CHAPTER 27
The “Taste” for Violence in Etruscan Art
Debunking the Myth

Alexandra A. Carpino

1. Introduction

Etruscan artists used, in a wide variety of contexts, different types of violent imagery as a form of visual communication. Well-known and frequently-illustrated examples include the relief sculpture from Temple A at Pyrgi (Haynes 2000: 178–181, fig. 154; Baglione 2013: 619–620) with its graphic depiction of scenes from the Seven Against Thebes epic, wall paintings from the Tomb of the Augurs (Tarquinia) and the François Tomb (Vulci) (Steingräber 2006: 92–94, 237–239, respectively), and the narratives found on numerous sarcophagi and urns produced from the fourth century on (Haynes 2000: 291–295, 365–367; van der Meer 2004).¹

In much past scholarship, these representations are frequently described not only as peculiarly Etruscan (as opposed to Greek) in taste but also as indicative of an unusual appetite for “savagery and its depiction” (see Lowenstam 2008: 128, n. 25). In his discussion of the Gigantomachy in Etruria, Francis Vian, for example, not only refers to “une manière beaucoup plus brutale” but also attributes this as being “en accord avec leur mentalité” (1949: 37). More recently, Giuliano Bonfante (1998: 5), when discussing the origin of cannibalism in Dante, wrote that “The Etruscans, as is well known, favored in their art bloody descriptions of horrors: a glance at the François Tomb is sufficient to prove it. Among all the Greek myths they preferred these.” Likewise, Robin Osborne (1998: 95) declared, “the painters of Tyrrhenian amphorae [a type of Athenian vase exported to Italy in great numbers] liked to emphasize violence … these pots delight in horrific moments.” A. J. N. W. Prag (1985: 42) echoed this same sentiment in his discussion of the latter’s iconography: “the subject of many, even if a conventional Greek theme, seems to have been rendered in a suitably gory fashion to appeal to Etruscan taste … Greek artists preferred to concentrate on some of the more exciting and less horrific aspects.”

Today, many scholars recognize that these views are inaccurate, reflecting oft-repeated but incorrect assumptions about the number and range of violent images in Etruscan art, as well as a cultural bias that failed to acknowledge the prevalence and use of similar imagery in works of art from the Greek world. But, as Guy Hedreen recently observed in his discussion of representations of the murder of Troilos in ancient vase painting, dramatic killings, cannibalism or dismemberment – to name just a few of the types of violent imagery portrayed in the classical world – were neither just the prerogative of Etruscan artists nor Greek art intended for the Etruscan market: “it is hard to claim that human sacrifice is a specifically Etruscan taste, … when so many representations of human sacrifice occur in Greek myth, literature, and art” (Hedreen 2012: 141).² In his 2003 study of the Tyrrhenian vases, Jeroen Kluiver also debunks the misconceptions about their iconography promoted in the work of past scholars, especially the idea that it was exceptionally harsh and cruel. Only four vases in a corpus of nearly 500 – an amphora by the Timiades Painter depicting the Sacrifice of Polyxena; two vases with a beheaded Troilos, and one with the murder of Eryphile – depict what can be characterized as “extreme violence.” Nevertheless, these four vessels are among the most illustrated of the products created in the Tyrrhenian workshop, promoted as the iconographic norm rather than for depicting special and unusual scenes. As Kluiver observes, “the question asked by various observers whether the ‘Tyrrhenian’ painters made their scenes ‘uncommonly cruel’ to appeal to alleged Etruscan taste (as inferred, for instance, from the violent games depicted in some Etruscan tombs) is clearly based on an incorrect assumption about the amount of bloodshed in ‘Tyrrhenian’ imagery” (2003: 102).

Understanding why any culture – particularly an ancient one – would choose to depict violent imagery in their art is a challenge in and of itself, but for the Etruscan material, it is made more difficult by the absence of literary evidence by Etruscan authors that records how they viewed their world and the people who lived in it. Instead, its meanings and messages must be decoded and then reconstructed through the careful analysis of archaeological, artistic, and epigraphic data without recourse to modern prejudices. In all ancient Mediterranean cultures, iconography was not only culturally constructed but also intricately tied to the function and context of the works of art on which it appears. Much has also been written about the use of Greek myth and narratives in Etruria (see Chapter 26), the content of most of the violent imagery found on Etruscan art. The current consensus acknowledges “Etruscan agency in the manipulation of Greek myths … in order to fit [them] in with pre-existing social and cultural institutions;” in this way, their recontextualizations of a foreign culture’s stories produce “new cultural forms … [with their own] local systems of … meaning” (Izzet 2010: 39, 41, 43; see also Small 2008: 62–63, and Chapter 24).³

With these ideas in mind, this chapter reviews the three principal contexts in which violent imagery appears in Etruria: the sanctuary, the tomb, and the home. The analysis considers how the selected scenes not only relate to their specific locations but also to the ideologies of their consumers, the elite men and women who commissioned and paid for them and for whom they must have had a strong emotional resonance. Even if we cannot grasp completely the multiple messages communicated by the different types of graphic imagery found in Etruria, their patrons’ conscious and deliberate iconographic choices cannot be divorced from their values and beliefs. This chapter also includes a case study focusing on the use and function of violent imagery on the reverses of engraved bronze mirrors, luxurious artifacts that had both practical and symbolic functions, first within the private sphere of the home and later in the funerary environment. Mirrors were not only associated with adornment, gift exchange, status, wealth, marriage, and prophecy, but were also treasured gifts within the tomb for many wealthy Etruscans. And, while their iconography most frequently projected uplifting and inspirational themes designed to inspire their owners and reinforce social and cultural expectations, tragic and violent narratives were also used. This chapter analyzes the use and function of the latter in their domestic context.

2. The Contexts of Violent Imagery in Etruria

Contextual information is critical not only for understanding all works of art from antiquity, but especially with respect to those with iconography that appears peculiar or even distasteful to modern eyes. Meaning and interpretation most likely varied as much as the stories selected, with associations and understanding just as dependent on function and context as on their beholders’ ages, statuses, gender, and wealth, none of which was static (see further, Izzet 2007b: 58). Moreover, all graphic imagery in Etruria (as well as elsewhere) – from the iconography of murder to scenes of suicide and human sacrifice – represents conscious choices, one of many available to artists who were asked to explore multiple themes and concepts in contexts such as the sanctuary, the tomb, and the home for their customers.

The Religious Sphere

The best known work of violent imagery in a religious context is the painted, high relief terracotta panel (see Figure 26.2) that originally covered the end of the central roof beam on the back of Temple A at Pyrgi, a multicultural, international sanctuary located along the Tyrrhenian coast that functioned as the harbor emporium for Caere. The coroplast depicted two scenes from the Seven Against Thebes, a cycle of particularly dark stories that were of great interest to the Etruscans (Simon 2013: 503; also Chapter 26). On one side, Athena watches Tydeus commit an act of cannibalism on the living body of his enemy, Melanippos, while Zeus, who dominates the center of the composition, charges to the right, ready to hurl his thunderbolt at Kapaneus, who had boasted that the god could not stop him from scaling the walls of Thebes. The violence on display – which, in the words of Jean-René Jannot (2005: 111), is “shocking, … raging …, terrifying” – can only be understood as intentional: an artistic (rather than a realistic) device used to create an everlasting and psychologically powerful impression in the minds of worshippers and visitors alike.

Given that these scenes enhanced the open pediment of a temple in a sanctuary that catered not only to Etruscans but also to an international and constantly fluctuating audience, they must have reinforced beliefs and values important to the buildings’ patrons. On a most basic level, no one who had seen the plaque would have been left in the dark as to the superhuman powers of divinities such as Tinia and Menerva, as Zeus and Athena were known in Etruria. Their actions, above all, are at the fore of these stories, reiterating the Etruscan belief that each of their gods was, as Ingrid Krauskopf (2013: 517) and others have noted, a divinità atto. While much Etruscan visual art depicts them “striving for peace and harmony” (Simon 2006: 57) and/or cooperating with each other (Krauskopf 2013: 524), these deities also wielded an incredible amount of power, and the Etruscans did not shy away from showing publicly the often horrific consequences to humans of divine displeasure. Today, we can only imagine the types of conversations that this unusual and dramatic interpretatio etrusca would have generated long after worshippers and visitors had left Pyrgi. In addition to foregrounding the fate of two warriors – men not unlike many of the sanctuary’s users and visitors – its expressive and spirited style further increases the power of its messages about hubris and arrogance. It leaves no doubt that the gods were not far away and that there were clear and terrifying consequences in store for anyone who defied or challenged them (Bonfante and Swaddling 2006: 23; Baglione 2013: 619–620). In this way, it corresponds to standard temple decoration during the Archaic period in Etruria, a time when many religious buildings displayed vivid narratives of admonition and divine punishments (see further, Jannot 2005: 121).

In addition, Maria Paola Baglione (2013) and others (e.g., Jannot 2005: 111) have argued that the decision to select these particular subjects for a religious building built and decorated c.470–460 (i.e., after the 474 defeat of the Etruscans off the coast of Cumae) at a site that functioned as the emporium of Caere could have been much more complex, with its message “as much civic as religious [since] such distinctions were meaningless in ancient Etruria” (Jannot 2005: 111). Political interpretations, for example, focus on Caere’s “desire … to enshrine before foreign visitors the complete change that had occurred in the government of the city [e.g., after the ouster of Thefarie Velianas]” (Baglione 2013: 619–620), or on “the growing menace of the rulers of Syracuse” (Jannot 2005: 111).

Thus, although it is impossible to know exactly “how the Etruscans … read this visual myth and the degree to which they saw it as historical, mythological or allegorical” (Edlund-Berry 2008: 79), the Pyrgi plaque underscores the importance of analyzing images of violence in Etruria from the perspective of their physical and historical contexts: the scene was as carefully planned as the temple itself, and to say that that its iconography merely reflects a supposed Etruscan “taste” for violence and gore discounts any meaningful forethought or planning by its designer and the temple’s sponsors. Such a view, moreover, only reinforces anti-Etruscan biases that do not give their artists, or even the Etruscans themselves, equal due with respect to issues of originality and creativity (see further, Chapter 24).

The Funerary Environment

In Etruria, funerary art – especially the friezes carved or painted on sarcophagi and urns produced between the fourth and second centuries – includes numerous scenes that depict violent deaths, from the double murder of Klytaimnestra and Aigisthos and the fratricide of the Theban brothers, Eteokles and Polyneikes, to the sacrifices of Polyxena, Iphigeneia, and the Trojan prisoners. The so-called Sarcophagus of the Poet from Tarquinia, now in the Vatican (van der Meer 2004: 49–52 and figs. 24–25), for example, contains three of these subjects, but none can be viewed as reflections their owner’s taste for murder (including matricide) and human sacrifice. Rather, when these violent narratives are analyzed and understood within the context for which they were produced – the tomb – they can be clearly seen as functioning on a variety of symbolic – not realistic – levels within the funerary sphere (see further, Simon 2013: 508).

P. Gregory Warden has also cautioned against interpreting Etruscan funerary imagery at face value, arguing that “sacrifice and death [may have] had a very different meaning to the Etruscans, that possibly for the Etruscan elite death is not quite a dead end, so to speak” (2008a: 110). Other scholars correlate the violent and often bloody images in Etruscan funerary art, particularly from the late Classical and Hellenistic periods, with local rituals and beliefs wherein the shedding of blood, either literally (via animal sacrifice) or symbolically (via an image), ensured immortality and, possibly, deification (Bonfante and Swaddling 2006: 55; de Grummond 2006: 209; Warden 2009; Camporeale 2009; for more on actual sacrificial rites, see Rafanelli 2013: 580). Still others seem them as more personal expressions related to the values and ideologies of the deceased, or to the disturbance and disorder that their overall themes (e.g., war, family conflicts, violent death, issues of succession and loss of power, etc.) – all of which were removed from reality by being drawn from the Hellenic repertoire – bring to survivors (Steuernagel 1998; de Angelis 1999, 2014; see further, Chapter 26). As noted by Soi Agelidis, the Etruscans “thus attempted to express the horror in the face of the death of a human” (2013: 50), especially in comparison to the presumed serenity of the deceased, who is often depicted reclining on the lid of the sarcophagus or urn.

Although the Tombs of the Augurs (Tarquinia; c.520; Steingräber 2006: 92–94) and the François Tomb (c.350; Steingräber 2006: 237–239) are frequently cited as symptomatic of the Etruscans’ alleged taste for violence, both blood sports and images of murder/sacrifice are rarities rather than the norm in this particular medium (as was also the case with the iconography of the Tyhrrenian amphorae discussed above). The Tomb of the Bulls at Tarquinia (c.540–530; Steingräber 2006: 91–92), for example, contains the only surviving Archaic example of a violent mythological subject on the wall of a tomb chamber, and most scholars agree that this unique representation of Achilles poised to ambush and kill the young Troilos, sacrificial knife in hand, in a space evocative of the god Aplu, was chosen for its ritual implications. That is, it was selected for the tomb’s founder, Aranth Spurianas, and his family, because Troilos’s fate, which was well-known in Etruria, effectively evoked the rite of sacrifice and the passage from life to death. When depicted in the funerary environment, which the Etruscans may have viewed as a “physical space that mediated, literally and figuratively, between the world of the living and the dead” (Warden 2008a: 107–108), the imagery connects to actual rituals and beliefs about sacrifice, blood, and passage, all of which were necessary in order for the dead to reach the afterlife safely (see further, Krauskopf 2006; Lowenstam 2008: 138–148; Warden 2009: 213–214; Hedreen 2012).

Likewise, the Phersu scenes in the Tombs of the Augurs and the Tomb of the Olympic Games (c.520 and 510, respectively; Steingräber 2006: 98–99; Thuillier 2013: 835–836) do not display a penchant for meaningless violence and nor can they be divorced from the imagery that surrounds them, which sometimes includes a second Phersu dancing alone or to music. In the former tomb, for example, elite men dominate the iconography, standing in various positions as they display a range of gestures and emotions while slaves wrestle, box, sprint, or carry symbols of political power (e.g., a folding chair). Two different Phersu figures appear, although only one – on the right wall – oversees the contest in which a hooded and already bleeding male tries to beat off an attacking dog while hindered by its long leash; the other Phersu dances alone on the left wall. In the Tomb of the Olympic Games, the scene is less well-preserved but also shows “a hooded man armed with a club who is being attacked by a vicious dog, spurred on by a masked executioner [e.g., Phersu]” (Thuillier 2013: 835). As in the Tomb of the Augurs, this figure is associated with elite male imagery: banqueting scenes and athletic contests surround the human–animal contest. The pediment in the Tomb of the Augurs also contains bloody imagery: there, two felines, a lion and a panther, attack an antelope. In addition, the scene on the front wall, near the entrance, includes “masked figures involved in a dangerous game of strength with a long cord that ties them both by the neck and threatens to strangle either of them” (Haynes 2000: 233).

Not surprisingly, scholarly attention has focused on the Phersu scenes in both tombs – which have been described as “grim,” “gruesome,” and “cruel” – usually to the extent of downplaying the appearance of this character in two other Tarquinian tombs (Pulcinella and the Cock) where he appears solely as a dancer. Moreover, there is no evidence to suggest that the Phersu contest represents a myth, akin to the story of Actaeon, or that Phersu was thought of as a Charun or underworld “demon.” Instead, he is a masked performer, an actor, who had a role to play in funerary ritual: “The constant wearing of a mask with the same features implies that he is impersonating a high power associated with music, funerary rituals and theatrical performances, a character closely related to Dionysos/Fufluns” (Avramidou 2009: 74).

Likewise, there is no indication that the blindfolded men under attack will die; rather, they are shown not only alive but also full of vigor, despite their handicap, remaining upright rather than collapsing to the earth (the latter pose is usually described as “a visual signifier of sacrifice or death in Etruscan art” (Warden 2009: 208 and n. 27)). Jannot comments on this contrast (or “double character”) between the “extreme vitality, activity, force, and dynamism” of some of the depicted rites in surviving funerary iconography and their associated dangers (see also Scheffer 2003). Moreover, he considers the attacking dog to be “a chthonian animal sacred to Calu and Aita” (Jannot 2005: 50). Warden also discusses the highly constructed nature of these funerary images, arguing that the juxtaposition between the bloody animal combat in the pediment is equally as significant as “the symbolism of pitting human against beast in a blood sport” (2009: 214) on the tombs’ walls. Given these perspectives, it becomes clear, once again, that the depiction of such bloody and life-threatening contests within the funerary environment – along with energetic wresting, brutal and bloody boxing matches (e.g., as in the Tomb of the Funeral Bed at Tarquinia), harrowing chariot races, and dangerous acrobatics – do not – despite their emphasis on “realism” – represent real-life spectacles: rather, they are evocations of “the funeral games in the ceremonies held at the funeral of the founder of the tomb” (Thuillier 2013: 838; on chariot races see also now Banducci 2014). That is, they represent symbolic, and specifically ritualistic aristocratic images whose function in the funerary environment was “to revitalize the dead, to bring them, by the shedding of blood, a supplement to life” (Jannot 2005: 50).⁴ In this way, the violence and blood function as animating devices that “give spice to the spectacle and its representation” (Thuillier 2013: 839).

The scenes painted on the walls of tombs in Tarquinia and elsewhere (e.g., Vulci) were private, rather than public, and when viewed as a whole – in conjunction with the rest of their specifically Etruscan iconography – they fit into a corpus of narratives that the elite used to assure their own and their descendants’ smooth passage into the afterlife as well as their immortality (Jannot 2005: 52–53; Warden 2009: 207, 214). As articulated by Krauskopf, these funerary images – although grim by modern western standards – would have been completely suitable in the funerary sphere since they reflected “the belief that blood was necessary to placate the anger of the dead on the one hand, and to strengthen and to protect their souls magically against the dangers of the transition to the Afterlife on the other” (Krauskopf 2006: 76).

The Home

In the domestic sphere, stories adapted from numerous Hellenic and native contexts functioned on a personal (i.e., individual) level on a wide variety of household possessions, from painted vases and carved gems to engraved cistae and bronze mirrors, most of which were used for a variety of purposes before they were transformed into burial goods. A number of narratives – from the suicide of Ajax to Menerva holding the dismembered limb of a giant – appear on multiple types of domestic artifacts. Ajax’s final moment, for example, was selected as the subject not only of vases but also of gems and mirrors, reflecting, by their sheer number – exceeding Greek representations of the theme – that this subject resonated particularly to the consumers and users of these personal objects. In his study of this imagery, Nigel Spivey argued that the Etruscans must not have considered this Homeric hero to be a figure of ridicule or shame; nor did they consider his suicide to be a morally reprehensible form of death (Spivey 1992: 241). Rather, Spivey’s analysis suggests that the Etruscan elite saw him as both noble and a man of honor, whose final act represented a virtue that was to be admired since, unlike in Greece, the name of the family counted for more than the name of the city state. To Spivey, these deliberate celebrations of suicide in the domestic sphere suggest an acknowledgement in Etruria that in certain situations, suicide could have been an honorable act signaling familial loyalty.

On gems, Tydeus (Tute) and Kapaneus (Capne) also enjoyed “a greater popularity in Etruria than in Greece” (Hansson 2013: 934), and two fifth-century scarabs made from carnelian and agate, both now in New York, depict the warriors in contorted poses that evoke “a sense of dramatic and sudden violence” (De Puma 2013a: 282 and figs. 2.5 and 7.78). Exactly why figures whose behavior was not positive were chosen as gem iconography has puzzled some scholars. Nevertheless, because Kapaneus is often shown being struck by Zeus’s thunderbolt, it has been suggested that his popularity may have had something to do with his death by lightning, an important tool of divination in Etruria and one that may have been connected to the amuletic function of the gems (see further, Chapter 26).

Hansson (2013: 939) also notes that a significant number of ring stones from the fourth century were decorated with what seem “to be Maschialismos scenes [e.g., the deliberate mutilation of an enemies’ body] or severed heads …,” which may have evoked the concept of human sacrifice which some Etruscans practiced as a religious ritual (Bonfante 1984). Richard De Puma discusses an example now in New York which depicts an upright nude male holding “the severed torso and arms of another male figure” (2013a: 286 and fig. 7.100). While “we cannot … totally exclude that some of the gems show the harsh treatment of enemy bodies, … [they] do not usually show a battle context” (Scheffer 2006: 513), suggesting that some of these scenes could reference Tydeus while the severed heads could represent Orpheus or another type of oracular head.

Given their domestic context and use, these particular gem images most likely functioned as cautionary tales warning their elite owners about the varying consequences of transgressing the boundaries of acceptable behavior during life (boundaries of all types were important to the Etruscans; see further, Edlund-Berry 2013: 557–565). Such behavior was a risk, leading to destabilization and tension within families, and for this reason, these stories would have had an important social power, one that operated on a specifically personal level, with the figures represented serving as exempla (both positive and negative) intended for daily reflection.

3. Case Study: Violent Imagery on Engraved Bronze Mirrors

Perhaps the least understood images of violence and death in Etruscan art are the matricides, dismemberments, decapitations, fratricides, and suicides, to name just a few themes, that appear on the reverses of engraved bronze mirrors.⁵ These functional luxury goods were first manufactured in the late sixth century and produced until the mid-second century. Their use during life – as hand-held and mobile grooming implements, status symbols, oracular devices, etc. – stimulated their manufacture, but, like much Etruscan art, their archaeological context was the tomb: all known examples have been recovered from this environment rather than any domestic contexts. While their findspots suggest that any mirrors with bloodily themed iconography could easily be classified as funerary in content and meaning (de Grummond 2000c: 29), these narratives appear on artifacts whose primary function was practical (e.g., adornment, grooming, divination, etc.) and which most scholars believe were acquired as wedding gifts (de Grummond 2000a; Serra Ridgway 2000: 416; De Puma 2001: 27; de Grummond 2013: 551; Bonfante 2013: 431; De Puma 2013b: 1056; Rasmussen 2013: 677). In fact, recent assessments of the word malena, once thought to be the word for mirror, have now suggested that it means “wedding gift” (De Puma 2013b: 1056 with references). Moreover, while the consumers of these artifacts were the Etruscan aristocracy, their audience was much broader: elite women and men, along with their children, slaves, and friends, could have handled or encountered them on a daily basis before the artifacts were transitioned into grave goods⁶ (for more on the nature of the Etruscan household, see Chapter 13).

As Vedia Izzet (2007b: 58; 2012) and others (Lowenstam 2008: 152; Carpino 2011; De Puma 2013b) have demonstrated, the iconography of the Etruscans’ mirrors – the most important and distinctive form of pictorial art in Etruria – was not just a form of entertainment or the focus of erudite conversation in the domestic sphere. Nor did the narratives provide their users with “snapshots of ancient lives” (Izzet 2012: 76). Instead, those chosen for visualization were carefully selected for their ability to remind their owners of the duties and expectations required of them during life. For this reason, stories that promoted ideal family values or that cautioned against behavior that inverted or subverted social and cultural paradigms of femininity and masculinity became the norm, with various figures from the legendary past and the divine world projected as exempla for reflection. These figures ranged from Achle/Achilles, the greatest of the Greek legendary heroes, and Hercle/Herakles, an adventurous, strong mortal who overcame numerous dangers on his way to apotheosis, to Turan, goddess of beauty, adornment, sex, reproduction, and child-rearing, whose love and “marriage” to Atunis/Adonis served as a model for Etruscan couples (Izzet 2007a: 121; Bonfante 2013: 432–433). Not surprisingly, romance and seduction – presumably to stimulate reproduction and the continuity of the family – were popular themes, with characters such as Pele/Peleus and Thethis/ Thetis or Fufluns/Dionysos and Areatha/Ariadne, to name just two couples, promoted as models for daily contemplation. At the same time, a sinister element – namely the notion of an early or untimely death – was not avoided in mirror iconography, as witnessed by scenes showing couples such as Alcestei/Alcestis and Atmite/Admetos and Atalanta and Meleager whose unions were shattered by individual actions and decisions that resulted in the death of one of the lovers. Thus, stories about the darker sides of human and divine behavior, and themes such as transgression and hubris, resonated just as much with the engravers’ clientele as did lighter themes, such as bridal preparation, bathing, and seduction.

Chronologically, mirror iconography showing violence is most common on artifacts produced between the mid-fifth and third centuries, with the majority dating to the fourth century, a period of great innovation and creativity in mirror design and decoration (see further, van der Meer 1995: 238). They also include a much narrower range of subject matter than that found in art specifically connected to the funerary environment. Popular funerary themes such as the Theban fratricide or Achilles’s murder of Troilos appear only sporadically, while scenes of human sacrifice (e.g., the stories of Polyxena, Iphigenia, and the Trojan prisoners) are absent. Moreover, when the mirrors’ iconography is compared to standard funerary representations, there is a distinct absence of blood and only rarely a “demon” or chthonian character waiting in the wings. For example, Vanth – one of the Etruscans’ spirits who helped the dead on their journey to the afterlife – appears on only three extant mirrors. Charun, her ugly male counterpart, is unattested, despite the popularity of his appearance in funerary art produced from the mid-late fifth century on, along with Culsu, who was associated with passages and doors, and Tuchulcha, who appears in the Tomb of the Orcus (Haynes 2000: fig. 223). The only other named “demonic” character that appears in mirror iconography is Nathum, a hideous creature of uncertain gender who stands behind Urusthe/Orestes as he avenges his father’s murder on a mid-fifth century mirror now in Berlin (Carpino 2011: 11 and fig. 5). The presence of this chthonian figure, however, is easily explained by the mirror’s iconography of matricide: its attributes (bearded snakes entwined around the arms, flame-like, tousled hair, an open mouth with an upward-pointing boar tusk) demonstrate an ingenious conflation of one of the Etruscans’ ubiquitous underworld “demons” with a Greek Fury; in this way, the character serves not only to localize the subject matter – it waits in the wings for Urusthe to complete his deed – but also as a reference to the future, to the time when Urusthe needs to be absolved of his unnatural crime. A winged but far less hideous chthonic character appears behind Hercle on a late fourth-century mirror now in Florence that depicts his confrontation with an armed Amazon, presumably Hippolyta/Heplenta (van der Meer 1995: 16 and fig. 4; Fischer-Graf 1980: 94). Because Hercle’s aggression against the Amazon queen resulted in her death in most accounts, we once again find an interpretatio etrusca wherein this character helps “to [not only] nationalize the Greek subject matter” (Steingräber 2006: 192) but also reiterate an Etruscan custom.

Because space precludes a full examination of all of the violent narratives that appear in this category of mirror iconography, the analysis below focuses on three themes: dismemberment, fighting couples, and decapitation, none of which has been analyzed in depth in prior scholarship.⁷

Dismemberment

The great cosmic battle between the Olympians and the hubristic giants was a popular subject not only in Greece – where it frequently signified the struggle that civilization and reason waged against the forces of darkness – but also in Etruria where its appearance dates back to the Orientalizing period. Mirror engravers, however, depicted only two deities taking part in the Gigantomachy: Laran, god of war, and Menerva, a goddess akin to Athena but with much broader powers and functions (e.g., the ability to throw lightning, to name just one; see further, Jannot 2005: 147–149; de Grummond 2006: 71–78). On a late fifth-century mirror from Populonia (de Grummond 2000b: 259; de Grummond 2006: fig. V.38), Laran, outfitted in full military gear, attacks a wild-haired, bearded warrior named Celsclan (literally, the son of Cel, the goddess of the earth). He grips his fleeing opponent by the shoulder, his drawn sword a more effective weapon than the giant’s boulder, another motif that confirms the association of the scene with the Gigantomachy.

Menerva’s confrontation with the giants is far more dramatic and brutal than Laran’s: in what can only be described as an interpretatio etrusca, a mid-fourth century mirror now in the Louvre (Rebuffat-Emmanual 1997: no. 14) shows the helmeted goddess with wings, swooping over a nude but helmeted warrior who has collapsed to the ground, a shield protecting his left side. She grasps his right wrist with her left hand and grips a section of his free upper arm with her right, an action that has contributed to his collapse. Mario Del Chiaro describes her as “lean[ing] forward in intense and gruesome anticipation of the task before her” (1970: 350). A late fourth-century mirror found in Perugia and known since 1813 (Figure 27.1) (Frascarelli 1995: no. 3) shows the aftermath of this airborne confrontation: here, a fully-grounded Menerva holds the amputated right arm of her foe – a man inscribed Akrathe – in her right hand, waving it above her head as she gets ready to spear him to death in the chest. Akrathe kneels on the ground, holding a large boulder in his left hand as blood oozes out of the empty socket along his right side.

Image described by caption and surrounding text. — **Figure 27.1** Engraved mirror with Menrva and Akrathe, late fourth century BCE. Bronze. Drawing:
Frascarelli: 1995: fig. 3a.

Similar visualizations of Menerva’s unique and exclusively Etruscan fighting method in the Gigantomachy appear on other types of artifacts from the domestic sphere, including a black-figure hydria by the Micali Painter from the end of the sixth century, a thin bronze relief that once decorated a small household box from the beginning of the fifth century and a red-figure stamnos from Vulci, produced during the late fourth/early third century. On the latter, which may have been manufactured at Caere (Del Chiaro 1970: 351), the goddess is helmeted and also carries a shield. She uses her right foot to push against the calf of a collapsing warrior, and waves, above her head, his amputated left arm. The Perugia mirror, interestingly enough, is more realistic than these other artifacts, given the engraver’s depiction of the blood flowing out of the empty socket. Gems manufactured during the fifth century and now in New York and Paris (Vian 1949; De Puma 2013a: 282–283 and fig. 7.80) also depict the goddess with wings, as on the Paris mirror, holding a dismembered limb – an arm with the hand still attached – in her left hand, as on the Perugia mirror.

Why was such a violent and gory form of fighting selected for this goddess in Etruria? In her study “Man-killers and Their Victims,” Beth Cohen notes that in fifth-century Greece the “fate of dismemberment was worse than death” (2000a: 106). Did Menerva’s fighting method, therefore, remind the mirrors’ owners of something in particular, either mutilations that took place on the battlefield, or practices related to the concepts of akroteriasmos or maschalismos (Scheffer 2006: 512; De Puma 2013a: 286)? To most scholars, these dismemberment scenes have nothing to do with a form of actual warfare (Hanfmann 1937: 470, n. 32; Scheffer 2006; for more on the theme of mutilation in the Iliad, see Segal 1971). Rather, as Charlotte Scheffer (2006: 513) has observed, “it is easier to see it as a sign of her superhuman strength and power to debilitate her opponents than as an Etruscan way of fighting,” an idea that builds upon Del Chiaro’s assessment from the 1970s: “the representation of the goddess with so shocking a weapon – an arm wrenched from the body of her opponent – is a simple visual statement to superhuman power, the ferocious and merciless reaction expected of an Olympian deity aroused to anger or combat” (Del Chiaro 1970: 351). To these scholars, therefore, this interpretatio etrusca not only stressed Menerva’s central role in the Gigantomachy but it also celebrated both her incredible physical strength and her position as a divinità atto in the Etruscan pantheon, where she played a critical role in the maintenance of order in the universe. It could also be connected to myths of a similar type, e.g., the stories of Pentheus or Marsyas, which involved either dismemberment or a flaying.

The conceptualization of the giants as warriors, moreover, was most likely not arbitrary: as I have demonstrated elsewhere (Carpino 2009), fighting warriors have a long history in Etruscan art, with some imagery selected to celebrate exemplary heroes from the Trojan, Theban, and Argonaut cycles who exuded military valor and others to caution against transgressions that resulted in a negative fate. On mirrors, Menerva was celebrated as a goddess with the ability to grant or deny immortality to her protégés: she also had no trouble condemning hubristic mortals to eternal death, as already seen in the Pyrgi relief. When viewed in this light, it is possible to interpret the mirror’s iconography as a cautionary tale directed to the owners of these artifacts: harmony and stability, not strife or disorder, were the ideals expected of men and women in the domestic sphere, ideals that underscored their paradigms not only of manhood and womanhood but also of marriage. Marriage was a time for celebrating the power of one’s family and one’s ancestry, of affirming one’s identity and social status. But fame and power had to be controlled, subjected to divine will and authority. The iconography of these mirrors, therefore, presented a choice to be contemplated daily, functioning as a dramatic and powerful reminder that any attempt to subvert or invert this ideology could have severe consequences not only for an individual but also their entire family and the generations to come. In this way, Menerva’s vivid dismemberment of a hubristic giant not only celebrates her superhuman powers but also her special relationship with a clientele who valued her ability to bring them luck and prosperity through her many divine powers.

Fighting Couples

In addition to fighting warriors (e.g., Achilles and Memnon, Ajax and Hektor, Tydeus and Melanippos, Polyneikes and Eteokles, etc.) and battles such as the Gigantomachy, representations of men and women in conflict make up the majority of the violent imagery on the reverses of mirrors, imagery that Marjatta Nielsen has described as “tactless” for artifacts associated with weddings and the toilette (Nielsen 2003: 39). Some of these scenes – such as the wrestling match between Peleus and Atalanta, or the confrontation between Odysseus (Uthste) and Circe (Cerca) (a mid-late fourth century BCE example from Vetulonia is now in New York (De Puma 2013a: 177 and fig. 6.6); another example is now in Cambridge (Nicholls 1993: no. 11); see also Fischer-Graf 1980: V44–46) – have happy endings, with the latter narrative belonging to a subgroup that portrays female characters – not just Circe but also Helen, Hesione, and Kassandra – being threatened or confronted by violent men but never killed (see further, Nagy 2009). In the latter images, the themes of love, lust and beauty intersect directly with the violence depicted, as can be seen on a mirror from Caere, now in the British Museum. There, the engraver depicts Meneleus/Menle, who still has a firm grasp on Helen/Elinai’s hair, abandoning his desire to murder his unfaithful ex-wife with his sword when he catches sight of her beautiful body, revealed through the drapery that has fallen down around her thighs. As L. Bouke van der Meer (1995: 112) has observed, we find a narrative where beauty has “soften[ed] [a] revengeful aggressor,” thereby lending it “a soteric character” and highlighting “the power of love.” It is no coincidence, either, that the engraver depicts Turan as the figure who pulls Meneleus back from going forward with his deed.

In other instances, such as in the Amazonomachy, battles between men and women – whether Herakles and Hippolyta (his ninth labor in search of her girdle) or Achilles and Penthesileia – had the most negative consequence of all for the female characters: death. Engravers, however, avoided gore in these “fighting couple” images, preferring to depict the moment before the fatal blow is struck, with the women captured forever in a liminal state, on that threshold between life and death. As I have demonstrated elsewhere, even Orestes’s matricide is bloodless in mirror iconography, with Klytaimnestra’s tragic and very human fate suspended for eternity (Carpino 2011: 24). A beautifully engraved mirror from Vulci and now in Berlin (Figure 27.2), most likely manufactured at the beginning of the fourth century, is a good example of this type (Zimmer 1995: no. 15; Franken 2013: fig. 8.5). It poignantly illustrates the tragically brief “romance” between two of the greatest warriors from classical mythology, the Amazon queen, Penthesileia/Pentasila, and the Greek hero, Achilles/Achle. In the medallion, Pentasila appears on the right, in profile, protected by intricate armor (helmet, cuirass, and greaves). Her size indicates that she is, at first glance, the equal of her opponent, who does not tower over her. The engraver selects a moment prior to her stabbing, thus eliminating the need to depict any bloodshed. At the same time, the scene’s deviation from any sense of a real battle is made manifest by a number of visual clues, most significantly, the fact that Pentasilia is unarmed but adorned with a necklace. In this simple but important way, the most valorous of the warrior queens has been domesticated: she has no weapon and thereby becomes a woman who Achle desires, despite her choice to act as a warrior and to duel with him. Pentasilia tilts her head back, opens her mouth, and stretches out her right hand in Achle’s direction, her only defense a plea for mercy from the sword that he is poised to plunge into her chest. The pathos of her features and body language are also visible on Achle’s face, but rather than grabbing her by the hair – the usual gesture for what Helen Nagy (2009) has termed “the lunging aggressor” – his left arm is wrapped around her waist. Thus, Achilles’s drawn sword is no longer a true weapon – designed for lethal purposes – but, like its use in other “fighting couple” scenes such as Odysseus’s confrontation with Circe or Menelaus’s attack on Helen – it functions instead as an erotic motif.

These details – when combined with their embrace on the battlefield – not only point to the highly constructed nature of the scene (e.g, women in Etruria did not fight in wars), but they also confirm why this duel became an appropriate and acceptable form of mirror iconography. Although recorded only in a second-century CE source (Apollodorus; Swaddling 2001: 32; Stahre 1998: 160), a version where the hero is touched by the Amazon’s beauty and falls in love with her right before striking the fatal blow was known and portrayed much earlier, suggesting that what Etruscan consumers and users saw in this medallion was the birth and death of a perfectly suited couple who were fated, tragically, never to be together. Themes about star-crossed lovers or love found and then lost, moreover, can be correlated with other less solemn variations that engravers placed on mirrors (e.g., the stories of Turan and Atunis, Alcestis and Admetus, Meleager and Atalanta), making it a narrative with broad appeal, perhaps even because of its fantasy, as well as one appropriate for an artifact with multiple functions during life and after death. In addition, it can be correlated to the “open eroticism” found on other mirrors (e.g., an example that shows an embracing Tinia and Semla; Bonfante 2000: fig. 9) or in other works of Etruscan art, such as the married couple Larth Tetnies and his wife Tanchvil Tarnai, whose love for each other is captured for all eternity on the lid of their fourth-century sarcophagus from Vulci (Rowland 2008: 158).

Decapitation

Quite different in tone from the Berlin mirror discussed above is the dramatic and unusual scene of a fighting couple that appears on a small unprovenanced tang mirror (Figure 27.3) from the late fourth century, possibly produced at Vulci and now in Boston (De Puma 1993: no. 26). Against a blank background, two figures are locked in an intense struggle: a heroically nude youth appears on the left, looking away as he slashes the throat of the fit nude female on the right. She attempts, unsuccessfully, to release the grip her attacker has on her hair. Despite the absence of inscriptions, the young man’s pose and attributes (e.g., his kibisis and distinctive curved dagger) designate the scene as Perseus’s decapitation of Medusa, as Richard De Puma (1993: 45) has suggested.

During the fifth century, ugly frontal versions of Medusa’s severed head make their first appearance on mirrors, either filling the medallion (see Rebuffat-Emmanuel 1973: 303–306, pls. 62–63; Serafin 2000: figs. 32–33, 35, 38–40), or appearing in the exergue beneath a representation of the fleeing hero (an example from the mid-fifth century now in Copenhagen shows winged Perseus holding his curved dagger and a bag weighed down with Medusa’s head; Salskov Roberts 1981: no. 10). Her head was also used to decorate the wooden or ivory handles that were attached to tang mirrors (Serafin 2000: fig 31). From an early date, therefore, the Etruscans were quite familiar with the power and danger of Medusa’s gaze and Perseus’s role in her decapitation. Their use of the Gorgoneion as mirror iconography most likely embodied multiple messages. Not only was it a story intricately connected to the mirror’s practical function (reflection and the gaze), but the Etruscans also likely knew that Medusa was a mortal whose vanity about her beautiful hair caused her downfall and transformation into a hideous monster whose gaze became dangerous and death-causing. Moreover, her head also served as a wedding gift to King Polydectes: after the decapitation, Perseus presented it to show his fulfillment of his vow, indicating that the theme of matrimony could have been evoked by this imagery, along with the head’s potential for prophecy and divination. Finally, although this is never shown on mirrors, the Etruscans would have known, from imported Greek vases, that another result of Medusa’s decapitation was her motherhood: born at the moment of her death were Pegasus and her son Chrysaor, indicating that new life came from her severed head.

During the fourth century, the focus in mirror iconography shifted to Perseus as Gorgon killer, with examples showing him approaching a sleeping, winged, half naked and non-monstrous Medusa (de Grummond 2006: fig. V.3), or in a triad observing a reflection of her severed head in a pool of water or as it lies on the ground (Swaddling 2001: no. 27). The latter scenes suggest that her head, like that of Orpheus who met an equally violent end, not only retained its powers after her death but also that it functioned as the mouthpiece for prophecies (de Grummond 2000c; for Orpheus, see De Puma 2001), especially since Perseus adopts the stance of the haruspex in one of these scenes (de Grummond 2006: fig. II.14).

The iconography of the Boston mirror deviates significantly from these more conventional representations. Its Medusa is no monster but a beautiful young woman with an elaborate hairstyle (Ovid (4.793–800) mentions that she was originally famous not only for her beauty but also her glorious hair); there are also no snakes in sight. In many ways, the Boston Medusa resembles the beautiful mortal she once was, before she encountered the wrath of Athena. The engraver emphasizes her lean, fit, girlish body, and nothing in her outward appearance, at least, suggests that she could be dangerous to human eyes. In addition, there is no hint of the supernatural (e.g., wings) in her appearance: in fact, this Medusa’s only “costume” is her nudity. Moreover, rather than being asleep and unaware of what is about to transpire, her actions emphasize her unwillingness to die without a fight. Nevertheless, despite her resistance, it is also clear that it is in vain: Medusa’s transition begins before the viewers’ eyes but not, once again, through the depiction of any bloodshed: instead, it is conveyed by her body language, especially her limp right arm and hand, and her collapsing legs.

Full nudity was a trait used in Etruscan art to signify a variety of concepts, from divinity, eroticism, and fertility to danger and vulnerability. According to Larissa Bonfante, “the extraordinary power of the shock effect of nakedness [could also mark] the rites of passage from one state to another – life to death, childhood to war for men or marriage for women – and works powerful magic” (2000: 288). What, then, was the message of this unusual interpretatio etrusca of Medusa’s decapitation? Was the engraver just trying to show the dramatic prelude to her prophetic role in Etruria? Or, given that beauty and adornment were integral parts of her story, was it meant to serve as a cautionary tale warning against excessive vanity, while, at the same time, exalting Perseus who exhibits the qualities of a true hero (e.g., bravery and fearlessness in the fate of death)? Or perhaps its message was more symbolic, given Medusa’s nudity and visualization as a girl who struggles against her fate, since these details not only evoke the concepts of virgin sacrifice and danger, but also ideas associated with liminality and rites of passage (see further, Sandhoff 2011: 82). There were many dangers and threats that could crop up during life that had to be overcome by courage, wisdom, or the support of the gods.

Given the available evidence, it is impossible to pinpoint a specific meaning or message to this unusual rendering of Perseus’s encounter with Medusa, but what it does show, like the other mirrors discussed above, is that happy endings were not a prerequisite for the iconography selected for display on these artifacts, especially during the fourth century, the heyday of the production of violent imagery in Etruria. Instead, all of these scenes indicate that mythical tragedies and stories about the darker sides of human nature and behavior played an important role as visual communication in the domestic sphere, even on luxury artifacts such as mirrors. Even if their meanings are obscure to us today, these scenes must have disseminated important cultural messages and beliefs to their prosperous and well-educated owners, ones that transcend simplistic views about peculiar or unusual tastes for cruel and bloody imagery (recall that there is a distinct absence of gore in most of the scenes). Moreover, in all cases, the victims of the violence are still alive, their fate suspended for all eternity, on the threshold between life and death. By evoking the concept of liminality, a concept so akin to the mirror’s actual function as a transformative device, their iconography could also reflect Etruscan beliefs about the power of the mirror to negotiate (both literally and symbolically) between the worlds of the living and the dead (de Grummond 2009). In all of these ways, therefore, this particular category of decorated mirrors provided elite Etruscans of all ages with a range of provocative images and complex ideas to ponder as they groomed themselves on a daily basis within their homes. As Stan Lowenstam states, “Musings about marriage, fidelity, childbirth, reputation, and death shine forth from the mirrors in which Etruscan women [and men] viewed themselves. Achillean and Odyssean myth also served as a means to publicize ideology, justify power, and identify enemies. … the Etruscans [used these stories]…to express their aspirations, anxieties and observations on life” (2008: 173).

4. Violence and Gender in Etruria

Brian Rose (2013: 96) has recently proposed that a Graeco-Persian sarcophagus from Didymon Teikhos, which contains a particularly graphic representation of the Sacrifice of Polyxena and the remains of a 40-year old male, was originally designed for a woman since, in addition to its dramatic sacrifice scene, the three other sides focus on female celebrations. In Etruria, numerous works of art also confirm that the depiction of violence was neither a “male” theme, nor was there any attempt to equate only men with brutal or bloody imagery. As noted above, not only did both sexes use engraved mirrors with violent iconographies but they also performed rituals in sanctuaries where temples graphically depicted the dire consequences of hubristic behavior (e.g., at Pyrgi (see Figure 26.2) and in Orvieto, where a temple in the Cannicella necropolis was enhanced with a representation of Orestes’s matricide: see Stopponi 2011). Moreover, within the funerary sphere, men and women were interred in containers decorated with scenes of battles, human sacrifice and murder. The Tarquinian aristocrat, Ramtha Huzcnai, for example, who died some time during the fourth century, was interred in a stone sarcophagus enhanced with painted friezes depicting Amazons battling Greek warriors and reliefs on the ends of the lid showing the death of Aktaion (van der Meer 2004: 35–36 and figs. 12–13; Warden 2009: 202–203, and fig. 13.2). Velthur Partunus, a zilch cechaneri (or high-ranking magistrate) who died at the age of 82, also reclines eternally on the lid of a limestone sarcophagus carved with an Amazonomachy and a Centauromachy (Haynes 2000: fig. 237). Similarly, the Vulcian couple, Larth Tetnies and his wife Thanchvil Tarnai, embrace on the lid of a box carved with an Amazonomachy and other battle scenes (van der Meer 2004: 37; Rowland 2008).

During the Hellenistic period, numerous individuals from Chiusi, Perugia and Volterra also had their ashes placed inside stone and terracotta containers decorated with a wide range of violent imagery. Urns now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, for example, depict Thana Vipinei Ranazunia reclining serenely as a raging battle takes place on the front of her urn (De Puma 2013a: 247–248 and fig. 6.93) or other women resting above scenes depicting the Amazonomachy and the murder of a woman in her bed (De Puma 2013a: 245–246, fig. 692 and 249, fig. 6.95, respectively). Although Amazonomachies do not have a clear funerary significance, it is unlikely that they carried the same messages as when used in Greek art (i.e., as evocations of battle between civilization and the barbaric eastern regions). The Etruscan works emphasize both Amazon victories and defeats, suggesting to some scholars that this theme was not “related to the sex of the deceased, but rather … dictated by the respect roused by the deeds of these fearless mythical [strong and martial] women” (van der Meer 2004: 38).

In his catalogue entry on a Volterran travertine cinerary urn now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, De Puma (2013a: 249) asks, “Why would one select any murder of a woman, let alone a matricide, for the subject of what appears to be the cinerary urn of a woman?” But as Warden has pointed out in his analysis of Ramtha Huzcnai’s sarcophagus, even if we cannot reconstruct what these subjects might have signified to their Etruscan patrons and viewers, many deal with themes of transformation and blood-shedding which would have been of interest to all Etruscans, regardless of gender, in the funerary sphere: “Death is by its nature a transformative experience and was to the Etruscans a rite of passage; transformation was attainable through ritual. … By controlling the transformative process itself, by harnessing the blood of beasts and the power of primal animal forces, the Etruscan elite may have attempted to enshrine permanently its status at the pinnacle of this social landscape” (Warden 2009: 214).

Based on what has survived not only in the funerary sphere but also in religious and domestic contexts, it is, therefore, clear that themes of violence in Etruscan art cannot be viewed either as a male prerogative or even as “masculine” themes.⁸ And there is no evidence to suggest that artists modified their iconography so as to appeal to the gender of their clients (contra: van der Meer 1995: 26). Dark stories in Etruria were for everyone, since they effectively brought to the fore, in a vivid and dramatic way, the many different types of problems and tensions that could arise in families, between couples, or when mortals challenged the gods.

5. Conclusions

This chapter highlights the different uses of violent imagery in Etruria in contexts as varied as the sanctuary, the tomb, and the home. These representations indicate that specific Greek stories were exploited deliberately not because the Etruscans had a taste for violence and its depiction. Instead, they appear because they resonated both emotionally and psychologically with Etruscans of all ages and effectively communicated specific beliefs, values, and anxieties about human behavior and passions (Lowenstam 2008: 152). Within the sanctuary, there was no better way to articulate the power and authority of the gods than by showing, in a vivid and dramatic manner, the dire punishments meted out to hubristic mortals. In the funerary sphere, the motif of violent death dominated in order to satisfy the religious and ritual needs of the deceased and his/her family rather than to fulfill a taste for blood and gore. Likewise, within the home, certain stories with violent subject matter selected from the Hellenic repertoire expressed ideas that were of concern to the Etruscans in their daily lives, from celebrations of heroes and characters whose behavior could be emulated to those who had transgressed or subverted cultural norms and expectations, thereby threatening the survival of their families and lineage. Moreover, because these images are in the minority in terms of the overall corpus of subjects found on religious and domestic artifacts, their presence must be the result of a thoughtful and deliberate selection. No longer can any of the violent representations in Etruscan art be considered symptomatic of a peculiar appetite for bloody or horrific imagery and a taste for gore and brutality.

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GUIDE TO FURTHER READING

To date, there is no comprehensive study about the use and function of violent imagery in Etruscan art, making the 2015 study by Cerchiai, Lubtchansky, and Pouzadoux an other important resource for scholars. More has been written about violence in the funerary sphere than in any other context: important resources here include Steuernagel 1998, de Angelis 1999, van der Meer 2004, Bonfante and Swaddling 2006, de Grummond 2006, Steingräber 2006, Warden 2009, and de Angelis 2014. Haynes 2000, Jannot 2005, and Stopponi 2011 provide a good background to the use of violent narratives in the religious sphere. Other scholars such as Bonfante 1984, Spivey 1992, Lowenstam 2008, Hedreen 2012, Scheffer 2006, Carpino 2009, 2011, and De Puma 2013a have focused on a particular theme (e.g., human sacrifice, Ajax’s suicide, the murder of Troilos, the cannibalism of Tydeus, the matricide of Orestes) and its appearance on a range of artifacts from both Etruria and Greece.