CHAPTER 21
Tanaquil
The Conception and Construction of an Etruscan Matron

Gretchen E. Meyers

1. Introduction

Etruscan women are among the most talked-about of ancient women, acknowledged both in antiquity and today for their public roles and relative equality in their society. At the same time, they are also among the most enigmatic – difficult to understand due to a lack of any direct literary accounts of their lives and reanimated through a complicated array of ancient characterizations, visual representations and gendered grave goods. Many discussions of Etruscan women also include the oft-quoted fourth-century BCE account by Theopompus of Chios preserved in Athenaeus, which can be seen as a precursor for a timeless fascination with their extraordinary social behavior:

Sharing wives is an established Etruscan custom. Etruscan women take particular care of their bodies and exercise often, sometimes along with the men, and sometimes by themselves. It is not a disgrace for them to be seen naked. They do not share their couches with their husbands but with the other men who happen to be present, and they propose toasts to anyone they choose. They are expert drinkers and very attractive (Athenaeus The Deipnosophists 12.517; translation: Lefkowitz and Fant 1992: 88).

Subsequent historiographical and archaeological analyses, however, have tempered this prurient ancient viewpoint. Most scholars agree that Theopompus’s full account can be viewed as rhetorical exaggeration, motivated by his disdain for the Etruscans generally and a desire to attribute the decline of their sea power in the early fourth century BCE to cultural immorality and extravagance (Flower 1994: 189–191). Instead, among scholars a variety of more reasoned portraits of the ancient Etruscan woman prevails, from an individual with greater equality and visibility than her Greek and Roman sisters – depicted and honored as a spouse within the competitive display of an emergent aristocratic class – to a woman whose social status was, in fact, remarkably similar to her Greek and Roman counterparts, but distorted through the ancient lens of Etruscan “otherness” (in particular, see Bonfante 1981, 1994; Rallo 1989; Amann 2000; Haynes 2000; Rathje 2000; Izzet 2007, 2012).

Ancient literary sources thus pose a particularly thorny problem for the study of Etruscan women. Outside of inscriptions, few Etruscan texts survive, and the ancient written accounts of Etruscan women that do exist are authored largely by Greeks and Romans (on inscriptions see Chapter 14). Many scholars have pointed out the methodological problems with these sources (Amann 2000; Izzet 2012), arguing that the accounts of Etruscan women in the texts of these authors cannot be seen as realia, but rather as reflections of the values of Greek or Roman society. For example, with regard to the portrayal of Etruscan women in Book 1 of Livy’s History of Rome, Vedia Izzet (2012: 71) claims “there is simply nothing in his text that can tell us what ancient Etruscan women were really like. It may be disappointing to recognize this point: Livy presents us with a window not onto Etruscan society but onto his own.” As a consequence of this bias, Izzet argues, Etruscologists traditionally have not properly contextualized the literary sources available to them, resulting in a predominantly distorted picture of Etruscan women as unusually liberated and/or powerful that is more the product of the underlying social and political concerns of ancient Greeks and Romans. She suggests that a more judicious approach to Etruscan women can be found in the theoretical approaches of archaeology and gender studies (Izzet 2012: 77).

This assessment brings up an important question for Etruscologists. Do ancient accounts of Etruscan women – or Etruscan practices more widely – hold any value for us? Chronological disparity, bias, and methodological concerns are just some of the many pitfalls that they pose. Certainly if we expect these sources to offer insight into Etruscan culture from a strictly positivist perspective, we must heed the warnings of the many scholars who caution us against blindly accepting them and thus avoiding blatant misinterpretation. Such a conundrum is not unique to the study of Etruscan women; for example, we can also look to the complexity of historical accounts of ancient Persian women for comparison. Here, too, scholars grapple with a nexus of different sources describing the women of the Persian courts. However, as Maria Brosius (1996: 11–12) concludes in her study of women in ancient Persia, diversity of evidence can be valuable when the consideration of complementary source material in unison may “widen the basis for historical analysis and offer another dimension to the discussion.” Thus, rather than avoiding the ancient literary sources about Etruscan women, we may utilize them to enliven other types of evidence for female lives in ancient Etruria. If we approach these literary sources for the lives of Etruscan women fully aware of the highly constructed nature of their depiction, perhaps they can stimulate new questions about ancient perceptions of Etruscan gender that might re-inform the valid material evidence.

In this chapter, Tanaquil, perhaps the most famous “historical” Etruscan woman, is offered as an example of such an approach. Indeed her portrayal in Roman sources, when considered in tandem with archaeological evidence, can be quite useful in deepening our interpretation of public and personal identity among elite Etruscan woman. In particular, Roman literary accounts about Tanaquil as a producer of elaborate textiles for ceremonies marking life-stages such as marriage and death have been written off too casually as nothing more than a generic Roman association with virtuous “female” behavior. Rather, this aspect of Tanaquil’s portrayal in Roman sources may have significance outside of the standard view of textile production as a symbolic mark of a woman’s domestic virtue. In fact, Tanaquil may represent a Roman conception of the Etruscan elite matron specifically as one who participated in and shaped her own society through the creation of ceremonial and ritual garments.

2. Tanaquil, the Etruscan Queen

Undoubtedly, the best-known portrait of the Etruscan queen Tanaquil comes from Book 1 of Livy’s History of Rome (1.34, 39, 41), composed at the beginning of the Augustan age.¹ Other contemporaneous authors, such as the historian Dionysius of Halicarnassus (3.47 ff., 4.2 ff.) and the poet Ovid (Fasti 6.629), also reference her story. A brief summary of the late first century BCE–early first century CE representations of Tanaquil is appropriate here.

Tanaquil was of elite Etruscan blood, born and raised in the Etruscan city of Tarquinia. She married a gentleman named Lucumo, who was socially beneath her due to his parentage – born from an Etruscan mother and a Greek immigrant father, Demaratus of Corinth. Neither Tanaquil nor her husband were content to bear the social tribulations associated with this stigma and at Tanaquil’s urging, they set out for Rome, a new city where anyone, regardless of birth, could rise to the top. As they approached the very edge of the city, an eagle swooped down, plucked the cap from Lucumo’s head, flew aloft with it and then returned it gently to his head. Tanaquil, skilled in the art of prophecy, immediately understood this portent as foretelling Lucumo’s future importance in Rome. Upon their arrival, he took the name Tarquinius (Priscus) and ingratiated himself to King Ancus Marcius. Eventually, through a series of somewhat underhanded and persuasive moves, Tarquinius managed to usurp the kingship from the royal princes upon the death of Ancus Marcius. In Livy’s account, Tanaquil’s influence did not abate during her husband’s reign, but continued when she used her prophetic skills yet again to identify his royal successor – a slave boy in the household, whom she recognized based on a prodigy of flames surrounding his head. Ultimately she maneuvered this boy, Servius Tullius, to the throne by covering up her own husband’s murder by his former rivals, compelling Servius Tullius to take up the kingship, and convincing the Roman populace to accept him as Tarquinius Pricus’s successor through an outward display of royal symbols and garments.

Scholars have both championed and disregarded this narrative about Tanaquil as evidence for Etruscan female behavior. While some consider parts of her story to reflect typical Etruscan female behavior (Heurgon 1964; Bonfante 1994), others propose that the drama of Tanaquil’s tale derives from alternative sources, such as Greek literary tropes or the sociopolitical context of Augustan Rome (Ogilvie 1965; Amann 2000). Most notably, Richard Bauman (1994: 188) has argued that Livy and Dionysius of Halicarnassus added the entire episode detailing the concealment of Tarquinius Priscus’s death in order to secure the succession of Servius Tullius as king so as to “establish a respectable antecedent for similar drama surrounding the death of Augustus,” in which Livia similarly concealed her husband’s death. As the scholarly debate makes clear, the dramatic events surrounding Tanaquil’s presentation in Livy and other Roman accounts are simultaneously intriguing and problematic. While the narratives offer glimpses of practices that seem to correspond with material evidence from Etruria, they also are very much a product of the annalistic tradition, Greek literary tropes, and Roman cultural values. The following examples suffice to demonstrate the complexity of the historical portrayal of Tanaquil and the resulting issues she poses as a putative model for Etruscan women’s lives.

One of Tanaquil’s most distinctive behaviors is her ability to read and interpret divine signs, highlighted by both Livy and Dionysius of Halicarnassus. Livy mentions her talents explicitly when he refers to her as a woman “skilled in heavenly prophecy” (perita … caelestium prodigiorum mulier) and specifically emphasizes the connection of this behavior with Etruscans by adding “as all Etruscans” (ut volgo Etrusci) (History of Rome 34.9). Further elaboration is found in Dionysius of Halicarnassus. In addition to her interpretive guidance en route to Rome, Tanaquil also deciphers prodigies surrounding the birth of Servius Tullius, which are not included in Livy’s account. As Dionysius (4.2–13) rather skeptically tells it, Servius is conceived after a phantom phallus appears in the royal hearth, witnessed by the slave woman, Ocrisia. Tanaquil interprets this as a divine sign, and urges Ocrisia to have intercourse with the phallus and thus conceive a child (Servius Tullius), who will be superior to mortals. This story, including Tanaquil’s role as an interpreter and catalyst for the union between Ocrisia and the divine phallus (in some cases identified as Vulcan), is also recorded in Plutarch (Morals 10) and Ovid (Fasti 6.627–636). Together, although there is some variation in the details, these textual sources agree that, at least by the Augustan period, there was a connection of some sort between Tanaquil’s Etruscan heritage and divinization.

Whether or not Tanaquil’s portrayal as a practitioner of haruspicy derives from a perceived reality about Etruscan women is a more difficult question and must be considered outside of the ancient annalistic tradition alone. Some scholars have noted that, while there is ample evidence of Etruscan male priests and diviners, there is little to suggest that Etruscan women were perceived to be gifted in the same craft (Amann 2000). For example, Robert Ogilvie (1965: 144) posits that the assignment of prophetic skills to a woman is a Roman attempt to distance Tanaquil from their women, and is likely modeled on Greek mythological prototypes, such as Medea. But Tanaquil’s behavior may also resonate with actual Etruscan practice. Although no direct evidence for Etruscan priestesses exists, suggestive traces have been found in the archaeological record. Inscriptional evidence from fourth century Vulci (particularly the Tomb of the Inscriptions) suggests that the title, hatrencu, was associated with a female religious office (Nielsen 1990; Lundeen 2006). In addition, Nancy de Grummond (2006) has argued for the presence of female priests and suggested (2000) that the popular female grave good of a bronze mirror may be linked to the practice of prophecy. While these examples date much later than the Archaic Tanaquil, they nevertheless provide a context for both public and private religious behavior on the part of Etruscan women. Still others argue that Tanaquil’s link to divinity is not that of a mortal who can interpret the divine but that, by the late Republic, of a mortal component of a goddess, either Fortuna or perhaps a fertility deity (Gage 1953; Coarelli 1992; Briquel 1998, Hersch 2010a). The lack of clarity with regard to the nature of divinity in Tanaquil’s story (either as an interpreter or as a divinity herself) highlights the complicated nature of her portrayal in the historians. While the Roman sources indicate a clear association between Tanaquil and the divine, it is unclear to what extent this component of her story reflects true Etruscan practices for elite women or Roman perceptions of Etruscans within the late Republican–Augustan cultural milieu. Certainly, the ancient practice of divinization would leave little trace in the archaeological record. Without the tantalizing mention of Tanaquil’s prophetic skills we might not even be inclined to interrogate the limited material evidence we do have for female prophetesses and priestesses. In this way, despite their limits, the Roman sources prompt us to raise questions about Etruscan women that might be otherwise overlooked.

A second aspect of Tanaquil preserved by Roman historians, which is similarly complex, is her visibility as a wife. Referred to as a “kingmaker” by Paul Martin (1985), Tanaquil certainly seems to be a prototype for the manipulative, ambitious female that often characterizes later accounts of Imperial Roman women, such as Tacitus’s Livia. Scant early references to Tanaquil mention her spousal role in Tarquin’s story and emphasize the importance she played as his wife in his ultimate success (Amann 2000). For example, Polybius (6.11a.7) may draw upon Fabius Pictor (frag. 11b, Peter), who seems to be the earliest source for Tanaquil’s name, when he refers to Tarquin’s “useful wife.” Surely this tradition is the root of Tanaquil’s zealous promotion and manipulation of both Tarquin’s and later Servius Tullius’s claim to the throne in the accounts of both Livy and Dionysius of Halicarnassus. However, Tanaquil’s predilection for family matters is not limited to behind-the-scenes political machinations on behalf of the men in her life. She also attends to her family at key ceremonial or transitional moments, such as when Ennius records her washing the feet of her deceased husband (Servius Commentary on the Aeneid 6.219).

Here again, as with the portrayal of her prophetic skills, Tanaquil’s wifely and family-focused duties must be considered through the Roman lens in which they are found. For example, given Livy’s famous statement that the purpose of history is the promotion of moral exempla (pr. 10), the women of early Rome may be viewed as models of either appropriate or inappropriate Roman female behavior. As Elaine Fantham (1994: 225) states, Romans “constructed their legends of the dynasty from Tarquinia to reflect women’s power both used and misused.” The ambitious wifely coercions of Tanaquil could be considered to fall squarely into the latter category, particularly as Livy places her in such proximity to his exemplum of female virtue par excellence, Lucretia. In this way Livy’s Tanaquil warns against the interference of women in Roman public life and politics, as the brutal deaths of her male pawns, Tarquinius Priscus and Servius Tullius, surely attest (Stevenson 2011). Such ambitious pride is a characteristic associated in literary portrayals of Etruscans as “others” more generally (Bittarello 2009) and it may not be a surprise that it is attached so freely to a woman. Thus, Tanaquil serves as a highly effective anti-exemplum for Romans not only due to her gender but also her foreignness. Nevertheless, the notion of a visible and publicly active Etruscan wife may not simply be the product of Roman imagination. There is a great deal of evidence for the prominence of the couple as an expression of elite Etruscan status in tomb paintings and sarcophagi (Bonfante 1981; Nielsen 1989), even if the attribution of political power to Etruscan women must be approached with caution (Spivey 1991; Briquel 1998). The ancient stereotype of the Etruscan female as more publicly exposed than other Mediterranean women is well-established, making Tanaquil’s behavior as much the product of Roman views of Etruscans as their own cultural views on female propriety. As with the previous example of her prophetic skills, while there is a degree of correspondence between Tanaquil’s behavior and Etruscan material evidence, it remains difficult to disentangle her from the layers of historical tradition and Roman cultural values.

The two examples above have focused on how Tanaquil’s actions and character were constructed within historical narrative and storytelling. An alternative approach to Tanaquil is to focus on the “mundane elements” within her story rather than on the storytelling itself. This argument operates from the hypothesis that the conception and construction of Tanaquil (and other Etruscan “queens”) “preserves a pattern of ‘queenship’ in Rome, without [necessarily] understanding its true nature” (Glinister 1997: 117). A tangible example of this approach – one that marries these problematic secondary sources with primary archaeological evidence – comes in the observation that Tanaquil and later Tullia, the daughter of Servius Tullius, are associated with the riding of carriages or perhaps chariots either to or within Rome – a right traditionally granted to very few women (and then only matrons) outside of the Vestal Virgins in the historical period of the Roman Republic. More specifically, both Tanaquil and Tullia are connected to the carpentum, a four-wheeled vehicle. Taken together with archaeological evidence from burials of wheeled vehicles in Orientalizing period female tombs in Etruria and Latium (Bartoloni and Grottanelli 1989; Rathje 2000), one may ask whether the addition of the carpentum in the account of the Etruscan queen preserves a hint of an ephemeral social practice where such a vehicle served as a visual marker of power and status. While acknowledging that such answers are elusive, this approach offers an alternative model for “looking through the veneer applied by successive Roman annalists … to see archaic queenship for what it is …” (Glinister 1997: 126).

All of the examples above – Tanaquil’s divinization skills, her prominent involvement in her husband’s public life and her use of the carpentum – demonstrate both the limits of Roman literary sources and points of convergence with familiar aspects of Etruscan society. The well-known late-Republican and early-Augustan accounts of Tanaquil surely cannot be treated as an accurate portrait of the behavior of a historical personage. Nevertheless, while acknowledging the Roman lens through which these sources look at Tanaquil, we may also question closely the aspects of her portrayal and memory in the Roman world that are rooted in Etruscan tradition. In fact, a close and careful look at these elements, balanced against primary evidence from the Etruscan world, demonstrates some intriguing resonances between the Roman construction of Tanaquil and her elite Etruscan relatives. While Tanaquil is no doubt an amalgam of many parts, I would argue that Etruscologists can benefit by asking what may have been the original Etruscan components of this elite woman that eventually became part of her Roman version. A particular area of Tanaquil’s behavior that is often overlooked in this respect, because it does not feature prominently in the well-known historical accounts of her, is her role as a producer of ceremonial textiles.

3. Tanaquil and Ceremonial Textiles

If scholars were to rely solely on the famous accounts of Livy and Dionysius of Halicarnassus, they would know next to nothing about Tanaquil’s textile skills. A number of antiquarian sources, however, also associate her with the textile crafts of spinning thread and weaving garments for members of her household at key life stage transitions. Tanaquil’s textile production relates, first and foremost, to marriage, and, according to antiquarians such as Varro and Pliny among others, she was viewed as the source for several elements of the Roman wedding ceremony that evoke wool-working. In addition, she is said to be the originator of a number of royal garments and Roman textiles associated with transitional ceremonials, such as the tunica recta or regilla, which was donned both by brides prior to their wedding and by boys when they put aside the bulla, and the toga praetexta, signaling their passage from childhood to adulthood. This relationship between Tanaquil and ceremonial textiles is intriguing indeed. Elite Romans considered household textile production among the highest expression of female virtue. Yet, according to these antiquarians, several of the textiles that held the most significance for public and familial ceremonies can be traced back to an Etruscan queen.

Tanaquil is found at the origin of several garments that served as outward markers of male power and status. As discussed above, she was vital to her husband’s and later to Servius Tullius’s succession to the kingship. Several sources indicate that Tanaquil’s role in this regard may have been made even more evident by clothes these men wore in public. For example, Pliny writes that:

Marcus Varro informs us on his own authority that the wool on the distaff and spindle of Tanaquil (also called Gaia Caecilia) was still preserved in the Temple of Sancus and also that in the shrine of Fortuna [was] a pleated royal tunic (togam regiam undulatam) made by her, which had been worn by Servius Tullius. Hence arose the practice that maidens on their marriage were accompanied by a decorated distaff and spindle with thread. Tanaquil first wove the tunica recta of the kind worn by novices and newly married brides. The toga undulata was the first among those in favor. (Natural History 8.194; Loeb translation)

This passage directly associates Tanaquil with several garments that played key roles in both public and familial ceremonies: the toga regia undulata and also the tunica recta. Both garments were important in marking transition and status: while the toga regia undulata was reserved for males, the tunica recta was donned by both boys and girls before key moments of passage into adulthood.²

The toga regia undulata may refer to either the toga praetexta or the trabea. In the same passage only a few sentences later, Pliny attributes the toga praetexta to the Etruscans and suggests that the early kings wore the trabea. Both of these were garments put on at ceremonial occasions. The toga praetexta was the elite Roman male’s youthful garment replaced by the tunica recta and toga virilis at his passage to adulthood between 14–16 years of age; and the trabea was a male robe associated with ritual activity performed by kings and augurs.³ Pliny (Natural History 8.196) also says that the same toga regia undulata of Servius Tullius made by Tanaquil and preserved in the Temple of Fortuna (which he says draped the statue of Fortuna herself!) was, in fact, a toga praetexta, which allegedly lasted for nearly 560 years – no doubt a testament to its fine craftsmanship or magical properties. While the toga praetexta was discarded after coming of age rituals in Imperial Rome, adult males wore them in certain ceremonies (Edmondson 2008) before this time period, as manifested by the example covering Avle Metelis on the famous Etrusco-Roman bronze portrait statue of the “Arringatore.”

The defining characteristic of the toga praetexta is its purple woven border. The weaving of a separate border at the edges of a garment is a distinctive feature of Etruscan dress known from countless visual examples (Bonfante 2003: 15). Such a border would have been made of wool and produced through a specialized process known as tablet weaving.⁴ Recent studies have argued that the ceramic spools (or rocchetti) that are commonly found in Etruscan archaeological contexts may have been weights specifically used for tablet weaving (Gleba 2008a). Because the spools are found in both tombs as grave goods and sanctuaries as votives, they evoke personal identity and further strengthen the connection between specialized Etruscan textile practices and this particular characteristic of the toga praetexta. Some scholars also speculate that the border of the toga praetexta may have served a protective function for elite young males (or adult males in ceremonial situations) – a proposition strengthened through its frequent pairing with the freeborn youth’s apotropaic amulet, the bulla (Sebesta 1994: 47). Perhaps the protective powers of the Roman toga praetexta represent a conflation of traditions recalling Etruscan women’s production of ceremonial garments for males at particular moments of transition, especially when they were at their most vulnerable.

Tanaquil’s role is also implicit in a second type of male ceremonial garment. Her husband, Tarquinius Priscus, is said to have been the first to wear a toga embroidered with gold in a triumph (Pliny Natural History 19.57), which we can assume Tanaquil herself produced. Dionysius of Halicarnassus (3.61) also cites a purple toga woven with gold as an Etruscan symbol of power, and the trabea (noted in Pliny and discussed above) was a similarly ornate garment in terms of color (although no sources directly associate it with gold).⁵ Etruscan mastery in gold working is certainly well-known, and it is reasonable that their skills included adornment of textiles with gold. Unfortunately, there is precious little evidence for weaving with gold prior to the fourth century BCE in Italy (Gleba 2008b; see further, Chapter 16). However, a possible example has been unearthed at the Etruscan sanctuary of Poggio Colla in northern Etruria, where two ritual depositions contained remnants of gold wire suitable for textile adornment (Meyers 2013).

The attribution of an Etruscan origin for the triumphator’s toga picta is debated, but an image from the fourth-century BCE François Tomb of the seer Vel Saties has been mentioned as a representation of the garment in an Etruscan context (Bonfante 2003: 53 disagrees, but she does argue for an Etruscan origin of this Roman garb). Larissa Bonfante (2003: 41, 91–93) and Shelley Stone (1994) have argued for the reality of the Etruscan legacy in Roman ceremonial garments, and the examples presented above offer a strong argument that, at least for some Roman antiquarians, Etruscan women, with Tanaquil as their figurehead, were entrusted with the making of clothes by which their husbands and sons marked stages of life and status.

There is even more ample evidence that Romans associated Tanaquil with ceremonial textiles worn by women, most notably, the costume of the Roman bride (La Follette 1994). The Pliny passage cited above explicitly relates Tanaquil’s distaff and spindle in the Temple of Sancus and her woven toga for Servius Tullius in the Temple of Fortuna with the Roman practice of brides carrying a distaff and spindle in the wedding ceremony. We have also seen that Tanaquil was associated with the origin of the toga recta, which was worn by both males and females. Festus (364.21L) further elaborates that young women wove the toga recta themselves on an upright loom the night before their wedding. Tanaquil’s presence in Roman wedding practice may also be preserved in the custom of the phrase, ubi tu Gaius ego Gaia (Hersch 2010a: 187–190). The name Gaia was said to have originated with Tanaquil and was invoked by a bride as she entered her new home because of her wifely character and wool-working (Plutarch Roman Questions 30). Both Valerius Maximus (10.7 de praenominibus) and Festus (85L) associate the name Gaia Caecilia with Tanaquil and suggest that the presence of her name in the wedding ceremony arose from her superior skills in wool-working.

The relationship of Tanaquil to the Roman wedding ceremony has been discussed by Karen Hersch (2010b). She notes that the evocation of Tanaquil is more likely symbolic than a reference to the actual practice of wool-working among elite Roman women. She also suggests that by the early Imperial period (and probably the late Republican period), a great deal of textile production took place outside of the home, limiting the need for a woman to be the sole provider of woven garments for her family. Although the Roman term, lanificium, is generally used to encompass the entirety of the textile production process, it is noteworthy that the relics of Tanaquil preserved in Roman temples were tools, the distaff and spindle, specifically used for spinning and not weaving. If, if fact, these are intended as symbols, they may reference not a wife’s domestic wool-working skills in general, but a specific spinning of thread for the ceremonial garments that marked her transition to wife.

The preservation of Tanaquil’s influence in the Roman wedding may also be related to the importance of textile production within her Etruscan heritage. In another intriguing study, Hersch (2009) concludes that the Roman bridal costume purposefully includes elements of both Etruscan and Sabine traditions as symbols of incorporation and assimilation – the bride to her husband’s family as the Etruscans and Sabines to the Romans. This argument rests on the belief that wool-working expertise was not simply attached to the Etruscan queen in the historical tradition to Romanize her, but that her textile skills and their presence in the Roman wedding through costume, tools and words were recognizable markers of Etruscan ethnicity (see Chapter 20). This suggests that Etruscan identity and textiles were already linked in the Roman mind at least by the end of the Republic. The association between dress and identity, particularly adornment at moments of transition is well established, and was likely an important aspect in the construction of identity for Etruscan women as well (see Chapter 19). Once again Roman practice points to an intersection between women, dress, and ceremony with an Etruscan origin.

It is worthwhile at this juncture to return briefly to Livy’s Tanaquil. The above survey of antiquarian evidence demonstrates that, eventually, the Etruscan Tanaquil became a symbol of Roman textile production, but in Livy’s text she does not spin or weave at all. Instead, these tasks are assigned to Lucretia – Livy’s premier exemplum of Roman feminine virtue and domesticity – whose story was well-known. Her husband, Collatinus, was said to be drinking with fellow soldiers, with each praising his own wife. Collatinus then challenged the others to a contest of wives. What better way to see whose was most worthy than to visit them by surprise? The men set off for Collatia, where they found all of the wives (most of them Etruscan women!) drinking and carrying on, save Lucretia, who sat diligently at her loom, engaged in the virtuous activity of weaving. It was her superior virtue that inspired illicit desire in the royal prince, Sextus Tarquinius, who returned to the house alone one night, raping Lucretia and bringing about her ultimate death. Thus, one may ask: why isn’t it Lucretia’s spindle in the temple of Sancus, or why isn’t Lucretia the one credited with the bride’s clothes? I suspect that part of the reason may be the distinction between Lucretia’s ideal Roman domestic virtue seen through the weaving of household textiles in contrast to Tanaquil’s more public role inherent in the spinning of thread for garments specifically for ceremonies and rituals. Ultimately, a fully Romanized Tanaquil, evoked by each new bride by the name Gaia, combined both legendary female textile producers – simultaneously representing the ideal Roman wife, but also preserving the Etruscan legacy of ceremonial textiles as markers of status.

Thus, Tanaquil’s appearance in these Roman antiquarian texts is multifaceted. That there is likely a healthy dose of Roman virtue in Tanaquil’s Etruscan behavior is particularly acute, given that all the written sources for female practices – Roman or Etruscan – come predominantly from elite male writers, and thus represent ideals or perceptions rather than actuality. Nevertheless, the evidence presented here is not limited to a generic association between household textile production and the good wife, but indicates a specific association between Tanaquil and garments for ceremonial or ritual occasions for family members. A final, brief survey of the primary archaeological evidence for the intersection between elite Etruscan women and the production of ceremonial garments makes a case not only for the worth of these Roman sources for Etruscologists, but also presents an interesting example of how cultural perceptions of the role of women in public and ritual life may change through time. Furthermore, such a survey argues for a great deal more specificity and distinction in the practice of “female” behaviors than scholars have traditionally credited to the public and private varieties of textile production.

4. Elite Etruscan Women and Ceremonial Textiles

The archaeological connection between Etruscan women and textile production is well established. The ceramic tools of textile production, in particular spindle whorls, spools (rocchetti), and loom weights found in tombs, have been used to argue for the role of spinning and weaving in shaping identity among early Etruscan women, not only in terms of gender, but also with respect to status and craft specialization (Gleba 2009; Lipkin 2012). The occurrence of these tools in non-funerary contexts, such as houses and sanctuaries, demonstrates that the activities of textile production in ancient Etruria belonged to both the public and private spheres of women’s lives. In a recent reevaluation of ceramic textile tools found in Etruscan sanctuaries, I conclude that such evidence may point to the public importance of elite women as the producers of extravagant garments for family transitions such as weddings and funerals, as well as other ritual ceremonies (Meyers 2013). The archaeological context of these tools in religious settings in Etruria, moreover, varies from ancient Greek examples, where a tradition of weaving sacred garments for presentation to divinities (peplophoria) dominated, affirming that ceremonial textile production in Etruria need not be interpreted through the same lens as similar practices elsewhere in the ancient Mediterranean.

Visual evidence also documents the importance of weaving and spinning in Etruscan society and provides several depictions of women engaged in the production of significant textiles for extraordinary usage. The most familiar of these are two early images of elite women, cloth, and ceremony from the northern and eastern edges of the Etruscan sphere: a tintinnabulum from a cemetery near Bologna (Figure 21.1), created between the late seventh and early sixth centuries BCE, and a carved wooden throne from Verucchio (Figure 21.2), produced between 700 and 650 BCE (see additional discussion in Chapter 16). Both John Wild (1970) and Bonfante (2003: 11, 106–107) point out the importance of the north (i.e., Gaul) in the development of later Roman clothing. Thus, the northern edges of Etruria serve as a particularly important crossroads for this sort of cultural exchange.

Image described by caption and surrounding text. — **Figure 21.1** Bell-shaped *tintinnabulum* with repoussé decoration showing the processing of wool, late seventh – early sixth century BCE. Bronze. From the Arsenale Militare necropolis, Tomb 5 (*Tomba degli Ori*), near Bologna. Bologna, Museo Civico Archeologico.
Photo: Erich Lessing/Art Resource, NY.

The embossed and incised images on the bronze tintinnabulum from the Arsenale necropolis near Bologna offer scenes of women involved in various stages of spinning and weaving. The object, most likely of a ceremonial function itself, was discovered in a female tomb laden with jewelry and other high-value artifacts. The scenes are among the earliest depictions in Italy of textile production. They are noteworthy in several respects. First, it is clear that the compositional division of scenes on both sides of the artifact corresponds to the division of stages of textile production: the preparation of raw wool, spinning, the preparation of the loom, and weaving. This emphasizes the specialized process itself, and suggests that the object does not represent the generic act of textile production as shorthand for female virtue. In fact, the attention to detail in the images seems intentionally to preserve distinct elements of the process, which would be recognizable depending on a viewer’s familiarity with textile production. A second observation derives from the use of scale and costume in the scene: women in the upper registers are larger than those in the lower register (perhaps differentiating the status of those conducting various stages of textile production), and care is taken to depict details, including borders, on the garments the women are wearing. Such elements of the visual design further distinguish the representation of textile production as non-quotidian.

Carved images on a wooden throne from a man’s tomb in Verucchio, located to the northeast of Etruria in the vicinity of the Adriatic coast, similarly contribute to the repertoire of textile production imagery from seventh-century BCE Italy. In this case, not only do scenes represent different phases of production, such as weaving, spinning, perhaps even dyeing, but they also place these activities in a communal setting. Pairs of women work on monumental looms in between domiciles, where standing pairs of women either spin or perhaps dye garments. On a lower register, several figures, including at least one seated individual in a four-wheeled carriage, process to the right. An additional scene includes helmeted male figures standing guard on either side of a representation of sacrifice or slaughter. The monumental looms have been reconstructed as at least two stories high and the adjoining scenes have been interpreted variously, including potential ritual activities (von Eles 2002a).

Both the tintinnabulum and the Verucchio throne place women at the center of textile production in seventh century BCE Italy. The depictions do not, however, focus on a single woman alone, dutifully sitting at a loom in a house. Rather, the images are detailed and specific in terms of the production processes, communicating directly to viewers familiar with weaving and spinning. They emphasize elaborate works made on two-story looms, and suggest that such works required communal collaboration. In the case of the Verucchio throne, the proximity of other ceremonial scenes to the weaving images (perhaps even a wedding?) asserts the public contributions of women to their society through their textile skills.

A different type of image of ceremonial cloth – this time from the Archaic period (sixth century BCE) – is found on a series of Chiusine cippi. Here the visual emphasis is on textiles themselves rather than the production process. Several four-sided cippi possess assembly scenes where groups of standing and seated individuals (mostly women) face each other, many of them draped in elaborate, heavy garments (Figure 21.3). In some cases, a central figure appears to present or drape cloth on other participants in the image. While the interpretation of these scenes is debated, the dominant role of the textiles is obvious. Scholars have suggested both marriage and funerary preparations for these scenes (Bonfante 2003: 198–99; Jannot 2004; van der Meer 2011: 17–18). It is noteworthy that elaborate cloth is also portrayed in other scenes found on the Chiusine cippi, such as prothesis scenes where the deceased (usually a woman) is covered by a textile, or an intriguing example that depicts three figures standing beneath a bordered cloth that some have suggested depicts the marriage ceremony itself (Haynes 2000: 245; van der Meer 2011: 14–17). It is interesting to consider the possibility that with the addition of paint and detailing there may not have been a strict distinction between the appearance of the textiles in these scenes, perhaps suggesting that the same cloth carried special connotations in elite contexts when used in ceremonies of transitional significance, such as weddings and funerals.

These are only a few of the many examples of visual evidence for the role of elite Etruscan women in the production of elaborate textiles. They bring to life not only the process of textile production, but also emphasize the textiles themselves as a product. The art historical record of the Etruscans is filled with images of elaborate Etruscan dress, with richly colored textiles on display in tomb paintings and sarcophagi of all periods (see Figure 19.2). In fact, they are so ubiquitous that is easy to take for granted the textiles and the women who would have produced them. Yet these images, in combination with the ample and ever-growing record of textile tools from both funerary and non-funerary contexts, make it plain that textiles, beyond the ordinary garments of a simple household, were a significant public expression of an Etruscan woman’s contribution to her society – so much so that such garments in the Roman world were imbued with an Etruscan origin. This assertion surely deepens the significance of Tanaquil’s later association with ceremonial textiles in Roman sources. While the historical Tanaquil may be irrecoverable, the Tanaquil that does remain, constructed by Romans and for Romans, preserves just a hint of what it meant to be an elite woman in Etruria.

5. Conclusion

This chapter highlights not only the evidence for Tanaquil and Etruscan women as producers of ceremonial textiles, but also the advantages and disadvantages of using Roman sources to recuperate the Etruscans. We are fortunate to have this glimpse into another culture’s understanding and view of this important Italic civilization, yet the sources themselves must be excavated as well, through layers of socially constructed meanings and impressions. Recent theoretical approaches remind us that gender as a category is not as simplistic as defining what is essentially “male” or “female” in ancient evidence. We must ask ourselves about the interaction of a full spectrum of axes of identity in the ancient world – status, power, ethnicity, and gender. Herring and Lomas (2009: 3) state that because male authors already considered women to be “the other,” Etruscan women were naturally employed to reinforce broad conceptions of cultural “otherness,” which is present on many levels besides gender. We cannot assume, therefore, that Tanaquil’s later associations with textile production in Roman sources operate solely on a Roman axis of male and female. Rather, they may derive from the performance of ancient social practice where gender, status, and cultural identity were negotiated simultaneously.

Lastly, this examination of the relationship between Roman and Etruscan primary evidence makes us aware of the dangers in universal assumptions about ancient cultural practices. A nuanced view of textile production and its different meanings through time is only possible through a 360-degree view of the sources: the archaeological evidence informs the literary and the literary informs the archaeological, although neither source of evidence can fully complete the picture without the other. Etruscans and Romans may very well have considered a woman’s contribution through textile production differently: on the one hand typified by Tanaquil’s ceremonial garments publicly promoting the elite Etruscan couple, and on the other hand, by Lucretia toiling away in private, thereby honoring her husband through her domestic duties.

The Mesoamerican archaeologist Elizabeth Brumfiel (2006) has warned against unnecessarily constructing continuities between cultural periods by documenting how a type of weaving on a back strap loom was perceived differently in three cultural contexts. She noted that among the Classic Maya this type of weaving defined class; in Aztec Mexico the same type of weaving defined gender, and in twentieth-century Mesoamerica it defined ethnicity. Blumfiel’s evocation of shifting meanings across time and culture is particularly apt in this case as an obvious reminder that we should avoid associating textile production with a single conception of gender or status. Hundreds of years separate Tanaquil from the Roman authors who recorded narratives about her life, and she is even further removed from contemporary Etruscologists who are burdened by other biases from years of scholarship in this area. Nevertheless, through careful and mindful scrutiny of the broad context of this evidence, in concert with the primary archaeological record, Tanaquil helps us frame new questions about the identity and activity of elite Etruscan women.

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GUIDE TO FURTHER READING

While no monograph on Tanaquil herself is available, early work by Heurgon 1964 and Martin 1985 set the stage for her incorporation into discussions of Etruscan women. More recently, Amann 2000 (especially 190–194) has offered a full consideration of the “Tanaquil figure,” and Hersch 2009 and 2010b has provided interesting and valuable insights into her role in the Roman wedding. The bibliography on Etruscan women is vast, but for representative discussions that ground the state of research in the field, see Rallo 1989, Spivey 1991, Bonfante 1994, Nielsen 1998, and Izzet 2012. Bonfante 2003 and Gleba 2008a are fundamental for any study of Etruscan dress or textile production, while Meyers 2013 explores the archaeological evidence for ceremonial textile production in Etruria.