have been used in initiation rites or cosmological teachings, conveying notions of balance, order, or divine oversight.

Though specific meanings varied across cultures, the form was adaptable—used to express fertility (animals flanking a Tree of Life), authority (a god or king between lions), or transcendence (sphinxes guarding sacred precincts).

5. Diffusion and Independent Invention

The global presence of the motif results from both cultural diffusion and independent development. Archaeological evidence supports diffusion: motifs traveling along trade routes from Mesopotamia to Anatolia, the Aegean, and eventually to Persia and China via textiles. Yet even in cultures without contact, the motif emerged independently—evidence of a shared human symbolic imagination. Across cultures, people sought to depict their mastery of nature, express duality, and sanctify space. The confronted animals motif met all these needs, both practically and spiritually.

In conclusion, no single interpretation exhausts the motif's meaning. It was polyvalent—sometimes ornamental, sometimes sacred, and sometimes royal. Its universality reflects shared human values: awe of the animal world, love of symmetry, and the need for symbols bridging the natural and the divine.

Later Continuity and Evolution of the Motif

The motif of confronted animals did not disappear with antiquity; instead, it was preserved and transformed across later periods, enduring into the 19th century. As religions, artistic traditions, and symbolic systems evolved, the motif adapted to new contexts while retaining its core principle—two entities in symmetrical confrontation.

Classical Antiquity and Early Christian Art

During the Greco-Roman period, the motif persisted, although less dominantly. In Greek art, the goddess Artemis as Potnia Theron was often shown with animals on either side—sometimes holding a stag in each hand—reiterating the visual theme of control over nature. Such imagery continued into Roman decorative contexts, where the idea of symmetrical flanking persisted in designs associated with deities, heroes, or cosmic concepts.

Medieval Europe

The motif found renewed vitality in medieval Europe, especially through contact with animal-style art from the steppe cultures. Germanic, Anglo-Saxon, and Viking art embraced symmetrical animal compositions, often highly stylized. One of the most famous examples is the Sutton Hoo purse lid (~7th century CE), which features three sets of confronted animals. On the outer panels, anthropomorphic figures grip wolves in symmetrical opposition; the central design includes a more abstract pair of confronted beasts in intricate interlace.

Purse-lid from the Sutton Hoo ship-burial 1, England. British Museum.

Rob Roy User:Robroyaus on en:wikipedia.org

Celtic and Insular art followed similar aesthetics. In illuminated manuscripts like the Book of Kells, human and animal figures appear in mirrored, often interwoven poses. The Viking art style known as "gripping beasts" continued this trend into the 11th century, showing confronted animals whose limbs or tails interlock in elaborate patterns.

Romanesque and Gothic Architecture

In Romanesque art (11th–12th centuries CE), the motif reappears in architectural sculpture. Church capitals and tympanums often show two dragons, lions, or other creatures facing each other, forming arches over windows and portals. These often had moral or apotropaic meanings, symbolizing the conflict between good and evil or acting as spiritual protectors.

Heraldry and Early Modern Symbolism

In medieval and early modern heraldry, the motif became codified in the form of "supporters"—animals flanking a coat of arms. Since the late Middle Ages, these have included lions, unicorns, eagles, and other creatures standing symmetrically on either side of a heraldic shield. The British royal arms, for instance, feature a lion and a unicorn as confronted supporters. Here, the ancient visual logic is maintained, with the animals no longer guarding a tree or deity but instead a symbol of state authority.

Romanesque capital, northern outside of the main apse of Basel Minster

HajjiBaba - Own work

Islamic and Renaissance Decorative Arts

In Islamic art, especially in textiles and carpets from the 13th to 15th centuries CE, the motif of two confronted animals surrounding a tree or medallion flourished. These “animal carpets” from Anatolia often showed mythical or real animals (dragons, phoenixes, deer, birds) in face-to-face symmetry within circular frames. The motif symbolized harmony, divine order, or heavenly gardens. These carpets were exported to Europe and depicted in Renaissance paintings as luxury objects.

In Renaissance Europe, the motif was often used decoratively. It appeared on tapestries, manuscript borders, and architectural friezes. The aesthetic value of symmetrical animal pairs outweighed their mythological significance, yet their symbolic resonance with antiquity remained strong.

Into the 18th and 19th Centuries

The motif continued into neoclassical and Romantic-era Europe, appearing in sculpture, architecture, and decorative design. Guardian lions flanking the entrances of neoclassical buildings, animal motifs on heraldic devices, and even national symbols like the double-headed eagle (a variation of the motif) sustained the ancient tradition.

Folk art, too, retained versions of the motif. European textiles, embroidery, and ceramics of the 18th–19th centuries often featured confronted horses, birds, or floral elements, reaffirming the enduring appeal of bilateral animal symmetry. Even when its origins were forgotten, the form continued to serve its functions: aesthetic harmony, symbolic balance, and cultural identity.

Animal carpet, Turkey, dated to the 11th–13th century, Museum of Islamic Art, Doha

The motif of confronted animals is one of the most enduring and universal in human artistic expression. From early Mesopotamian seals and Egyptian palettes to medieval manuscripts and 19th-century folk textiles, the image of two animals facing each other across a central axis has communicated a wealth of meanings.

Its persistence across millennia and continents suggests that it satisfies deep cognitive and symbolic needs. Whether representing divine guardianship, cosmic order, royal power, or pure visual balance, the motif was infinitely adaptable. Each culture integrated it into its own visual and symbolic vocabulary, and each time it was slightly reinvented—yet always recognizable.

At its heart, the motif reminds us that the human imagination is both universal and diverse. Across time and space, people have seen in the mirrored gaze of two animals not just an image, but a symbol of unity, guardianship, power, and equilibrium. It is a visual language that continues to echo in our collective memory.

Heroes and Bones: How Ancient Greeks Interpreted Fossils and Created Myths

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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From the foothills of Pindus to the coasts of Asia Minor, ancient Greeks often encountered peculiar findings in the ground: enormous bones, dentitions, and skulls. These remnants, which we now recognize as fossils of prehistoric animals, inspired some of the most enduring myths of the Greco-Roman world. But how did the ancients interpret these findings? What role did they play in their political, religious, and cultural life?​

Researcher Adrienne Mayor, in her seminal work The First Fossil Hunters: Paleontology in Greek and Roman Times, explores this very question, connecting ancient texts, mythological traditions, and geological evidence to argue that the ancients were, in essence, the first paleontologists.​

Pausanias and the Bones of Heroes

One of the primary chroniclers of such findings is Pausanias, a 2nd-century AD traveler whose work Description of Greece offers invaluable insights into the religious and mythical landscapes of antiquity. In numerous accounts, Pausanias mentions discoveries of "gigantic bones," attributed to heroes like Orestes and Theseus or even mythical creatures like giants and cyclopes.​

For instance, when describing Tegea, Pausanias notes that the Spartans exhumed massive bones they identified as Orestes', following an oracle from Delphi. Upon returning to their homeland, they used these remains as religious and political symbols of victory over the Arcadians.​

The Transportation and Politicization of "Relics"

The act of transporting heroic bones wasn't merely an honor to ancestors; it carried political intent and ideological weight. The relocation of Theseus' bones from Skyros to Athens by Cimon in 475 BC bolstered Athens' political unity and democratic resurgence under Pericles.​

map by Michele Mayor Angel, Mayor 2000: 114, Mar 3.1

Adrienne Mayor highlights the use of these findings to "legitimize" a city's dominance or to fortify collective identity. They served as evidence of genealogical ties to the heroic age, justifying political ambitions or military interventions.​

Herodotus and the Tradition of "Tribal" Memory

While Herodotus doesn't frequently mention specific bones, his Histories incorporate numerous local narratives that seem to stem from natural discoveries. Descriptions of "monstrous" beings, such as the griffins in Scythia, might have originated from fossils of prehistoric mammals unearthed by gold miners in those regions.​

How Did the Ancients Explain Fossils? Explaining the Bones: Myth as Natural History

For ancient Greeks, there was no clear distinction between science, mythology, and theology. Observing a massive femur could reasonably lead to the belief that it belonged to a Giant or Titan. Legends of the Gigantomachy or Titanomachy might be mythological "memories" of a prehistoric world dominated by colossal beings.​

The Trojan Monster as it is depicted on an ancient Greek vase, housed at the Mu seum of Boston

In areas like Lesbos and Samos, locals believed fossils were remnants of wars between gods and heroes. On Chios, a fossil was attributed to Ajax the Telamonian, while in the Aegean islands, "the shoulders of giants" were often depicted in public rituals or housed in temples.​

Adrienne Mayor and the Modern Reinterpretation of Myths

Mayor's significant contribution lies in crediting the ancients with observational skills and rationality. In her book, she presents numerous examples where Greeks not only interpreted these bones but also integrated them into a natural history of the world. She attributes to them an early form of scientific thinking: recognizing that the world was once inhabited by different species.​

Mayor compares ancient findings with modern paleontological analyses, noting that many regions mentioned in texts, like Tegea and Skyros, indeed contain fossils of large mammals from the Pleistocene. The bones considered to be Orestes' might have been remnants of mammoths or other megafauna.​

The Trojan monster could correspond to the skull of Samotherium. The picture of the vase is taken from Mayor (2000) and the drawing of Samotherium from Lydekker(1883).

From Myth to Natural Interpretation: The End of "Fantasy"?

Modern archaeology and paleontology, aided by geology, validate the ancients' intuition to some extent. Rather than being naive or pre-scientific, ancient Greeks emerge as observers of the natural world with creative thinking. The connection between natural findings and mythological tradition was their way of understanding and interpreting the inaccessible past.​

Fossils in ancient Greece weren't merely "lifeless remnants"—they were carriers of stories, foundations of myths, evidence of divine presence, and tools of political dominance. Adrienne Mayor's work is invaluable, allowing us to view the ancients not only as myth-makers but also as proto-scientists striving to decipher the Earth's signs, much like we endeavor to interpret their writings.​

This dialogue between the natural world and cultural memory is perhaps the most authentic form of "paleontology": not just about what happened, but about how people interpreted it.

Decoding the Minoan 'Master's Seal': Architectural and Religious Symbolism in Minoan Civilization

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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The Minoan "Master's Seal," also known as the "Master Impression," is a remarkable artifact from the Late Minoan period (circa 1450–1400 BCE), currently housed in the Archaeological Museum of Chania, Crete. This small clay seal impression, measuring approximately 1.5 cm in diameter, offers a detailed depiction of Minoan architecture and religious symbolism, providing valuable insights into the civilization's societal structure and artistic achievements.​

Discovery and Context

The seal was discovered during Greek-Swedish excavations on Kastelli Hill in Chania, the site of ancient Kydonia. This area has yielded significant Minoan remains, indicating its importance as a center of administration and religion during the Late Minoan period. The seal impression was found in a context suggesting it was discarded during the reinhabitation of the area following the LMIB destruction horizon, a period marked by widespread upheaval in Minoan Crete. ​

Description of the Seal

The "Master's Seal" presents a complex scene carved in miniature detail. It depicts a multi-story architectural complex situated atop a steep, rocky hill, resembling the topography of Kastelli Hill. The buildings are arranged in a heraldic composition with seven wings across four levels, the lowest enclosed by a fortification-like wall. Two gates, possibly made from wooden trunks, and a frieze of half-rosettes adorn the lintel, adding decorative and structural elements. ​

At the apex of the central structure stands a youthful male figure holding a spear or staff. His elevated position and commanding posture suggest a symbolic role, possibly representing a deity or high-ranking worshiper, commonly interpreted as a "Young Master," embodying authority or divine presence. The buildings are crowned with the characteristic horns of consecration, underscoring their ritual or sacred significance. ​

Symbolism and Interpretation

The seal's imagery reflects the Minoan civilization's intricate relationship between architecture, religion, and societal hierarchy. The presence of the "Young Master" figure atop the central structure may symbolize divine oversight or theocratic leadership, suggesting that political and religious authority were intertwined in Minoan society. The horns of consecration, a recurring motif in Minoan art, further emphasize the sacred nature of the depicted complex. ​

Some scholars propose that the scene represents a specific sanctuary or palace, possibly serving as a model for actual Minoan architectural practices. The detailed depiction of architectural elements, such as multi-story buildings and decorative friezes, provides valuable information about Minoan construction techniques and aesthetic preferences. ​

Artistic and Cultural Significance

Despite its small size, the "Master's Seal" demonstrates the Minoan artisans' exceptional skill in miniature carving and their ability to convey complex narratives through art. The seal serves not only as an administrative tool but also as a medium for expressing religious and political ideologies. Its intricate design and symbolic content offer a window into the values and beliefs of Minoan society during the Late Bronze Age. ​

The Minoan "Master's Seal" stands as a testament to the civilization's artistic prowess and the intricate interplay between architecture, religion, and authority in their society. Its detailed imagery provides scholars with a rich source of information about Minoan culture, offering insights into their architectural practices, religious symbolism, and societal structure. As one of the most significant artifacts from Minoan Crete, the seal continues to captivate researchers and visitors alike, shedding light on the complexities of this ancient civilization.

Is Alexander the Great Buried in Venice? The Theory of Andrew Michael Chugg

BY DIMOSTHENIS VASILOUDIS

The burial site of Alexander the Great continues to captivate historians, archaeologists, and enthusiasts alike. Despite his monumental role in shaping the ancient world, his final resting place remains elusive. After his death in Babylon in 323 BCE, historical accounts mention the elaborate transportation of his body and a politically charged burial in Egypt. Ancient sources suggest it was first interred in Memphis and later transferred to Alexandria, a city he founded and where he supposedly wished to be buried. His tomb became a place of pilgrimage for centuries—visited by emperors such as Augustus and Caracalla—until, at some point, it vanished from historical records, leaving behind one of the greatest archaeological riddles of the ancient world.

This absence of concrete information has given rise to various theories, ranging from secret relocations to deliberate concealment. Among these, Andrew Michael Chugg’s theory stands out for its originality and the way it attempts to reconcile two separate historical traditions: the mysterious disappearance of Alexander’s tomb and the sudden appearance of Saint Mark’s relics in Christian sources. Chugg’s central premise is provocative yet intriguing—that the body now venerated as Saint Mark in Venice may in fact be that of Alexander the Great, preserved under a Christian guise to ensure its survival during a period of intense religious transformation.

The Disappearance of the Tomb

Historical references to Alexander’s tomb gradually fade by the end of Late Antiquity. The most telling account comes from John Chrysostom, writing in the late 4th century CE, who remarked that the tomb of Alexander had already vanished in his time. This loss coincided with the Christianization of Alexandria, a period during which many pagan sites and relics were destroyed, repurposed, or simply neglected. The shift in religious ideology brought an end to the public veneration of figures like Alexander, whose legacy was deeply tied to polytheism and heroic cults. Thus, the disappearance of his tomb may have been not just a result of natural decay or looting, but a deliberate move to suppress or obscure a powerful pagan symbol.

Moreover, there is little to no archaeological or literary evidence from after this period to suggest the tomb’s continued existence. The ancient Soma—Alexander’s mausoleum in the heart of Alexandria—had likely fallen into ruin, been plundered, or been buried under centuries of urban development. Yet, the enduring fascination with Alexander’s body, which was said to have been miraculously preserved and revered even by the Romans, raises questions. If the body had indeed remained intact by the 4th century, what happened to it? Chugg’s theory posits that this was precisely the moment when Alexandrian Christians, seeking to protect the corpse from desecration, rebranded it under a new religious identity.

The Body of Saint Mark

The sudden emergence of Saint Mark’s relics in the 4th century is one of the most curious elements in the theory. While Saint Mark is traditionally considered to have founded the Church of Alexandria and to have been martyred there, his remains are notably absent from earlier Christian writings. It is only in the mid-4th century that references to his body appear, a temporal coincidence that Chugg finds significant. The idea is that during a time of political and religious upheaval, Alexandrian authorities or Christian leaders may have seen the need to “preserve” a revered body—possibly that of Alexander—by attributing it to a more theologically acceptable figure.

This reinterpretation would have served both practical and ideological purposes. By presenting the mummy as Saint Mark, Christians could preserve a sacred relic without incurring theological suspicion or imperial interference. In this context, the reidentification of the body could be seen as a form of religious repurposing. The name and narrative changed, but the reverence remained. If this hypothesis holds, it suggests that early Christian Alexandria may have knowingly participated in a remarkable transformation of pagan heritage into Christian sanctity—a phenomenon not uncommon in Late Antiquity, where symbols and sites of former cults were often absorbed rather than destroyed.

Jacopo Tintoretto - St Mark's Body Brought to Venice, c. 1562-1566, Galleria dell’Accademia

Transfer to Venice

In the 9th century, Venetian merchants supposedly smuggled the body of Saint Mark from Alexandria to Venice, concealing it in barrels of pork to avoid detection by Muslim authorities. The relic was enshrined in the newly built Basilica di San Marco, which became one of the city’s most sacred religious centers. This transfer was part of Venice’s broader ambition to establish itself as a spiritual and political rival to older Christian powers like Rome and Constantinople. Possession of a major apostolic relic not only enhanced the city’s prestige but also gave it a powerful symbol of divine legitimacy.

If Chugg’s theory holds true, however, the body that arrived in Venice was not that of the Evangelist, but of the Macedonian conqueror. The reinterment of Alexander under the guise of Saint Mark would mean that his preserved remains continued to be venerated, albeit under a different name and tradition. This would make Venice the unexpected custodian of one of history’s most iconic figures. From this perspective, the sanctity attributed to the relic may stem not only from its supposed Christian identity but also from an ancient cultural memory surrounding the legendary figure of Alexander the Great.

Clues Supporting the Theory

Two key clues offer intriguing, though inconclusive, support for Chugg’s hypothesis. The first comes from the 13th-century Venetian chronicler Martino da Canale, who claimed to have seen the body of Saint Mark in 1275 and described it as being mummified. This is highly unusual, since mummification was not a practice associated with early Christianity. If the body were indeed embalmed in the Egyptian style, this would align more with Hellenistic or pharaonic funerary traditions, such as those applied to Alexander’s remains, rather than with Christian martyr relics, which were typically skeletal or incorrupt in a miraculous sense.

The second clue concerns an ancient stone relief found in the crypt of the Basilica of Saint Mark. This artifact, reportedly adorned with Macedonian symbols, appears to have no connection to Saint Mark but might relate to Alexander’s cultural background. Its presence suggests that objects accompanying the body to Venice may have had non-Christian, possibly Hellenistic, origins. While such artifacts could theoretically have been acquired by chance or as spoils, their symbolic alignment with Alexander’s heritage adds a layer of mystery that supports Chugg’s argument. If the crypt's contents include cultural markers of Macedonia, this could point to an origin far different from what tradition claims.

St Mark square.

The Mystery Endures

Despite its ingenuity, Chugg’s theory remains speculative and controversial. Like many theories surrounding the final fate of Alexander the Great, it is built upon circumstantial evidence and interpretative connections rather than direct archaeological proof. Historians and archaeologists are divided: some view it as an imaginative reconstruction lacking firm basis, while others appreciate it as a creative attempt to make sense of historical gaps. The theory certainly highlights how little we truly know about the fate of Alexander’s body and how intertwined ancient history and religious tradition can become.

A definitive resolution would require physical examination of the relic held in Venice, most notably through DNA analysis. However, such a possibility is remote. The body is considered sacred by the Roman Catholic Church, and exhumation or scientific testing is highly unlikely under current conditions. Even if permission were granted, the success of such tests would depend on whether viable DNA can be extracted and compared with ancient Macedonian remains—something that presents its own methodological challenges. Until such breakthroughs occur, the question of whether Venice is home to the greatest conqueror of antiquity will remain an enthralling historical enigma.

The Painted Wooden Plaques of Pitsa: A Rare Testimony of Archaic Greek Art and Script

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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In 1934, in a cave above the modern village of Pitsa, near ancient Sicyon in Corinthia, an exceptionally important discovery for the history of Greek art and writing was made: four painted wooden plaques, the best preserved of which is now displayed at the National Archaeological Museum of Athens (No. 16464). [1] These plaques are the only surviving examples of large-scale Corinthian painting and are rich in linguistic and cultural data.

Religious Function and Iconography

The main plaque depicts a religious procession to an altar where a lamb is about to be sacrificed. The scene includes musical instruments: aulos and lyre, both integral elements of ritual experience. The presence of female figures leading the procession and a characteristic libation at the altar link the scene to dedications to the Charites (Graces), and the text mentions dedicator names such as Euthydika, Eukolis, and Etheloncha. [2]

These plaques were votive offerings to the Nymphs, local fertility deities worshiped within the cave. Although modest in size (31 cm long, 14.5 cm max height), the works are valuable for understanding Corinthian worship, folk religious art, and the techniques of the time.

Xerographic Technique and Colors

The plaques were painted using the xerographic method: mineral pigments applied to wood without the use of shading or gradation. The outlines of the figures are done in black or red, while the colors (white, red, blue, yellow, violet, brown, green, and black) are applied in pure tones, unmixed and unshaded. [3] Though simple, this technique allows for clear imagery and legible inscriptions.

Inscriptions and Names: Placement and Reading

The inscriptions are written in the upper section of the plaque, above the heads of the figures. They are arranged in zones and sometimes extend to the side of the plaque. Notably mentioned are:

• Euthydika (ΕΥΘΥΔΙΚΑ Μ’)

• Eukolis (ΕΥΚΟΛΙΣ)

• Etheloncha (ΕΘΕΛΟΝΧΑ or variation)

The phrase "m' anetheken" (has dedicated me) is implied in the dedication. On the side of the plaque, the word KORINTHIOS (Corinthian) is preserved, likely indicating the origin of either the painter or the dedicator.

In another plaque, analysis through infrared reflection revealed inscriptions with the names of seven of the nine female figures: Telesoi, Leukippa, Kalyopsoi, and fragments of Hag[..], Thae[..], Kali[..], and [- - -]okratia. The name Teleso is the earliest known epigraphic instance, and Leukippa and Kalypso are identified with Oceanid nymphs, which supports the hypothesis that these figures represent nymphs performing a ritual dance before an enthroned goddess. [4] [5]

Local Variants of the Greek Alphabet and the Challenge of Reading

In Archaic Greece, a unified Greek alphabet did not exist. Instead, each region had its own local system. Corinth belonged to the "eastern" group of alphabets but had many unique characteristics:

• Use of the letter Qoppa (Ϙ) instead of Kappa (Κ) when the syllable involved back vowels like "O." [6]

• Use of the letter San (Ϻ) instead of Sigma (Σ) for the /s/ sound. [7]

• Theta (Θ) is graphically rendered as ⊕, possibly to distinguish it from similar symbols.

• A unique marking system for the vowel sounds /e/ and /ɛː/, using a B-shaped letter for both and E exclusively for the closed /eː/. Sicyon used its own variations of this system, while neighboring Tiryns had an even more complex one. [8]

Additionally, the letter Eta (Η) did not denote /ɛː/ as in the Ionic system but retained the meaning of /h/ or /eː/, depending on the region.

The Letter Koppa/Qoppa and Its Evolution

The letter Ϙ (Qoppa or Koppa) is among the most ancient in the Greek alphabet. In Corinth, it was extensively used to represent /k/ before back vowels. Although it was gradually abandoned by other regions in the 6th century BC, Corinth retained it for orthographic clarity. [9]

Later, the western Euboean variant of the Greek alphabet transmitted Qoppa to the Etruscans and from them to the Latin script. This gave rise to the letter Q in the Latin alphabet, which persists in English today.

Corinthian Script: A Unique Tradition

The Corinthian script was marked by a distinctive aesthetic and linguistic autonomy:

• The letter I was written is similar to Sigma (e.g., Σ, Ϲ, Ξ).

• The letter B had a unique form, distinct from the classical style.

• The writing was often boustrophedon or right-to-left, as writing direction was not yet standardized.

The inscriptions on the Pitsa plaques exemplify this uniqueness and pose challenges to modern scholars, as reading them requires familiarity with regional variations.

Conclusions

The Pitsa plaques are not only rare examples of painted art but also invaluable resources for the study of Archaic Greek writing, dialectical variation, and religious practices. The dedication to local deities, the musical accompaniment, the sacrificial scene, and the local script together depict a society where religion, language, and art coexisted harmoniously.

Furthermore, the discovery provides material for tracing the development of Greek scripts toward the standardized alphabet adopted in Athens in 403 BC and ultimately the transmission of characters such as Qoppa to Latin and modern European languages.

The plaques of Pitsa are not mere relics of antiquity—they are vivid documents of a world that was colorful, diverse, and richly expressive in word, image, and worship.

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References

[1] National Archaeological Museum of Athens, Catalogue No. 16464.
[2] Jeffery, L.H., The Local Scripts of Archaic Greece. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1961.
[3] Boardman, John. Greek Art. London: Thames & Hudson, 1996.
[4] Infrared analysis in recent epigraphic editions; cf. Masson, BCH 99 (1975), and SEG IX.
[5] Delattre, Marie-Christine. The Painted Wooden Tablets from Pitsa: Religious Painting in Archaic Greece. Technè 33 (2011).
[6] Woodard, Roger D. Greek Writing from Knossos to Homer. Oxford University Press, 1997.
[7] Guarducci, Margherita. Epigrafia Greca. Vol. 1–4. Rome: Istituto Poligrafico dello Stato, 1967–1978.
[8] Powell, Barry B. Homer and the Origin of the Greek Alphabet. Cambridge University Press, 1991.
[9] Jeffery, op. cit., pp. 120–123.

Sensual Divinity: The Sexual Artistic Trends of 3rd Century Ancient Indian Sculpture

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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The early centuries of the Common Era marked a significant period in the history of Indian art, particularly in the realm of sculpture, where sensuality and spirituality seamlessly converged to create evocative representations of divine and human forms. Around 200 AD, the region of Mathura emerged as a pivotal center for artistic development, where the sculpting of human and divine figures reflected not only remarkable craftsmanship but also profound religious and cultural symbolism. This era, characterized by its intricate and sensuous depictions of the human body, particularly the female form, showcased a blend of artistic innovation and spiritual representation.

The Cultural and Religious Context

In ancient Indian culture, religious beliefs were deeply intertwined with the visual arts. The creation of sculptures was not merely an aesthetic pursuit but a medium to express the divine nature of gods, goddesses, and semi-divine beings. The period around 200 AD was influenced by both Hindu and Buddhist religious narratives, with sculptures embodying themes of fertility, prosperity, and divine femininity. This convergence of art and spirituality was epitomized through the depiction of nature spirits known as yakshis, who were believed to symbolize the generative power of the earth and its natural bounty.

Intense Representations of the Feminine Form

The sculptures of this era are often noted for their intense and exaggerated features, particularly in the representation of the female body. These figures typically displayed ample curves, adorned with intricate jewelry and clothing that emphasized, rather than concealed, their physical forms. The sensuous portrayal of the feminine was not intended to evoke mere eroticism but was symbolic of fertility and life-giving energy. The detailed depiction of voluptuous hips, full breasts, and a confident stance was meant to convey a sense of nurturing abundance and the divine aspects of womanhood.

This celebration of the feminine form was deeply rooted in the cultural recognition of the divine feminine, embodied by goddesses such as Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and prosperity, and Parvati, the consort of Shiva. Additionally, yakshis, as nature spirits, were popular subjects, serving as representations of fertility and the vital forces of nature.

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Notable Examples of Sculptural Masterpieces

Several surviving sculptures from this period illustrate the artistic mastery and thematic focus of the time:

1. The Terracotta Plaques of Bengal: These intricate plaques, often depicting divine and semi-divine figures with sensuous, dynamic postures, showcase the emphasis on fertility and abundance.

2. The Kushan Period Yakshis: Distinctive for their full-bodied depictions, these sculptures highlight the elaborate detailing of adornments and the tribhanga pose, emphasizing movement and grace.

3. The Nagarjunakonda Sculptures: Found in Andhra Pradesh, these depict various scenes from life and mythology, including figures of goddesses and yakshis with flowing garments and bejeweled bodies that enhance their sensual appeal.

4. The Ganga and Yamuna Sculptures at the Temple Entrances: These river goddesses, often placed at the entrance of temples, symbolize purity and prosperity, depicted with detailed carvings that celebrate the divine feminine form.

5. The Yakshi of Didarganj: One of the most celebrated sculptures, the Didarganj Yakshi, hails from the 3rd century BCE but continued to inspire artists in the following centuries. This sandstone statue features an exquisitely carved figure holding a fly-whisk, adorned with heavy necklaces and a flowing garment that accentuates her curvaceous form.

6. The Mathura Yakshi: Originating from Mathura itself, this sculpture exemplifies the region’s style with a robust, sensuous depiction of the female body. The yakshi figures from Mathura were often depicted standing in graceful tribhanga (triple-bend) poses that conveyed fluidity and life, emphasizing their association with growth and fertility.

7. The Standing Buddha of Mathura: While not focused solely on the feminine, the Standing Buddha sculpture from this era is noteworthy for integrating the naturalistic and somewhat sensual depiction of the human body with spiritual themes. This sculpture shows the Buddha with soft, rounded features and a serene expression, embodying both the physical and spiritual ideals of the time.

Symbolism and Interpretation

The emphasis on the human body, particularly the feminine form, had a deep symbolic resonance. The lush depictions signified the interconnectedness of human beauty, divine power, and the earth’s fertility. To ancient viewers, these sculptures evoked awe and reverence, serving as reminders of the sacred nature of life and creation. Such representations aligned with the broader cultural acknowledgment of shakti, the divine feminine energy that pervades the universe.

The artistic trends of 200 AD in India, especially from regions like Mathura, represent a profound fusion of spirituality and sensuality. The sculptures, marked by their intense and beautiful depictions of the human form, continue to fascinate historians and art enthusiasts for their masterful craftsmanship and rich cultural symbolism. They stand as testaments to an era that celebrated the sanctity of life and the divine feminine, intertwining the physical with the metaphysical in ways that still resonate in modern interpretations of art and spirituality.

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To support further reading, here are some relevant and credible sources for the topic of ancient Indian art and sculpture:

1. The British Museum's South Asia Collection: British Museum - South Asia Collection

2. Khan Academy - Art History on Ancient India: Khan Academy - Indian Art

3. The Metropolitan Museum of Art - Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History: Met Museum - Indian Sculpture

4. Archaeological Survey of India (ASI): Archaeological Survey of India

5. JSTOR and Project MUSE for academic papers and in-depth analyses: JSTOR Project MUSE

These resources provide insights into the cultural and artistic context of ancient Indian sculptures, their symbolism, and their continued significance.

The Forma Urbis Romae: The Story of Lost Severan Monumental Marble Map of Rome

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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A City Carved in Stone: Decoding Ancient Cartography Through Rome’s Severan Marble Map and: a Testament to Rome’s Glory"

The Forma Urbis Romae, commonly known as the Severan Marble Plan, stands as one of the most remarkable archaeological artifacts from ancient Rome. Commissioned between 203 and 211 CE under the reign of Emperor Septimius Severus, this monumental marble map not only documents the urban layout of the city with immense detail but also captures the grandeur of Rome at its peak. Despite its fragmented survival, the Forma Urbis Romae remains a focal point for scholars and historians, offering a glimpse into the empire’s architectural prowess, urban planning, and historical record-keeping. Through this detailed analysis, we will explore what the Forma Urbis Romae reveals about ancient Rome, the mysteries of its purpose, its journey through history, and its significance today.

The Structure and Design of the Forma Urbis Romae

Originally measuring an astounding 18 meters wide by 13 meters high, the Forma Urbis Romae was carved into 150 marble slabs and mounted on an interior wall of the Temple of Peace, also known as the Templum Pacis. The map was crafted from Proconnesian marble and covered a significant area on the temple’s wall, capturing a detailed ground plan of the imperial city at an approximate scale of 1:240. The creators of the map oriented it with the south at the top, an orientation differing from the north-oriented convention typical in modern maps.

The map was extraordinarily detailed, reflecting the ground plans of Rome’s public and private spaces, including temples, baths, and housing blocks (insulae), along with streets and other communal structures. Even interior details, like colonnades, staircases, and doorways, were incised, with certain features highlighted through symbolic signs or dotted lines. The Forma Urbis Romae revealed the precise architectural layout of each building, and despite some inaccuracies in the carving, the map’s details were an exceptional testament to Roman urban sophistication.

What Does the Forma Urbis Romae Tell Us About Ancient Rome?

The Forma Urbis Romae primarily provides insight into Rome’s architecture and urban organization during the Severan period. By showcasing individual buildings and their internal structures, the map hints at the Romans’ meticulous attention to spatial design and their emphasis on monumental architecture. Notably, prominent public buildings like the Colosseum and the Circus Maximus are clearly depicted, underscoring the role of such spaces in Roman culture.

Moreover, the map highlights the Severan dynasty’s architectural legacy. Archaeologist Susann Lusnia suggests that the Forma Urbis served as a symbolic record of Severus’ building program, which included both restoration projects and new constructions aimed at solidifying his dynasty’s standing. The map’s scale and intricacy might suggest it was intended more as a decorative display than as a functional map. However, its basis in actual land surveys reflects the Romans’ advanced mapping techniques and desire for spatial accuracy in monumental depictions of their empire’s capital.

Purpose and Function of the Forma Urbis Romae

Scholars remain divided on the primary function of the Forma Urbis Romae. Some propose that it served as an official cadastral or locator map within the Temple of Peace, which might have functioned as an archive for the city’s records. However, David Reynolds, a scholar in Roman cartography, argues that the map was likely a decorative showpiece rather than a practical tool. Given its immense size, the map would have been challenging to consult in detail from the floor, especially as many sections were left unlabeled, further questioning its practicality.

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Reynolds suggests that there may have been two versions of the Forma Urbis: one functional, preserved in papyrus form with landownership annotations and other precise details, and the marble version intended for public display. This decorative version would visually demonstrate Rome’s urban landscape while drawing attention to Severus’ accomplishments. By placing it in the Temple of Peace, Severus could project his influence over the city’s physical and symbolic landscape.

The Journey of the Forma Urbis Through the Centuries

Following its creation, the Forma Urbis Romae gradually succumbed to the ravages of time. By the early 5th century, the map suffered significant damage when a passageway was cut through the wall it adorned. The marble slabs were eventually abandoned, with many removed or repurposed for lime production during the late medieval period.

Giovanni Battista Piranesi, Map of ancient Rome and Forma Urbis, from Le antichità Romane, 1835-1839.

Rediscovery of the Forma Urbis fragments began in 1562 when antiquarian sculptor Giovanni Antonio Dosio excavated pieces near the Church of SS. Cosma e Damiano. Over the centuries, further fragments were unearthed, with key pieces identified and matched to notable structures like the Forum of Augustus and the Baths of Agrippa. Despite these efforts, only about 10-15% of the original marble map survives, though this has been sufficient to spark ongoing scholarly fascination and reconstruction projects.

The Forma Urbis Today: A Testament to Roman Legacy

In 2024, the fragments of the Forma Urbis Romae finally received a dedicated exhibition space at the newly opened Museo della Forma Urbis near the Colosseum. This museum, part of the larger Archaeological Park of the Celio, allows visitors to walk over the map fragments displayed under glass flooring, experiencing a physical connection to ancient Rome’s monumental design. The museum also features an 18th-century copy of a historical map, the Nolli Map, superimposed on the ancient fragments, helping visitors contextualize the ancient city layout.

The wall of the Temple of Peace where the Severan marble plan once hung (photo: Wikimedia Commons)

Was the Forma Urbis Romae the Oldest Roman Map?

While the Forma Urbis Romae is among the oldest surviving large-scale maps of Rome, it may not have been the first. There is ongoing debate about whether a similar monumental map existed before Severus’ plan. Evidence from archaeological and literary sources hints at earlier representations of Rome, possibly used for administrative or ceremonial purposes, but no definitive pre-Severan maps have been discovered.

Did the Romans Have Accurate Maps?

The Forma Urbis demonstrates the Romans’ impressive ability to create precise architectural renderings, likely informed by cadastral surveys and advanced land measurement techniques. Roman maps, such as the Peutinger Map, further reveal their capacity to map vast territories and connect regions through detailed road networks. Although not always geographically accurate by modern standards, Roman maps provided essential guidance and visualizations for imperial governance, emphasizing strategic and political aspects of the empire’s expanse.

Conjectural reconstruction of the Forma Urbis Romae

Conclusion

The Forma Urbis Romae endures as a powerful symbol of Rome’s imperial ambition, urban organization, and architectural sophistication. The fragments of this marble map are not just remnants of stone but are pieces of a narrative that link modern viewers to an era when Rome was the heart of a vast empire. Now preserved for public admiration in the Museo della Forma Urbis, the map continues to fascinate and inspire, affirming the ingenuity of ancient Rome’s mapmakers and their lasting contribution to the history of urban cartography.

The Battle of Kadesh: Ramses II's Propaganda and the Truth from Hittite Texts

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BY DIMOSTHENIS VASILOUDIS

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The Battle of Kadesh (1274 BC) is one of the most famous military events of antiquity, where Pharaoh Ramses II clashed with the Hittite King Muwatalli II over control of Syria and the strategically located city of Kadesh. Although the battle did not result in a clear victory for either side, Ramses II initiated extensive propaganda in Egypt, proclaiming his grand victory. However, the discovery of Hittite cuneiform texts offered a more balanced and detailed picture of the actual outcome of the battle. This article explores Ramses’ propaganda and the historical revelations that emerged from the Hittite records.

The Historical Background of the Battle

The Battle of Kadesh took place during a period of intense geopolitical turmoil in the Eastern Mediterranean. Egypt and the Hittite Empire, the two greatest powers of the time, were in constant conflict over control of the wealthy lands of Syria, which served as a trade and military hub. Pharaoh Ramses II, seeking to assert Egyptian dominance in the region, invaded Kadesh while Muwatalli II assembled a massive army to defend the city.

The Egyptian Empire under Ramesses II (green) bordering on the Hittite Empire (red) at the height of its power in c. 1279 BC.

Egyptian Propaganda: Ramses as the Victor

Upon returning to Egypt, Ramses II launched a robust propaganda campaign to highlight his victory. Numerous temples, including those at Luxor and Abu Simbel, were adorned with impressive depictions of the battle, showing Ramses personally leading his troops to victory and saving the Egyptian army from disaster. Egyptian records, such as the "Poem of Pentaur," emphasized Ramses' bravery and described the battle as a great Egyptian triumph.

The scenes on the temples depict Ramses as a semi-divine leader, almost single-handedly defeating the Hittites. This propaganda aimed to bolster his image as an invincible and mighty monarch, reinforcing imperial power and political stability within Egypt.

Bas-relief of Ramesses II on his chariot during the Battle of Kadesh against the Hittite Empire under Muwatalli II, south wall in the Hypostyle Hall of the Great Temple of Abu Simbel, Egypt.

The Truth Behind the Battle: Hittite Cuneiform Texts

However, the discovery of Hittite cuneiform texts significantly altered the understanding of the battle. Inscriptions found in Hittite archives, especially in the capital Hattusa, provide a very different version of the events. These texts do not mention a clear victory for either side, confirming the view that the battle ended essentially in a stalemate, with heavy losses on both the Egyptian and Hittite sides.

The Hittite texts highlight Muwatalli II's strategic skill, as he managed to lure Ramses and the Egyptian army into a difficult position near Kadesh. Despite Ramses' attempts to regain control of the situation, the battle did not result in a decisive victory, and both armies withdrew exhausted from the battlefield. These sources suggest that the Hittite strategy was highly effective and that the Hittite leadership succeeded in maintaining control over Kadesh and the surrounding area.

The Egyptian–Hittite peace treaty, on display at the Istanbul Archaeology Museum, is believed to be the earliest recorded example of a written international agreement.

The Peace Treaty: A Significant Aftermath

Despite Ramses’ propaganda, the failure of the battle to resolve the disputes between the two empires eventually led to a historic peace treaty, the first in human history. The "Treaty of Kadesh," signed a few years later (around 1259 BC), is one of the oldest recorded peace treaties in history and survives in both Egyptian and Hittite writing. The treaty established borders between the two powers, ending the bloody conflicts over control of Syria.

This agreement demonstrates that neither the Egyptians nor the Hittites achieved a total victory on the battlefield, confirming the stalemate revealed by the Hittite texts. The fact that the two great empires resorted to a diplomatic solution instead of prolonged military conflict shows their recognition of the need for stability in the region.

The Role of Propaganda in Ancient Egypt

Ramses II’s use of propaganda is a prime example of ancient rulers' efforts to control the narrative of history and strengthen their power by imposing ideological constructs. The exaggerated depiction of his victory at Kadesh was intended not only to create a heroic image for himself but also to distract the people from the actual balance of power in the region.

It is worth noting that this method was not unique to Ramses. Many other ancient leaders used art and writing to present their military or political successes in the most favorable light, regardless of the true outcome of events.

An ancient bas relief depicting a Hittite chariot in combat. The three-man Hittite chariots were no match for the faster and more agile two-man Egyptian chariots at Kadesh.

The Battle of Kadesh is a remarkable example of how propaganda can shape the perception of history. While the Egyptian version of the battle presents Ramses II as the absolute victor, Hittite texts reveal that the truth was far more complex. The stalemate at Kadesh and the subsequent peace treaty demonstrate that neither the Egyptians nor the Hittites achieved a decisive military victory.

The comparison of these two different narratives offers a deeper understanding of the role of propaganda in ancient times and how leaders sought to define their image in history. The discovery of the Hittite texts reminds us that the truth can be very different from the official version of events.

Schleicher's Fable: A Reconstruction of the Proto-Indo-European Language

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BY DIMOSTHENIS VASILOUDIS

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Schleicher's fable serves as an excellent example of the efforts made by linguists to reconstruct the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) language. It was created in 1868 by August Schleicher, who was the first to compose a text in PIE to demonstrate what this proto-language might have sounded like. The fable is titled "Avis akvāsas ka" ("The Sheep and the Horses") and has since undergone numerous revisions and adaptations by various linguists as our understanding of PIE has evolved. The different versions of the fable represent not only the various interpretations of the proto-language but also provide an opportunity to trace the evolution of ideas and theories about the character and structure of PIE over the centuries.

The History of Reconstruction

Through his work, Schleicher aimed to depict the Proto-Indo-European language as it was understood in the 19th century. This language no longer exists in any living form, and his work represents an attempt to reconstruct it through comparisons and studies of linguistic data from various Indo-European languages, such as Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, and other ancient tongues. His initial attempt was revolutionary for its time, as it laid the foundations for the reconstruction of the proto-language by proposing specific phonological and morphological rules.

The original version of Schleicher's fable tells a brief story where a sheep converses with two horses, discussing the state of human society. The interest in this composition lies not so much in the narrative itself but in the attempt to capture the linguistic form of PIE based on the data available at that time.

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Read also: Wool and the Indo-Anatolian Hypothesis: A Linguistic and Archaeological Approach

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Revisions of the Fable

After Schleicher’s initial publication, several other linguists undertook the task of revising and adapting the fable as our understanding of PIE continued to progress. Some of the most notable revisions include:

1. Hermann Hirt (1939): Hirt published the first significant revision of the fable, adding new phonological and grammatical details that emerged from recent linguistic discoveries. His version presented more complex and precise sounds, reflecting the advancements in understanding the linguistic rules of PIE.

2. Winfred Lehmann and Ladislav Zgusta (1979): The work of Lehmann and Zgusta introduced innovations in morphology and syntax, incorporating more accurate rules concerning word roots and suffixes. Their version contributed to a better understanding of how PIE diversified into various language families.

3. Douglas Q. Adams (1997): Adams' version, published in the "Encyclopedia of Indo-European Culture," introduced new theories about phonetic shifts and the evolution of vowels. His work presented a version of PIE more faithful to the complex phonological reality emerging from comparisons with modern Indo-European languages.

4. Frederik Kortlandt (2007): The most recent revision by Kortlandt integrated the latest theories on PIE phonology and grammar, utilizing newer linguistic methods and data. His version marked a significant step forward in understanding the dynamic evolution of PIE, including details on phonetic development and the use of prepositions.

Illustration by Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

The Sheep and the Horses

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Avis akvāsas ka.

Avis, jasmin varnā na ā ast, dadarka akvams, tam, vāgham garum vaghantam, tam, bhāram magham, tam, manum āku bharantam. Avis akvabhjams ā vavakat: kard aghnutai mai vidanti manum akvams agantam.

Akvāsas ā vavakant: krudhi avai, kard aghnutai vividvant-svas: manus patis varnām avisāms karnauti svabhjam gharmam vastram avibhjams ka varnā na asti.

Tat kukruvants avis agram ā bhugat.

English translation:

The Sheep and the Horses

A sheep that had no wool saw horses, one of them pulling a heavy wagon, one carrying a big load, and one carrying a man quickly. The sheep said to the horses: "My heart pains me, seeing a man driving horses." The horses said: "Listen, sheep, our hearts pain us when we see this: a man, the master, makes the wool of the sheep into a warm garment for himself. And the sheep has no wool." Having heard this, the sheep fled into the plain.

Hirt (1939)

Owis ek'wōses-kʷe

Owis, jesmin wᵇlənā ne ēst, dedork'e ek'wons, tom, woghom gʷᵇrum weghontm̥, tom, bhorom megam, tom, gh'ьmonm̥ ōk'u bherontm̥. Owis ek'womos ewьwekʷet: k'ērd aghnutai moi widontei gh'ᵇmonm̥ ek’wons ag'ontm̥. Ek'wōses ewᵇwekʷont: kl'udhi, owei!, k'ērd aghnutai widontmos: gh'ᵇmo, potis, wᵇlənām owjôm kʷr̥neuti sebhoi ghʷermom westrom; owimos-kʷe wᵇlənā ne esti. Tod k'ek'ruwos owis ag'rom ebhuget.

Lehmann and Zgusta (1979)

Owis eḱwōskʷe

Gʷərēi owis, kʷesjo wl̥hnā ne ēst, ek̂wōns espek̂et, oinom ghe gʷr̥um woĝhom weĝhontm̥, oinomkʷe meǵam bhorom, oinomkʷe ĝhm̥enm̥ ōk̂u bherontm̥.

Owis nu ek̂wobh(y)os (ek̂womos) ewewkʷet: "k̂ēr aghnutoi moi ek̂wōns aĝontm̥ nerm̥ widn̥tei".

Eḱwōs tu ewewkʷont: "k̂ludhi, owei, k̂ēr ghe aghnutoi n̥smei widn̥tbh(y)os (widn̥tmos): nēr, potis, owiōm r̥ wl̥hnām sebhi gʷhermom westrom kʷrn̥euti. Neǵhi owiōm wl̥hnā esti".

Tod k̂ek̂luwōs owis aĝrom ebhuget.

Danka (1986)

Owis ek'woi kʷe

Owis, jesmin wl̥nā ne ēst, dedork'e ek'wons woghom gʷr̥um weghontn̥s - bhorom meg'əm, monum ōk'u bherontn̥s. Owis ek'wobhos eweukʷet: K'erd aghnutai moi widn̥tei g'hm̥onm̥ ek'wons ag'ontm̥. Ek'woi eweukʷont: K'ludhi, owi, k'erd aghnutai dedr̥k'usbhos: monus potis wl̥nām owiōm temneti: sebhei ghʷermom westrom - owibhos kʷe wl̥nā ne esti. Tod k'ek'luwōs owis ag'rom ebhuget.

Adams (1997)

H₂óu̯is h₁ék̂u̯ōs-kʷe

Gʷr̥hₓḗi h₂óu̯is, kʷési̯o u̯lh₂néh₄ ne (h₁é) est, h₁ék̂u̯ons spék̂et, h₁oinom ghe gʷr̥hₓúm u̯óĝhom u̯éĝhontm̥ h₁oinom-kʷe méĝhₐm bhórom, h₁oinom-kʷe ĝhménm̥ hₓṓk̂u bhérontm̥. h₂óu̯is tu h₁ek̂u̯oibh(i̯)os u̯eukʷét: 'k̂ḗr hₐeghnutór moi h₁ék̂u̯ons hₐéĝontm̥ hₐnérm̥ u̯idn̥téi. h₁ék̂u̯ōs tu u̯eukʷónt: 'k̂ludhí, h₂óu̯ei, k̂ḗr ghe hₐeghnutór n̥sméi u̯idn̥tbh(i̯)ós. hₐnḗr, pótis, h₂éu̯i̯om r̥ u̯l̥h₂néhₐm sebhi kʷr̥néuti nu gʷhérmom u̯éstrom néĝhi h₂éu̯i̯om u̯l̥h₂néhₐ h₁ésti.' Tód k̂ek̂luu̯ṓs h₂óu̯is hₐéĝrom bhugét.

Lühr (2008)

h₂ówis h₁ék’wōskʷe

h₂ówis, (H)jésmin h₂wlh₂néh₂ ne éh₁est, dedork'e (h₁)ék'wons, tóm, wóg'ʰom gʷérh₂um wég'ʰontm, tóm, bʰórom még'oh₂m, tóm, dʰg'ʰémonm h₂oHk'ú bʰérontm. h₂ówis (h₁)ék'wobʰos ewewkʷe(t): k'ḗrd h₂gʰnutoj moj widntéj dʰg'ʰmónm (h₁)ék'wons h₂ég'ontm. (h₁)ék'wōs ewewkʷ: k'ludʰí, h₂ówi! k'ḗrd h₂gʰnutoj widntbʰós: dʰg'ʰémō(n), pótis, h₂wlnéh₂m h₂ówjom kʷnewti sébʰoj gʷʰérmom wéstrom; h₂éwibʰoskʷe h₂wlh₂néh₂ né h₁esti. Tód k'ek'luwṓs h₂ówis h₂ég'rom ebʰuge(t).

Voyles and Barrack (2009)

Owis eḱwōs kʷe

Owis, jāi wl̥nā ne eest, dedorḱe eḱwons, tom woǵʰom gʷr̥um weǵʰontm̥, tom bʰorom meǵm̥, tom ǵʰm̥onm̥ ōku bʰerontm̥. Owis eḱwobʰjos eweket: "Ḱerd angʰetai moi widontei ǵʰm̥onm̥ eḱwons aǵontm̥". Eḱwos wewekur: "Ḱludʰe, owei! Ḱerd angʰetai widontbʰjos: ǵʰm̥on, potis, wl̥nam owijōm kʷr̥neti soi gʷʰermom westrom; owibʰjos kʷe wl̥nā ne esti". Tod ḱeḱlōts owis aǵrom ebʰuget.

Melchert (2009, revised 2014)

H₂ówis (h₁)ék̂wōs-kʷe

h₂áwej h₁josméj h₂wl̥h₁náh₂ né h₁ést, só h₁ék̂woms derk̂t. só gʷr̥hₓúm wóĝhom wéĝhet; só méĝh₂m̥ bhórom; só (dh)gĥémonm̥ h₂ṓk̂u bhéret. h₂ówis h₁ék̂wojbh(j)os wéwk(ʷ)et: (dh)ĝhémonm̥ spék̂joh₂ h₁ék̂woms h₁jós h₂áĝeti, k̂ḗr moj aghnutór. h₁ék̂wōs tu wéwkʷont: k̂ludhí, h₂owei! tód spék̂jomes/n, n̥sméi aghnutór k̂ḗr: (dh)ĝhémō pótis sē h₂áwjōm h₂wl̥h₁nā́h₁ gʷhérmom wéstrom (h₁)wébht, h₂áwibh(j)os tu h₂wl̥h₁náh₂ né h₁ésti. tód k̂ek̂luwṓs h₂ówis h₂aĝróm bhugét.

Kortlandt (2007, revised 2010)

ʕʷeuis ʔiḱ:ueskʷ:e

ʕʷeuis i ʕueli nēʔst ʔeḱ:ums uēit:, t:o kʷ'rʕeum uoḱom uḱent:m, t:o mḱ'eʕm porom, t:o tḱmenm ʔoʔḱ:u prent:m. uēuk:t ʕʷeuis ʔiḱ:uos, ʕetḱo ʔme ḱ:ērt ʕnerm uit'ent:i ʔeḱ:ums ʕḱ'ent:m. ueuk:nt: ʔiḱ:ues, ḱ:luti ʕʷue, ʕetḱo nsme ḱ:ērt: uit'ent:i, ʕnēr p:ot:is ʕʷuiom ʕueli sue kʷermom uesti kʷ:rneut:i, ʕʷuēi kʷ:e ʕueli neʔsti. t:o ḱ:eḱ:luus ʕʷeuis pleʕnom pēuk't.

After the separation of Anatolian and Tocharian:

ʕʷeuis ioi ʕulʔneʕ nēʔs ʔeḱuns ʔe uēi'd, tom 'gʷrʕeum uoǵom ueǵontm, tom m'ǵeʕm borom, tom dǵmenm ʔoʔḱu berontm. ʔe uēuk ʕʷeuis ʔeḱumus, ʕedǵo ʔmoi ḱēr'd ʕnerm ui'denti ʔeḱuns ʕe'ǵontm. ʔe ueukn'd ʔiḱues, ḱludi ʕʷuei, ʕedǵo nsmi ḱēr'd ui'denti, ʕnēr potis ʕʷuiom ʕulʔneʕm subi gʷermom uesti kʷrneuti, ʕʷuimus kʷe ʕulʔneʕ neʔsti. to'd ḱeḱluus ʕʷeuis pleʕnom bēu'g.

Byrd (2013)

H₂óu̯is h₁éḱu̯ōs-kʷe

h₂áu̯ei̯ h₁i̯osméi̯ h₂u̯l̥h₁náh₂ né h₁ést, só h₁éḱu̯oms derḱt. só gʷr̥hₓúm u̯óǵʰom u̯eǵʰed; só méǵh₂m̥ bʰórom; só dʰǵʰémonm̥ h₂ṓḱu bʰered. h₂óu̯is h₁ékʷoi̯bʰi̯os u̯eu̯ked: "dʰǵʰémonm̥ spéḱi̯oh₂ h₁éḱu̯oms-kʷe h₂áǵeti, ḱḗr moi̯ agʰnutor". h₁éḱu̯ōs tu u̯eu̯kond: "ḱludʰí, h₂ou̯ei̯! tód spéḱi̯omes, n̥sméi̯ agʰnutór ḱḗr: dʰǵʰémō, pótis, sē h₂áu̯i̯es h₂u̯l̥h₁náh₂ gʷʰérmom u̯éstrom u̯ept, h₂áu̯ibʰi̯os tu h₂u̯l̥h₁náh₂ né h₁esti". tód ḱeḱluu̯ṓs h₂óu̯is h₂aǵróm bʰuged.

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The Significance of Reconstructions

The reconstructions of PIE through Schleicher's fable should not be regarded as precise renditions of the original language. Instead, they represent an approximation to historical truth, a form of "plausible" approach, as Boeckh points out. Reconstructions are based on hypotheses and conclusions drawn from the study of descendant languages of PIE, and they provide an algebraic depiction of the linguistic system, though not entirely accurate.

As Delbrück notes, the PIE reconstructed through such texts is not a real language that was once spoken but rather a "typical expression" of the evolving views of researchers. The differences among the versions of the fable reflect the evolution of linguistic thought: as methods improve and data increase, the picture we form of PIE becomes clearer and closer to historical reality.

This is the Most Sophisticated Model for Indo-European Language Relationships

Schleicher's fable is a fascinating linguistic exercise that reveals the complexity of reconstructing a lost language. These efforts are undoubtedly theoretical, yet they have the potential to offer a realistic depiction of the proto-language through detailed analysis and comparison. The process of reconstruction is evidence of how science can use past data to construct images of a historical world that no longer exists, and Schleicher's fable is a perfect example of this ongoing effort by linguists.

Schleicher's fable continues to be refined, demonstrating that linguistics is not static but constantly evolving, shaping new approaches to understand the earliest phase of languages spoken by the ancestors of cultures throughout Eurasia.

Puduhepa: The Priestess Queen of the Hittite World Who Reorganized and Promoted Religious Syncretism

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By Dimosthenis Vasiloudis

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In the ancient Near East, women often played a secondary role in the political sphere, but there were exceptions who left an indelible mark. One of these exceptions was Puduḫepa, the wife of Hattusili III, king of the Hittites. Puduḫepa was not merely a queen who excelled by her husband's side. With her strong intellect and exceptional leadership abilities, she managed to blend religion and politics, significantly influencing the Hittite world. In this article, we will explore Puduhepa’s biography, her religious and political actions, and the broader impact she had on the events of her time.

The Life of Puduḫepa: From Priestess to Queen

Puduḫepa was born in the city of Lawazantiya, in the heart of Kizzuwatna, a crucial region in southern Anatolia. She was the daughter of the high priest Pentipsharri, who served the goddess Ishtar, the deity of love and war. From an early age, Puduḫepa was raised as a priestess of Ishtar, a role that shaped her spiritual understanding and her ability to navigate both the religious and political realms.

According to tradition, Hattusili III, during one of his military campaigns, met Puduḫepa in Ishtar’s temple and was impressed by her intelligence and spirit. They married, and Puduḫepa found herself in a position of power as queen of the Hittites, alongside Hattusili, who was one of the most powerful monarchs of the era. However, her influence was not confined to her role as queen; she emerged as one of the most active and influential figures in Hittite history.

Snapshot taken from Tolga Örnek's docu-drama on the Hittites

Her Role in Politics: Diplomacy and Peace Treaties

Puduḫepa played a central role in the foreign policy of the Hittite kingdom, particularly in relations with Egypt. She was a key figure in the negotiation of the famous peace treaty between Hattusili III and Pharaoh Ramesses II. This treaty, which is considered one of the first recorded international peace agreements, was solidified by Puduḫepa's diplomatic wisdom and her correspondence with the Pharaoh and the Egyptian court.

Her role was not limited to formal representation; she had a deep understanding of international relations and the need for stability in the region. Through her diplomatic efforts, Puduḫepa laid the groundwork for long-lasting peace, ensuring the safety and prosperity of the Hittites.

The Reorganization of the Hittite Pantheon: The Blending of Religion and Politics

Due to her background as a priestess of Ishtar, Puduḫepa possessed a profound religious sentiment, which was evident in all aspects of her governance. She had a vision to reorganize the religious system of the Hittites and merge the various local and foreign deities into a more unified and coherent structure. This reorganization was not just of religious significance but also political.

Puduhepa makes an offering to the goddess Hepat on a rock-relief at Firaktin. (Tayfun Bilgin)

As the Hittite kingdom was multi-ethnic and multi-religious, Puduḫepa realized that unifying the pantheon could function as a tool for the political unification of the state. She cataloged the deities and elevated royal and state gods to more prominent positions, emphasizing deities that symbolized unity and sovereignty.

This process led to the establishment of an organized and unified religious system that became closely linked to political power. Puduḫepa ensured that the worship of the gods would support and maintain the stability of the Hittite kingdom, while she herself assumed the role of religious mediator, communicating directly with the gods on behalf of the king and the people.

The Legacy of Puduḫepa: A Lasting Mark on Hittite History

Puduḫepa left behind a powerful legacy. Her work as a diplomat, religious reformer, and political leader contributed significantly to the stabilization and strengthening of the Hittite state during Hattusili III’s reign. Her initiatives to unify the pantheon and her broader connection of religion and politics created a strong framework that profoundly influenced the political and religious structure of the Hittites.

Her legacy continued even after her death, as her efforts preserved the Hittite cultural heritage. Her name remained inscribed in records and traditions, and her influence on the reorganization of the religious world laid the foundation for the further development of religious and political thought.

Snapshot taken from Tolga Örnek's docu-drama on the Hittites

Puduḫepa was not just a queen. She was a leading figure who redefined the relationship between religion and politics in the Hittite world. Her political maneuvers and the reorganization of the Hittite pantheon represented a groundbreaking blend of religious devotion and political strategy, creating a legacy that left deep imprints on the history of the Hittites and the broader region.