Deciphering Assyria: A Tribute to Simo Parpola on the Occasion of his 80th Birthday 3963272368, 9783963272363

Table of contents :
Table of Contents
Introduction
Bibliography of the Publications of Simo Parpola
since 2008
Abusch: A Further Note on Maqlû III 1–30. Another Example of a First Person Ritual Description
in a Maqlû Incantation
Adali: Sin-iddinam’s Royal Inscription Schøyen MS 5000
and the Umman-manda
Annus: Memory Techniques and Synaesthesia
among Mesopotamian Scholars
Aro:
Thureau-Dangin, Šamšī-ilu and the Lions of Til Barsip. Some Remarks
Bach: Aššur-da’’in-aplu,
the Older and the Younger
Bagg: The Good Vassal.
Edom under the Assyrians
Dabrowa: The Babylonian Astronomical Diaries as a Source for the History of the Arsacids
Ermidoro: Hidden in Plain Sight.
The ‘Firing Holes’ on Ashurbanipal’s Prisms
Faist:
A Neo-Assyrian Riddle
Gaspa:
The Western Trade Scenario and Assyria’s Economic Policy
Hätinen: Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan and his Gods.
On Personal Deities in Ludlul bēl nēmeqi
Kühne: Considerations about the Localization of Eluḫat
(Eluḫut) on the Upper Tigris
Luukko: Some Remarks on the King of Assyria
as the Sun God
MacGinnis:
Earthquakes in Assyria
Masetti-Rouault:
“Why Me?” or “To Be or Not to Be”. Prince Kumma’s Netherworld Vision as an Aspect of Esarhaddon’s Apologetic Creations
May:
Neo-Assyrian Eunuch-Scholars
Morandi Bonacossi: An Itinerant Tribute-Bearer’s Head
from Sargon II’s Palace at Khorsabad
Nadali: Live Sketches?
Convention vs Realism in Assyrian Art
Nissinen:
Male Action in Akkadian and Hebrew Love Poetry
Oshima:
Acting Out Suffering. The Rationale Behind Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s “Funerary” Rite in Ludlul II and V
Pongratz-Leisten:
Gilgamesh’s Lapis Lazuli Tablet in the Cultural Memory of Ancient Mesopotamia
Reade:
Mountaineers in Mesopotamia
Svärd:
“A rose by any other name …”. A note on writing conventions of Aššur and Ištar
Ulanowski: The Concept of Just War
in the Ancient Mesopotamian and Greek Traditions
Waters: SAA 21 134 and the Curious Case of Teispes(?)
the šūt rēši
Wojciechowska: Cambyses and Artaxerxes III in Egypt.
Literary Topos and beyond
Yamada: The Šulgi Prophecy in the Kassiteand Neo-Assyrian Periods.
A Consideration of the Original Composition and its Later Reception
Zaia: Plan B(abylonia).
Adapting Neo-Assyrian Imperial Projects to Local Circumstances in Babylonia
Index

Citation preview

MWM 9

Melammu Workshops and Monographs 9

Deciphering Assyria • A Tribute to Simo Parpola

Deciphering Assyria A Tribute to Simo Parpola on the Occasion of his 80th Birthday

Edited by Raija Mattila, Robert Rollinger and Sebastian Fink

www.zaphon.de

Zaphon

MWM-9-FS-Parpola-Cover-6.indd 1

27.06.2023 10:57:21

Deciphering Assyria A Tribute to Simo Parpola on the Occasion of his 80th Birthday

Edited by Raija Mattila, Robert Rollinger and Sebastian Fink

Melammu Workshops and Monographs Volume 9

Edited by Sebastian Fink and Robert Rollinger

Scientific Board Alberto Bernabé (Madrid) Josine Blok (Utrecht) Rémy Boucharlat (Lyon) Eckart Frahm (New Haven) Mait Kõiv (Tartu) Ingo Kottsieper (Göttingen) Daniele Morandi Bonacossi (Udine) Sabine Müller (Marburg) Simonetta Ponchia (Verona) Kurt Raaflaub (Providence) Thomas Schneider (Vancouver) Rahim Shayegan (Los Angeles) Shigeo Yamada (Tsukuba)

Deciphering Assyria A Tribute to Simo Parpola on the Occasion of his 80th Birthday

Edited by Raija Mattila, Robert Rollinger and Sebastian Fink

Zaphon Münster 2023

The Melammu Logo was drawn by Ria Berg from a Greco-Persian style seal found on the north-eastern shore of the Black Sea (Dominique Collon, First Impressions: Cylinder Seals in the Ancient Near East (London: British Museum Publications 1987), no. 432). Illustration on the cover: Austen H. Layard: Discoveries in the Ruins of Nineveh and Babylon. London 1853, p. 350 (Apkallu, “Fish-God at Entrance to Small Temple (Nimroud)”).

Deciphering Assyria. A Tribute to Simo Parpola on the Occasion of his 80th Birthday Edited by Raija Mattila, Robert Rollinger and Sebastian Fink Melammu Workshops and Monographs 9

© 2023 Zaphon, Enkingweg 36, Münster (www.zaphon.de) All rights reserved. Printed in Germany. Printed on acid-free paper.

ISBN 978-3-96327-236-3 (book) ISBN 978-3-96327-237-0 (e-book) ISSN 2698-8224

Table of Contents Introduction Raija Mattila, Robert Rollinger and Sebastian Fink ......................................... IX Bibliography of the Publications of Simo Parpola since 2008 .......................... XI A Further Note on Maqlû III 1–30: Another Example of a First Person Ritual Description in a Maqlû Incantation Tzvi Abusch ........................................................................................................... 1 Sin-iddinam’s Royal Inscription Schøyen MS 5000 and the Umman-manda Selim Ferruh Adalı................................................................................................ 5 Memory Techniques and Synaesthesia among Mesopotamian Scholars Amar Annus ........................................................................................................ 17 Thureau-Dangin, Šamšī-ilu and the Lions of Til Barsip: Some Remarks Sanna Aro ........................................................................................................... 29 Aššur-da’’in-aplu, the Older and the Younger Johannes Bach .................................................................................................... 67 The Good Vassal: Edom under the Assyrians Ariel M. Bagg...................................................................................................... 91 The Babylonian Astronomical Diaries as a Source for the History of the Arsacids Edward Dąbrowa.............................................................................................. 101 Hidden in Plain Sight: The ‘Firing Holes’ on Ashurbanipal’s Prisms Stefania Ermidoro ............................................................................................. 115 A Neo-Assyrian Riddle Betina Faist ....................................................................................................... 129 The Western Trade Scenario and Assyria’s Economic Policy Salvatore Gaspa................................................................................................ 133 Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan and his Gods: On Personal Deities in Ludlul bēl nēmeqi Aino Hätinen ..................................................................................................... 155 Considerations about the Localization of Eluḫat (Eluḫut) on the Upper Tigris Hartmut Kühne ................................................................................................. 167

VI

Table of Contents

Some Remarks on the King of Assyria as the Sun God Mikko Luukko.................................................................................................... 189 Earthquakes in Assyria John MacGinnis ................................................................................................ 207 “Why Me?” or “To Be or Not to Be”: Prince Kumma’s Netherworld Vision as an Aspect of Esarhaddon’s Apologetic Creations Maria Grazia Masetti-Rouault ......................................................................... 233 Neo-Assyrian Eunuch-Scholars Natalie Naomi May ........................................................................................... 261 An Itinerant Tribute-Bearer’s Head from Sargon II’s Palace at Khorsabad Daniele Morandi Bonacossi ............................................................................. 277 Live Sketches? Convention vs Realism in Assyrian Art Davide Nadali ................................................................................................... 291 Male Action in Akkadian and Hebrew Love Poetry Martti Nissinen ................................................................................................. 299 Acting Out Suffering: The Rationale Behind Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s “Funerary” Rite in Ludlul II and V Takayoshi M. Oshima ....................................................................................... 317 Gilgamesh’s Lapis Lazuli Tablet in the Cultural Memory of Ancient Mesopotamia Beate Pongratz-Leisten ..................................................................................... 331 Mountaineers in Mesopotamia Julian Edgeworth Reade ................................................................................... 347 “A rose by any other name …”: A note on writing conventions of Aššur and Ištar Saana Svärd ...................................................................................................... 357 The Concept of Just War in the Ancient Mesopotamian and Greek Traditions Krzysztof Ulanowski ......................................................................................... 367 SAA 21 134 and the Curious Case of Teispes(?) the šūt rēši Matt Waters ...................................................................................................... 385 Cambyses and Artaxerxes III in Egypt: Literary Topos and beyond Agnieszka Wojciechowska ................................................................................ 395 The Šulgi Prophecy in the Kassite and Neo-Assyrian Periods: A Consideration of the Original Composition and its Later Reception Shigeo Yamada ................................................................................................. 407

Table of Contents

VII

Plan B(abylonia): Adapting Neo-Assyrian Imperial Projects to Local Circumstances in Babylonia Shana Zaia ........................................................................................................ 435 Index ................................................................................................................. 451

Introduction Raija Mattila, Robert Rollinger and Sebastian Fink

On July 4th 2023 one of the most eminent Assyriologists of the last five decades celebrated his 80th birthday. Although Assyriology is the central pillar of his philological and historical works and engagements, Simo Kaarlo Antero Parpola’s scholarly interests and studies have always been substantially more far-reaching than any single discipline. Many of the well-deserved praises have already been expressed in a first Festschrift which Simo received at his 65th birthday.1 In this short introduction we just want to focus on three aspects which highlight the outstanding status of Simo as a researcher, scholar and friend. These aspects are related to Simo’s spheres of activity, but also to his enormous impact and influence on the scholarly world. A first one is of course Helsinki where he became Docent of Assyriology in 1973 and Extraordinary Professor of Assyriology in 1978. With him Helsinki became one of the leading research centers in Neo-Assyrian studies in the world. With the Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project which Simo founded in 1986 and directed since, Neo-Assyrian studies were elevated into a new dimension that generated awareness and interest not only in ancient Near Eastern studies but stimulated attention far beyond. Since then, the State Archives of Assyria have produced 22 volumes, the latest one co-authored by Simo and Grant Frame and published in 2023. The State Archives of Assyria Cuneiform Texts have already seen 12 volumes, the last one published in 2016, the State Archives of Assyria Literary Texts one volume published in 2001. The State Archives of Assyria Studies have now reached 31 volumes, the most recent published in 2022. From early on Simo realized and used the potential of computers and databases for Assyriology and inspired many of his students to follow this path. Taken together the entire project and its massive publications yield Simo’s spirit and intention to push Assyriology into new spheres. Accessible modern translations of NeoAssyrian archival texts according to the latest standards of scholarship, making use of these texts for historical research and creating up-to-date tools for teaching and studying cuneiform texts are major endeavors which Simo pursued with great determination. The Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire, whose seventh volume was published in 2017, may be regarded as a culmination of Simo’s longstanding efforts in developing the Neo-Assyrian sources.

1

Mikko Luukko, Saana Svärd and Raija Mattila (eds.), Of God(s), Trees, Kings, and Scholars: Neo-Assyrian and Related Studies in Honour of Simo Parpola (Studia Orientalia, 106), Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society 2009.

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Raija Mattila, Robert Rollinger and Sebastian Fink

A second sphere of activity is also characteristic for Simo’s dynamic personality. He visualized Neo-Assyrian studies as being part of a historical continuum that deserves to be studied and researched, breaking down disciplinary borderlines and seeking to pose big questions of transcultural impact, processes of acculturation and transformation that started in the ancient Near East and are visible through the centuries up to our very present days. For this reason he convened a group of interested scholars from various disciplines in Tvärminne in 1998 and initiated the Melammu Project. As the first chair of the project, he organized annual conferences at various places all over the world, opening up a new field of research that attracted scholars from all historical disciplines. In the meanmtime, Melammu has become a brand for this kind of innovative and transdisciplinary studies. The yearly conferences were published in a new series “Melammu Symposia” with volume 12 to be published in 2023. The “Melammu Workshops and Monographs,” a smaller and more flexible format, saw the publication of the seventh volume in 2022. This ongoing transdisciplinary heritage of Simo’s endeavors is also apparent with the careers of many of his students who have been successful in the field of Assyriology but also beyond in Biblical Studies, Arabic Studies and ancient Near Eastern Studies in general. A third sphere of activity, although already focused on all through Simo’s career, has become more central in the last two decades. While the Melammu Project directed Simo’s focus ahead from Neo-Assyrian times into the future, his interest in Sumerology and Sumerian Studies drew his attention to the earlier periods of Mesopotamian history, and with his typical energy and devotion he managed to publish three volumes of the “Etymological Dictionary of the Sumerian Language”.2 It is obvious that this Festschrift is a small token of gratitude by the editors and authors to an outstanding personality and researcher. Generous with his time and knowledge, but nevertheless focused on his own projects, Simo is someone whose energy and dedication can only be admired. We wish Simo all the best for the coming years and hope that he will still let us participate in his vast knowledge, be it in publications or, in a talk over an apple cake and a coffee in his favorite Café Engel.

2

Simo Parpola, Etymological Dictionary of the Sumerian Language Part 1: Lexical evidence, Helsinki, 2016. Simo Parpola, Etymological Dictionary of the Sumerian Language Part 2: Semantic Analysis and Indices, Helsinki, 2016. Simo Parpola, Etymological Dictionary of the Sumerian Language Part 3: Linguistic Analysis, Addenda and Corrigenda, with an appendix Sumerian-Ugric Protowords and Regular Sound Changes by Peter Z. Revesz, Helsinki 2022.

Bibliography of the Publications of Simo Parpola since 2008 1 Books 2023 (with Grant Frame) The Correspondence of Assurbanipal, Part II: Letters from Southern Babylonia. State Archives of Assyria 22. Helsinki: NeoAssyrian Text Corpus Project. 2022 Etymological Dictionary of the Sumerian Language, Part 3: Linguistic Analysis, Addenda and Corrigenda. Publications of the Foundation for Finnish Assyriological Research 16/3. University Park, PA: The NeoAssyrian Text Corpus Project. 2018 The Correspondence of Assurbanipal, Part I: Letters from Assyria, Babylonia, and Vassal States. State Archives of Assyria 21. Helsinki: NeoAssyrian Text Corpus Project. 2017a Assyrian Royal Rituals and Cultic Texts. State Archives of Assyria 20. Winona Lake: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. 2017b (with P. Kavanagh) Ezekiel to Jesus: Son of Man to Suffering Servant. Eugene, Oregon: Wipf & Stock. 2016 Etymological Dictionary of the Sumerian Language, Parts 1 and 2: Lexical Evidence, Semantic Analysis and Indices. Publications of the Foundation for Finnish Assyriological Research 16/1–2. Winona Lake: The NeoAssyrian Text Corpus Project. Articles 2022 “The King as Priest”, pp. 193–221 in Johannes Bach and Sebastian Fink (eds.), The Mesopotamian King as a Nodal Point of Neo-Assyrian Identity. Kasion 8. Münster: Zaphon. 2020 “The Population of Nineveh”, pp. 135–140 in I.L. Finkel and St J. Simpson (eds.), In Context: The Reade Festschrift. Archeopress Archaeology. 2019a “The Sumerian 2nd person pronoun, and Latin and French Morphophonemics”, pp. 799–812 in Grégory Chambon, Michaël Guichard and AnneIsabelle Langlois (eds.), De l’argile au numérique: Mélanges assyriologiques en l’honneur de Dominique Charpin. PIPOAC 3. Leuven: Peeters. 2019b (With Sebastian Fink) “The Hunter and the Asses: A Neo-Assyrian Paean Glorifying Shalmaneser III”, Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 109/2, 1–12. 1

This bibliography continues the Bibliography given in Mikko Luukko, Saana Svärd and Raija Mattila (eds.), Of God(s), Trees, Kings, and Scholars: Neo-Assyrian and Related Studies in Honour of Simo Parpola (Studia Orientalia, 106), Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society 2009, XV–XXIV.

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Bibliography of the Publications of Simo Parpola since 2008

2019c “Neo-Assyrian Religious Texts and the Problem of Their Redaction Process”, pp. 183–201 in G.B. Lanfranchi, R. Mattila and R. Rollinger (eds.), Writing Neo-Assyrian History: Sources, Problems and Approaches. Proceedings of the International Meeting, University of Helsinki, September 22nd–25th, 2014. State Archives of Assyria Studies 29. Helsinki: The NeoAssyrian Text Corpus Project. 2016 “The Location of Raṣappa”, pp. 389–408 in Yağmr Heffron, Adam Stone, and Martin Worthington (eds.), At the Dawn of History: Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of J.N. Postgate. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. 2014c “The Etymology of the Sumerian Word for Star”, pp. 29–43 in Antonio Panaino (ed.), Non licet stare caelestibus: Studies on Astronomy and Its History offered to Salvo De Meis. Indo-Iranica et Orientalia. Milano: Mimesis. 2015a “De moord op Sanherib en de opkomst van Esarhaddon, koning van Assyrië”, Phoenix 61/1, 23–37. 2015b “‘ēṣ hāḥayim hā’asūrī: be‘iqvōt meqūrōt hammōnōtē’izm hayhūdī wahaffīlōsōfī haywānī” (“The Assyrian Tree of Life: Tracing the Origins of Jewish Monotheism and Greek Philosophy”), pp. 154–173 in Bar-Levav and Moshe Idel (eds.), Mevō le-Qabbālāh / Introduction to Kabbalah: Jewish Mysticism from Its Inception to the Expulsion from Spain. Jerusalem. [Hebrew version of 1993c] 2014a “Globalization of Religion: Jewish Cosmology in its Ancient Near Eastern Context”, pp. 15–27 in Markham J. Geller (ed.), Melammu: The Ancient World in an Age of Globalization. Proceedings of the Sixth Symposium of the Melammu Project. Max Plack Research Library for the History and Development of Knowledge, Proceedings 7. Berlin. 2014b “Mount Niṣir and the Foundations of the Assyrian Church”, pp. 469–484 in Salvatore Gaspa et al. (eds.), From Source to History: Studies on Ancient Near Eastern Worlds and Beyond Dedicated to G. B. Lanfranchi. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 412. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. 2012a “The Neo-Assyrian Royal Harem,” pp. 613–626 in Giovanni B. Lanfranchi et al., eds., Leggo! Studies presented to Frederick Mario Fales on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2012b “Sumerian: A Uralic Language (II),” Babel und Bibel 6, 269–322 2012c “Library of Assurbanipal,” in Roger S. Bagnall et al. (eds.), The Encyclopedia of Ancient History (Wiley-Blackwell). Published online 26 OCT 2012. 2011 “Staatsvertrag (treaty). B. Neuassyrisch,” Reallexikon der Assyriologie 13/1, 40–45. 2010b “Sumerian: A Uralic Language (I),” pp. 181–210 in L. Kogan et al. (eds.), Language in the Ancient Near East. Proceedings of the 53e Rencontre

Bibliography of the Publications of Simo Parpola since 2008

XIII

Assyriologique Internationale, Vol. I, Pt. 2. Babel und Bibel 4/2. Winona Lake, Indiana: Eisenbrauns. 2010a “Neo-Assyrian concepts of kingship and their heritage in Mediterranean antiquity,” pp. 35–44 in Giovanni B. Lanfranchi and Robert Rollinger (eds.), Concepts of Kingship in Antiquity, Proceedings of the European Science Foundation Exploratory Workshop held in Padova, November 28th – December 1st, 2007. History of the Ancient Near East / Monographs XI. Padova. 2008 “Salonen, Armas Immanuel”: Reallexikon der Assyriologie 11/7–8, 588– 589.

A Further Note on Maqlû III 1–30 Another Example of a First Person Ritual Description in a Maqlû Incantation Tzvi Abusch In an earlier Festschrift to Professor Simo Parpola,1 I examined the first half of the Maqlû incantation III 1–30. It therefore seems appropriate to examine the latter half of this incantation in this later Festschrift for Simo. Simo is a giant among philologists and intellectual historians, as well as the mind and spirit behind the creation of a school of scholarship. I shall use the example of the latter half of the Maqlû2 incantation III 1–30 to provide further confirmation for an observation that I recently made. Recently I stated that: In any case, many incantations seem originally to have focused on – and to have started out as – first person descriptions or declarations of ritual or symbolic actions that accompanied a ritual action; only afterwards would the introductions and endings have been added. That is to say, the middle section of the incantation – the section that presents, or focuses upon, ritual and action – was primary and the beginning and end were often added in order to provide a (rhetorical or ideological) frame of reference.3 In “Alternative Models” I applied this observation to the three examples under study there (Maqlû VII 1–21, III 136–153, II 77–103), but more examples should be given, and Maqlû III 1–30 provides an excellent example. I should begin by noting that I did not mean to say that all rituals appear at the center of incantations; rituals may appear in the middle of an incantation but also near its beginning or end. In III 1–30 following the description of the witch and her activities (1–16), we read: 17 18 19 20

1

ša kaššāpti ina kullati agdariṣ ṭīṭaša ša ēpištiya abtani ṣalamša aškun ina libbiki lipâ ḫābilki usanniš ina kalâtīki ēra qāmâki

Abusch, 2009: 307–313 = Abusch, 2020: 81–88. In that article, I provided not only an analysis of the first half of the incantation (III 1–16) but also a transcription and translation of the whole incantation. 2 For the text of Maqlû, see Abusch, 2016. 3 Abusch, 2018: 232 = Abusch, 2020: 154.

2

Tzvi Abusch

21

ēra qāmâki imatki4 liprus

17 18 19 20 21

From the clay pit I have (now) pinched off clay for witch, I have (now) formed the figurine of my sorceress. “I set in your abdomen tallow, which destroys you, I implant in your kidneys ashwood, which burns you. May the ashwood, which burns you, cut off your venom.5

Lines 17–18 represent preparations of the image to be used in the ritual (cf., e.g., II 189–190;6 IV 137–1387). Thereafter, lines 19–21 represent the primary ritual against the witch.8 In further support of this point, note that lines 19–20 correspond to the instructions in the ritual tablet (RT 42′–43′) for this incantation: … ṣalam ṭīṭi / lipâ ina rēš libbiša ēra ina kalâtīša tusannaš … A figurine of clay – / You insert tallow in her epigastrium, ēru-wood in her kidneys. Compare this relationship to that of V 49 with RT 71′,10 or of V 4911 with RT 76′.12 The ritual instructions RT 42′–43′ correspond to (and derive from) the rubric III 30a which come at the end of the incantation: [KA].INIM.MA UŠ11! .BÚR.RU.DA.KÁM ṣalam ṭīṭi lipâ ina libbi u ē[ra ina kalâti] It is the [wo]rding (of the incantation) to undo witchcraft: a figurine of clay – tallow in the epigastrium, ēr[u-wood in the kidneys]. As I demonstrated many years ago, the text of the rubrics of Maqlû are earlier than those of the RT and correspond to the original ritual of the incantation (compare III 30a with III 19–20).13

4

Var.: amātki. Var.: your word. 6 ašpur ana bāb kāri išāmūni lipâki / ašpur ana ḫirīt āli ikriṣūni ṭīṭaki, “I have sent to the gate of the quay – they have bought your tallow for me / I have sent to the city ditch – they have pinched off your clay for me”. 7 ašpur ana ereb dŠamši ṣalmīšina ilqutūni / ša sebe u sebe kaššāpāti ṣalmīšina ana dGirra apqid, “I have sent to the west – they have gathered their figurines for me / I hand over figurines of the seven and seven witches to Girra”. 8 For several other examples: for V 132–141, cf. lines 138–139; for VI 127′′–134′′, cf. lines 132′′–133′′; for VI 135′′–142′′, cf. line 140′′; for VI 143′′–151′′, cf. line 149′′. 9 ašapparakkimma ḫašê u šamaššammī, “I am sending against you thyme and sesame”. 10 … [ḫašê šam]aššammī [(tašarrap)], “[(You burn) thyme (and) se]same”. 11 anāku anaššâkkimma kukra takur (Var.: ti’ût) šadî ḫašê ti’ût māt[i], “I am lifting up against you kukru, the offspring (Var.: nourishment) of the mountain, (and) thyme, the nourishment of the land”. 12 kukra ḫaš[ê] u pâ tašarrap, “You burn kukru, thym[e], and chaff ”. 13 Abusch, 1991: 240–250 = Abusch, 2002: 170–180. 5

A Further Note on Maqlû III 1–30

3

As for the rest of the incantation: Lines 22–2414 also deal with fire, but do seem to be an insertion. In any case, they do not seem to fit with the rest of the incantation. Lines 25–3015 do fit, for they justify the Fire god’s attack on the grounds that the witch has attacked her victim. Bibliography Abusch, T., 1991: “The Ritual Tablet and Rubrics of Maqlû: Toward the History of the Series”. In M. Cogan / I. Eph'al (eds.): Ah, Assyria …: Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor. Scripta Hierosolymitana 33. Jerusalem: Magnes Press. Pp. 233–253 = Abusch, T., 2002: Mesopotamian Witchcraft: Towards a History and Understanding of Babylonian Witchcraft Beliefs and Literature. Ancient Magic and Divination 5. Groningen / Leiden: Styx / Brill. Pp. 163–183. — 2009: “Maqlû III 1–30: Internal Analysis and Manuscript Evidence for the Revision of an Incantation”. In M. Luukko / S. Svärd / R. Mattila (eds.): Of God(s), Trees, Kings, and Scholars: Neo-Assyrian and Related Studies in Honour of Simo Parpola. Studia Orientalia 106. Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society. Pp. 307–313 = Abusch, T., Further Studies on Mesopotamian Witchcraft Beliefs and Literature. Ancient Magic and Divination 17. Leiden / Boston: Brill, 2020. Pp. 81–88. — 2016: The Magical Ceremony Maqlû: A Critical Edition. Ancient Magic and Divination 10. Leiden: Brill. — 2018: “Alternative Models for the Development of Some Incantations”. In G. Van Buylaere / M. Luukko / D. Schwemer / A. Mertens-Wagschal (eds.): Sources of Evil: Studies in Mesopotamian Exorcistic Lore. Ancient Magic and Divination 15. Leiden / Boston: Brill. Pp. 223–234 = Abusch, T. Further Studies on Mesopotamian Witchcraft Beliefs and Literature. Ancient Magic and Divination 17. Leiden / Boston: Brill, 2020. Pp. 146–156.

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eli āli attapaḫ išātu / ina šupāl āli attadi tumurtu ana bīt terrubī attadi išātu, “In the upper part of the city, I have (now) set a fire / In the lower part of the city, I have (now) cast embers / To the house that you enter, I have (now) cast a fire”. 15 tēpušīmma dGirra līkulki / tušēpišīmma dGirra likšudki / takpudīmma dGirra lidūkki / tušakpidīmma dGirra liqmīki / ḫarrān lā târi lišaṣbitki dGirra ḫābilki / dGirra ezzu zumurki liḫmuṭ TU6.ÉN, “You have performed sorcery against me, so may Girra consume you / You have had sorcery performed against me, so may Girra vanquish you / You have plotted against me, so may Girra kill you / You have had others plot against me, so may Girra burn you / May Girra, your destroyer, cause you to take the road of no-return / May raging Girra inflame your body”.

Sin-iddinam’s Royal Inscription Schøyen MS 5000 and the Umman-manda Selim Ferruh Adalı In 2011, a new royal inscription of Sin-iddinam (1849–1843 BC) from the Schøyen collection was published (Schøyen MS 5000; Volk, 2011: 59–88 [CUSAS 17, no. 37]; henceforth I will refer to this inscription as Schøyen MS 5000).1 This inscription refers to the ummān-mandū during Sin-iddinam’s military activities (Claus Wilcke’s reading ummān-mandū apud Volk, 2011: 87; Wilcke, 2012: 392). The need to discuss the relation between ummān-mandū and the term Umman-manda has been noted (Hicks / Radner, 2012: 372; Stol, 2014: 330). The present contribution seeks to discuss ummān-mandū in Schøyen MS 5000 and its relation to the development of the term Umman-manda.2 Sin-iddinam of Larsa’s Sumerian Royal Inscription Schøyen MS 5000 The context for the mention of Sin-iddinam’s military campaigns dates to around the king’s fifth regnal year (1845 BC) (Volk, 2011: 62, 71–72, 87). Several targets of his expeditions concern Larsa’s Euphrates and Tigris frontiers with more focus on its Tigris frontier (see text below): the “upper land” (ma-da igi-nim-ma), fortifications along the Tigris and the Euphrates (iriki didli gu2 ⸢idigna⸣ ⸢buranun⸣-bi), Ibrat, and Dēr. The area intended by “upper land” (ma-da igi-nim-ma, Akkadian mātu elītu) is probably a type of highland in the northern or northeastern direction.3 It may cover Emutbalum or Malgium, the latter is mentioned as a defeated polity in the same fifth name year of Sin-iddinam as Ibrat’s defeat (Volk, 2011: 63, 78–79).4 Emutbalum seems originally to be the name of a nomadic tribe located east of the Tigris, later denoting Larsa’s outer territory (Stol, 1976: 63– 72). Malgium is yet to be located. It could also be along the Tigris (de Boer, 2013: 20). Ibrat is between Larsa and Elam along the Tigris frontier in the Transtigridian region of Rāši (modern Deh Lurān), east of Dēr (Volk, 2011: 80–82). Dēr is Tell Aqar located east of the Tigris at a critical position in the route between Mesopotamia and Elam, leading over the Zagros range towards Šimaški and north of 1

The more widely used Middle Chronology is followed here for Larsa’s rulers; MiddekeConlin, 2020: 8–9. 2 I thank Luis Siddall and Vladimir Shelestin for bibliographical support. 3 Sumerian nim usually corresponds to Sumerian elam and Akkadian elûm (to be high, to go up) and šaqûm (to be high) during the Old Babylonian period whereas before the midsecond millennium BC it represents various toponyms (Desset, 2017: 1–2). Given that igi corresponds to Akkadian maḫrum and pānû “front, face”, the combination with Sumerian mada “land” as ma-da igi-nim-ma (“land facing up”) may represent a highland topography. 4 On this year name and Malgium, see fn. 7.

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Anšan (Tell Malyan) by way of the riverine valley and leading into the Great Khorasan Road (Zadok, 2019: 73, 102). After his alleged victories, Sin-iddinam states that he restored the sun-god Utu’s “the boundary” (indub, Schøyen MS 5000 iii 52). Another enemy is then introduced: the ummān-mandū. It is attested in a unique written form with its second element written in the oblique plural as uĝnim ⸢ma⸣-an-di (iii 54). “Its king” is Warassa (iii 56). This Warassa episode receives relatively more attention in the inscription (iii 54–75). Sin-iddinam’s military expeditions conclude with the impact his military successes supposedly have on the political and military elite of Dēr (Tell Aqar):5 (15) ⸢u4 an⸣-ne2 den-lil2 den-ki-ke4 (16) a-ra-zu dnanna dutu-ta (17) nam-lugal larsaki-ma (18) ma-ni-in-šum2-mu-uš2-a (19) u4-bi-a ma-da igi-nim-ma (20) larsaki-da (21) gu2 ḫa-ba-an-da-TUKU (22) larsaki-ta (23) zi-ga-ĝu10-ne (24) kur ki-⸢bala⸣-ĝa2 (25) saĝ ĝeš-bi ḫe2-ni-ra (26) iriki didli gu2 ⸢idigna⸣ (27) ⸢buranun⸣-bi-ta (28) kur gu2 erim2-ma-ĝa2 (29) bad3 gal bad3 gal-bi (30) ⸢ḫu⸣-mu-gul-gul (31) [u]ĝ3 uĝ3-bi (32) nam-ra-aš ⸢ḫu-mu⸣-ni-a5 (33) ⸢niĝ2⸣-gur11-bi (34) ⸢erin2⸣-ĝu10-⸢še3⸣ ḫu-mu-ni-ḫa-⸢la⸣ (35) [m]a-da iginim-ma (36) ⸢šag ĝeš mi⸣-ni-ra-ta (37) ĝeš⸢tukul⸣ lu2 erim2-⸢ma⸣-ĝa2 (38) dur2bi-⸢še3⸣ bi-gi4-a-ta (39) u4-bi-a (40) uĝnim kalam-ma-ĝu10 (41) ba-⸢ra⸣-mu-til (42) erin2 suḫ-suḫ-a-ĝa2 (43) i3-zi-ge-en (44) di gi-na dnanna ⸢d⸣utu-ta (45) uĝ 3 ḫur-saĝ-ĝ[a2]-ke4 (46) GI KID ⸢ĜEŠ⸣ IRI ⸢ḫe2⸣-bi2-sig3 (47) ib-ra-atki iri murub4ki (48) ⸢a2-dam⸣-bi-ta (49) u4 deš-a ⸢šu-ĝa2⸣ sa2 ḫe2-bi-du11 (50) gu2-unbi larsaki-še3 (51) ḫe2-em-m[i]-il (52) in-dub šul dutu-ke4 (53) ki-bi-⸢še3 ḫe2⸣em-mi-gi4 (54) u4-ba uĝnim ⸢ma⸣-an-di (55) ĝeštukul-ta za3 ḫe2-bi2-⸢tag⸣ (56) wa-ra-ad-sa3 lugal-bi (57) LU2׊E2-a ḫe2-ni-dab5 (58) erin2 ⸢tak4⸣-a-ba (59) nam-ra-aš ḫu-mu-ni-a5 (60) ĝeštu daĝal ⸢nam⸣-ku3-zu-ĝu10-ta (61) lugalba ša3 ma-da-ĝa2-ka (62) ḫe2-em-mi-dib (63) iriki-ĝa2 larsaki-še3 (64) nu-ur2d adad a-a-ugu-ĝu10-ra (65) lu2-da ḫu-mu-da-gi4 (66) iriki ma-da-ĝu10 (67) igi ḫe2-mi-in-du8-uš-a (68) ad-gi4-a-ĝu10 (69) kalam-ma diri-ga-ta (70) mu-gu10 BAD3.ANki-a (71) su3-ra2-še3 pa3-de3-de3 (72) lugal-ba u3 uĝnim-bi-ta 73) ni šu-a ḫe2-bi-gi4 (74) nam-[tar]-ra-ni (75) dištaran lugal-ĝa2 ⸢ḫe2⸣-en-na-ba (76) ⸢murub4⸣-ba mu dili-am2 (77) ba-⸢ra⸣-ba-⸢zal⸣ (15–21) When An, Enlil, und Enki (16) bestowed upon me the kingship of Larsa with the supplications of Nanna and Utu, at that time the “Upper Land” (ma-da igi-nim-ma) became hostile against Larsa. (22–23) Since I rose out of Larsa, I made a levy (of troops). (24–25) I defeated the land of rebellion (26–30) I completely destroyed large fortifications of the hostile country my enemy at several cities and settlements along the banks of the 5

Transliteration and edition is based on Volk, 2011: 71–72, with Wilcke’s proposed reading for Schøyen MS 5000 iii 54 apud Volk, 2011: 87; Wilcke, 2012: 389, 392. English translation is my own, mainly following Volk’s edition and text commentary unless otherwise stated.

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Tigris and the Euphrates. (31–32) Their people I counted as booty (33– 34) I distributed their mounting properties among my forces. (35–41) From (the time) I defeated the “Upper Land” ([m]a-da igi-nim-ma), from (the time) I destroyed the weapon of my enemy, at that time the army of my country (kalam) did not stop. (42–44) I rose up against with my crown troops on the basis of the firm judgement of Nanna and Utu. (45–46) The people of the mountain-valleys, … settlements … I burnt.6 (47–49) In a single day I overcame Ibrat, the city Murub(?), (and) its settlements.7 (50– 51) I carried its tribute to Larsa. (52–53) I restored the boundary of the young god Utu. (54–55) At that time, with the weapon I pushed away the mandū-army (uĝnim-mandū/ummān-mandū). (56–59) I took as prisoner its king Warassa. (58–59) I counted as booty his forces left behind.8 (60– 62) Through my vast discernment and wisdom, I let that king traverse in the midst of my “land” (mada). (63–65) In my city, to Larsa, to Nur-Adad my begetter father, I returned with this man (Warassa). (66–69) When the city (and) my “land” (mada) saw me, my counsel in the country (kalam) became supreme. (70–71) In the city Dēr my name was resounded far away. (72–73) (Some of the troops) of its king and from its army were spared.9 (74–75) I handed over his fate to my king god Ištaran (patron deity of Dēr). (76–77) I did not let a single year pass in the midst of these battles. Claus Wilcke has suggested reading uĝnim ⸢ma⸣-an-di (for iii 54 above) which would in turn transcribe as ummān-mandī with mandī as the genitive plural of Akkadian mandum, a term for a type of soldier according to CAD M/I 209 s.v. mandum (apud Volk, 2011: 87; Wilcke, 2012: 392). This raises several questions and observations for the present study. The first is Akkadian mandum declined as mandī in a Sumerian royal inscription and as part of an Akkadian compound noun. The first component only reads Sumerian uĝnim. Lexical lists indicate Akkadian

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Line 46 is unclear but the context probably refers to a military campaign against mountain terrain villages and settlements. The word for city or settlement (iri) was also used in Schøyen MS 5000 iii 26. The verbal chain ⸢ḫe2⸣-bi2-sig3 seems to assume a destructive activity since sig3 corresponds to Akkadian ṣarāpu “to burn” (ePSD s.v. sig[burn]). 7 Murub could be a settlement connected to Ibrat (Volk, 2011: 81–82). Alternatively it could mean iri murub4 “the main city” as an epithet of Ibrat as in Sin-iddinam’s year name for year 5b: ib-ra-atki iri murub4 (Sigrist / Damerow, 2001, s.v. Sin-iddinam in https://cdli. ucla.edu/tools/yearnames/HTML/T10K5.htm). The same year name also has murguki Malgium (instead of murub4) as a variant geographic name as a target for the king: mu ibra-atki iri murub4 / murguki iri didli ba-an-dab5 / ba-an-tuk “Ibrat the main city and Malgium and various others were seized.” 8 The third person singular inanimate possessive suffix -bi “its” can be used in place of the third person singular animate possessive suffix -ani “his” in Sumerian texts from Larsa (Brisch, 2007: 100). 9 For this translation, see Volk, 2011: 83–84.

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ummānu “army, troops” is equated with uĝnim (ePSD s.v. ugnim [army]). Given that the second component is an Akkadian word, one can argue the first component has an Akkadian correspondent and from the lexical lists Sumerian uĝnim corresponds to Akkadian ummānu, which in Schøyen MS 5000 iii 54 is attested in bound form due to the following noun in the genitive plural mandī. This then can be stated: the Akkadian word mandum has been used as the second element of a compound noun which represents a name or technical term that translates “an army of mandum-troops” and this compound noun reads ummān-mandī in genitive plural and therefore ummān-mandū in the nominative plural. The direct use of a declined Akkadian term indicates the term ummān-mandū was treated as a name or technical term since in Sumerian royal inscriptions only names are rendered in Akkadian. Wilcke transliterates and translates this sentence on Schøyen MS 5000 iii 54–55 as follows: u4-ba uĝnim-⸢ma⸣-an-di ĝištukul-ta za3 ḫe2-bi2-tag „Ehemals habe ich Mandu-Truppen mit Waffengewalt zurückgeschlagen.“ (Wilcke, 2012: 389, 392). Volk transliterated and translated before Wilcke’s ummān-mandī reading as follows: u4-ba uĝnim-⸢ma⸣-an-sa2 ĝištukul-ta za3 ḫe2-bi2tag „Dann erreichten mich (andere feindliche) Truppen. Mit der Waffe habe ich sie aber zurückgeschlagen“ (Volk, 2011: 72, 82). After Volk’s addendum of Wilcke’s reading of ⸢ma⸣-an-di replacing ⸢ma⸣-an-sa2, I mainly follow Volk’s and Wilcke’s translations as follows: uĝnim ⸢ma⸣-an-di ĝištukul-ta za3 ḫe2-bi2-⸢tag⸣ “with the weapon I pushed away the ummān-mandū (mandum-army)” (Schøyen MS 5000 iii 54–55). Following Volk’s reading of the fragmented sign as ⸢tag⸣ (Volk, 2011: 82 [iii 55]), I understand the intended compound verb to be za3 tag “to push away” (ePSD s.v. zag tag; Attinger, 2021: 1025, «être bousculé, repoussé, écarté; bousculer, repousser, écarter»). The verb takes as its direct object in the sentence the expression ummān mandū, written with the unique form uĝnim ⸢ma⸣-an-di where uĝnim can be treated as the direct object in Sumerian or because uĝnim represents ummānum in this instance it represents the accusative *ummānam in bound form ummān due to following oblique plural mandī. Either way this is a direct use of an Akkadian term in Sumerian context and mandum is explicitly declined as mandī in Schøyen MS 5000 iii 54, following Akkadian declension. This goes beyond an Akkadianism, which in literary Sumerian refers to cases where Akkadian grammar impacts the specific use of Sumerian grammar and lexemes (Wilcke, 1998: 462–464) and is also observed in the Sumerian of Larsa (Brisch, 2007: 95). The similarity with Akkadianism is that Akkadian grammar is at least partially assumed while writing the Sumerian syntax of the line containing uĝnim ⸢ma⸣-an-di / ummān-mandī. What does mandum mean? On the basis of the Sumerian lexical lists Proto-Lu and Old Babylonian Nippur Lu, CAD treats mandum (or mandû) as an Akkadian loanword in Sumerian and provides the definition “(a soldier?)” while also raising the possibility mandum is “possibly a gentilic designating a type of soldier” (CAD M I 209 s.v. mandu; cf. ePSD s.v. mandum[soldier]). CAD notes that one cannot

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exclude the possibility there existed a connection to the Sumerian word madum which designated a topographical feature and is attested in Warad-Sîn’s royal inscription VA 5950 (Falkenstein, 1964; this inscription is also mentioned further immediately below) as well as the Lugalbanda and Anzud Bird Epic which not only has Sumerian madum but also its variant forms mandum and madu (CAD M I 209). Wilcke proposed Sumerian variant forms madu/madum/ mandum mentioned different mannuscripts of Lugalbanda and the Anzud Bird line 342 could be a loanword from Akkadian mātu and as follows could be translated as “Flachland” whereas noting also that the translation is not secure as the lexeme’s relation to Sumerian mada and Akkadian mātu remains unclear (Wilcke, 1969: 23, 27–28, 213). Joan Westenholz proposed that mandum from the Sumerian lexical lists Proto-Lu and Old Babylonian Nippur Lu may be connected with Sumerian mandum which seems to be a toponym or geographical concept in the Lugalbanda and the Anzud Bird Epic (Westenholz, 1997: 266; cf. Wilcke, 2012: 392n78). That the Akkadian term mandum designates a type of soldier became further clarified upon the discovery of economic texts from Choga Gavaneh. One finds mention of “seven Amorite mandū-troops from Dēr” (7 ma-an-di a-mu-ur-[ri] ša BAD3ki) in an economic text from Choga Gavaneh (c. 60 km west of Kermanshah) along with three other texts similarly referring to mandū-troops receiving rations of barley or clothing (Adbi / Beckman, 2007: 51, 54, 59–60). Aside from Akkadian mandum, the Sumerian word mandum seems to be a word for terrain and in the context of the Lugalbanda and the Anzud Bird Epic this is a terrain beyond Anšan (Tell Malyan) (Adalı, 2011: 180–188). Its variant form madum in Sumerian refers to a flatland or another terrain around Ur according to VA 5950, line 95 (Falkenstein, 1964: 27, 29; Wilcke, 1969: 27–28), a royal inscription of Warad-Sîn of Larsa (Adalı, 2011: 180). There are four lexemes therefore to consider: Sumerian mandum, madum, mada and Akkadian mātu. Mandum and madum are nasalized variants and together it may be argued they mean “terrain” (also taken together with other evidence for mandum which may indicate it is a borrowing from Akkadian mātu or a variant of Sumerian mada; Adalı, 2011: 173– 179). These together may connect with the term mandū-troops from Choga Gavaneh (Adalı, 2011: 188–189). The simultaneous existence of Sumerian mandum (with variant madum in Warad-Sîn’s royal inscription) and Akkadian mandum now finds a new connection because Akkadian mandum is used in Sumerian context with the Sumerian royal inscription Schøyen MS 5000. This brings it very close to Sumerian mandum “terrain”. Choga Gavaneh texts refer to mandum-troops east of Mesopotamia. This compares with the mention of Warassa’s mandum-troops alongside Sin-iddinam’s other military encounters in Larsa’s eastern Tigris frontier (on these Transtigridian areas, see above). Warassa is named “king” of the ummān-mandū in Sin-iddinam’s royal inscription (Schøyen MS 5000 iii 56). He seems connected with Dēr. It remains unclear whether Warassa was an independent warlord (Volk, 2011: 64–

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65, 87–88), an earlier king of Eshnunna, or a ruler of Dēr who would be named as its future king during the time of Rim-Sîn of Larsa (Wilcke, 2012: 392n77). In any case, the text clearly links him and his ummān-mandū with Dēr, a city east of Larsa and in the latter’s Tigris frontier. By extension, the ummān-mandū are a military force present in Mesopotamia’s eastern frontier. This points to their place according to Mesopotamian frontiers but does not provide their ethnicity, since even soldiers with West-Semitic or Akkadian names could have non-Amorite or non-Akkadian ethnicity whereas Akkadian was used as a language of communication throughout Mesopotamia’s the Tigris frontier (Zadok, 2019: 72, 102). Schøyen MS 5000 discusses the Warassa encounter in more lines compared to the previously mentioned successes. The much terser description of the other encounters and the claim it all took less than a year give the impression they are provided to meet the topoi needed for this genre of royal inscription and to defend the king’s accomplishments (Volk, 2011: 62–63). On the other hand, the Warassa episode seems to be portrayed as the crowning achievement of Sin-iddinam. Siniddinam’s battle against Warassa and his mandum-army occurs after the king of Larsa described much of his campaigns, concluding with the statement that he restored the sun god Utu’s “boundary” (indub, Schøyen MS 5000 iii 52–53). This boundary seems to be the Tigris boundary which required the submission of Dēr. The term ummān-mandū then referred to Warassa’s mercenaries or forces he collected in Larsa’s eastern frontier. His defeat was important for Larsa’s stability of their Tigris frontier. Conclusions How does the use of ummān-mandū (mandum-army) in Sin-iddinam’s Schøyen MS 5000 relate to the term Umman-manda (ummān-manda)? The present study has so far observed the following: (1) Akkadian mandum is used to refer to soldiers on Mesopotamia’s eastern frontier, (2) ummānum and mandum as terms for soldiers from a terrain east of Mesopotamia are used as part of the compound noun and technical term ummān-mandū (mandum-army) in a Sumerian royal inscription (3) Sumerian mandum/madum “terrain” and Akkadian mandum probably have the same meaning. The term ummān-mandū can be seen as distinct from the term Umman-manda of the first millennium BC and is not derived from the latter (Wilcke, 2012: 392n78). On the other hand it can be seen in relation to the Umman-manda as one of its earliest forms (Stol, 2014: 330). The earliest known Old Babylonian written forms of ummān-manda in the omens reflect some uncertainty as to the pronunciation of the term’s second component on the part of the scribes: um-ma-an-ma-ad-da, ERIN2-ba-da, ERIN2-ma-an-da (Adalı, 2011: 12; Stol, 2014: 330). While later forms do predominate with ummān-manda, there is also at least two first millennium astrological first millennium omens and two of Nabonidus’s royal inscriptions which contain the written form ummān-mandu (Adalı, 2011: 14). This could be a secondary etymology ascribed to mandum or

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ma’ādu “numerous” (Adalı, 2011: 19–20, 33; Liverani, 2015: 158), given that scribes of Neo-Babylonian kings – and especially Nabonidus – did in fact seek archaic forms in other instances (Weiershäuser / Novotny / Lentini, 2020: 14 n. 110, 15–16). The uncertainty of the earliest attestations reflects an accident of discovery and a lot remains unknown. This is all the more evident from a manuscript of the Ur III Sumerian King List (USKL v 20ʹ, 21ʹ) which replaces the Old Babylonian Sumerian King List’s (SKL) offers uĝnim / ma-da Gu-tu-um(ki), “army/land of Gutium” simply with um-ma-num2ki “the army” written with the post-determinative ki “land” (Steinkeller, 2003: 273, 280). Several pertinent implications follow: the Ur III period, with its more negative outlook at the Gutian invasion, saw the scribe – perhaps during the time of Šulgi (as the USKL could date to the second half of Šulgi’s reign; Steinkeller, 2003: 281–282) – refer to the Gutians only as “the army”, explicitly with Akkadian ummānum within the USKL’s Sumerian context. The scribal hands producing different manuscripts for the Old Babylonian period SKL produced the name of the same entity as either “the army” (ummānum represented with Sumerian uĝnim) or as a substitute to uĝnim with the Sumerian term mada “land” following by the land name Gutium to represent the same very disliked Gutians and their army which invaded Mesopotamia. Steinkeller argues USKL’s ummānum could be the “ultimate source” of Ummān-manda, “perhaps via the intermediate *ummān ma-da, which could easily have become Ummān-manda through nasalization” (Steinkeller, 2003: 280). Certainly the attested usage in USKL with ummānum “army” and in SKL with uĝnim/ ummānum “army” or mada “land” is relevant to the Ummān-manda as terms referring to the Gutians (Stol, 2014: 330). Here, similar to ummān-mandū (mandum-army) in Sin-iddinam’s Schøyen MS 5000, one finds that (1) Sumerian mada is used to refer to the Gutian army, which means that it is used to refer to an army on Mesopotamia’s eastern frontier, (2) both uĝnim/ummānum and mada are used for an army from a terrain east of Mesopotamia and as part of the compound noun in a Sumerian text, (3) when Sumerian mada “land” replaces uĝnim/ummānum, it is used in ways similar to how mandum/madum “terrain” was used with mandum-troops. Steinkeller’s proposition that there may have existed currently an unattested *ummān ma-da with its nasalized variant ummān-manda recalls the variant lexemes mandum/madum, although at present there is only mandum associated with ummānum in the examples discussed in this study. All the cases discussed therefore reveal the existence of precursors to the term ummān-manda. The Ur III and early Babylonian periods point to scribal practices using the lexeme ummānum “army” in Sumerian contexts (USKL, Schøyen MS 5000) and lexemes mada “land” and mandum “terrain” have also been used in compound nouns for armies from Mesopotamia’s eastern frontier. The term “man of the land” (lu2 ma-da) mentioned in the seventeenth year name of Ammiditana as the epithet of a certain figure named Arahab – perhaps one of Babylon’s outer areas or a more distant frontier assumed as “the land” (mada) – can be added to

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such terms (Adalı, 2011: 24–25). These Ur III and early Babylonian period usages do not exclude in principle denoting armies from Mesopotamia’s other frontiers. Attested examples known so far indicate however that the Tigris and eastern frontier have been at the forefront when these compound nouns were generated. One can argue that a very similar compound noun was generated by scribes as a term for eastern armies (and by extension peoples) threatening Mesopotamia; be it from a nazalized form of mada, a form derived from mandum, or another source.10 It may be deduced that the early Old Babylonian usage uĝnim/ummānum continued in changed form a while longer since uĝnim was mainly replaced by ERIN2.MEŠ to represent ummānum for most of the second millennium when writing ummānmanda. It will for example be recalled from Schøyen MS 5000 that Sin-iddinam refers to his own “army” and Warassa’s mandum-army with the term uĝnim (iii 40, 54, 72) whereas erin2 refers to troop units within these larger uĝnim (iii 34, 42, 58, see translations above). That an uĝnim/ummānum contains more than one erin2 (hence ERIN2.MEŠ) was maintained in most second millennium written forms of ummān(ERIN2.MEŠ)-manda, including Hittite texts as well as an attestestion ummān(ERIN2.MEŠ)-wanda from the Statue of Idrimi (Adalı, 2011: 12). Similarly in Ugarit there is an Akkadian written form ERIN2.MEŠ-manda2.ME (in letter RS 17.286 – a correspondence letter between Ugarit and Amurru) for Umman-manda which also has an Ugaritic correspondent bnš[m] mndjm (Sanmartín, 1988: 174–175; Adalı, 2011: 12; Stol, 2012: 119). The plural usage -m in bnš[m] and the declined second component with genitive plural -ym in mndjm points to the same usage (RS 19.022: 4, 7 in Dietrich / Loretz / Sanmartín, 1976: 200 [text 2.62]), further clarified with its Akkadian correspondent with the final plural ME (in ERIN2.MEŠ-man-da2.ME) in the Akkadian letter RS 17.286. The identification of the Umman-manda in the texts of Ugarit remains unclear (Stol, 2014: 331). Their written forms maintain the scribal tradition of a term referring to an external military force – between Amurru and Ugarit and again a land force from their east, probably from somewhere in Syria (Adalı, 2011: 80–83). The original composition of the Cuthaean Legend remains a mystery. Old Babylonian manuscript MLC 1364 from the Yale Babylonian Collection, which refers to the enemy against the kingdom of Agade as “the Harians” (ḫa-ri-a-ti) and contains expressions and themes also found in later 10

Noting the secondary etymologies for ummān-manda, Liverani argues the term’s second component could relate to minde (from mān-īde “who knows?”, especially in Cuthaean Legend context) with possible interference from secondary scribal etymologies based on ma’ādu “numerous” or mandu “distant terrain” (Liverani, 2015: 158). Nemirovsky proposes manda was a historical ethnonym from the movements of Indo-Iranian peoples during the second millennium BC and compares the “Manda” and the “Sala” peoples in the Murat River/Aratsani basin mentioned in Armenian written traditions (their variant forms in Капанцян, 1947: 135–139) with the Manda troops and the Šala troops in Hittite laws § 54 (Nemirovsky, 2017: 73–79).

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manuscripts of the Cuthaean Legend (Westenholz, 1997: 269–278), also refers in fragmented context to Malgium as one of the scenes of war (Adalı, 2011: 43–44). Malgium was also a target for Sin-iddinam.11 The significance of Malgium as far as the evidence allows one to see is that it is also in Mesopotamia’s eastern Transtigridian frontier. The manuscript evidence for the early development of the Cuthaean Legend remains unclear. The Old and Middle Babylonian manuscripts for the Cuthaean Legend describe an enemy created against Naram-Sin but there is not enough to see how the term ummān-manda was used there whereas a Hittite translation of the Cuthaean Legend refers to the divine creation of the ummānmanda (as Akkadogram ERIN2.MEŠ MA-AN-DA in the Hittite text) as NaramSin’s enemy (Adalı, 2011: 43–46). The Hittite form maintains the plural usage which reflect the hitherto discussed second millennium usage for the term ummānmanda. As one enters the first millennium, the term ummān-manda acquires a more standard form with a singular logogram ERIN2 which stands now for ummānum and mostly manda is the second component: ummān(ERIN2)-manda in the first millennium omens, the Standard Babylonian version of the Cuthaean Legend, and Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian period texts (Adalı, 2011: 12– 13, 35–171; Zawadzki, 2011–2012: 267–278; Stol, 2014: 330–331; Jiménez / Mitto, 2021: 180). The term is used throughout its history for peoples regarded in Mesopotamia’s eastern frontier: Gutians, Lullubians, Elamites, Cimmerians, Medes (Stol, 2014: 330–331). As the present study has further explored, compound terms for soldiers and armies from Mesopotamia’s eastern areas were developed by scribes to denote formations within their spheres of interest during the Ur III (e.g. USKL) and early Old Babylonian periods (e.g. Schøyen MS 5000). They employed terms – ummānum (USKL), ummān (uĝnim) / mada Gutium (SKL), ummān-mandū (Sin-iddinam’s royal inscription) – closely related to ummān-manda but with their own line of development and dynamics as discussed above. The original coinage of the term ummān-manda remains unknown but these similar cases points to its formation along similar lines with words for “army”, “land”, “terrain”, and perhaps another original lexeme unavailable to the extant evidence. In time Mesopotamian scribal tradition also ascribed the term with secondary etymologies with words such as ma’ādu “numerous” or mandu as they also continued to use it for eastern military forces and peoples (Adalı, 2011: 16–20, 33). Given the ethnic and military-political diversity Mesopotamia faced on their eastern frontier from its earliest documented periods onwards (Desset, 2017; Zadok, 2019), it is no wonder scribes generated several terms from generic words such as “army”, “land” and “terrain” to describe military forces or foreign peoples from this frontier.

11

See fn. 7.

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Abbreviations CAD Gelb et al. 1956–2010. ePSD The Electronic Pennsylvania Sumerian Dictionary (= Tinney 2006). Bibliography Adbi, K. / Beckman, G., 2007: “An Early Second Millennium Cuneiform Archive from Choga Gavaneh, Western Iran”. JCS 59, 39–91. Adalı, S.F., 2011: The Scourge of God: The Umman-manda and its Significance in the First Millennium BC. State Archives of Assyria Studies 20. Winona Lake, Indiana. Attinger, P., 2021: Glossaire sumérien–français principalement des textes littéraires paléobabyloniens. Wiesbaden. Brisch, N.M., 2007: Tradition and the Poetics of Innovation: Sumerian Court Literature of the Larsa Dynasty (c. 2003–1763 BCE). Alter Orient und Altes Testament 339. Münster. De Boer, R., 2013: “An Early Old Babylonian Archive from the Kingdom of Malgium?”. Journal Asiatique 301, 19–25. Desset, F., 2017: “Here ends the history of ’Elam’: toponomy, linguistics and cultural identity in Susa and south-western Iran, ca. 2400–1800 BC”. Jahrbuch für altorientalische Geschichte und Kultur 4, 1–32. Dietrich, M. / Loretz, O. / Sanmartín, J., 1976: Die Keilalphabetischen Texte aus Ugarit. Münster. Falkenstein, A. 1964. “Eine Inschrift Waradsîns aus Babylon”. Baghdader Mitteilungen 3, 25–40. Gelb, I.J. / Oppenheim, A.L. / Landsberger, B. / Reiner, E. / Biggs, R.D. / Brinkman, J.A. / Civil, M. / Farber, W. / Roth, M.T. / Stolper, M.W., 1956–2010: The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Chicago / Glückstadt. Hicks, J. / Radner, K., 2012: “Review of Selim Ferruh Adali: The Scourge of God: The Umman-manda and Its Significance in the First Millennium BC. (State Archives of Assyria Studies.) Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project.” BSOAS 75, 370–372. Jiménez, E. / Mitto, T., 2021: “From the Electronic Babylonian Literature Lab 16–24. New Manuscripts of the Cuthaean Legend of Narām-Sîn”. Kaskal 18, 159–256. Капанцян, Г.А., 1947 [printed 1948]: Хайаса – колыбель армян. Ереван. Liverani, M., 2015: “Review of S.F. Adali, The Scourge of God. The Ummanmanda and its Significance in the First Millennium BC (= SAAS 20)”. Archiv für Orientforschung 53, 158. Sigrist, M. / Damerow, P., 2001: “Mesopotamian Year Names. Neo-Sumerian and Old Babylonian Date Formulae”. Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative. https:// cdli.ucla.edu/tools/yearnames/HTML/T10K5.htm (accessed 7.8.2022).

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Middeke-Conlin, R., 2020: The Making of a Scribe. Errors, Mistakes and Rounding Numbers in the Old Babylonian Kingdom of Larsa. Why the Sciences of the Ancient World Matter 4. Cham. Nemirovsky, A., 2017. “Еще раз об умман-манда месопотамских текстов (Umman-manda once more)”. In А. А. Petrova / V. Yu Shelestin / К.F. Кarlova / А.V. Safronov (eds.): Ethnocultural Development of the Ancient Near East in the IV.–I. Millenia B.C. Materials of the Scientific Conference 26–27 October. Mosco. Pp. 73–79. Sanmartín, J., 1988: “Glossen zum Ugaritischen Lexikon (V)”. Studi epigrafici e linguistici sul Vicino Oriente antico 5, 171–180. Steinkeller, P., 2003: “An Ur III Manuscript of the Sumerian King List”. In W. Sallaberger / K. Volk / A. Zgoll (eds.): Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien. Festschrift fur Claus Wilcke. Wiesbaden. Pp. 267–292. Stol, M., 1976: Studies in Old Babylonian History. Istanbul. — 2012: “Boekbesprekingen-Assyriologie. ADALI, S.F. – The Scourge of God: The Umman-manda and Its Significance in the First Millennium BC. (State Archives of Assyria Studies, vol. 20)”. BiOr 70, 117–119. — 2014: “Ummān-manda”. RlA 14, 330–331. Tinney, S., 2006: The Pennsylvania Sumerian Dictionary. Philadelphia. http:// psd.museum.upenn.edulepsollhtml. Volk, K., 2011: “Ein neue Inschrift des Königs Sîn-iddinam von Larsa”. In A.R. George (ed.): Cuneiform Royal Inscriptions and Related Texts in the Schøyen Collection. Cuneiform Royal Inscriptions and Related Texts from the Schøyen Collection 17. Bethesda. Pp. 59–88. Weiershäuser, F. / Novotny, J. / Lentini, G. 2020: The Royal Inscriptions of AmēlMarduk (561–560 BC), Neriglissar (559–556 BC), and Nabonidus (555–539 BC), Kings of Babylon. The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Babylonian Empire 2. University Park, Pennsylvania. Westenholz, J.G., 1997: Legends of the Kings of Akkade: The Texts. Winona Lake, Indiana. Wilcke, C., 1969: Das Lugalbandaepos. Wiesbaden. — 1998: “Zu ‚Gilgames und Akka‘, überlegungen zur Zeit von Enstehung und Niederschrift, wie auch zum Text des Epos mit einem Exkurs zur Überlieferung von ‚Šulgi A‘ und ‚Lugalbanda II‘”. In M. Dietrich / O. Loretz / T.E. Balke (eds.): dubsar antamen. Studien zur Altorientalistik. Festschrift für Willem H.Ph. Romer zur Vollendung seines 70. Lebensjahres mit Beiträgen von Freunden, Schülern und Kollegen. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 253. Münster. Pp. 457–485. — 2012: “u4-ba vs. u4-bi-a: Zum Lokativ der sumerischen Possessivsuffixe des Singulars”. In C. Mittermayer / S. Ecklin (eds.): Altorientalische Studien zu Ehren von Pascal Attinger. mu-ni u4 ul-li2-a-aš ĝa2-ĝa2-de3. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 256. Fribourg / Göttingen. Pp. 369–398.

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Zadok, R., 2019: “Issues in the Historical Geography and the Ethno-Linguistic Character of the Zagros and Adjacent Regions”. In A Question of Identity. Social, Political, and Historical Aspects of Identity Dynamics in Jewish and Other Contexts. Berlin / Boston. Pp. 71–109. Zawadzki, S., 2011–2012: “Umman-manda Revisited”. SAAB 19, 267–278.

Memory Techniques and Synaesthesia among Mesopotamian Scholars Amar Annus Introduction: Luria’s case study During his career, the Russian psychologist Aleksander Luria extensively studied the case of a man with enormous memory abilities, Solomon Shereshevsky (1886–1958) for almost 30 years. Shereshevsky who worked at the time as a journalist arrived to Luria’s office in April 1929 at the command of his boss to let his memory be studied (Johnson, 2017). Luria wrote his case study in Russian, which was translated into English and has been published in two editions (1968/1987) as The Mind of a Mnemonist: A Little Book about a Vast Memory (Luria, 1987). The work soon became a classic in memory literature and exerted influence over the field. The book described at length the mnemonic abilities and techniques that Shereshevsky used, before and after his quitting journalism and becoming a professional mnemonist who performed to public. He was able to memorise very long sequences of words, formulas and numbers that he remembered many years later (Luria, 1987: 40). Some of the techniques of advanced memorisation that Shereshevsky described to Luria have analogies in practices of ancient cuneiform scholars. These similarities suggest that Shereshevsky’s descriptions of the mnemonic processes taking place in his mind can be generalised as human cognitive patterns. Although Shereshevsky’s abilities were rare and extraordinary, his case reveals something about the mechanisms of human memory in general and how more usual minds remember. Shereshevsky’s memory capabilities were greatly enhanced by synaesthesia, the phenomenon of “pairing of senses” in which a stimulus (“inducer”) in one perceptive domain automatically triggers a sensation (“concurrent”) in another (Simner, 2019). Synaesthesia has a neural basis, it is neither imagination nor is it metaphorical thinking (Rothen / Meier / Ward, 2012). For example, some synaesthetes may see colours or images while hearing sounds and words, others may see numbers or letters as coloured in consistent manner, etc. However, the precise mechanisms of memory enhancements in synaesthesia are not known (Meier / Rothen, 2013). In the case of Shereshevsky, his thinking was highly visual – every word he heard conveyed a certain image in his mind. He described: “When I hear the word green, a green flowerpot appears; with the word red I see a man with red shirt coming toward me; as for blue, this means an image of someone waving a small blue flag from a window.” (Luria, 1987: 31).

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When hearing an unfamiliar word in foreign language, meaningless words or noises, the corresponding sounds transformed into graphic images of coloured splotches, lines or splashes in his mind, and could also produce a sensation of taste or touch (Luria, 1987: 27, 30–31). This indicates cross-modal cognitive processes across auditory, visual and other domains, which enhanced Shereshevsky’s memory capabilities. In synaesthesia, visual images can emerge in response to non-visual stimuli, e.g. sounds, smells, tastes etc. (Simner, 2019). Excessive visualisation was connected to Shereshevsky’s superior eidetic memory. Eidetic memory can be described as the persistence of a visual image in somebody’s mind after the corresponding stimulus has been removed (Allport, 1924). Shereshevsky used his eidetic memory in remembering e.g. tables of numbers shown to him (Luria, 1987: 20). The visual quality of his recall was fundamental to his capacity for remembering: “For when he heard or read a word it was at once converted into a visual image corresponding with the object the word signified for him. Once he formed an image, which was always of a particularly vivid nature, it stabilized itself in his memory, and though it might vanish for a time when his attention was taken up with something else, it would manifest itself once again whenever he returned to the situation in which the word had first come up.” (Luria, 1987: 30). Every word that he heard became memorised in the form of an image, Shereshevsky used them to recall the word lists that were read to him. The intensity of the visual images was decisive for his capacity of remembering (Luria, 1987: 30). He deliberately converted these images into easily readable forms – they had to be clearly illuminated, of proper size, and arranged in a mental row in his mind (Luria, 1987: 41). Some lists he had to remember were quite long, so he found a way of storing these images in an orderly way. He often distributed these sequences along some roadway or street in his mind that corresponded to a real street in his home town or in Moscow (Luria, 1987: 32). This phenomenon of ordering is related to the “sequence-space synaesthesia” in which no pairing of senses occurs but is triggered by thinking about natural or freely invented sequences (Simner / Holenstein, 2007). As another example of the mental sequencing, Shereshevsky was able to think about numbers as coloured, gendered and person-like objects that possessed names and nicknames. For example, the number one “is a slender man with ramrod posture and a long face; ‘two’ is a plump lady with a complicated hairdo atop her head, clad in a velvet or silk dress with a train that trails behind her” (Johnson, 2017). The sequences of numbers and words can be more efficiently remembered if these items induce synaesthetic concurrents during cognitive processing (Baron-Cohen et al., 2007).

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The pathway from image to concept After becoming a professional mnemonist Shereshevsky had to simplify his memorisation processes. In order to remember more efficiently he began to create his eidetic images in abbreviated and symbolic forms that only contained the vital details allowing him to generalise to the whole (Luria, 1987: 42). In so doing he created an immaterial, purely mental script as a reference tool in his mind, which process has analogies in how many historical writing systems have evolved. Shereshevsky’s graphic thinking allowed him to carry out mental manipulations, which others can perform only with real objects (Luria, 1987: 112). He developed a shorthand system of the images that contained less detail and helped him to economise his work as a mnemonist. He explained: “Formerly, in order to remember a thing, I would have to summon up an image of the whole scene. Now all I have to do is take some detail I’ve decided on in advance that will signify the whole image. Say I’m given the word horseman. All it takes now is an image of a foot in a spur. Earlier, if I’d be given the word restaurant, I’d have seen the entrance to the restaurant, people sitting inside, a Romanian orchestra tuning up, and a lot else … Now if I’m given the word, I’d see something rather like a store and an entranceway with a bit of something from inside – that’s all, and I’d remember the word. So my images have changed quite a bit. Earlier they were more clear-cut, more realistic. The ones I have now are not as well defined or as vivid as the earlier ones … I try just to single out one detail I’ll need in order to remember a word.” (Luria, 1987: 42). The similar process of image simplification also took place in the early development of the cuneiform script and in many other – e.g. Egyptian, Chinese – writing systems. The first set of characters in an emerging system of writing tended to consist of more or less realistic pictures of objects. Subsequently, these signs lost their visual complexity and became increasingly compressed in the early stages of script’s development (Kelly et al., 2021). For example, a large number of early cuneiform signs were “real sketches of easily recognizable objects, such as heads or parts of the human body or of various animals, plants, utensils, and profiles of mountains” (Bottéro, 1992: 71). Similar figures in the art form are attested much earlier in ancient Mesopotamia on painted pottery and engraved seals. The early characters of the Mesopotamian writing system developed their forms from pictograms to ideograms during transition from proto-cuneiform to cuneiform ca. 3100–2500 BCE (Charpin, 2010). This transition from a realistic image to more symbolic form has a parallel in the change of Shereshevsky’s memory technique, which he willingly introduced to lessen his cognitive load and to facilitate memorisation when he started professional career. However, even the earliest pictographic sign forms in Mesopotamia were not full images of corresponding objects, but already abbreviated and stylised for simplification. The principle of pars pro toto was already in use – e.g. drawing of

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vulva for “woman”. Later, when the curves characteristic to early cuneiform were forced into straight lines further stylisation occurred that removed most of the resemblance to realistic images in these sign forms (Bottéro, 1992). The simplification of sign forms occurred as the universal human cognitive tendency when moving from realistic imagery towards representing more abstract concepts. Every newly invented system of signs became compressed through repeated interactions so that the same amount of information was expressed with less descriptive effort (Kelly et al., 2021: 671). The use of more compressed script became a cognitive preference of more experienced readers during the next stage of developing literacy. The cuneiform signs became less complex in order to meet the needs of more advanced readers: “In becoming simpler, characters lost some of their detail, suggesting an optimization or balance of local details and global cues … Local detail helps novices discriminate and individuate characters, but it also slows proficient readers, who make greater use of global cues, something novices find difficult to do. The more detail characters have, the longer it takes not just to write but also read them. The term “compression” expresses a similar idea, the reduction of information that minimizes the physical effort of producing characters” (Overmann, 2022: 17). Shereshevsky simplified his mental representations of words in order to read them off from memory more efficiently. In the development of early cuneiform writing all pictographic signs were stylised with semantic motivation into more abstract form of ideograms and when the graphic material was established the sign forms only underwent further paleographic evolution (Bottéro, 1992: 73). However, the gradual development from picture to a written sign was also the process of semanticisation during which the realistic representation developed into a mental concept when attention was diverted from its scrupulous details. From the point of view of semantics, it can be argued: “A concept for a kind, or category, of entities is knowledge that allows us to discriminate entities of that kind from entities of other kinds. A concept should not be equated with a visual image. Many categories we have words for, like mistake, thought, noise, structure, mood, are not categories of visible things. But even for categories of visible things such as dogs, the mental description is by no means exhausted by a specification of their visual appearance. The dog concept, for example, also specifies the behaviour of dogs and how dogs may matter for us (as pets, watch dogs, guide-dogs, dangerous animals that may attack us, etc.).” (Loebner, 2013: 19.) From the point of view of generative grammar, the transition from pictograms to ideograms in cuneiform represents the application of the innate schematism of mind to the data of experience (Berwick et al., 2011). Whereas the pictograms in early cuneiform writing represented visual images of material reality of an object,

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the ideograms began to refer to an entire semantic constellation which had developed around certain object (Bottéro, 1992: 73). There are many similarities between print reading and explicit mind reading as the processes of how meaning and intention are comprehended (Heyes / Frith, 2014). Both developments are culturally inherited and necessitate a transition from easy expressions to harder concepts, from concrete to increasingly abstract ways of reasoning. The same change occurred in the Shereshevsky’s style of visualisation, which became more efficient in memorising words after he simplified the forms of his mental images to an essential detail. Earlier, Shereshevsky’s pictorial thinking had been realistic to the extreme and the spontaneous flow of images e.g. when listening to a text often became an obstacle for understanding its content. The images would jam together, produce still more images, which carried him far adrift from text’s meaning (Luria, 1987: 113). Shereshevsky may have been on the autistic spectrum, as many people with excessive abilities in visualisation fall into this category (Grandin, 2006). Today, Shereshevsky would be considered an autistic savant (Baron-Cohen et al., 2007). The autistic persons with strong visualisation abilities may also have difficulties with generalising and grasping advanced abstract ideas. The autistic author Temple Grandin has written: “Unlike those of most people, my thoughts move from video-like, specific images to generalization and concepts. For example, my concept of dogs is inextricably linked to every dog I’ve ever known. It’s as if I have a card catalogue of dogs I have seen, complete with pictures, which continually grows as I add more examples to my video library. … My memories usually appear in my imagination in strict chronological order, and the images I visualize are always specific. [For example, to Grandin] There is no generic, generalized Great Dane.” (Grandin, 2006: 12). Shereshevsky’s first person account how he began to use simplified forms of mental images to economise his memory processes exemplifies a universal human cognitive pattern. This development also underlines the fact that the primary goal of the invention of the script in Mesopotamian culture was to acquire a tool to memorise the numerous and complicated economic operations (Bottéro, 1992: 70). The cuneiform commentary as a memory technique The cuneiform texts of ancient Mesopotamia sometimes offer unusual lexical material in which words in Sumerian are given a range of explanations in Akkadian that extends the limits of sound philology. After the Sumerian gradually died out as a spoken language in Mesopotamia in the second millennium BCE the knowledge of it had to be acquired in classroom. This was certainly not an easy endeavour for the scribes who were aided by oral and written instructions, sometimes in the form of a commentary. The cuneiform commentary genre was also used to facilitate memorisation of culturally important texts. This interpretation

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can be suggested through the analogies with some of Shereshevsky’s memorisation techniques that he explained to Luria (1987). For his work as a professional mnemonist Shereshevsky began to use another technique, which helped him to memorise long, confusing and senseless words that the spectators at his demonstrations would deliberately give him (Luria, 1987: 40). Shereshevsky described how he memorised sequences of words in a foreign language unknown to him (e.g. Italian) by breaking the original text into smaller units and semanticising these parts using his native tongues (Russian / Yiddish). Shereshevsky acquired virtuosity in combining semanticisation of the parts of words with eidetic images to remember the word lists in a foreign language, nonsense syllables, and meaningless mathematical formula (Luria, 1987: 44). For that purpose Shereshevsky converted meaningless words into a series of vivid images that helped him memorise these words: “He found that the fastest way to do this was to break the words and meaningless phrases down to into their component parts and try to attach meaning to an individual syllable by linking it up with some association. This technique required training, but in time, working at it several hours a day, S. became a virtuoso at breaking down senseless elements of words or phrases into intelligible parts which he could automatically convert into images. Central to this device, which he used to astonishing ease and rapidity, was a process whereby he “semanticized” images, basing them on sounds; in addition, he put to use complexes of synesthetic reactions which, as before, served to guarantee him accurate recall” (Luria, 1987: 43–44). In December 1937 to Shereshevsky – who had no knowledge of Italian – was read the first four lines of Dante’s Divine Comedy. He asked that the words be pronounced distinctly with pauses between them. In order to memorise them, he converted the words into images, which sequence he remembered through a visual scenario. He was able to reproduce the text with perfect accuracy and exact pronunciation even after 15 years later in a test without forewarning (Luria, 1987: 45). In order to memorise the first line Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita “In the middle of the journey of our life,” Shereshevsky created the following sequence of mental images: (Nel) – I was paying my membership dues when there, in the corridor, I caught sight of the ballerina Nel’skaya. (mezzo) – I myself am a violinist; what I do is to set up an image of a man, together with [Russian: vmeste] Nel’skaya, who is playing the violin. (del) – There’s a pack of Deli Cigarettes near them. (cammin) – I set up an image of a fireplace [Russian: kamin] close by. (di) – Then I see a hand pointing toward a door [Russian: dver]. (nostra) – I see a nose [Russian: nos]; a man has tripped and, in falling, gotten his nose pinched in the doorway (tra).

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(vita) – He lifts his leg over the threshold, for a child is lying there, that is, a sign of life – vitalism (Luria, 1987: 45–46). Shereshevsky composed this flow of images in a matter of minutes and he could read it off every time he was asked. The visualisation technique he described was essential to his recall (Luria, 1987: 48). According to dual-coding theory of cognition the ability to encode a stimulus (e.g. a word) in two different ways increases the chance of remembering it compared to a stimulus that was only coded one way. In synaesthesia, these two encoding modes are the inducer and concurrent, e.g. the word and corresponding image (Meier / Rothen, 2013: 693). Similar techniques were also employed in cuneiform scholarly texts. Shereshevsky’s technique has an analogy in the practice of cuneiform scribes to break down words in one language (the Semitic Akkadian) into smaller semantic units in another language (Sumerian) for a commentary, exegesis, and memorisation. Shereshevsky and many scholars through all ages have converted lists of words into a visual imagery for memorisation (Carruthers, 2008). Some sections in cuneiform lexical lists put the words into the same order as motifs occurring in certain Mesopotamian art samples. For example, an unusual sequence of words in the bilingual list Diri “Oxford” (lines 563–576) associates with a narrative depicted on the cylinder seal YPM BC 37566 dating to the Late Uruk period (Linder, forthcoming). Many pieces of art can be used to memorise the sequences of words in list format. The interpretation of Akkadian words through Sumerian was used by ancient Mesopotamian scholars to add the richness of associations to the written texts through explanatory techniques. Eckart Frahm has observed that “Mesopotamian scholars were able to make use of an almost limitless supply of associations” and possessed “an overabundance of hermeneutical possibilities” that they used in cuneiform commentary tradition (Frahm, 2018: 120). As the Sumerian roots are most often shorter than their lexical counterparts in Semitic Akkadian, the syllables in an Akkadian word could be interpreted as phrases in Sumerian. In cuneiform writing, every phonetic sign in an Akkadian word could be semanticised though reading it as a Sumerian logogram. The text commentaries using this technique often rest on highly imaginative philology, but this interpretative work certainly contributed to the memorisation of these target texts and passages. For example, the following commentary (K 778) was written on the astronomical omen series Enūma Anu Enlil (15:1) that breaks a word in Akkadian into two random component parts in Sumerian: “If the moon is early and eclipses at dusk (in Akkadian barāri), it is an eclipse (pertaining to) the king of Akkad.” BARA (in Sumerian) means “no,” RI (in Sumerian) means “time”; (thus the omen means that) an eclipse takes place not at its time, i.e. on the 12th or 13th day” (RochbergHalton 1988: 80–81).

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The semanticisation of the Akkadian word barāri “dusk” through Sumerian BARA and RI had no philological grounding, but was produced to solve a hermeneutical problem and to reconcile the passage with other texts. Such reinterpretation of words in one language through another is similar to the technique of semanticisation used by Shereshevsky when memorising Dante’s lines of poetry. The goal of carrying out such kind of explanations in cuneiform commentaries may have served the purpose of memorisation rather than explanation. The memorisation often took place through visualisation and commentaries often served as the visual demonstration of text’s content. One Akkadian term for commentary was mukallimtu, which derived from the root kullumu, “to show” (Frahm, 2011: part 4.5). The writing of commentaries and explanatory phrases to difficult texts in cuneiform added to the richness of associations that helped the masters of tradition to recall their materials. Some of the associations found in cuneiform scholarly texts may have their origin in synaesthesia. The cuneiform tradition was bilingual and early language learning has been demonstrated to increase synaesthesia. Synaesthesia is more common among speakers of languages with complex phoneme-grapheme mappings just as the cuneiform writing was (Watson et al., 2017). The most celebrated Mesopotamian commentary providing meaning through the semanticisation of the parts of the words was the lengthy explanation of Marduk’s fifty names in the final section of the Babylonian Creation Epic (VI 121– VII 147). This part was written with the purpose of learning and teaching, as was articulated in its last lines (Lambert, 2013: 132, VII 145–147): li-iṣ-ṣab-tú-ma maḫ-ru-u li-kal-lim / en-qu mu-du-u mit-ḫa-riš lim-tal-ku / li-šá-an-ni-ma a-bu ma-ri li-šá-ḫi-iz 145. They (the fifty names) should be internalized: the foremost (teacher) should interpret (them), 146. the wise and knowledgeable should expound (them) together, 147. the master should recite and make the pupil memorize” (Danzig, 2013: 18). Many of these 50 names are scholarly inventions to express a succinct statement about certain theological doctrine concerning Marduk, eulogising his accomplishments and abilities. The obscure Sumerian name forms are given meanings that in some cases were antecedents to the names themselves – the interpretation of the name can be more authentic than the name itself (Lambert, 2013: 161). The Mesopotamian scholars converted the obscure Sumerian names into intelligible phrases by semanticising their components just like Shereshevsky did with Dante’s verses (Luria, 1987: 43). This practice is explained by an unusual commentary on the Fifty Names of Marduk in tabular format from Assurbanipal’s library in Nineveh (Sm 11+), which linked the names of the deity in Sumerian with the epithets in Akkadian. This commentary tablet used the techniques of synonymity, homonymity, and etymography to demonstrate that the Sumerian names exactly correspond to the explanations found in the Akkadian text (Frahm, 2011: 114– 115). Every Sumerian name was broken down into smaller units or syllables, the

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commentary interpreted them and connected to a word in the Akkadian explanatory part to demonstrate how well they match. The commentary interpreted the names similarly to how the author(s) of Creation Epic itself may have done it (Danzig, 2013: 22). For example, Marduk’s 36th name dLUGAL-AB-DUBUR2 was expounded in VII 91–92 as “the king, who scattered the works of Tiamat, who uprooted her weapons, whose foundation is secure on the ‘Fore and Aft’” (Lambert, 2013: 129). The commentary elaborated on the connection between the name and the eulogy section as follows: LUGAL “king”, BIR “to scatter”, DU3 “to work”, AB “Tiamat”, BU “to uproot”, DU3 “weapons”, LU3 “who”, AN “in”, GU3 “before”, DUBUR2 “foundation”, DUBUR2 “after”, UR3 “its foundation” (Lambert, 2013: 141). By semanticising parts of the name, the commentary encoded the passage in two ways and fulfilled its purpose to enrich the associative fabric of the target text and so made it better memorisable. This commentary was created for remembering the obscure Sumerian words and to bestow them meaningfulness, its goal was not primarily a philological or exegetical explanation. Another case in which a school text consisting of the sequence of certain syllabic signs was thought to correspond to a literary composition was the so-called Silbenalphabet A (Lambert, 2013: 350–353). This “syllable alphabet” was a text to facilitate learning of the cuneiform signs, which were lined up according to some phonetic or rhythmic principles on the first column of a tablet. The second and third columns of the same tablet (e.g. KAR 4) sometimes contained a literary work about world’s creation. The syllabary on the first column had some notable horizontal correspondences with the mythical piece on the rest of the tablet (Cavigneaux / Jaques, 2010: 6). The scholarly tradition considered this text to contain esoteric scribal lore and assigned meaning to certain groups of syllables that somehow corresponded to the parts of the mythical text (Cavigneaux / Jaques, 2010: 11). The origin of these arbitrary equivalences between the syllabary part and sentences in the mythical piece is impossible to determine (Cavigneaux / Jaques, 2010: 13). There are coincidences between the two parts only on the level of some individual signs. Here once again it can be suggested that the connection between the syllables and the text was made through synaesthetic associations and a visual scenario. Shereshevsky described a similar memorisation technique when he was given a long sequence of nonsense syllables for memorisation (Luria, 1987: 51–58). After describing his initial difficulties, Shereshevsky finally came up with a solution how to memorise these syllables. For example, the monotonous syllabic sequence “ma va na sa na va” he memorised as a series of these visual images:

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“This is the way I worked it out in my mind. My landlady (Mava), whose house is on Slizkaya Street I stayed at while I was in Warsaw, was leaning out of a window that opened into a courtyard. With her left hand she was pointing inside, toward the room (NASA) [Russian: nasha, “our”]; while with her right she was making some negative gesture (NAVA) [Yiddish expression of negation] to a Jew, an old-clothes man, who was standing in the yard with a sack slung over his right shoulder. It was as though she was saying to him: “No, nothing for sale.” Muvi in Polish means “to speak.” As for NASA, I took the Russian nasha as its equivalent, remembering all the while that I was substituting a sh for the s sound in the original word. Further, just as my landlady was saying “Nasa,” an orange ray (an image which characterizes the sound s for me) suddenly flashed out. As for NAVA, it means “no” in Latvian. The vowels were not important since I knew there was merely the one vowel a between all the consonants” (Luria, 1987: 53– 54). The flow of images in Shereshevsky’s mind that helped him to memorise the sequence of random syllables consisted of an elaborate visual scenario, which he was able to explain in its own logic. Shereshevsky’s memory technique of visualisation may suggest that the Mesopotamian scribes did something similar when they wrote down the mythological piece as an esoteric explanation to the Silbenalphabet A. This mythological piece served as the aid to learn and memorise the target text – the sequence of syllables in the school text. Conclusions Many text commentaries in cuneiform tradition ascribe new meanings to their target texts, using associations that are provided by secondary semanticisations of individual signs. Through this procedure the target texts often acquired a whole array of new associations resulting in “omnisignificance” (Frahm, 2018: 121). Mesopotamian scholarship used the “expressive substance” of words – their phonetics and orthography – to create associations between various domains (Frahm, 2018: 122). Many of the ancient Mesopotamian scholars had – like Shereshevsky – traits of autistic savantism, and possessed excessive abilities of visualisation and synaesthetic association. However, it is doubtful whether the ancient scribes wished to interpret their texts to find out the original meaning – they liked to play with words and to add further layers of significance to their texts through hermeneutic techniques, and so made them more attractive, authoritative and contributed to their memorisation. The goal of writing commentaries was often to increase the sense of “meaningfulness” in the canonical texts of cuneiform culture. The ancient Mesopotamian scholarly world has not yet been studied from the point of view of synaesthesia. From everyday perspective, “Mesopotamian culture could be assertively and consciously synaesthetic” (McMahon, 2019: 409). An example of synaesthesia in cuneiform scholarship can be its celebrated astral

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religion, which associated the planets with numbers, colours and were thought to form a sequence of gendered deities (Reiner, 1995). Another example of sequencing the deities through localising them in imaginary space has been found in a Mesopotamian scholarly text (Wiggermann, 2018). The cuneiform scholars composed many other examples of “ordinal linguistic personification” in their lists of gods and other favourite objects as animated beings (Simner / Holenstein, 2007). Babylonian astrologers of the late period systematised correspondences between zodiacal signs, planets, parts of human body, trees, herbs and stones (Reiner, 1995). These associations may have been partly triggered by synaesthesia. To what extent the Mesopotamian scholarship relied to synaesthesia remains to be thoroughly studied. References Allport, G.W., 1924: “Eidetic imagery”. British Journal of Psychology 15(2), 99– 120. Baron-Cohen, S. / Bor, D. / Billington, J. / Asher, J. / Wheelwright, S. / Ashwin, C., 2007: “Savant memory in a man with colour form-number synaesthesia and Asperger Syndrome”. Journal of Consciousness Studies 14 (9–10), 237– 251. Berwick, R. C. / Pietroski, P. / Yankama, B. / Chomsky, N., 2011: “Poverty of the stimulus revisited.” Cognitive Science 35 (7), 1207–1242. Bottéro, J., 1992: Mesopotamia: Writing, Reasoning, and the Gods. Chicago / London. Carruthers, M., 2008: The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture. 2nd Edition. Cambridge, UK. Cavigneaux, A. / Jaques, M., 2010: “Peut-on comprendre le Silbenvokabular?” In D. Shehata, et al. (eds.): Von Göttern und Menschen: Beiträge zu Literatur und Geschichte des alten Orients. Festschrift für Brigitte Groneberg. Leiden / Boston. Pp. 1–16. Charpin, D., 2010: Reading and Writing in Babylon. Cambridge, MA / London. Danzig, D., 2013: Name Word Play and Marduk’s Fifty Names in Enuma Eliš. Master’s Thesis in Assyriology. Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, Yale University. Frahm, E., 2011: Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries: origins of interpretation. Münster. — 2018: “The Perils of Omnisignificance: Language and Reason in Mesopotamian Hermeneutics”. Journal of Ancient Near Eastern History 5, 107–130. Grandin, T., 2006: Thinking in Pictures: My Life with Autism. New York. Heyes, C.M. / Frith, C.D., 2014: “The cultural evolution of mind reading”. Science 344 (6190), 1243091. Johnson, R., 2017: “The Mystery of S., the Man with an Impossible Memory”. New Yorker, August 12th, 2017. https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-

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turner/the-mystery-of-s-the-man-with-an-impossible-memory Kelly, P. / Winters, J. / Miton, H. / Morin, O., 2021: “The predictable evolution of letter shapes: An emergent script of West Africa recapitulates historical change in writing systems”. Current Anthropology 62(6), 1–23. Lambert, W.G., 2013: Babylonian Creation Myths. Mesopotamian Civilizations 16. Winona Lake, IN. Linder, N., forthcoming: “List and Narrative: Arrangement of Entries in an Old Babylonian List based on Late Uruk Iconography”. (Manuscript). Loebner, S., 2013: Understanding Semantics. 2nd Edition. London. Luria, A.R., 1987: The Mind of a Mnemonist: A Little Book about a Vast Memory. Translated from the Russian by Lynn Solotaroff. Cambridge, MA / London. McMahon, A., 2019: “The sensory world of Mesopotamia”. In R. Skeates / J. Day (eds.): Routledge Handbook of Sensory Archaeology. London / New York. Pp. 396–412. Meier, B. / Rothen, N., 2013: “Synesthesia and Memory”. In J. Simner / E.M. Hubbart (eds.): Oxford Handbook of Synaesthesia. Oxford. Pp. 692–706. Overmann, K. A., 2022: “A cognitive archaeological perspective on literacy and numeracy”. Visible Language 56.1, 9–44. Reiner, E., 1995: Astral Magic in Babylonia. Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, Volume 84, Part 4. Philadelphia. Rochberg-Halton, F., 1988: Aspects of Babylonian Celestial Divination: The Lunar Eclipse Tablets of Enūma Anu Enlil. Horn. Rothen, N. / Meier, B. / Ward, J., 2012: “Enhanced memory ability: Insights from synaesthesia”. Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews 36(8), 1952–1963. Simner, J., 2019: Synaesthesia: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford. Simner, J. / Holenstein, E., 2007: “Ordinal linguistic personification as a variant of synesthesia”. Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience 19(4), 694–703. Watson, M.R. / Chromý, J. / Crawford, L. / Eagleman, D.M. / Enns, J.T. / Akins, K.A., 2017: “The prevalence of synaesthesia depends on early language learning”. Consciousness and Cognition 48, 212–231. Wiggermann, F.A.M., 2018: “The Göttertypentext as a Humanistic Mappa Mundi: An Essay”. In G. Van Buylaere, et al. (eds.): Sources of Evil: Studies in Mesopotamian Exorcistic Lore. Leiden / Boston. Pp. 351–370.

Thureau-Dangin, Šamšī-ilu and the Lions of Til Barsip Some Remarks* Sanna Aro In the gap lie two broken winged lions of rude style Hogarth, 1909: 178 Introduction Šamšī-ilu, a turtānu during the first half of the eighth century BC, features as one of the most prominent figures among the Assyrian governance of the western provinces of its empire.1 He belongs to a very small group of the empire’s high officials who commissioned monuments or monumental inscriptions of their own and Šamšī-ilu does not even mention the name of his king.2 A text on two stone lions3 discovered in Til Barsip / Kar Shalmaneser, believed to be authored by Šamšī-ilu, has been focus of multiple historical analyses and interpretations. It is quasi unanimously thought to evidence an extraordinary boldness of its author to represent himself in a “royal way” during a historical period when setting up monumental inscriptions appears to be Assyrian king’s privilege, strictly controlled and regulated by the state governance. This has led to notions that this turtānu was “the true ruler of the Assyrian West”4. However, the physical inscription and its text carriers, the two stone portal lions, have received very little attention. Due partly to an insufficient documentation of both the stone lions and the inscriptions on them, but also to the fact that in Ancient Near Eastern scholarship, the study *

I would like to thank Ian Rutherford for improving my English, all remining errors are mine. Special thanks go to Guy Bunnens for all his help. I’m indebted to DFG KollegForschungsgruppe 2615 Rethinking Governance in the Ancient Near East (Freie Universität, Berlin) for providing me excellent working environment and to Jörg Klinger for his intellectual support. I could not have written this contribution without the vital medical care and support by Dr. Ari Aimolahti and Dr. Katariina Suontama-Uusitalo. 1 Mattila, 2011; Baker, 2008; Osborne, 2020: 157 claims that Šamšī-ilu was “Shalmaneser III’s field marshal”. This is simply wrong. 2 See for example Thureau-Dangin / Dunand, 1936: 144: “Le fait (= absence of king’s name) est unique dans l’histoire d’Assyrie”. 3 These two lions are labelled variously in the scholarly literature, causing confusion. For clarity, I use here the terms “north-western” (= the western lion of Hogarth and the “lion Ouest/nord” of Thureau-Dangin) and “south-eastern” (= the eastern lion of Hogarth and the “lion Est/sud” of Thureau-Dangin) after Bunnens, 2022: 200. 4 Reade, 1987; Kuan 2001: 140; Fuchs, 2008: 81; Mattila, 2011; Bunnens, 2022: 198. For literature about Šamšī-ilu’s importance see for example Garelli / Nikiprowetzky, 1974: 104–105; 231; Hawkins, 1982: 405; Mattila, 2000: 110; Fuchs, 2008; Siddall, 2013: 100– 101; 119; Zaia, 2018; Van De Mieroop, 2022: 157.

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of the stones on which monumental texts are inscribed, and the relationship between the stone and the text, are mostly neglected.5 The statement by John M. Russell made already 25 years ago concerning Assyrian Palace inscriptions on stone, that “understanding the physical context must precede any attempt to reconstruct mental context”6, has sadly been overlooked, since cuneiform texts are still mostly regarded as a immaterial phenomenon detached from their Inschriftenträger.7 At the same time, non-Cuneiformist scholars from Ancient Near Eastern or other fields often neglect inscriptions, not just cuneiform ones, when verbally describing and/or visually illustrating stones / pieces of sculpture.8 My intention in this paper is to stress again the importance of the documentation and the publication of stone inscriptions and their contexts, focusing on the case of the portal lions of Til Barsip. For some years I have been curious to know how the inscription on the lion’s body looked. F. Thureau-Dangin offered a copy of it in his editio princeps of 1930 (Fig. 3)9, but no photographs are available in the scholarly literature that visualize the position of the inscription. The material properties of the text are, however, crucial for our general understanding and historical interpretation of the status and deeds of Šamšī-ilu. An analysis of the physical settings of the text on the lions’ body and comparison of it with other inscribed portal sculptures bring new insights about Šamšī-ilu’s inscription habits. Two observations, firstly that the cuneiform signs seem to have been carved on a stone with small damages on the surface, and secondly, that the lining and signs of the text don’t take any notice of the strange stylization lines of the lion’s body, as would be expected on a “proper” Assyrian portal lion, provide evidence for the lions’ ages and their chronological relationship with their cuneiform inscriptions. While it is for several reasons not feasible to give a new edition here, I only make some notes about the appearance and condition of the inscription on the north-western lion that hopefully can help future research on Šamšī-ilu. ThureauDangin’s reading of his name on the battered stone surface has been unanimously accepted, including the standard edition of Assyrian inscriptions by A.K. Gray5

See for example Engel, 1987 and standard volumes of the Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia-project. Symptomatic is Siddall, 2013: 36 writing about Šamšī-ilu’s “Colossal Bulls” when he means the portal lions of Til Barsip. 6 Russell, 1998, 220. See Aro, 2014: 27 for its usage concerning the Karatepe gate structures. See also Galter / Levine / Reade, 1986: 27 concerning the colossi of Sennacherib’s Palace: “Often the inscription was considered as something disembodied and unrelated to the object on which it was carved.” For an interesting analysis of visual and semantic interactions between Assyrian images and inscriptions see Morello, 2016. 7 Compare also Zettler, 1996 (for clay tablets) and Porter, 2001: 373–379. 8 For example the stele found in Aşağı Yarımca, near ancient Harran and copious linedrawings of it in various publications that don’t visualize the placement of the inscription on the obverse side of the stone, see for example Koroğlu, 2018: 174–175; Schroer, 2018: 808–809, n. 1893. 9 Thureau-Dangin, 1930. Compare also Thureau-Dangin / Dunand, 1936: 141–151.

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son.10 It goes without saying that Grayson’s transliteration and translation is referred to in virtually every study concerning Šamšī-ilu published after 199611. Even if this reading of Šamšī-ilu’s name as the author fits into the content and mental context of the inscription and makes logical sense, it is necessary to pay attention to some problems and uncertainties of Thureau-Dangin’s readings. All these remarks should not be understood as criticism against Thureau-Dangin, who undoubtedly was one of the leading Assyriologists of his time, or against previous scholarship on Šamšī-ilu, but they serve to demonstrate the need of 3D-modellings of the stones and their inscriptions. Due to the current political situation, it has not been possible for me to study these lion fragments by myself in Syria. However, Guy Bunnens generously gave me photos to be published and to serve as layouts for my line-drawings. I also benefitted much from his knowledge and insights of the lion sculptures in private correspondence. Without Guy’s help this paper would have turned out very different. Since I regard a thorough “live” examination of the stones, sculptures and inscriptions and photographing them myself, as indispensable for making any firm argumentations and/or conclusions12, this paper should be seen as a preliminary study only, that has its justification in a situation where a detailed examination of the stones and/or a first-hand collation of the texts are not possible. This paper is dedicated to Simo with the gratitude of the continuum of the teacher-student chain that began already before my birth when my father Jussi Aro (1928–1983) taught Simo his first Neo-Assyrian and of our on-going collaboration in the board of the Foundation of Finnish Assyriological Research.13 Former research The portal lions of Til Barsip serve as a textbook example for ancient sculpture that were never totally buried under the ground and thus visible for occasional western travelers already before the beginnings of proper archaeological research.14 Despite the fact that large parts of these lions were visible in the vicinity of the Euphrates river bank, they became known in the scholarly literature only at the beginning of the 20th century.15 In 1907 David Hogarth surveyed the surround-

10

Grayson, 1996: 231–233 (A.0.104.2010) See for example Fales, 2019: 66. A translation is also offered in Younger, 2003. 12 Compare Aro, 2022: 498 for the fact that every photograph, line drawing, plaster cast copy, paper squeeze (of inscriptions) and also 3D-modellings are only interpretations of the original images and thus affect us differently than an analysis of the original monument. 13 www.assyriologia.fi. 14 Compare Boese, 2006 for a lion relief stone in Karkemish. 15 Compare the first reference to and sketch of the Arslantash/Hadattu lion in Chesney, 1950: 114. Chesney visited the site in 1836. For the lions of Arslantash/Hadattu see below pp. 47–48. 11

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ings of Karkemish where he planned to start excavations and his group probably took the first photographs of the north-western lion, following local information about “black written stones” with “writing like nails”on it.16 Hogarth’s particular interest in finding cuneiform inscriptions in this area was probably connected with the hope of discovering bilingual texts that would help decipher the “Hittite Hieroglyphics”.17 At Tell Ahmar Hogarth found many sculpture fragments lying on the ground and also pieces of Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions.18 The “writing like nails” turned indeed to be cuneiform script written on two portal lions that Hogarth described as winged (Fig.1).19 In his 1909 report of this survey Hogarth reproduced two photos of the north-western lion, plate 37,2 being so far the only early illustration of the body fragment carrying the inscription.20 He took paper squeezes of the texts and in London L.W. King made first attempts to read them.21 It is understandable that King thought the inscriptions to have been commissioned by an Assyrian king, suggesting “Shalmanassar II”22, but since the name of the city could not be yet read from the text, the identification of Tell Ahmar with Til Barsip of Bit Ahuni23 still remained unconfirmed. The next British scholar to visit Tell Ahmar was Gertrude Bell in 1909. She fulfilled the request made by Hogarth to photograph and take squeezes of the “Hittite” fragments on the site that had not been accessible during Hogarth’s survey. She hardly paid any attention to the portal lions and did not publish any photograph of them in her travelogue Amurath to Amurath24, even though she did take one of the better preserved north-western piece.25 Hogarth’s Karkemish co-excavators T.L. Lawrence26 and R. Campbell Thompson visited Tell Ahmar in 1911 16

Hogarth, 1909: 177. See also Hogarth, 1910: 174; Hogarth, 1925: 251. Hogarth, 1911–1912: 361. Compare also Hogarth, 1925: 252. For the search of a bilingual text on a Karkemishian portal lion see Aro, 2013: 257–258 with further references. 18 For the Hieroglyphic monuments of Tell Ahmar see Hawkins, 2000: 224–248. 19 Hogarth, 1909: 178; Hogarth, 1910: 174–175; Hogarth, 1925: 267. Roobaert, 1990: 126 explains that Hogarth probably thought the stylisation of the ribs on the body to be wings. 20 N.B. that the caption of Hogarth, 1909: Pl 37,2 erroneously states that the fragment would be of the “eastern” side of the gate. See also a photograph published by Roobaert, 1990: 134, Fig. 59,3. 21 King 1909. 22 Now referred to as Shalmanassar III (859–824 BC). Compare also Hograth, 1909: 178; Kraeling, 1918: 61-62; Hogarth, 1910: 175; Olmstead, 1923: 119. 23 For Neo-Assyrian attestations of Til Barsip see Bagg, 2007: 253–255. 24 In her diary on 17.2. 1909 she only states: “At the E gate we saw the 2 Assyrian lions of Shalmaneser”, accessible online: http://gertrudebell.ncl.ac.uk/diary_details.php?diary_id =678 (accessed 11.8.2022) Bell, 1911: 28–29: “… two roughly carved lions with inscriptions of Shalmaneser II”. 25 Accessible online: http://gertrudebell.ncl.ac.uk/photo_details.php?photo_id=2725. 26 In a letter to his mother (dated 24.6. 1911) T.E. Lawrence reports from Tell Ahmar: “We have been here about four or five days working out a cuneiform inscription, photographing 17

Thureau-Dangin, Šamšī-ilu and the Lions of Til Barsip

Fig. 1: Forepart of the north-western lion of Tell Ahmar / Til Barsip in situ as D. Hogarth found it in 1908, photo after Hogarth 1910, plate between p. 174–175.

Fig. 2: Map of Til Barsip with the location of the stone lions at the north-eastern gate, photo after Thureau-Dangin 1929: 185.

and squeezing things Hittite”, see Lawrence, 1939: 1.

33

Fig. 3: Schematic copy of the inscription on the north-western lion, photo after Thureau-Dangin 1930: 14.

34 Sanna Aro

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Fig. 4: Body part of the north-western lion. The line-numbering after Thureau-Dangin’s copy by S. Aro. The arrows on lines 8 and 14 point to the erased signs of Samsi-ilu’s name. Photo courtesy of G. Bunnens. when the latter copied the inscriptions on the lions, identifying the site with Til Barsip that had been renamed as Kar Shalmaneser27 by Shalmanasser III in 856 BC.28 The copy and edition by F. Thureau-Dangin When François Thureau-Dangin launched the archaeological investigations of Arslantash, ancient Hadattu in 1929, he made the first visit at neighboring Tell Ahmar and published a first overall map of the site on which the eastern gate of the city wall was marked for the first time (Fig. 2).29 In 1930 he published the text of the north-western lion with a schematic copy (Fig. 3).30 This edition gives very little information about the outlooks and context of the text.31 According to his description, the north-western lion was broken in two pieces, of which the front 27

For attestations of Kār-Šulmānu-ašarēd in the inscriptions of Shalmaneser III and elsewhere, see Bagg, 2007: 136. 28 Campbell Thompson, 1912. 29 Thureau-Dangin, 1929: 185. 30 Thureau-Dangin, 1930: 14. See also Thureau-Dangin / Dunand, 1936: 141–151; Pl. 37 1–2. 31 There is a description of the gate structure in Thureau-Dangin / Dunand, 1936: 128–129.

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piece was found in situ and the rear piece (bearing the main part of the text) was found displaced, in the middle of the gate entrance, between the north-western and the south-eastern lion. He did not publish any photographs of the inscriptions, but merely stated that the inscription of the south-eastern lion is highly eroded.32 Nevertheless, Thureau-Dangin states that both lions were inscribed with the same text and in his transcription, he fills some quite extensive gaps of the better preserved north-western inscription with the south-eastern one. Some of the problems of Thureau-Dangin’s copy and edition of the text are discussed below. After the French investigations at Tell Ahmar the lion fragments were left on the spot and few scholars visited the site after that.33 According to Bunnens, the French scholars had turned the fragments over to protect the inscription.34 Publication of the north-western lion by A. Roobaert An update of the today’s condition and a detailed description of the north-western lion was given by A. Roobaert in conjunction with the research conducted by the Australian excavation team from 1988 onwards.35 Along with her erudite stylistic analysis, Roobaert gives basic information about the settings of the inscription as running “over the right shoulder and right side of the body” and that the “last five lines are inscribed below the belly, on the stone block itself”36, but the publication does not illustrate any close-up photographs and/or line-drawings that would visualize the relationship between the lions body and the inscription. No description and/or photographs of the south-eastern lion are given.37 The size and quality of the photographs are not sufficient to distinguish the inscribed space on the northwestern lion and the existing line-drawings don’t indicate the text. Generally Roobaert is of the opinion that the lion is stylistically quite attached to the North Syrian models and she already alludes to the possibility that the inscription on the north-western lion was executed at a later point.38 More observations that strengthen her suggestion are offered below. Whereas photos of the front part and a reconstruction of the whole sculpture have been republished in some articles by Bunnens, the position of the inscription cannot be seen on them.39 There now exist front and side views of the south-eastern lion, but on these photos it is impossible to distinguish the inscription lines.40

32

Thureau-Dangin, 1936: 141; “Ce qui subsiste du lion Est est informe …”. See however a photograph in McClellan, 1987. 34 Bunnens, 2022: 200. 35 Roobaert, 1990. 36 Roobaert, 1990: 127 37 Roobaert, 1990: 126. She states that “[t]he other one was nothing than a formless piece”. 38 Roobaert, 1990: 133. Compare also Makinson, 1999: 167–168; Galter, 2022: 22. 39 For example Bunnens, 2009: 80, Fig. 8a. 40 Bunnens, 2022: 203, Fig. 150a–b. 33

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After the study of the lions by the archaeological team of Bunnens, the portal lions were transported to University of Aleppo campus.41 Their present location and physical condition are unknown to me.42 The standard edition of the text by A.K. Grayson The inscriptions of the two lions were republished by A.K. Grayson in 1996 (RIMA 3, A.0.104.2010).43 This edition is based on the copy and transcription of Thureau-Dangin and fully accepts all restorations Thureau-Dangin made. Grayson does not comment the copy of the inscription at all, but stresses the fact that “the inscriptions have been difficult to decipher.44 The portal lions of Til Barsip and their inscriptions: remarks on the Thureau-Dangin and Grayson editions The accuracy of Thureau-Dangin’s edition is tightly attached to the question how much of the text on the south-eastern lion could be deciphered? There is a certain incongruity in his statement that the stone is shapeless and eroded, but that he can still find constructive help in it exactly on those spots that are badly damaged or totally erased/broken off on the north-western lion.45 At least today the inscription on it cannot be read without any technical help.46 Here Thureau-Dangin’s notion that both lions contained the same text47 plays a role, something that cannot be verified at the moment. This is salient, since even if most of the Assyrian portal sculpture pairs bear the same inscription, the winged colossi -pairs in Khorsabad/Dur-Sharruken had only one text beginning from the left hand bull and continuing on the right hand piece.48 The evidence for the Neo-Hittite inscribed portal lions is ambiguous too (see below): no pair is preserved to us bearing the same text. Some features also give the impression that Thureau-Dangin aimed to give an enhanced edition of the inscription. Mostly the Assyrian portal animals and hybrids accommodate a standard annalistic text, but once the space allotted to the inscription is filled with the signs, the text breaks up abruptly, no matter if in the middle of a sentence or even a word.49 Furthermore, Assyrian stone inscriptions are often riddled with small anomalies like miscopying, omissions, wrong and/or

41

Bunnens, 2022: 199. A destructive bomb exploded at the university campus of Aleppo in 2013. 43 Grayson, 1996: 231–232. 44 Grayson, 1996: 231. 45 Thureau-Dangin, 1936: 141. 46 The personal experience by Bunnens of the state of preservation of the south-eastern lion is that “I never saw even one wedge on it” (personal communication). 47 Thureau-Dangin, 1930: 15. This notion has been accepted for example by Green / Hausleiter, 2001: 150. 48 Russell, 1998: 106. 49 Russell, 1998: 45. 42

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split signs.50 This text on the north-western lion is, according to Thureau-Dangin’s edition, almost flawless without grave scribal errors. His transcription and translation have clear endings of the passage and sentence51, showing somewhat unexpected skills for a provincial (illiterate?) engraver in pre-planning of the allotted space with the length of the text. The inscription on the north-western lion concludes with the statement of setting up the two lions in Kar-Shalmaneser and giving them names (lines 19–24).52 Thureau-Dangin’s copy indicates the breakage of the stone exactly on the spot where he restores the signs KÁ.GAL (abullu, “city gate”) on line 19 (Fig.3), according to him quite clearly visible on the south-eastern lion.53 That this restoration might not be correct will be shortly addressed further below. Setting up stone monuments is, anyway, a common topic both in Assyrian and in Neo-Hittite inscriptions but such statements usually don’t end a text.54 A protective curse is often added against anyone who destroys the monument and/or the inscription or the author’s name on it.55 It is significant that the short inscriptions by Inūrta-bēlu-uṣur56 on the reverse side of the Arslantash/ Hadattu include this kind of curse formulation.57 Regarding the open question how much of the south-eastern lion was readable, the most important issue is Šamšī-ilu’s name. Thureau-Dangin restores the name on two places on the north-western lion, but as he himself admits, the signs are erased and on the line 8 the name stands additionally on the breakage of the sculpture into two pieces (Fig.3). Despite the assumed erasure of Šamšī-ilu’s name on the north-western lion, Thureau-Dangin is of the opinion that both the name and the titles can be deciphered “avec certitude”.58 Since both lines on the north-western inscription are, to my mind, scraped away deliberately (Fig. 4), his confidence in identifying Šamšī-ilu as the author of the text is solely based on his alleged readings on the south-eastern lion. This raises some concern: it would appear inconsistent of the name’s eraser to mutilate the author’s existence on the one but not on the other inscription, also because this person obviously was able to spot the name on both instances on the north-western lion. In this respect we can con50

Compare Paley, 1976: 117–118; Howard, 2021: 97–99. Thureau-Dangin, 1930: 15–19. 52 Thureau-Dangin, 1930: 18–19. 53 Thureau-Dangin, 1930: 18, n. 11. 54 For an Assyrian text see for example Grayson, 1991: 295–297 (= RIMA 2, A.0.101.32, on the reverse side of the lion BM 118895 from the Šarrat-Nipḫi temple by Ashurnasirpal II (883–859 BC), see also below p. 46), for a Luwian text see for example Hawkins 2000: 94–100 (= KARKAMIŠ A11a by Katuwa (end of 10th / beg. of 9th century BC?). 55 Common both in Neo-Hittite and Assyrian stone monuments, see May, 2012. 56 Baker, 2017: 82, 179. 57 Galter, 2004b: 176. Röllig, 2009: 272; Tadmor / Yamada, 2011: 162–163. NB that there is a following text passage on the portal bulls from Arslantash/Hadattu as well, see Tadmor / Yamada, 2011: 142, lines 26–28. 58 Thureau-Dangin / Dunand, 1936: 142. 51

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sider the possibility that the inscription on the south-eastern lion was executed later, i.e. after the erasures of the passages took place on the north-western lion. This detail is also addressed below. Thureau-Dangin’s copy of the text is very schematic and does not give an adequate impression of how the inscription really appears on the stone. This is striking, since a clear and much more informative line-drawing and copy of the much more effaced cuneiform inscription on a portal bull in Arslantash/Hadattu was published by Thureau-Dangin himself.59 My attempts to trace the cuneiform signs Thureau-Dangin saw on the north-western portal lion, on those photos I have at my disposal, resulted soon in a feeling that he had more difficulties in reading the inscription than is apparent in his seemingly flowing transcription and translation. A basic problem occurred when I tried to unite the lines on the two fragments of the north-western lion text as on Thureau-Dangin’s copy. If the text lines are “forced” to meet, using a simple combination of line-drawings on a digital drawing application, the reconstruction does not match Bunnen’s reconstruction of the body of the lion. This is understandable because the photographs that are not exactly compatible with each other and cannot be forced to match with exactitude. Despite my overall comprehension that the gap between the two fragments might be larger than Thureau-Dangin assumed, and that the reconstructed body remains untypically truncated even for the Neo-Hittite body type, I fully trust Bunnen’s conviction that his reconstruction is as correct as possible (Fig. 5).60 Nevertheless, the text lining and the still visible signs/parts of signs on the right side of the inscription, running in uneven length over the shoulder of the lion, are very smudged (Figs. 6–7). It is thus possible that Thureau-Dangin missed some sign traces and the lines might be distorted in his copy. Only a close study of the stones themselves and 3D-modellings might give answers to these open questions and therefore must remain unsolved for now. It is to be stressed here that ThureauDangin combined paper squeezes of lion fragments that were not lying beside each other. It cannot have been easy to make “the ends meet” on the study desk. That is probably why he also doesn’t indicate the carved body stylization lines on his schematic copy, i.e. the arrangement of the signs, for example spaces between them, are not rendered with the precision as they are for example on the portal bull of Arslantash/Hadattu. Despite the awareness of the difficulties with Thureau-Dangin’s copy and transcription, Grayson’s standard edition does not mark the restorations ThureauDangin made according to the south-eastern lion61, giving an illusion of an even more complete and flowing text.62 Grayson’s translation in turn has been referred

59

Thureau-Dangin / Dunand, 1931: 60–64, Fig. 20. Bunnens, personal communication. 61 Grayson, 1996: 232–233. 62 See also Younger, 2003. 60

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Fig. 5: Reconstruction of the north-western lion after Bunnens 2022: Fig. 149 (drawing by Greg Wightman) with schematic placement of the cuneiform inscription of 24 lines on its body by S. Aro. to in various secondary studies that sometimes omit all reconstructions and square brackets of the original.63 Crucial for any study evaluating Šamšī-ilu’s importance in Ancient Near Eastern history are the titles that he is believed to have given himself in this text. The right half of the line 8, after the breakage of the stone on which the name of Šamšī-ilu is thought to have stood, should contain titles such as nāgiru rabû64 and šatam ekurrāti65, but as we can see already on the schematic copy by Thureau-Dangin, the line is virtually unreadable because of deliberate destruction of the signs (Figs. 3–4). Could Thureau-Dangin actually restore the titles according to the south-eastern lion? Because Grayson duly notes that he made improvements for his own transliteration according to a text authored by another turtānu, Bēlu-lū-balaṭ66, it seems reasonable to believe that ThureauDangin also sought consultation with this short stele inscription discovered by W. Andrae in Aššur and published already in 1913.67 Thus the speculative nature of

63

For example Dalley, 2000: 85–86. Baker, 2017: 71. 65 Baker, 2017: 184–185. 66 Grayson, 1996: 232 n.8. For Bēlu-lū-balaṭ see Mattila, 1999: 335. 67 Andrae, 1913: 52, Nr. 44. See also Thureau-Dangin, 1930: 12 referring to this inscription. 64

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Fig. 6: Detail of the cuneiform inscription running over the shoulder of the north-western lion, photo courtesy of G. Bunnens. Line numbers indicating attempts to identify signs and lines in Thureau-Dangin’s schematic copy.

Fig. 7: Shoulder and forepart of the north-western lion showing the uneven height of the lining of the inscription, photo courtesy of G. Bunnens.

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these titles have been ignored by others.68 At the beginning of the line 8, on the other hand, the usage of the uncommon word šapir69 (= “provincial governor/ prefect” of the land Ḫatti (and) of the land of Guti and all the land Namri)70 is more secure than the titles preceding it (Fig. 4). The end of the text with the description of the names of the two portal lions and their setup in Kar-Shalmaneser on the lines 19–24 has also been used in several interpretations.71 Here the problem is, once again, the trustworthiness of Thureau-Dangin’s decipherment of the much defaced signs of the south-eastern lion and the lack of markings in Grayson’s edition which signs and words derive from this “unreadable” version. The copy by Thureau-Dangin shows significant gaps on lines 20–24, that are totally restored according to the south-eastern lion. The portal bull in Arslantash/Hadattu partly bear the same names72 -- so again it is possible that the restorations were influenced by readings on other inscriptions. The inscriptions on the Til Barsip portal lions: frameworks As pointed out by me elsewhere73, portal stone lions in Hittite, Neo-Hittite and Assyrian cultural spheres are an under-researched topic.74 Problems concerning the origins, relative chronologies, artistic styles, intercultural influences of these sculptures cannot be discussed here, so I mostly concentrate on likenesses and differences of the inscribed pieces, the arrangement of the inscription on them and the text genres. Stone portal lions that formed corner blocks of various gateways are one of the well-known features of the Neo-Hittite monumental culture. The head and the front part of the animal’s body were sculpted in the round whereas the rump together with the hind legs were carved in relief. Only a few of them are inscribed and since there is no Hieroglyphic sign for “portal lion”75 in the referential text + image communication system of the Neo-Hittite stone monuments, they do not 68

Because of this, the chart and analysis of the titles of Šamšī-ilu by Fuchs (2008: 81) should be used with caution. See also Malamat, 1953: 26; Kuan, 2001: 138; Karlsson, 2016: 222. 69 šāpiru, CAD 17 (Š). 70 Siddall, 2013: 102, 120. 71 Watanabe, 2015: 220 and Watanabe, 2016: 283–284, referring surprisingly to the transcription and translation in Engel, 1987: 58. See also Osborne, 2020: 157. See also Bunnens, 2022: 201. 72 Engel, 1987: 75–76; Tadmor / Yamada, 2011: 139–142. Compare also Watanabe, 2016: 284. 73 Aro, 2016: 155. Aro, 2003: 307–310 is partly outdated and doesn’t include, for example, pieces from Zincirli. 74 The studies by Rana Zaher on the Iron Age stone lions seem, up to this point (December 2022), not yet published. For her MA thesis on the freestanding lion of Tell Tayinat see https://scholarworks.aub.edu.lb/handle/10938/21808 (accessed 29.8. 2022). 75 Compare Aro, 2016: 148, n. 25.

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seem to have the importance other sculptural pieces like freestanding statues, stelae or orthostats had.76 The function and symbolic meaning of the Neo-Hittite portal lion have their roots in the Bronze Age Syrian and Anatolian traditions.77 Lions guarded both temple entrances as well as city gates. They had an apotropaic function and there is no textual or other indication that the symbolic meaning shifted with the transition from Bronze to Iron Age.78 Noteworthy for the NeoHittite inscribed portal lions is that only pieces discovered in Karkemish seem to bear a text contemporary to the stone sculpture.79 The stones KARKAMIŠ A14a & A14b80 (second half of 10th c. BC?) with relief signs are very fragmented, but KARKAMIŠ A14a begins beside the upper shoulder of the lion and continues lower down on the lower part of the shoulder whereas J.D. Hawkins has restored KARKAMIŠ A14b as starting on the right hind leg.81 MARAŞ 1 covers practically the whole body of the lion (Fig. 8).82 Texts contemporary with the sculpture seem to contain standard formulations with the opening clause “I (am) NN”.83 Others like the name epigraph on MALATYA 484 and several pieces (but not all) in Karatepe85 have incised inscriptions both in Phoenician and Luwian with diverse content and are more likely to have been applied at a later point.86 In particular ALEPPO 7 by Taita (I) in the Aleppine temple of the Storm-god, set between a new lion protome and an older Hittite sphinx protome87, evidence the re-contextualization of old stones in new monumental structures and carvings of new inscriptions on old stones. This phenomenon is further discussed below.

76 For the communication system using the demonstrative pronoun za/i + an image/stele/ orthostat on which the text was inscribed, for example “this statue …” see Aro, 2013: 234– 244 and Aro, 2022: 571–577 for its origins. 77 A comprehensive treatment does not exist, but see Einwag / Otto, 2012. 78 Contra Osborne, 2020: 157. 79 Additionally to the Karkemish pieces, fragments like MARAŞ 6 and KULULU 7 might belong to this group, see Hawkins, 2000: 278, Pl. 129 (MARAŞ 6); 502, pl. 285 (KULULU 7). 80 Hawkins, 2000: 83–86, pls. 3–5. See also Hawkins, 2000: 83, Pl. 2 for a small incised fragment that might have been part of a lion. 81 See his tentative reconstruction in Hawkins, 2000: 84. He admits that it was not easy to “draw the right hind leg in a manner allowing space for the minimal restoring at the end of l. 3 – beginning of l. 4”. For a speculation if this portal lion could have carried a bilingual inscription see Aro, 2013: 258. 82 Hawkins, 2000: 261–265, pl. 112. The small size might indicate that it served as a statue pedestal. 83 Aro, 2013: 235–237. Compare also Hogue, 2019 for a study of monuments without any visual illustrations. 84 Hawkins, 2000: 320–321, pl. 155. 85 Çambel, 1999; Çambel / Özyar, 2003. 86 Aro, 2014. 87 Hawkins, 2011: 44–51, Figs. 8–9. See also Kohlmeyer, 2020: 33, and figs. 47–48.

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Fig. 8: Neo-Hittite stone lion from Maraş = MARAŞ 1, the Hieroglyphic Luwian inscription covering the body and front part, excluding the head and mane. Line-drawing: S. Aro. In contrast to the Neo-Hittite examples, winged colossi88 and portal lions in the Assyrian capital cities (so far attested only by two pairs of stone lions in Nimrud by Ashurnasirpal II (883–859 BC) belonging to the temple of Šarrat-Nipḫi complex)89 are practically all inscribed both on the obverse and the reverse side of the sculptured stone.90 The obverse-side inscriptions on the winged colossi are placed on the unsculptured spaces behind the back of the animal and between its legs, starting above the tail (Fig. 9). On the famous piece of portal lion discovered already by Layard, standing on the entrance of the Šarrat-Nipḫi -complex and now in the British museum91, the text runs also on the upper part of the body and 88

Russell, 1998. Lion sculptures are, however, mentioned much more frequently in the written evidence, but they mostly refer to pieces made of bronze, see Engel 1987: 55–68. 90 Rare uninscribed exceptions are winged bulls at the Nergal gate of Nineveh (Finch, 1948) and small winged bulls in Assur (Pedde, 2003: 125; Figs. 7–8) and Nimrud (Hussein / Kertai / Altaweel 2013: Pl. 45,b). 91 See the watercolor by Fredrick Charles Cooper https://www.britishmuseum.org/collec tion/object/W_2007-6024-149 (accessed 26.8. 2022). The better preserved lion is in the 89

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Fig. 9: Placement of the inscription on Assyrian winged colossi, line-drawing: S. Aro. between the front legs, but spares the belly hair stylization and the legs sculpted on the side, except of some signs that spill over from the text panels between the side legs (Fig. 10). Also the hind leg and even the paw of the fragmented pair of lions are inscribed.92 The lions don’t have the standard introductory clause for texts found in Assyrian palaces that starts with the signs É.GAL = ekallum

British Museum, inv. nr. 118895. Its counterpair was re-excavated in 1973 and stood in the Mosul Archaeological Museum (Hussein, 2008: 92) until 2015 when ISIS hammered it into fragments. The other pair came into light during Iraqi excavations 1989–2002, but is very poorly preserved, see Hussein / Kertai / Altaweel, 2013: 104; Pl. 45.a–b. See also Reade, 2002: 181–183. 92 Hussein / Kertai / Altaweel, 2013: 104; Pl. 45.b.

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Fig. 10: Placement of the inscription on the portal lion found in the temple of Šarrat- Nipḫi, Nimrud. Line-drawing S. Aro. (= palace) and the king’s name.93 The text is, instead, dedicatory for Šarrat-Nipḫi, but contains otherwise standard passages of king’s titles, war campaigning and a building report.94 As far as observed, both palatial winged colossi and the lions of the Šarrat-Nipḫi temple95 have separate inscriptions on the back side of the stone blocks, thus not visible for viewers when set up in the entrance structures. Portal lions in Assyrian western provinces have a more heterogeneous appearance than in the capital cities. Examples in Tell ‘Aǧāǧa/Šadikanni discovered already by H. Layard in and rediscovered in 198996, as well as the small pair in 93

See for example Grayson, 1991: 223–224 (= RIMA 2, A.0.101.2 by Ashurnasirpal II (883–859 BC)). 94 Grayson, 1991: 283–286 (A.0.101.28). 95 Grayson, 1991: 295–297 (A.0.101.32). 96 For a line-drawing see Layard, 1853: 278, for the rediscovery in 1989 see Kühne, 1993/94: 219 Fig. 27. This portal lion has the exceptional curled-up tail, a feature typical for Urartian style lions. Furthermore, the rich mane stylization might be compared with the only extant Urartian stone sculpture depicting a lion, see Sevin 1993.

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Arslantash/Hadattu97, are uninscribed and there are other odd pieces without proper archaeological context that may belong to this group, like the lion of Qasmiyeh98 or an unfinished piece from Haçgöz99. Four portal lions of Arslantash/Hadattu form a special group. When ThureauDangin conducted the first archaeological excavations on the site in 1927100 he recorded 2 fragments of fairly short cuneiform inscription of portal lions of the West gate and published them along with a fragment of an Aramaic inscription that belonged to another piece.101 New fragments of portal lions were discovered at Arslantash/Hadattu by a Syrian team during 1980’s, and it was only then it was realized that these lions bear texts either in two (Akkadian & Aramaean) or in three (Akkadian, Aramaean & Luwian) languages written in respective scripts (cuneiform, alphabetic, hieroglyphic).102 The texts are fairly short and similar to label-like inscriptions on the reverse side of different stone blocks in Assyrian capitals. The author is Inūrta-bēlu-uṣur, a ša-rēši of Šamšī-ilu and the governor of Til Barsip / Kar Shalmaneser. These are all carved on the reverse sides of the stone blocks and thus were not visible at all to any beholders of the lion sculptures.103 Largely uncommented by the recent research is the notion by Thureau-Dangin, of an “inscription cunéiforme qui commençait au sommet de la pierre, recouvrait tout son corps et finissait à hauteur de l’articulation des pattes…”104 on the sculpted side of the eponymic lion that stood upright for millennia at the eastern gate of site, now in the courtyard of the National Museum of Aleppo.105 H. Galter

97

Thureau-Dangin / Dunand, 1931: 58–59, Pl. 3. Roobaert, 2005. Qasmiyeh is located only a few kilometres to the north from Tell Ahmar. The fragmented piece of a portal lion, lacking now the back of the body, but shows that it had five legs. Roobaert’s study and date of it into the middle of the 8th c. shows the difficulties placing a fragmented and battered sculpture sensibly in a chronological timeline. Since the discovery of the Late Bronze Age Hittite stone lions with five legs from Karakız (Summers / Özen, 2012), one cannot exclude the possibility that the lion from Qasmiyeh might be of Bronze Age too. 99 Kulakoğlu, 2006: 516, Fig. 8. 100 Thureau-Dangin, 1931. 101 Thureau-Dangin, 1931: 85–88, Figs. 28–30. See also Röllig, 2009: 268. 102 Hawkins, 2000: 246–248; pls. 103–105; Galter, 2004a; Galter, 2004b; Galter, 2007; Röllig, 2009; Tadmor / Yamada, 2011: 161–163. Those two pieces of this group that were restored and erected in central part of Raqqa were destroyed by ISIS in 2015. 103 Thus the claim of Bonatz, 2014: 224 that the text would have been inscribed “on the backs of the figures, where they were harder to see” is not correct. Compare also Hulster, 2016: 231 virtually repeating Bonatz’s idea. Compare, however, Röllig, 2009: 267–268 speculating with a reuse of the stone blocks so that the reverse side would have been visible at some point. 104 Thureau-Dangin, 1931: 73. 105 This piece seems to have survived the current Syrian crisis, see Fakhro, 2020: 363, Fig. 5.51. 98

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only refers to other script signs Thureau-Dangin saw and thought to be from the Greek alphabet, but doesn’t address the Cuneiform at all.106 On the photos taken by myself in Aleppo of this piece show traces above the back of the lion, that might be cuneiform signs, but the quality of the shots is not sufficient to claim this be as certain. The portal lions of Til Barsip in comparison Compared with the extant Neo-Hittite and Assyrian repertoires, the portal lions of Til Barsip take an interesting middle position. At the first sight, the layout of the text seems to follow pretty closely that of the Nimrud lion from Šarrat-Nipḫi temple, starting above the body and running also on the body and between the side legs. However, the inscription also covers the lower part of the body, i.e. under the belly what are sculpted with hair stylizations and always free of text on Assyrian colossi as well as on portal lions (Fig. 5). The text also continues towards the breast of the lion, over the shoulder stylization contradicting both Assyrian and Neo-Hittite norms (Fig.7).107 I will turn to the opening clause and the content of the text below, but before that it is necessary to make some observations about the appearance of the inscription. What the schematical copy of the text by Thureau-Dangin fails to illustrate is the bumpy lining that partly seems to be due to the rough surface of the stone and to the contours of the lion’s body. In contrast to the lining on the Nimrud lion with quite balanced height and clear incision, the height varies on the north-western lion and cuneiform signs occasionally don’t seem to follow the incised linings. More importantly, the signs are engraved shallowly, not with the depth and clarity of the signary of the palace colossi that Sigmund Freud praised because they appear “clear as if they had been done yesterday”.108 Another crucial feature is that the surface of the stone on which the stonecutter executed the cuneiform signs was uneven with small holes in it because the spacing of the signs takes these holes into consideration, sometimes incising part of the sign with reduced size (Fig. 11). A third observation concerns the fact already mentioned above, namely that the inscription continues over the belly part of the lion’s body that has an odd-looking loop stylization whereas the Assyrian colossi and portal lions all have carefully executed hair in the form of flames (Figs. 4 and 11). This stands in strange contrast with the head, breast and front legs of the forepart of this lion figure, that reveals skillfully sculpted details like the palmette-like cheek and foreleg muscle stylizations. This contrast between the style and execution of the front and side parts of the lion suggests that the details of the side part were

106

Galter, 2007: 199. Contra Van De Mieroop, 2022: 157 where he claims that “[t]he inscriptions, conspicuously carved on the lions’ chests …”. 108 Freud, 1992: 173. 107

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Fig. 11: Detail of the body part, north-western lion. Photo courtesy of G. Bunnens. The line-numbering after Thureau-Dangin’s copy by S. Aro. The arrow points to an example of the reduced size sign (DINGIR) on line 8. never executed in full, for some reason.109 It is also noteworthy that none of the Assyrian portal lions have the rib stylization that Hogarth perhaps misunderstood to be wings, but they appear on most Assyrian bull colossi and some of “Assyrianizing” Neo-Hittite portal lions.110 All these anomalies suggest that the 109

For the phenomenon of “unfinished” sculpture pieces see Aro, 2022: 521–522. For example Karkemish B.37b (Woolley, 1921: 93) and Sakçagözü (Orthmann, 1971: 530–531 A/3 and A/11, Pl. 49,b). Compare however the lion from Tell ‘Aǧāǧa / Šadikanni, 110

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inscription was a later addition to an older portal lion.111 Turning to the content of the inscription again, it is interesting that the lion of Til Barsip does not have an opening clause of the normal Assyrian palace inscriptions but is a dedicative text used in temple complexes, like the much longer text on the Šarrat-Nipḫi temple.112 In Til Barsip, the text starts with a dedication to all the main Assyrian deities beginning with Assur, naming them with epithets.113 If we emphasize the importance of the opening lines of the text and assume that the scribe/official in Šamšī-ilu’s service, who compiled the text draft that was then engraved on the stone lion, knew what he was doing, then there is a contrast between the content and the position of the portal lion on a profane city gate. Could it be that the north-western lion had originally been standing on a temple entrance and its discovery location was a secondary installment, perhaps even after Šamšīilu’s name was erased from its surface? What is its chronological relationship with the south-eastern lion? Could it be possible that they were not contemporaneous, but the south-eastern lion was sculpted to replace the original pair? The lives of the north-western portal lion and the Neo-Hittite “Connecting with the past”-concept Pulling together this cluster of peculiarities of the north-western portal lion, I tentatively suggest the we can distinguish different phases in its life: 1) The sculpture was executed either during pre-Assyrian period, or the early phase of Assyrian period of the site. The exact dating cannot be determined at this point.114 For reasons unknown to us, the body part with the tail and the hind legs was left “unfinished”, as far as compared with other Assyrian and Assyrian provincial pieces. 2) A cuneiform inscription was applied on the stone, most probably by turtānu Šamšī-ilu. It is also possible that his ša-rēši115 and governor of Kar-Shalmaneser, Inūrta-bēlu-uṣur, ordered it for him.116 Because of the dedicative opening clause of the text, the portal lion may have been installed in a temple entrance at the first place, or it already stood there when the commission was above n. 95. 111 Compare Roobaert, 1990: 133 who argues that “… a few details clearly indicate that the inscription was intended from the start”. 112 Compare Howard, 2021: 107. 113 Compare Green / Hausleiter, 2001: 150; Galter, 2004b: 183. 114 There is, to my mind, a compelling likeness between the heads of the north-western lion and those in Hama (Riis / Buhl, 1990: 50–54, Nr. 40–41), as far as the nozzle and the eye-sockets for inlaids of different materials are concerned. 115 Commonly translated as “eunuch”, compare Baker, 2017: 177. 116 Compare Tadmor / Yamada, 2011: 139 supposing that Tiglath-Pileser III (745–727 BC) entrusted building activities mentioned on the portal bull in Arslantash/Hadattu to his governor Inūrta-ilā’ī (Baker, 2017: 152).

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made. This hypothesis depends, however, on how much we can trust ThureauDangin’s restoration on the breakage of the two fragments & what he was able to read on south-eastern portal lion (see above p. 38). 3) The name and titles of Šamšī-ilu are erased from the text, the perpetrator and point of time are unknow to us. 4) The portal lion with the damaged inscription is rehabilitated, but it is removed to a new physical context and possibly provided with a new counterpart on which the text is copied so that Šamšī-ilu’s name and titles are restored in a new duplicate inscription. At first sight, it seems irrational for a powerful Assyrian turtānu to inscribe and recycle an old portal lion for his monumental purposes. He should have had plenty of material resources at his disposal, as well as craftsmen to execute any commission he wished to make. Certainly this kind of behavior does not fit the image of Šamšī-ilu as the “true king of the West” given to him by many scholars.117 Šamšīilu’s intentions become more understandable if we view them through the lens of local North Syrian concepts of monument making, power legitimation and memory strategies. Already in 1990’s A. Özyar demonstrated that at such NeoHittite sites as Karkemish, Malatya and Tell Halaf, some gate structures and walllines contained stone blocks of different chronological periods.118 The discovery of relief sculpture and portal animal protomes, mostly in situ in the temple of the Aleppine Storm God119, and recent contributions on Karatepe120, Zincirli/Sam’al121 and Arslantepe/Malatya122 indicate that the re-use of old stones and relief blocks in new constructions, sometimes also left “unfinished”, was a deliberate and rather common practice. This phenomenon has been termed by me the “Connecting with the past –concept” in which old material is consciously mixed up with new in wall-lines or gate structures.123 In case of two inscriptions of Taita (I) in Aleppo (ALEPPO 6 and ALEPPO 7), his text runs boustrophedon from new stones to others that belong to temple’s Hittite era, thus uniting his own physical presence at the site with the preceding imperial power.124 Whereas this practice has to be studied more closely in the future – above all because of its inevitable 117

See for example Grayson, 1991: 200 “with extraordinary powers”; Grayson 1993: 27 “He had control over an extensive territory.” 118 Özyar, 1991; Özyar, 1998; Özyar, 2008 (Tell Halaf). For Karkemish see now also Marchetti, 2016. 119 Kohlmeyer, 2020 with further bibliography. 120 Aro, 2014: 27 and n. 100–101. 121 Herrmann, 2019. 122 Manuelli, 2019. 123 Possibly practiced already in Late Bronze Age Hittite monuments, see Aro, 2022: 521– 522. 124 For the inscriptions ALEPPO 6 and ALEPPO 7 see Hawkins, 2011 and Aro, forthcoming.

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chronological ramifications for the whole Neo-Hittite sculptural repertoire, but also for all possibilities to make stylistic and ideological sense to the Neo-Hittite display practices – Šamšī-ilu’s inscription on the north-western portal lion seems to belong to this kind of monuments. Discussion In light of these new observations and hypotheses, what can we deduce from Šamšī-ilu and his career as a turtānu? Why should a high official of the Assyrian Empire, ranked next to the king, use spoliated stones and not commission a new and shiny pair of portal sculptures?125 Is his display of power so “royal” after all? Leaving the Assyrian king unmentioned in the inscription undoubtedly indicates a special boldness and self-sufficiency, but more relevant for Šamšī-ilu’s monument is the desire to connect with the past of the city, and the awareness of the local customs. We can speculate about his motivations and his target audience. A random passer-by on a gateway was not necessarily capable of distinguishing between sculpture styles still less reading any text or script written on them.126 So, this practice attested at many Neo-Hittite sites makes sense only if the commissioners thought it meaningful for their power legitimation. There are several different notions about the style of the forepart of the north-western portal lion identifying it either as Neo-Hittite or Assyrian127 and a detailed re-valuation cannot be given here. If we see any relevance in the fact that the forepart of the north-western lion looks “archaic” and may be dated to the pre-Assyrian period of Til Barsip, it is the local North Syrian hegemony, perhaps still active in the administration, that Šamšī-ilu wishes to be linked with. He seems to have had, contrary to the claim of M. Van De Mieroop128, a clear need to appeal to city’s nobility groups, who knew the portal lion’s history and what it meant to manipulate it with a new inscription. We have no way to look into Šamšī-ilu’s heart about his power strategies, and in case his governor carried out the inscribing plan, whether he himself had any detailed knowledge about the text’s content. Despite that, surely this kind 125

I personally don’t see the lions to be that “caractère majestueux” as described by Lemaire and Durand, 1984: 110. 126 See Neumann, 2018 with interesting insights on sensory affordance of the Assyrian temples of Nabu and their materiality. The inscriptions on monuments were without doubt part of the multisensory system and experience of the built complexes and we can assume that the stone lions created an allure to touch them in order to achieve a tactile experience, and they may have also “reached out to feel the wedge-shaped impressions in the stone” like Neumann suggests (2018: 198). 127 Compare Albenda, 1988: 12, n. 3: “are stylistically archaic and non-Assyrian”; Galter, 2004b: 182–182: “… viel stärker der syrischen Tradition verhaftet …”; Bonatz, 2014: 222: “… the Syro-Hittite or Neo-Hittite style of the sculptures must surely be interpreted as expressing a consensus with the still viable Aramaean élite, who had adapted this style over generation.” 128 Van de Mieroop, 2022: 157.

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of monument, that uses a code understandable and meaningful to the local elite groups, differs from the “real” Assyrian one applied by the kings in form of stelae, like those by Esarhaddon.129 As far as the usage of Akkadian language and cuneiform script is concerned, it is not necessarily as ostentatious as it is sometimes thought to be, even if the text is inscribed on the obverse side of the lion sculpture.130 First of all, we have to keep in mind that all inscriptions of the ruler Kapara in Tell Halaf are written with Cuneiform131 and the statue of Adad-it’i/Hadd-yith’i, discovered in Tell Fekheriye is an Akkadian-Aramaic bilingual.132 Furthermore, there is the slight possibility, in analogy to the bilingual/trilingual texts by Inūrta-bēlu-uṣur, that the north-western lion had originally another counterpart besides the south-eastern piece and that this original counterpart being perhaps provided with Aramaean and/or Hieroglyphic Luwian versions of the text. The Karatepe portal lions serve as an excellent parallel for bilingual inscriptions arranged on different script carriers.133 On the other hand, the language choice brings us also to the often discussed issue of Šamšī-ilu’s ancestry that has some importance also for his meteoric rise to turtānu at an obviously young age.134 W. von Soden thinks that he was a son of Adad-nirari III (811–783 BC), but there does not exist any unambiguous evidence to support this suggestion.135 Von Soden quite rightly states that Šamšī-ilu stayed in the office for at least 30 years, thus Adad-nirari III would have appointed a youngish man to the office without much previous experience. This indeed implies that Šamšī-ilu had close connections to the Assyrian royal family. However, an alternative explanation is possible, namely Šamšī-ilu was a member of a ruler family of a defeated territory, in this case North Syria. Ambaris, a Tabalian prince who was deported to Assyria when his father Ḫullî was dethroned, serves here as a comparison.136 A daughter of Sargon II. was given in 711 to Ambaris as wife

129

Nevling Porter, 2000. See for example Galter, 2004b: 183: “… ist die Inschrift Šamšī-ilu’s rein assyrisch und ohne aramäischen oder luwischen Parallelen demonstrativ an der Schauseite der Löwen angebracht” and Galter, 2022: 23 (same formulation). 131 Meissner, 1933. 132 Abou-Assaf / Bordreuil / Millard, 1982. 133 See above p. 43 and n. 86. 134 Compare also Malamat, 1953: 25: “Shamshi-ilu was not an ordinary Assyrian governor, but rather an aggressive ruler, who concentrated the highest offices of the Assyrian Empire in his own hands.” 135 Von Soden, 1985: 137. See also Dalley, 2000: 85; Galter, 2004a: 452; Siddall, 2013: 123. 136 For Ambaris see Aro(-Valjus) 1998b. For the text passage concerning the deportation of Ḫullî and his family to Assyria and the marriage between Ambaris and a daughter of Sargon II, see for example Frame, 2021: 69; 141 (RINAP 2, 1: 194–198; 7: 29–32). 130

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making him king of Bīt-Purutaš137 and Ḫilakku138 to rule.139 A deportation to Assyria in such cases probably meant that sons of defeated rulers enjoyed similar education as sons and other biological relatives of the king did. They were thoroughly assyrianized with the prospects to be used as loyal provincial rulers.140 Šamšī-ilu, who is suggested by other scholars to stem from Bit-Adini or belong to some other local ruling dynasty141, could have had this kind of descent and “assyrianizing” curriculum too. In this case Adad-nirari III would have had a strategic eye to install him to serve as a “king of Hanigalbat”, as S. Dalley suggests142, perhaps because the young Šamšī-ilu was exceptionally talented and devoted to him. So, contrary to J. Kuan’s argument that there is no evidence for Šamšī-ilu being descendant of a Syrian ruling family and that it would be unlikely for a nonAssyrian to be appointed to a powerful office143, we have strong indications for Assyrians applying this kind of governmental strategies. Taking into account Inūrta-bēlu-uṣur possibly referring to his local background and his multilingual inscriptions144, it is feasible to reckon with either Šamšī-ilu or his eunuch governor, or both, being Syrians. Tell Ahmar’s stratigraphy shows, according to G. Bunnens, no rupture in socalled stratum 5 that precedes the strong Assyrian presence of the site during the second half of the eighth century.145 This might suggest that when Shalmaneser III arranged the local governance, he let at least some of Til Barsip’s ruling families stay under Assyrian control. Bunnens also proposes that it was the local governor and not turtānu Šamšī-ilu who resided in Til Barsip.146 Regardless of where

137

For the toponym see Bagg, 2007: 52–53. For the toponym see Bagg, 2007: 105–107. 139 This daughter of Sargon II may or may not be identified with Aḫāt-abīša mentioned in SAA 1, 31 r. 27 (see Aro-Valjus, 1998a and Frame, 2021: 23). 140 In case of Ambaris it is possible that because of an Assyrian court education, he was not motivated to follow Neo-Hittite monumental traditions, and that is why we don’t know of any Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions by him, see Aro, in print. 141 See for example Millard, 1983: 106. For the hypothesis identifying Šamšī-ilu with the Bar-Gayah of KTK on the Aramaic Sefire inscriptions see Lemaire / Durand, 1984. See also the discussion for example in Garelli, 1991: 48; Fales, 2001: 338; Fuchs, 2008: 93; Crouch, 2014: 101–102: Spurrier, 2017: 167; Sader, 2019: 515–516. 142 Dalley, 2000: 83. See also Galter, 2004a: 452; Bunnens, 2022: 198, but also the critical comment by Faist, 2010: 19 with n. 19 of the usage of the term “king of Hanigalbat”. 143 Kuan, 2001: 140, n. 19. 144 For the Aramaean text passage see Röllig, 2009: 272–276. See also Galter, 2004a: 455; Bunnens, 2013: 184; Younger, 2016: 365. 145 The text by Shalmanassar III in which he claims to have burned Til Barsip during the siege of the city in 856 (Grayson, 1996: 84–87 = RIMA 3 A.0.102.17) is thought to be of epic character not reflecting real circumstances (Livingstone, 1989 = SAA 3, 17), see for example Bunnens, 2022: 197. 146 Bunnens, 2013: 184; Bunnens, 2022: 198. Contra Bunnens: Hawkins, 1983: 131; Haw138

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Šamšī-ilu had his official residence – an inscription fragment found in Aššur has been thought to indicate that he built an entire city for himself at some point147, his inscription on old portal lion(s) is the sole testimony of his presence at the site so far. A very plausible suggestion of Bunnens is that he might have had several “lordly cities”148 and since Inūrta-bēlu-uṣur calls himself the governor of Til Barsip / Kar Shalmaneser, he could have been alone in charge of the inscriptions’ execution on the portal lions. Damnatio memoriae, but who was the perpetrator? As touched upon above, the author’s name and titles were obliterated from the inscription at some point of time. At the two places where Šamšī-ilu’s name is thought to appear according to Thureau-Dangin’s copy, the photos available to me show clear signs of deliberate erasure (Fig. 4).149 So, who tried to wipe Šamšīilu out of Til Barsip’s collective memory? Šamšī-ilu’s era has been thought by some to have ended up with a rebellion, but exact chronological settings or his role in the events are unclear. A revolt took place in Kalhu in 746150, suppressed by Tiglath-pileser III. If Šamšī-ilu was still living151 and acting against Tiglathpileser III, the new king may have had a good reason to order the turtānu’s name to be removed.152 However, if this indeed happened, it is contradictory to the suggestion that Šamšī-ilu was buried in the so-called Royal Tomb III in Nimrud.153 Surely Tiglath-pileser III would not have allowed a revolting officer to be buried among royal women? Kuan suggests that it was a local anti-Assyrian rebellion in Til Barsip, seizing temporarily the power after Šamšī-ilu’s death, who was responsible for the erasure.154 The erasure of Šamšī-ilu’s name and titles of the inscription could, nevertheless, be the reason why the lion was removed from its original installation (on a temple entrance?) and reset on the city gate.

kins, 2000: 224; Younger, 2016: 365. 147 Grayson, 1996: 235 (A.0.104.2012). NB that Šamšī-ilu’s name is not attested on this text and Grayson attributed it to him only because of the title “chief of the extensive army”. 148 Bunnens, 2022: 198. 149 For the erasure see Thureau-Dangin, 1930: 11; Thureau-Dangin / Dunand, 1936: 142; Garelli, 1991: 47–48. Contra Siddall, 2013: 111–112. For a unsubstantiated notion that Šamšī-ilu erased the name of Shalmanassar IV and let his own name inscribed on it see Ikeda, 1999: 285; Crouch, 2014: 102. 150 Millard, 1994: 43, 59. 151 For discussion of the length of Šamšī-ilu’s years in office see Younger 2016: 356. 152 See for example Garelli, 1991: 48; Fuchs, 2008: 94. 153 Oates / Oates, 2001: 86–87; Müller-Karpe / Kunter / Schultz, 2008: Reade, 2009: 253– 254. See also Pinnock, 2007–2008: 313; Siddall, 2013: 123; Spurrier, 2017: 168. This notion is made according to a gold bowl inscribed with Šamšī-ilu’s name and a skeleton (III3B) that has been identified to be of an elderly male individual in good physical shape. 154 Kuan, 2001: 148, n. 40. See also Younger, 2016: 368.

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Concluding remarks The portal lions of Til Barsip epitomize our current difficulties in uniting avenues of research that have too long gone separate ways. Fuzzy photographs obscuring details affect our mental perception and scholarship of the materials and text sources. The script carriers do matter and we can profit much more from an inscription if we also study its physical context. New technological advances such as 3D-modellings would probably give new information at least to some of the open questions addressed above, when applied on the stone lion fragments that hopefully have survived the tumults of the present and ongoing crisis in Syria. The presently available image of Šamšī-ilu is, despite of the text on the northwestern lion, still quite hazy and will remain hazy unless more evidence is not discovered in the future. Generally, the amount of monuments by Šamšī-ilu that has been discovered so far is meagre.155 Should we expect more by this kind of great personality and powerful figure? Due to the problems discussed here, the inscription itself should be re-examined, if possible. As far as Šamšī-ilu’s anthropomorphic image is concerned, he remains even more obscure. Relief figures on the orthostats in the gate structure in Arslantash/Hadattu156 have sometimes been thought to represent him.157 These reliefs are left uninscribed, corresponding the Neo-Assyrian practice that differs from the Neo-Hittite tradition, but their exact dating is insecure too. The ideal, of course, would of be a freestanding statue of him, covered with his own inscription.158

155

Holloway, 2002: 202–203 n. 123 suggests that Šamšī-ilu constructed a “chapel” at Tell Tayinat, but this is improbable and based on no evidence. 156 Albenda, 1988. 157 Reade, 1972: 89. See also Fales, 2001: 301. Furthermore, Lemaire / Durand, 1984: 107; Fuchs, 2008: 98 and Karlsson, 2016: 54 think that the beardless figure on Karabur rock relief also represents Šamšī-ilu. No text captions are visible on this rock relief, so this too is very hypothetical. Compare also Dalley (2000: 86) suggesting that Šamšī-ilu is depicted as “king-in-the-West” on the wall paintings of Til Barsip. Generally scholars have designed both bearded and beardless figures to represent Šamšī-ilu. It is not certain if he was an eunuch, even if supposed so by for example Oates / Oates, 2001: 87; Pinnock, 2007– 2008: 313. 158 No secure figural representation of Šamšī-ilu exists. Incomprehensible is the statement by Lawrence (1986: 128) that “The Antakya and Pazarcık stelae depict Shamsi-ilu without a beard”. For a freestanding statue of an Assyrian high official found in Til Barsip see Roobaert, 1996. She thinks that it should be dated later than Šamšī-ilu’s reign and thus it cannot represent him. Compare Fuchs, 2008: 96–97 suggesting, without any cogent arguments, that the statue represents Šamšī-ilu. For a freestanding and inscribed statue found in Tell ‘Aǧāǧa and probably authored by a Assyrian high official see Frahm, 2015.

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Fakhro, M., 2020: Strategies for Reconstructing and Restructuring of Museums in Post-War Places (National Museum of Aleppo as a Model), PhD Dissertation University of Bern, online publication https://boristheses.unibe.ch/1947/ (retrieved 20.8. 2022). Faist, B., 2010: “Kingship and Institutional Development in the Middle Assyrian Period”. In G.B. Lanfranchi / R. Rollinger (eds.): Concepts of Kingship in Antiquity. Proceeding of the European Science Foundation Exploratory Workshop, Padova. Padova: SARGON editore. Pp. 15–24. Fales, F.M., 2001: L’Impero assiro. Storia e amministrazione (IX–VII secolo a.C.). Roma-Bari: Laterza. — 2019: “The Composition and Structure of the Neo-Assyrian Empire: Ethnicity, Language and Identities”. In G.B. Lanfranchi / R. Mattila / R. Rollinger (eds.): Writing Neo-Assyrian History. Sources, Problems, and Approaches. State Archives of Assyria Studies 19. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Pp. 45–89. Finch, J.P.G., 1948: “The Winged Bulls at the Nergal Gate of Nineveh”. Iraq 10, 9–18. Frahm, E., 2015: “‘Whoever Destroys this Image’: A Neo-Assyrian Statue from Tell ‘Aǧāǧa (Šadikanni)”. NABU 2015/2 (juin), 77–82. Frame, G., 2021: The Royal Inscriptions of Sargon II, King of Assyria (721–705 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 2. Pennsylvania: Eisenbrauns. Fuchs, A., 2008: “Der Turtān Šamšī-ilu und die große Zeit der assyrischen Großen (830–746)”. Die Welt des Orients 38, 61–145. Freud, E.L. (ed.), 1992: Letters of Sigmund Freud, Second edition. New York: Dover Publications. Galter, H., 2004a: “Militärgrenze und Euphrathandel. Der sozio-ökonomische Hintergrund der Trilinguen von Arslan Tash”. In R. Rollinger / Chr. Ulf (eds.): Commerce and Monetary Systems in the Ancient World. Means of Transmission and Cultural Interaction. Proceedings of the Fifth Annual Symposium of the Assyrian and Babylonian Intellectual Heritage Project, Innsbruck. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Pp. 444–460. — 2004b: “Der Himmel über Hadattu. Das religiöse Umfeld der Inschriften von Arslan Tash”. In M. Hutter / S. Hutter-Braunsar (eds.): Offizielle Religion, lokale Kulte und individuelle Religiösität. Akten des religionsgeschichtlichen Symposiums “Kleinasien und angrenzende Gebiete vom Beginn des 2. bis zur Mitte des 1. Jahrtausends v. Chr.” (Bonn, 20–22. Februar 2003). Alter Orient und Altes Testament 318. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Pp. 173–188. — 2007: “Die Torlöwen von Arslan Tash”. Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 97, 193–211. — 2022: “Til Barsip am Euphrat. Politik und Kulturaustausch an der assyrischen Militärgrenze”. In S.A. Haring / W. Spickermann (eds.): Leben mit und an der

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Grenze. Graz: Unipress Verlag. Pp. 11–30. Galter, H. / Levine, L.D. / Reade, J., 1986: “The Colossi of Sennacherib’s Palace and their Inscriptions”. Annual Review of the Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia 4, 27–32. Garelli, P. / Nikiprowetzky, V., 1974: Le Proche-Orient asiatique. Les empires mésoptamiens. Israël. Presses universitaires de France, Paris. Garelli, P., 1991: “The Achievement of Tiglath-Pileser III: Novelty or Continuity?” In M. Cogan / I. Eph‛al (eds.): Ah, Assyria … Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor. Jerusalem: The Magnes Press.Pp. 46–51. Grayson, A.K., 1991: Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC 1 (1114– 859 BC). RIMA 2. Toronto: University of Toronto Pres. — 1993: “Assyrian Officials and Power in the Ninth and Eighth Centuries”. State Archives of Assyria Bulletin 7, 19–52. — 1996: Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC II (858–745 BC). RIMA 3. University of Toronto Press, Toronto. Green, A. / Hausleiter, A., 2001: “Gottheiten in Til Barsib”. In Th. Richter / D. Prechel / J. Klinger (eds.): Kulturgeschichten. Altorientalische Studien für Volkert Haas zum 65. Geburtstag. Saarbrücken: Saarbrücker Druckerei und Verlag. Pp. 145–170. Hawkins, J.D., 1982: “The Neo-Hittite States in Syria and Anatolia“. In J. Boardman / I.E.S. Edwards / N.G.L. Hammond / E. Sollberger (eds.): The Cambridge Ancient History, Part II, The Middle East. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pp. 372–441. — 1983: “The Hittite Name of Til Barsip: Evidence from a New Hieroglyphic Fragment from Tell Ahmar”. Anatolian Studies 33, 131–136. — 2000: Corpus of Hieroglyphic Luwian Inscriptions, Volume I. Inscriptions of the Iron Age. Berlin: de Gruyter. — 2011: “The inscriptions of the Aleppo temple”. Anatolian Studies 61, 35–54. Herrmann, V., 2019: “The reuse of Orthostats and Manipulation of Memory in the Iron Age Syro-Hittite Kingdoms”. Semitica 61, 399–439. Hogarth, D., 1909: “Carchemish and its Neighbourhood”. Liverpool Annals of Archaeology and Anthropology 2, 165–184. — 1911–1912: “Hittite Problems and the Excavation of Carchemish”. Proceedings of the British Academy 1911–1912, 361–375. — 1910: Accidents of an Antiquary’s Life. London: Macmillan and Co. — 1925: The Wondering Scholar. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hogue, T., 2019: “‘I Am’: The Function, History, and Diffusion of the Fronted First-Person Pronoun in Syro-Anatolian Monumental Discourse”. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 78, 323–339. Holloway, S.W., 2002: Aššur is King! Aššur is King! Religion in the Exercise of Power in the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Leiden / Boston / Köln: Brill.

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Aššur-da’’in-aplu, the Older and the Younger Johannes Bach ana Simo tārî ummânī It is safe to say that without the contributions of Simo, the field of Assyriology would not be as advanced as it is today. One major project of his that has changed Assyriological research entirely was to launch the State Archives of Assyria series, which offers editions of all available Neo-Assyrian royal texts, that is, letters, administrative documents, treaties, literary texts, oracle queries, astrological reports, prophecies, and rituals – today in over 20 volumes of superb philological quality. The letter correspondence of the Sargonid kings (SAA 1, 5, 10, 13, 15– 19, and 21) is particularly full of interesting cases of domestic affairs. Amongst them one can find a slightly unclear episode about some disturbance and reestablishment of further unspecified royal directives (“palace ordinances” riksāni / riksāti ša ekalli), which is reported on in two letters sent by two different scribes (SAA 16 98–99). In SAA 16 98, a scribe named Kabtî introduces himself as having been installed “in the house(hold) of the ša-pān-ekalli official” by the king (obv. 2–4). After the usual well–wishes, he signals his desperation about his incapability of fixing the matter of dissolved palace ordinances (rev. 4ʹ–5ʹ: riksāni ša ekalli paṭṭurū rammû), since no one seems to respect his authority (rev. 6ʹ: memmēni lā išammânni). The letter closes with an affirmation of Kabtî’s diligence in keeping the king’s watch, and blessings for the monarch. The same matter of the dissolved palace ordinances is also addressed in letter SAA 16 99, sent by an unknown person. This document informs us that, according to the letter writer, the affair of the ordinances had been positively resolved (obv. 2ʹ–4ʹ: assēme rikšāti ammar ša paṭrūni isaḫḫurū ikûnū). Adjacently, the letter writer has met Kabtî, “a servant of Aššur-da’’in-aplu, son of Shalmaneser” (obv. 9ʹ: ARAD ša I aš-šur-da-in-DUMU.UŠ DUMU IDI-ma-nu-MAŠ). As we learn from the text, earlier Kabtî had given an Aramaic letter to the letter writer, which the latter had then delivered to the king (obv. 8ʹ–12ʹ). Now, Kabtî is informing the letter writer about the son of an “offender” (bēl ḫīṭi), who is entering and leaving the palace, seemingly unchecked. Kabtî had already spoken to the letter writer about this person at an earlier occasion (obv. 13ʹ – rev. 5). Kabtî assures the letter writer that he will inform him about harmful speeches of the offender, respectively, the offender’s son (rev. 5–7). There is general agreement that both SAA 16 98 and 99 relate to a single person, Kabtî. The (presumably) same Kabtî appears a number of times in other documents from the reign of Esarhaddon: in a record of a court decision, as witness for Sangû-Issar (SAA 6 265; dated 679 BCE); in a fragmentary context in letter

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SAA 10 328, written by the physician Ikkaru to Esarhaddon; and perhaps in the very damaged letter SAA 16 228.1 Moreover, the institution of the ša-pān-ekalli is attested only since the reign of Adad-nārārī III.2 Subsequently, the items mentioned in the documents above, SAA 16 98–99, must all date to the reign of Esarhaddon, and Kabtî’s master, the person named “Aššur-da’’in-aplu, son of Shalmaneser” in SAA 16 99:9ʹ, should be viewed as a son of Shalmaneser V,3 (deposed?) brother of the later king Sargon II and ruler of Assyria between 727–722 BCE.4 It appears as if this son of Shalmaneser V weathered the turmoil of Sargon II’s ascension to the throne well, and apparently could embark on a political career as ša-pān-ekalli-official, as can be inferred from SAA 19 99.5 Since the ša-pānekalli official was very close to the king and endowed with considerable powers and trust,6 one needs to acknowledge that both Kabtî and Aššur-da’’in-aplu must have been loyal servants to Esarhaddon. Nothing indicates that the “offender” mentioned in SAA 16 99 is Aššur-da’’in-aplu.7 Furthermore, in the same letter, a loyal attitude is also reflected in Kabtî’s willingness to report potential misdeeds of the “offender” or his son to another royal official, respectively. This certainly pertains to Aššur-da’’in-aplu as well, for we would not assume a scribe to be at such odds with his master.8 Leaving aside the uncertainties of the relationship between Sargon II and his predecessor and brother Shalmaneser V, one cannot help but wonder about the most prominent curiosity in the matters paraphrased above: the name of Kabtî’s master, “Aššur-da’’in-aplu, son of Shalmaneser”. Whatever the circumstances of Shalmaneser V’s demise, he was born as Ulūlāiu, and assumed his throne–name presumably when he was nominated crown prince by his father Tiglath-pileser

1

Cf. Luukko / van Buylaere, 2002: xlv and 92–93 fn. 99; Baker, 2000: 593–594 and passim on other individuals with that name; Groß, 2020: 88–89; Siddall, 2013: 105 fn. 97; on the dating of letter SAA 10 328 mentioning (the same) Kabtî see Parpola, 1993: 266; cf. Parpola, 1983b: 256 fn. 19. 2 Groß, 2020: 98. 3 Yamada / Yamada, 2017: 425–426; Baker, 2000: 593. 4 Radner, 2002: 1077–1078; Elayi, 2017: 25–32; Frahm, 2017a: 180; Frame, 2021: 21–23. 5 Yamada / Yamada, 2017: 426; more hesitantly Groß, 2020: 89 who suggests that Kabtî might have changed offices, i.e., from being assigned to the household of the unnamed šapān-ekalli official in SAA 16 98 to being a servant of Aššur-da’’in-aplu in SAA 16 99. Given the (short) timeframe implied by the cited letters, this seems less likely, though not impossible, than identifying Aššur-da’’in-aplu with the ša-pān-ekalli-official. 6 On the ša-pān-ekalli official see Groß / Kertai, 2019: 15–20, 22–24, 26; Groß, 2020: 73– 98; Portuese, 2020: 70, 82, 105–109, 124, 253. 7 However, the letter still might imply some different inability on his part, as he might have neglected his duties of regulating access to the palace; cf. on this duty Groß, 2020: 81–82; on further officials regulating access to the king/palace also cf. Radner, 2010. 8 Yamada / Yamada, 2017: 426.

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III.9 Operating under the assumption that the Shalmaneser mentioned in SAA 16 99 is indeed Ulūlāiu/Shalmaneser V, and that Shalmaneser V’s throne–name was picked in reference to Shalmaneser III, rather than the politically hampered Shalmaneser IV (783–773 BCE), one cannot forego asking why he would then name his son Aššur-da’’in-aplu. The royal name Aššur-da’’in-aplu is attested only once more, to wit as that of an infamous son of Shalmaneser III, who allegedly caused a 7-year-long internal war in Assyria towards the end of the reign of his father. To explore possible reasons for such an unusual naming, at odds with the “official” historiographic record that portrays Aššur-da’’in-aplu in a negative light, one needs to re-examine the data available for Assyria’s first recorded war of brothers. The historical outline of Assyria’s war of succession towards the end of the 9th century BCE is poorly documented. Only the eponym chronicle and a stele inscription of Šamšī-Adad V (823–811 BCE), Shalmaneser III’s successor, provide information on the event. The eponym chronicle notes a seven–year long period of sīḫu “revolt” from 826–820 BCE.10 Further details of this period of unrest are relayed to us only via the accession narrative of Šamšī-Adad V (A.0.103.1).11 The 9

Cf. Yamada / Yamada, 2017: 423–424; Baker, 2002: 1077–1078; Elayi, 2017: 25–32; Frahm, 2017a: 180; Frame, 2021: 21–23. Some evidence suggests that (regular?) usage of his birthname had continued even after his accession to the Assyrian throne; see Radner, 2011: 1375; cf. Radner, 2003/2004: 96–97; Radner, 2005: 34–35; Baker, 2006–2008. 10 Millard, 1994: 30–31 (text score), 57 (translation) and pls. 1 (ms A1 ii and iii), 8 (ms A8 i and ii), 15 (ms B4 obv.), 18 (ms B8) and 19 (ms B10 obv.). An additional manuscript (B12) is provided by Finkel / Reade, 1998: 254–255. For comments on Millard’s edition and the reading of B4 l. 22ʹ as [si-ḫu-um d]a-ri-is “revolt suppressed”, see Finkel / Reade, 1998: 250. Another edition can be found in Glassner, 2004: 166–167. On the turtānuoffice of Aia-ḫālu, see Finkel / Reade, 1995: 168–169. On the eponymy lot/cube of Aiaḫālu see most recently Milano, 2020; cf. Yamada, 2018: 84 and Yamada, 2003: 322–325. 827 826 825 824 823

Shalmaneser (III), king of Assyria, to Mannea. Daiān-Aššur, [turtā]nu, revolt. Aššur-būnāya-uṣur, [rab šāqê], revolt. Aia-ḫālu, [turtānu], revolt. Bēl-būnāya, [nāgir ekalli], revolt. […] years of Shalmaneser, king of Assyria. ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 822 Šamšī-Adad (V), king of Assyria, revolt. 821 Aia-ḫālu, [turtānu], revolt. 820 Bēl-dān, [nāgir ekalli], revolt (ms B10 l. 23) / [revolt su]ppressed (ms B4 l. 22ʹ) 11

Tadmor, 1983: 53–54 suggests that the creation of the legitimation passage was caused by the upcoming appointment of Šamšī-Adad V’s successor Adad-nīrārī III, and underlines that a distinct lack of other historiographic sources obscures the events narrated in ŠamšīAdad V's account. He also remarks that it would be an oversimplification to accept the text

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main source for Šamšī-Adad V’s accession narrative is a near-to-completely preserved stele found in the Nabû temple of Calah from the tenth year of Šamšī-Adad V’s reign (A.0.103.1 ms. 1 = BM 118892). A stone fragment from Nineveh (A.0. 103.1 ms. 2 = BM 115020) reduplicates in its preserved parts the Calah Stele’s text.12 Notably, both manuscripts 1 and 2 of A.0.103.1 are written in an archaizing script imitating sign forms from the times of Šamšī-Adad I.13 A slightly younger stele found in the Anu-Adad temple in Assur (A.0.103.2 = VA Ass 4511, Ass 6569, Ass ph 784–76, 3394) is worse preserved, but can be considered as a duplicate of the main monument.14 However, its sign forms are contemporary early Neo-Assyrian.15 Another duplicate is A.0.103.3 (= Ass 17137a), a barely legible stone fragment from Assur. Only some lines from col. iii written in a non– archaizing script are preserved.16 Besides the unusual form and style of the accession story as well as the deliberate use of a clearly archaizing script, the text’s main carrier monument itself, the Calah Stele, exhibits some further noteworthy and uncommon features. Its depiction of Šamšī-Adad V appears “on the whole” as typically Assyrian, but simultaneously shows the king in a Babylonian-style garment and with a bifurcated, yet contemporarily stylized beard.17 The bifurcated shape of the beard is another archaizing feature, since such beard-forms are otherwise attested only for some royal statues from the late 3rd and early 2nd millennium BCE. Unprovable, but conceivable, is a proposed, desired connection to Šamšī-Adad I, an entertainable suggestion, especially when seen in the context of the archaizing script used in both the Calah Stele and its fragmentary duplicate from Nineveh.18 Another curious item pertains to the jewellery of the king as depicted in the main monument A.0.102.1. The predecessors of Šamšī-Adad V, Aššurnaṣirpal II and Shalmaneser III, sport necklaces with numerous pendants in the form of divine symas “objective history” and emphasizes its “apologetic tone”. His assessment is accepted without modifications by Knapp, 2015: 61. 12 Grayson, 1996: 181. This monument might have been dedicated to Ištar. 13 The suggestion by Schramm, 1973: 106 to interpret the usage of an archaizing script as a sign of Babylonian cultural influence is not shared by Grayson, 1996: 180–181 and Reade / Walker, 1981–1982: 115–116; cf. Frahm, 2019, 146. 14 Grayson, 1996: 189. The remains of the (unfinished) inscription reduplicate the account on the 4th campaign as given in A.0.103.1 and offer descriptions of two further campaigns. 15 Cf. Weidner, 1933–34: 90, 93, 95. 16 Haller / Andrae, 1955: 66; Grayson, 1996: 191–192. A further stone fragment (Ass 17137) with an illegible inscription might belong to the same monument; however, this text carrier remains inaccessible for now. 17 Eppihimer, 2019: 27–29 with fn. 103. 18 Eppihimer, 2019: l.c.; Karlsson, 2016: 218; Reade, 1979: 341. Note that no statues or relief depictions of Šamšī-Adad I are preserved; the Mardin Stele misses the head of Šamšī-Adad (cf. Charpin, 2004: 162–163), and the depiction of his on his seal does not yield any clues about his beard style (cf. Patrier, 2015).

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bols on their reliefs and statues. These pendants include the ispillurtu, the Maltese-Cross-like symbol of Nabû and of the Assyrian crown prince. On the Calah Stele, Šamsī-Adad’s necklace shows only a single pendant, namely the ispillurtu. This display of a single pendant symbol intimately connected to the office of the crown prince makes one wonder why this symbol alone was chosen.19 It gives the impression of one emphasising said office, as if Šamšī-Adad needed to demonstrate his regal validity and former status as true crown prince, even after having been king of Assyria for several years.20 Although older accession narratives are known from the 2nd millennium, with the most prominent exponents being those of Iarīm-Lîm of Alalaḫ (1781–1765 BCE)21 and Idrimi of Alalaḫ (1475–1450? BCE),22 nothing comparable is attested for earlier Assyrian contexts. Šamšī-Adad’s accession story, taken on its own, raises suspicion. In the Calah Stele, he recounts the beginning and end of the war for the throne of Assyria from 826–820 BCE as follows: A.0.103.1 i 39–44 e-nu-ma I.daš-šur-KAL-in-A ina tar-ṣi I.dsál-ma-nu-MAŠ 40AD-šu e-pušá lim-né-e-ti si-ḫu bar-tu a-mat ḪUL-ti 41ú-šab-ši-ma KUR uš-bal-kit-ma ik-ṣu-ra 42ta-ḫa-zu UNmeš KUR daš-šur e-liš ù šap-liš it-ti-šu 43ú-šes-ḫírma ú-dan-ni-na ta-mì-tu URU.URU ú-šam-kir6-ma 44a-na e-peš MURUB4 39

19 Magen, 1986: 54–55 identifies the Maltese Cross primarily as divine symbol, but already Parpola, 1970: 330–331 had pointed out the connection of this symbol to the office of the crown prince, as illustrated by the letters SAA 10 30 (obv. 3–4: “A cross is the emblem of the god Nabû. The king, my lord, knows (that) because of this (association) the cross is the badge of the crown prince.”) and SAA 16 148 (passim). Radner, 2008: 503–505 is sceptical if ispillurtu, besides the Y-shaped cross on the seal of the crown prince, indeed also denotes equilateral crosses. Independently of the terminological debate, in a recent teaching video available on the learning platform Coursera (2018, see bibliography for URL) Radner is convinced of Šamšī-Adad V’s cross-pendant on the Calah Stele being connected to the office of the crown prince: “So these are pretty standard, but this necklace stands out. That’s something that is really unique to this representation. And the shape that is hanging down from the necklace, we’d probably call it a Maltese Cross, because the Maltese Order uses this as its symbol. But in Assyrian times, this is very much the symbol of the crown prince. And it’s interesting to see that Shamshi-Adad, who is here of course the king, wears a necklace that is associated with being the crowned prince. And it’s surely linked to the account concerning the rebellion of Ashur-da’in-apla. So, in a sense, he's claiming, very much, that he, and only he, was ever meant to be the legitimate successor of his father Shalmaneser. It may mean that in the very last days of Shalmaneser, he was then appointed crown prince when Ashur-da’in-apla had revealed himself to be a rebel against the crown. So every detail here is meaningful” (quoted from transcript). 20 Note that Adad-nārārī III is depicted on the Tell al-Rimaḫ Stele (IM 705433) in the same manner, i.e., likewise only with the ispillurtu as single pendant of his royal necklace. 21 RIME 4 no. E4.34.1.1. 22 ORACC-edition by Lauinger, 2020 (see bibliography for URL).

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ù ta-ḫa-zi iš-ku-na pa-ni-šu When Aššur-da’’in-aplu, at the time of Shalmaneser (III), his father, acted treacherously by inciting insurrection, uprising, and criminal acts, caused the land to rebel and prepared for battle; (at that time) the people of Assyria, above and below, he won over to his side, and made them take binding oaths. He caused the cities to revolt and made ready to wage battle and war. The account of Aššur-da’’in-aplu23 and his doings follows traditional patterns of enemy descriptions.24 Notably, the (alleged) instigation of the revolt by Aššurda’’in-aplu is perhaps mentioned in the Tell ‘Aǧāǧa inscription, which is tentatively attributed by its editor, Eckart Frahm, to Daiān-Aššur: kuraš-šur a-na? gi?mir??-[ti-šú ušbalkit] “He (caused) the enti(re) land of Aššur (to rebel …)” (col ii 2ʹ).25 If Frahm’s reconstruction of the text is apt, it would imply that the narrative of Aššur-da’’in-aplu as instigator of the revolt might go back to Daiān-Aššur. One also should note that the Tell ‘Aǧāǧa inscription highlights Daiān-Aššur’s loyalty to Shalmaneser III (ii 2ʹ)26 – pretentiously, one may assume, since such a statement would accord with accusing Aššur-da’’in-aplu for the outbreak of the revolt. A.0.103.1 continues with a long list of cities and provinces in support of Aššurda’’in-aplu. After that, forgoing any details of the military events during the war, we are informed in summary fashion that Šamšī-Adad had prevailed over his brother. A.0.103.1 i 45–53 ni-na-a urua-di-a uruši-ba-ni-ba uruim-gur-dBAD uruiš-šab-ri 46 uruÉDUNGU-a uruši-mu? uruši-ib-ḫi-niš urutam-nu-na urukip-šu-na 47 urukur-ba-ìl uru ti-du uruna-bu-lu uruka-ḫat uruaš-šur uruú-rak-ka 48ururaq-mat uruḫu-zi-ri-na uru BÀD-TI.LA uruda-ri-ga uruza-ban 49 urulu-ub-du uruarrap-ḫa uruLÍMMUDINGIR a-di urua-me-di uruDU6-NA4MEŠ 50 uruḫi-in-da-nu PAP 27 ma-ḫa-zi a-di ḫal-ṣa-ni-šu-nu ša TA 51 I.dsál-ma-nu-SAG LUGAL kib-rat LÍMMUti AD-ia ik-ki-ru-ú-ni 52TA maš-šur-KAL-A iš-šak-nu-ni ina qí-bit DINGIRmeš GALmeš ENmeš-ia 53a-na GÌRIImeš-ia ú-šak-niš 45 uru

23

The name of Aššur-da’’in-aplu, not otherwise attested in the inscriptional corpus, occurs twice in A.0.103.1, but in two different spellings: Iaš-šur-KAL-in-A in i 39, but Iaš-šurKAL-A in i 52. The latter likely is a simple lipographic error; on this error–type see Worthington, 2012: 104–105. 24 Cf. the register in Bach, 2020: 359–366. The reference to a loyalty oath (tamītu) imposed by Aššur-da’’in-aplu (cf. i 43) is interesting since loyalty as instruments for safeguarding dynastic succession possibly were established already during the reign of Aššurnaṣirpal II, cf. KAL 3, no. 66, although no Akkadian designation for “oath” (or similar) is preserved there. On loyalty procedures and documents labelled adû and māmītu from the Sargonid period cf. Lauinger, 2012; Lauinger, 2013; Fales, 2012; Radner, 2019b. 25 Quoted after Frahm, 2015: 81; note that ibid.: 79 Frahm is only doubtful about the sign MIR. 26 Frahm, 2015: 81.

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The cities Nineveh, Adia, Šibaniba, Imgur-Enlil, Iššabri, Bīt-Šaširia, Šimu, Šibḫiniš, Tamnuna, Kipšuna, Kurbail, Tīdu, Nabulu, Kaḫat, Aššur, Urakka, Raqmat, Ḫuzirina, Dūr-balāṭi, Dariga, Zaban, Lubdu, Arrapḫa, (and) Arbela, together with the cities Amedu, Tīl-abnī, (and) Ḫindānu – altogether twenty-seven towns with their fortresses which had rebelled against Shalmaneser (III), king of the four quarters, my father, sided with Aššur-da”inapla. On command of the great gods, my lords, I subdued (them). The accession story ends anticlimactically with a short note of a mere seven words that tells of Šamšī-Adad’s complete victory. This anticlimactic ending can be interpreted as a literary device, underlining the protagonist’s valour by making the feat appear effortlessly-achieved. Yet, in comparison with the aforementioned earlier accession stories of Iarīm-Lîm and Idrimi, as well as the later one of Esarhaddon (RINAP 1 no. 1), such brevity still strikes one as odd. For none, save our text in question, use a comparable rhetorical strategy. Rather, by giving extended and lively descriptions, these other accession stories markedly put narrative weight on the corresponding event’s unfolding and solution. A way to look at the accession story of Šamšī-Adad V is to consider it with functionalist perspective, according to which the text’s form follows its (supposed) function. The lack of detail, rather documentary character of the enumeration of hostile cities, and general brevity of Šamšī-Adad’s narrative would correspond with such a perspective: rather than recounting events in depth or relaying a potentially thrilling story, it is more concerned with signifying positives and negatives, that is, with ascribing literary identities in a dichotomic good-and-bad manner. This fits with the accession story’s textual positioning, as it follows a lengthy introductory section with an extended dedication of the text to the god Ninurta (i 1–25), and an introduction of the inscription’s protagonist, ripe in epithets of validation and domination (i 26–38). After the accession story (i 39–53), Šamsī-Adad V’s inscription continues asyndetically with a short account of the first campaign (girru maḫru; cf. i 53 – ii 4). This, in turn, is followed by a summary geographical overview of the territory over which Šamšī-Adad V claims to hold power, all together signified as being the “Land of Aššur” (ii 5–16).27 The accounts on the second to fifth campaign 27

i 53 – ii 4: 1st girru – i 53 (…) ina ger-ri-ia maḫ-re-e šá ana KURna-’i-ri ii 1 e-lu-ú ma-datú 2ANŠE.KUR.RAMEŠ ⸢LAL⸣-at ni-ri 3ša LUGALMEŠ-ni DÙ-šú-nu šá 4na-’i-ri am-ḫur ina u4-mi šú-ma 5 KURna-’i-ri a-na paṭ gim-ri-šá 6 GIM sa-pa-ri as-ḫu-up 7mi-ṣir KUR aššurKI šá TA URUpad-di-ra 8ša KURna-’i-ri a-di 9 URUkar-dsál-ma-nu-MAŠ šá pu-ut 10 URUgarga-⸢miš⸣ TA URUza-ad-di 11mi-ṣir KURak-ka-di-i a-di 12 KURen-zi TA URUa-ri-di a-di 13 KURsuḫi ina qí-bit aš-šur dUTU 14 dIŠKUR dINANNA DINGIRMEŠ tik-le-a 15GIM kil-zap-pi a-na GÌRIIMEŠ-a 16ik-nu-šu (…) “On my first campaign, upon which I went up to the land Nairi, I received booty of teams of horses from all the kings of Nairi. At that time, I overwhelmed the entire land Nairi like / as if (wielding) a sapāru-net. The territory of the land of Assyria, which (stretches) from the city Paddira of the land Nairi to the city Kār-Shalmaneser, which is opposite Carchem-

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follow afterwards. Just as the remainder of the text, they follow well-established poetics of Assyrian royal inscriptions. In the wake of older studies,28 Andreas Fuchs has presented a concise, explanative scenario for the event under discussion.29 Fuchs’ reconstruction is generally accepted, and regularly reiterated in more recent overviews of Neo-Assyrian history, sometimes with minor variations.30 Fuchs developed a scenario as follows: by about 831 BCE, king Shalmaneser III withdrew from active military leadership in the field and had his turtānu, Daiān-Aššur, conduct campaigns in his stead. Daiān-Aššur belonged to (and possibly led) a federation of high-level officials that had steadily developed their influence and political-military power since roughly the mid-ninth century BCE. Daiān-Aššur apparently went on campaign every year from 831 BCE until (and including) 826 BCE, when the civil war began. The growth of his influence is illustrated by the Black Obelisk, a monument on which the narrative sections pertaining to the latest campaigns are now interpreted as commemorating the deeds of Daiān-Aššur, rather than Shalmaneser III.31 Recently, Frahm has published a text written on a statue from Tell ‘Aǧāǧa / Šadikanni, which seems to be a private inscription of Daiān-Aššur. This unusual text, possibly the first private inscription of an Assyrian magnate, chronicles Daiān-Aššur’s military campaigns of the years 831–826 BCE. The inscriptional style shows affinities to the latter episodes recorded on the Black Obelisk, as it

ish, from the city Zaddi on the border of the land Akkad to the land Enzi, from the city Aridu to the land Sūḫu, – by the command of the deities Aššur, Šamaš, Adad, (and) Ištar, the gods who support me, they (= the circumscribed lands) bowed down at my feet as though they were footstools” (Translation follows Grayson, 1996 = RIMA 3 A.0.104.1, with minor modifications). Although this passage would very well suit as the end of the accession story, the mention of the just conquered land Na’iri would void such a proposal – unless this first campaign was somehow connected to the war for the throne, but evidence for that is lacking. 28 E.g., Olmstead, 1923: 152–157; Grayson, 1993: 26–27; Grayson, 1999: 267. 29 Fuchs, 2008: 68–70 and 130–129. 30 E.g., Frahm, 2016: 82; Frahm, 2017a: 172–173; Siddall, 2013: 84–86; Tsakhanyan, 2020. Elayi, 2022: 15 contrarily suggests that Daiān-Aššur colluded with Aššur-da’’inaplu against Šamšī-Adad, whom she assumes as the original crown prince. Suffice it to say that this scenario does not appear to be fully plausible, not the least because of the continued strong presence of powerful magnates like Aia-ḫālu. As Daiān-Aššur is eponym in 826 BCE, the same year for which the Eponym Chronicle records the beginnings of the revolt, one would not assume that he sided with the rebels – unless his eponymy was previously determined and then not cancelled despite his conspiring actions, a rather unlikely scenario. As Šamšī-Adad’s accession story does not spare Aššur-da’’in-aplu of any blame, why would it do so with a disloyal turtānu Daiān-Aššur? Finally, the Tell ʻAǧāǧa Statue, likely of Daiān-Aššur, might illustrate his fortification efforts in Šadikanni after the civil war had broken out. 31 Yamada, 2000: 321–334; Kertai, 2017: 115–116.

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attributes agency not only to king Shalmaneser III, but also explicitly to DaiānAššur.32 Fuchs interpreted the eponym chronicle’s entry for 826 BCE, šīhu, “revolt”, as the explosive result of a struggle for political power that had ignited when Daiān-Aššur and his companions tried to oust the original crown prince, Aššurda’’in-aplu,33 in order to install their own pretender to the throne, Šamšī-Adad, either in 826 BCE or the year before. Although Fuchs only spoke of an “attempt” to oust Aššur-da’’in-aplu, he implicitly assumed it to have been successful. Fuchs operated on the assumption that Šamšī-Adad’s accession story adequately highlights Aššur-da’’in-aplu’s strong and resolute character, since the latter was able to gather so many followers behind him. According to Fuchs, this inferred decisive character of the original crown prince was perceived as dangerous by DaiānAššur, as he had accrued, by that time, considerable political and military power that he would not have surrendered again. Thus, needing to remove Aššur-da’’inaplu, Daiān-Aššur installed (or: tried to install) Šamšī-Adad as successor.34 Fuchs suggested that the proper outbreak of the revolt was then Aššur-da’’in-aplu’s reaction to his demotion, who moved to secure his right of succession by military force. Fuchs proposed that the death of Daiān-Aššur occurred at the very beginning of the ensuing war, implicitly hinting at the possibility that Daiān-Aššur could even have been murdered by Aššur-da’’in-aplu. Finally, the victory of the magnates and Šamšī-Adad was brought about with military help from Babylon.

32 Frahm, 2015; cf. Mattila, 2018: 2. A particular interesting item is the Tell ʻAǧāǧa inscription’s counting of the military enterprises of Daiān-Aššur in girrus “campaigns”. This was hitherto only known from the inscriptions of Šamšī-Adad v, who seemingly took inspiration from Daiān-Aššur’s account, cf. Frahm, 2015: 80. Following that observation, and granted that due to the civil war proper campaigning could not take place during the first three regnal years of Šamšī-Adad V, one could speculate if this break with inscriptional traditions was not only necessitated by the historical circumstances, but also deliberately sought for. Admittedly, the new counting system could have simply evolved out of said historic necessity and continued to be used for pragmatic reasons. One should note that already Tukultī-Ninurta II once uses the expression ina gerri šanê “in a second / another campaign [to GN (?) …]” in A.0.100.5, 127. Similarly, Shalmaneser III uses the expression ina gerrīya šanê “in (this) my second campaign” in combination with a palû– dating in A.0.102.6 i 52–54 to generally denote his second military expedition. In the same inscription, the expression is employed once more, but now to designate the second campaign against Babylon during the 9th palû (ii 45; parallels are A.0.102.8:25ʹ and A.0.102.10 ii 35). However, only in the Tell ʻAǧāǧa inscription and in the inscriptions of Šamšī-Adad V is the concept of girru decoupled from that of palû for the first time. 33 By 826 BCE, at the beginning of the revolt, Aššur-da’’in-aplu was likely at least 45 years old if he indeed is the crown prince depicted next to the king in the first registers of the Black Obelisk, the topics of which predate the ascent of Daiān-Aššur as turtānu in 854/853 BCE; cf. Kertai, 2017: 116; Olmstead, 1923: 153; Tsakanyan, 2020: 115 fn. 16. 34 Cf. Frahm, 2015: 78.

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In a certain way, Fuchs’s scenario is attractive because it presents a (more or less) clear narrative that is coherent with the very limited sources at our disposal today. Its storyline suits our general experience with and expectations about tales of historic succession wars, with the narrator (Fuchs) adding exciting twists that would explain almost everything. But it is exactly this feeling of familiarity that might be most problematic in Fuchs’s reconstruction. As an explanation constructed so craftily around such a limited number of sources, it certainly is open to modifications and alternatives. Fuchs lent high, perhaps too high credibility to Šamšī-Adad V’s report, especially when inferring Aššur-da’’in-aplu’s personal character traits. While those remain unverifiable, Fuchs’s narrative hinges on his inference of them, since he, at the same time, lets Šamšī-Adad appear as a mere malleable pawn in the power game between magnates and king.35 In this context, one needs to note that Fuchs’ narrative reminds one of the age-old tropes of the “evil advisor” and, to a lesser degree, of the “evil prince”. It also underlines the problems of a mainly text-based approach to the matter: while the accession narrative spares us many details, it neither thematizes the crown prince status of either brother, nor does it overstress the validity of Šamšī-Adad’s supremacy.36 Validation is, rather, expressed and stressed by paratextual and iconographical features of the monuments, namely the archaizing script and beard style, as well as the prominent display of the crown prince’s symbol of the ispillurtu. If one were rightfully sure about one’s own status, such a stressing of validity is hardly necessary. But if one were not, the need for such a staging could have been pressingly felt. In light of these circumstances, the accession narrative must be re-evaluated as a purposefully tight-lipped account of a major event that presumably had different causes than the ones given, and often did not unfold as expected. A number of narratives can be constructed based on the available, yet meagre evidence. In the following, I want to flesh out one specific alternative scenario regarding Šamšī-Adad’s accession to the throne. The ideas presented below might not be as fitting as Fuchs’s account for modern narrative expectations, but, taken together, they enable a scenario at least as likely – a scenario where Šamšī-Adad himself takes the lead. Although such an approach might immediately remind one once more of the “evil prince” trope, a scenario with Šamšī-Adad as its (or: one of the) main agent(s) is still worth exploring. We do not, and cannot, know if Daiān-Aššur indeed had such sinister plans as Fuchs pondered, nor if he initiated the conflict by installing the weak and controlled Šamšī-Adad V as a puppet crown prince. With the evidence currently at hand, it can neither be proven nor disproven that Aššur-da’’in-aplu was the regular heir to the throne, nor that Šamšī35

Fuchs, 2008: 67–68. ibid.: 128 assumes Šamšī-Adad to have been a minor in 826 BCE, making him very suitable for the sinister plans of Daiān-Aššur. While this possibility cannot be denied, it cannot be proven either. Whatever the case, this study assumes ŠamšīAdad of being capable of executing agency on his own behalf. 36 For a discussion of the terms “validity” and “legitimacy” see Richardson, 2020.

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Adad was an usurper.37 Nonetheless, we can revisit it to establish likelihoods. It is entirely possible that Šamšī-Adad took much more agency in the entire matter than commonly assumed, and Daiān-Aššur accordingly less (though not entirely nothing). Fuchs pointed out that the group of powerful magnates around Shalmaneser III and Šamšī-Adad V consisted of a senior and a junior segment.38 He also noted that core cities governed by members of this group seemingly did not join the “rebellious” Assyrian cities, and that only senior members of the magnate’s club took up the limmu-office during the period of war.39 According to Fuchs, some of those senior members assumed considerable powers, so much so that, as in the case of Daiān-Aššur, they could practically produce their own military reports, albeit still narratively framed under the supremacy of the then reigning king Shalmaneser III.40 It is often contended that those powerful magnates pursued egotistical political goals, assuming that their increased power would lead to obstinacy and regio-fugalism. Contrarily, other voices have stressed that even throughout the so-called “Age of the Magnates” (ca. 810–745 BCE), these non-royal carriers of political power maintained rather than squandered Assyria’s territorial and political-cultural coherence and integrity.41 But for the years since the start of the civil war in 826 BCE, we have only very patchy information on these matters. It could very well be that the magnates recognized their increased power already from the 830s BCE or earlier, but nothing forces us to conclude that they abused said power for their own personal gain alone. While it is an old adage that all power is evil and unambiguously corruptive due to its nature as a desire,42 it is still entirely possible that the magnates acted not solely as power-hungry egocentrics, but rather, just as in later times under Adad-nārārī III and his successors, as faithful maintainers of royal power at a time when the king was no longer able to provide the necessary oversight himself.43 Regarding the beginning of the civil war in 826 BCE, two scenarios alternative to the established ones are imaginable: the conspiracy against Shalmaneser III and his established crown prince Aššur-da’’in-aplu was initially concocted either by Šamšī-Adad alone, or, alternatively, by the former in conspiracy with Daiān-

37

Siddall, 2013: 105. Fuchs, 2008: 68–70. 39 Fuchs, 2008: 69; cf. Reade, 1981: 157–158. 40 Yamada, 2000: 321–334. Tsakanyan, 2020: 116–117 contents that starting in 830 BCE *Daiān-Aššur (name mistakenly given as Aššur-da’’in-aplu) became the “de facto ruler” of Assyria but offers no evidence supporting this claim. Tsakanyan also assumes that this was to the discontent of the “heir to the throne of Aššur-da’’in-aplu” (sic). 41 Blocher, 2001; Siddall, 2013; Zaia, 2018. 42 Burckhardt, 1943: 86. 43 Follows Siddall, 2013: 106. On the maintenance hypothesis in regard to the reign of Adad-nārārī III and after, see ibid.: 128–132. 38

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Aššur. In the first scenario Šamšī-Adad could have come up with a possibly from the outset violent plan to pro-actively oust his own brother all by himself. His motives naturally elude us, but one could imagine disagreements with the weakened old king Shalmaneser III and his crown prince Aššur-da’’in-aplu. Other factors could have played a role as well, from envy and lust for power to sincere concerns about Assyria’s future. In this scenario the magnates, including DaiānAššur, remained loyal to the old king and the established order of succession, despite their recognition of their increased own power. Perhaps they viewed a violent change of the succession arrangements as more threatening than a prospective king in Aššur-da’’in-aplu. However, they still might have been wary of him. Next, Šamšī-Adad would have approached the magnates, still then loyal, to seek their support in overturning the order of succession, and somehow managed to sway them to his cause.44 Daiān-Aššur, presumably one of the weightiest voices in the club of powerful officials, could have shifted allegiances only at that point – but if so, then quite resolutely.45 In the second scenario, an initial, equal agency would be roughly distributed between Šamšī-Adad and Daiān-Aššur, who plotted their coup together. Nothing stops us from assuming that they had been cordially familiar with each other for a considerable time already. Yet, who approached whom initially remains indeterminable – one of them must have identified a potential within the other that corresponded to their own plans and made the first step. Of course, plans for a coup could have evolved over a longer period, perhaps even years, and other magnates could have joined the conspiracy gradually. Whatever the magnates envisioned to gain from such a pact eludes us. Besides the Eponym Chronicle, no economic or administrative documents elucidating the status of the magnates in the late 9th century BCE are known, with the single exception of KAV 75, which documents a substantial purchase of land (2 hectares and 8 decares, i.e., 28.000 m² or roughly four football fields) in the central Assyrian city of Pahḫārānu by Nabû-bēlu-ušallim, the rab ša-rēsi of the by-then turtānu Aiaḫālu (dated to the eponymy of Bēl-dān, i.e., 820 BCE).46 Whether that is enough to illustrate a shift of economic power to the advantage of the elites and the disadvantage of the king remains uncertain. It is noteworthy that Shalmaneser III makes no appearance in the entire matter, although he died only in the third or fourth year of the civil war.47 None of his royal inscriptions relay any information about the events of 826 BCE until his

44

Following the table provided by Fuchs, 2008: 69 these swayed magnates must have included Daiān-Aššur, Bēl-būnāya, Šarru-ḫattu-ipella, Aia-ḫālu, and Nergal-ilāya. 45 Cf. Frahm, 2015: 81. 46 Cf. Finkel / Reade, 1995: 168; Mattila, 2000: 30, 108–109, 118, 154. On Paḫḫārānu see Bagg, 2017: 23. 47 824 or 823 BCE, the number of his regnal years is damaged in the eponym chronicle’s entry for 823 BCE.

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death.48 Although not provable, it is not implausible that Shalmaneser was detained by the conspirators right at the beginning of the coup, and thus was incapable of any interference.49 What also remains indeterminable for now is if a peaceful ousting of Aššur-da’’in-aplu was attempted before the war broke out or not. One should note that according to the inscription on the Tell ‘Aǧāǧa Statue, Daiān-Aššur went on campaign against Aridu in 826 BCE (6th girru, cf. i 20ʹ– 22ʹ),50 which implies that any action against Aššur-da’’in-aplu took place only after Daiān-Aššur had returned.51 We also may assume that the initial attempt to remove Aššūr-da’’in-aplu was already violent in nature. The very fact that, according to Šamšī-Adad’s accession story, so many cities sided with Aššur-da’’inaplu speaks to this – the events set in motion by the conspirators must have unfolded rapidly, and probably shockingly. As can be inferred from the enumeration of rebellious cities in the accession story, only a few followed Šamšī-Adad. The concurrent capital Calah, probably the old-age residence of Shalmaneser III and somehow associated with Šamšī-Adad, took no part in the rebellion.52 One may also assume that Calah was also the seat of power for Daiān-Aššur and the other magnates, likely because regular campaigning was already not being undertaken by the king. It would make sense for them to cluster around the king in order to execute their influence as efficiently as possible. Assuming that military contingents under their command were also present in the city, it is unsurprising that no revolt took place in Calah. Besides being connected to the royalty, the actual power exerted over Calah (and the cities along the royal roads) by the magnates and their military contingents seems as likely to have the potential to suppress the outbreak of a revolt there.53 Cities on royal roads oft frequented by the military, 48

Frahm, 2015: 81. There is historical precedence for this in the case of the end of Tukultī-Ninurta I, who was detained and then probably killed by his son Aššur-nadin/naṣir-aplī and and his ally Ilī-pādâ, cf. Jakob, 2017: 132. 50 One might also consider a scenario in which Šamšī-Adad and Daiān-Aššur indeed had managed to peacefully oust Aššur-da’’in-aplu already after the campaign season of 827 but before that of 826 BCE. As Daiān-Aššur campaigns again in 826 BCE, Šamšī-Adad and Daiān-Aššur must have been convinced that after the removal of Aššur-da’’in-aplu as crown prince in 827 BCE the situation was stable enough in the next year for Daiān-Aššur to leave Calah and take a sizeable body of troops with him. Aššur-da’’in-aplu could have played along until Daiān-Aššur was far away on campaign, which enabled the former to reclaim his right of succession by force. But such a scenario seems unlikely. 51 This might be implied by the Tell ʻAǧāǧa Statue – because if it indeed does mention the start of the civil war in col. ii 2ʹ as proposed by Frahm, 2015: 81, it notably does so only after the campaign narratives located in col. i. 52 Cf. Siddal, 2017: 84. 53 Radner, 2016: 48 suggests that the lack of support from the imperial center contributed to Aššur-da’’in-aplu’s failure. However, in a scenario where the rebellious cities are loyal to their original oaths the ideological significance of the treacherous capital city would not 49

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such as Kilizu, did not rise up, and likewise the cities governed by Inurta-ilā’ī (Aḫizuḫina/Arzuḫina), Šarru-ḫattu-ipēl (Naṣibina), and Nergal-ilā’ī (Isana).54 Another city that played no part in the insurrection was Šadikanni. Based on his edition of a statue inscription of Daiān-Ašsur from Tell ‘Aǧāǧa / Šadikanni, Eckart Frahm considers a hypothetical scenario in which Daiān-Aššur went to Šadikanni at the beginning of the civil war, fortified the city and then sent support to ŠamšīAdad from his new Western stronghold.55 Notably, the city of Kipšūna, which according to the eponymy cube of Aia-ḫālu (A.0.103.2003) was a domain of the by-then masennu Aia-ḫālu, joined the uprising.56 The city of Tillê is not mentioned among the “rebellious” ones by Šamšī-Adad, but according to the eponym chronicle a minor uprising took place there in 817–816 BCE. This might indicate that Tillê either also belonged to the anti-Šamšī-Adad faction during the civil war, or that after its end in 820 BCE the city became a harbour for elements of resistance.57 If it were Aššur-da’’in-aplu who instigated the rebellion illegitimately, what could he have offered that would lead the cities to ignore their current loyalty oaths and take new ones on his behalf? He hardly could have made realistic promises, for supposing that he was indeed ousted as crown prince, should we not also assume that he was stripped of his powers to prevent exactly such a scenario? And if he were not rebelling for valid reasons, how could he have secured the support of so many cities for a rebellious cause? A scenario that could explain this situation would be to assume that the original succession arrangement always had remained in place, and that a non-violent ousting of Aššur-da’’in-aplu, the original crown prince, had never been undertaken. It seems possible, even likely, that large parts of the empire, rather, held on to their original loyalty oaths to the crown prince Aššur-da’’in-aplu, and thus chose to take his side – presumably against an aspiring usurper Šamšī-Adad and his allies, rather than against their king Shalhave been the same. Similarly, the ancient city of Aššur, the very heart of Assyria, did join the rebellion – which one could consider ideologically significant as well. Unfortunately, there is no data that could help highlight changes in the economic relations between the warring cities of Assyria. 54 Reade, 1981: 157–158. Cf. Fuchs, 2008: 69; Siddall, 2013: 84. 55 Frahm, 2015: 81. 56 KAL 3 no. 48, an inscription tentatively assigned by Eckart Frahm to Adad-nārārī II, with Aššurnaṣirpal II or another king of the 10th or 9th century BCE also as possible candidates, mentions the conquest of the city of Kipšūna, just after the conquest of Ušḫu and Atkun, two cities in the Nipur (Ğudi Dağ) mountain range. While this inscription does not show any stylistic peculiarities that would allow connecting it to Šamšī-Adad V, it does mention at least one place name that is said to be opposing the latter. Yet, the faint possibility that it actually does address concrete objectives of Šamšī-Adad V’s first campaign (directed against Na’iri) is undermined by the fact that KAL 3 no. 48 counts in palû (regnal years), and not as Šamšī-Adad V, in gerru (campaigns). 57 Follows the deliberations of Fuchs, 2008: 71.

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maneser, of whom it might have been known that he was controlled by the putschists. The fact alone that these cities all willingly entered into a binding oath with Aššur-da’’in-aplu hints at him being widely preferred over the alternative in Šamšī-Adad.58 Although our evidence for loyalty oaths only reaches back to Ashurnaṣirpal II,59 one cannot underestimate the power of these divinely sanctioned legal bindings. As pointed out by Siddall the expression used to denote the swearing-in of the rebellious cities by Aššur-da’’in-aplu in A.0.103.1 i 43 is tamītu dunnunu, literally “to strengthen/reinforce an oath(-obligation)”.60 This implies that a binding obligation was already in place, and Aššur-da’’in-aplu simply called upon upholding these obligations. The civil war could have started suddenly and violently when Šamšī-Adad and the co-conspiring magnates unsuccessfully tried to remove Aššur-da’’in-aplu from his position by military force. It appears, then, as if the conspirators did not correctly assess the political reverberations of such an attempt, and suddenly had to face an uprising of authentically loyal places who decisively rejected this development. Soon it became clear that the military potential of the conspirators was met with fierce resistance. The fighting power they could muster was apparently limited, since the war was not quickly won but dragged on for years.61 The disappearance of Daiān-Aššur is intriguing. Fuchs suggested that he died at the onset of the war already in 826 BCE,62 but the Tell ‘Aǧāǧa Statue might indicate fortification efforts of his in Šadikanni after the war had broken out, which would mean that he died only in 825 BCE.63 At some point likely before 823 BCE, that is, before Šamšī-Adad’s ascension to the throne, the conspirators must have felt an encroaching defeat. It might have been that their forces suffered a heavy defeat and that a substantial part of the conspirators’ host was decimated so utterly, perhaps even alongside capable commanders like Daiān-Aššur, that a victory based 58

Cf. Fuchs, 2008: 102 KAL 3 no. 66. 60 Siddall, 2013, 90–91; CAD D, 83–86 s.v. danānu 2.e translates as “to give assurance”. The only other instances listed in CAD that couple danānu D with legal terms are Old Assyrian, but all suggest a meaning “to make valid, binding” in legal contexts. According to CAD T, 122–123 s.v. tamītu, danānu D is never used to express the initial deliverance of a tamītu-oath. AHw II, 159 sv. danānu D lists two Sargonid instances in which the verb signifies a strengthening or reinforcement of existing legal obligations (Asb. 11 i 22: riksāte dunnunu “to strengthen the agreements”; Succession treaties of Esarhaddon = SAA 2 6:64–65: adê … dunnunu “to confirm the treaty”). However, we would not expect such an admission of pre–existing legal bindings to Aššur-da’’in-aplu in a text that vilifies the latter as rabble-rouser, and thus may not discard the possibility, although contrary to the lexical evidence, that in A.0.103.1 tamītu dunnunu carried a meaning along the lines of “to impose an oath (for the first time)”. 61 Fuchs, 2008: 68. 62 On the death of Daiān-Aššur see Finkel / Reade, 1995: 168–169; Fuchs, 2008: 136–138. 63 Cf. Frahm, 2015: 81. 59

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solely on the own remaining military power was considered unachievable. Then, in a presumably and somewhat desperate attempt, the conspirators reached out to Babylon for support. The Babylonian king, Marduk-zākir-šumi, although historically obliged to Shalmaneser III, must have recognised the opportunity to gain influence over Assyria, as he was probably aware of the military troubles of the conspirators.64 Granted, the dexiosis between Marduk-zākir-šumi and Shalmaneser III, as depicted on the latter’s throne-base from Fort Shalmaneser,65 illustrates an ongoing cordial relationship in 846 BCE,66 but there are still two more decades until Shalmaneser’s death, in which a change of attitude could have taken place. The conspirators perhaps even managed to feed misinformation about an alleged demise of Shalmaneser to Marduk-zākir-šumi, thus aiming to relieve him of any outstanding obligations from an earlier treaty.67 Neo-Assyrian treaties were valid for the named parties, and in the case of the death of one, had to be concluded anew.68 In the fragmentarily preserved treaty text (SAA 2 1),69 Šamšī-Adad is not designated as king of Assyria. This is usually understood as an indicator that Šamšī-Adad was not yet king at the time the treaty was concluded70 – which could suggest that either Šamšī-Adad was a birth-name, or, considerably more likely as royal names were not used as birth names,71 that it was taken up when ŠamšīAdad claimed the rank of crown prince. But in the treaty text Šamšī-Adad is not designated as crown prince (mār šarri) either, something one would expect if a corresponding, regular succession arrangement was in place, and subsequently recognized by Assyria’s southern neighbour. A scenario that could explain such a situation would be to assume that Šamšī-Adad presented himself under his picked throne name to Marduk-zākir-šumi not as crown prince, but indeed openly as mere contender to the throne, asking for support for his ongoing coup-d’etat while being willing to accept non-reciprocal stipulations to ensure an alliance. It stands to reason that Mardu-zākir-šumi recognized this as a welcomed oppor-

64

Frahm, 2017a: 171; Frahm, 2017b: 291–292; cf. A.0.104.05, iv 1 – vi 4. On the legal act of handshaking see Rollinger / Niedermayr, 2007; on the throne–base inscription, see most recently Radner, 2019a. 66 The assumed date of production of the throne-base, cf. Grayson, 1996: 102. 67 Alternatively, this contact with Babylon could have taken place after the actual death of Shalmaneser III but before Šamšī-Adad achieved general recognition as king – as could be inferred from the missing royal title of the latter in the preserved treaty text; cf. Tsakanyan, 2020: 123. 68 Parpola, 2011–2013: 42. 69 Although the oldest preserved exemplar of a Assyro-Babylonian treaty, the text under discussion looks back upon a history of bilateral treaties between the two countries that reaches back to at least the time of Aššur-bēl-kala, cf. Parpola / Watanabe, 1988: xviii. 70 Parpola / Watanabe, 1988: xxvi–xxvii; ditto Barcina, 2016: 24; Beaulieu, 2018: 184; Tsakanyan, 2020: 123. 71 Radner, 2005: 35. 65

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tunity to gain influence in Assyrian affairs.72 Probably invoking the magnates’ support of him, Šamšī-Adad could have made advances to secure Babylon’s military aid in exchange for something that Marduk-zākir-šumi deemed worthy of acquiring, even so much as to be willing to conclude a formal treaty, which he managed to design mainly to his advantage. This is illustrated by the content of the preserved treaty text which disfavours Šamšī-Adad, since it includes non-reciprocal clausulae, e.g., regarding the mutual relay of information or the release of captives.73 The treaty also contains a specific clausula regarding the protective status of a certain Marduk-rēmanni, a person of whom otherwise no information is extant.74 Could this Marduk-rēmanni have been a key Babylonian spy in Assyria that maybe even acted as double agent on behalf of Marduk-zākir-šumi, or otherwise pushed Babylonian interests, and now needed protection until an extraction was possible? In any case, it seems as if the conspirators had no choice but to accept these disadvantageous stipulations. Following such a scenario, we have reason to assume that the military support lent by Babylon indeed helped the conspirators to secure victory. Strong military support from Babylon would also correspond with the fact that Šamšī-Adad managed to ascend to the throne after the death of his father in 823 BCE, while the war with his brother was still raging on. Yet the humiliation felt by Šamšī-Adad was perhaps so grave that it could have contributed to his later decision to attack and possibly even conquer Babylon.75 As Marduk-zākir-šumi died in 819 BCE, the year of Šamšī-Adad V’s first 72 Frahm, 2017b: 291–292 proposes that Marduk-zākir-šumi first helped Šamšī-Adad V to secure the throne and then submitted him to the disadvantageous treaty stipulations – but the other way around seems more likely. Exploiting a weakness seems easier to achieve than forcing a newly ascended king afterwards into a submissive position. Tsakanyan, 2020: 123 dates the treaty to “after 824” BCE, when Šamšī-Adad V was in a position of weakness due to proposed military successes of Aššur-da’’in-aplu. 73 While Parpola / Watanabe, 1988: xxvi contra Weidner, 1932–1933: 27 understand the treaty as indicating “perfect equality” between the two parties (also cf. Parpola, 2011– 2013: 42), later studies have pointed out the disadvantageous position of Assyria (e.g., Brinkman, 1990: 96f; cf. Barcina, 2016: 24–25; Frahm, 2017b: 292; Fuchs, 2008: 71–72). Assessments seem to hinge on the translation of obv. 13'–14': (…) munnabt[ū … ša] innabitūni LUGAL lā iqabbaš–šu. Parpola / Watanabe, 1988: 4 translate positively “(The fugitives) [… who…] fled the king shall indicate to him”, but the syntactical context of lines obv. 12'–14' seems to make an emendation of the (then necessary) conjunction šumma complicated. Furthermore, the verbal form is non-subjunctive, indicating a future– negative aspect. It thus appears as if this line rather contains a vetitive construction “he shall/will not indicate to him …”. On treaty formulas, cf. de Ridder, 2018: 452–455; GAG §185; also see the table provided by Parpola / Watanabe, 1988: xxxviii–xli; for Old Assyrian see Kouwenberg, 2017: 730–740 (note p. 731 fn. 29). 74 On individuals with that name, cf. Mattila, 2001: 720–721. There is one earlier attestation of a certain Marduk-rēmanni in Šibaniba during the reign of Shalmaneser III, but it remains beyond proof if this is the same person. 75 Fuchs, 2011: 269–277; Frahm, 2017b: 291–292.

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regular campaign just after his victory, it might be possible that, due to the unfavourable treaty with him, Šamšī-Adad V did not feel any informal obligation towards the former’s son, the new Babylonian king Marduk-balassu-iqbi, and did not renew the treaty with him. There are possible hints at a fragility within the initial alliance between ŠamšīAdad and the magnates, and for a subsequent splitting of the group into a more royal aligned element, and a more oppositional group, presumably the senior magnates around Aia-ḫālu. That Aia-ḫālu must have been of weighty influence amongst them is illustrated by his successorship to Daiān-Aššur as turtānu in 824 BCE. Yet, in his second girru (at some time between 818 to 816 BCE) ŠamšīAdad V had his own rab ša-rēši Mutarriṣ-Aššur (also read as Mutaqqin-Aššur) conduct the military operations, which the latter allegedly did to great success by conquering 500 cities and collecting numerous tributes.76 This successful army leader does not appear again in the records, but his selection as military commander in preference over the other magnates might indicate both royal power over, but also weariness of the magnates that had participated in the coup. Around the same time (815/814 BCE), the new turtānu, Bēl-lū-balaṭ, seemingly unaffiliated with the group of older magnates, started his term of office. This, together with irregularities in the awarding of eponymy to Aššur-būnā’i-uṣur might indeed highlight tensions in the group of the magnates,77 or rather, following the perspective of this essay, between the ones affiliated with the king and those who were not.78 It seems as if Šamšī-Adad had had an unstable alliance with the old guard of the magnates – a group of people he initially needed to rely on after having swayed them to his side. But since his accession to the throne, he had managed to develop his own group of loyal magnate followers and officials (like Bēl-lū-balaṭ and Mutarriṣ-Aššur) that kept possible aspirations of the “old guard” of the magnates around Aia-ḫālu at bay. Fuchs suggested that both king and kingdom emerged weakened from the “civil war”. He pointed to military problems ŠamšīAdad faced in the years following the quelling of the “revolt”, largely in the northern and north-eastern Zagros and in the trans-Euphratean West.79 Other scholars see Šamšī-Adad V’s military endeavours in the Zagros in a more positive light.80 His early campaigns on the Iranian plateau might have failed to achieve dominion over the greater political entities in the area (like Namri, which was politically associated with Babylon, cf. A.0.103.1 iv 38–40), but they secured Assyria’s con-

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A.0.103.1 ii 16–34. Fuchs, 2008: 70–71. 78 Also note that the main manuscript of Šamšī-Adad’s accession story hails from the tenth year of his reign. 79 Fuchs, 2008: 70–71. 80 Hipp 2016; cf. Siddall, 2013: 85–86; on the dating of Šamšī-Adad’s campaigns see Fuchs, 2011: 317–319. 77

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trol over the road leading from Mt Kullar to Parsua and Gizilbundi.81 And while later inscriptions of Adad-nārārī III inform us that some kings of Ḫatti had stopped paying tribute,82 Šamšī-Adad V still seems to have been able to defend the Assyrian holdings up to Til-Barsip/Kār-Shalmaneser.83 However, as noted in the eponym chronicle, the years 817 and 816 BCE saw an uprising in the (land of) Tillû.84 In the second half of his reign, from his 4th girru in 815 BCE, Šamšī-Adad V was concerned with successful military operations against the land of Karduniaš and the city of Babylon, conquering the city of Dēr (5th girru) and taking captive the successive kings of Babylon, Marduk-balāssu-iqbi and Baba-aḫa-iddina (5th and 6th girru).85 Rather than illustrating a weak position of the monarch, the reviewed meagre evidence reveals that after Šamšī-Adad had become king he did not display indecisiveness nor lack of acumen, and although his military endeavours were more moderately successful than those of his predecessors, they were still pro-active and effective. The material reviewed in this essay suggests a strong and pro-active role of Šamšī-Adad V, who was supported in his endeavours by the magnates – whether on their own initiative, or after having been swayed to the former’s side. If the propositions outlined above are somewhat correct, one may also suspect a rigid damnatio memoriae of Aššur-da’’in-aplu.86 No other document is known that would at least hint at his existence. In Šamšī-Adad’s accession story, Aššurda’’in-aplu does not appear with individualistic traits and is – in the text’s brevity – portrayed along the lines of a “standard” enemy of Assyria, with the decisive difference of him hailing from the royal family. Šamšī-Adad employed a row of validating strategies, including tapping into traditional symbolism (like the archaizing script, or the bifurcated beard), the iconographical stressing of his status as crown prince (the single Malteser cross-like pendant designating the crown prince 81

Hipp, 2016: 776. A.0.104.4, 2ʹ–4ʹ; A.0.104.6, 11–15; cf. Fuchs, 2008: 70–71. 83 Cf. A.0.103.1 ii 7–16. 84 Fuchs, 2008: 70–71 (possibly some aftermath of the “civil war”); on Tillê also see van Buylaere, 2014. 85 Cf. A.0.103.1 iii 70–iv 45; A.0.103.2; A.0.103.4. The taking of Dēr and the abduction of its divine statues likely necessitated the creation of a now lost king’s report to Aššur. Only Aššur’s reply is partially preserved (A.0.103.4). 86 Cf. Richardson, 2020: 256: “But what the passage of time further accomplished was an operation of historical forgetting, a memorial-editorial function which permitted audiences to forget inconvenient discrepancies between other accounts of the past (including traumatic ones [Fn. 28]), and the ideal ones that “royal tales” put forward. Put crudely, the passage of time allowed a text to transcend its status as a claim meant to persuade an audience, and instead become something more like a historical fact to later readers – which in turn was a qualitative advance on the truth–claims which new texts might advance. This is all clearly a matter of a quite intentional shaping of cultural memory by royal chanceries.” 82

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and his office), and his (scribes’) innovation of providing an accession story and disseminating it by erecting monuments carrying said text in several imperial cities. That Šamšī-Adad himself was most likely not the original crown prince is strongly suggested by exactly these extensive and suspicious validation efforts. Having reviewed the evidence, I cannot but see Šamšī-Adad as the driving force behind the war against his brother, whom he had ousted successfully from his position as crown prince. There is another item that adds positively to the deliberations offered here: The letters SAA 19 98 and 99 discussed at the very beginning of this essay. Dating to the reign of Esarhaddon, SAA 19 99 informs us that Shalmaneser V had a son, who was named Aššur-da’’in-aplu. Having reviewed the evidence for the Assyrian civil war of 826–820 BCE, the one solution that presents itself for explaining that choice of naming is to propose that there was a number of diverse and divergent historical memories within or alongside the courtly memory culture of the Neo-Assyrian period, a diversity almost completely lost today, as we have only the authoritative monuments and their versions of history at our disposal. In this divergent version of Assyrian contemporary history, Aššur-da’’in-aplu must have been the “good guy”. A strong and explicitly positive memory of him as the valid crown prince contra the usurper Šamšī-Adad must have motivated Shalmaneser V to name his own son Aššur-da’’in-aplu. It seems unimaginable that Shalmaneser V would have done so if he considered the accession story of Šamšī-Adad V to be true. One would have a hard time understanding such a naming if there existed only a negative memory of Aššur-da’’in-aplu. Positive remembrance of Aššur-da’’in-aplu must have been grounded in the very fact that he was the actual and true heir to the throne. Unfortunately, this version of events did not leave any traces in the preserved records. If not recorded on hitherto unfound text carriers, it was either transmitted orally, or only on perishable materials. Of course, one can also envision histories in which Aššur-da’’in-aplu was a glorified rebel against his father and his brother – but for what cause, and in what way would that encourage Shalmaneser V to name his own son Aššur-da’’inaplu? It seems more likely that the crimes Šamšī-Adad V had accused of his brother were in fact his own. Bibliography Bach, J, 2020: Untersuchungen zur transtextuellen Poetik assyrischer herrschaftlich-narrativer Texte. SAAS 30. Helsinki. Bagg, A, 2017: Répertoire géographique des textes cunéiformes / VII–2. Die Ortsund Gewässernamen der neuassyrischen Zeit. Teil 2, Zentralassyrien und benachbarte Gebiete, Ägypten und die arabische Halbinsel. Wiesbaden. Baker, H., 2000: “Kabtî”. In H. Baker (ed.): The Prosopography of the NeoAssyrian Empire, Vol 1/I. Helsinki. Pp. 593–594. — 2002: “Salmānu-ašarēd”. In H. Baker (ed.): The Prosopography of the NeoAssyrian Empire. Vol 3, Part I: P–Ṣ. Helsinki. Pp. 1071–1078.

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— 2006–2008: “Salmanassar V.”. RlA 11, 585–587. — 2011: “Šamšī-Adad”. In H. Baker (ed.): The Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire 3/II: Š–Z. Helsinki. Pp. 1224–1225. Barcina, C., 2016: “The Display of Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty at Kalḫu as a Means of Internal Political Control”. Antiguo Oriente 14, 11–51. Beaulieu, P.-A., 2018: A History of Babylon. Hoboken. Becker, A. / Mohr, J. (eds.): 2012: Alterirät als Leitkonzept historischen Interpretierens. Berlin. Blocher, F., 2001: “Assyrische Würdenträger und Gouverneure des 9. und 8. Jh.: eine Neubewertung ihrer Rolle”. AoF 28/2, 298–324. Brinkman, J., 1990: “Political Covenants, Treaties, and Loyalty Oaths in Babylonian and between Assyria and Babylonia”. In L. Canfora, et al. (eds.): I trattati nel mondo antico. Forma ideologia funzione. Rome. Pp. 81–105. Burckhardt, J., 1943: Reflections on History. London Charpin, D., 2004: “Chroniques bibliographiques. 3. Données nouvelles sur la région du Petit Zab au XVIIIe siècle av. J.C.”. RA 98, 151–178. De Ridder, J., 2018: Descriptive Grammar of Middle Asyrian. Wiesbaden. Elayi, J., 2017: Sargon II, King of Assyria. Atlanta. — 2022: Tiglath-pileser III, Founder of the Assyrian Empire. Atlanta Eppihimer, M., 2019: Exemplars of Kingship. Art, Tradition, and Legacy of the Akkadians. New York. Fales, F.M., 2012: “After Tayinat: The New Status of Esarhaddon’s adê for Assyrian Political History”. RA 106, 133–158. Finkel, I. / Reade, J., 1995: “Lots of Eponyms”. Iraq 57, 167–172. — 1998: “Assyrian Eponyms”. OrNS 67/2, 248–254. Frahm, E., 2009: Historische und historisch–literarische Texte (KAL 3). Wiesbaden. — 2015: “‘Whoever Destroys this Imageʼ: A Neo-Assyrian Statue from Tell ‘Aǧāǧa (Šadikanni)”. NABU 2015/2, 77–82. — 2016: “Revolts in the Neo-Assyrian Empire: A Preliminary Discourse Analysis”. In J. Collins / J. Manning (eds.): Revolt and Resistance in the Ancient Classical World and the Near East. Leiden / Boston. Pp. 76–89. — 2017a: “The Neo-Assyrian Period (ca. 1000–609 BCE)”. In E. Frahm (ed.): A Companion to Assyria. Malden. Pp. 161–208 — 2017b: “Assyria and the South: Babylonia”. In E. Frahm (ed.): A Companion to Assyria. Malden. Pp. 286–298. — 2019: “The Neo-Assyrian Royal Inscriptions as Text: History, Ideology, and Intertextuality”. In S. Fink / R. Rollinger (eds.): Conceptualizing Past, Present, and Future. Münster. Pp. 139–159. Frame, G., 2021: The Royal Inscriptions of Sargon II, King of Assyria (721–705 BCE). RINAP 2. University Park.

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Frayne, D. 1990. Old Babylonian Period (2003–1595 BC). RIME 4. Toronto / Buffalo / London Fuchs, A., 2008: “Der Turtān Šamšī-ilu und die große Zeit der assyrischen Großen (830–746)”. WdO 38, 61–145. — 2011: “Das Osttigrisgebiet von Agum II. bis zu Darius I. (ca. 1500 bis 500 v.Chr.)”. In P. Miglus / S. Mühl (eds.): Between the Cultures: The Central Tigris Region from the 3rd to the 1st Millennium BC. Heidelberg. Pp. 229–464 Glassner, J.–J., 2004: Mesopotamian Chronicles. Atlanta. Grayson, A.K., 1993: “Assyrian Officials and Power in the Ninth and Eighth Centuries”. SAAB 7, 19–52. — 1996: Assyrian Rulers of the Early First millennium BC II (858–745 BC). RIMA 3. Toronto / Buffalo / London. — 1999: “The Struggle for Power in Assyria”. In K. Watanabe (ed.): Priests and Officials in the Ancient Near East. Heidelberg. Pp. 253–270. Groß, M., 2020: At the Heart of an Empire. Leuven / Paris / Bristol: Peeters. Groß, M. / Kertai, D., 2019: “Becoming Empire: Neo-Assyrian Palaces and the Creation of Courtly Culture”. JAH 7/1, 1–31. Haller, A. / Andrae, W., 1955: Die Heiligtümer des Gottes Assur und der Sin– Šamaš Tempel in Assur. Berlin. Hipp, K., 2016: “Šamšī–Adad V’s Campaigns into the Zagros Revisited”. In R. Stucky / O. Kaelin / H. P. Matys (eds.): Proceedings of the 9th International Congress on the Archaeology of the Ancient Near East, Vol. 3. Wiesbaden. Pp. 769–779. Jakob, S., 2017: “The Middle Assyrian Period (14th to 11th Century BCE)”. In E. Frahm (ed.): A Companion to Assyria. Malden. Pp. 117–142. Karlsson, M., 2016: Relations of Power in Early Neo-Assyrian State Ideology. Boston / Berlin. Kertai, D. 2017: “The Iconography of the Late Assyrian Crown Prince”. In D. Kertai / O. Nieuwenhuyse (eds.): From the Four Corners of the Earth. Münster. Pp. 111–134. Knapp, A., 2015: Royal Apologetic in the Ancient Near East. Atlanta. Kouwenberg, N., 2017: A Grammar of Old Assyrian. Leiden / Boston. Lauinger, J., 2012: “Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty at Tell Tayinat: Text and Commentary”. JCS 64/1, 87–123. — 2013: “The Neo-Assyrian adê: Treaty, Oath, or Something Else?” Zeitschrift für altorientalische und biblische Rechtsgeschichte 19/1, 99–115. Luukko, M. / van Buylaere, G. 2002. The Political Correspondence of Esarhaddon. SAA 16. Helsinki. Magen, U., 1986: Assyrische Königsdarstellungen – Aspekte der Herrschaft. Mainz. Mattila, R., 2000: The King’s Magnates. Helsinki.

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— 2001: “Marduk-rēmanni”. In H. Baker (ed.): The Prosopography of the NeoAssyrian Empire, Vol 2, Part II: L–N. Helsinki. Pp. 720–721 — 2018: “The Military Role of the Highest Officials, Magnates and Governors: Assyrian Royal Inscriptions vs Archival and Literary Sources”. In S. Yamada (ed.): Neo-Assyrian Sources in Context. Helsinki. Pp. 1–9. Milano, L., 2020: “Destiny, the Drawing of Lots, and the Divine Will in Ancient Near Eastern Societies”, In L. Lopez Rabatal / Y. Sintomer (eds.): Sortition and Democracy: History, Tools, Theories. Exeter. Pp. 29–53 Millard, A., 1994: The Eponyms of the Assyrian Empire 910–612 BC. Helsinki. Olmstead, A., 1923: History of Assyria. Chicago. Parpola, S., 1970: Letters from Assyrian Scholars to the Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal. Neukirchen-Vluyn. — 1983: Letters from Assyrian Scholars to the Kings Esarhaddon and Ashurbanipal, 2: Commentary and Appendices. Neukirchen-Vluyn. — 1993: Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars. SAA 10. Helsinki. — 2011–2013: “Staatsvertrag (treaty). B. Neuassyrisch.”. RlA vol. 13, 40–45. Patrier, J., 2015: “La sceau de Samsî-Addu”. RA 109, 1–10. Portuese, L., 2020: Life at Court. Ideology and Audience in the Late Assyrian Palace.Münster. Radner, K., 2003/04: “Salmanassar V. in den Nimrud Letters”. AfO 50, 95–104. — 2005: Die Macht des Namens. Wiesbaden. — 2008: “The Delegation of Power: Neo-Assyrian Bureau Seals”. Briant, P. et al. (eds.): L’Archive des Fortifications de Persépolis. Paris. Pp. 481–515. — 2010: “Gatekeepers and Lockmasters: The Control of Access in Neo-Assyrian Palaces”. In H. Baker, et al. (eds.): Your Praise is Sweet. London. Pp. 269– 280. — 2016: “Revolts in the Assyrian Empire: Succession Wars, Rebellions Against a False King and Independence Movements”. In J. Collins / J. Manning (eds.): Revolt and Resistance in the Ancient Classical World and the Near East. Leiden / Boston. Pp. 41–54. — 2019a: “Mistakes were made … on the throne base of Shalmaneser III of Assyria”. In G. Chambon et al. (eds.): De l’argile au numérique: Mélanges assyriologiques en honneur de Dominique Charpin. Leuven, Pp. 833–840. — 2019b: “Neo-Assyrian treaties as a source for the historian: bonds of friendship, the vigilant subject and the vengeful King’s Treaty”. In G. Lanfranchi, et al. (eds.): Writing Neo-Assyrian History: Sources, Problems and Approaches. Helsinki. Pp 309–328. Reade, J., 1979: “Ideology and Propaganda in Assyrian Art”. In M. Larsen (ed.): Power and Propaganda. Copenhagen. Pp. 329–343. Reade, J. / Walker, C. 1981–1982. “Some Neo-Assyrian Royal Inscriptions”. AfO28, 113–122.

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Richardson, S., 2020: “Down with “Legitimacy”: On “Validity” and Narrative in Royal Tales”. In E. Wagner-Durand / J. Linke (eds.): Tales of Royalty. Boston / Berlin. Pp. 243–260. Rollinger, R. / Niedermayr, H., 2007: “Von Assur nach Rom: Dexiosis und ʻStaatsvertragʼ – Zur Geschichte eines rechtssymbolischen Aktes”. In R. Rollinger / H. Barta (eds.): Rechtsgeschichte und Interkulturalität. Wiesbaden. Pp. 135–178. Schramm, W., 1973: Einführung in die assyrischen Königsinschriften. Zweiter Teil. 934–722 v. Chr. Leiden / Köln. Siddall, L., 2013: The Reign of Adad-narari III. Leiden / Boston. Tadmor, H., 1983: “Autobiographical Apology in the Royal Assyrian Literature”. In H. Tadmor / M. Weinfeld (eds.): History, Historiography, and Interpretation. Studies in Biblical and Cuneiform Literatures. Jerusalem. Pp. 36–57. Tsakanyan, R., 2020: “The Rebellion of Aššur-da’’in-aplu in the Context of Assyrian Babylonian Interstate Relations of the IX Century B.C.”. The Countries and People of The Near and Middle East 33/1, 111–130. Van Buylaere, G., 2014: “Tillâ, Tīl-Uli, Tillê”. RlA vol. 14, 46–47. von Soden, Wolfram, 1995: Grundriss der Akkadischen Grammatik (3rd Edition). Rome. Weidner, E., 1933–34: “Die Feldzüge Šamši-Adads V. gegen Babylonien”. AfO 9, 89–104. Worthington, M., 2012: Principles of Akkadian Textual Criticism. Boston / Berlin. Yamada, K. / Yamada, S., 2017: “Shalmaneser V and his Era, Revisited”. In A. Baruchi-Unna, et al. (eds.): Now it Happened in those Days. Winona Lake. Pp. 387–442. Yamada, Sh., 2000: The Construction of the Assyrian Empire. Leiden / Boston. — 2018: “Neo-Assyrian Eponym Lists and Eponym Chronicles: Contents, stylistic variants and their historical–ideological background”. In S. Fink / R. Rollinger (eds.): Conceptualizing Past, Present, and Future. Münster. Pp. 75–96. Zaia, S., 2018: “How to (not) be king: Negotiating the Limits of Power within the Assyrian hierarchy”. JNES 77, 207–217. Online resources Lauinger, J., 2020: The Inscription of Idrimi of Alalaḫ. http://oracc.museum. upenn.edu/aemw/alalakh/idrimi/corpus/. Radner, K., 2018: How Do We Know About the Rebellion Against Shalmaneser III? https://www.coursera.org/learn/organising-empire-assyrian-way/ lecture/ xkqbz/ how-do-we-know-about-the-rebellion-against-shalmaneser-iii.

The Good Vassal Edom under the Assyrians Ariel M. Bagg Located at the south-western border of the Assyrian empire in an arid region, agriculturally marginal and apparently without economic advantages, Edom experienced from the late 8th to the 7th century BCE a period of relative prosperity and increased settlement. The Edomite society developed, reached a certain political centralization, and profited from the Arabian trade and from the intensified copper mining in the Araba. In the same period, Assyria expanded to the West and gained control over the whole Levant. In less than two hundred years most political entities in the region lost their independence, and more than twenty provinces were established1. Imperial Assyria applied different strategies of rule, and it is in the frame of the Assyrian expansion that the developments in Edom as well as the low level of Assyrian impact on the local material culture can be better understood. In the Iron Age II the eastern part of modern Jordan was divided into three independent kingdoms, mostly known by their Biblical names Ammon, Moab, and Edom. The Transjordan plateau is divided by several wadis running from East to West and representing natural but flexible borders between the mentioned kingdoms. Ammon was located north of the Wadi Mujib, Moab between the Wadi Mujib and the Wadi al-Hasa, and Edom between the Wadi al-Hasa and the Gulf of Aqaba. Their Western borders were the Jordan River, the Dead Sea and the Wadi Araba, while the desert was their Eastern border. In the Neo-Assyrian sources these political units were named Bīt-Ammān2, Māʼab3 and Udūmu4. Udūmu is attested from the reign of Adad-nērārī III to the reign of Assurbanipal. It is one of the rare cases of a loyal vassal that never defied Assyria so that no military action was necessary. This situation, favourable for the development of Udūmu, raises an unfavourable situation for the historian. As no military campaigns were undertaken against Udūmu, no cities were there besieged, captured, plundered or destroyed, and no executions or deportations took place, there is very few information in the Assyrian written sources. This information is nevertheless valuable, because it is contemporary and allows to date and complement the ar-

1

Bagg, 2011: 430–431, table 2.C. RGTC 7/1, 46‒48 and RGTC 7/3, 918. 3 RGTC 7/1, 161f. and RGTC 7/3, 934. 4 RGTC 7/1, 265f. and RGTC 7/3, 948. 2

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chaeological5 data and the few native sources6. The earliest attestation of Udūmu in the Neo-Assyrian sources occurs in a stone slab with a summary inscription of Adad-nērārī III (809‒782) found in Nimrud, the ancient Assyrian capital Kalḫu: “From the bank of the Euphrates I subdued the land Ḫatti, the land Amurrû in its entirety7, Tyre, Sidon, Israel, Edom, (and) Philistia, as far as the great sea in the West (i. e. the Mediterranean). I imposed tribute upon them”8. Lamentably, Udūmu is not mentioned in any other of Adad-nērārīʼs III inscriptions, but the submission of the mentioned places most probably took place after the defeat of Damascus in 796 during the last of his four military campaigns to the West9. The Assyrian kings implemented two main strategies of rule: submission by means of loyalty oaths, which turn foreign states into vassals of the empire, or annexation of whole regions as provinces. In the former case the vassals retained a certain independence in internal politics at the price of paying an annual tribute and being loyal to Assyria. Furthermore, both unequal partners obligated themselves to mutual military aid. In the latter case, a former independent state became part of the Land of Aššur, lost its independency, was renamed, and governed by an Assyrian official. One of the most outstanding features of the Assyrian empire was pragmatism, so that the most convenient solution was applied in each case. A state could become a vassal after a military action or by its own decision in order to avoid destruction and casualties. Sometimes they remained vassals up to the fall of Assyria, as in the case of Edom, in other cases, after repeated rebellion, they were annexed as a province. In some cases there was an intermediate step, namely deposing a rebel king and appointing a pro-Assyrian ruler, but this solution was not effective and usually an annexation followed10. In a few cases, mostly 5

The archaeological data are mostly based on surveys and only very few excavated and completely published sites. For an overview see Bienkowski, 2014; Crowell, 2021: 62‒94 with a catalogue of Edomite sites on pages 290‒330; MacDonald, 2000: 185‒194; and MacDonald, 2015: 24‒41. 6 For the Edomite epigraphic material see Crowell, 2021: 141‒175; the seals can be found in Avigad / Sass, 1997: 387‒394, Nos. 1048‒1057 and also 395‒398, Nos. 1058‒1064 (Edomite or Moabite seals). The Biblical sources are of minimal value for the reconstruction of Edom’s history before the 8th century as they are strongly biased ideologically and were written and edited much later, from the 7th to the 5th centuries, after the collapse of independent Edom and at a time after the fall of Jerusalem, when a strong antipathy against Edom developed. For a summary of the Biblical data and a critical view see Crowell, 2021: 177‒263. For a traditional approach see Saporetti, 2001: 59‒62; Mattini, 2005. 7 In the Neo-Assyrian period Ḫatti and Amurrû referred usually to the northern and southern Levant respectively, Bagg, 2011: 19‒40. 8 RIMA 3 104.8, 11b‒14. 9 808 against Guzāna, 805‒803 against Northern Syria, 802 to Lebanon and Arwad, and 796 against Damascus, see Bagg, 2011: map 4.15; Siddall, 2013: 63‒67. 10 See Bagg, 2011: 433, table 5.B for an overview of the appointment of puppet kings in

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during the recovery of the former borders of the Middle-Assyrian kingdom in the 9th century, a region was directly annexed. The terminology used in the above quoted passage, biltu maddattu elišunu ukīn, points clearly to an imposition of tribute rather than to audience gifts brought “spontaneously”. Gifts of this kind were brought in situ to the king in the course of a military campaign, mostly in the first phase of the Assyrian expansion during the reigns of Assurnaṣirpal II (883‒859) and Shalmaneser III (858‒824), when new regions were approached, after a demonstration of power in a neighbouring region as a preventive measure. This was the case during Assurnaṣirpalʼs 9th campaign, when Phoenician coastal cities brought gifts (maddattu) to the king, after he had washed his weapons in some place at the Mediterranean coast11. On the contrary it is plausible to assume that Udūmu became an Assyrian vassal around 796. It is important to notice that Udūmu was not among the confederates of the first great anti-Assyrian alliance which confronted Shalmaneser III in 853 at Qarqāru on the Orontes, nor in the later alliances from 849, 848 and 845, while Israel, Arab tribes and Ammon took part12. Either Edom was not far enough developed at that time in order to deliver a military unit or decided not to participate. The situation in the southern Levant changed dramatically during the reign of Tiglath-pileser III (745‒727), when the whole region came under Assyrian control after four devastating military campaigns in 738, 734, 733, and 732 and no fully independent states remained but only provinces and vassals13. Tiglath-pileserʼs most detailed inscription, written shortly after 729, contains a geographical summary of his military achievements14. The historical section ends with a list of tributary kings of the West15, its last part concerns the southern Levant from Arwad to Gaza and represents the tribute-bearers from 73416. Qauš-malaka17 of Edom is named together with Sanīpu of Bīt-Ammān, Salāmānu of Moab, and Jau-ḫazi of Judah, being the first attestation of an Edomite ruler18. The next attestation of Edom in a royal inscription concerns a delicate episode reported in a fragmentary the Levant. 11 RIMA 2 101.1 iii 86b‒88a; see Bagg, 2011: map 4.1. 12 RIMA 3 102.2 ii 89b‒96a. The participation of Ammon (line 95 sá mba-ʼa-sa DUMU ru-ḫu-bi KUR a-ma-na-a-a “Baʼasa, the son of Ruḫubi / of Bīt-Ruḫubi, the Ammonite”) is controversial, but widely accepted (Millard, 1992: 35) and many solutions were proposed, Yamada, 2000: 159‒161. As I stated in RGTC 7/1, 53 s. v. Bīt-Ruḫubi, I think that Baʼasa was probably the king of Bīt-Ruḫubi, and that the scribe omitted the contingent and the name of the twelfth confederate and only included his provenance (“Ammonite”), as Yamada, 2000: 160f. proposes. 13 Bagg, 2011: maps 4.20‒4.24. 14 RINAP 1, Tiglath-pileser III, No. 47. 15 RINAP 1, Tiglath-pileser III, No. 47, rev. 6ʹb‒13ʹ. 16 Tadmor, 1994: 267–268. 17 “Qauš is king” or “Qauš has ruled”, PNA 3/I, 1011. 18 RINAP 1, Tiglath-pileser III, No. 47, rev. 11ʹ.

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prism from the reign of Sargon II (721‒705)19. This version of the annals reports that in 713, Sargonʼs 9th regnal year, he marched against Asdūdu, the Biblical Ashdod. The inhabitants of this Philistine coastal city led by a certain Jāmānī removed the pro-Assyrian king Aḫi-Mīti, the brother of the former rebel Azuri, who had been appointed by Sargon some time earlier. Jāmānī, enthroned as new king, intended to gain support from their neighbours Judah, Edom and Moab, which Sargon calls his tributaries, as well from Egypt20. Sargon conquered Ashdod and deported the usurper21. We have no information about the reaction of Edom and the other parties concerning the requested support, but, as no retaliation is attested, it seems that they remained loyal to Assyria. The governor of Kalḫu, Marduk-rēmanni, mentions in a letter to the king that may be dated early in the reign of Sargon II22 or in the last years of Tiglath-pileser23, the reception of horses brought as tribute by emissaries from Egypt, Gaza, Judah, Moab and Ammon24. In the following lines, the envoys from Edom, Ashdod, and Ekron are mentioned in a fragmentary passage, attesting the presence of an Edomite delegation in Kalḫu at that time25. A fragmentary wine list from Kalḫu, an administrative text listing allocations of wine to people of western regions, mentions Edom together with Ashdod, Gaza and Judah26, and may be related with the embassy referred to in the above mentioned letter27. Twelve years after Sargonʼs campaign against Ashdod, Sennacherib (704‒ 681) undertook a major military campaign in the southern Levant in 701. The campaign was carried out in three phases directed against Phoenician cities, the Philistine cities Ashkelon and Ekron, and Judah, respectively. Before the military operations in Philistia we read in Sennacheribʼs inscriptions “all the kings of the land Amurrû, brought extensive gifts, four times (the normal amount), as their substantial audience gift (tāmartu) before me and kissed my feet”. Among the named kings we find among others Aja-rāmu of Edom28 together with Būdi-il of Bīt-Ammān and Kammūsu-nadbi of Moab29. According to a bull inscription the 19

RINAP 2, Nr. 82. RINAP 2, Nr. 82, vii 25ʹʹ‒33ʹʹa. 21 See overview in PNA 2/I, 491, s. v. Jāmānī. 22 Postgate, 1973: 11, note 29a proposes 716. 23 Deller, 1985: 328–329 proposes either Tiglath-pileser III or Sargon II. 24 SAA 1 110 (= SAA 19 159), r. 4‒11. 25 SAA 1 110 r. 12‒13. 26 CTN 3 135. Edom is mentioned in lines 7 ([kur]ú-du-ma-a) and 12 ([kur]ú-du!-ma-⸢a⸣-a to be read instead of [kur]ú-li-ma?-a-a]). 27 On the basis of the mentioned toponyms the editors propose to date the text either in the reign of Tiglath-pileser III after 734 or in the reign of Sargon in relation with the campaigns in 720 or 713/712, CTN 3, page 247. Deller, 1985: 328 proposes a relation between the letter SAA 1 110 and the wine list CTN 3 135. 28 “Ea is exalted”, PNA 1/I, 92, s. v. 2. 29 3/1, No. 4, 36‒38 and the following parallel passages: RINAP 3/1, No. 16, iii 15‒26a; 20

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delivery of tribute took place in the plain of Ušû30, namely the continental part of Tyre31. Also in this case Edom was not involved in anti-Assyrian activities and there were no military actions in Transjordan. The so-called Azekah-Inscription, from which only two fragments are preserved, tells about a campaign against Judah, which may refer to Sargonʼs activities in the West in 720 or 712 or to Sennacheribʼs campaign in 70132, it probably mentions also the payment of tribute by the western kings33. Furthermore, the text reports, in connection with the siege of a royal Philistine city, that the king made “all the troops of the land Amurrû carry earth” most probably to build a siege ramp34. The supply of military aid, workers, and provisions was among the vassal duties, and the possibility that Edomite troops participated in the construction of that siege ramp must be taken into account. In the year 677 Esarhaddon (680‒669), Sennacheribʼs successor, undertook a punitive campaign against Abdî-milkūti of Sidon35. The city was conquered and destroyed, its territory was annexed, and the new province was named after its capital Kār-Aššur-aḫa-iddina, “Esarhaddon’s harbour”, a new foundation built in the proximity of the former centre36. Esarhaddon reports that he gathered “all the kings of the land Ḫatti and the seacoast” and had them build the new city37. In this case the concerned kings are not named, but according to another passage of the same inscription, where twelve kings of the seacoast are listed, it is more than plausible that Edomite workers participated in the construction of the new provincial capital. At some point between 677 and 676 Esarhaddon summoned twelve kings of the seaside and ten kings of the middle of the sea (Cyprus)38 and ordered them to send different kinds of wood and stones for the construction of his armory in Nineveh39. Among the twelve kings of the seaside, a general designation for the southern Levant, we find the name of Qauš-gabri of Edom40, together with Muṣurī of Moab and Būdi-il of Bīt-Ammān. The royal name Qauš-gabri is also

id., No. 17, ii 75‒86; id., No. 22, ii 50‒60a; id., No. 23, ii 47‒57a; RINAP 3/2, No. 140, 19‒rev. 2; id., No. 142, 1ʹ‒3ʹ; id., No. 165, iii 1‒7a. 30 RINAP 3/2, No. 46, 19b‒20a. 31 RGTC 7/1, 273. 32 See a summary of the different proposals in RINAP 3/2, pages 350f. 33 RINAP 3/2, No. 1015, 3ʹ. 34 RINAP 3/2, No. 1015, 18ʹ. 35 RINAP 4, No. 1, ii 65 ‒ iii 19 and id., No. 5, vi 6bʹ‒15ʹ. 36 RGTC 7/1, 135f. 37 RINAP 3/2, No. 1, ii 80‒82. 38 That is to say, the period between the military campaign against Sidon in 677 and the date of the earliest text mentioning the collaboration of those kings, in this case not listed by name, RINAP 5, No. 2, iv 54 ‒ v 12 (676). 39 RINAP 4, No. 1, v 74 ‒ vi 1. 40 “Qauš is the strong one”, PNA 3/I, 1011.

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attested in native sources, namely on a seal impression from Umm al-Biyara41 and a limestone scaraboid from Babylon42 both bearing the same text “belonging to Qaus-gabar, king of Edom”, who may have been the very king mentioned in Esarhaddonʼs inscription or a later successor. We find a similar list of 22 kings, characterized as “kings of the seacoast, the middle of the sea” with the addition of “and of the dry land” (nābalu) in the inscriptions of Assurbanipal (668‒627). In this case, almost the same kings43, including again Qauš-gabri of Edom, brought their tribute to the Assyrian king during his first campaign against Egypt in 667 and provided military support44. Around 652 Assurbanipal campaigned against the Qedarite leaders Uaiteʼ, referred to as “king of the Arabs”, and Ammu-ladīn who had not kept their loyalty oaths but had attacked kings of Amurrû thus interfering with the Assyrian interests in the West. For the first time Assyrian military operations took place in the territory of the three Transjordan states, as the Arabs were pursued from the region South of Hamat up to Edom and defeated at different places45. Among the listed places, not only Bit-Ammān, Māʼab and Udūmu are included, but also Saʼarri, the Biblical Seir, a toponym which usually appears related to Edom46. Further attestations of Edom in Neo-Assyrian sources are very few. Edom is mentioned after Ashkelon and before Ammon in a lexical list of geographical names dating from the reign of Assurbanipal47. Edom may have been mentioned in an administrative list of precious metals delivered in Nineveh from western vassals (Ammon, Moab, Judah, Byblos), but the text is badly broken48. Finally, Edom is attested in broken context in a literary text written most probably during the reign of Esarhaddon known as “The Sargon Geography”49. According to the Neo-Assyrian written sources Edom became a vassal of the Assyrian empire probably during the reign of Adad-nērārī III at the beginning of the eighth century. Edom was seen as an independent state ruled by a king (šarru). The geographical name Udūmu was in most cases written with the determinative KUR, which denoted a land or a region50. With the sole exception of Saʼarri, it is 41

Avigad / Sass, 1997: 388, No. 1049. Avigad / Sass, 1997: 387–388, No. 1048. 43 Assurbanipal’s version has Jakin-Lû instead Mattan-Ba‛al from Arwad, and Amminadbi instead of Būdi-il of Amon. 44 RINAP 5/1, No. 6, ii 25ʹ‒55ʹ (Prism C). 45 RINAP 5/1, No. 11, vii 107‒122. 46 The toponym is already attested in Egyptian sources from the reign of Ramesses II, where the “shashu of Seir” are mentioned or the toponyms “Shashu” and “Seir” come in parallel passages and seem to be interchangeable, see Crowell, 2021: 98‒107. 47 SAA 11 1 ii 11. 48 SAA 11 33. M. Weippertʼs amendment “Edomites” in line 8 is merely conjectural, Weippert, 2010: 350, No. 196. 49 Horowitz, 1998: 72‒73, line 49. 50 In some cases, it was written with the determinative for cities (see RGTC 7/1, 265), 42

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the only toponym related to Edom. No cities or villages are mentioned, even the main centre Busayra is not attested, but this must not be wondered at, as there were no military campaigns against Edom, and only in the course of a campaign against Arab tribes the Assyrian army marched through Edomite territory. Edom remained a loyal vassal up to the fall of the Assyrian empire at the end of the 7th century and was never annexed51. It never participated in anti-Assyrian activities and was therefore never punished. Neither deportations of Edomites happened, nor were deportees from other regions ever settled in Edom. There is only one person in the Assyrian archives who probably bears an Edomite name52. A certain Qausu from the city Šiddi-ḫirīte (presumably in central Assyria53) is one of seven persons purchased along with land in a document from Nineveh dated in the reign of Sennacherib54. The name Qausu is possibly based on the name of the Edomite god Qauš (Qôs in the Bible)55. We know very little about Edom before the 8th century: Egyptian sources from the 13th and 12th centuries mention Shashu nomads in the Edomite plateau and there is some evidence of mining activity at Faynan in the late 12th and 11th centuries56. Archaeological surveys and excavations attest intensive settlement in the (late) 8th century with a varied pattern of settlement types consisting of one main centre with monumental architecture (Busayra), open villages and farms, few fortified farms, and some mountain-top sites57. On the basis of this settlement pattern it seems that Edom was a kin-based kingdom, with a ruling elite at the administrative centre at Busayra, composed basically of different tribal groups that cooperated with each other and interacted with other groups from the neighbouring URU, but it is not seldom that both determinatives are interchangeable in the case of countries. 51 The assumption that Transjordan was annexed and that the Assyrians built there a chain of garrisons (Oded, 1970: 184‒186 followed by Ephʻal, 1984: 150, note 514) is incorrect and outdated, see Bienkowski, 2000). 52 Edomite people could also have West-Semitic names, like Aja-rāmu, a royal Edomite name also born by other persons (PNA 1/I, 92), which cannot be related to a certain WestSemitic country. But this evidence matches with the fact that no deportations of Edomites to Assyria took place. 53 RGTC 7/2, 568f. 54 SAA 6 37 (694). 55 PNA 3/I, 1011. 56 Bienkowski, 2014: 787. 57 Bienkowski, 2014: 785‒787. The site of Tall al-Kheleifeh near modern Aqaba was a fortified caravanserai often considered as a border fortress, most probably connected with the Arabian trade. At the site, mixed pottery and many seal impressions with the inscription “belonging to Qaus-ʻanali, servant of the king” (Avigad / Sass, 1997: 389–390, No. 1051) were found. Some scholars consider Tall al-Khekeifeh as an Edomite fortress (Lipiński, 2013: 65‒70), others as an Assyrian outpost (Naʼaman, 2001: 268 followed by Crowell, 2021: 48 note 7, 79–82 and 95).

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regions58. This model is compatible with the Assyrian sources, as the Assyriansʼ interlocutor was the king of Edom who resided in Busayra. The intensification of settlement, the constitution of a ruling elite, the attested industrial-scale copper mining and the probable participation in the Arabian trade occurred when the Assyrians began to take control over the whole Levant. At that time, Edom began to pay tribute and, more importantly, was able to do so. This development was by no means a coincidence, and it is therefore legitimate to ask which role Assyria played in the development of the Edomite society and the emergence of the Edomite tribal-based state. The impact of Assyria on the Edomite material culture was low: principally some architectural resemblance of the Area C palace and Area A temple at Busayra with Assyrian patterns, and the imitation of the Assyrian carinated bowls59. A low level of presence and of influence on the material culture is, first, to be expected in the case of Edom considering the art of the Assyrian imperial policy, and, second, cannot be confused with a low effect of the western expansion of the Assyrian empire on the social and political organization of Edom. As I have explained elsewhere the Assyrian empire was an “empire without a mission”, meaning a civilizing mission, comparable to that of the Roman empire60. It was not the intention of Assyria to “Assyrianize” the conquered territories and especially the vassals. The Assyrian kings never intended to impose their religion or language, and invested in infrastructure only when it was necessary, for instance in a provincial capital or when outposts were needed. In the case of a loyal vassal who never caused trouble Assyrian presence was not necessary. No Assyrianization does not mean no influence, but this influence was in most cases low and differed from region to region. In the case of Edom it was probably a consequence of the desire of emulation on the part of an emerging new ruling elite. The Assyrian empire created an economic and political context in the Southern Levant that allowed – and maybe even stimulated – a development in the social and political organization of Edom. The compulsion to pay tribute was an incentive for the development of the economy and the society. Furthermore, an intelligent policy of loyalty to the empire followed by the Edomite ruling elite avoided military confrontation with consequent destruction, casualties and eventually annexation. In this way, Edom could prosper as a state and benefit from the “good side” of being part of a world empire.

58

Bienkowski, 2014: 785‒787 and in extension Bienkowski / Van der Stehen, 2001. Crowell, 2021: 332‒350. 60 Bagg, 2011: 271‒308 (especially 301‒308) and Bagg, 2013.

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Bibiliography Avigad, N. / Sass, B., 1997: Corpus of West Semitic Stamp Seals. Jerusalem. Bagg, A. M., 2011: Die Assyrer und das Westland. OLA 216. Leuven. ⸺ 2013: “Palestine under Assyrian rule. A new look at the Assyrian imperial policy in the West”. JAOS 133, 119‒144. Bienkowski, P. 2001: “New evidence on Edom in the Neo-Babylonian and Persian periods”. In J.A. Dearman / M.P. Graham (eds.): The Land that I Will Show You. Sheffield. Pp. 198–213. ⸺ 2014: “Edom during the Iron Age II period”. In M. L. Steiner / A. E. Killebrew (eds.): The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of the Levant, c. 8000–332 BCE. Oxford. Pp. 782–794. Bienkowski, P. / Van der Steen, E., 2001: “Tribes, trade, and towns: A new framework for the Late Iron Age in Southern Jordan and Negev”. BASOR 323, 21– 47. Crowell, B. L., 2021: Edom at the Edge of Empire. Atlanta. Deller, K., 1985: “SAG.DU UR.MAḪ ,Löwenkopfsitula, Löwenkopfbecherʻ”. BaM 16, 327‒347. Ephʻal, I., 1984: The Ancient Arabs. Nomads on the Borders of the Fertile Crescent 9th‒5th Centuries B.C. Jerusalem. Horowitz, W., 1998: Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography. MC 8. Winona Lake. Lipiński, E., 2013: “Edom at the crossroads of “incense routes” in the 8th–7th centuries B.C.”. Rocznik Orientalistyczny 66, 64–85. MacDonald, B., 2000: East of Jordan. Boston. ⸺ 2015: The Southern Transjordan Edomite Plateau and the Dead Sea Rift Valley. The Bronze Age to the Islamic Period (3800/3700 BC–AD 1917). Oxford. Mattini, G. 2005: “Edom e la Bibbia”. In C. Saporetti (ed.): Studi su Edom. Rome. Pp. 117‒187. Millard, A.R., 1992: “Assyrian involvement in Edom”. In P. Bienkowski (ed.): Early Edom and Moab. The Beginning of the Iron Age in Southern Jordan. Sheffield. Pp. 35–39. Na’aman, N., 2001: “An Assyrian residence at Ramat Rahel?” Tel Aviv 28, 260– 280. Oded, B., 1970: “Observations on methods of Assyrian rule in Transjordania after the Palestinian campaign of Tiglath-Pileser III”. JNES 29, 177–186. Postgate, J.N., 1973: The Governorʼs Palace Archive. CTN 2. Hertford. Saporetti, C., 2001: Edom prima di Nabonedo. Geo-Archeologia 2001/1, 59–82. Siddall, L.R., 2013: The Reign of Adad-nīrārī III. CM 45. Leiden. Tadmor, H. 1994: The Inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III, King of Assyria. Jerusalem. Yamada, Sh., 2000: The Construction of the Assyrian Empire. CHANE 3. Leiden. Weippert, M., 2010: Historisches Textbuch zum Alten Testament. Göttingen.

The Babylonian Astronomical Diaries as a Source for the History of the Arsacids Edward Dąbrowa Reconstructing and interpreting the history of Arsacid Parthia presents considerable difficulties. We do not have any surviving narrative sources presenting a Parthian perspective on Parthia’s past. All available historical accounts are written by foreign authors – Greeks and Romans. Biased and poorly informed, the GrecoRoman authors who discussed Parthia frequently knew little about political, social, economic and religious developments under the Arsacids. In result, these authors often described Parthia’s unfamiliar socio-political and administrative structures by drawing inexact parallels with Hellenistic and Roman phenomena and institutions.1 The Greco-Roman accounts on the Parthians mention them almost exclusively in a military context, as savage yet formidable opponents of the Seleucids and Romans. In the Hellenistic and Roman world view, the Parthians firmly belonged to the Eastern barbarians, classified as such by ethnographic excurses and circulating literary topoi. Significantly, very few Greco-Roman authorities on Parthia had ever visited the land or met its inhabitants, except the Parthian diplomatic envoys2: instead, they copied their information verbatim from much older historical, geographical and ethnographic accounts. The unrepresentative and haphazard portrayal of Parthia’s history and society in the Greco-Roman sources has recently been corrected through the inclusion of cuneiform documents. Although the first cuneiform documents from the period of Parthian rule in Mesopotamia had already been published in the late 19th century, they are mostly economic in content and so did not stir up general interest in the scholarly community. However, this situation changed when A.J. Sachs and H. Hunger published dated Babylonian astronomical diaries – that is, systematic records of celestial phenomena made by diarists of the Esagila temple between 652 and 61 BCE. In one moment the authors of the diaries began to include in their records also non-astronomical references, meticulously documenting the current levels of the river Euphrates, grain prices, local curiosities and anything else that the authors found to be of importance.3 Crucially, in the first half of the fourth century BCE historical entries began to appear in the diaries: only rarely in the Achaemenid period, more frequently after Alexander the Great’s conquest of 1

The scholars studying the history of Achaemenid Persia often encounter similar problems, cf. Manning, 2021: 261–262. I am very grateful to Thomas Harrison for his assistance with the English of this article. 2 Cf. Dąbrowa, 2016: 577–578. 3 For more information on Babylonian astronomical diaries, see van der Spek, 1993: 93– 95; Pirngruber, 2014; Haubold / Steel / Stevens, 2019: 1–13; Clancier, 2021: 419–421.

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Babylon, and reaching a peak under the Arsacids.4 All records from the Parthian period – from Babylon’s capture in 141 BCE to the last historical entry in 63 BCE5 – are published in the third volume of Sachs and Hunger’s edition of the Babylonian astronomical diaries. Their great number and diverse content ensured that the diaries began to be studied by researchers interested in the history of Parthian Mesopotamia, Babylon and neighbouring lands.6 Compiled by generations of diarists, the Babylonian astronomical diaries remained neutral in tone, never including the personal commentary of their authors. The authors maintained an impartial point of view, starting many historical entries with a distancing formula, “I heard as follows (…).”7 Accordingly, the chroniclers’ perspective on the Arsacid administration of Babylonia remains difficult to discern. Nevertheless, the priests were clearly familiar with Parthian politics and daily life. Diary entries are dated to the Arsacid rule counted the years according to the Arsacid (and, at times, Seleucid) calendar,8 and named reigning Arsacid rulers (and their spouses)9 in accordance with the Parthian titulature. The selection of events to be recorded appears to have been made according to the personal preferences of chroniclers. The entries contain some observations on political events not related to Babylonia, but in general their authors mainly record religious festivals, building/restoration works at temples, grain prices, inundation levels of the river Euphrates and other local curiosities. Some unusual happenings chronicled in the diaries could probably have been recorded with their potential use in religious propaganda in mind. One could classify the content of the entries written under the Arsacids into three groups. The first type of content concerns entries on events pertaining to the rulers of Parthia and lands to the south of Babylonia. The second category of content encompasses entries on regional happenings in Babylonia, whereas the third group of content relates to local goings-on in Babylon. A single entry could include any type of content or a combination of types, with the chroniclers seamlessly going on to discuss events at home and abroad. Despite the sizeable number of surviving tablets, their poor preservation status presents difficulties in deciphering their content, often to the point that one cannot decode the text or discern 4

Tuplin, 2019: 82, 111–115. Sachs, A. / Hunger, H., 1996: Astronomical Diaries and Related Texts from Babylonia, vol. III: Diaries from 164 B.C. to 61 B.C. Wien. (= hereforth, AD III). The diary entries were also translated and commented upon in other languages, such as Italian (del Monte, 1997) and German (Böck, 2010: 45–127). 6 Cf. McEwan, 1986; van der Spek, 1997/98; Schuol, 2000; Potts, 2002; Haubold, 2019; Tuplin, 2019. 7 Tuplin, 2019: 102–103. 8 Cf. AD III, no. -107C, Obv., l. 1; -88A, Obv., l. 1; -88B, Upper edge, l. 2; -87B, Left edge, l. 1; -87C, Rev., l. 5ʹʹ; -75 Obv., l. 1; -62, Obv., l. 1. 9 Cf. AD III, no. -88A, Rev., l. 1ʹ; Lower edge, l. 1ʹ; -87C, Rev., ll. 5ʹʹ–6ʹʹ; -77A, Left edge, l. 1; -75, Obv., l. 1; Rev., ll. 8ʹ–9ʹ; -62, Obv., ll. 1–2. 5

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whether the event in question relates to happenings in Babylon, Babylonia or abroad. Although the Babylonian diarists’ interest mainly concentrated on local and regional developments, on several occasions they recorded events abroad that had some bearing on local affairs. Consequently, let us survey the events of Parthia’s history that have been recorded in diaries produced by priests of the Esagila temple. The Babylonian diaries first mention the Parthians in 141 BCE in the context of their conquest of Babylon (late April / early May), led by a Parthian general.10 At the time of the conquest, the ruling king of Parthia, Mithridates I (165–132 BCE) stayed in Media, gathering forces for an expedition to Hyrcania.11 Having heard about the fall of Babylon, Mithridates I appointed a number of officials to govern Babylonia.12 In doing so, the king sought to stabilise the interim Parthian government in Babylonia, since many local administrative posts (including the post of acting governor)13 were either held only temporarily or remained vacant. To strengthen Parthian rule over Babylonia, Mithridates I selected his administrators from among the local populace of Greek extraction.14 However, the new administration failed in its duties, unable to meet the challenge of governing the volatile society of southern Mesopotamia under the newly installed Parthian power. At the time of Parthia’s conquest, two political centres of southern Mesopotamia had risen with the weakening power of the Seleucids – namely, Elymais and Characene/Mesene.15 Both lands were governed by ambitious leaders – re-

10 The occasion coincides with the first entry in a Babylonian diary that mentions the name of the Parthian king: AD III, no. -140A, Obv., l. 1; cf. van der Spek, 1997/98: 171; Clancier, 2021: 429–430. 11 AD III, no. -140A, Rev., l. 4ʹ; cf. -140C, Obv., l. 34; Rev., l. 41ʹ. The entry dated to the month of Simān (June/July 141 BCE) (AD III, no. -140A, Rev., ll. 1ʹ–9ʹ). Although it is frequently taken to mean that Mithridates I visited Babylonia soon after its conquest (cf. Potts 2002: 354), the text does not corroborate such an interpretation. Perhaps the misunderstanding was brough about by misinterpreting Justin’s account, who does seem to suggest that the king came there very soon (41.6.8). However, one has to remember that Justin’s condensed narrative sketches a very abridged and somewhat misleading account of the king’s actions. 12 Mithridates I sent a letter to Babylon’s Parthian governor and its Greek inhabitants concerning the king’s appointment of new administrators. The letter was publicly read in Babylon on 2 July 141 BCE: AD III, no. -140A, Obv., l. 5ʹ. 13 Regrettably, we do not know the name of the acting governor. We know he was the addressee of Mithridates I’s letter in which the king named military commanders who were to hold administrative posts in Babylonia: AD III, no. -140 A, Obv., ll. 5ʹ–6ʹ. 14 One exception to that rule was Antiochus, son of Ariobarzanes of Media Atropatene (who befriended Mithridates I): AD III, no. -140A, Rev., l. 7ʹ; Potts, 2002: 355–356. 15 Although the scholarly discourse adopted Characene to refer to the southern part of Mesopotamia in that era, a more fitting name would be Mesene: Hauser, 2022: 229–231.

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spectively, Kamnaskires I of Elymais16 and Hyspaosines (Aspasinē) of Mesene17 – who attempted to exploit the instability of Mithridates’ rule over Babylonia. Kamnaskires I, the first to act, marshalled his army and entered Babylonia at the close of 141 BCE.18 Initially, Kamnaskires encountered some resistance from local Parthian regiments (led by one Antiochus, son of Ariobarzanes) but the ruler of Elymais soon overpowered them.19 Perhaps Kamnaskires reached a secret understanding with Antiochus so that the latter would submit Babylonia to Kamnaskires, with Antiochus’ betrayal revealed by the citizens of Seleucia.20 One of Antiochus’ subordinates and his namesake (Antiochus, son of Alexander) remained faithful to the Parthian cause, called in additional troops, and fought against Kamnaskires’ forces.21 However, the army of Elymais soon proved superior, ravaging southern Mesopotamia and driving streams of war refugees into the gates of Babylon and Seleucia-on-Tigris.22 The debacle in Mesopotamia prompted Mithridates I to appoint his own brother Bagayasha (Bagasis) as supreme commander of the Parthian forces in Babylonia, a position Bagayasha held until 30 May 138 BCE, when he departed to Media.23 The summer of 138 BCE brought continued upheaval in Mesopotamia. Elymais continued its attacks against southern Mesopotamia, forcibly displacing the citizens of Uruk and its hinterland from their homes and bringing them to Elymais.24 Meanwhile, the forces of Demetrius II of Syria (145–138 BCE) entered Babylonia and sought to reconquer it for the Seleucids. The author of a diary entry dated to the month of Dûzu (July/August) 138 BCE briefly mentioned that Demetrius’s army came and were defeated by the Parthian forces from Media, led by Mithridates I.25 Although the Parthian king captured Demetrius and his retinue, he accorded due respect to his royal captive.26 More detailed accounts of Demetrius’ campaign survive in texts by other ancient authorities; by and large they match the much terser version found in the Babylonian astronomical diaries.27 16

Cf. Potts, 1999: 384–390; 2002: 351–352. Cf. Schuol, 2000: 218–220; Potts, 2002: 357. 18 AD III, no. -140C, Obv., l. 35. Kamnaskires’ entrance concurred with Antiochus VI’s (146–138 BCE) invasion, with the Seleucid king aiming to reconquer Babylonia, cf. AD III, no. -140C, Rev., l. 36ʹ; van der Spek, 1997/98: 171–172. 19 AD III, no. -140C, Obv., ll. 37–42.; Rev., ll. 35ʹ–43ʹ. 20 AD III, no. -140C, Rev., ll. 29ʹ–33ʹ. 21 AD III, no. -140C, Rev., ll. 36ʹ–41ʹ. 22 Cf. AD III, no. -140D, Obv., ll. 11ʹ–15ʹ. 23 AD III, no. -137A, Obv., l. 18ʹ; cf. Clancier, 2021: 431–432, 435. 24 AD III, no. -137A, Rev., ll. 5ʹ–6ʹ. 25 AD III, no. -137A, Rev., ll. 8ʹ–10ʹ; van der Spek 1997/98: 172–173. Clancier, 2021: 430–432. 26 AD III, no. -137A, Rev., ll. 8–11. 27 See Dąbrowa, 1999. 17

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The following entries indicate that Demetrius’ incursion did not put an end to the war with Elymais. The Parthian forces failed to contain the troops of Kamnaskires, who approached Babylon and forced the local population to flee the theatre of war. In turn, the ruler of Elymais established his administrative and fiscal authority over the conquered lands.28 The creeping spread of Kamnaskires’ sphere of influence faltered in December 138 BCE, when the conflict witnessed the entrance of yet another player – Hyspaosines, a Seleucid satrap of Mesene, installed by Antiochus IV Epiphanes. Having declared independence after the collapse of Seleucid power in Babylonia, Hyspaosines consolidated his power in the region by seizing newly conquered portions of Babylonia from Elymais and incorporating them into Mesene despite the disobedience of the local populace.29 Although Kamnaskires lost parts of his domain to Hyspaosines,30 the forces of Elymais persisted in the plunder of Babylonia, attacking Nippur, Uruk and other cities in January 137 BCE.31 The Parthian commanders, supported by forces brought over from northern Babylonia, attempted to contain Kamnaskires’ campaign, with a series of skirmishes continuing throughout the remainder of the year. In the subsequent interval, a fragile and uneasy ceasefire prevailed over Babylonia, to end in October 133 BCE when Hyspaosines’ troops unexpectedly attacked the port of Seleucia-on-Tigris.32 Due to the poor preservation of the relevant diary entry, we know little about the aftermath of the attack, but what survives of the text indicates that the Parthian forces fought bravely against the troops of Elymais.33 The entry attributed to the month of Tebēt (January/February) of 132 BCE records the events in Elymais: first, king Kamnaskires I was overthrown by his son (of the same name); second, the Parthian forces attacked Elymais and approached Susa.34 The damaged tablet does not reveal whether the Parthians seized the city. Nevertheless, subsequent entries report that Ur’a, son of Kamnaskires, arrived in Babylon to make an offering in the Esagila temple,35 which 28

AD III, no. -137D, Obv., ll. 12ʹ–14ʹ. AD III, no. -137D, Obv., l. 14ʹ; Rev., ll. 1–3. 30 Cf. AD III, no. -137D, Rev., l. 3ʹ. 31 AD III, no. -137D, Rev., ll. 24–25. According to B. Böck (2010: 58), the anonymous foe mentioned in the diary should be identified with Elymais, whereas G. F. del Monte (1997: 118) claims that the author speaks of Hyspaosines. The first proposal appears more likely, since the diary text insinuates that the enemy was well known to the Babylonians, whereas Hyspaosines at that time remained a little-known foreigner. 32 AD III, no. -132B, Rev., ll. 18–20. 33 AD III, no. -132D2, Rev., ll. 8ʹ–10ʹ; Potts, 1999: 390–391. 34 AD III, no. -132D2, Obv., ll. 16ʹ–21ʹ. The poor preservation of the text does not allow one to discern whether Kamnaskires’ son remained in Babylon and fought for his father’s throne with the help of the Parthian forces, cf. Potts 2002, 358. 35 AD III, no. -132D2, Rev., ll. 21ʹ–23ʹ. One of the fragments dated to the entry of Šabāt (February/March) of 132 BCE implies that Ur’a (under close guard) accompanied the Parthian governor of Babylonia, cf. AD III, no. -132D1, Obv., ll. 7ʹ–9ʹ. 29

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could indicate that the new ruler of Elymais yielded to the Parthian military pressure and accepted Arsacid sovereignty. The change of leadership in Elymais did not calm the turmoil in southern Babylonia, with the diaries of 131 BCE repeatedly speaking of ongoing clashes. In 130 BCE, Babylonia underwent another period of unrest. In mid-April, the Parthian king Phraates II (132–127 BCE) commanded that all Greek inhabitants of Babylon come to some (otherwise unknown and unnamed) military camp.36 Even though the sources do not mention the king’s motive, the gathering was brought about by the incursion of Antiochus VII’s (139–128 BCE) army into Mesopotamia.37 Under pressure, over the next several weeks, from the gravity of the unfolding situation, Phraates II gave Himeros (an Iranian officer) control over Babylonia. The ancient authorities report that Himeros’ tenure stood out by his constant harassment of his Greek and Babylonian subjects.38 Yet, the author of the relevant entry remains silent about Himeros’ atrocities, his actions against the king of Mesene and the war between Phraates II and Antiochus VII.39 In an entry dated to the month of Dūzu (July/August) of 130 BCE, the diarist reports an invasion by nomadic tribes (whom he calls the ‘Arabs’); from that point onwards, their incursions will feature prominently in the Babylonian diaries.40 No diaries survive for the interval between the autumn of 130 BCE and the autumn of 127 BCE; as a result, the events reported in an entry attributed to Arahsamnu (November) of 127 BCE are not set within a larger context. The entry narrates that Timarchus (a former Parthian military commander who deflected to Hyspaosines) entered Babylon with Indupanē, another general, that he then marched towards Borsippa and finally turned his troops towards Seleucia-on-Tigris.41 The wording of the entry clearly implies that Timarchus and Indupanē acted on the orders of Hyspaosines, who appears briefly to have seized control of Babylonia at the turn of 127/126 BCE.42 Another entry, dated to the month Nisan (March/April) of 126 BCE, relays that the lands of Mesene were beset by unidentified robbers and raiders. Some scholars have argued that the raiders of Mesene 36

AD III, no. -129A1, Obv., ll. 6ʹ–8ʹ. Cf. Böck, 2010: 77; Clancier, 2021: 433–434. 38 Cf. AD III, no. -129A2, Obv., l. 21ʹ. For more information on Himeros’ activity in Babylonia, see Pomp. Trog., Prol. 42; Just. 42.1.3; Diod. 34.21; cf. Poseidonios, FGrH 87, F 13 (= Athen. Deipn. 11.15, 466 c); cf. also Karras-Klapproth, 1988: 65–67. 39 Pomp. Trog., Prol. 42. 40 AD III, no. -129A2, Rev., ll. 19ʹ–20ʹ. Although these raiders became the scourge upon Babylonia, the Babylonian diaries do not say where they came from; instead, they called them by applying (circumlocutive) epithets. 41 AD III, no. -126A, Obv., ll. 6ʹ–9ʹ; Rev., ll. 1–3. 42 Hyspaosines’ brief rule over Babylonia appears substantiated by him sacrificing in the Esagila temple in the month Addar (February/March) of 126 BCE: AD III, no. -126B, Obv., l. 8ʹ. At that time, Hyspaosines most likely removed the royal throne out of the palace of Babylon, cf. AD III, no. -124B, Rev., ll. 14ʹ–15ʹ. 37

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were Parthian troops, since the diarist reports that the Parthian governor of Babylonia took his forces and left for an unknown destination. Some scholars identify the robbers with one of the ethnic groups inhabiting Mesene.43 Another entry for Nisan 126 BCE reports attacks by the aforementioned ‘Arabs,’ with further clashes reported in the month Ulūl (August/September) of the same year.44 Throughout 125 BCE, the incursions of the ‘Arabs’ happened so frequently that they disrupted traffic between Babylon, Borsippa and other cities to the south. The raiders not only pillaged Babylonia but also extracted tribute from its inhabitants, eventually growing brazen enough to attack Babylon.45 The entries dated to the months Arahsamnu (November/December) and Kislīm (December/January) of 125 BCE mention a number of significant political and military developments. The entry for Arahsamnu 125 BCE records the visit of Timotheus (Ti’mutusu), son of Hyspaosines. The dignitary came to Babylon and Seleucia-on-Tigris with lavish gifts for Artabanus I (127–124 BCE), the ruling king of Parthia.46 At the time, Artabanus stayed in Babylonia, seeking to assemble an expeditionary force against Elymais.47 Since the preceding entries say nothing about Elymais, we cannot know what brought about Artabanus’ expedition. Nevertheless, the diarists noted that Artabanus secured a glorious victory over king Pittiti at the battle of Susa (15 Kislīm = 22.12.125 BCE).48 The author of the entry encapsulated the magnitude of Artabanus’ triumph through quoting excerpts from letters by Hyspaosines and Artabanus, who kept Babylon’s governor and its Greek inhabitants abreast of the latest war news.49 Pittiti became a prisoner and Elymais came under Arsacid rule. Nonetheless, the presence of a sizeable Parthian army in the south of Mesopotamia did not discourage nomadic ‘Arab’ raiders, who continued to harass the southern hinterlands of Babylonia.50 The lengthy entry on Artabanus I’ actions in Babylonia and Elymais includes two events of note. One of them concerns Timotheus, son of Hyspaosines: for some unknown reason, Artabanus had him arrested and sent to Mesene in chains.51 Another event pertains to the return of the royal throne of Babylon, abducted by Hyspaosines several years before. The returning throne was gifted to the temple of Bel as a votive.52 The diarist’s description of the throne’s return 43

AD III, no.-125A, Obv., ll. 13–21; Böck, 2010: 82. AD III, no. -125A, Rev., l. 20ʹ. 45 AD III, no. -124A, Obv., ll. 8ʹ–9ʹ, 36ʹ–37ʹ; Rev., ll. 5ʹ and 7ʹ. 46 AD III, no. -124B, Obv., ll. 1ʹ–3ʹ, 6ʹ; cf. l. 19ʹ. 47 AD III, no. -124B, Obv., l. 19ʹ. 48 Cf. AD III, no. -124B, Rev., ll. 13ʹ; del Monte, 1997: 142, note 247. 49 AD III, no. -124B, Obv., ll. 12ʹ–14ʹ, 17ʹ–18ʹ. D. T. Potts (2002: 359–360) argues that letters from Hyspaosines to the Babylonians demonstrate that Hyspaosines sided (if briefly) with Artabanus against Elymais. 50 AD III, no. -124B, Obv., l. 21ʹ. 51 AD III, no. -124B, Obv., l. 20ʹ. 52 AD III, no. -124B, Rev., ll. 14ʹ–15ʹ. 44

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does not convey plainly who brought it back. Was it Hyspaosines, who, having learned about Pittiti’s downfall, wished to appease the victorious Parthian king? Was it Artabanus, who seized the throne in Elymais and returned it to its rightful place? The confusing entry certainly mentions Pittiti, but his link to the missing throne appears murky. The diary entries dated to 124 BCE reveal that this year was also marked by instability and strife. The ongoing incursions of ‘Arab’ raiders threw parts of Babylonia into chaos,53 with even Parthian forces unable to contain them.54 The attacks were to continue in the years to come.55 From a political standpoint, an entry dated to the month Simān (June/July) reports that Hyspaosines, who at the time was residing in Mesene, fell ill and promptly died on 11 June 124 BC. The entry’s author adds that the king’s death brought about a succession crisis: the wife of the late king colluded with her supporters to put Hyspaosines’ juvenile son on the throne.56 Another diary entry relating happenings beyond Babylonia dates to the month of Tašrīt (October/November) of 119 BCE. On 15 Tašrīt (= 18.10.119 BCE), a letter sent by Mithridates II (123–91 BCE) was read publicly in Babylon that proclaimed his victories over “Tocharians”.57 Although the text of the diary speaks of Gutium – a land of nomadic people to the east of Babylonia, we can collate the diary entry with Justin’s account to surmise that the diarist’s Guteans were Justin’s Tocharians, with whom Artabanus I fought and died in battle. Mithridates II’s expedition against the Tocharians was intended to avenge his predecessor and brother.58 The entries dated to Mithridates II’s reign comment on his domestic and foreign affairs. Two texts dated to Nisān (April/May) and Ajjar (May/June) 112 BCE refer to a military conflict (a rebellion?) in Babylonia, spearheaded by the general Mithridates (Mitradatā).59 The poor state of preservation of the text and lack of any comparanda make it impossible to find more information on this event. Equally mysterious are skirmishes around Nisibis in northern Mesopotamia, mentioned in an entry dated to Ajjar 112 BCE.60 The diarist sheds more light on Mithridates II’s expedition to Armenia, mentioned in an entry dated to the month of Ab (August/September) in 111 BCE.61 Justin’s account also mentions 53

AD III, no.-123A, Obv., l. 4ʹ. AD III, no. -123A, Rev., ll. 5–8; -123C, Obv., ll. 12ʹ–13ʹ. 55 Cf. AD III, no. -122D, Rev., ll. 9ʹ–10ʹ; -122E, Rev., ll. 15ʹ–17ʹ; -119B1, Rev., l. 13ʹ–14ʹ; -118A, Obv., l. 22; -118A, Rev., l. 22ʹ; -117B, Obv., l. 4ʹ; -111B, Obv., ll. 11ʹ–12ʹ; -108B, Obv., l. 20ʹ; -105A, Rev., ll. 22ʹ–23ʹ. 56 AD III, no. -123A, Obv., ll. 18ʹ–21ʹ. 57 AD III, no. -118A, Rev., ll. 19ʹ– 21ʹ, cf. 22ʹ. See also no.-118B, Upper edge, ll. 3–5. Mithridates II’ victory over the Tocharians was also described by Justin (42.2.5). 58 Cf. Just. 42.2.2–5. 59 AD III, no. -111A, Obv., ll. 17–18, 31–33; -111C, Obv., ll. 4ʹ–6ʹ. 60 AD III, no. -111B, Obv., ll. 6ʹ–8ʹ. 61 AD III, no. -110A, Rev., l. 14ʹ. 54

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this expedition,62 but only the Babylonian diary attributes it to a specific month. Other mentions of Armenia appear in entries dated to Nisān (March/April) 96 BCE. One of them cannot be deciphered due to numerous lacunae,63 whereas another records the death of Artavasdes I of Armenia and the accession of his son, Tigranes I,64 previously held hostage by the Parthians in Babylon.65 Having learned about his father’s demise, the young prince, supported by Mithridates II, immediately travelled to Armenia, as noted by the Babylonian diaries.66 The entries dated to the following years record faint echoes of events in inner Parthia. For example, the entries attributed to Dûzu (July) and Ab (July/August) 94 BCE give an account of Mithridates II’s expedition to one of the regions of Media.67 Due to the scarcity of other details, we cannot deduce why the king travelled there. The scholarly consensus is that Mithridates II reigned until 88 BCE.68 The Babylonian diaries challenge this date: an entry dated to Kislīm (November/ December) of 91 BCE relays that Gotarzes (I) (91–87 BCE), son of Mithridates, assumed the throne after his father’s death.69 The entry adds that general Mithridates, the commander of Parthian forces in Babylonia, was fighting against some powerful (yet unnamed) enemy/enemies who threatened to overrun the entire region.70 Mithridates waged a fierce and sustained campaign across the Tigris, marching against his foes as far as Susa71; the diaries relay that the clashes lasted at least until 84 BCE.72 The ancient authors report that Parthia underwent a massive upheaval after the demise of Mithridates II, torn as under by a prolonged succession crisis, mounting internal unrest and Armenia’s expansionist policies.73 The events chronicled in Babylonian astronomical diaries corroborate these accounts to some extent. The 62

Just. 42.2.6. AD III, no. -95A, Obv., l. 10ʹ. 64 The author of the entry mentions that Tigranes was Artavasdes’ son (AD III, no. -95C, Rev., l. 12ʹ; -95E, Flake, l. 11ʹ; cf. App. Syr. 48). However, Strabo (11.14.15 C 532)) claims that they were otherwise related; in result, scholars continue to debate the nature of their relationship, cf. Geller / Traina, 2013: 444. 65 AD III, no. -95C, Obv., ll. 5ʹ–7ʹ. The fact that the Parthians held Tigranes hostage is mentioned by Strabo (11.14.15) and Justin (38.3.1); Geller / Traina, 2013: 450. 66 AD III, no. -95C, Obv. l. 6; cf. -95C, Rev., l. 12ʹ. Tigranes was granted leave by Mithridates II, who hoped that the young prince would rule Armenia according to his wishes. Cf. Geller / Traina 2013: 450–451. 67 AD III, no. -93A, Rev., ll. 11, 23. 68 Cf. Debevoise 1938: 48–50, 270 (88/87 BCE). 69 AD III, no. -90, Obv., l. 31ʹ; Lower edge, l. 1; -87C, Rev., l. 31ʹ. 70 AD III, no. -90, Obv., ll. 15ʹ–17ʹ, 32ʹ–33ʹ, 49ʹ; Rev., ll. 1–2. 71 Cf. AD III, no. -87C, Obv., ll. 49ʹ–50ʹ; -83A, Obv., ll. 2ʹ–6ʹ; Rev., ll. 17–21. 72 AD III, no. -83A, Obv., ll. 2ʹ–6ʹ, 21ʹ–22ʹ; Rev., ll. 16–19. 73 Cf. Just. 42.4.1–4. 63

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diaries record echoes of the situation in Babylonia after Mithridates II – a land beleaguered by internal instability and dangers looming abroad.74 Unfortunately, many of the diary tablets are damaged to such a degree that we cannot pinpoint whether the unrest was brought about by factors originating in Babylonia or perhaps by succession strife in the Arsacid dynasty.75 Another type of danger was brewing beyond Babylonia’s borders. After many years of peace, Kamnaskires (IV) of Elymais felt emboldened by Mithridates II’s death and began to encroach upon Babylonia.76 The general Mithridates attempted to contain Kamnaskires’ forces but apparently did not succeed, as suggested by the entries dated to the months of Tašrīt (October) and Arahsamnu (November) of 78 BCE.77 These entries indicate that Orodes I of Parthia (81/80–75 BCE) gathered an army and marched south across Babylonia. Without question, Orodes’ aim was Elymais: the diary entry dated to Šabāt (January/February) of 77 BCE records a battle between the forces of Parthia under Orodes and the troops of Elymais under Kamnaskires. Orodes triumphed over Kamnaskires, who fled from the battlefield and found refuge in the Zagros mountains, pursued by the Parthians.78 Despite Orodes’ victory over Elymais, the diaries report further border clashes at the limits of the Arsacid domain. A poorly preserved entry dated to Arahsamnu (November/December) of 73 BCE refers to the above-mentioned land of Gutium.79 Although the diarists usually referred to Gutium in the context of Parthian war raids,80 the poorly preserved text yields no information on its significance. This entry of Arahsamnu 73 BCE marks the final occurrence of Parthia-related matters in the Babylonian astronomical diaries. *** The analysis of references to Parthian historical affairs found in the Babylonian astronomical diaries confirms the diaries’ value as an important source of historical data. Most significantly, the diaries represent a local and independent tradition of record-keeping, far removed from Greco-Roman models of historiography. 74

See AD III, no. -88B, Obv., l. 11ʹ. Justin (42.4.2) refers to wars waged in Babylonia by Orodes II and Mithridates III, but the said conflict took place a few decades later. Curiously, Babylonian diaries mention Parthian rulers fighting some unknown enemies, the cases in point found in entries dated to Addar (February/March) of 87 BCE (AD III, no.- 87C, Rev., ll. 31ʹ–32ʹ) and Nisan (April/May) of 83 BCE (AD III, no. -82A, Obv., ll. 20–22). The entry of Addar 87 BCE mentions a conflict between Gotarzes and an unknown enemy, whereas the entry of Nisan 83 BCE notes that the king and his army were stationing in southern Mesopotamia (in the vicinity of Uruk), quelling (?) a local rebellion. 76 Cf. AD III, no. -90, Rev., ll. 1–2. 77 AD III, no. -77B, Obv., ll. 11ʹ and 27ʹ. 78 AD III, no. -77B, Rev., ll. 12ʹ–14ʹ. Cf. McEwan 1986: 91. 79 AD III, no. -72, Obv., l. 11ʹ. 80 Cf. AD III, no. -118A, Rev., l. 20ʹ; del Monte, 1997: 182; Böck, 2010: 126–127. 75

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As such, the diaries offer a unique perspective on many events in the Near East – the events which Greco-Roman authorities either had never heard about or which they had misrepresented due to cultural misunderstandings. These cuneiform records faithfully reflect the pluralistic and divided socio-political milieu of Babylonia and southern Mesopotamia, one which perennially posed problems for the Arsacid administration. Furthermore, the information found in the diaries not only extends our knowledge about many hitherto unknown events that influenced the activity of the Parthian kings but also challenges and questions our Greco-Roman historiographic bias in the interpretation put on Parthian policies. Since the Babylonian diarists strove for political neutrality, their records appear significantly more objective than the opinions and judgements of Greco-Roman historians and writers, who saw Parthia and the Arsacids as enemies or barbarians. As neutral observers, the Babylonian diarists concentrated on events and affairs close to Babylon and Babylonia, shifting their focus onto external matters only when these were of importance to them. Despite this inward perspective, the diaries testify that Media represented the seat of the Arsacids in the period discussed. From Media the Arsacids marched out to smite their enemies at the borders; from Media they sent commands and queries to their officials across their territory; to Media came all those summoned by the Arsacids or those who sought their decrees and favours.81 Finally, the diaries reveal the Arsacid style of government, also shedding some light on the Arsacid policies towards their subjects. The limited scope of this analysis by necessity excludes any discussion of regional and local events in Babylonia as reported by the diaries. However, one must note that these regional and local reports constitute a treasury of information on the Parthians’ military and civilian administration in Babylon and Babylonia, both in its day-to-day functioning and when dealing with external threats. This wealth of information on local happenings allows one to carry out a plethora of studies on various aspects of daily life in Babylon. Undoubtedly, the cuneiform tablets written in Babylonia under the Parthians – not only the astronomical diaries discussed here but also economic records – constitute an enormously valuable resource for any studies of the history, government and society of Mesopotamia under the Arsacids. Relayed in a neutral manner and from a non-ruling elite perspective, these documents present a faithful register of local life in Babylon and allow scholars to work with raw data that have not been coloured by the grand historical narratives of the Greco-Roman tradition.

81

See AD III, no. -140A, Rev., l. 4ʹ; -137A, Obv., l. 19ʹ; 137C, Obv. l. 17ʹ; -132B, Rev., ll. 21–22; -124A, Rev., l. 24ʹ; -119A2, Obv., l. 19ʹ; -93A, Rev., ll. 11, 22; -77A, Obv., l. 31ʹ.

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Bibliography Böck, B., 2010: “Keilschriftliche Texte”. In U. Hackl et al. (eds.): Quellen zur Geschichte des Partherreiches. Vol. 3. Göttingen / Oakville, CT. Pp. 1–174. Clancier, Ph., 2021: “Les derniers Séleucides en Babylone et l’instauration de la domination Parthe”. In C. Feyel / L. Graslin-Thomé (eds.): Les derniers Séleucides et leur territoire. Études Anciennes 78. Paris: de Boccard. Pp. 419– 441. Dąbrowa, E., 1999: “L’Expédition de Démétrios II Nicator contre les Parthes (139–138 avant J.-C.)”. Parthica 1, 9–16. — 2016: “Roman Authors on the Honours of Arsaces I: Observations on the Transmission of a Historical Tradition”. Latomus 75, 575–584. Debevoise, N.C., 1938: A Political History of Parthia. Chicago. Del Monte, G., 1997: Testi della Babilonia Ellenistica, vol. 1: Testi cronologici. Pisa / Roma. Geller, M. / Traina, G., 2013: “‘Tigranu, the Crown Prince of Armenia’: Evidence from the Babylonian Astronomical Diaries”. Klio 95, 447–454. Haubold, J., 2019: “History and Historiography in the Early Parthian Diaries”. In Haubold / Steele / Stevens, 2019a. Pp. 269–293. Haubold J. / J. Steele / K. Stevens (eds.) 2019a: Keeping Watch in Babylon. The Astronomical Diaries in Context. Leiden / Boston Haubold, J. / Steele, J./ Stevens, K., 2019b: “Introduction”. In Haubold / Steele / Stevens, 2019a. Pp. 1–18. Hauser, S.R., 2022: “Imagined communities. Die Mesene, ein Grenzfall im Spannungsfeld moderner Vorurteile”. In U. Hartmann / T. Stickler / F. Schleicher (eds.): Imperia sine fine? Der römisch-parthische Grenzraum als Konfliktund Kontaktzone vom späten 1. bis zum frühen 3. Jahrhundert n. Chr. (Konferenz Jena 2019). Stuttgart. Pp. 329–355. Karras-Klapproth, M., 1988: Prospographische Studien zur Geschichte des Partherreiches auf der Grundlage antiker literarischer Überlieferung. Bonn. Manning, S., 2021: Armed Force in Teispid-Achaemenid Empire. Past Approaches, Future Prospects. Stuttgart. MacEwan, G.J.P., 1986: “A Parthian Campaign against Elymais in 77 B.C.”. Iran 24, 91–94. Pingruber, R., 2014: “The Historical Sections in the Astronomical Diaries in Context: Developments in a Late Babylonian Scientific Text Corpus”. Iraq 75, 197–210. Potts, D.T., 2000: The Archaeology of Elam. Formation and Transformation of an Ancient Iranian State. Cambridge. — 2002: “Five Episodes in the History of Elymais, 145–124 B.C.: New Data from the Astronomical Diaries”. Cahiers de Studia Iranica 25, 349–362. Schuol, M., 2000: Die Charakene. Ein mesopotamisches Königreich in hellenistisch-parthischer Zeit. Stuttgart.

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Tuplin, C., 2019: “Logging History in Achaemenid, Hellenistic and Parthian Babylonia Historical Entries in Dated Astronomical Diaries”. In Haubold / Steele / Stevens, 2019a: 79–119. Van der Spek, R.J., 1993: “The Astronomical Diaries as a Source for Achaemenid and Seleucid History”. Bibliotheca Orientalis 12, 91–101. —1997/98: “New Evidence from the Babylonian Astronomical Diaries concerning Seleucid and Arsacid History”. AfO 44/45, 167–175.

Hidden in Plain Sight The ‘Firing Holes’ on Ashurbanipal’s Prisms Stefania Ermidoro Introduction Royal inscriptions recorded on Neo-Assyrian prisms have been the subject of indepth studies and accurate editions since the early years of Assyriology. Instead of using clay tablets to record their military and civic deeds, as did many of their predecessors throughout the Near East, Neo-Assyrian kings used different carriers to communicate their propagandistic messages: they wrote mostly (but not exclusively) on prisms, cylinders, stelae, bull and/or lion colossi, wall slabs and thresholds made of (baked) clay, stone and metal.1 Prisms were usually hollow, with a perforation from top to base, varying in size from 20 to 50 cm in height and from 10 to 20 cm in width, and with five to 10 sides. They were used for royal inscriptions in Assyria, whereas in Babylonia the preferred medium always remained the cylinder. On a technical level, the clay used for prisms often contained inclusions of vegetable matter and/or small stones; prisms were usually made by one interior layer of coarse clay, plus an exterior level made of finer clay.2 For the arrangement of texts on their surfaces, prisms represented a versatile layout that could display royal inscriptions of various length and Assyrian scribes found a variety of efficient solutions to fit the texts on their faces.3 Prisms were undoubtedly Ashurbanipal’s favourite medium to record his deeds and achievements in an annalistic form.4 The latest edition of Ashurbanipal’s royal inscriptions counts 20 different versions of his res gestae, inscribed on 705 ‘exemplars’.5 Most are fragments of different sizes; only rarely have prisms survived entirely or have been reconstructed by joining different fragments – the longest surviving exemplar being the decagonal ‘Rassam Prism’, which counted 1,300 lines of inscription.6 One specific feature of Ashurbanipal’s prisms has thus far remained hidden in plain sight: namely, the presence on some surfaces of the so-called ‘firing holes’, which have not been highlighted by scholars in any of the 1

Frahm, 2019. See Taylor, 2011: 25–26; Taylor, forthcoming. 3 Taylor, 2018: 34–38. 4 Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 2. 5 I use here the term ‘exemplar’ in the same meaning as the one used in the volumes of the Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period series: namely, I refer to a single inscription found on one object (be it a complete prism, a fragment or the result of one or more joins). 6 On the relationship between the various media on which Ashurbanipal’s annals were recorded, see Novotny, 2018: 196–197. On the rediscovery of the large prism by Rassam, see Rassam, 1882: 57. 2

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editions which appeared from the 19th century onward.7 At the beginning of the 20th century, Streck published a detailed description and edition of Ashurbanipal’s inscriptions. Alongside the analysis of the texts, he also offered some considerations on the aesthetic appearance of the few prisms which survived in their entirety. He stated that the stylistic art of the Assyrians reached its peak with the annals, in particular with the Rassam Prism and its parallel (see discussion below). He recognised that these inscriptions were superior to those of every other Assyrian king in terms of ‘greater smoothness, richness of words and finer veining of the period structure […], to the careful care that Ashurbanipal, the patron of the arts and sciences, especially of literature, who was himself versed in the “art of writing on a tablet”, gave them’.8 Borger’s edition (published in 1996 and of enduring influence), while offering a lengthy and detailed analysis of the textual content of the prisms, failed to discuss the existence, position and possible significance of firing holes on their surfaces.9 The recent edition of Ashurbanipal’s annalistic texts by Novotny and Jeffers, while providing a detailed analysis of the texts, style and even of grammatical differences between exemplars of the same text, equally never mentions or discusses the presence of surface holes. Only some very recent studies by Taylor on the materiality of cuneiform writing, and on prisms and cylinders in particular, have noted that firing holes appear almost exclusively on royal inscriptions of Ashurbanipal (though a few exceptions exist, for which see below).10 The present contribution aims to follow this trend of research and provide insight on the materiality of texts, with a particular focus on Neo-Assyrian prisms.11 Ashurbanipal’s prisms with firing holes As of now, it has been possible to identify 32 exemplars of prisms dated to Ashurbanipal’s reign that present the so-called ‘firing holes’ (Table 1).12 The label given 7

To mention but the earliest edition of the Rassam Prism, see Smith, 1887; Jensen, 1890; Winckler, 1895. None of these scholars mention firing holes, nor do they draw these marks in their copies. For a survey of the major editions of royal inscriptions by Ashurbanipal from the 19th century onwards, see Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 7–12. 8 Streck, 1916: XVI–XVII (my translation from German). 9 Borger, 1996. 10 Taylor, 2018; Taylor, forthcoming. 11 “For Assyriologists and related scholars of ancient texts, the adoption of a materiality approach represents an oft belated recognition that the written record consists of writing on something and by someone, rather than being composed of disembodied ideas”: Pollock, 2016: 277. See also Taylor, 2011. 12 The preliminary investigation at the base of the present contribution has been made by perusing the online databases of the Cuneiform Library Digital Initiative and the British Museum ‘Collection Online’. As thorough and as careful as the research has been, I am aware of the limitation that only fragments for which photographs have been made available online could be considered. Future research, integrated by collations made in the Mu-

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Date

Provenience

Collection

Primary publication

CDLI no.

Join

Museum no.

Accession no.

today to these perforations derives from an original theory that these holes were marked on the clay tablets so as to prevent their exploding during the baking process (see below). However, given that the real function of the holes is still unclear,13 the possibility to study their presence on prisms – as well as their characteristics when impressed on a support different than the ‘usual’ clay tablets – might provide useful information on why, how and when these holes were used.

BM —

Sm 2107

P426280 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 3, ex. 19?

British Museum, Probably London, UK Nineveh

649–648 BCE

BM 127851

1929-1012, 507

P422626 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 3, ex. 36?

British Museum, Nineveh London, UK

649–648 BCE

BM 127934

1929-1012, 590

P422709 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 3, ex. 45?

British Museum, Nineveh London, UK

649–648 BCE

A7939

P392136 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 3, ex. 88?

Oriental Institute Purchased by 649–648 Museum Chiera in Mosul BCE

A7979

P392203 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 3, ex. 116?

Oriental Institute Purchased by 649–648 Museum Chiera in Mosul BCE

seums, will bridge the present gaps. 13 For an up-to-date discussion on the hypotheses suggested so far with regard to the holes’ functions, as well as a review of types of firing holes and their layout on the tablets’ surface, see Corò / Ermidoro, 2020. The LIBER project: The King’s Librarians at Work. Applying Machine Learning and Computer Vision to the Study of Scribal Marks on Cuneiform Tablets, currently ongoing at Ca’ Foscari University of Venice in collaboration with the Ashurbanipal Library Project, directed by J. Taylor, and the Centre for Cultural Heritage Technology of the Italian Institute of Technology, directed by A. Traviglia, aims to systematically re-evaluate the function of the firing holes by considering a coherent and homogenous group of tablets as a sample (namely, those which were kept in the so-called ‘Library of Ashurbanipal’ at Nineveh). LIBER applies a new, integrated approach to the study of these holes that considers the physical characteristics (shape, size, number), the positioning on the tablets (patterns and location on the surface) and their relationship with the general layout of the tablets (paragraphs, dividing lines, etc.). In order to investigate every possible feature related to these marks, the project also analyses the correlation of the holes with the tablets’ textual content and context.

Date

Provenience

Collection

Primary publication

CDLI no.

Join

Stefania Ermidoro Accession no.

Museum no.

118

BM —

1880-0719, 0276

P452022 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 3, ex. 145?

British Museum, Nineveh London, UK

649–648 BCE

BM —

K 01731

P394015 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 4, ex. 11

British Museum, Probably London, UK Nineveh

648 BCE

A8089

P392315 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 6, ex. 15?

Oriental Institute Purchased by 647 BCE Museum Chiera in Mosul

A 8070

(+) BM P392293 RINAP 5/1 127947 + Ashurbanipal 9, BM ex. 20 127959

Oriental Institute Nineveh; 645? BCE Museum; British Purchased by Museum, Chiera in Mosul London, UK

A 8019

(+) BM P392243 RINAP 5/1 127957 (= Ashurbanipal 9, 1929-10ex. 21 12, 613)

Oriental Institute Nineveh; 645? BCE Museum; British Purchased by Museum, Chiera in Mosul London, UK

1881-0727, 15

P452414 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 9, ex. 25?

British Museum, Probably London, UK Nineveh

645? BCE

BM —

Rm 2, 70

P424926 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 9, ex. 59

British Museum, Probably London, UK Nineveh

645? BCE

BM 128299

1932-1210, 556

P423047 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 9, ex. 131

British Museum, Nineveh London, UK

645? BCE

A8015

P392239 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 9, ex. 157

Oriental Institute Purchased by 645? BCE Museum Chiera in Mosul

A8065

P392288 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 9, ex. 181

Oriental Institute Purchased by 645? BCE Museum Chiera in Mosul

A8083

P392309 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 9, ex. 189

Oriental Institute Purchased by 645? BCE Museum Chiera in Mosul

A8084

P392310 RINAP 5/1 Ashurbanipal 9, ex. 190

Oriental Institute Purchased by 645? BCE Museum Chiera in Mosul

BM —

K 01729

P394013 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Probably Ashurbanipal 10, London, UK Nineveh ex. 2

645? BCE

Date

Provenience

119

Collection

Primary publication

CDLI no.

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Accession no.

Museum no.

Hidden in Plain Sight

BM —

1880-0719, 284

P452028 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Probably Ashurbanipal 10, London, UK Nineveh ex. 9

645? BCE

BM —

1882-0522, 6

P452638 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Probably Ashurbanipal 10, London, UK Nineveh ex. 11

645? BCE

BM —

Rm 2, 79

P424929 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Probably Ashurbanipal 10, London, UK Nineveh ex. 18

645? BCE

Rm 1

+K 15110

BM 91086+

P421807 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Nineveh, North 644–642 Ashurbanipal 11, London, UK Palace, Wall of BCE ex. 1 Room H P397673 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Nineveh, North 644–642 Ashurbanipal 11, London, UK Palace BCE ex. 2

BM —

K 01800 + 188205-22, 1

P394073 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Probably Ashurbanipal 11, London, UK Nineveh ex. 13

644–642 BCE

BM —

1879-07- + 193208, 9 12-12, 489 (= BM 134494)

P451789 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Probably Ashurbanipal 11, London, UK Nineveh ex. 24

644–642 BCE

BM 123411

1932-12- + BM 10, 0354 123440

P422492 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Nineveh, Ashurbanipal 11, London, UK Ishtar Temple, ex. 27 Squares K and W

644–642 BCE

A8093

P392310 RINAP 5/1 Oriental Institute Purchased by 644–642 Ashurbanipal 11, Museum Chiera in Mosul BCE ex. 30

BM —

K 01788

P394063 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Probably Ashurbanipal 11, London, UK Nineveh ex. 56

644–642 BCE

BM —

K 01797

P394070 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Probably Ashurbanipal 11, London, UK Nineveh ex. 60

644–642 BCE

BM —

Rm 10

P424583 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Probably Ashurbanipal 11, London, UK Nineveh ex. 95

644–642 BCE

1932-1210, 0369

P422507 RINAP 5/1 British Museum, Nineveh, Ashurbanipal 11, London, UK Ishtar Temple, ex. 145 Square Q

Date

Provenience

Collection

Primary publication

CDLI no.

Museum no. BM 123426

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Stefania Ermidoro Accession no.

120

644–642 BCE

P347208 RINAP 5/1 Vorderasiatisches Babylon, 638? BCE Ashurbanipal 13, Museum Berlin possibly ex. 5 “Ischin aswad” or “Merkes”

VAT 17108

It has been noted already that such a feature seems to have been used only by Ashurbanipal, the only exceptions being one single prism of Tiglath-pileser I (1114–1076 BCE)14, two prismoids of Sargon II (721–705 BCE)15, and one cylinder of Nebuchadnezzar II.16 All the identified specimens of Ashurbanipal’s prisms with holes are linked by some formal features related to their date of composition, provenance and contents. According to Novotny and Jeffers, all prisms bearing inscriptions of Ashurbanipal (whose reign lasted from 668 to 631 BCE) may be dated to three main phases: ca. 666–664 BCE, 649–642 BCE and 639–638 BCE. With only one exception, all the exemplars with holes were composed in the second of these three phases.17 Their provenance, certain or probable, is always Nineveh, although their exact findspots are not always known.18 Novotny and Jeffers identified three categories of contents for Ashurbanipal’s prisms: building inscriptions, annalistic texts and summary inscriptions. All prisms bearing firing holes belong to the second of these categories, which is also the most frequent – although they present substantial variation.19 These similarities might indicate that firing holes were a particular feature used by the king’s scribes who were active in Nineveh in a particular period of time.

14

RIMA 2 (= Grayson, 1991), A.0.87.1, ex.6. Marchesi, 2019: Figs. 2–3. 16 This cylinder, CBS 1125 (cdli P258460), will be published as RINBE 1/1 (Weiershäuser / Novotny, forthcoming), Nebuchadnezzar II 27, ex. 6. 17 See Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 2. For similar considerations (though with slightly different estimated dates) see also Cogan, 2014: 70. 18 The only exception to these two indications of date and provenance consists in VAT 17108 (cdli P347208): a fragment of a prism dated to ca. 638 BCE and originating from Babylon. This item, however, is already rather peculiar in its reporting the Babylonian recension of prism J (Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 272). 19 Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 2–4. 15

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Most of the holes on Ashurbanipal’s prisms have a round shape, although once again exceptions are attested: Sm 2107 (cdli P426280), for example, shows one square hole – with the square shape of the stylus used to impress it clearly visible as a deep perforation on its broken left edge extending through the entire fragment.20 Fragments BM 127934 (cdli P422709) and 1880-07-19, 0284 (cdli P452028) are other two interesting instances which might be studied to investigate the shape of the tool with which holes were impressed, as well as the depth of their impression within the clay, since the trace of the old stylus is clearly evident in the broken sections of their edges.21 Positionally, holes appear both in the intercolumnia and on the written surface, to fill blank space between words or, at times, between two lines of writing. They never cover nor make any sign less readable (as is sometimes the case on contemporary clay tablets) and only in a few cases do they cover the elongated tails from the previous cuneiform signs. Notably, in a few cases identified thus far, firing holes were impressed between two signs composing one word, always between the penultimate and last signs.22 The presence of holes on the surfaces and edges of cuneiform tablets has to date been explained by scholars via four main hypotheses. They have been interpreted as 1) ‘firing’ or ‘drying’ holes, impressed on the tablets in order to prevent explosions in the kiln during the baking; 2) as ornamental features that in time became a matter of tradition, in light of the fact that holes might be found in pleasant patterns; 3) as a way used by scribes to avoid later textual interpolation and addition in the spaces left blank on the tablets’ surface, and 4) as a consequence of the use of a support to hold the tablet during the writing process.23 The use of holes on a different text carrier than the ‘usual’ tablets seems to confirm that these marks cannot be justified by attributing to them a purely functional purpose. Three of these four hypotheses do not stand up well to scrutiny. The idea that these holes represented the traces of an ancient support (the least probable theory for tablets) may be discarded on the basis of the main central perforation across the prism body that would have served to host a stand.24 If the holes were intended 20

Another fragment showing two square holes in the intercolumnium is K 1731 (cdli P394015). 21 For two studies in which firing holes impressed on cuneiform tablets are considered in order to reconstruct the ancient Mesopotamian stylus, see Panayotov, 2016 and Marzahn, 2017. 22 See, for example, BM 127851 (cdli P422626), i 26ʹ: […] LUGAL-u●-ti; BM 123411 (cdli P422492), i 20ʹ: ŠU-min-a●-a; Rm 10 (cdli P424583), i 7ʹ: a●-lul; Rm 2 79 (cdli 424929), i 4ʹ: [x]-an●-na and i 11ʹ: lib●-bi; OIM A08065 (cdli P392288), iv 73: qé-rebšú●-un. 23 Cf. Corò / Ermidoro, 2020: 307–311. Recently, see also Schnitzlein 2023: 83 and 357– 358. 24 Aynard, 1957: 8 and Maul, 1992: 15 (both cited by Taylor, 2018: 41); Taylor, forthcoming.

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to prevent explosions in the kiln, then it would be hard to explain why only Ashurbanipal used them, and only in a given phase of his reign. Again, the main central perforation would serve this purpose. Similar to the observations made for tablets, one might also object that firing holes do not follow a regular pattern to allow for uniform firing. Finally, if firing holes had a role in the firing process, it would be unclear why they did not always penetrate through the entire thickness of the prisms.25 The possibility that holes were used to avoid textual interpolation is also not convincing, since large anepigraphic spaces are present on the surfaces of many prisms, including on some that do have holes on other parts of their surfaces. Therefore, the most probable hypothesis is interpreting them as decorative elements, which became a matter of tradition.26 Objections made for such a theory applied to tablets remain valid also for prisms: there are known duplicates of the same text presenting holes in different arrangements or showing no holes at all (see below), and the existence of irregular or non-aligned holes seems to deny their ornamental purpose. However, Ashurbanipal’s scribes might have wanted to use these marks that were normally present on tablets to show their knowledge of scribal art, since holes were impressed on some of the most beautiful texts kept in the royal libraries and archives. One further possibility should be taken into consideration, namely the fact that holes might have been interrelated with the text written on the writing support. A new approach to the study of firing holes has already shown that there were different sets of perforations (with regard to size, patterns and layout) which must have served different purposes.27 In the case of prisms, the chances of verifying a connection between holes and text, and of identifying possible patterns and a clear alignment within the overall layout, are unfortunately limited by the fact that so few entire prisms have survived. In most cases, prisms have been found in fragmentary conditions, so much so that each exemplar shows only very few holes and signs. This being the case, a first analysis of fragments may however lay the basis for further research. From what is extant, it can be noticed that holes were mostly placed isolated or in couples on the lines of text and only rarely were there three or more holes in one line. Some specimens28 also show a sort of grid with 25

For samples in which holes penetrate through the body wall, see BM 123411 (cdli P422492); BM 127934 (cdli P422709); BM 128299 (cdli P423047); BM 134449 (cdli P423180); Rm 2, 79 (cdli 424929); Rm 10 (cdli P424583); VAT 17108 (cdli P347208). On the possibility that these particular holes could indeed assist the firing process, see Taylor, 2018: 41. 26 Robson, 2008: 197–198. 27 On this new approach, which considers holes in relation to text, see Corò / Ermidoro, 2020. 28 Rm 2, 70 (cdli P424926), OIM A8083 (cdli P392309), OIM A8089 (cdli P392315), and VAT 17108 (cdli P347208).

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holes arranged according to a horizontal or vertical alignment. A comparison with the only two known entire prisms bearing holes, in the following section, confirms these impressions and adds some details which complete the overall frame. Ashurbanipal’s Prism A Two exemplars of Prism A (Ashurbanipal 11 in the latest edition by Novotny and Jeffers) have survived almost entirely, making them the most complete annal texts from his reign.29 They are kept in the British Museum, given the museum numbers K 15110 + Rm. 1 (cdli P421807) and BM 91086+ (cdli P397673), and are also known as ‘Rassam Prism’ and ‘Cylinder A’ from previous editions. Both of these 10-sided prisms were found in nearly perfect conditions in the ruins of the North Palace at Nineveh. However, while the Rassam Prism remained almost undamaged during shipment to London, Cylinder A was fragmented. It has undergone painstaking reconstruction as far as possible, but a considerable portion of it has been lost.30 Beside their importance from a historical point of view, these two specimens are precious in providing a perception of how a whole prism with firing holes would have appeared in antiquity. Their aesthetic beauty, together with the high level of style and clear layout, have already been highlighted by Streck, who also compared them in detail, although he failed to mention the striking difference in the configuration of firing holes on their surfaces.31 At first sight, it is clear that holes on the surfaces of the Rassam Prism were impressed in such an apparently random way that, to the modern eye, it seems to exclude the decorative function of such marks. The perforations are of different sizes and shapes (mostly circular, but semi-circular holes are also present), and are not clearly aligned. As a general rule, holes appear only within the text, with the only exceptions of five holes impressed in the intercolumnium between columns 4 and 5 and two holes between columns 5 and 6. Within each column of text, holes were mostly impressed in the centre or at the end of the lines, with only a few appearing on the left-hand side (i.e., at the beginning of the lines). Holes are mainly concentrated in the lower part of the columns and only rarely impressed in the upper part. Looking at each face of this exemplar, it is striking that holes were not evenly distributed on the prism’s surface: columns 1 and 7 show only one hole; column 8 has three holes; columns 2 and 9 were impressed with four holes each; column 5 has 10 holes; 15 holes were impressed on column 10; 19 on column 6; columns 4 and 3 count 22 and 31 holes, respectively. The perforations were either applied singularly, at couple or at triplets on a single line of text, or (more rarely, only in columns 3, 4, 6 and 10) arranged in some kind of grid. It should also be noted that there are many anepigraphic areas on this prism that do not show holes, thus seemingly excluding the hypothesis that such marks were 29

Cogan, 2014: 70; Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 222. Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 127. 31 Streck, 1916: XVII–XXI. 30

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used to avoid textual additions or changes. A comparison with the only other well-preserved exemplar of Prism A, BM 91086+, provides interesting clues. One main difference is immediately notable, namely the disposition of holes in the intercolumnia: in the Rassam Prism these are largely absent, while in BM 91086+ they appear at regular intervals in all the intercolumnia. The patterns of holes impressed in the textual parts of their surfaces also seem to be completely dissimilar. Differently from the general impressions of holes in the Rassam Prism, in BM91086+ holes are more evenly scattered throughout the surfaces from top to bottom and from right to left – but they are always either single or only in couples, with never more than two holes in the same line of writing. The exact relationship between holes and text in these two exemplars still needs to be investigated, but at first sight and from this preliminary analysis it is already clear that holes do not appear in the same points of the narration in the two prisms. Conclusion The research presented in this contribution, although preliminary, has highlighted some interesting points which will be useful for further investigation on the function(s) of the so-called ‘firing holes’, in the hope that a more appropriate label will be found for these ancient marks. The analysis seems to demonstrate that the holes impressed on prisms had a different purpose than those which appeared on contemporary tablets: the different writing medium must have led to a different use of such marks. The present study has demonstrated that, besides a very limited number of exceptions, only one king used firing holes in his prisms and, more significantly, only for a limited period of time, in a single city and for one specific type of inscription. These findings raise questions about the role of the commissioner and scribes of these royal texts. Cogan already inferred about the author of Prism A that ‘if one may be allowed to speculate about personality traits solely on the basis of an ancient text – it would appear that he was eager to display his erudition’.32 The use of firing holes in this kind of inscriptions, which were undoubtedly erudite, prestigious and highly significant from a content and an aesthetic point of view, could have been a mannerism of a small circle of royal scribes who were active in Nineveh, who used these marks not only for decorative reasons but also to make these texts even more unique. Given the relevance of the annals within the complex communicative system of Neo-Assyrian royal propaganda, it has also been suggested that prisms were produced under the attentive control of the rulers.33 This would be particularly true in the case of Ashurbanipal who, amongst all the Assyrian kings, boasted his literacy and his ability to read and produce written

32 33

Cogan, 2014: 81. Cogan, 2014: 82; Taylor, 2018: 33, 60; Hurowitz, 2021: 227 fn. 11.

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texts.34 Tadmor, trying to assess the personality of the scribes who wrote the Assyrian royal inscriptions, wrote that they ‘unquestionably were very competent masters who both mirrored and created the political attitudes of the king. (…) Thus, even if he was not a homo literatus in his own right, we are justified in accepting the king’s authorship of the inscriptions that bear his name’.35 The contents of Prism A therefore almost certainly reflect the image that the ruler himself wanted to portray. Ashurbanipal must have endorsed the use of firing holes in his prisms since they made these texts even more scholarly and stylistically unmatched in comparison to those of all his predecessors. The fact that several tablets held in his ‘Library’ at Nineveh were impressed with firing holes might confirm that he had a role in deciding whether or not to use these marks and he might have wanted to replicate – at least visually – the layout that his scribes already used (possibly for more functional reasons) in the texts kept in the royal archives. Bibliography Aynard, J.-M., 1957: La prisme du Louvre AO 19.939. Bibliothèque de l’École des Hautes Études. IVe section. Sciences historiques et philologiques 309. Paris. Borger, R., 1996: Beiträge zum Inschriftenwerk Assurbanipals. Die Prismenklassen A, B, C = K, D, E, F, G, H, J und T sowie andere Inschriften. Mit einem Beitrag von Andreas Fuchs. Wiesbaden. Cogan, M., 2014: “The Author of Ashurbanipal Prism A (Rassam): An Inquiry into his Plan and Purpose, with a Note on his Persona”. Orient 49, 69–83. Corò P. / Ermidoro S., 2020, “‘Firing Holes’: New Perspectives on an Old Question”. Kaskal. Rivista di storia, ambienti e culture del Vicino Oriente Antico 17, 303–323. Frahm, E., 2019: “The Neo-Assyrian Royal Inscriptions as Text: History, Ideology, and Intertextuality”. In G.B. Lanfranchi / R. Mattila / R. Rollinger (eds.): Writing Neo-Assyrian History: Sources, Problems, and Approaches. Proceedings of an International Conference Held at the University of Helsinki on September 22–25, 2014. State Archives of Assyria 29. Helsinki. Pp. 139–159. Grayson, A.K., 1991: Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC I (1114– 859 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Assyrian Periods 2. Toronto. Hurowitz, A.V., 2021: “‘An Heir Created by Aššur’: Literary Observations on the Rassam Prism (A) of Ashurbanipal”. In D. Vanderhooft / A. Winitzer (eds.): Literature as Politics, Politics as Literature: Essays on the Ancient Near East in Honor of Peter Machinist. University Park. Pp. 223–268.

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Livingstone, 2007. Tadmor, 1997: 328.

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Jensen, P., 1890: “Inschriften Asurbanipals (668–626 v. Chr.). 1. Die Annaleninschrift des Rassam-Cylinders”. In E. Schrader (ed.): Sammlung von assyrischen und babylonischen Texten in Umschrift und Übersetzung. Band II. Keilinschriftliche Bibliothek 2. Berlin. Pp. 153–268. Livingstone, A., 2007: “Ashurbanipal: literate or not?ˮ. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 97, 98–118. Marchesi, G., 2019: “A New Historical Inscription of Sargon II from Karkemish”. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 78, 1–24. Marzahn, J., 2017: “Ein Phantom-Griffel aus Assur – oder die Lust der Gestaltung”. In J. Giessauf (ed.): Zwischen Karawane und Orientexpress: Streifzüge durch Jahrtausende orientalischer Geschichte und Kultur. Festschrift für Hannes Galter. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 434. Münster. Pp. 195–210. Maul, S.M., 1992: Die Inschriften von Tall Bdēri. Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderen Orient – Texte 2. Berlin. Novotny, J., 2018: “Ashurbanipal’s Campaigns”. In G. Brereton (ed.): The BP exhibition I am Ashurbanipal: King of the World, King of Assyria. London. Pp. 196–208. Novotny, J.R. / Jeffers, J., 2018: The Royal Inscriptions of Ashurbanipal (668– 631 BC), Aššur-etel-ilāni (630–627 BC), and Sîn-šarra-iškun (626–612 BC), Kings of Assyria, Part 1. Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 5/1. University Park. Panayotov, S.V., 2016: “On ‘Firing Holes’ and the Cuneiform Stylus”. Cuneiform Digital Library Notes 2016:1. Pollock, S., 2016: “From Clay to Stone: Material Practices and Writing in Third Millennium Mesopotamia”. In T.E. Balke / C. Tsouparopoulou (eds.): Materiality of Writing in Early Mesopotamia. Materiale Textkulturen 13. Schriftenreihe des Sonderforschungsbereichs 933. Berlin / Boston. Pp. 277–291. Rassam, H., 1882: “Excavations and Discoveries in Assyria”. Transactions of the Society of Biblical Archaeology 7, 37–58. Robson, E., 2008: Mathematics in Ancient Iraq. A Social History. Princeton / Oxford. Schnitzlein, B., 2023: Untersuchungen zur Schreibkultur Mesopotamiens im 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Records 29. Boston / Berlin. Smith, S.A., 1887: Die Keilschrifttexte Asurbanipals, Königs von Assyrien (668– 626 V. Chr.). Heft I. Die Annalen nach dem Cylinder Rm 1 (Vgl. V R 1–10). Leipzig. Streck, M., 1916: Assurbanipal und die letzten assyrischen Könige bis zum Untergange Niniveh’s. Vorderasiatische Bibliothek 7. 3 Vols. Leipzig. Tadmor, H., 1997: “Propaganda, Literature, Historiography: Cracking the Code of the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions”. In S. Parpola / R.M. Whiting (eds.): Assyria 1995. Proceedings of the 10th Anniversary Symposium of the Neo-Assyr-

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ian Text Corpus Project, Helsinki, September 7–11, 1995. Helsinki. Pp. 325– 338. Taylor, J., forthcoming: “Form and Formatting of Assyrian Prisms and Cylinders”. ––– 2011: “Tablets as Artefacts, Scribes as Artisans”. In K. Radner / E. Robson (eds.): Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture. Oxford. Pp. 5–31. ––– 2018: “Some Practicalities and Aesthestics of Mesopotamian Foundation Prisms and Cylinders”. In E. Cancik-Kirschbaum / B. Schnitzlein (eds.): Keilschriftartefakte. Untersuchungen zur Materialität von Keilschriftdokumenten. Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderen Orient 26. Gladbeck. Pp. 33–62. Weiershäuser, F. / Novotny, J., forthcoming: The Royal Inscriptions of Nabopolassar (625–605 BC) and Nebuchadnezzar II (604–562 BC), Kings of Babylon, Part 1. Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Babylonian Empire 1/1. Winckler, H., 1895: Sammlung Keilschrifttexten. III. Die Keilschrifttexte Assurbanipals. Leipzig.

A Neo-Assyrian Riddle Betina Faist For Simo Parpola, who has “cracked” so many Neo-Assyrian texts. The Neo-Assyrian sales document VAT 10762 contains a puzzling line.1 Approximately the upper half of the tablet, which was once in portrait format, has been preserved. It was excavated by Walter Andrae in Assur at the beginning of the 20th century and is now kept in the Vorderasiatisches Museum in Berlin. Its excavation number is unknown, so that the exact provenance can no longer be reconstructed. There are traces of a cylinder seal impression on the obverse. According to the introductory note, the person who sealed the tablet was the city overseer Aššur-balliṭ.2 A part of the witnesses and the date are on the reverse. Four fingernail impressions of the seller Kandalānu are visible on the left edge. The enigmatic line is on the top edge. VAT 10762 = KAN 4 33 Obv. 1 na4KIŠIB maš+šur-bal-liṭ lúšá UGU URU ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– (cylinder seal impression) ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– (rest broken away) Rev. 1´

5´

9´

1

(beginning broken away) ⸢IGI mx-x⸣-[x x x x x x] IGI mEN-iq-[bi x x x x x] IGI mur-⸢x⸣-[x x x x x] IGI mPAB-u-a-⸢x⸣ [x x x x x] IGI mgab-bu-a-na-aš+šur [x x x x x] IGI mtar-di-tú-PAB.MEŠ [x x x x x] IGI mZÁLAG-d15 [x x x x x] (three free lines) iti AB U4.5.KAM lim-mu mza-z[a-a] IGI mza-a-a A.BA [URU]3

A copy of the document has already been published: Faist, 2010: text no. 33 (KAN 4 33). The seal is an “office seal” that was used by several city overseers of Assur. For more information, see Faist / Klengel-Brandt, 2010. 3 Reading of the broken part according to Faist, 2007: text no. 73, 44. This deed documents the sale of a house in 698 and was also written down by the town scribe Zaia, who is 2

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T.E. L.E.

IŠ daš+šur SIG5 (four fingernail impressions) ⸢ṣu-pur⸣ mkan-dàl-a-a[n]4 5 ⸢MA⸣.NA URUDU.MEŠ ⸢i?⸣-[ti-ši]5

1

Seal of Aššur-balliṭ, the city overseer. (cylinder seal impression) […] 1´ Witness: […]. 2´Witness: Bēl-iq[bi …]. 3´Witness: Ur[…]. 4´Witness: Aḫū’a-[…]. 5´Witness: Gabbu-ana-Aššur […]. 6´Witness: Tardītu-aḫḫē […]. 7´Witness: Nūr-Issār […]. 8´ Month of Kanūnu (X), 5th day, eponym (is) Zaz[â] (= 692, reign of Sennacherib). 9´Witness: Zaia, [city] scribe. 10´ (meaning unclear) 11´ (four fingernail impressions) Fingernail of Kandalā[nu]. 12´Five minas of copper he (i.e. Kandalānu, the seller) [has taken] (for his fingernail impressions). The practice of sealing a document by one or more city officials has so far only been attested in the sale of real estate in Assur.6 The official’s seal is always on the obverse, exactly where the seller usually seals. The latter legitimises the document with fingernail impressions on the left edge. In the Neo-Assyrian period, conveyance texts are quite standardised in terms of their structure and wording (seal identification and sealing, description of the object sold, transaction clause, confirmation of transfer, exclusion of litigation, penalties for litigation, witnesses and date). The entry in line 10’ constitutes a singular addition, underlined by its separate placement on the top edge. The line is palaeographically clear. A scribal mistake can be ruled out, since the possible emendations (instead of IŠ ša, TA* or even IGI) do not provide any clarity and the preserved text is carefully and skilfully written, as is to be expected from a city scribe.7 Personal names beginning with the divine element Aššur very additionally referred to as ṣābit ṭuppi. According to Postgate, 2011, this expression points to the scribe who drew up the deed. The tablet bears the same “office seal” as VAT 10762, but the sealing person is the city overseer Marduk-iqbi, Aššur-balliṭ’s predecessor. 4 Baker, 2000: 600b s. v. Kandalānu, No. 6 reads: mkan-dàl-a-⸢nu?⸣. This reading probably goes back to Deller, 1984: 250. The last sign, however, is certainly not a nu, but most likely an an. 5 Reading of the end of the line according to Faist, 2007: text no. 5, 20´. On top of the purchase price, the seller may receive an additional payment from the buyer for sealing the deed. On this, see Faist, 2012: 211–212. 6 Klengel-Brandt / Radner, 1997. 7 According to May, 2017, Zaia is identical with the scribe of the text ND 1120, which refers to cultic events in the temple of Aššur in 714. In the colophon, Zaia lists his ancestors, all of whom were town scribes. This would mean that he came from an educated

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rarely contain the god determinative, but are always written with the determinative for person (so also all the evidence for the name Aššur-de’iq8). Moreover, the arrangement of the signs in two units, with a clear space between them, rather argues for a genitive compound (IŠ daš+šur) and a predicate noun (SIG5 = de’iq “is good”). The sign IŠ can be read syllabically as well as logographically in NeoAssyrian: – – –

IŠ = mil: mīl dAššur, “Aššur’s flood (is good)” IŠ = KUŠ7 = našpantu: našpanti dAššur, “the devastation by Aššur (is good)” IŠ = SAḪAR = epru: eper dAššur, “Aššur’s earth (is good)”

All three readings are peculiar and strange in the context of sales documents. The most likely link is epru. Is it perhaps a reference to the property sold? Or is it a note by a (humorous) scribe (mentioned immediately before) regarding the material of his tablet? May the jubilee enjoy pondering this! Bibliography Baker, H.D. (ed.), 2000: The Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Volume 2, Part I: Ḫ–K. Helsinki. Deller, K., 1984: “Drei wiederentdeckte neuassyrische Rechtsurkunden aus Assur”. Baghdader Mitteilungen 15, 225–252. Faist, B., 2007: Alltagstexte aus neuassyrischen Archiven und Bibliotheken der Stadt Assur. Studien zu den Assur-Texten 3. Wiesbaden. — 2010: Neuassyrische Rechtsurkunden IV. Mit einem Beitrag von Evelyn Klengel-Brandt. Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 132. Wiesbaden. — 2012: “Der neuassyrische Kaufvertrag im Spannungsfeld zwischen Formular und konkretem Fall”. Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 18, 209–219. Faist, B. / Klengel-Brandt, E., 2010: “Die Siegel der Stadtvorsteher von Assur”. In Ş. Dönmez (ed.): Studies Presented in Honour of Veysel Donbaz. DUB.SAR E.DUB.BA.A. Istanbul. Pp. 115–134. Klengel-Brandt, E. / Radner, K., 1997: “Die Stadtbeamten von Assur und ihre Siegel”. In S. Parpola / R. M. Whiting (eds.): Assyria 1995. Helsinki. Pp. 137– 159. May, N.N., 2017: “The Neo-Assyrian scribe of the city of Assur (sic!) Zaia (sic!) and his Middle Assyrian ancestry”. Nouvelles assyriologiques brèves et utilitaires 2017/78. family that may have belonged to the city’s elite. 8 Cf. Radner, 1998: 179a (with online updates in: http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/pnao/ updatesbyletter/a/index.html). The name is written as follows: maš+šur-SIG5-iq, maš+šurSIG5 and mas+šur-SIG.

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Postgate, J.N., 2011: “Making tablets or taking tablets? ṭuppa/u ṣabātu in Assyria”. Iraq 73, 149–160. Radner, K., 1998 (ed.): The Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Volume 1, Part I: A. Helsinki.

The Western Trade Scenario and Assyria’s Economic Policy Salvatore Gaspa You increased your merchants more than the stars of the heavens. The locust spreads its wings and flies away. Nahum 3, 16

Introduction With the expansion of the military and political dominion to the West, thanks to the annexations by Tiglath-pileser III (745–727 BC) and Sargon II (722–705 BC),1 Assyria encountered a new economic scenario, consisting of coastal citystates and inland kingdoms that controlled sea trade and overland routes connecting Anatolia, Syria, Transjordan and Palestine with Egypt, Arabia and far-off polities of the Mediterranean area. Access to the goods exchanged along these routes and trade centres and employment of the local workforce became central to the expansionist policy of the Assyrians. The new geographical horizons led the imperial elite to adapt their expansionist project to the economic situation of the Levant, where there was a long history of maritime trade and naval power, a consolidated integration of coastal and inland economic realities and different economic actors with their own trade networks. The Assyrian interference in this region affected these aspects to different degrees, however, without reaching full control of the pre-existing and larger economic systems to which they were related. This brief contribution shall offer an overview of Assyrian interference and policy regarding the main economic actors in the Levantine region, with a focus on the Philistines, the Yamnāya and the Arabs. Assyria’s interference in the Phoenician trade area The wide trade network controlled by the Phoenicians encompassed various commercial circuits that, through sea and inland routes, connected their homeland with Egypt, the eastern Mediterranean area, Anatolia, Transjordan and North Arabia, and Mesopotamia.2 Phoenicians, as well as Philistines and Arabs, were also involved in Assyrian trade for their important role of intermediary with Egypt, a

* I am honoured to present this contribution to Prof. Simo Parpola, whose studies on Assyrian cultural influences in the West (see, for instance, Parpola, 2003) lead to reconsider the means through which Assyria established the economic control of western goods, elites and trade circuits. 1 Bagg, 2017: 270–271. 2 Fales, 2017: 264.

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country from which various luxury goods were imported by Assyria.3 The imperial elite strategically used the expertise of traders and other specialists from every region where Assyria expanded to meet its own economic interests. To achieve these goals, Assyria’s economic policy endeavoured to control the trading routes by cooperating with local polities, settling Assyrians at strategic crossroads of the trade routes and directly controlling foreign countries and their regional commercial hubs and networks. The result of these practices was a progressive involvement of Assyria in the local economic system, clearly differentiated according to the local polity, the policy of control adopted and the empire’s organisational capabilities. In the early phase of western expansion, the political and mercantile elites of the Levant could have seen the tributary status as an opportunity to strengthen trade relations with the ruling class of the powerful Mesopotamian state and expand their investments. This probably characterised not only Tyre,4 the major hub in southern Phoenicia and the core of the Mediterranean trade system, but also various western polities. Starting with Tiglath-pileser III and continuing with the Sargonids, Assyria extended its area of political and economic dominion to the Levant. In this region, Assyrian rulers allowed local trade so that they could profit from the wealth it generated, although restrictions in terms of taxes and mobility of goods were introduced. As the letter by Qurdi-Aššur-lāmur, governor of the province of Ṣimirra (modern Tel Kazel / Ṣumra) in the reign of Tiglath-pileser III, shows, the Assyrian commercial policy in Phoenicia implied restrictions on the business of local merchants. The letter was probably written shortly after Tyre’s defeat in 734 BC.5 The governor confirmed to the Assyrian monarch that all the harbours in which commercial activities took place had been released to the Tyrian king’s control and that local traders could go in and out, selling and buying all the merchandise that they wished.6 However, this commercial freedom was restricted. The Tyrians were allowed to exploit lumber from Mount Lebanon, but they had to pay taxes to the Assyrians for all the wood brought down from that mountain area.7 From the Assyrian governor’s words, tax collectors were appointed over the trade ports of the entire region of Mount Lebanon.8 Taxes had to be paid for the wood before the local merchants engaged in further shipping initiatives.9 The difficulty in exacting taxes for the lumber is witnessed by the episode concerning the Sidonites, who, according to the letter, chased away the tax collector, leading the Assyrian governor to send troops of Itu’eans to re-establish 3

Elat, 1978: 21, 28–32. Van der Brugge / Kleber, 2016: 190. 5 SAA 19, XXXVII. 6 SAA 19 22:5–7. 7 SAA 19 22:8–12. 8 SAA 19 22:11–13. 9 Fales, 2017: 233–234. 4

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control and re-appoint the taxman.10 From the governor’s missive, it is clear that the Sidonian merchants were only allowed to bring down the lumber from the wooded areas and wood-processing sites to the timber-related seaports and sell it exclusively within the commercial circuit controlled by the Assyrians, with the ban of selling it to Egyptians and Philistines.11 The embargo on timber trade was therefore imposed on two competitors of Assyria in the Levantine trade area.12 The rivalry with Egypt arose because of the progressive penetration of the Assyrian military and political control in central and southern Palestine, an area of wellrooted trade connections with the Land of the Pharaohs and of renewed interest under the Libyan, Nubian and Saite rulers. Egypt’s influence and trade in this region seems to have been reduced by the Assyrian interference.13 The Assyrian restrictions on the Phoenician trade in timber were probably aimed at weakening the Egyptian presence in the area. Since Egypt imported timber from the Levantine harbours to maintain its navy, the strategy to control the Phoenician city-states and their economic circuits was the only possible one for Assyria to counter Egypt.14 The expansionist policy continued after Tiglath-pileser III by creating Assyrian ports and trade centres and by settling Assyrians in strategic positions within pre-existing trade networks. In his annals, Sargon II states to have opened a harbour in Egypt after the conquest of Samaria and that Assyrians and Egyptians were mingled together and allowed to engage in trade.15 This activity was certainly aimed at increasing Assyria’s direct access to local trade and the commodities exchanged along the routes originating from the Sinai region,16 a strategy aimed at consolidating the empire’s control of the area. Assyria’s flexible commercial policy towards the Phoenicians is also documented in the seventh century BC. The treaty that Esarhaddon (680–669 BC) stipulated with Ba‘al, king of Tyre, allowed the Tyrians free access to all trading ports on the Mediterranean cost. This agreement also established the spheres of responsibility of Assyria and Tyre regarding legal ownership of the cargoes and crews in case Tyrian ships were shipwrecked in coastal areas under Assyrian control, namely off the land of the Philistines or within Assyrian territory, and Tyrian traders’ rights of access to, and use of, commercial ports and routes that belonged to

10

SAA 19 22:14–22. SAA 19 22:24–r.2. On the application of this restriction to the Sidonians see Younger, 2015: 192. On the system of timber exploitation and timber export sites in the Amanus region see Watson-Treumann, 2000–2001: 78–83. 12 Radner / Vacek, 2020: 125. 13 Van Neer et al., 2004: 123–125. On the political situation in Egypt, especially during Assyria’s western expansion, see Naunton, 2010: 126–127 and Perdu, 2010: 140–143. 14 Elat, 1978: 21; Zamazalová, 2011: 303. 15 RINAP 2 1: 17. 16 Zamazalová, 2011: 304. 11

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Assyria.17 Among the coastal polities cited in the treaty and whose control the Assyrian king entrusted to Ba‘al, we find the “entire district of the Philistines” (ina nagie māt Piliste gabbu), a designation that applied to Philistia, whose main coastal hubs were Ashkelon and Gaza.18 Accordingly, Tyrian merchants were allowed to conduct Assyrian-sponsored trade over the whole Phoenician littoral,19 operating in a commercial scenario differentiated in areas under direct and indirect Assyrian control and in which there were separate seaside quays for locals and Assyrians.20 The treaty shows that protection of shipping and securing import tax on goods that entered the empire’s territory through the kāru-system was the main concern of the Assyrian elite.21 Clearly, the control of the Phoenician trade was strategic for the Assyrians, who preferred to leave the local cities enough autonomy in terms of political self-determination and trade instead of invading and destroying them.22 In this way, Assyria benefitted from traded western goods that were otherwise inaccessible,23 profiting from the commercial expertise and contacts of local merchants and from the taxation of their businesses. In addition, the Tyrian elite could have been motivated to conclude the treaty with the Assyrians with the prospect of new trade contacts and profits within the unified economic space dominated by Assyria. In return for political independence and the privilege of unlimited mobility in the Mediterranean commercial scenario, access to their overseas network was offered to the Assyrian Empire.24 The threat represented by Egypt in the Assyrian control of the Phoenician trade network was probably one of the reasons that led Assyria to adopt a flexible and pragmatic policy towards Tyre. The fact that by the age of Esarhaddon, only the three Phoenician cities of Tyre, Arados and Samsimurūna retained their political independence in the framework of the Assyrian treaty agreements25 shows how the empire secured its economic interests in the region. Besides this open and cooperative policy, the creation of separate quays for the Assyrians reveals a more direct strategy to access Mediterranean trade goods.

17

SAA 2 5 r. iii 15′–30′. See Fales, 2017: 241–242. The other areas cited in the treaty were central Phoenicia, with Byblos and the Lebanon – essential for the exploitation of lumber from the mountain region and the Beqaa Valley – the cities of Akko and Dor in the southernmost part of Phoenicia and the trade routes leading to them, the ports in all the cities on the seacoast and the centres in the mountain region that were within the Assyrian territory. See SAA 2 5 r. iii 19′–21′ and Younger, 2015: 194–197. 19 Fales, 2017: 242. 20 Younger, 2015: 196–197; Fales, 2017: 243. 21 Thareani, 2016: 95. 22 See Bedford, 2009: 57–58. 23 Liverani, 1997: 712. 24 Van der Brugge / Kleber, 2016: 196. 25 Radner / Vacek, 2020: 125–126. 18

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Assyria’s economic policy in Philistia An analogous situation can be observed in southern Palestine, where the Philistine cities were client states of the empire, with the exception of Ashdod, which was conquered by Sargon II in 711 BC and became the southernmost province on the coastal region26 and Ekron (Tel Miqne) that was incorporated into the empire’s territory under Sennacherib (705–681 BC). The heavy interference of Assyria in local economic life explains the frequent rebellion that broke out in Philistia under the Assyrian dominion. The Assyrian conquest never put a complete end to the attempts of joining rebellions against its rule, but the policy adopted towards the Philistine cities was favourable, aimed at consolidating the pro-Assyrian party in the local elite. This tolerant policy was probably due not only to the necessity to create a buffer zone between the provincial territory, the external Arabian seminomadic groups and Egypt but also to exploit the prosperity of Philistia, whose centres were the terminals of both the maritime and inland caravan trade and, as such, constituted the most important ports beyond the empire’s boundaries.27 In fact, the region was economically vital both for the Egyptian and the Arab trade circuit.28 Presumably, Assyria’s military and political initiatives in southern Levantine centres were accompanied by negotiations with Egypt to guarantee mutual trade interests in the region.29 In this scenario, Ashkelon was the major centre in the region and the one through which Mediterranean maritime trade was accessed.30 In the Mediterranean trade system controlled by the Phoenicians, Ashkelon was crucial, and the Phoenicians were largely involved in the local economy, transporting goods to and from this Philistine port.31 Major exports from this hub, which constituted the first zone of the integrated economic system of southern Palestine, concerned oil and especially wine, due to the large investment in wine production in its hinterland, while goods imported from Egypt included fish and grain.32 Fish that reached the inner territories of Palestine in exchange for other goods probably originated from Ashkelon itself.33 The harbour of Ashkelon regularly received large amounts of imported pottery from overseas, and it was from here that various goods, including wood from the north, reached Judah and

26

Radner, 2006–2008: 58a. Thareani, 2016: 92, 95. 28 Fales, 2017: 264. 29 Van der Brugge, 2017: 308–317. 30 Faust, 2011: 72. 31 Faust / Weiss, 2005: 85. 32 Gitin, 1997: 84; Faust / Weiss, 2005: 73, 78. For a reconstruction of the integrated economic system of this region, see Faust / Weiss, 2005: 78–82. 33 Faust / Weiss, 2005: 73, 80. Iron Age fish remains in Palestine, Syria and Transjordan show that export of Nilotic and Red Sea fish was not limited to Levantine coastal centres but also reached inland destinations through caravan trade. See Van Neer et al., 2004: esp. 120–126, 137–138. 27

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other inner areas of Palestine.34 This port also received horses from abroad. An administrative document from Kalḫu, dealing with the yearly tribute from the West, includes horses, possibly of Nubian origin, from this city.35 Ashdod was conquered by Sargon II along with other Philistine cities: Ashdod-Yam (Minet Isdud or Minet el-Qala?) and Gath (possibly Tel Zafit).36 It was probably the same king who fortified Ashdod-Yam to block access to the sea to Ashdod.37 The latter was progressively abandoned, and by the seventh century BC, it was Ashdod-Yam that became the political capital of the region where the flexible Assyrian policy allowed the coexistence of the local Ashdodite dynasty with the Assyrian provincial government.38 The tribute of the Ashdodites is mentioned in a letter from Crown Prince Sennacherib’s correspondence.39 Another letter by the mār šarri that deals with silver, luxury textiles, iced fish and other elite commodities as tribute and audience gifts40 possibly refers to goods from Ashdod and other Philistine cities as well.41 Silver, linen and šaddīnu-garments, and fish also occur in the above-mentioned administrative document from Kalḫu related to the annual tribute of Levantine origin.42 Iced or preserved fish from the Levantine sea coast was one of the commodities that reached Assyria, as witnessed by the annual tribute imposed on Arwad by Assurbanipal (668–631/27? BC), including gold, purple wool, fish and birds.43 The impact of Assyria’s economic policy on Ekron further confirms the differentiated strategies of the Assyrians. Once incorporated into the Assyrian trading network, Ekron expanded its size enormously and was transformed into a large industrial centre for olive oil production, as well as for textile manufacture, both industries in all likelihood oriented to export, with consequences in terms of settlement and demographic patterns.44 Some scholars see this large-scale development as a direct result of Assyrian dominion,45 but we cannot exclude that other factors in the local economic system also played a role.46 According to Na’aman, local prosperity could be seen as related to the new opportunities created by the 34

Faust / Weiss, 2005: 80. Parker, 1961: 42, ND 2672: 6. See also Na’aman, 2009: 353. 36 RINAP 2 1: 258–259. 37 Na’aman, 2001: 261–262. 38 Na’aman, 2001: 261–262; Thareani, 2016: 91. 39 SAA 1 29 r.22. On Ashdodite emissaries bringing tribute to Nineveh see SAA 1 110 r.12. On envoys from Ashdod along with other western delegates see SAA 19 8:12. 40 SAA 1 34. 41 Elat, 1978: 30. However, Ashdod is never mentioned in the letter. For the provenance of these goods from Ashdod see also Zilberg, 2018: 62 table 3.2, 73. 42 Parker, 1961: 42, ND 2672 r.18–24, 29–30. See also Na’aman, 2009: 353. 43 RINAP 5/1 207 r.37. See Elat, 1978: 32. 44 Gitin, 1997: 84–90; Faust / Weiss, 2005: 73, 78. 45 Gitin, 1997: 84–85; Radner, 2017: 210. 46 Faust, 2011: 62–86. 35

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Assyrian Empire and not to a deliberate imperial policy.47 Perhaps the general economic situation resulted from the effects of local factors in combination with Assyria’s economic policy in the region. In the world trade system of the time, the political control of Assyria represented a factor of interference, heavily affecting economic organisation and control of the flow of resources from and to Philistine cities and depriving them of part of the wealth generated from international trade. Philistia enjoyed the prosperity granted by the new Assyrian order, but the region was also an integral part of the expanding Mediterranean-oriented trade system controlled by the Phoenicians, who represented another factor or driving force of global scale – although of an economic, not political, nature – that determined the development of Philistia and its incorporation in the international commercial system, as Faust and Weiss demonstrate.48 The Assyrian political-economic control of Ekron is documented in Neo-Assyrian texts that deal with the tribute received by the empire’s central administration. Silver was brought to Assyria by Ekronite emissaries according to an epistle from Kalḫu dated to the reign of Sargon II.49 One of the dated bullae from the reign of Sennacherib attesting to shipments of silver from Philistia to Nineveh concerns silver delivered by the ruler of Ekron in 699 BC.50 Manufactured silver in the form of tribute bowls was also delivered as a tribute from Ekron.51 Due to its proximity to the border with Egypt, the region of Gaza was of paramount importance for Assyrians’ economic strategy in Palestine. The Assyrian control of the maritime trade was aimed at directing the revenues from local commercial traffic to the heart of the empire,52 and this also concerned the region of Gaza. To this aim, Assyrian emporia were created to control Philistines’ trade activities. The bēt kāri established by Tiglath-pileser III on the Gaza coast53 was possibly an integral part of a larger Assyrian settlement to be identified with the late Iron Age IIB building structures excavated at Al-Bilakhiyya, north of Gaza.54 The coast south of Gaza was equally affected by the Assyrian project to control local trade and deprive Philistine merchants of the income generated from caravan and maritime commerce. The fortified site of Tell er-Ruqeish, in the nearby of Deir el-Balah, could be identified with the Assyrian harbour established by Sargon II to serve as the main terminal of the commercial traffic of both inland and maritime origin that took place between southern Palestine and Egypt, while Tell Abu Salima, to the south of Raphiah in northern Sinai, could have been the seat 47

See Na’aman, 2003: 87. Faust / Weiss, 2005: 85–86; Faust / Weiss, 2011: 193–199. 49 SAA 19 178:3–9. See Na’aman, 2003: 84. 50 SAA 11 50:1. 51 SAA 11 34:14′. Tribute brought by Ekronite emissaries is mentioned in SAA 1 110 r.13. 52 Na’aman, 2001: 260–261; Thareani, 2016: 92. 53 RINAP 1 42: 14′. 54 Na’aman, 2001: 261; Thareani, 2016: 92. 48

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of an Assyrian fortress aimed at controlling the route leading to Egypt.55 Trade ports like Tell er-Ruqeish competed with Gaza for the revenues from the trade interactions with Egypt and the Arabs56 and are testimony of the Assyrian strategy to guarantee the empire’s involvement in the most accessible area of the Arab trade system, namely at the end of the Arab caravan routes.57 Tributes from Gaza included silver and other commodities. A shipment of silver of 695 BC is witnessed by a bulla from Nineveh.58 As a letter from Sargon II’s correspondence shows, horses from Egypt and Gaza, as well as from other southern Levantine kingdoms, were brought to Assyria.59 The horses brought by the Gaza envoy were an extra delivery.60 This demonstrates that the southern Levant, with its major hubs in the hands of the Philistines, was one of the commercial gateways through which Nubian horses were imported into the empire’s territory via Egypt, the Gaza region and other Philistine centres.61 This would also explain the strategic importance of controlling those areas of the inner territory of Palestine, namely the region of Samaria and the client state of Judah, through which tribute and trade traffic from the ports of the coastal region were conveyed to the imperial territory.62 A strategic area of passage through which traded commodities and tribute probably flowed from Egypt, Philistia and Judah to Central Assyria was the Aphek-Tel Hadid-Gezer region.63 Foreign textiles and textile-related materials were other commodities that probably reached the Philistine ports, especially textiles made of fine Egyptian linen64 and alum, a mineral available in the Land of the Pharaohs, which was used as a mordant in the dyeing process.65 From one of the textile accounts issued by the imperial central administration, we learn that a number of western countries delivered wool and madder to the Assyrian textile workshops.66 Presumably, anal55

Na’aman, 2001: 262; Thareani, 2016: 92. Na’aman, 2004: 68. 57 Bienkowski / van der Steen, 2001: 39–40. 58 SAA 11 54:1–2. See also the letter SAA 19 178:12–r.2, concerning messengers of the Gazaite king. No mention is made about their possible gift in silver. On the contrary, in the first part of the missive (lines 3–10) a large amount of silver brought by the Ekronite envoys is mentioned. 59 SAA 1 110 r.4–11. The horses are said to be brought not only by the emissaries of Gaza, but also by those from Egypt, Judah and the Transjordanian kingdoms of Moab and Ammon. 60 Na’aman, 2003: 83–84. 61 Na’aman, 2009: 353; Fales, 2019: 97. 62 The possible reasons that motivated the Assyrian conquest of Israel are discussed in Fales, 2019: 96–99. 63 Aster / Faust, 2015: 297–301. 64 On the Egyptian origin of linen attested in the Levant see Graslin-Thomé, 2009: 206. 65 Gaspa, 2018: 67, 124. 66 SAA 7 116. 56

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ogous accounts were issued by the Assyrian central administration regarding fine linen textiles imported from Egypt through Philistine and other Levantine ports. According to the above-cited letter of Sennacherib, šaddīnu-garments of byssus, a fine variety of linen of possible Egyptian origin, were received in Assyria as audience gifts from Levantine cities and distributed to palace members.67 In all likelihood, byssus and other fine and exotic textiles reached Assyria not only through Phoenician ports but also through Philistine ports.68 The Philistine region was also exploited for the recruitment of able-bodied men to be inserted into the imperial army. Philistine troops are often mentioned in Neo-Assyrian sources and were one of the foreign contingents that formed the Assyrian army.69 Philistines are scarcely documented in Neo-Assyrian texts, possibly because most of them bore Canaanite (Phoenician) names.70 Theophoric names related to the god Dagan (Dagon) could be interpreted as Philistine names in light of the popularity of the cult of this deity among Philistines.71 Philistines were integrated into Assyrian society. Among individuals bearing Dagan-based names in Assyria from the ninth to the seventh century BC, we find an eponym official,72 a manager of gardens, fields, roads and ploughs,73 a man who sells slaves74 and a dependent skin-raft boatman.75 Moreover, in a contract from Nineveh of 679 BC, an estate belonging to some unnamed Philistines in the city of Ḫattâ is mentioned.76 Another contract of 674 BC deals with the property of a Gazaite man who owned land in Assyria.77 Individuals named with the gentilic Pilistāiu are attested in private archives from Assur. We know of a confectioner or craftsman, possibly involved in the Assyrian

67

SAA 1 34:11. On byssus as a fine woven material that reached Assyria through the Levant, see Gaspa, 2018: 47. The Egyptian origin of the šaddīnus of byssus in Sennacherib’s letter is suggested by Esarhaddon’s account of the Assyrian booty in Taharqa’s palace at Memphis. Among the valuable objects belonging to his treasury there was also a byssus šaddīnu. See RINAP 4 103: 21 and Gaspa, 2018: 262–263. 69 SAA 1 155; SAA 4 142, 144. See Parker, 1961: 29, ND 2451: 20 for an Ashkelonite “third man” serving in the Assyrian chariotry. On Philistine troops see Zilberg, 2018: 70– 72. 70 Zadok, 1978: 57, 61–62. 71 Garbini, 1997: 155. See the names Dagān-abī (PNA 1/II, 365b), Dagān-bēlu-uṣur (ibid.), Dagān-milkī (ibid. 366a) and Dagān-šīmtī (ibid.). However, these anthroponyms could also have been borne by individuals from other western regions, not only from Philistia. 72 CTN 2 43: 4; Eponym List 878 (Millard, 1994: 25); RIMA 2 A.0.101.1 iii 1. 73 SAA 6 22:7. 74 SAA 6 34:1, 8, 15. See also the text SAA 6 48 r.12. 75 SAA 12 65:7′. 76 SAA 6 268:6. 77 SAA 6 252:1. 68

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caravan trade,78 and a man who acts as a witness in the settlement of a lawsuit brought by a certain Šangû-Issār in 655 BC.79 In all likelihood, analogously to the Egyptians of the city of Assur,80 the contacts with homeland that Philistine soldiers, merchants and other individuals who were settled in or immigrated to Central Assyria maintained represented another important means that the Assyrian elite exploited to implement the system of control on commodities and trade networks with Philistia. Assyria’s interactions with polities at the maritime and inland fringes of the empire The Assyrian presence in the Levant also had to face the problems represented by far-off polities that frequently interfered with the political and economic interests of the Assyrians in the region. However, these far-off polities were also an integral part of larger economic systems that pre-existed Assyria’s western expansion, being part of the Mediterranean economic system whose core was Phoenicia or of the Arab caravan trade system that connected zones at the margins of urbanised and agricultural areas. One of the polities at the “maritime fringes” of the empire was the one called by the ethnic designation Yamnāya. The Assyrians could have applied this designation indistinctively to various ethnic groups from the Aegean area that they encountered for business in the trade centres of the Levantine coast.81 The trade circuit that connected the Phoenician region with Cyprus and Ionia was heavily exploited by the Phoenicians since the early phase of their commercial expansion.82 This was an area in which different trade actors (Phoenicians, Cypriotes, Syrians and Greeks) were involved and played a role in trading Near Eastern artefacts in the Aegean area.83 More importantly, this commercial area seems to have been more crucial in East-West connections than Anatolia, since it enabled direct contacts of the Aegean world with the Assyrian Empire.84 In addition to the control of the rich seafaring trade managed by the Phoenicians, it is also thanks to trade connections with Yamnaean traders and sailors that the Assyrians of the eighth and seventh centuries BC became aware of the economic potential of exploiting

78

StAT 3 8:12. This undated memorandum from Archive N2 mentions what seems to be a caravan equipment or traded goods. 79 StAT 3 102 r.29. The text comes from Archive N32. 80 On the involvement of the Egyptians of Assur in trade and the possibility that they were also engaged in trading linen textiles with their homeland, see Gaspa, 2018: 133. 81 Yamada, 2005: 68; Rollinger, 2017: 276. 82 For the “island circuit” see Fales, 2017: 264. 83 Lanfranchi, 2000: 12. The parallel movement of Levantine artefacts towards Assyria is what can be termed Occidentalizzante, to use Liverani’s words. See Liverani, 2021: 132. 84 On the role of Phrygia and Lydia as mediators of the connections between the Aegean and the Near East, see, e.g., Cline / Graham, 2011: 104–107.

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far-reaching trade centres of the Mediterranean, although direct control of these entities was beyond the Assyrian state’s capabilities. The presence of these “Ionians” in the areas under Assyrian control is not only confirmed by Aegean and especially Euboean pottery found in numerous Levantine sites85 but also by some attestations in Neo-Assyrian archival documents referring to this area. Another letter written by Qurdi-Aššur-lāmur mentions a town called Yauna,86 a centre located within the Assyrian territory, possibly a “Ionian” coastal settlement87 on the northern Syrian coast.88 From one of the missives of the same governor, we also learn that the “Ionians” raided Levantine cities, in this instance Samsimurūna, Ḫariṣû and another centre of the Phoenician coast south of Byblos, although they avoided an open military confrontation with the Assyrian troops,89 preferring to flee in the midst of the sea and go back to the ports of their homeland.90 The persisting “Ionian” military pressure against Que (Cilicia) and Tyre explains the reasons for the battle between Sargon II and the “Ionians” in 715 BC.91 The contacts with the “Ionians” intensified from the reign of Sennacherib onwards, as witnessed by the employment of the Yamnāya along with Tyrians and Sidonians as crews of Assyrian military ships to attack Elam from the Persian Gulf in Sennacherib’s sixth campaign (694 BC).92 Sennacherib’s expedition is a good example of how the Assyrian Empire integrated foreign workforce from annexed countries into its labour and military structures.93 It also suggests that such Levantine seafaring specialists may have had a key role, not only as workforce in the Assyrian trade harbours founded along the Levantine littoral but also in the maritime defensive strategy that Assyria probably organised along the eastern Mediterranean coast to react to seaborne threats to the trade area under its control and protect its economic interests.94 That the Assyrian contacts with Phoenicians and Greeks increased in the seventh century BC is also witnessed by the geographical knowledge that the Assyrians reached during the reign of Esarhaddon. In one of the royal inscription from Nineveh Esarhaddon states that all the kings who lived in the midst of the sea 85

Lanfranchi, 2000: 9–10; Rollinger, 2017: 277; Radner / Vacek, 2020: 145–149. SAA 19 26:14′. 87 Rollinger, 2017: 277. 88 Yamada, 2008: 306. 89 SAA 19 25:3–13. On the localisation of these cities south of the province of Ṣimirra see Yamada, 2008: 304. 90 SAA 19 25 r.2′. 91 Lanfranchi, 2000: 15–17. 92 Rollinger, 2017: 279. 93 Lanfranchi, 2000: 31. 94 Radner / Vacek, 2020: 130–132. As suggested by Radner and Vacek, one cannot exclude that a detachment of such Assyrian naval force, manned with Levantine specialists, was organised at the Orontes estuary to protect the access to the trade route connecting this area to Euphrates and Mesopotamia. 86

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from Cyprus and Yawan to Tarsisi bowed down to his feet.95 By the mention of Yawan, the homeland of the “Ionians” (Classical Ionia in western Anatolia or another polity in the Aegean or Cilician area?) and of Tarsisi, the Phoenician port at the westernmost point of the Mediterranean (Biblical Tarshish and Classical Tartessos, whose possible location was, according to the communis opinio, in the Guadalquivir River Valley), the passage shows that the Assyrians knew the political entity of the Yamnāya and presumably also the trading and colonial activities conducted by Phoenicians and Greeks in the far west.96 As inaccurate as it may have been, the growing Assyrian awareness of the geographical extent of the Mediterranean commercial area was accompanied by the knowledge that other economic actors, in addition to the Tyrians, were benefitting from the wealth generated from the evolving maritime trade system. At that time, Phoenicians and Greeks had already established most of their colonies in the western Mediterranean, securing the control of maritime trade routes, markets and networks of contacts to meet the new demands of emerging western aristocracies and consolidate the full economic dominion of the Mediterranean world trade system. With the extension of the Assyrian dominion to the Phoenician cities during the Sargonid period and the conquest of Cyprus, presumably thanks to the employment of skilled Phoenician ship builders and sailors, the Assyrians were able to integrate the territorial trade network of the empire with the island’s maritime commercial network, gaining access to other valuable goods for the construction of new royal buildings in the capital cities.97 The inclusion of Cyprus in the Assyrian economic area represented a new phase in the implementation of the empire’s Levantine economic policy and, combined with the commercial strategy of establishing Assyrian emporia along the Levantine coast that competed with the indigenous ones,98 reveals that the control of the whole maritime trade circuit of the eastern Mediterranean area was among the ambitious plans of the Assyrian ruling class of the time. The area delimited by Cyprus, Cilicia and the Syro-Palestinian coast was the zone where seafaring international traders encountered one another to exchange their merchandise. It is here that, as the above-cited letter of Qurdi-Aššur-lāmur witnesses, the Assyrians faced acts of piracy of the Yamnāya99 and started to establish economic contacts with the Aegean world in the interests of the empire. Interactions of Assyria with the Aegean world also had a deep impact on the Greek economy, and it is worth noting that the increase in Ionian exports and commercial settling in the Levant seems directly linked to the establish95

RINAP 4 60: 9′–11′. Rollinger, 2017: 278–279. 97 Cannavò, 2007: 187–188. 98 The level of rivalry between Assyrians and Phoenicians in the late reign of Esarhaddon is evident from Itti-Šamaš-balāṭu’s letter SAA 16 127, regarding disruption of maritime traffic going to the Assyrian harbour by Ikkilû, king of Arwad. 99 Rollinger, 2017: 278. 96

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ment of the empire’s political and administrative control in the region.100 Within the consolidation of the Assyrian dominion through annexation and the establishment of the provincial system, the area of the port of Al-Mina, in the Orontes estuary area, and in general the Syro-Phoenician coast north of Byblos saw a growing presence of Greek trade that probably also involved settling and establishing trade centres.101 In the framework of the Assyrian favourable policy towards the different foreign economic actors that accessed the Syro-Phoenician area, the site of Al-Mina, for which an identification with Aḫtâ – a city mentioned in Tiglath-pileser III’s Iran Stele – has recently been suggested,102 became a strategic hub for Assyria for the procurement of goods from the Mediterranean market and the interregional routes that converged towards this site – a role comparable to that of Gaza at the convergence of Egyptian and North Arabian caravan routes.103 Moreover, in the new political situation, Al-Mina was probably more firmly connected with Aegean production centres, enabling the Assyrian Empire to have more direct access to Mediterranean commodities on the one hand and expanding the trade opportunities of other economic actors from Ionia, Cyprus and North Syria on the other hand.104 If the consolidation of Assyria’s dominion favoured foreign trade within the territory under its direct control, over time, the “Ionians” took advantage of the empire’s favourable policy at the expense of Phoenicians and Cypriotes, their competitors within the Cyprus-Cilicia-Syria-Phoenicia commercial area. This may be due primarily to the fact that by then, Assyria had already acquired direct control of key resources in Cyprus and in the Siro-Palestinian region, consolidating its own access to the Mediterranean trade area.105 The increasing military and tributary pressure of Assyria on the Levantine coast and the Phoenician trade area in the eastern Mediterranean is seen by many scholars as a crucial factor that led Tyrians and, in general, the Phoenicians to further develop their maritime commercial networks, establishing new trading posts and colonies in the western Mediterranean.106 However, other driving forces were probably at work in the creation of the Mediterranean trade system,107 one that Assyria did not have the organisational capacity to reach and control in its entirety. Analogously to the favourable policy adopted for the Tyrians, the Assyrian control of the Levantine trade area must have represented new commercial opportunities also for the “Ionians”, 100

Lanfranchi, 2000: 11–12. Lanfranchi, 2000: 9. 102 RINAP 1 35 ii 12′–13′. For this hypothesis, see Radner / Vacek, 2020: 109–118. 103 Radner / Vacek, 2020: 124. 104 Radner / Vacek, 2020: 156. 105 Radner / Vacek, 2020: 126. 106 Van der Brugge / Kleber, 2016: 202. For discussion on this common view see Faust / Weiss, 2011: 195, 197–199. 107 Faust / Weiss, 2011: 195, 197–199. 101

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whose trade traffic intensified in North Syria, possibly thanks to the favourable conditions that Assyria granted in terms of settling and trade infrastructures. In addition, the Greeks continued to interact, both directly and through the intermediation of local economic actors (primarily the Phoenicians), with various hubs not only in the Syro-Phoenician area but also in the southern Levant, as evidenced by the scattered presence of Greek pottery in southern Palestine, both in coastal sites open to international trade and in inland centres along major trade routes.108 The trading activities of the “Ionians” seem to have benefitted from the unified commercial area established in the Near East by the Assyrians, with positive effects in terms of economic growth, development of new artistic styles and consolidation of political and economic elites in their homeland. It is worth noting that the quantitative import profile of Greek pottery found at Al-Mina seems directly related to the historical trajectory of the Assyrian Empire’s dominion on the Levant and suggests that the site played a special role within the empire’s commercial network as the port of entry of various western commodities directed to the major cities of Central Assyria.109 The flow of Greek imports from Ionia that replace Euboean pottery and that can be detected at Al-Mina from around 700 BC gradually declined after around 640 BC, in coincidence with the empire’s decline starting in the last part of Assurbanipal’s reign until it came to an end at the end of the seventh century or the beginning of the sixth century BC.110 On the contrary, an opposite trend in Greek imports can be connected to the weakening of imperial control in Palestine at the end of the seventh century BC. A relevant increase in Greek pottery, especially at Ashkelon, seems to show that in this period the Philistine centre constituted the main port of entry for Greek wares in the region.111 To what extent the increase in Greek imports during the mature phase of Assyria’s dominion in the Levant was accompanied by a stable settling of Greek traders in Levantine seaports controlled by the Assyrians is, however, still an open question.112 The Assyrian ruling elite also wished to achieve direct access to the goods circulating within the Arab trade network, another economic system that pre-existed Assyria and that generated wealth at the margins of the imperial territory. From the perspective of local polities, however, Assyrian measures were considered excessive interference in their everyday businesses. The relations of Assyria 108

Waldbaum, 1994: 54–61; 1997: 6–8. Radner / Vacek, 2020: 156. 110 See Radner / Vacek, 2020: 149, 156. 111 Waldbaum, 2002: 64. 112 On the problems of identifying Greek presence in Levantine sites in the light of the ceramic, architectural and burial evidence see Waldbaum, 1997: 5–12. However, the Greek material evidence is not overwhelming and, according to Niemeier (2001: 12–16), does not prove that permanent settlements of Greeks were established in the Levant in the Iron Age IIB–C period. 109

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with the Arab tribes were intended to protect Assyrian agricultural resources and wealthy urban areas from the free-roaming nomadism of these pastoral groups and their frequent raids.113 The Assyrian policy was also aimed at heavily restricting trade between areas under Assyrian control and the Arabs, as witnessed by a letter from Assurbanipal’s correspondence dealing with the ban of selling merchandise to the Ishmaelites in the towns of Bīt-Amukāni region.114 However, the Assyrian Empire was also able to recognise the strategic importance of cooperating with Arab tribes to implement its expansionist project and secure its economic interests. The Arabs were the protagonists of the caravan trade along the main commercial routes that connected Arabia with Negev and northern Sinai. Their role as intermediaries with various far-off tribal polities could not be ignored by the Assyrians. From this perspective, southern Palestine was a crucial area. Here, Assyrian economic interests clashed with those of the Egyptians, which led the tribal polities of the region to regard Assyrian imperial authority as a power to be reckoned with.115 As seen in the case of the Assyrian policy on Levantine seaports, cooperation with local Arab trading elites meant blocking Egyptian access to the inland caravan trade of South Palestine, equally vital for the Egyptian economy. In this political situation, Assyria was able to subjugate various tribal leaders in the region encompassing northern Sinai and northern Transjordan, such as Siruatti and Samsi, assigning them specific positions of control over strategic peripheral areas to facilitate Assyria’s dominion of local trade routes,116 for instance, the “Spice Route” that connected the Arabian Peninsula with the Gaza region,117 and that represented an important source of wealth for the Gazaite elite along with the commerce with Egypt. The administrative duty regarding the control over the border with Egypt, that Tiglath-pileser III entrusted to the Arab leader Idibi’ilu,118 must have been fundamental to monitoring the traffic of people and commodities of Egyptian provenance,119 while the cooperation of Arab bedouins with the Assyrian armies in crossing the Sinai desert was essential in Esarhaddon’s second

113

For raids against rural settlements and commercial traffic see Ṭāb-ṣil-Ešarra’s epistle SAA 1 82 and Radner, 2017: 218–219 for discussion. Arab attacks were also directed against cities, as witnessed by the case of Sippar in SAA 1 84 r.3–5. 114 SAA 21 131:11′–13′. 115 See SAA 19, XXXVI. 116 Na’aman, 2004: 62. 117 Zamazalová, 2011: 302. The route reached Gaza via the Sinai desert or the Beersheba Valley. See Bagg, 2010: 208. On the involvement of Edom in the Arab trade towards Gaza see Bienkowski / van der Steen, 2001: 36–37. As observed in Garbini, 1997: 125–126, 139; 2006: 99, the commercial cooperation between the Philistines of Gaza and the Arabs is confirmed by the North Arabian onomastics of an eighth century BC Philistine seal from Cadiz. 118 Na’aman, 2004: 62; Thareani, 2016: 95; Frahm, 2017: 301. 119 Zamazalová, 2011: 305.

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campaign against Egypt (671 BC)120 as it was in other campaigns conducted in the Syro-Arabic desert. The empire’s interference was also aimed at breaking the privileged connections that Levantine and Chaldean elites had with Arab traders and at establishing a direct access to the Arab trade system. This situation turned out to be advantageous for the Arabs, increasing competition between caravan trade clans and facilitating the emergence of powerful dynasties. Cooperation with the Assyrian imperial elite meant new opportunities in terms of expansion of their political and economic power, a situation destined to grow further under the Neo-Babylonian and Persian empires.121 The demand for South Arabian aromatics by the imperial elite challenged the Assyrian project to control trade routes and caravan stations of North Arabia, although direct control of this area was only temporarily achieved by Babylonia during the reign of Nabonidus, when the Chaldean king moved to Taymā’,122 gaining direct access to the western frankincense routes123 and implementing the development of caravan trade relations between Babylonia and Arabia. In the course of the Assyro-Arabic relations of the eighth and seventh centuries BC, various tribal polities from southern Syria, Transjordan and Arabia interacted with Assyria, such as Qedar, Massa and Sheba,124 some of the major economic actors in the Arab caravan trade whose exotic commodities, especially aromatics, precious stones and metals, reached the Assyrian heartland. Taymā’, the powerful commercial hub in the Ḥijāz, Sumu-’il, the Arab confederation based in the Wādī Sirḥān area, and Sheba, that became dominant in the South Arabian political scenario, flourished during the late Neo-Assyrian period and played a central role in expanding the Arab trade network during the Assyrian imperial age and consolidating diplomatic and commercial relations between the Arab world and the Assyrian imperial elite.125 One of the Arabian caravan routes that reached the major trade centres of the Levant passed through the city of Adummatu (Dūmat al-Jandal), whose strategic position enabled access to Transjordan, the Negev and the Ḥijāz.126 120

Frahm, 2017: 305. For the case of the Arabs in northern Sinai and the Gaza region, see Na’aman, 2004: 67–68. 122 Sperveslage, 2016: 305. 123 Macdonald, 2010: 11. 124 Frahm, 2017: 301–305. 125 Frahm, 2017: 303, 306–307. The presence of individuals from Taymā’ in Ma‘allānāte (ACP 29 r.30–31) and Sippar (SAA 18 153:4–7) confirms the mobility of people from the North Arabian city within the imperial territory. Only the man in Sippar is qualified in the text as a tamkāru, but it is possible that also the one in Ma‘allānāte was involved in trade. 126 Macdonald, 2010: 14. Adummatu is documented in royal inscriptions from the reigns of Sennacherib and Esarhaddon, but excavations conducted at Dūmat al-Jandal show that at present the most ancient identified period is witnessed by Seleuco-Parthian and Hellenistic pottery. See Loreto, 2012: 178. 121

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If these and other contacts with far-off Arab polities significantly expanded the empire’s commercial network127 and acquisition of South Arabian commodities, they also reveal – analogously to the diversified management of the “maritime fringes” of the imperial territory – how the geo-political peculiarities of the area and the empire’s organisational limits (in terms of capacity of mobilisation of further manpower and military forces in the control of hardly accessible regions and of integration of foreign economic structures into the imperial organisation), combined with the internal political instability that absorbed the Assyrian ruling elite’s attention in the last phase of the empire’s history, conditioned any possibility of effectively controlling the evolving political and trade system of the Arabs and the wealth circulating at the southernmost margins of the Assyrian world. Abbreviations ACP Homès-Fredericq, D. / Garelli, P., 2018: Ma‘allānāte. Archives d’un centre provincial de l’empire assyrien. Akkadica Suppl. 13 / Greater Mesopotamia Studies 2. Bruxelles. CTN 2 Postgate, J.N., 1973: The Governor’s Palace Archive. Cuneiform Texts from Nimrud 2. London. PNA 1/II Radner, K., ed. 1999: The Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire, Volume 1, Part II: B–G. Helsinki. RIMA 2 Grayson, A.K., 1991: Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC I (1114–859 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia: Assyrian Periods 2. Toronto. RINAP 1 Tadmor, H. / Yamada, Sh., 2011: The Royal Inscriptions of Tiglathpileser III (744–727 BC) and Shalmaneser V (726–722 BC), Kings of Assyria. The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 1. Winona Lake, IN. RINAP 2 Frame, G., 2021: The Royal Inscriptions of Sargon II, King of Assyria (721–705 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 2. Winona Lake, IN. RINAP 4 Leichty, E., 2011: The Royal Inscriptions of Esarhaddon, King of Assyria (680–669 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 4. Winona Lake, IN. RINAP 5/1 Novotny, J. / Jeffers, J. / Van Buylaere, G., 2018: The Royal Inscriptions of Ashurbanipal (668–631 BC), Aššur-etel-ilāni (630–627 BC) and Sîn-šarra-iškun (626–612 BC), Kings of Assyria, Part 1. The 127

Assyria’s economic interests also concerned the eastern part of the Arabian Peninsula, where the inland caravan trade accessed to the Persian Gulf commercial area. Other protagonists of the Assyro-Arabic relations in the late phase of Assyrian history were Bazu, in northeastern Arabia, and some kingdoms in the area of Magan. Besides Dilmun, these places constituted important hubs for the international maritime trade in the Persian Gulf. See Frahm, 2017: 302, 304–306.

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Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 5/1. Winona Lake, IN. Parpola, S., 1987: The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part I: Letters from Assyria and the West. State Archives of Assyria 1. Helsinki. Parpola, S. / Watanabe, K., 1988: Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths. State Archives of Assyria 2. Helsinki. Starr, I., 1990: Queries to the Sungod. Divination and Politics in Sargonid Assyria. State Archives of Assyria 4. Helsinki. Kwasman, Th. / Parpola, S., 1991: Legal Transactions of the Royal Court of Nineveh, Part I: Tiglath-pileser III through Esarhaddon. State Archives of Assyria 6. Helsinki. Fales, F.M. / Postgate, J.N., 1992: Imperial Administrative Records, Part I: Palace and Temple Administration. State Archives of Assyria 7. Helsinki. Fales, F.M. / Postgate, J. N., 1995: Imperial Administrative Records, Part II: Provincial and Military Administration. State Archives of Assyria 11. Helsinki. Kataja, L. / Whiting, R., 1995: Grants, Decrees, and Gifts of the Neo-Assyrian Period. State Archives of Assyria 12. Helsinki. Luukko, M. / Van Buylaere, G., 2002: The Political Correspondence of Esarhaddon. State Archives of Assyria 16. Helsinki. Reynolds, F., 2003: The Babylonian Correspondence of Esarhaddon and Letters to Assurbanipal and Sin-šarru-iškun from Northern and Central Babylonia. State Archives of Assyria 18. Helsinki. Luukko, M., 2012: The Correspondence of Tiglath-pileser III and Sargon II from Calah/Nimrud. State Archives of Assyria 19. Helsinki. Parpola, S., 2018: The Correspondence of Assurbanipal, Part I: Letters from Assyria, Babylonia, and Vassal States. State Archives of Assyria 21. Helsinki.

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Radner, K. / Vacek, A., 2020: “The Site of Al-Mina, the Port of Aḫtâ and Mediterranean Trade in the Age of the Assyrian Empire”. In C. Horst (ed.): Der Alte Orient und die Entstehung der Athenischen Demokratie. Classica et Orientalia 21. Wiesbaden. Pp. 107–171. Rollinger, R., 2017: “Assyria and the Far West: The Aegean World”. In E. Frahm (ed.): A Companion to Assyria. Malden, MA. Pp. 275–285. Sperveslage, G., 2016: “Intercultural Contacts Between Egypt and the Arabian Peninsula at the Turn of the 2nd to the 1st Millennium BCE”. In J.C. Moreno García (ed.): Dynamics of Production in the Ancient Near East, 1300–500 BC. Oxford / Philadelphia, PA. Pp. 303–330. Thareani, Y., 2016: “The Empire and the ‘Upper Sea’: Assyrian Control Strategies along the Southern Levantine Coast”. BASOR 375, 77–102. Van der Brugge, C., 2017: “Of Production, Trade, Profit and Destruction: An Economic Interpretation of Sennacherib’s Third Campaign”. JESHO 60, 292– 335. Van der Brugge, C. / Kleber, K., 2016: “The Empire of Trade and the Empires of Force: Tyre in the Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Periods”. In J.C. Moreno García (ed.): Dynamics of Production in the Ancient Near East, 1300–500 BC. Oxford / Philadelphia, PA. Pp. 187–222. Van Neer, O.L. / Friedman, R. / Mumford, G. / Poblóme, J. / Waelkens, M., 2004: “Fish Remains from Archaeological Sites as Indicators of Former Trade Connections in the Eastern Mediterranean.” Paléorient 30, 101–147. Waldbaum, J. C., 1994: “Early Greek Contacts with the Southern Levant, ca. 1000–600 BC: The Eastern Perspective”. BASOR 293, 53–66. — 1997: “Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East? Problems in the Definition and Recognition of Presence”. BASOR 305, 1–17. — 2002: “Seventh Century B.C. Greek Pottery from Ashkelon, Israël: An Entrepot in the Southern Levant”. In M. Faudot / A. Fraysse / É. Geny (eds.): Pont-Euxin et commerce: la genèse de la “route de la soie”. Actes du IXe Symposium de Vani (Colchide, 1999). Besançon. Pp. 57–75. Yamada, Sh., 2005: “Kārus on the Frontiers of the Neo-Assyrian Empire”. Orient – Reports of the Society for Near Eastern Studies in Japan 40, 56–90. — 2008: “Qurdi-Assur-lamur: His Letters and Career”. In M. Cogan / D. Kahn (eds.): Treasures on Camel’s Humps: Historical and Literary Studies from the Ancient Near East Presented to Israel Eph’al. Jerusalem. Pp. 296–311. Younger, K.L., 2015: “The Assyrian Economic Impact on the Southern Levant in the Light of Recent Study”. Israel Exploration Journal 65, 179–204. Watson-Treumann, B., 2000–2001: “Beyond the Cedars of Lebanon: Phoenician Timber Merchants and Trees from the ‘Black Mountain’”. Die Welt des Orients 31, 75–83. Zadok, R., 1978: “Phoenicians, Philistines and Moabites in Mesopotamia in the First Millennium BC”. BASOR 230, 57–65.

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Zamazalová, S., 2011: “Before the Assyrian Conquest in 671 BCE: Relations between Egypt, Kush and Assyria”. In J. Mynářová (ed.): Egypt and the Near East – The Crossroads: Proceedings of an International Conference on the Relations of Egypt and the Near East in the Bronze Age, Prague, September 1–3, 2010. Prague. Pp. 297–328. Zilberg, P., 2018: “The Assyrian Provinces of the Southern Levant: Sources, Administration, and Control”. In Sh.Z. Aster / A. Faust (eds.): The Southern Levant Under the Assyrian Domination. University Park, PA. Pp. 56–88.

Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan and his Gods On Personal Deities in Ludlul bēl nēmeqi * Aino Hätinen The praise of Marduk in Ludlul bēl nēmeqi is framed as the personal experience of Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan, an individual who appears to have lived during the reign of Nazi-Maruttaš (1307–1282 BCE).1 For this reason, the poem can be counted among the few compositions from ancient Mesopotamia that relate to the religious experience of specific individuals.2 Whether based on reality or not, by focusing on the protagonist’s experiences and praising Marduk’s abilities in that respect, the poem gives a powerful religious testimony of the kind that is often promised in the closing passages of Akkadian incantation-prayers,3 for example ana dārâti ludlul dalīlīka “Let me praise your glory for eternity!”4 and āmirū’a ina sūqi lišarbû zikirki u anāku ana ṣalmāt qaqqadi ilūtki u qurdīki lušāpi “Let those who see me in the street make you famous, and me, let me proclaim your divinity and your heroism to the black-headed ones!”.5 Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s testimony is focused on the supremacy of Marduk: it was Marduk’s anger that caused his social life and health to deteriorate and it was only through Marduk’s mercy that he was rescued from his deathbed and rehabilitated. Marduk’s sovereignty and his actions that in the context of Ludlul are not dependent on any other deities, especially not the personal deities of the protagonist, have spurred the idea of Marduk not only as the head of the Babylonian pantheon but as the sole saviour of humans. For W.

*

I am honoured to present this contribution to Simo Parpola, an eminent scholar of NeoAssyrian, a pioneer of digital Assyriology, and a benefactor of Finnish Assyriologists through the Foundation for Finnish Assyriological Research. This article emerges from my work on the new edition of Ludlul bēl nēmeqi for the Electronic Babylonian Library Project (Hätinen, 2022a). The passages are cited according to that online edition and the revised translation of the poem by B.R. Foster (with the modification -sh- > -š- for consistency in the writing the name Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan). I thank E. Jiménez for his helpful comments on the present article. 1 See the overviews of the sources concerning Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan in Lambert, 1995: 33– 34; Oshima, 2014: 14–17 and Fadhil / Jiménez, 2019: 161–162. 2 Gabbay, 2020: 221–234. As other examples of this type Gabbay names Enḫeduana’s hymn Ninmešara, Bullussa-rabi’s hymn to Gula, Bēl-Kundi-ilū’a’s hymn to Nabû, Nabûušebši’s acrostic hymns to Marduk and Nabû, Nabû-šumu-ukīn’s lament to Marduk, the Babylonian Theodicy, and Bēl-rēmanni’s prayer to Nergal. 3 See Mayer, 1976: 307–349 and Abusch, 2005: 1–10. For Ludlul as the fulfillment of the promise expressed in prayers see Moran, 2002: 191, and Oshima, 2014: 28–34. 4 Sîn 1, 25; see the edition in Hätinen, 2021: 457–459. 5 Ištar 2, 101–102; see the edition in Zgoll, 2003: 48 and 53.

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L. Moran (2002: 182–200), Ludlul expressed a crisis in the traditional personal religion and is a testament to a new religion of Marduk;6 this view is also stressed by C. Uehlinger7 and T. Oshima,8 but criticised by A. Lenzi.9 R. Albertz had presented a similar idea already before that, seeing Ludlul’s Marduk as the “only possible personal god” of each individual and the poem as a means to proselytise this idea.10 In this article I reassess the idea of Marduk’s veneration replacing the relationship between the protagonist Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan and his personal deities. The investigation begins with a brief overview of personal deities and their representation in the 1st mill. BCE sources and continues with an analysis of how ‘my god’ and ‘my goddess’ are presented in the context of Ludlul.

6

“I think that in the narrative, after the hymn, the author portrays someone who, when the sufferings begin, is a man of conventional personal religion. In his piety and his beliefs he is the Mesopotamian Everyman. As his suffering continues, however, with no relief in sight, he is forced to see this conventional religion as problematic, a source of bewilderment, and to fall back on a conventional solution, the inscrutability of the gods. This remains his situation until, in his hour of deepest desperation, he is made aware of another and, to him, new reality, the reality of Marduk, and there is revealed to him a new personal religion, the religion of Marduk, a religion that transforms and transcends the religion and problems of the past. To proclaim this god and this new religion is, I propose, what Ludlul is all about.” (Moran, 2002: 186–187). 7 “Der springende Punkt der Dichtung liegt bes. in Taf. II gerade darin, die Wirk- und Sinnlosigkeit falsch, nämlich traditionell an anderen Gottheiten als dem Höchsten Gott orientierter Frömmigkeit und Riten aufzuweisen.” (Uehlinger, 2007: 144). 8 For Oshima, Ludlul presents “a new understanding of the divine world order in which Marduk has now become the ruler of the personal gods and in which Marduk’s will serves as the basis of the whole divine order. In this new theology of Marduk, belief in one’s personal deity has been overtaken by the national theology of Babylon. Although the poem’s original intention was to express Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s personal devotion to Marduk and his consort Zarpanītu, after Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi became part of the official ‘Scriptures’, the ancient thinkers regarded it as the model declaration of every person’s absolute devotion to Marduk.” (Oshima, 2014: 69). 9 “[…] although there is no doubt that Ludlul was written to exalt and proclaim Marduk’s divinity and sovereignty, it is doubtful in light of the newly recovered lines near the end of the poem (IV 115 and 117) that Marduk can be viewed as becoming the personal god of the sufferer and by his example the personal god of the poem’s audience. Certainly, the sufferer enters into a close relationship to his lord, Marduk, by the end of the poem, but this need not be understood in terms of personal religion.” (Lenzi, 2012: 61 fn. 93). 10 “Das Besondere des Ludlul-Hymnus ist es nun, daß er betont und massiv Marduk als den einzigen nur möglichen persönlichen Gott eines jeden Menschen präsentiert. Er ist es, von dem das Leben eines jeden auf Gedeih und Verderb abhängt. Ihm werden darum auch die Schutzgötter des einzelnen konsequent untergeordnet: Wenn sie ihren Schützling verlassen, ist es allein die Folge der Abwendung Marduks, und umgekehrt kann er sich dem zuwenden, den sein Schutzgott verworfen hat. Für eine Vermittlung des Schutzgottes bei Marduk ist da kein Raum mehr.” (Albertz, 1988: 34; see also Albertz, 1988: 50).

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It has long been established that the personal deities of an individual mostly appear as the unnamed ‘god’ (Akk. ilu, Sum. diĝir) and ‘goddess’ (Akk. ištaru, Sum. d iš₈-tár) in Sumerian and Akkadian sources, and their position in relation to the gods venerated in the official cult of a city or a state has been discussed in various studies.11 The basic concept, as it was presented by Th. Jacobsen,12 is that the great gods remained remote in the life of the individual and that a close, familylike relationship between a person and a deity could only exist between the individual and his/her personal deities. This intimate and exclusive connection between the personal deities and the individual is essential here: the personal deities guarantee health, happiness, and success in life for an individual, and, as opposed to the protective deities šēdu and lamassu, the household god (il bīti), or the city deities (il āli ‘city god’ and ištar āli ‘city goddess’), they do not have a function in broader contexts, such as the household, the temple, or the city.13 The possible forms that the worship of the personal deities took remain unclear, but there are clear indications in the hemerological corpus that the personal god was supposed to receive bread offerings14 or prayers15 on particular days of the year. It is clear that the personal deities are closely tied to the individuality of a person: the common formula anāku annanna mār annanna ša ilšu annanna ištaršu annannītu “I am NN, son of NN, whose god is NN, whose goddess is NN” in the Akkadian incantation-prayers serves as a means of identification.16 Some manuscripts of Akkadian prayers reveal that these personal deities did not need to belong to the lower ranks of the pantheon: the pair Marduk and Zarpānītu is named as the personal deities of the anonymous mašmaššu in two Neo-Assyrian manuscripts of the prayer Sîn 14.17 11 Overviews of the research history have been presented by M. P. Streck (2003–2005: 425–428), M. Jaques (2015: 300–314), and H. Agnethler (2021: 31–38). The monographs by H. Vorländer (1975) and R. Albertz (1978) warrant a special mention. See also the overview of protective deities, to which ilu and ištaru are included, by A. Löhnert / A. Zgoll (2009–2011: 311–314). 12 Jacobsen, 1946: 203–204; Jacobsen, 1970 [1963]: 37–38. 13 Agnethler, 2021: 40–41. In addition, Agnethler, 2021: 38 proposes the term ‘God-ofOne’s-Own’ (“Gott bzw. Götterpaar des Einzelnen” or “Eigengott/-götter”) instead of the traditional ‘personal deity’. 14 E.g. KAR 178// iv 47: kurummassu ana ilīšu liškun-ma maḫir “He should put in place his bread offering for his personal god: it will be accepted” (3 Ayyāru; see Livingstone, 2013: 120). 15 E.g. KAR 178// iii 32–35: amēlu ana ilīšu liškēn ana ramānīšu lā ikarrab ana ilīšu likrub ilšu ana amēlu šuāti ikarrab “A man should prostrate himself before his personal god; he should not pray for himself; he should pray to his personal god: his personal god will bless that man.” (28 Nisannu; see Livingstone, 2013: 116). 16 See Mayer, 1976: 50–52. 17 Sîn 14, 7–8 (MSS STT 57+ and STT 58); see the edition in Hätinen, 2021: 480–481. Note also that Šamaš-šumu-ukīn’s personal deities are identified as Marduk and Zarpānītu

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Since the personal deities guaranteed health, happiness, and success, the Babylonian literary tradition interprets misfortune as a reflection of the personal deities’ anger, prompted by misdeeds of the individual, anger of a (high-ranking) deity, or witchcraft.18 This is a prominent motif in the Akkadian prayers from the first millennium BCE. Most importantly, a specific group of prayers, Diĝiršadaba, existed to pacify the angered personal god.19 The angered personal deities also appear in Akkadian incantation-prayers; in this case, the petitioner can seek to pacify them by invoking the powers of another, often a higher deity.20 The interconnectedness of the human petitioner (in royal rituals, the king) and divine beings of various statuses is visible in ritual descriptions. A revealing example in this respect is the royal ritual bīt salā’ mê, during which the gods of Nippur and Babylon act as intermediaries between the king and his personal deities before these two are directly addressed.21 This betrays a triangle of communication or interaction consisting of the human petitioner, his personal deities, and the other deities, among them the great gods of the pantheon. Such a triangle is also present in Ludlul: Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan, his personal deities, and Marduk. The ‘god’ and ‘goddess’ in Ludlul should in part be understood as the personal deities of the protagonist: this is made explicit in the use of pronominal suffixes (e.g., ‘my god’, DINGIR-ĜU₁₀). However, these designations can also be interpreted as representations of the divine, of all the male and female deities.22 In the (e.g. BM 78219 o. 8–9; see “Nisaba 1” in Mayer, 1976: 433); his brother Assurbanipal’s deities are Aššur and Aššurītu (e.g. K.2808+ o. 6′–7′; see the latest edition in Abusch / Schwemer, 2016: no. 9.8). Especially Šamaš-šumu-ukīn’s relationship to Marduk, observed in the context of his transformation from an Assyrian prince to the king of Babylon (see Zaia, 2019), suggests that the personal deities may have been chosen to shape the identity of an individual. A similar phenomenon could explain why the healing god Marduk is named as the personal god of the anonymous mašmaššu in the MSS of Sîn 14 from Ḫuzirīna. 18 See Abusch, 1999: 85–102. 19 See Lambert, 1974: 267–322 and Jaques, 2015: 60–108. Although best attested in the SB version, this group of prayers is also attested in Sumerian/bilingual versions (Jaques, 2015: 34–60). It also has precursors in the Sumerian letter-prayers and other OB petitions to the personal deities as well as parallels in SB prayers to the personal deities (Jaques, 2015: 200–231). 20 See the overview in Mayer, 1976: 93–98. It has been suggested that this kind of power over personal deities would have been the prerogative of Marduk and Ištar (Oshima, 2011: 72–74), but Akkadian incantation-prayers that include a plea to reconcile the anger of the personal deities have a range of addressees: Adad, Anu, Ea, Enlil, Gula, Ištar, Madānu, Marduk, Nergal, Ninurta, Nisaba, Sîn, Sipaziana, Šamaš, Tašmētu, and Zarpānītu (see Abusch, 2018: 75–83). 21 See Ambos, 2013: 2; the ritual tablet of bīt salā’ mê describes a ritual arrangement and prayers to the personal deities (lines x–36′–37′ in Ambos, 2013: 166–167). 22 Mayer, 1978: 494 notes that according to the context, the word ‘god’ can have five different meanings. The personal god is one of them, but the word can also be used to refer

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central episode in Ludlul II 12–38 that presents a framework of religious orthopraxy, the protagonist’s assertion that he had always adhered to the rules of correct interaction with the divine, and a philosophical statement about the inscrutability of the divine will, should partially be understood in the latter sense.23 Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan does not mention his god and his goddess by name, but their essential role in his life is revealed directly after the introductory praise of Marduk: the root of his misfortune is the fact that he has been abandoned by his deities and protective spirits, who act in response to Marduk’s anger.24 No reason for Marduk’s ire is given; it is unprovoked and sudden.25 Ludlul I 41–46 ištu ūm bēlu īninanni u qarrādu marduk isbusu ittīya iddânni ilī šadâšu īli ipparku ištarī ibēš aḫīta From the day the Lord punished me, And the warrior Marduk became furious with me,

to a deity / the divinity in general. For the most recent discussion on ‘god’ and ‘goddess’ as descriptions of the divine essence, see Fadhil / Jiménez, 2022: 256. See also Fadhil / Jiménez, 2019: 161 fn. 19 for this meaning in the context of Ludlul. 23 This is clear in the couplets II 25–26: ūm palāḫ ili ṭūb libbīya | ūm rēdûti ištari nēmelu tattūru “The day for reverencing the gods was a source of satisfaction to me, The goddess’s ceremony was my profit and return”; II 29–30: ušāri ana mātīya mê ili naṣāra | šumi ištari šūqura nišīya uštāḫiz “I instructed my land to observe the god’s rites, The goddess’s name did I drill my people to esteem.”; II 36–37: ayyu ṭēm ili qereb šamê ilammad | milikša anzanunzê iḫakkim mannu “Who could learn the reasoning of a god, the innermost core of heaven? A (goddess’s) intentions, the unknowable depths of the earth, who could fathom them?”. 24 This is also expressed in the opening hymn (Ludlul I 15–16: ikkelemmū-ma inessû lamassu u šēdu | ippallas-ma ana ša iskipūšu ilšu isaḫḫuršu “He glowers, protective spirits take flight, He regards, the one whose god forsook him comes back to him”; Ludlul I 27– 28: mušmiddi … adad miḫiṣti erra | musallim ili u ištari šabbasûti “Who intensifies the … of Adad, the blow of Erra, Who reconciles the wrathful god and goddess.”); see the discussion in Spieckermann, 1998: 333. Note that Abusch / Milstein, 2021: 129–130 maintain that the opening hymn is a later addition to the core text and that the core work does not mention Marduk as the cause of the protagonist’s suffering. Problematic in this interpretation is that it includes Ludlul I 41–42 in the introductory hymn although that couplet is the starting point of Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s story. In other words, if the couplet I 41–42 is seen as a part of the core text, Marduk is presented as the cause and saviour throughout the text. 25 In contrast to the Hymn to the Queen of Nippur B+6–11 (Földi, 2021; corresponding to II 6–11 in Lambert, 1982: 194–195): there the reason for Ištar’s wrath that drives away the personal deities and protective spirits is the failure to provide food offerings for her.

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My own god threw me over, he disappeared, My goddess deserted, she vanished away.26 The benevolent angel at my side veered off, My protecting spirit was frightened away, she sought someone else. Possible references to the personal deities can also be found in Tablet II that focuses on expressing the helplessness of the protagonist in the face of the unprovoked divine wrath and its dire consequences. These couplets could also be interpreted as references to the male and female deities or divine forces in general, but acknowledging that the task of the personal deities was to protect and aid people, their identification as the estranged god and goddess of Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan is preferred here.27 Ludlul II 4–5 ilī alsī-ma ul iddina pānīšu usalli ištarī ul ušaqqâ rēšīša I called to my god, he did not show his face, I prayed to my goddess, she did not raise her head. Ludlul II 112–113 ul irūṣa ilī qātī ul iṣbat ul irēmanni ištarī idīya ul illik My god did not rush to my rescue, nor take me by the hand, My goddess felt no pity for me, nor went by my side. Further references to Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s personal deities are found in the fragmentarily preserved Tablet IV, where they appear either alone (Ludlul IV i+5– 6)28 or together with Marduk and Zarpānītu (Ludlul IV j+0–7). These sections resemble the language of penitential prayers and therefore appear to be related to the penitence of the protagonist.29 One would also expect this section to include the return of Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s personal deities. Importantly, the latter of these sections relates to the sin of neglecting both the personal deities and those living in Esaĝil in a way that does not suggest that Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s misdeed would have been the veneration of the personal deities instead of Marduk and Zarpānītu.

26

Note that Fadhil / Jiménez, 2019: 161 fn. 19 use this couplet (I 43–44) as an example for the merismus ‘the god and the goddess’ that refers to deities other than Marduk in Ludlul. Here they are understood as the personal deities due to the explicit use of the possessive suffix -ĜU₁₀ in the MSS. 27 See Spieckermann, 1998: 333–334. 28 Line numbers according to Hätinen, 2022a; the corresponding lines in Oshima’s edition are C 3ʹʹ–4ʹʹ (Oshima, 2014: 104–105 and 427). 29 See Hätinen, in press.

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Ludlul IV j+0–730 [ana marduk …] (j+0) ana zarp[ānītu …] (j+1) ana ilīy[a …] ana ištarīy[a …] lā pāliḫ i[līšu …] lā pāliḫ [ištarīšu …] ša ana esaĝil īgû ina qātīya līmur ša amāt bābili […] [To Marduk …], To Zarp[anitu …], To my god […], To my goddess […]. The one who does not revere [his] god […], The one who does not revere [his goddess …], He who has done wrong by Esaĝil, let him learn from me, He who has […] the word of Babylon […] The fact that the personal deities did not have their tasks subsumed by Marduk and Zarpānītu finds confirmation in the concluding passage of the poem that contains benedictions for other sufferers.31 They do not mention Marduk – as would be expected if Marduk had become the personal god of each and every one – but they do include wishes about the activities of the personal god and goddess; the following blessings deal with that person’s community and his ruler. In other words, they are directed against those very misfortunes that Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan had endured and overcome, and perpetuate the ideal of having the personal deities, the community, and the ruler at one’s side. Ludlul V 113–118 [ša maru]šta īmuru lippaṭir aranšu [ša …] mānaḫtašu lištapšiḫ […] ištartašu likabbissu [… n]išī … šulmāniš […] … šarrašu likabbissu [ṭūb šīri] u ḫūd libbi liba’’i ūmīšam [nišū? (…) i]na? zamā[r?] šubši-mešrê-šakkan idlulā dalīlī[šu?] […] tanittaka ṭābat

30

Line numbers according to Hätinen, 2022a; the corresponding lines in Oshima’s edition are C 1ʹʹʹ–7ʹʹʹ (Oshima, 2014: 104–105 and 428). Marduk’s name is not preserved in the text but should certainly be reconstructed in j+0. 31 The main argument in Lenzi, 2012: 61 fn. 93 against Moran’s “new religion of Marduk” (see fn. 6) was this newly recovered reference to personal deities at the end of the poem.

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[He who] has seen suffering, let his punishment be remitted, […], may his distress be relieved, [May his god … him], may his goddess honor him, […] the people […] in well-being, […], may his king honor him, [Good health] and joy of heart may he look out every day. [The people …] through the poem of Šubši-mešre-Šakkan, they praised [him] [O Marduk, pr]aising you is sweet. As a final point, A. Lenzi’s (2012: 60–61) suggestion that the personal deities of Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan may appear as the young man and the young woman in the crucial dream episode in Tablet III needs to be considered.32 In this section, the protagonist’s dreams are visited by four characters. The first is “an extraordinary young man, of physique surpassing, magnificent of limb, wrapped in a cloak” (Ludlul III 9–10). He had been sent by the lord of Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan with the message: “that most wretched man, let him expect his recovery” (Ludlul III 15– 16). As Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan wakes up, he asks “Who was that man whom the king sent?” (Ludlul III 18), indicating that this man was a messenger of the king – a fact that speaks against identifying the young man as the personal god of the protagonist. The second visitor is a priest (ramku), sent by Laluralima, the exorcist of Nippur, to cleanse the sufferer (Ludlul III 23–26). The third visitor is “an extraordinary young woman, fair of face, while still at a distance, she was very like to a deity” (Ludlul III 31–32). She brings a message of deliverance: “Mercy on him! He has suffered greatly!” (Ludlul III 35), perhaps acting as a messenger of other deities (Ludlul III 38). She most likely is a divine being, but not necessarily the personal goddess of the protagonist.33 The fourth visitor is Ur-Nintinuga, an exorcist from Babylon, sent by Marduk to bring a healing swathe to Šubši-mešrêŠakkan (Ludlul III 40–46). As already observed (Fadhil / Jiménez, 2019: 161), this passage is formulated as the reversal of the chain of events, triggered by Marduk’s anger, that had affected the divine intermediaries, the human intermediaries, and finally, the king. In this sense, only the young woman of Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s dreams can potentially be his personal goddess or his lamassu. Conclusion Instead of seeing Ludlul as a text that promotes the replacement of the personal deities by Marduk, the poem should be appreciated as a reflection of the interconnected relationships of an individual, his/her personal deities, and the highest authorities in the Babylonian pantheon. From the very beginning, the protagonist 32

This episode can now be better understood thanks to new MSS of Ludlul III (see Fadhil / Jiménez, 2019: 156–162 and Hätinen, 2022b: 146–148). For interpretations of the episode see Zgoll, 2006: 285; Pongratz-Leisten, 2010: 148–150; and Oshima, 2014: 276. 33 Identified as Ištar in Pongratz-Leisten, 2010: 149.

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acknowledges that there is a higher power in the world, that Marduk’s wrath has made his whole world tumble down because it disrupted his relationship with his personal deities and his protective spirits, and they, in turn, estranged the king. The reversal of all of this is possible only once Marduk, the king of the gods, has been appeased. Although Marduk has the power to command salvation, there are no indications in Ludlul that Marduk would have subsumed the role of Šubšimešrê-Šakkan’s personal god in that process. On the contrary, the previous status quo returns after the disruption and the placated personal deities continue performing their duties in protecting the humans. Bibliography Abusch, T., 1999: “Witchcraft and the Anger of Personal God”. In T. Abusch / K. van der Toorn (eds.): Mesopotamian Magic. Textual, Historical, and Interpretative Perspectives. AMD 1 Groningen. Pp. 83–121. — 2005: “The Promise to Praise the God in Šuilla Prayers”. In A. Gianto (ed.): Biblical and Oriental Essays in Memory of William L. Moran. Biblica et orientalia 48. Roma. Pp. 1–10. — 2018: “The Reconciliation of Angry Personal Gods: A Revision of the Šuillas”. JANEH 5, 57–85. Abusch, T. / Milstein, S. J., 2021: “The Hymn to Marduk (Ludlul bēl nēmeqi I 1– 42) Reconsidered”. WdO 51, 125–135. Abusch, T. / Schwemer, D., 2016: Corpus of Mesopotamian Anti-Witchcraft Rituals Volume 2. AMD 8/2. Leiden / Boston. Agnethler, H., 2021: “„Mein Gott, mein Gott …“ Überlegungen zur Beziehung zwischen Mensch und Gott aus assyriologischer Perspektive. Eine forschungsgeschichtliche Auseinandersetzung mit dem ‚persönlichen‘ Gott”. In Zentrum für Evangelische Theologie (ed.): Dem Leben dienen. Festschrift für Hans Klein anlässlich seines 80. Geburtstags. s.l. Pp. 28–51. Albertz, R., 1978: Persönliche Frömmigkeit und offizielle Religion. Religionsinterner Pluralismus in Israel und Babylon. Calwer theologische Monographien Reihe A, Bibelwissenschaft 9. Stuttgart. — 1988: “Ludlul bēl nēmeqi – eine Lehrdichtung zur Ausbreitung und Vertiefung der persönlichen Mardukfrömmigkeit”. In G. Mauer / U. Magen (eds.): Ad bene fideliter seminandum. Festgabe für Karlheinz Deller zum 21. Februar 1987. AOAT 220. Kevelaer / Neukirchen-Vluyn. Pp. 25–53. Ambos, C., 2013: Der König im Gefängnis und das Neujahrsfest im Herbst. Mechanismen der Legitimation des babylonischen Herrschers im 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. und ihre Geschichte. Dresden. Fadhil, A. / Jiménez, E., 2019: “Literary Texts from the Sippar Library I. Two Babylonian Classics”. ZA 109, 155–176. Fadhil, A.A. / Jiménez, E., 2022: “Literary Texts from the Sippar Library III: ‘Eriš šummi’, A Syncretistic Hymn to Marduk”. ZA 112, 229–274.

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Földi, Z.J., 2021: “Hymn to the Queen of Nippur. With contributions by A. C. Heinrich, A. Hätinen, E. Jiménez and T.D.N. Mitto. Translated by Benjamin R. Foster”. electronic Babylonian Library. DOI: https://doi.org/10.5282/ebl/ l/3/6. Accessed 25/08/2022. Gabbay, U., 2020: “A Thanksgiving Hymn of Bēl-rēmanni to Nergal: Personal Religious Experience in Sumerian and Akkadian Literature”. In U. Gabbay / J.J. Pérennès (eds.): Des polythéismes aux monothéismes. Mélanges d’Assyriologie offerts à Marcel Sigrist. Études bibliques Nouvelle série 82. Leuven / Paris / Bristol, CT. Pp. 221–250. Hätinen, A., 2021: The Moon God Sîn in Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Times. dubsar 20. Münster. — 2022a: “Righteous Sufferer (Ludlul bēl nēmeqi). With contributions by Z.F. Földi, A.C. Heinrich, E. Jiménez and T.D.N. Mitto. Translated by Benjamin R. Foster.” electronic Babylonian Library. DOI: https://doi.org/10.5282/ebl/ l/2/2. Accessed 25/08/2022. — 2022b: “Fragments of Ludlul bēl nēmeqi Chiefly from the Babylon Collection”. Kaskal 19, 139–151. — in press: “Šigû Prayers and Ludlul bēl nēmeqi”. In A. Johandi / U. Nõmmik (eds.): Biblical Job in the Literary Network of the Ancient Near East. Kasion. Münster. Jacobsen, T., 1946: “Mesopotamia”. In H. Frankfort / H. A. Frankfort / J.A. Wilson / T. Jacobsen / W.A. Irwin (eds.): The Intellectual Adventure of Ancient Man. An Essay on Speculative Thought in the Ancient Near East. Chicago / London. Pp. 123–219. — 1970 [1963]: “Mesopotamian Gods and Pantheons”. In W. L. Moran (ed.): Toward the Image of Tammuz and Other Essays on Mesopotamian History and Culture. Cambrigde, Massachusetts. Pp. 16–38. Jaques, M., 2015: Mon dieu qu’ai-je fait? Les diĝir-šà-dab(₅)-ba et la piété privée en Mesopotamie. OBO 273. Fribourg / Göttingen. Lambert, W.G., 1974: “Dingir.šà.dib.ba Incantations”. JNES 33, 267–322. — 1982: “A Hymn to the Queen of Nippur”. In G. van Driel / T.J.H. Krispijn / M. Stol / K.R. Veenhof (eds.): Zikir šumim. Assyriological Studies Presented to F.R. Kraus on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday. Leiden. Pp. 173– 218. — 1995: “Some new Babylonian wisdom literature”. In J. Day / R.P. Gordon / H.G.M. Williamson (eds.): Wisdom in ancient Israel. Essays in honour of J. A. Emerton. Cambridge. Pp. 30–42. Lenzi, A., 2012: “The Curious Case of Failed Revelation in Ludlul bēl nēmeqi: A New Suggestion”. In C.L. Crouch / J. Stökl / A. Zernecke (eds.): Mediating between Heaven and Earth: Communication with the Divine in the Ancient Near East. Library of Hebrew Bible / Old Testament Studies 566. London. Pp. 36–66.

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Livingstone, A., 2013: Hemerologies of Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars. CUSAS 25. Bethesda, Maryland. Löhnert, A. / Zgoll, A., 2009–2011: “Schutzgott. A. In Mesopotamien”. RlA 12, 311–314. Mayer, W.R., 1976: Untersuchungen zur Formensprache der babylonischen “Gebetsbeschwörungen”. St Pohl SM 5. Rome. — 1978: “Review of Vorländer, Hermann, Mein Gott. Die Vorstellungen vom persänlichen Gott im Alten Orient und im Alten Testament”. UF 10, 492–498. Moran, W.L., 2002: “The Babylonian Job”. In W.L. Moran / R.S. Hendel (eds.): The Most Magic Word. Essays on Babylonian and Biblical Literature. The Catholic Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series 35. Washington DC. Pp. 182– 200. Oshima, T., 2011: Babylonian Prayers to Marduk. ORA 7. Tübingen. — 2014: Babylonian Poems of Pious Sufferers. Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi and the Babylonian Theodicy. ORA 14. Tübingen. Pongratz-Leisten, B., 2010: “From Ritual to Text to Intertext: A New Look on the Dreams in Ludlul bēl nēmeqi”. In P. Alexander / A. Lange / R. Pillinger (eds.): In the Second Degree. Paratextual Literature in Ancient Near Eastern and Ancient Mediterranean Culture and Its Reflections in Medieval Literature. Leiden / Boston. Pp. 141–157. Spieckermann, H., 1998: “Ludlul bēl nēmeqi und die Frage nach der Gerechtigkeit Gottes”. In S.M. Maul (ed.): tikip santakki mala bašmu … Festschrift für Rykle Borger zu seinem 65. Geburtstag am 24. Mai 1994. CM 10. Groningen. Pp. 329–341. Streck, M.P., 2003–2005: “Persönliche Frömmigkeit”. RlA 10, 424–429. Uehlinger, C., 2007: “Das Hiob-Buch im Kontext der altorientalischen Literaturund Religionsgeschichte”. In T. Krüger / M. Oeming / K. Schmid / C. Uehlinger (eds.): Das Buch Hiob und seine Interpretationen. Beiträge zum HiobSymposium auf dem Monte Verità vom 14.–19. August 2005. Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments 88. Zürich. Pp. 97–163. Vorländer, H., 1975: Mein Gott. Die Vorstellungen vom persönlichen Gott im Alten Orient und im Alten Testament. AOAT 23. Kevelaer / Neukirchen-Vluyn. Zaia, S., 2019: “Going Native: Šamaš-šuma-ukīn, Assyrian King of Babylon”. Iraq 81, 247–268. Zgoll, A., 2003: Die Kunst des Betens. Form und Funktion, Theologie und Psychagogik in babylonisch-assyrischen Handerhebungsgebeten zu Ištar. AOAT 308. Münster. — 2006: Traum und Welterleben im antiken Mesopotamien. Traumtheorie und Traumpraxis im 3.–1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. als Horizont einer Kulturgeschichte des Träumens. AOAT 333. Münster.

Considerations about the Localization of Eluḫat (Eluḫut) on the Upper Tigris Hartmut Kühne I am delighted to dedicate these notes to Simo Parpola. His achievements in Assyriology are overwhelming. His professionalism on many subject areas and related fields is outstanding. Never forgotten will be his participation at the International Colloquium in Tell Sheikh Hamad / Gharibe on the occasion of the thirty’ anniversary of the excavation project in 2008,1 the discussions, the visits of the site, and the excursion to the Wādī ‘Aǧiǧ. Prolog The point of departure of this paper has been a joint venture of Prof. Dr. Hayat Erkanal (University of Ankara) and myself (Free University of Berlin)2 on a survey of the Tur Abdin within the framework of the archaeological emergency investigations of the Ilısu dam project (Güneydoğu Anadolu Projesi) in 1989. The permission was granted but arrived unfortunately a bit too late that year so that there were only three days of the planned time slot left. They were used for a “touristic” reconnaissance. With the bomb assault committed on Hayat’s car at the foot of Girnavaz Höyük in 1991 killing two of his most promising students3 the project came to an end before it had really started. I have reported about our limited field experience at the Colloquium “Historische Geographie Obermesopotamiens im Gebiet zwischen Euphrat und Ḫābūr” in Mainz, 23–24 November 2012.4 In this unpublished paper I have suggested to equate Middle Assyrian Eluḫat with the premodern name of Batman, Iluh.5 A second chance for a reconnaissance visit was most generously provided by Prof. Dr. Gülriz Kozbe from the University of Batman in 2014. Under the excellent guidance of Dr. Nihat Erdoğan, director of the Museum of Mardin, we toured the Upper Tigris Valley and the Tur Abdin for three intensive days. These two field experiences constitute my archaeo-geographic background against which I will elaborate the thesis that Iluh may be equated with Eluḫat6 in a diachronic review.

1

Kühne (ed.), 2010. Under the lead management of Prof. Dr. Hayat Erkanal. 3 Erkanal et al. (eds.), 1995. 4 Ziegler / Cancik-Kirschbaum (eds.), 2014; the paper was titled “Der Tur Abdin im 2. Jahrtausend v.Chr.”. 5 Jacquet, 2014: 114 note 22. 6 Other aspects of this experience are published in Kühne, 2023. 2

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Iluh Until 1937 Iluh was the name of a village on the left bank of the Batman Su (antique: Nymphios; Akkadian: Kallat7) about 15 kilometers north of its confluence with the Tigris. Old maps8 record Iluh in lieu of Batman. Next to the village of Iluh was an archaeological site called Iluh Höyük.9 Today Iluh is a quarter within the center of the modern city of Batman.10 Iluh Höyük is still just recognizable within the urban topography but completely overbuilt (its coordinates are: 37,877381 and 41,112648).11 Batman is the capital of the Turkish province of the same name which was created only in 1990. It lies at the western edge of the province on the eastern (left) bank of the Batman Su approximately fifteen kilometers north of its confluence with the Tigris. The province extends in a north-south direction overlapping the Tigris. Subdivided into six counties (ilçe) the northern three (Sason, Kozluk, and Beşiri) have been outsourced from the province of Siirt and the southern three (Batman merkezi, Hasankeyf and Gercüş) from the province of Mardin. Thus, the new province of Batman joined Batman merkesi on the north side of the Tigris with Hasankeyf and Gercüş on the south side as the former province of Mardin had done already.12 This may be of historic relevance (see below). The village of Iluh belonged to the county of Elmedina of the province of Siirt that was renamed Batman in 1926.13 Former names of Iluh are Elihan/Elih.14 The region between the Batman Su and the Botan Su was integrated in the Ottoman empire in 1515 and was called Elekhan from which first Elah and then Iluh was derived.15 In linguistic terms the toponym Êlih is said to be Kurmanji (Northern Kurdish).16 7

Parpola / Porter 2001: 3. Türkiye 1:800,000 Blatt: Musul (1936); based on this map is the German edition of the „Internationale Weltkarte“ 1:1.000.000 sheet N.J-37: Erzurum (1940); on the Turkish map 1:200,000 sheet F-XIV Midyat (1946) the name Iluh is spelled in capital letters like MIDYAT while the train station is called Batman Istasyon; Kessler, 1980 has mapped the name on p. 115 = Karte IV but does record it in the text; Algaze, 1989: 258 Fig. 2b; it is not recorded on the maps of Taylor, 1865, Socin, 1881 (= Radner, 2006: Fig. 1) or Sinclair, 1989: between 406–407. 9 Kozbe (ed.), 2017: 8; Şiriner Önver / Pınarcıoğlu / Kanbak, 2020: 77. 10 Sunkar / Tonbul, 2010: 18. 11 See the image Sunkar / Tonbul, 2010: 20 Şekil 1b; Kozbe (ed.), 2017: 8 for the coordinates. 12 Kozbe (ed.), 2017: ii; https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batman_(Provinz) (retrieved 20220909). 13 Codex Kultur-Atlas 1966, Türkei 1:300.000 Teil 8 Blatt 37/41; Şiriner Önver / Pınarcıoğlu / Kanbak, 2020: 71. 14 Kozbe (ed.), 2017: XXIII; Ilyas / Çoban, 2020: 99. 15 Duman / Gülbahar, 2020: 144. 16 https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batman_(Provinz); Radner, 2006 discusses the relevance 8

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The site of Iluh Höyük is a stepchild of historic geographic-linguistic and archaeological-geographic research. Other than the Tur Abdin on the south side of the Tigris17 the region of the confluence of the Batman Su and the Tigris, i.e. the Lower Batman Su, has not been in the focus of researchers and travelers, topographic-linguistis, and archaeologist. One of the earliest and one of the few travelers north of the Upper Tigris, the British Consul J. G. Taylor,18 did not touch this region; neither did Lehmann-Haupt19 nor Sinclair20. Consequently, the site was unknown and did not stimulate historic geographers and linguists of pre-and post-Hellenistic times. There is no mention of the toponym in Forrer, 1920; Honigmann, 1935; Dillemann, 1962; Whitby, 1983; Anschütz, 1985; Sinclair, 1989; Palmer, 1990; and Parker, 2001. Likewise, there is no lemma in the Encyclopaedia of Islam and it does not seem to have been considered on maps of the “Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients”.21 Thus, it seems that the first and only archaeological reconnaissance of the mound of Iluh has been conducted by Algaze in 1988.22 Unfortunately, he does not furnish a site description; there is no information about the extension or size of the site. In his “Brief Summary of Results” he lists “traces of Khabur Ware” for Iluh and “distinctive button-base goblets of Middle Assyrian date” for several sites including Iluh.23 The latter is confirmed by Kozbe.24 Unfortunately, nothing of it is published. Later surveys have not touched this region again25 but have focused on the northern bank of the Tigris west of the Batman confluence and the western bank and northern part of the Batman Su valley.26 The excavation at Kuriki Höyük is the only one attested south of Batman in the confluence area with the Tigris but did not touch levels of the second millennium BC.27

of Turoyo (Aramaic) and Kurdish place names as possible transmitter of Assyrian place names. 17 Radner, 2006. 18 Taylor. 1865. 19 Lehmann-Haupt, 1910. 20 Sinclair. 1989: 297 describes Batman as he saw it in the early 1980s without mentioning Iluh. 21 While Hasankeyf is listed on every relevant map Iluh or the mapping of a settlement/ town in place of modern Batman cannot be found. 22 Algaze. 1989: 243, Fig. 2b (p. 258). 23 Algaze, 1989: 245. 24 Kozbe (ed.), 2017: 8. 25 Except for palaeolithic artefacts and a few “Holocene” sites “just downstream of the Batman-Tigris confluence”: Algaze et al., 1991: 184, Fig. 2b: 71–73. 26 Rosenberg / Togul, 1991; Parker et al., 2001; Ay, 2001; for a general review of archaeological activities see Kozbe / Gongora, 2020. 27 D’Agostino / Genç, 2018; Kozbe / Güngör, 2020: 28–29, 33–34.

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This admittedly not overwhelming archaeological evidence nevertheless qualifies Iluh Höyük as a candidate for Old and Middle Assyrian Eluḫut/Eluḫat. Conversely, Eluḫut/Eluḫat has never been associated with Iluh so far. Eluḫat/Eluḫut The Old Assyrian toponym Eluḫut has been equated consistently with Middle Assyrian Eluḫat.28 The evidence for the Old Assyrian toponym derives from two sources, the Old Assyrian correspondence between Aššur and Karum Kaneş29 and the Amorite Mari(ote) documents.30 Based on the latter, Jacquet has, in an indepth study localizing Eluḫut in the “Haut Pays” (Subartum), proposed identifying it with Üçtepe/Kurkh in the province of Diyarbakır on the right bank of the Tigris.31 Former proposals rather centered on the region west of the Ḫābūr extending from Mardin/Derek32 to Gerger33 at the Upper Euphrates or on the southern fringes of the Tur Abdin.34 Recently Michel suggested the area of Nusaibin/Qamishli.35 Jacquet’s proposal was adopted by Ziegler and Langlois for the Old-Babylonian toponyms and by Cancik-Kirschbaum and Hess for Middle Assyrian Eluḫat.36 However, most recently Genç and MacGinnis have published a newly discovered Middle Assyrian tablet from Üçtepe dating to the reign of king Shalmaneser I (1263–1234 BC) that virtually confirms the identification of Üçtepe with Šinamu/Sinabu.37 Consequently, since its eastern neighbor Ziyaret Tepe seems to be identified firmly with Tušhan,38 the new candidate for Tidu39 would be Pornak Tepe in the west.40 In any case, this re-opens the floor for the discussion of the localization of Eluḫat. It should be highlighted that Jacquet was the first to advocate a position of Eluḫut on the Upper Tigris.41 But already Kessler quoted a passage of the letter A. 49 from Mari in which the equivalence of the lands of Šinamu, Tušhan and

28

Cancik-Kirschbaum / Hess, 2016: 49. Nashef, 1982: 104; Nashef, 1987: 48f. (Quelle 26); Barjamovic, 2008; Veenhof, 2008. 30 Jacquet, 2014; Ziegler / Langlois, 2016: 96–98 s.v. Eluhut. 31 Jacquet, 2014: 133–144; Ziegler / Langlois, 2016: 98. 32 Veenhof, 2008: 80. 33 Still rewarding to read is Falkner’s summary of the state of research 1957–1958: 8–10. 34 Groneberg, 1980: 69. 35 Michel, 2021: 80. 36 Ziegler / Langlois, 2016: 96–98; Cancik-Kirschbaum / Hess, 2016: 49. 37 Genç / MacGinnis, 2022. 38 Parpola 2008: 25–27. 39 Kessler, 2014 has made clear that Tidu has to be separated from Ta’idu and that the latter is identified with Tell Hamidiye. 40 Genç / MacGinnis, 2022: 90; Bagg, 2017. 41 Jacquet, 2014: 143–144. 29

.

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Elaḫut is stated42, which pointed to a localization along the Upper Tigris.43 From the succession of the toponyms in this text and the present knowledge of the identification of Šinamu with Üçtepe and Tušhan with Ziyaret Tepe one may infer that Eluḫat must be looked for east of Tušhan. This would support an identification with Iluh Höyük. As demonstrated above, Eluḫat/Eluḫut has not been related to Iluh so far. However, already Forrer wanted to localize Tidu at the confluence of the Batman Su with the Tigris.44 He argued that “… Tidi wird unter den von Adad-nirari I. eroberten Städten aufgezählt, und dabei immer Eluḫat (bei Damdamusa) als äusserster Ort im Nordwesten angegeben; …“.45 The relevant paragraphs of the texts of Adad-nirari I (1295–1264 BC) referred to by Forrer translated by Grayson run like this: A.0.76.1,6–16: … trampler of their lands from Lubdu and the land Rapiqu to Eluḫat, conqueror of the cities Taidu, Šuru, Kaḫat, Amasaku, Ḫurra, Šuduḫu, Nabula, Waššukanu, and Irridu, the entirety of Kašiieri to/with Eluḫat, …46 A.0.76.3, 36–39: … The great gods gave me to rule from the city Taidu to the city Irridu, the city Eluḫat and Mount Kašiieri in its entirety, …47 A text of Shalmaneser I (1263–1234 BC) runs very similarly to the latter two: “… all of Mount Kašiiari to the city Eluḫat, …“48 Forrer already noted that this phrasing points to a position of Eluḫat at the northern margins or borders of the Middle Assyrian Empire.49 More conspicuous is the phrasing “… the entirety of Kašiieri to/with Eluḫat …” or “… the city Eluḫat and Mount Kašiieri in its entirety …”. It implies that Eluḫat was in Kašiiari but that both were yet two separate units bordering each other, of which Eluḫat was obviously the more remote. Since Kašiiari is safely identified with Tur Abdin50 Eluḫat should be looked for north of Kašiiari and beyond! We will return to the extension and borders of the Kašiiari mountain range below, which are debated. Both kings state having conquered these units in the conflict with Ḫanigalbat/Mittani.51 However, nothing is known about their status within the Middle 42

Kessler, 1980: 80; the letter is still unpublished, cf. Jacquet, 2014: 141 note 137; Ziegler / Langlois, 2016: 96. 43 Kolinski, 2014: 15. 44 Cf. Kessler, 1980: 95. 45 Forrer, 1920: 28; to Damdam(m)usa see Kessler, 1980: 111–113 note 422. 46 Grayson, 1987: 131 (A.0.76.1). 47 Grayson, 1987: 136 (A.0.76.3). 48 Grayson, 1987: 184 (A.0.77.1, 82–83). 49 Forrer, 1920: 22. 50 Bagg, 2017: 338–339. 51 Novák, 2013.

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Assyria State; since they are not listed as a province52 one may surmise that they were vassals. Nashef interpreted the unit of Eluḫat as “Land bzw. Stadtstaat” without further explanation.53 This notion was probably based on the Old Assyrian / Mariote evidence of Eluḫut which is now most usefully elaborated by Jacquet. Eluḫut was a kingdom evidently ruled by a Ḫurrian dynasty, of which two successive kings are known living in a palace.54 Maintaining an army, Eluḫut was enmeshed in political and diplomatic affairs with Mari, Apum, Ešnunna and other polities.55 Economically there was an exchange of wares particularly with Mari. The texts of Kültepe seem to assign a kārum to this city.56 This evidence highlights the historical significance of Old Assyrian Eluḫut. In the 13th century BC the situation had changed completely but the mention of Eluḫat in the inscriptions of the kings Adad-nirari I and Shalmaneser I indicate that the polity of Eluḫat not only still existed but also had maintained some significance apparently. The Assyrian kings may have borne the former importance of it in mind when they insisted on bringing Eluḫat under their sway. As we have seen above they clearly differentiated between the Kašiiari and Eluḫat. Geographical arguments for the localization of the land of Eluḫut/Eluḫat It is recommended to read the following remarks in conjunction with visualizing the satellite image of the Batman / Tigris / Hasankeyf / Gercüş region provided by Google Earth Pro. Like modern Batman, Iluh Höyük probably dominated the river alluvium and fertile plain of the left bank of the Batman Su extending north about thirty kilometers where the river is crossed by the Malabadi Köprüsü. To the west, a ford crossing the Batman Su gave access to the fertile plain of the left (northern) bank of the Tigris up to the modern town of Bismil.57 To the east, a mountain range structured northwest-southeast constitutes the watersheds between the Batman and the Garzan valleys as well as further east between the Garzan and the Botan rivers (Fig. 2).58 52

Llop, 2012: 92 located Eluḫat near Viranşehir. Nashef, 1982: 104. 54 Jacquet, 2014: 124–126. 55 Jacquet, 2014: 130–133; most noteworthy is his cross reference to the text of the Daduša stele, p. 135. 56 Jacquet, 2014: 129–130 note 86. 57 In 1989 I crossed this ford with my own car and continued on a dirt road to Bismil. This was before the bridge over the Batman Su and the modern road D370 had been constructed, cf. Kühne, 2023: 289. 58 This region north of the Tigris between the Batman Su and the Botan Su limited in the north by the Sason mountain range was called in late Roman and Byzantine times Arzanene. Dillemann, 1962: 38–40 Fig. III, 121–123; Honigmann, 1935: 3–37, map “Mesopotamia et Armenia Quarta C. Annum Chr. 600”. 53

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East of the confluence of the Batman Su with the Tigris, the Tigris starts winding through a rugged mountainous territory on both banks that ends after about one hundred kilometers beyond the dam of Ilisu. Over this whole distance the Tigris runs through a gorge59 that varies in its width between 300–400 meters at its starting point and about two or three kilometers at Hasankeyf and other places. Extending along the left bank of the Tigris between the Batman and the Garzan Su, southeast of Batman city, lies the Raman Dağ. There is only one vale60 that cuts through it in southeast direction furnishing today the D955 road that connects Batman with Hasankeyf on the opposite bank after crossing the Tigris on a new bridge. The road continues via Üçyol (Difne) through the Gercüş plain to the city of Gercüş (Kefer Ǧoz) and beyond to Midyat. In premodern times, prior to any bridge construction, the Tigris at Hasankeyf was crossed by a ford. The old bridge of which the pillars are still protruding from the water level of the reservoir lake was constructed in 1116 AD under the dynasty of the Artukids. The old road wounded up the valley of the Başarköy Deresi to the plain of Gercüş. This fertile plain has been described by Lehmann-Haupt as “… eine dem Auge höchst wohltuende Oase in der steinigen Wüste des Tûr Abdîn.“61 (Fig. 1). Situated in the northeast corner of it the Başarköy Deresi is the only comfortable outlet of the plain to the north cutting through the mountainous range flanking the right bank of the Tigris (Fig. 1). These natural geographical features, the vale through the Raman Dağ, the ford of the Tigris near Hasankeyf, and the valley of the Başarköy Deresi are decisive for any cultural-historical interpretation. Their impact not only favored but also implied an intercommunity between the two plains of Batman and Gercüş throughout history. Rivers are usually considered natural barriers functioning many times as political or ethnical borders. Here, however, the Tigris was not a barrier but rather served as a mediator. The geography leaves no doubt that the ford of the Tigris near Hasankeyf provided the main and only passage between Batman / Iluh Höyük and the Tur Abdin in antiquity.62

59

Radner / Schachner, 2001: 765–766 with reference to Algaze, 1989 see the gorge limited to the Hasankeyf region. 60 It must be emphasized that no pre-modern traveler touched the Raman Dağ and that the archaeological surveys of Algaze and Parker did not cover it either. Thus, we know nothing about the cultural history of this vale. 61 Lehmann-Haupt, 1910: 372; vgl. auch Sachau, 1883: 414–415. 62 I have travelled it in 1989, cf. Kühne 2023: 289; Anschütz, 1985: Karte; Sinclair, 1989: map between pp. 406–407.

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Fig. 1: The Gercüş plain as seen from the view point on the escarpment (1120 m a.s.l.) looking northeast; the city of Gercüş lies to the right (not visible); below runs the road connecting to Savur in the west (left). The entry of the vale through which the road to Hasankeyf declines is visible in the upper right corner. Foto: H. Kühne Ku89-016. Looking from the Tur Abdin Lehmann Haupt interpreted the geographically situation like this: “Aber das aus dem Tur Abdin zum Tigris führende Defilee [i.e. the plain of Gercüş], und die Übergangsstelle über den Strom [i.e. the ford at Hasankeyf] müssen zu allen Zeiten von größter strategischer und geographischer Bedeutung gewesen sein.”63 (amendments of the author). On the other side, the plain of Batman / Iluh Höyük was not a dead end but rather a node point from which the caravans could continue north following the Batman valley to the Van region as well as west to Diyarbakır (via Bismil). Thus, seen macroscopically, the crossing of the plain of Gercüş and of the Tigris via the ford at Hasankeyf64 as well as the passage through the vale of the Raman Dağ to Iluh Höyük must have been an important part of the long distance route from Mesopotamia (Mari, Assyria, Babylonia) to Nairi at all times.

63

Lehmann-Haupt, 1910: 374. 2 “Because of its remarkable situation on the edge of the regions of Ṭūr ʻAbdīn, which guards communications with the region of the Diyār Rabīʻa, and being at a point on the route between the valleys of the Batman Su and the Nahr al-Sarbaṭ, this castle was for centuries of great strategic importance”. Ory, S.: “Ḥiṣn Kayfā”, in Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition, Edited by P. Bearman / Th. Bianquis / C.E. Bosworth / E. van Donzel / W.P. Heinrichs. Consulted online on 1 February 2023, http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/15733912_islam_SIM_2909 ; First published online: 2012. 64

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Fig. 2: Northern Mesopotamia in the 13th century BC. © H. Kühne 2022. The map is documenting modern places and ancient sites mentioned in the text; no claim is made to have covered the Middle Assyrian settlements of the 13th century BC completely. Just south of the city of Gercüş the plain is bordered by a steep65 escarpment (Fig. 1), clearly recognizable on the satellite image. Macroscopically, this escarpment is part of the watershed between the Tigris and the Euphrates that traverses the Tur Abdin in an east-west direction, from the Mardin Dağları (1252 m a.s.l.) in the west to the Karakaş Dağı in the east (1408 m a.s.l.)!66 It divides the Tur Abdin into two clearly distinguishable environmental zones: the northern part 65

Lehmann-Haupt, 1910: 372: “Der Abfall von dessen Massiv [des Tur Abdin] zu dieser Ebene vollzieht sich ziemlich plötzlich.” 66 Ökse, 2017: 370 Map 1 uses the name “Mardin Dağları” as a collective designation of the mountainous region between Mardin and Idil.

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draining to the Tigris with the fertile plain of Gercüş and the cities of Gercüş and Savur, and the mountainous stony southern part draining towards the Euphrates with the cities of Mardin, Midyat and Idil. Consequently, the true Tur Abdin lies to the south of the watershed within the arc of these cities while, in the absence of any vernacularized field name, I will call the northern region the “Plain of Gercüş” (Fig. 2). If anything, this watershed should be considered the northern limit of Upper Mesopotamia!67 Today, the main road (D380) crossing the Tur Abdin from west to east, from Mardin via Ömerli to Midyat (about 60 km) and from Midyat via Idil to Cizre (about 80 km), runs just south of the escarpment, avoiding any crossing of the watershed.68 A minor road branching off at Şenköy (Epsi) is crossing the escarpment via a convenient vale connecting to Savur via Dereçi (Killit), while another minor road diverting from the former links to Gercüş via Kayapınar. The main road (D380) appears as a very convenient connection that seems to have been frequented over a long period of time as Sachau travelled from Mardin to Midyat on this route.69 However, Kessler argued70 that the traditional main road from Mardin to Midyat passed via Savur. He saw this as proof for the historical significance of this place and for its identification with Šura. But this road is clearly a detour as he himself admitted; furthermore, the modern minor road from Savur to Mardin winds through the steep mountains and narrow valleys of the escarpment that it is hard to imagine to have served as the main road in antiquity.71 Microscopically, the escarpment of the Tur Abdin mountains bordering abruptly the Plain of Gercüş must have been a natural barrier par excellence in antiquity because of its steepness and its ruggedness. Thus, not only the particularly favorable topographic situation joining Iluh Höyük with Hasankeyf but also the plain of Gercüş itself adheres much closer to the Tigris than to the Tur Abdin in the south. One may therefore expect that there should be a historical-cultural reflection of this intercommunity. In the historiography of the pre-Hellenistic eras this has never been postulated or analyzed, as far as I can see, because of the riverborder-phenomenon (see above). Thus, the critical view has to turn to the postHellenistic periods, i.e. the Roman and Byzantine eras. The historical geography of these periods indeed indicates that a distinction was made between the “true” Tur Abdin south of the escarpment and the Plain of Gercüş with Hesno d-Kifo (Hasankeyf) in the north; the latter even became the “capital” of Arzanene on the 67

Kühne, 2023: 293 with note 22. Anschütz, 1985: The map does not show this correctly, please compare the satellite image! 69 Sachau, 1883: passim, map. 70 Kessler, 1980: 63; Kühne, 2023: 293, 302–304. 71 Kessler, 1980: 68; he does not say whether he travelled the road from Savur to Mardin but I did in 2014 and I cannot see any military leader choosing this road deliberately for his army. 68

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north side of the Tigris at one point.72 In the 16th century, after getting under Ottoman suzerainty in 1515, Hasankeyf controlled the regions of Batman, Siirt and parts of Mardin,73 – an area similar to the modern division of counties. A decrease of Syriac settlements in the plain of Gercüş as compared to the true Tur Abdin south of the escarpment also indicates a differentiation.74 Thus, the radical change of landscape marked by the escarpment of the Tur Abdin mountains seems to coincide with a cultural and religious – and possibly ethnic – shift. Discussion Applying these geographical and historic observations on the conspicuous emphasis of the phrasing of Adad-nirari I’s inscriptions (see above) causes me to think that it mirrors approximately the localization and peculiarity of the territory of the kingdom/land of Eluḫut/Eluḫat: The “entirety of Kašiieri to/with Eluḫat” (A.0.76.1) corresponds to the Tur Abdin south of the escarpment (= Kašiiari) plus the plain of Gercüş (= Eluḫat), the latter accounting for the south Tigridian part of the kingdom, while “the city of Eluḫat” (A.0.76.3) refers specifically to Iluh Höyük, and at least part of what later became the province of Arzanene constituting the north Tigridian part of the kingdom. There is no way of knowing, or even sensing, how far north the kingdom of Eluḫut/Eluḫat extended in the Batman region, neither in the 19th/18th centuries nor in the 13th century BC. But this particular geographical configuration on both sides of the Tigris, with the capital city lying on the northern (left) bank, should represent the Ḫurri-Mittanian polity of Eluḫat75 that was conquered by the Middle Assyrian king Adad-nirari I. Middle Assyrian Eluḫat At this point we may return once more to the relevant sentence of the annals of the Middle Assyrian king Adad-nirari I about his fight against Ḫanigalbat/Mittani (A.0.76.3) as translated by Grayson: “The great gods gave me to rule from the city Taidu to the city Irridu, the city of Eluḫat and Mount Kašiieri in its entirety, …”76 The city of Tidu, if now to be identified with Pornak Tepe, about twelve kilometers southeast of Amedi (Diyarbakır), marks the northwestern most point of his conquest on the right bank of the Tigris. The city of Eluḫat would designate the lead conquest on the left bank of the Tigris – i.e. the Middle Assyrians had gained traction on the north side of the Upper Tigris.

72

Palmer, 1990: XXI–XXII, 6; Sinclair, 1989: 295. https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hasankeyf. 74 Sachau, 1881: 70 observed that Kurdish tribes were replacing Christian settlements; Sinclair, 1989: map between pp. 406–407; Anschütz, 1985: Karte; and Palmer, 1990: Fig. 1. 75 Novák, 2013: 347 localizing Eluḫat at Pir Hüssein. 76 Grayson, 1987: 136 (A.0.76.3). 73

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The establishment of a Middle Assyrian occupation at Eluḫat/Iluh would justify perfectly the foundation of the Dunnu-ša-Uzibi (Giricano)77 at a distance of about twenty-five kilometers west of the Batman Su and about thirty kilometers west of Eluḫat/Iluh (Fig. 2). Documenting rather the end of the Middle Assyrian settlement,78 the excavated cuneiform tablets date to the 11th century.79 At what time the dunnu was founded is not known.80 Even closer, just opposite Eluḫat/Iluh on the west bank of the Batman Su, lies the impressive mound of Grê Dimsê that produced proper Middle Assyrian ceramics81 and a warrior grave that Karg dates to the second half of the 11th century BC.82 On other sites on the north bank of the Tigris and west of the Batman Su “Late Bronze Age Wares” have been found of which it remains unclear to what extent they include Middle Assyrian products.83 Nevertheless, this archaeological evidence confirms safely that the Middle Assyrians had established themselves on the northern bank of the Upper Tigris and sought to stabilize their presence around the confluence of the Batman Su. Old Assyrian Eluḫut The recent identification of Tell Bassetki with Mardaman84 has re-ignited the discussion on the reconstruction of the Old Assyrian trade route. Based on the arguments of Radner,85 Pfälzner and Faist suggested that the initial road from Aššur followed a route via the central Tur Abdin (Fešḫabur, Babil/Subnat-source, Midyat, Savur, Kurkh) (Fig. 2) without considering Eluḫut.86 Integrating Eluḫut/ Iluh, I would argue that the route deviated from Midyat to Hasankeyf via Gercüş and Hasankeyf to reach Eluḫut city / Iluh Höyük, thereby traversing the territory of the kingdom of Eluḫut. A continuation from there would have had to cross the Batman Su via the ford and to pass along the left bank of the Tigris, hit (modern) Bismil and end up in Diyarbakır / Amedi. This road is reported to have been frequented by travelers during the past centuries.87 Pertaining to the existence of 77

Radner, 2004. Radner, 2004: 73. 79 Radner, 2004: 52. 80 Schachner, 2022. 81 Karg, 2001: 682 Fig. 8 (= p. 669). 82 Karg, 2001: 657, 676–680. 83 For example, from Talavaş Tepe: Parker et al., 2001: 589–590 Fig. 9: A, B (pp. 580– 581); Ay lists Late Bronze Age pottery from Gre Cano, Gre Kamber (KenanTepe), Şahin Tepe; and Şeyh Nur, 2001: 716–719 Fig. 13 (= p. 713). 84 Previous suggestions for the location of Mardaman focused for a longer period on modern Mardin (see the discussion in Kessler, 1980: 63–64); Sallaberger, 2007: passim, 436, Fig. 2, Fig. 3 located the place northeast of Nusaybin. 85 Radner, 2006. 86 Pfälzner / Faist, 2020: Abb. 5 87 Sinclair, 1989: 295: “The ford of the Batman Su and the track along the north bank of 78

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a kārum at Eluḫut (indicated above), the transition across the kingdom of Eluḫut may have been an important segment of the route to Anatolia in its own right and not just a bypass. The Mariote trade saw Eluḫut as the ultimate target in the north. This would very plausibly be represented by Iluh Höyük. Starting from Mari the caravans reached the Lower Ḫābūr at Saggaratum and continued from there due north via Qattunan (Tall Fadġami) and Ṭabātum (Tell Ṭaban), passing the volcano Kaukab near Hassaka at the east to catch the Ǧaġǧaġ valley, following that river further north via Qamishli/Nusaibin to Midyat and continuing further north via Gercüş and Hasankeyf to Eluḫut/Iluh (Fig. 2). Guichard writes: “It seems that Eluhut, which was not a city of the piedmont, had authority over a major part of the Tur ‘Abdin.”88 This would match well the view expressed above that the kingdom of Eluḫut controlled the northern part of the Tur Abdin, the Plain of Gercüş, and in addition the region of the Batman confluence north of the Tigris. Iluh Höyük / Eluḫut could have been the trans-shipment center for caravans from Mari to Nairi and reverse. Neo-Assyrian Eluḫat? The existence of a Neo-Assyrian toponym Eluḫat depends on the interpretation of the place name Ḫalziluḫat mentioned in the annals of king Assurnaṣirpal II (883–859 BC) first campaign to Nairi (sic!) in the year 882 BC: “In the same eponomy, while I was in Nineveh, a report was brought back to me saying men of Assyria (and) Ḫulāiia, their city ruler – whom Shalmaneser, king of Assyria, a prince who preceded me, had settled in the city Ḫalziluḫa – had rebelled; they had come to capture the city of Damdammusa, my royal city.”89 Already Forrer associated Eluḫat with Ḫalziluḫat.90 Postgate argued91 that Ḫalziluḫa is composed of the elements ḫalzi+eluḫat, to be translated “the district of Eluḫat”. This would confirm the use of the toponym in the ninth century BC. However, the context of the toponym clearly refers to the past, to the time of king Shalmaneser – probably the first of this name, who ruled from 1263–1234 BC. I consider it an anachronistic use of an inaccurate memory, the more so because the toponym Eluḫat is otherwise unknown in the Neo-Assyrian period. The region that Assurnaṣirpal II traversed in his first regnal year (882 BC), almost three hundred years later, seems to have carried a different name. This becomes evident from the description of his fight against the rebel Ḫulāiia. After crossing

the Tigris were much used by travelers of the 19th century.” I have crossed the ford and travelled this track in 1989, Kühne, 2023: 289. 88 Guichard, 2014: 152. 89 Grayson, 1991: 200 (A.0.100.1, i 101–103). 90 Forrer, 1920: 22, 27. 91 Postgate, 1995: 1–2; Bagg, 2017: 202.

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Mount Kašiiari,92the king approached and conquered the fortified city of Kinabu where he captured Ḫulāiia. He flayed him and “… draped his skin over the wall of the city Damdammusa.” But evidently the inhabitants of other cities and of the land resisted the Assyrians continuously, so that the king had to sack the city Mariru and to fight a battle “on the plain … of the land Nirbu.” Even then the inhabitants of the land of Nirbu did not give up, but entrenched themselves in the city of Tela. But Assurnaṣirpal II conquered that too. In conclusion, the king emphasizes that he had “… razed, destroyed, (and) burnt the cities of the land Nirbu (and) their strong walls.” But this is not the end of the story! The king moved on from the land of Nirbu to the city of Tušḫa(n) where he had a palace built and an image of himself of white limestone erected. The “rest” of the inhabitants of the land of Nirbu “came down” and submitted to him, whereupon he resettled them in their abandoned cities and imposed more tribute and tax on them than before.93 Consequently, on his return from Nairi (sic!) the land Nirbu rebelled again. “They abandoned their nine cities (and) trusted in the city Išpilipria, their fortified city, and a rugged mountain.”94 But the king conquered the city, destroyed it, and killed the inhabitants. Coming from Nineveh via the source of the Subnat where he reports erecting an image of himself there is no doubt that the king approached the Kašiiari from the southeast. He then crossed the mountains without listing any stops. Until now the region where the subsequent events should have been localized remained unclear. But ending up in Tušḫa(n) after having subdued the land of Nirbu, this can only mean that the war against the land of Nirbu must be localized in the Plain of Gercüş and beyond, particularly because the decisive battle is said to have been fought “on the plain … of the land Nirbu … which is at the foot of Mount Uḫira.”95 Mount Uḫira could designate the escarpment. Thus, in my opinion, Ḫalziluḫat, interpreted as the “district of Eluḫat”, corresponds to the land of Nirbu as it had been renamed by now. The designation “the city Ḫalziluḫa” would refer to the former city of Eluḫat (= Iluh Höyük), now called Kinabu.96 Consequently, “his” city of Damdammusa ought to be identified with Grê Dimsê just opposite of Iluh Höyük (Eluḫat, Kinabu) on the west bank of the Batman Su (see also below).97 92

See the translation of Kessler, 1980: 32 note 146. Grayson, 1991: A.0.101.1, 9–12a. 94 Grayson, 1991: A.0.101.1, ii 16. 95 Grayson, 1991: A.0.101.1, 111–112; Bagg, 2017: 467–468 (quoting Kessler, 1980 and Radner, 2006) explains Nirbu as a term for the total of the “Passland” or a local term for the Kāšiari, and on p. 593, s.v. Tela 1, Nirbu is localized in the western part of the Tur Abdin. 96 Bagg, 2017: 341–342, see also pp. 123, 202. 97 Bagg, 2017: 133–134; see also pp. 98, 122–123, 202, 341; Radner / Schachner, 2001: 93

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Catching and punishing Ḫulāiia Assurnaṣirpal’s II strategy could have been moving “under cover” and heading directly to the city of Kinabu, former Eluḫat, pre-modern Iluh Höyük. With its implied crossing of the Tigris, this fast approach came so unexpectedly that it took Ḫulāiia completely by surprise, with fatal consequences. To make an example and to intimidate the people of Nirbu he flayed Ḫulāiia alive and displayed his skin in “his” city Damdammusa. This makes only sense if Damdammusa was located in visual range to Iluh Höyük / Kinabu which is the case with the höyük of Grê Dimsê. However, the people of the land of Nirbu continued offering resistance, as quoted above. The strongly fortified city of Tela98 could refer to Hesno d-Kifo (Hasankeyf). The ultimate resistance of the people of Nirbu in the city Išpilipria near a rugged mountain could be located in the face of the escarpment near Gercüş where Sachau reported about isolated ruins.99 In sum, I see the land of Nirbu as the successor of the Old Assyrian, ḪurriMittanian, and Middle Assyrian kingdom/land of Eluḫut/Eluḫat, with approximately the same geographic dimensions on both sides of the Tigris as the modern counties (ilçe) of Batman merkezi, Hasankeyf and Gercüş. After the Middle Assyrians had been forced to retreat from the Upper Tigris in the 11th century BC – at the time when Dunnu ša Uzibi was deserted – local rulers, perhaps descendants from a vassal dynasty of Middle Assyrian times, took over the former Assyrian domain of Eluḫat and established the strongly fortified polity of Nirbu. The last “king” of the land of Nirbu was this unfortunate man Ḫulāiia, whose resistance and fate is described in the annals of Assurnaṣirpal II. It seems that the polity of Nirbu did not recover from the devastation and from the genocide committed by the Assyrian king and his army. In the inscription on the Kurkh Monolith of the year 879 BC king Assurnaṣirpal summarizes the lands that he had conquered;100 this is the last mention of the land of Nirbu.101 Conclusion The consonance of the old names of Iluh, Elih/Elihan/Elekhan, with Eluḫut/Eluḫat is striking but Iluh did not find the attention of travelers and scholars. On the other hand, historic-geographical indications for a localization of Eluḫat/Eluḫut on the Upper Tigris have been ignored because scholars seem to have been unprepared for the broad horizon of Assyrian and Mariote geography. It appeared awkward – and it may still do – to place a city mentioned in Old and Middle Assyrian documents on the left bank of the Upper Tigris. But the Middle Assyrian 765 suggested an identification with Arbakku; Bagg, 2017: 58 (s.v. Arbakki); Karg, 2002: 733 is rather reluctant on this issue. 98 Bagg, 2017: 593. 99 Sachau, 1883: 417 and map (next to the village of Krjâth). 100 Grayson, 1991: A.0.101.19, 98. 101 Bagg, 2017: 467–468.

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texts themselves indicate that Eluḫat ought to be located in this geographic environment that, albeit connected to the Kašiiari mountains, was yet a place in its own right and location. Once one’s mind has come to this intermediate understanding, the geographical situation of Iluh Höyük does not seem to be out of the way anymore. The extraordinary micro-geographical conditions of the Tigris ford at Hasankeyf favor an intercommunity on both sides of the river that is echoed from post-Hellenistic times to the present administrative structure of the province of Batman in counties. It thus becomes plausible that the city of Eluḫat/Eluḫut could be located at Iluh Höyük, that the Old Assyrian “kingdom of Eluḫut” as well as Ḫurri-Mittanian and Middle Assyrian land of Eluḫat extended on both sides of the Tigris, and that the unique Neo-Assyrian (ninth century) mention of Ḫalziluḫat, interpreted as “district of Eluḫat”, referred to the former Middle Assyrian domain that had mutated to an independent polity by the name of Nirbu. Anticipating an Assyrian aggression, its leaders had fortified the land of Nirbu extensively but the last “king”, Ḫulāiia, was unprepared for Assurnaṣirpal’s cunning ruse. Thus, the city of Kinabu was destroyed explaining – if identical with Eluḫat – why the latter toponym ceased to exist. Its role had been taken over by the king’s city of Damdammusa / Grê Dimsê on the opposite bank of the Batman Su. Enraged by the continuous resistance of the people of Nirbu the Assyrian king nuked the land of Nirbu, he liquidated it from the historic memory and landscape. It is unlikely that the equation of Iluh Höyük with the Assyrian toponyms Eluḫut/Eluḫat will ever be confirmed because the site is covered by the modern city of Batman. Chances may stand better that Grê Dimsê could be identified eventually with Damdammusa. In this case, we may be certain that Iluh Höyük is Kinabu. This would increase the chances for the identification with Eluḫut/Eluḫat. Writing this paper, I have learned that the understanding of the regional history of pre- and post-Christian times north of the Upper Tigris between Diyarbakır and Siirt, i.e. Nairi, is still in its infancy. But I hope to have demonstrated that the route from Assyria via Midiyat in Kašiiari, the Plain of Gercüş, and the ford across the Tigris at Hasankeyf to Iluh Höyük (the city of Eluḫut/Eluḫat/Kinabu) is yet another road to Central Anatolia and to Nairi whose significance still awaits elucidation. Acknowledgements I remember with gratitude the friendship of Hayat Erkanal who passed away on June 28, 2019. Sincere thanks go to Gülriz Kozbe and Nihat Erdoğan for their hospitality, cooperation, and friendship. Last but not least I wish to thank John MacGinnis for providing me with a preprint of his article Genç / MacGinnis, 2022, and for reading an earlier version of this manuscript and improving my English. Needless to say, the responsibility for the contents of this paper remains with me.

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Erkanal, A. / Erkanal, H. / Hüryılmaz, H. / Ökse, T. (eds.) 1995: In Memoriam I. Metin Akyurt Bahattin Devam Anı Kitabı. Eski Yakın Doğu Kültürleri Üzerine Incelemeler. Arkeoloji ve Sanat Yayınları. Istanbul. Falkner, M., 1957–1958: “Studien zur Geographie des alten Mesopotamiens“. Archiv für Orientforschung 18, 1–37. Forrer, E., 1920: Die Provinzeinteilung des assyrischen Reiches. Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung. Genç, B. / MacGinnis, J., 2022: “A text of Shalmaneser I from Üçtepe and the location of Šinamu”. Anatolian Studies 72, 79–95. Grayson, A. K., 1987: Assyrian Rulers of the Third and Second Millennia BC (To 1115 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia Assyrian Periods. RIMA 1. Toronto / Buffalo / London: University of Toronto Press. — 1991: Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC I (1114–859 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia Assyrian Periods. RIMA 2. Toronto / Buffalo / London: University of Toronto Press. Groneberg, B., 1980: Die Orts- und Gewässernamen der altbabylonischen Zeit. Répertoire Géographique des Textes Cunéiformes Band 3. Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients Reihe B Nr. 7/3. Wiesbaden: Dr. L. Reichert Verlag. Guichard, M., 2014: “Political Space – Local Political Structures in Northern Syria: The Case of the Country of Ida-Maras·in the Eighteenth Century BC”. In Bonatz (ed.): 147–160. Honigmann, E., 1935: Die Ostgrenze des Byzantinischen Reiches von 363 bis 1071. Bruxelles: Éditions de L’Institut Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales. İlyas, A. / Çoban, E., 2020: “Batman’da Siyasal Hayat”. In H. I. Aydın / M. Nasıroğlu Aydın / M. Çayın (eds.): Geçmişten Günümüze Batman. Tarih, Ekonomi, Siyaset, Kültür. Eğitim yayınevi. Pp. 99–122. Internationale Weltkarte 1:1.000.000 N.J – 37 1940 Sonderausgabe VII. (nur für den Dienstgebrauch). Jacquet, A., 2014: “Eluhut, un royaume du Haut Pays”. In Ziegler / CancikKirschbaum (eds.) 2014: 109–144. Karg, N., 2001: “First Soundings at Grê Dimsê 1999”. In N. Tuna / J. Öztürk / J. Velibeyoğlu (eds.): Salvage Project of the Archaeological Heritage of the Ilısu and Carchemish Dam Reservoirs Activities in 1999. Ankara. Pp. 643–693. — 2002: ”Sounding at Gre Dimse 2000”. In N. Tuna / J. Velibeyoğlu (eds.): Salvage Project of the Archaeological Heritage of the Ilısu and Carchemish Dam Reservoirs Activities in 2000. Ankara. Pp. 723–737. Kessler, K., 1980: Untersuchungen zur historischen Topographie Nordmesopotamiens nach keilschriftlichen Quellen des 1. Jahrtausends v. Chr. Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients Reihe B Nr. 26. Wiesbaden: Dr. L. Reichert Verlag.

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— 2014: „Neue Tontafelfunde aus dem mitannizeitlichen Taidu – ein Vorbericht“. In Bonatz (ed.) 2014: 35–42. Kolinski, R., 2014: “20th century BC in the Khabur Triangle Region and the Advent of the Old Assyrian Trade with Anatolia”. In Bonatz (ed.) 2014: 11–34. Kozbe, G. (ed.) 2017: Batman Ili Kültür Envanteri. Batman. Kozbe, G. / Güngör, A., 2020: „Eski Çağlarda Batman ve Çevresi – Arkeolojik Veriler Işiğinda“. In H.I. Aydın / M. Nasıroğlu Aydın / M. Çayın (eds.): Geçmişten Günümüze Batman. Tarih, Ekonomi, Siyaset, Kültür. Eğitim yayınevi. Pp. 17–40. Kühne, H. (ed.) 2010: Dūr-Katlimmu 2008 and Beyond. Studia Chaburensia 1. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. — 2023: “Rethinking the Neo-Assyrian Geography of the Tur Abdin”. In V. Şahoğlu / İ. Tuğcu / O. Kouka / Ü. Gündoğan / Ü. Çayır / R. Tuncel / A. Erkanal-Öktü (eds.): Hayat: Arkeolojiye Adanmış Bir Yaşam. Hayat Erkanal Anısına Akdeniz Arkeolojisi Üzerine Çalışmalar / Hayat: A Life dedicated to Archaeology. Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology in Memory of Hayat Erkanal. Ankara. Pp. 287–308. Lehmann-Haupt, C. F., 1910: Armenien einst und jetzt. Band 1. Berlin: B. Behr’s Verlag. Llop, J., 2012: “The Development of the Middle Assyrian Provinces”. Altorientalische Forschungen 39, 87–111. Michel, C., 2021: “Les routes du commerce assyrien en Anatolie centrale”. In M. Sauvage (ed.): Atlas Historique du Proche-Orient Ancien. Beyrouth: Institut Français du Proche-Orient / Paris: Société d’édition Les Belles Lettres. P. 80. Nashef, K. 1982: Die Orts- und Gewässernamen der mittelbabylonischen und mittelassyrischen Zeit. Répertoire Géographique des Textes Cunéiformes Band 5. Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients Reihe B Nr. 7/5. Wiesbaden: Dr. L. Reichert Verlag. — 1987: Rekonstruktion der Reiseroute zur Zeit der altassyrischen Handelsniederlassungen. Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients Reihe B Nr. 83. Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag. Novák, M., 2013: “Upper Mesopotamia in the Mittani Period”. In W. Orthmann / P. Matthiae / M. al-Maqdissi (eds.): Archéologie et Histoire de la Syrie I. La Syrie de l’époque néolithique à l’âge du fer. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. Pp. 345–356. Ökse, A.T., 2017: “Transition from Sedentary Farming to Nomadic and Transhumant Pastoralism in the Iron Age – A view from the Upper Tigris Region”. In E. Rova / M. Tonussi (eds.): At the northern frontier of Near Eastern Archaeology. Subartu 38, 369–389. Palmer, A., 1990: Monk and Mason on the Tigris Frontier. The Early History of Tur ‘Abdin. Cambridge University Press.

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Parker, B. J., 2001: The Mechanics of Empire. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Parker, B. / Creekmore, A. / Easton, C., 2001: “The Upper Tigris Archaeological Research Project (UTARP) Excavations and Survey at Boztepe, and intensive Survey at Talavaş Tepe, 1999: A Preliminary Report”. In: N. Tuna / J. Öztürk / J. Velibeyoğlu (eds.): Salvage Project of the Archaeological Heritage of the Ilısu and Carchemish Dam Reservoirs Activities in 1999. Ankara. Pp. 565– 591. Parpola, S., 2008: “Cuneiform Texts from Ziyaret Tepe (Tušḫan), 2002–2003”. State Archives of Assyria Bulletin 17, 1–113. Parpola, S. / Porter, M. (eds.) 2001: The Helsinki Atlas of the Near East in the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Pfälzner, P. / Faist, B., 2020: „Eine Geschichte der Stadt Mardama(n)“. In J. Baldwin / J. Matuszak (eds.): mu-zu an-za3-še3 kur-ur2-še3 ḫe2-g̃ al2. Altorientalistische Studien zu Ehren von Konrad Volk. dubsar 17. Münster. Pp. 347–389. Postgate, J.N., 1995: “Assyria: The Home Provinces”. In M. Liverani (ed.): NeoAssyrian Geography. Quaderni di Geografica Storica 5. Roma. Pp. 1–17. Radner, K, 2004: Das mittelassyrische Tontafelarchiv von Giricano / Dunnu ša Uzibi. Ausgrabungen in Giricano 1. Subartu 14. Turnhout (with contributions by M. Roaf, A. Schachner). — 2006: “How to reach the Upper Tigris: The Route Through the Ṭūr ‘Abdīn”. State Archives of Assyria Bulletin 15, 273–305. Radner, K. / Schachner, A., 2001: “From Tušhan to Amedi. Topographical Questions Concerning the Upper Tigris Region in the Assyrian Period”. In N. Tuna / J. Velibeyoğlu (eds.): Salvage Project of the Archaeological Heritage of the Ilısu and Carchemish Dam Reservoirs, Activities 1999. Ankara. Pp. 723‒779. Rosenberg, M. / Togul, H., 1991: “The Batman River Archaeological Site Survey, 1990”. Anatolica 17, 241–254. Sallaberger, W., 2007: “From Urban Culture to Nomadism: A History of Upper Mesopotamia in the Late Third Millennium”. In C. Kuzucuoğlu / C. Marro (eds.): Sociétés humaines et changement climatique à la fin du troisième millénaire: une crise a-t-elle eu lieu en Haute Mésopotamie? Varia Anatolica 19. Istanbul: Institut Français d’Études Anatoliennes-Georges Dumézil. Pp. 417– 456. Sachau, E., 1881: Ueber die Lage von Tigranokerta. Berlin: W. de Gruyter Verlag. — 1883: Reise in Syrien und Mesopotamien. Leipzig: Brockhaus Verlag. Schachner, A., 2022: “Excavations at Giricano (2000–2003). The Upper Tigris Region between Mesopotamia and Anatolia”. In A. Otto / K. Kaniuth (Hrg. unter Mitarbeit von Femke Grops): 50 Jahre Vorderasiatische Archäologie in München. Münchener Abhandlungen zum Alten Orient 7. Gladbeck: PeWe Verlag. Pp. 254–259.

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Şiriner Önver, M. / Pınarcıoğlu, N.S./ Kanbak, A., 2020: „Batman’da kentlesme ve nüfus hareketleri“. In H. I. Aydın / M. Nasıroğlu Aydın / M. Çayın (eds.): Geçmişten Günümüze Batman. Tarih, Ekonomi, Siyaset, Kültür. Eğitim yayınevi. Pp. 69–98. Sinclair, T.A., 1989: Eastern Turkey. An Architectural and Archaeological Survey. Vol. III. London: The Pindar Press. Socin, A., 1881: „Zur Geographie des Tūr ʻAbdīn”. Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 35, 237–269. Sunkar, M. / Tonbul, S., 2010: Batman Şehrinin Kuruluş ve Gelişmesi (The Foundation and Development of Batman City). İstanbul Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi Coğrafya Bölümü, Coğrafya Dergisi 21, Pp. 18–38. Taylor, J.G., 1865: “Travels in Kurdistan, with Notices of the Sources of the Eastern and Western Tigris, and Ancient Ruins in Their Neighbourhood”. The Journal of the Royal Geographical Society of London 35, 21–58. Türkiye 1:800,000: Musul 1936. Harita Umum Müdürlüğü. Turkish map 1:200,000: Midyat 1946. Harta Genel Müdürlüğü. Veenhof, K.R., 2008: “The Old Assyrian Period”. In K.R. Veenhof / J. Eidem (eds.): Mesopotamia, The Old Assyrian Period. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 160/5. Fribourg: Academic Press / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Pp. 13–264. Whitby, M., 1983: “Arzanene in the Late Sixth Century”. In St. Mitchell (ed.): Armies and Frontiers in Roman and Byzantine Anatolia. British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara Monograph No. 5. Oxford: BAR International Series 156. Pp. 205–218. Ziegler, N. / Cancik-Kirschbaum, E. (eds.) 2014: Entre les fleuves – II: D’Assur à Mari et au-delà. Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderen Orient Band 24. Gladbeck: PEWE-Verlag. Ziegler, N. / Langlois, A., 2016: Les Toponyms paléo-babyloniens de la HauteMésopotamie. Materiaux pour l’étude de la toponymie et de la topographie I/1. Antony: SÉPOA.

Some Remarks on the King of Assyria as the Sun God 1 Mikko Luukko The sun god, he alone, is absolutely unique, but men are many. When you stay with the “hero”, your life will last. When you stay with the sun god, your life will last. Alster, 1974: 39 (lines 75–77) It is well known that the king of Assyria could be equated with the sun god, symbolically and metaphorically. In Mesopotamian texts, the word “king” is usually written with the Sumerian logogram, LUGAL, literally “big man”, however, in both Middle and Neo-Assyrian texts, an alternative sign, “MAN” can also be used. The concept draws on the typical feature of the cuneiform script that different graphemes can be synonyms. Thus, “MAN” can stand for šarru “king”, although the reading “MAN” itself is weak and does not have any explanatory power. Importantly, “MAN” is also a numerical notation for twenty, and twenty is the sacred number of the sun god. Thus, using this sign – instead of LUGAL – creates an association, whereby the king is equated with the sun god Šamaš, the god of justice and light, because his sacred number was “twenty” (= MAN).2 In general, scholars have not given this the attention it deserves. The purpose of this brief article is to broaden and deepen the discussion on the use of the sign MAN in the Neo-Assyrian period. It was already used in the preceding Middle Assyrian period alongside LUGAL to refer to the king of Assyria.3 The connotation of this rebus sign, simply formed from two corner wedges, “Winkelhaken”, is “the sun (god)”. Sometimes, even an interpretation “(my) sun” is possible. As argued by Beate Pongratz-Leisten, the background of the development, identifying the king of Assyria with the sun (god), may go back to the Assyrian and Egyptian, and/or Assyrian and Hittite relations of the second millen1

As Simo, a true hero of Neo-Assyrian studies, knows everything about Neo-Assyrian, or almost everything, it is somewhat embarrassing to contribute an article in his honour on a topic about which he knows much more than I do. Anyway, I hope he appreciates this as a token of gratitude, and that some others may learn something new from it. I am grateful to an anonymous reviewer and Mardi Kennedy for their useful suggestions which helped me improve many details in the article. 2 E.g. Parpola, 1983: 130 (with previous bibliography); 1999; Beckman, 2002: 40 (n. 35); Fischer, 2002: 132; Charpin, 2013: 82; Frahm, 2013: 113 (3.6); Pongratz-Leisten, 2015: 175. Borger’s (2010: 404; no. 708) MAN notation says: “(dingir)XX = šamaš, Sonne(ngott); … XX = šarru, König”. 3 Also note U.U, “20”, for the god Dadi whose name rarely includes the determinative for deities.

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nium BCE. This development is probably not limited to the king’s identification with the sun god in texts, but also relates to the iconography of kingship, especially the so-called sun disk.4 This article will discuss two passages in Neo-Assyrian texts: the first one is from a royal inscription of Assurnaṣirpal II and the second text is a well-known Neo-Babylonian letter sent to king Esarhaddon. In both cases the equation is based on number ‘twenty’, the sacred number of the sun god.5 As some significant details in these two texts may have been overlooked, they may increase our understanding of the king’s identity and role in the Neo-Assyrian period. In addition to these two texts or passages, I will briefly reference deification, ponder the use of MAN in Neo-Assyrian letters, and the distribution of the two signs, LUGAL and MAN in general. LUGAL

𒈗 = 𒎙

MAN

A disclaimer: I will not adumbrate the already ancient Mesopotamian tradition of connecting the sun with the king in Sumerian and Old Babylonian sources.6 The importance of the sun god, Šamaš in Akkadian and Utu in Sumerian, is so widely evidenced in all periods of Mesopotamian history that it is beyond the scope of this paper.7 Suffice to say, “divine kingship” had already taken shape in the Sumerian period and continued into the later periods, even if in a slightly changed format. The use of MAN in Neo-Assyrian is complicated by the fact that this usage follows a convention established in the Middle Assyrian period. The communications of the Middle Assyrian kingdom with the Hittite Anatolia and the Pharaonic Egypt are well documented; geographically, they might suggest a western influence on the concept of MAN. The use of MAN could thus result from the Assyrian contacts with the west, e.g., in the Amarna period.8 But, in this respect, any external, non-Mesopotamian impulses which might have triggered a change in Assyrian conventions, should not dilute, or distort their interaction with Mesopotamia’s own ancient traditions. While we have only a few, poorly preserved royal inscriptions from the contemporary Assyrian king Aššur-uballiṭ I and his successor Enlil-

4

For a detailed discussion, see Pongratz-Leisten, 2011 (especially pp. 163–176) and 2013. See also, e.g., Morenz, 2003. 5 There are cases in which the sign 20 = MAN has caused confusion. For example, Šarrumetu-uballiṭ is a personal name (m20/MAN–ÚŠ–KAM/ú-bal-liṭ) whose interpretation was not certain first, but see PNA 3/II, p. 1250. A potential ambiguity between the two possible readings can be avoided by using a gloss: “ina 15 MAN (with gloss i-mit-ti dŠá-maš) at the right side of the sun Thompson Rep. 70:9 (NA)” CAD I–J 121b. 6 For OB, see Charpin, 2013. Historically in a nutshell, e.g., in Cifola, 1995: 41 (incl. n. 14). 7 But see, e.g., Fischer, 2002: 130–133; Vacín, 2009; Woods, 2012: 80–89, 92–94. 8 On the king’s designation in the Amarna correspondence, see Mynářová, 2007: 143.

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narari, they do not show any MAN writings. Aššur-uballiṭ once defines himself as LUGAL Māt Aššur in an inscription (RIMA 1 A.0.73.6:3), however, he mainly identifies himself with the traditional title iššak Aššur “vice-regent of the god Aššur”. Thus, it seems the writing MAN KUR aš-šur “king of Assyria” was launched by king Arik-den-ili (r. 1307–1296 BCE, RIMA 1 A.0.75.7: 1–3).9 This may be the original phrase for which MAN was used, spreading from there to other contexts.10 Strikingly, Arik-den-ili rebuilt a temple for the sun god in Assur;11 this may have been the major achievement of his reign. Moreover, the same king also “introduced the epithet ‘strong king’ (šarru [LUGAL] dannu; RIMA 1 A.0.75.1: 2)”12. Before discussing the two most relevant passages of this article, I will briefly outline the divine character of Assyrian kings. King as a “God” The kings of Assyria were not modest men. However, even given their power in the early first millennium BCE, they were not deified by a systematic use of the divine determinative – unlike some of their Mesopotamian predecessors, especially in the late third millennium BCE.13 Although the king’s power on earth was perceived as unparalleled, he apparently did not need to be formally divine. This “non-deification”, however, did not prevent the kings of Assyria from being equated with the gods. Even though not explicitly or strictly divine, Assyrian kings considered themselves of divine origin and divinely legitimized to rule. As the representative of the main god, Aššur, the king was the most essential element in the entire Assyrian system. Yet, the king may be likened to other gods as well. Let us spend a moment with few well-known examples which equate the Assyrian king with a deity other than the sun god. The first example comes from a letter by the influential Babylonian scholar Bel-ušezib: 9

But the majority of šarru cases in his inscriptions are LUGALs (RIMA 1 A.0.75.1: 2–3, 10, 12, 47; 75.2: 2: according to the same inscription, Šamaš is his lord in line 8). 10 As in Assyrian royal inscriptions (see CAD Š/2, 79a), all the “MANs” read MAN Māt Aššur in SAA 9 (cf. SAA 16 1:1; 28 r.4, 7; SAA 19 72 r.10; SAA 21 66:7′, cf. SAA 21 60:1–2; 56:9′; 63:2; the last three “king of Elam”). 11 RIMA 1 A.0.75, texts 1 and 2. 12 Jakob, 2017: 144. 13 Of course, this is a question of interpretation. For example, in his recent note on divine determinatives in Assyrian royal inscriptions, Mattias Karlsson (2020) did not find much evidence in favour of deification in the Neo-Assyrian period. On the other hand, the relationship between deification and the use of divine determinatives is too narrow an approach. Even without the divine determinative in royal personal names one may adduce factors supporting the idea of divine kingship; see, e.g., Charpin (2013: 75–76) for the Old Babylonian period. For a related discussion of the “divine origin” of several Sumerian kings and of the Middle Assyrian Tukulti-Ninurta I, see Fink / Sazonov, 2019.

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“You [= king] are Marduk of the people. Bel destined your glori[ous …s] (to be) like destinies. [Let the king, my lord] act in a way corresponding to Bel: abase the high and [exalt] the low” (SAA 10 112 r.31–33). And second, a passage from a letter whose sender’s name is not preserved: “[The king, my lord], is the [ima]ge of Marduk” (SAA 13 46 r.11).14 Further, Assurbanipal’s chief exorcist, Adad-šumu-uṣur tells the king, “The father of the king, my lord, was the very image of Bel, and the king, my lord, is likewise the very image of Bel” (SAA 10 228:18–19).15 Originally, Marduk and Bel were separate gods, but in the Neo-Assyrian period they concern the same deity. In addition to the examples above, the king of Assyria was also essentially identified with the god Ninurta and, in the context of a lunar eclipse, with the moon-god Sîn.16 King as the sun god in Neo-Assyrian letters The above equations flattering the king of Assyria by comparing him with a/the god are fascinating but let us turn to the examples in which the king is identified with the sun god. In these cases, we have some very direct evidence. The following examples originate from some of the leading scholars of Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal: The chief diviner Marduk-šumu-uṣur writes to the king in broken context: šarru Šamšu ša nišē “the king, the sun of the people” (SAA 10 174 r.8´).17 And Assurbanipal’s chief exorcist Adad-šumu-uṣur instructs the king: “Who (now) stays in the dark much longer than Šamaš, the king of the gods; stays in the dark a whole day and night, and again two days? The king, the lord of the world, is the very image of Šamaš. He (should) keep in the dark for half a day only!” (SAA 10 196 e.17–r.6). Or, in the chief scribe Issar-šumu-ereš’s answer to the king: “… – [who could possibly give] any kind of counsel to the sun?” (SAA 10 29 r.7–8). And an exclamation almost at the end of a long letter, šarru bēlī dUTU “The king, my lord, is the sun!” (SAA 16 63 r.33e).18 The context here differs from others because the letter is an anonymous denunciation against a group of people. Therefore, the writer most likely expected the king, with his authority, like Šamaš, 14

Parpola, 1983: 112. See also, e.g., Parpola, 1983: 112, 219, 286, 335 and SAA 18 181 r.25–26. 16 On the relationship between the king and Ninurta, see, e.g., Annus, 2002: 95–101; Pongratz-Leisten, 2015: 219–269, 281, 289–290, 406, 443, 455; for Sîn and the king, see, e.g., Wee, 2014, especially pp. 53–54, 65. 17 This and the following examples already in Parpola, 1983: 130. 18 Cf. Luukko, 2018: 178. 15

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to sentence these people immediately or at least take the sender’s report into serious consideration. A reference may be more “indirect”, connecting the king with Šamaš more symbolically. According to an anonymous astrological report, probably by the learned Balasî, to the king, dUTU kakkab šarri šû “The sun is the star of the king” (SAA 8 95 r.7). This example represents an extremely rare case in which the word “king” is written syllabically (šar-ri). Similes serve other indirect roles. For example, the outcomes of purification rituals are described in terms how the resultant appearance will demonstrate the sun god’s character, namely that of his shining radiance. For example, a quotation from a hemerological context refers to the crown prince, “… (then) this man will shine like the sun” (SAA 10 74:16–17), may also be invoked in this context. Symbolic, numerical references to the king as the sun with the sign MAN in the introductory formulae or bodies of letters are more frequent. In this respect, the regular introductory formula in the letters of Mar-Issar, Esarhaddon’s agent in Babylonia, stands out: 1

ana šarri (LUGAL) bēlīya urdaka Mar-Issar 2lū šulmu ana šarri (MAN) bēlīya Nabû u Marduk 3ana šarri (MAN) bēlīya likrubu ūmē arkūte 4ṭūb šīri u ḫūd libbi ilāni rabiūti 5ana šarri (MAN) bēlīya lišruku To the king, my lord: your servant Mar-Issar. Good health to the king, my lord! May Nabû and Marduk bless the king, my lord! May the great gods bestow long days, well-being and joy upon the king, my lord! (SAA 10 347:1–5.)19 Considering our point about the identification, we could as well translate: “To the king, my lord: your servant Mar-Issar. Good health to the sun, my lord! May Nabû and Marduk bless the sun, my lord!”. However, as long as we are aware of this symbolic connotation, it is fine to render MAN/‘twenty’ with the “king” instead of the “sun”. In any case, assuming that a king did not himself read letters sent to him, but had a competent secretary to do this for him,20 it would be curious to know whether this assistant read a letter with MANs to the king as šarri/u or šamši/u. Mar-Issar’s introductory formula is not the only formula in which the king is identified with MAN, but other cases are sporadic and less systematic.21 In addition, Mar-Issar uses MAN well beyond his introductory formulae in his 25 letters

19

Similarly in SAA 10 nos. 348–349, 351–355, 357–359, 363, 368–370; Parpola, 1983: 130, n. 266. 20 A common practice, see, e.g., SAA 10 76 and/or SAA 16 32. 21 E.g., YBC 11382 edited by Frahm (2010: 91–110), who correctly transliterated XX (MAN) in this letter; it appears four times (lines 2, 40, 52, 57) against altogether sixteen LUGAL signs, including once in a personal name.

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but writes the sign LUGAL only sparingly.22 Ideologically, by adapting himself to his future role, it is also striking how often MAN features in crown prince Assurbanipal’s letters to his father Esarhaddon.23 King as the sun god in a royal inscription Continuing the Middle Assyrian convention, both Assurnaṣirpal II and his son Shalmaneser III referred to themselves as the “divine sun” (Šamšu kiššat nišē) in their royal inscriptions in the ninth century BCE:24 “(I), Assurnaṣirpal, strong king, king of the world, unrivalled king, king of all the four quarters, sun(god) of all people, …” (RIMA 2 A.0.101.1, 10, p. 194).25 As in letters, indirect equations with the sign MAN are much more common in royal inscriptions. The transliteration and translation of Assurnaṣirpal II’s inscription as published by Kirk Grayson in RIMA 2 provides a good example. It is an abbreviated version commemorating the king’s construction works of the Ištar temple at Nineveh. We can concentrate on its first twelve lines: 1m

aš-šur-PAP–A 2MAN dan-nu 3MAN ŠÚ MAN KUR AŠ 4MAN kul-lat kib-rat 64-ti 7mur-te-du-u 8ka-liš KUR.KUR 9A TUKUL–MAŠ MAN dan-nu 10MAN ŠU MAN KUR AŠ A 1110–ERIM.TÁḪ MAN dan-nu 12 MAN ŠÚ MAN KUR AŠ-ma 5

In his standard edition of the text, Kirk Grayson translated it as follows: Assurnaṣirpal, strong king, king of the world, king of Assyria, king of all the four quarters, ruler of all lands, son of Tukultī-Ninurta (II), strong king, king of the world, king of Assyria, son of Adad-nārārī (II) (who was) also strong king, king of the world, (and) king of Assyria. (RIMA 2 A.0.101.45: 1–12).

22

SAA 10 347–370 and SAA 16 171: altogether Mar-Issar writes MAN 159 times, although some of them are restored, versus LUGAL 38 times in all. Indeed, Mar-Issar uses an independent MAN more often than the other SAA letters (SAA 1, 5, 10, 13, 15–19, 21: fewer than 100 independently used cases without Mar-Issar) in total. In comparison, Adadšumu-uṣur has seven MANs in his letters. 23 SAA 16 15–17, 19–20: in the last two, MAN is even the first sign referring to the king in the introductory formula (similarly only in SAA 19 50: sender unknown), i.e., differently as in Mar-Issar’s letters. 24 E.g., Maul (1999: 206–207, including n. 31) discusses the epithet “sun(god) of all people” and lists the Assyrian kings who called themselves accordingly. The earliest of these was Tukulti-Ninurta I (RIMA 1 A.0.78.5:3 and 19:2), who was a special case in many ways, not least because of his conquest of Babylon. On his use of the title, see Cifola, 2004: 9, 10, 12; Sazonov, 2011: 160–161 and id., 2016: 84–86. 25 For Shalmaneser III, see RIMA 3 A.0.102.14: 16–17 (p. 64).

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It is worth stressing the significance of eight MAN signs in these twelve lines (lines 2–4, 9–12). In this text as elsewhere, MAN is of course a numerical notation that equals twenty, the sacred number of the sun god. In a way, this text with its many logograms appears to have an almost playful character, and, if wanted, we could replace every “king” by the “sun god”. Overall, Grayson’s translation is fine, but his interpretation “ruler of all lands”26 for murteddû kalîš mātāti (line 7) is not satisfactory, and this is my point here. It would probably be better to read “the constant escort of all lands”, which is an epithet of the sun god Šamaš.27 This is a captivating detail that further accentuates the close relationship between the king and the sun (god) in the text.28 King as the sun god in a well-known letter? SAA 10 160 (K 3034+), a famous and oft-quoted letter, is, with its 89 lines, one of the longest letters from the Neo-Assyrian period. In this missive by a Babylonian scholar called Marduk-šapik-zeri, the author recommends scholars to the king, referring to himself as “the dead body, the leprous skull (and) the constricted breath whom the king, my lord, raised up and appointed from among corpses” (pagru mīti gulgullu gurruṣu napišti sīqti ša ultu birīt mītūti šarru bēlā izqupannīma, SAA 10 160:2–4). But what was the goal of this Babylonian scholar, who described himself in such derogatory terms? To find out, the most interesting lines of this remarkable letter appear almost at the end, reading: “In all twenty scholars worth royal desire who will be useful to the king, my lord, and are guaranteed to meet the king my lord’s desire” (SAA 10 160 r.35–37). Why does Marduk-šapik-zeri recommend twenty scholars to the king? When he writes his desperate letter to king Esarhaddon, Marduk-šapik-zeri “has been kept in confinement for two years and is anticipating a death sentence”.29 What was he accused of?30 Unfortunately, we do not know, but it is somewhat surprising that the pro-Babylonian king Esarhaddon is possibly sentencing a Babylonian scholar to death. Given the circumstances, if we are interpreting them correctly, it is hardly coincidental that Marduk-šapik-zeri appeals to the king by recommending twenty scholars to him, thus implicitly invoking the sacred number of the sun 26

Thus, also in Cifola, 1995: 188. CMAwR 2 8.25:201 and 11.3.1: 8; cf. Tallqvist, 1938: 174. From the meanings of murteddû given in CAD (M/2, 228b), “follower, retainer” appear more apt than “persecuting, persecutor”. 28 This resembles the use of the sun god’s epithet muštēšeru, “good guide”, by some Assyrian kings; see Frahm, 2013: 101. 29 Nissinen, 1998: 136. 30 Perhaps of treason, a guess based on Esarhaddon’s conspiracy worries of the time. 27

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god, the supreme divine judge, and the king, as the king of justice, supreme judge on earth.31 The preserved part of the letter does not include a mention of Šamaš, but as the letter is partly broken, a reference to the sun god is possible.32 Nevertheless, an explicit mention of Šamaš is unnecessary. Indeed, here the total of twenty scholars is probably chosen because the number represents the king in his role as the judge whom the supplicant is asking for mercy.33 In the first place, as far as I understand, this text is a cry for help using symbolism, and only secondarily a list of twenty scholars, enumerating their special skills. At the time of receiving the letter, the king may have already known the skills of these men, or some of them. The same Kudurru (of SAA 10 160 r.13– 14), at least, may or may not have been employed in the royal library.34 Thematically, another letter may support this interpretation. In his letter, Mardî, possibly an imprisoned Babylonian, in financial trouble because of his outstanding debts, appeals35 to Esarhaddon, saying, I constantly prayed to [B]el, Nabû and Šamaš for the king, my lord, saying, ‘May the crown prince, my lord, seize the royal throne of his father’s house! I am his servant and his dog, who fears him; may I see light under his protection!’ Bel, Nabû and Šamaš heard (this) prayer for you, and they gave the king, my lord, an everlasting kingship (and) a long reign. And like sunshine, all the countries are illuminated by your light. But I have been left in darkness; no one brings me before the king. (SAA 16 29:9–15.)36 Here the role of sun god/king is comparable to that of SAA 10 160. On the distribution of the two variant writings for the king It is useful to consider the distribution of the two writings of the king. MAN is more common than LUGAL in Assyrian royal inscriptions (Worthington, 2012: 217–218). This may be explained by the public nature of these texts; they were displayed to audiences, in contrast to the “hidden” archival texts. Importantly, 31

Radner, 2005: 42, 66. Line 29 with ana kit[ti ……] is an option, but probably more likely is that it goes together with altapra “I wrote/sent” of the next line. 33 On the dating of the letter, see Hunger, 1987: 162–163 and Nissinen, 1998: 137 (especially n. 516). I agree with Nissinen and assume that the letter was written around 670. 34 For the details, see Nissinen, 1998: 136–137. 35 Appealing to the king (crown prince) is also mentioned twice in the letter (lines 16 and r.1). SAA 21 155, a letter written in Neo-Assyrian from Ea-zera-qiša, a Chaldean chieftain of Bit-Amukani, to his mother Humbuštu, is also relevant here. It is an appeal, concerning the sender’s loyalty to the king of Assyria (see Frame, 1992: 172–173), and uses MAN altogether 7 times alongside 8 LUGALs. 36 Lines 14–15: u kīma ṣēta šamši mātāti gabbi ina ṣētīka namru u anāku ina libbi eṭūti karrāk memmēni adi pān šarri lā uqarrabanni. Moreover, line 3 refers to the “righteous king”. 32

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royal inscriptions transmit to us the self-representation of Assyrian kings, i.e., how they wanted to be seen. There may also be clear practical and not strictly ideological applications in favour of the shorter MAN. Indeed, compounds behave differently. However, the varying distributions between the royal inscriptions – favouring MAN – and the archival texts – favouring LUGAL – may have other implications. In NA (and MA), the ease of writing two wedges instead of twelve37 probably contributed to the spread of MAN into many compounds. A selection of compounds ending in šarri with LUGAL and MAN is given in Table 1:38 Table 1: A selection of compounds with LUGAL and MAN. Compound

Translation

LUGAL

MAN

abat šarri

“king’s word”

a-bat LUGAL passim

a-bat MAN SAA 5 74:6; 13 129:7; SAAB 1 66:5; TH 1:139

ammat šarri

“royal cubit”

KÙŠ–LUGAL SAA 1 202:10, 14; 6 31 e.30; 11 22:3

KÙŠ–MAN SAA 1 145:7; 19 52:15′, e.18′, r.1

bēt šarri

“royal residence”

É–LUGAL SAA 1 150:13, 16; 14 460:5′; 15 283:9′; 16 45 r.8

No MAN forms

bēt šarrāni (mādūti)

“royal mausoleum”

No NA LUGAL forms; MA: É–LUGAL.MEŠ(-ni) A 842 r.5; 2604:6

É–MAN.MEŠ–MEŠ-tim SAA 12 81 I 7′, r. I 5; MA: É–MAN.MEŠ-ni A 981:3′; 3196 r.2

ḫūl šarri

“royal road”

KASKAL(.2/MEŠ)–LUGAL(ma/.MEŠ-ni) KAV 186:6, r.1′, 3′; SAA 1 132 r.4′; 233:10; 5 260 r.8′; 6 169:3; 12 1:9, 16; 2 r.5; 13 65 r.12; 14 193:5′; 15 249 r.1; 19 89:19; VAT 10430:8′

KASKAL–MAN BATSH 6 7:6, 9; CT 53 168 r.4; KAV 186:3, r.17; Al-Rāfidān 17 10:11; SAA 6 27:3′; 93 e.11′; 204:7; 275:13; 335:7′; SAAB 2, p. 7:11; StAT 2 207:9; 263:16; StAT 3 3:7; VAT 9790:6

kiṣir šarri

“royal corps”

ki-ṣir–LUGAL SAA 14 314 r.2′

ki-ṣir–MAN SAA 6 192 r.5′, 6′, 7′, 8′; 246 r.2′

37

The standard Neo-Assyrian form of the LUGAL sign contains altogether 9 horizontal and 3 vertical wedges, see, e.g., Borger, 2010, no. 266 and/or Labat / Malbran-Labat, 1995, no. 151. 38 The table is by no means exhaustive. 39 Dornauer, 2014: 32.

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Compound

Translation

LUGAL

MAN

libīt šarri

“royal entourage”

li-bit–LUGAL SAA 5 250:11

li-bit–MAN SAA 5 291 r.2, 13; 19 66 r.3′; 218 r.1

mār šarri

“(crown) prince”

DUMU–LUGAL (more common)

(A/)DUMU(.MEŠ)–MAN passim (also MA)

sūsān šarri

“horse trainer of the king”

LÚ.GIŠ.GIGIR(–)LUGAL SAA 6 235 r.1

LÚ*.(GIŠ.)GIGIR(–)MAN SAA 7 18 I 11′; 14 34 r.10, 12; 37 r.4′; 48 r.21e; 310 r.4′

ṣāb šarri

“king’s men”

(LÚ*.)ERIM(.MEŠ)–LUGAL (.MEŠ/-suffix/ma) SAA 1 18:5′, 10′; 99 r.15′; 149:4; 5 14:11; 52:16; 152:22; 250 r.20′; 15 18:6′; 60:13, 18; 19 41 r.7′

(LÚ.)ERIM(.MEŠ)–MAN (.MEŠ/-suffix) at least 37 cases, mainly in the Sargon correspondence

ṣalam šarri

“image of king”

ALAM/NU/ṣa-lam/ṣal-mu– LUGAL(.MEŠ-ni/-a-ni) SAA 5 15 r.9; 10 13:6, r.3′; 13 34:12, 14, 16, r.2; 61 r.3; 134:19′; 140:11; 20 15 I 52′

NU–MAN(.MEŠ-ni) SAA 7 62 I 14′, II 12′, III 10′, 16′, IV 6′, r. I 10; 13 28:13′, 141:6, 198:2′, 205 r.1′

ša-muḫḫi-bētšarri

“overseer of the royal crypts”

(LÚ.)šá–UGU–É/EN40– LUGAL(.MEŠ) SAA 14 61 r.2; 62 r.8′

šá–UGU–É–MAN.MEŠ-ni SAA 14 60 r.3–4

ša-šarri

“(servant) of the king”

LÚ.šá–LUGAL SAA 17 160:6

No MAN forms

ša-rēš-šarri

“royal eunuch”

LÚ.SAG–LUGAL SAA 12 96 r.12; 18 103 r.18, 22; 125:11′

(LÚ*.šá/ša–)SAG– MAN(.MEŠ-nu) SAA 7 130:8; 14 15:9; 16:5; 18:5; 20:4′; 21:3′; 60 r.4; 72 r.5; 324 r.4′; 15 54 r.17; 20 7 II 37, r. III 2 (also MA)

ṭupšar šarri

“royal scribe”

LÚ.DUB.SAR–LUGAL SAA 20 55: 6, 10, r.12′

No MAN forms

ummi šarri

“queen mother”

(MÍ.)AMA–LUGAL (more common)

(MÍ.)AMA–MAN passim

zēr šarri

“royal bloodline”

NUMUN–LUGAL SAA 5 37 r.8, 13; 291 r.7; 17 122:5; several in SAA 4

(LÚ*.)NUMUN–MAN SAA 20 52 r. v 12′; NWL 35 r. i 9′

40

A scribal error.

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Many examples indicate that MAN as a logogram was deeply incorporated in the Assyrian system of compounds. Rather than demonstrating a marked difference between the two logograms because, except for abat šarri (due to emphasis?), this is not easily detectable, the purpose of this table is to show how evenly distributed they were in compounds. Surprisingly, perhaps, two military professions ṣāb šarri and sūsān šarri favour MAN instead of LUGAL in archival texts. It is difficult to decide whether this is a practical or ideological choice. Notably, in transactions the phrase ina 1 manê/qa ša šarri “according to the royal mina/litre”, the MAN sign is more common than that of LUGAL (both passim). Other MAN details: It should be no surprise that Babylonians writing to the king of Assyria or his officials do not directly refer to the king with the MAN sign.41 Not studied here, but with a phonetic complement, MAN was also used for the word šarrūtu “kingship”. A comparison between MAN and LUGAL in personal and geographical (above all Dur-Šarruken) names would provide further insight about the use of the two logograms. The plural spelling MAN.MEŠ-ni, with the less frequent MAN.MEŠ, may refer to the foreign and previous/future Assyrian kings and is especially common in the royal inscriptions of Tukulti-Ninurta I,42 Assurnaṣirpal II and Shalmaneser III. It often refers to Hittite and other eastern Mediterranean kings, among others, but MAN.MEŠ-ni is a hapax legomenon in Neo-Assyrian letters. Therefore, I wonder whether the spelling MAN.MEŠ-ni ša KUR.ta-ba-li gab-bu, “all the kings of Tabal” SAA 1 1 r.48,43 in Sargon II’s letter is a loan from royal inscriptions or even more meaningful. Speculatively, it could secondarily acknowledge the Hittite tradition of having many sun gods. Concluding remarks With MAN, this article has discussed the obvious connection between the sun god and the king of Assyria. One should, however, not forget the prevalence of the traditional LUGAL sign in archival texts. Despite the ease of writing a simple sign MAN, with only two wedges, the sign did not ever seriously threaten the high frequency of LUGAL in Neo-Assyrian archival texts. The situation is different in Assyrian royal inscriptions, but in archival texts LUGAL is preferred to MAN. The use of MAN is essentially related to royal self-representation (royal inscriptions and comparable contexts), and how those close to the king reacted to this in their writings (archival texts). 41

Unless being desperate as in SAA 10 160. Rare exceptions include SAA 13 174:2, 23 and SAA 21 56:9′, but this in a bulk phrase: šar māt Elamti “king of Elam”; the rather uncertain MAN-šú-nu, “their king”, in a fragmentary Neo-Babylonian letter SAA 18 165:3′ could alternatively be interpreted as a number: 20 šú-nu “they are 20”. 42 The Tukulti-Ninurta Epic only uses MAN/MAN.MEŠ(-ni) for the word “king”. 43 Cf. RIMA 3 A.0.102.14: 106, 109 (LUGAL.MEŠ-ni in RIMA 3 A.0.102.16: 170′f, 194′); RINAP 2 1: 200.

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It is interesting that Parpola himself chose to read MAN in the State Archives of Assyria series. As far as I understand, this decision is practical and can be supported by its regular notation in standard sign lists. MAN does not get mixed up in the computer data with the true forms of the sun god, when the latter is written as 20, especially in astrological texts, or with the cardinal number 20. Finally, the epithets “just king” or “king of justice” were not widely used in Neo-Assyrian.44 This may be related to the frequent use of the sun-god’s number, ‘twenty’ when referring to the mundane king, implying already, god-like justice.45 The Assyrian king and the sun god had a lot of common; besides settling legal cases,46 they also decided matters of life and death regularly: both are recipients of numerous appeals to keep a supplicant alive or restore him/her to life (expressed by the balāṭu D stem forms). Abbreviations A Tablets in the collections of Istanbul Arkeoloji Müzereli. BATSH 6 Radner, 2002. CAD The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. CMAwR 2 Abusch / Schwemer / Luukko / Van Buylaere, 2016. CT 53 Parpola, 1979. K Tablets in the collections of the British Museum. KAV O. Schroeder, Keilschrifttexte aus Assur verschiedenen Inhalts. Leipzig 1920. NWL J. V. Kinnier Wilson, The Nimrud Wine Lists. CTN 1. London 1972. PNA K. Radner / H.D. Baker (eds.): The Prosopography of the NeoAssyrian Empire. Helsinki 1998–. RIMA 1 Grayson, 1987. RIMA 2 Grayson, 1991. RIMA 3 Grayson, 1996. RINAP 2 Frame, 2021. SAA 1 Parpola, 1987. SAA 2 Parpola / Watanabe, 1988. SAA 3 Livingstone, 1989. SAA 4 Starr, 1990. SAA 5 Lanfranchi / Parpola, 1990. SAA 6 Kwasman / Parpola, 1991. SAA 7 Fales / Postgate, 1992. SAA 8 Hunger, 1992. SAA 9 Parpola, 1997. 44

Tadmor, 2004: 386. But cf. Pongratz-Leisten, 2013, esp. p. 308. 46 For a different opinion, see Pongratz-Leisten, 2013. 45

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SAA 10 SAA 11 SAA 12 SAA 13 SAA 14 SAA 15 SAA 16 SAA 17 SAA 18 SAA 19 SAA 20 SAA 21 SAAB StAT 2 StAT 3 VAT YBC

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Parpola, 1993. Fales / Postgate, 1995. Kataja / Whiting, 1995. Cole / Machinist, 1998. Mattila, 2002. Fuchs / Parpola, 2001. Luukko / Van Buylaere, 2002. Dietrich, 2003. Reynolds, 2003. Luukko, 2012. Parpola, 2017. Parpola, 2018. State Archives of Assyria Bulletin. Donbaz / Parpola, 2001. Faist, 2007. Tablets in the collections of the Vorderasiatisches Museum, Berlin. Siglum of tablets in the Yale Babylonian Collection.

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— 1987: The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part I. Letters from Assyria and the West. SAA 1. Helsinki. — 1993: Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars. SAA 10. Helsinki. — 1997: Assyrian Prophecies. SAA 9. Helsinki. — 1999: “Sons of God: The Ideology of Assyrian Kingship”. Archaeology Odyssey 2/5, 16–27. — 2017: Assyrian Royal Rituals and Cultic Texts. SAA 20. Helsinki. — 2018: The Correspondence of Assurbanipal, Part I: Letters from Assyria, Babylonia, and Vassal States. SAA 21. Helsinki. Parpola, S. / Watanabe, K., 1988: Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths. SAA 2. Helsinki. Pongratz-Leisten, B., 2011: “Divine Agency and Astralization of the Gods in Ancient Mesopotamia”. In B. Pongratz-Leisten (ed.): Reconsidering the Concept of Revolutionary Monotheism. Winona Lake, IN. Pp. 137–187. — 2013: “From Pictograph to Pictogram: The Solarization of Kingship in SyroAnatolia and Assyria”. In J. Aruz / S.B. Graff / Y. Rakic (eds.): Cultures in Contact: From Mesopotamia to the Mediterranean in the Second Millennium B.C. New York. Pp. 298‒309. — 2015: Religion and Ideology in Assyria. SANER 6. Berlin / Boston. Radner, K., 2002: Die Neuassyrischen Texte von Tall Šēḫ Ḥamad. BATSH 6. Berlin. — 2005: “The Reciprocal Relationship between Judge and Society in the NeoAssyrian Period”. Maarav 12, 41–68. Reynolds, F., 2003: The Babylonian Correspondence of Esarhaddon and Letters to Assurbanipal and Sin-šarru-iškun from Northern and Central Babylonia. SAA 18. Helsinki. Sazonov, V., 2011: “Die mittelassyrischen, universalistischen Königstitel und Epitheta Tukultī-Ninurtas I. (1242–1206).” In Th. Kämmerer (ed.): Identities and Societies in the Ancient East-Mediterranean Regions. Comparative Approaches. Henning Graf Reventlow Memorial Volume. AOAT 390 / AAMO 1. Münster. Pp. 235–276. — 2016: Die assyrischen Königstitel und -epitheta von den Anfängen bis zu Tukulti-Ninurta I. und seinen Nachfolgern. SAAS 25. Helsinki. Starr, I., 1990: Queries to the Sungod. Divination and Politics in Sargonid Assyria. SAA 4. Helsinki. Tadmor, H., 2004: “Sennacherib, King of Justice”. In C. Cohen / A. Hurvitz / S.M. Paul (eds.): Sefer Moshe: The Moshe Weinfeld Jubilee Volume. Studies in the Bible and the Ancient Near East, Qumran, and Post-Biblical Judaism. Winona Lake, IN. Pp. 385–390. Tallqvist, K., 1938: Akkadische Götterepitheta. StOr 7. Helsinki. Vacín, L., 2009: “On the Solar Aspect of the King in Ur III Royal Ideology”. In J. Bičovský / P. Čech (eds.): Chatreššar 2009. Prague. Pp. 171–179.

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Wee, J.Z., 2014: “Grieving with the Moon: Pantheon and Politics in the Lunar Eclipse”. JANER 14, 29–67. Woods, Ch., 2012: “Sons of the Sun: The Mythological Foundations of the First Dynasty of Uruk”. JANER 12, 78–96. Worthington, M., 2012: Principles of Akkadian Textual Criticism. SANER 1. Berlin / Boston.

Earthquakes in Assyria John MacGinnis This article was in press when on February 6th 2023 southeastern Turkey and northwestern Syria were hit by a devastating earthquake that has destroyed the region and caused tens of thousands of death. The heart of the whole world is with the people of these lands at this time of horrific suffering. The starting point for this contribution is the excavation of the Assyrian fortress of Usu Aska, located in the Darband-i Rania pass in Iraqi Kurdistan1. The fortress, which stretched along most of the southern side of the pass, was an imposing installation which must have effectively controlled all traffic passing through. The occupation of the fortress can be dated by ceramics and other small finds to the Neo-Assyrian period. It is not possible to give more precise dates with absolute certainty, but it is not unlikely that the fortress was built by Assurnaṣirpal II to consolidate his control after campaigning through the Rania Plain at the beginning of his first campaign, and that it will have remained in Assyrian hands until the withdrawal from Iran in the late Neo-Assyrian period and the subsequent further contraction and then collapse of the Assyrian empire; in all events it is virtually certain that the pass must have fallen to hostile forces coming from the east no later than in 613 BC, when the Babylonian Chronicle records the Medes going down to Arrapha2. It would seem probable that there must have also been an Assyrian fort at this location in the Middle Assyrian period: the presence of numerous sites in the Rania Plain with Middle Assyrian ceramics suggests that the range of the Zagros which the pass crosses (the Kewa Resh and Assos mountains) may have marked the limit and therefore border of Middle Assyrian territory in this part of the empire. However no indication of such a Middle Assyrian occupation has been found. Unfortunately the ancient name of the fortress at Usu Aska is not known: it does not appear to be mentioned in the sources recovered so far, and the excavations to date have only yielded tantalising fragments pointing to the presence of administrative materials at the site3. In the course of the six seasons of fieldwork, in addition to large scale exposures of internal architecture, the mas1

For a summary of the first three season of work at Usu Aska see MacGinnis et al., 2020: 169–174 and MacGinnis et al., 2022. I am deeply grateful to Jeanette Fincke, Hartmut Kühne, Stefan Maul, Willis Monroe and John Steele for their help and comments. 2 Grayson, 2020: 91; cf. MacGinnis / Raheem / Ismael, 2020: 140–141. 3 To be precise, one sealing (MacGinnis et al., 2022: 125 fig. 27) and one fragment of a cuneiform tablet (MacGinnis et al., in press); for a recent discussion of the toponymy of the Rania Plain in Assyrian sources, which is imperfectly known, see MacGinnis / Skuldbøl / Colantoni, 2020.

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sive stone walls of the fortification systems have been the target of investigations in multiple places. On the outer (river) side, the wall is 6 m wide and preserved up to 6 m high (Fig. 1). It is difficult to judge how much height has been lost to erosion and collapse, and the stone structure will have been topped by a mudbrick superstructure of again unknown dimensions, but the full elevation of the original system must have been a minimum of 10 m – and more likely in the region of 15–20 m – high4. On the inner (mountain side) the situation is more complex. The work of the 2021 season revealed evidence that on this side the fortification had been completely rebuilt at least twice after the original construction. The immediate question was, why was this necessary? Why could the original wall have not been simply widened and raised if so required? The answer which in due course emerged from the disposition of the toppled masonry is that the walls must have been damaged by earthquake (Fig. 2).

Fig. 1: The Assyrian fortress at Usu Aska.

4

For a review of evidence for the height of fortification walls in Mesopotamia see MacGinnis, in preparation.

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Fig. 2: The jumble from the collapse and multiple rebuildings of the fortification wall at Usu Aska. Indeed our interpretation is that there may have been multiple earthquakes. It is against this background that we are prompted to review the issue of earthquakes in ancient Assyria, the evidence for which comes from a wide range of sources encompassing royal inscriptions, letter from the royal correspondence, omen texts and rituals5. It is a pleasure and an honour to offer this study to a figure of the stature of Prof. Simo Parpola, pioneer and master of the study of ancient Assyria in the modern age. Of course, the subject of this essay is one to which Simo has himself contributed hugely, both through the publication of modern editions in the State Archives of Assyria series and with the commentaries to relevant texts in Letters from Assyrian Scholars. Middle Assyrian period While earthquakes must have been a cause of consternation and destruction from time immemorial, in practical terms our investigations start in the Middle Assyrian period. The trail was blazed by Hartmut Kühne, who in a fascinating and seminal contribution to the Cambridge conference on the provincial archaeology of the Assyrian Empire presented the evidence, both textual and archaeological,

5

For previous research into earthquakes in Assyrian sources see Lacheman, 1937; Campbell Thompson, 1937; Weidner, 1968–1969: 73; Hunger / Pingree, 1999: 11, 18; Wittke, 2006: 540–542; Roberts, 2012: 23–24, 93–138; Gehlken, 2012: 126–7; De Zorzi, 2020.

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for earthquake damage at Middle Assyrian Dur-Katlimmu (Tell Sheikh Hamad)6. The archaeological evidence comes from Building P, identified as the chancellery of the palace7, where the tearing apart and collapse of walls marking the end of Phase I, and the subsequent damage to walls of Phase II, can only have been caused by earthquakes (Fig. 3). Outstandingly, Kühne linked these observations to notices in royal inscriptions which record damage to the temple of Ištar in Nineveh caused by earthquakes in the reigns of Shalmaneser I and Aššur-dan I. Further afield, it appears possible that the buckle in the pavement in the Phase B (pre-ninth century) Burnt Palace at Nimrud may also have been caused by one or other of these earthquakes8.

Fig. 3: The sheared walls in Building P at Tell Sheikh Hamad (courtesy Prof. Hartmut Kühne). The passages in the royal inscriptions are as follows: (1) Shalmaneser I rebuilding the temple of Ištar “At that time the temple of the goddess Ištar, mistress of Nineveh, my mistress, [which] Šamši-Adad (I), the king, my predecessor, had previously 6

Kühne, 2016. For the excavations on the citadel of Dur-Katlimmu, including Building P, see Kühne, 2021. 8 Oates / Reid, 1956: l4; Oates / Oates, 2001: 125; cf. Roberts (2012: 115), who notes that while Mallowan recognised that the damage dated to the Middle Assyrian period, he did not place it in the reign of any king beyond that. Another example of structural damage which can be attributed to an earthquake is the fault in a wall of the manor at Baba Jan (Goff, 1977: 106 fig. 2). 7

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built (and which, when) it became dilapidated, Aššur-uballiṭ (I), my forefather, later restored – that temple had been damaged in an earthquake and was in ruin. [I cleared away] (the debris) entirely and reconstructed its weakened portions. I rebuilt the fallen sections from top to bottom. I restored (and) returned to their places the clay inscriptions [of] Aššur-uballiṭ and deposited my clay inscriptions.” (Grayson, 1987: 206 A.0.77.17 lines 6–9)9 (2) Shalmaneser I rebuilding the temple and ziggurrat of Ištar “At that time the temple of the goddess Ištar, mistress of Nineveh, my mistress – (its) wall and ziggurrat had been damaged in an earthquake and were in ruin. I rebuilt that ziggurrat from top to bottom. [The wall and gate of the temple of the goddess Išta]r, my mistress – I cleared away their debris (and) rebuilt the ruined sections from top to bottom. The gate [of the temple of the goddess Ištar] I rebuilt. I deposited my monumental inscription and clay inscriptions.” (Grayson, 1987: 208 A.0.77.18 lines 7–10)10 (3) Aššur-reš-iši rebuilding the temple of Ištar “At that time the towers of the great gate at the front of [the (monumental) lions] in the main forecourt of the temple of the goddess Ištar of [Nineveh], my mistress – (those towers) which previously, at the time of Shalmaneser, king of Assyria, had been damaged in an earthquake (and) which Shalmaneser, a king who preceded me, restored; a second time they were shaken by an earthquake at [the time of Aššur-d]an, [king] of Assyria, my grandfather, those towers had been weakened and become dilapidated. (In the section) from the battlements to the roof of the temple I tore down fifteen layers of brick (and) [raised (this section as)] fifty [layers of brick] (thus) making it [thirty]-five layers of brick higher than before. I put stone rosettes all around them.” (Grayson, 1987: 311 A.0.86.1 lines 8–10; 313 A.0.86.2 lines 3–7, A.0.86.3 line 4')11 (4) Aššur-reš-iši rebuilding the bīt šahūri “At that time the room of the bīt šahūri of the bīt kutalli [… which … a king who preceded] me had built, in an earthquake at the time [of Aššurdan (I) …] I completed.” (Grayson, 1987: 314 A.0.86.4–6) As demonstrated by Roberts, the damage inflicted by these earthquakes is not specifically identifiable in the excavated remains at Nineveh12. These Middle Assyrian reports are the only references to earthquakes and the consequent 9

Roberts, 2012: 97–101. Roberts, 2012: 101–103. 11 Roberts, 2012: 104–110; for the suggestion that A.0.100.7 (Grayson, 1991: 180) relates to the same work of Aššur-reš-iši see MacGinnis, 2022. 12 Roberts, 2012: 110–115, using the data presented by Reade, 2005. 10

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damage in the royal inscriptions; such reports do not appear in the royal inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian period13. There are, however, a sizeable number of references in the royal correspondence. Neo-Assyrian period SAA 1 125 (ABL 191) Sargon II Letter to Sargon from Kiṣir-Aššur, governor of Dur-Sharrukin, reporting on an earthquake at Dur-Sharrukin on the 9th of Addaru, and stating that there is no damage. “The temples, the ziggurrat, the palace, the city wall and the buildings of the city are all well”. SAA 8 8 (RMA 264) March 656 BCE Report to Assurbanipal from Issar-šum-ereš the chief scribe: “Concerning the earthquake about which the king, [my lo]rd, wrote to me, this [is its interpretation]. If the earth keeps [quaking]: attack [of an enemy]. If the earth quakes at night: worry [for the land; variant: abandonment of the land]. Because (the earth) [quaked] on the 5th day (and) it quaked (again) in the night of [the 6th day], therefore I cited (the omen) ‘(If) the earth ke[pt quaking]’. If the earth quakes in Nisanu: his land will [defect] from the ruler. Had it not begun (in) Adaru, rain […] now [its] interpretation is this: because it quaked in Adaru and Nisanu after [a previous earthquake], therefore (the omen) ‘it kept quaking: attack of [an enemy]’ (applies). Had there been one month between them, [it would have been …]. As it is, it is also appropriate to cite (the) Nisanu (omens).” Presumably Issar-šum-ereš is implying that if there had been a month between the two quakes it would have been a matter of consulting the earthquake omens for the two separate months. SAA 8 36 (RMA 267) Esarhaddon or Assurbanipal Report to the king from Issar-šum-ereš: “If the sky shouts and the earth [quakes]: the gods […] the land […] in all four directions of [Enlil …] cities […] hostility […] sick people of the land will fall; variant: […]. If the sky shouts and the earth [quakes]: Enlil [will bring about] the defeat of the land. If the sky shouts and the earth quakes: the cultivated field will diminish […]. If Erishkigal [utters] her roar like a lion: the earth will turn the land into ruins. If there is an earthquake in Šabaṭu: the furrow will reduce its yield: there will be campaigns of the enemy. If the earth quakes in Šabaṭu, in the palace of the ruler another one 13

But it is interesting to note that Ctesias passes on the belief that the walls of Babylon may have been levelled by earthquake (Stronk, 2010: 251; Llewelyn-Jones, 2010: 105).

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will dwell. If the earth quakes at night: worry for the land; variant: [abandonment of the land]. If the sky shouts and […]. If the sky sho[uts and …] in the land […]. When either Jupiter or Venus […] disappear and [do] not […] either Adad will thunder, or a storm will come, or […] or there will be an earthquake. This (earthquake) was predicted by the (event) when Venus disappeared and […] The place where […]”. SAA 8 37 (RMA 266) Esarhaddon or Assurbanipal Letter to the king from Issar-šum-ereš which includes the report: “Tonight there was an earthquake. If there is an earthquake in Ṭebetu: the king will dwell in his enemy’s city. If the earth quakes in Ṭebetu: the palace of the ruler will fall and go to ruin. If the earth quakes at night: worry for the land; variant: abandonment of the land.” SAA 8 144 (RMA 266B) Esarhaddon/Assurbanipal Report to the king from Nabû-mušeṣi, evidently written following an earthquake, and quoting the omen line “If [the earth] quakes […., the days of] the king will be long”. This apodosis is not attested in any of the known earthquake omens. SAA 8 315 (K1345) Esarhaddon Report to the king from Zakir, evidently written following an earthquake, and quoting the omen line “[If the earth] quakes [at night]: worry for the land; variant: aban[donment of the land]. An earth]quake portends re[volt]”. SAA 8 366 (RMA 265) Nisanu 657 BCE14 Report to the king from Aplaya: “If the earth quakes in Nisanu, the king’s land will defect from him. If the earth quakes at night: worry for the land; variant: abandonment of the land”. SAA 8 434 (RMA 263) Esarhaddon/Assurbanipal Report to the king from Nabû-iqbi of Cutha: “If the earth quakes all day: dispersal of the land. If the earth quakes continually: attack of the enemy”. SAA 8 469 (RMA 235A) Esarhaddon Report to the king from Bel-šum-iškun which includes a section apparently in respect of an earthquake: “[The sign is …] and [has no] cancellation; its evil cannot be averted. (When) formerly the earth quaked, the enemy did not come and the land did not […] (because) the sign [was nullified] by cancellation.”

14

Parpola, 1983: 24.

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SAA 8 490 (RMA 265C) Esarhaddon/Assurbanipal Report to the king from Rimutu quoting the omens “[If the earth] quakes in Tašritu: [the harvest of the land] will prosper; there will be hostilities. [If there is an earth]quake: [there will be] hostility in the land. [The earth] quaked […]”. SAA 8 493 (RMA 265A) Esarhaddon Report to the king from Šapiku of Borsippa including quoting the omens “If the earth quakes all day: dispersal of the land. If the earth quakes in Tammuz: the ruler will be humiliated in the land of [his] enemy”. SAA 8 495 (RMA 266A) Esarhaddon Report to the king from Šapiku of Borsippa: “If there is an earthquake in Šabaṭu: [the furrow] will bring its yield; variant: will reduce (its yield); there will be campaigns of the enemy. If the earth quakes in Šabaṭu: the enemy will take up residence in the palace of the ruler; [the ruler] will be humiliated [in the land of] his enemy. [If the earth] quakes at night: worry for the land; [variant: abandon]ment of the land. An earthquake portends revolution. […] This sign indicates an attack of the enemy. Let [the king my lord] strengthen the guard everywhere [where …] is present. [Maybe] an enemy will come into being.” SAA 8 496 (RMA 262D) Esarhaddon/Assurbanipal Report to the king from Šapiku of Borsippa, quoting the omen entries “If the earth [quakes] all day: dispersal [of the land]. If (the earth) keeps qu[aking]: attack of the en[emy]”. SAA 8 555 (RMA 265B) Esarhaddon/Assurbanipal Report following an earthquake, quoting the omen lines: “If an earthquake […]: the king with […]. If the earth [quakes] in Tammuz: [the ruler will be humiliated in the land]; variant: in the pa[lace]. If the earth [quakes] at night: [worry for the land]; variant: abandonment [of the land]”. SAA 10 10 (ABL 34 = LAS 16) June 22, 670 BCE15 Letter to the king from the chief scribe Issar-šum-ereš concerning the apotropaic ritual (namburbû) to be performed following an earthquake: “As to what the king, my lord, wrote to me: ‘What apotropaic ritual is there?’ There is the apotropaic ritual against earthquake, and it should be performed. […] should enter the Review Palace. The following is [what] is said about [the matter] in the tablet: ‘[If …] will stay […]; if …] in that 15

Parpola, 1983: 24.

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year the prince […]’. […] everybody has now […] picked up […] and […]. The king, my lord, should not be worried about it. Now (the earth) has quaked again during daytime. ‘If the earth trembles in the daytime, dispersal of the land’”. SAA 10 55 (ABL 1080 = LAS 234) 669 BCE16 Letter to the king from the astrologer Balasî reporting on the meaning of an earthquake: “[… the earth] quaked [(again); the (relevant) interpretation is as follows: ‘If the earth quakes in the month of Simanu, settlements in abandoned outlying regions will be resettled at the command of Enlil’. Let them find out where the evil (portended by) the eclipse has materialised and eradicate it. Somebody should go and [perform the rituals] in Nineveh”. SAA 10 56 (ABL 355 = LAS 35) June 669 BCE17 Letter to the king from the astrologer Balasî. “Concerning the interpretation of the omen about which the king, my lord, wrote to me: ‘(It is said that) the king will be vilified among his magnates – what losses will ensue?’ Interpretations of monthly omens are like this: one is never like another, their interpretations vary. Now (with regard to) this one – in the case ‘He will be slighted’ – its interpretation can only be the earthquake. (The earth) has quaked: that is bad. They should perform the ritual against earthquake (and) your gods will (then) make (the evil) pass by. ‘Ea has done, Ea has undone.’ He who caused the earthquake has also created the apotropaic ritual against it. Were there not earthquakes in the times of the king’s fathers and grandfathers? Did I not see earthquakes when I was small? The god has (only) wanted to open the king’s ears: he should pray to the god, perform the apotropaic ritual and be on his guard”. SAA 10 202 (ABL 357 = LAS 147) 670 BCE (?)18 Letter to the king from the king’s exorcist Adad-šum-uṣur, which includes reporting on the ritual following an earthquake: “Concerning the ritual against the earthquake … I will read … the rituals for [Ea] and Asalluhi – this is the appropriate way”.

16

Parpola, 1983: 223. Parpola, 1983: 40. 18 Parpola, 1983: 133. 17

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SAA 10 203 (CT 53 153) (ABL 1118 = LAS 148) Esarhaddon/Assurbanipal Letter to Esarhaddon from the king’s exorcist Adad-šum-uṣur following an earthquake: “Concerning the Crown Prince’s visiting the king, is it because of the earthquake that he has said ‘the Crown Prince should not go outdoors’? It is a fortnight since the earth quaked, the ritual has been performed twice and the king my lord knows its interpretation. As they say, what has it to do with this? The visit of [the Crown] Prince would be [perfectly] all right now”. SAA 10 210 (ABL 4 = LAS 137) June 8, 669 BCE (?) Letter to Esarhaddon, evidently following an earthquake. “To the farmer, my lord! May Nabû and Marduk bless the farmer my lord. Tomorrow, on the 13th of [Du’uzu], the farmer will go to the qersu (portable sanctuary)19, enter the reed hut and sit down, then return from the qersu and go [to …]. A barber will enter. The nails which he cuts will be put in a bottle which will be sealed and brought [to] the border of enemy territory. Or they will go and act in this way on the 15th day.” As discussed by Parpola, the actions specified in SAA 10 210 and 211 are in accord with the Late Babylonian (Seleucid) ritual proscribed to be performed by a kalû (lamentation priest) in the event of an earthquake20. SAA 10 211 (ABL 183 = LAS 138) June 8, 669 BCE (?)21 Letter to Esarhaddon related to the preceding letter. “To the farmer, my lord, your servant Adad-[šum-uṣur]! May Nabû and Marduk bless the farmer my lord! After they have gone to the qersu and entered the reed hut, they will return and the barber will enter.” SAA 16 100 (Iraq 4: 189) Esarhaddon/Assurbanipal Letter to Esarhaddon from the scribe Nabû-šum-ka’’in reporting on the damage suffered in Assur from an earthquake: “There was an earthquake on the 21st of Ululu. The outer town in its entirety was damaged but the whole wall of the outer city was saved. (A stretch of) 30 1/2 cubits was torn out of it and fell inside the city. The House of God in its entirety was damaged and cracked, but all the gods of the king are well. The architrave of the window opening of the House of God (and) 19

For a discussion of the qersu in Assyrian rituals see May, 2010. Parpola, 1983: 124, discussing Thureau-Dangin, 1921: 34–37 lines 16–25; cf. also Maul, 1994: 76. 21 Parpola, 1983: 125. 20

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[the … of] Nabû (and) Adad […] of the ziggurrats [… and] of the […] house of […] fell down; one […] collapsed from this house. The watchtowers of the middlemost gate and the outer gate have collapsed; (and) one […] house outside the city garrison and one inside it have collapsed. A royal eunuch should come and inspect”. SAA 16 101 (CT 53 216) Esarhaddon Letter to Esarhaddon from Assur reporting on repairing earthquake damage; the letter is fragmentary but indicates that the city wall was damaged. SAA 21 49 (CT 54 230) Assurbanipal Letter from Assurbanipal to the Sealanders, referring to an earthquake (l. 18'), however the context is unclear. The above letters fall into two categories, reports from cosmological specialists (ṭupšar Enuma Anu Enlil) quoting the relevant omens, and reports on the extent of damage that occurred. The most striking of the latter is SAA 16 100, which gives a very extensive list of the damage caused by an earthquake at Assur. This has been studied in detail by Roberts, who concludes that it is not possible to correlate any of the damage listed with the excavated remains22. To my knowledge, the same is true with respect to SAA 1 125 – no damage has been observed at Dur-Sharrukin which might correspond to that reported in the latter. Omens As will be evident from the above, and is to be expected, there were omens associated with earthquakes. A listing of such omens is first attested in a text from Nuzi which presents two sets of predictions for earthquakes occurring in each month of the year, in addition to entries on various specific scenarios23. In the first millennium, these omens are found incorporated within two separate compilations of omens: in the astrological (or perhaps better, cosmological) series Enuma Anu Enlil, in which Tablet 22 contains the second set of the Nuzi omens and Tablet 47 both sets24; and in the series Iqqur ipuš, where the two sets occur together in sections 100 and 10125.

22

Roberts, 2012: 119–132. Lacheman, 1937; for previous remarks on the Neo-Assyrian earthquake omens, see Roberts, 2012: 133–138. 24 For the view that Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 contained both sets of the monthly omens from Nuzi see Gehlken, 2012: 126; De Zorzi, 2020: 212 n3, 220; cf. also Koch, 2015: 163–191. 25 Labat, 1965: 188–191; cf. Koch, 2015: 228–233 and Fincke, 2020a, 2020b. 23

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Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 2226 The relevant omens are in a section where for each month the predictions are given in the event of eclipses, thunder, earthquakes and mud covering the land. The relevant apodoses are as follows: Nisanu

the king’s land will rebel against him and a revolution will flare up Ayyaru laying waste of the pasture land Simanu the king will be despised, he will be humiliated in the eyes of his courtiers Du’uzu there will be an exodus Abu the king of the land will experience hunger Ululu the king of the land will experience hunger Tašritu the crops of the land will flourish; there will be hostilities Arahsamnu an enemy land will send a hostile (message)27 Kislimu the palace of the king will be abandoned Ṭebetu the king will reside in the city of an enemy Šabaṭu there will be enemy campaigns Addaru there will be enemy campaigns Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 The textual history of Enuma Anu Enlil is complex and not yet fully understood. As discussed by Koch, there were different recensions and there was no attempt in antiquity to redact these into a single version28. With respect to the earthquake omens in Tablet 47, there are two parallel sets of apodoses, the differences between which are sufficiently great that it is necessary to list them separately. We refer to these as Tradition A and Tradition B. Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 (Tradition A)29 If the earth quakes in Nisanu: the ruler’s land will rebel against him If the earth quakes in intercalary Nisanu: the soil of the land will become infertile If the earth quakes in Ayyaru: (the inhabitants of) the land will assemble at the fortresses If the earth quakes in Simanu: deserted rural settlements will be repopulated at the behest of Enlil

26

Rochberg-Halton, 1988: 263–269. For the corrected reading of the apodosis of this line see Heessel, 2021: 63. 28 Koch, 2015: 163–167. The reference on Hunger / Pingree, 1999: 18 should be to Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 (rather than Tablet 43). 29 Gehlken, 2012: 150–255. 27

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If the earth quakes in Du’uzu: the king will be humiliated in his land (variants: in the land of his enemy; in the palace) If the earth quakes in Abu: there will be a mass exodus of the nomadic population to the fortresses If the earth quakes in Ululu: the land will experience famine until harvest (variant: devastation) If the earth quakes in Tašritu: the harvest will prosper (variant: there will be hostilities in the land) If the earth quakes in Araḫsamna: there will be acts of violence and murder; famine and devastation will be in the land If the earth quakes in Kislimu: the king’s land will revolt, hostilities If the earth quakes in Ṭebetu: the palace of the king will be abandoned and the land will go to ruin If the earth quakes in Šabaṭu: an enemy will take up residence in the king’s palace, the king will [be slight] compared to his enemy30 If the earth quakes in Addaru: enemy campaigns will again and again afflict the land If the earth quakes in intercalary Addaru: hostilities will abate (variant: Erra will devour the land, there will be hard times, human flesh will be eaten) These monthly omens are followed by the following additional omens: If the earth quakes repeatedly, if it rumbles once, twice, (or) three times and […]: […] If the earth quakes […]: the (harvest of) mottled barley will be p[oor] If the earth quakes all day long: dissolution of the land If the earth quakes all night long: worry for the land (variant: decline for the land) If the earth quakes again and again: attack of the enemy If the earth quakes (and) Adad thunders in the heavens then stops and makes a decision: end of a reign of terror (variant: end of the dynasty and destruction) There is one more relevant omen in Tablet 47, in line 26: If the earth quakes everywhere, a deluge will come31

30 31

For the restoration see Parpola, 1983: 25 ad line 11. Gehlken, 2012: 133.

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Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 (Tradition B)32 As mentioned the sequence and formulation of the apodoses in this recension, which has recently been edited by De Zorzi, is sufficiently different from the main tradition to merit a separate presentation. [If there is an earth]quake in Nisanu: the prince’s land will rebel against him and fire will break out in his palace] [If there is an earth]quake [in intercalary Nisanu: the soil of the land will become infertile] [If there is an earthquake in Ayyaru: the past]ure land of that land will lie waste [If there is an earthquake in Simanu: the king] will be humiliated among his noblemen [If there is an earthquake in Du’uzu]: ditto If there is an earthquake in Abu: there will be an exodus (variant: cries of woe) [If there is an earthquake in Ululu]: the furrow will produce its yield If in Ululu (?) the sky clouds over in the day33 and there is an earthquake: the harvest of the land will prosper [If there is an earthquake in Tašritu]: a king will send hostile messages to (another) king If there is an earthquake in Arahsamnu: the king’s palace will be abandoned and he will take residence outside of it [If there is an earthquake in Kislimu]: the king’s palace will be abandoned and the king will take residence in his son’s city (variant: in his enemy’s city) [If there is an earthquake in Ṭebetu]: the king’s palace will be abandoned and the king will take residence in his son’s city; variant: in his enemy’s city If there is an earthquake in Šabaṭu: the furrow will produce/decrease its yield, there will be enemy campaigns [If there is an earthquake in Addaru]: the furrow will produce/decrease its yield, there will be enemy campaigns [If there is an earthquake in intercalary Addaru]: death will stalk the land, the furrow will decrease its yield, people will eat human flesh [If the earth] quakes excessively, one or two or three times: Nergal will devour the land, annihilation, […] will sell cheaply [variant: the land

32

De Zorzi, 2020: 214–217. There is a minor issue in the sequence reconstructed by De Zorzi (2020: 214) in that, by comparison with Gehlken, 2012: 150, the entry preceding the omen for an earthquake in Ayyaru should relate to intercalary Nisanu. 33 ina ūmi should certainly be translated “in the daytime” rather than “if one day …” (De Zorzi, 2020: 215).

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will lie waste] [If there is an earthquake …]: there will be […] in the land [there is an earthquake …: …] will be abandoned; everyone will be too weak to help their fellow [If there is an earthquake in Nisanu – the prince’s] land will revolt against him. Iqqur ipuš Section 10034 If there is an earthquake in Nisanu: the king’s land will rebel against him If there is an earthquake in Ayyaru: the land will know calamity (variant: it will produce famine) If there is an earthquake in Simanu: the rain in heaven (variant: the harvests) will cease If there is an earthquake in Du’uzu: the king will become powerful, the land will become weak If there is an earthquake in Abu: there will be desolation (variant: an exodus) If there is an earthquake in Ululu: the land will know famine (and scarcity) If there is an earthquake in Tašritu: there will be scarcity (variant: revolt); the harvest of the land will not prosper If there is an earthquake in Arahsamnu: there will be scarcity (variant: revolt) in the land If there is an earthquake in Kislimu: the king’s land will rebel against him If there is an earthquake in Ṭebetu: the palace will fall into ruin If there is an earthquake in Šabaṭu: the king’s land will rebel against him If there is an earthquake in Addaru: enemy campaigns will cause the ruin of the land Iqqur ipuš Section 10135 If the earth quakes in Nisanu: the king’s land will rebel against him If the earth quakes in Ayyaru: the land will assemble at the fortresses If the earth quakes in Simanu: deserted rural settlements will be repopulated at the behest of Enlil If the earth quakes in Du’uzu: the king will be humiliated in his land If the earth quakes in Abu: an exodus of the nomadic population; the land will assemble at the fortresses If the earth quakes in Ululu: the land will know devastation If the earth quakes in Tašritu: the harvest will prosper; there will be hostilities in the land 34 35

Labat, 1965: 188–189. Labat, 1965: 190–191.

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If the earth quakes in Arahsamnu: there will be acts of violence and murder If the earth quakes in Kislimu: the king’s land will revolt against him and bear hostility towards him If the earth quakes in Ṭebetu: the palace of the prince will fall into ruins If the earth quakes in Šabaṭu: hostility (in) the land; Nergal will devour the land If the earth quakes in Addaru: the palace of the prince will be besieged and pillaged It is interesting to compare the variations in the predictions between these different sources. In order to do this we list the omens from each series by month: Nisanu Iqqur ipuš 100 the king’s land will rebel against him Iqqur ipuš 101 the king’s land will rebel against him EAE 22 the king’s land will rebel against him and a revolution will flare up EAE 47 (A) the ruler’s land will rebel against him EAE 47 (B) the prince’s land will rebel against him and fire will break out in his palace The variants with regard to the additional clauses in this line are interesting. Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 (B) takes the inflammation literally – IZI ŠUB-ut “a fire will break out” – whereas the phrasing of Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 22 takes it to be metaphorical – nap-pah-tum in-na-pah, which could be conventionally translation “a rebellion will be ignited”36. Ayyaru Iqqur ipuš 100 the land will know calamity (variant: it will produce famine) Iqqur ipuš 101 the land will assemble at the fortresses EAE 22 laying waste of the pasture land EAE 47 (A) the inhabitants of the land will assemble at the fortresses EAE 47 (B) the pasture land of that land will lie waste Simanu Iqqur ipuš 100 the rain in heaven (variant: the harvests) will cease Iqqur ipuš 101 deserted rural settlements will be repopulated at the behest of Enlil 36

Contra De Zorzi (2020: 218 ad line 27'), this addition does not have to be a “midrashic extension”, it could equally well be an addition that was made after an event that actually took place following an earthquake occurring in Nisanu.

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EAE 22 EAE 47 (A) EAE 47 (B) Du’uzu Iqqur ipuš 100 Iqqur ipuš 101 EAE 22 EAE 47 (A) EAE 47 (B)

the king will be despised, he will be humiliated in the eyes of his courtiers deserted rural settlements will be repopulated at the behest of Enlil the king will be humiliated among his noblemen.

the king will become powerful, the land will become weak the king will be humiliated in his land there will be an exodus the king will be humiliated in his land (variant: in the land of his enemy; in the palace) the king will be humiliated among his noblemen.

Abu Iqqur ipuš 100 there will be desolation (variant: an exodus) Iqqur ipuš 101 exodus of the nomadic population; the land will assemble at the fortresses EAE 22 the king of the land will experience hunger EAE 47 (A) there will be a mass exodus towards the fortresses EAE 47 (B) there will be an exodus (variant: cries of woe) Ululu Iqqur ipuš 100 Iqqur ipuš 101 EAE 22 EAE 47 (A) EAE 47 (B)

the land will know famine (and scarcity) the land will know devastation the king of the land will experience hunger the land will know famine (and scarcity) the furrow will produce its yield

Tašritu Iqqur ipuš 100 there will be scarcity (variant: revolt); the harvest of the land will not prosper Iqqur ipuš 101 the harvest will prosper; there will be hostilities in the land EAE 22 the crops of the land will flourish; there will be hostilities EAE 47 (A) the harvest will prosper (variant: there will be hostilities in the land) EAE 47 (B) a king will send hostile messages to (another) king. Arahsamnu Iqqur ipuš 100 there will be scarcity (variant: revolt) in the land Iqqur ipuš 101 there will be acts of violence and murder EAE 22 an enemy land will send a hostile message

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EAE 47 (A) EAE 47 (B)

there will be acts of violence and murder; famine and devastation will be in the land the king’s palace will be abandoned and he will take residence outside of it

Kislimu Iqqur ipuš 100 the king’s land will rebel against him Iqqur ipuš 101 the king’s land will rebel against him and bear hostility towards him EAE 22 the palace of the king will be abandoned EAE 47 (A) the king’s land will send hostility against him EAE 47 (B) the king’s palace will be abandoned and the king will take residence in his son’s city (variant: in his enemy’s city) Ṭebetu Iqqur ipuš 100 Iqqur ipuš 101 EAE 22 EAE 47 (A) EAE 47 (B)

Šabaṭu Iqqur ipuš 100 Iqqur ipuš 101 EAE 22 EAE 47 (A) EAE 47 (B)

Addaru Iqqur ipuš 100 Iqqur ipuš 101 EAE 22 EAE 47 (A) EAE 47 (B)

the palace will fall into ruins the palace of the prince will fall into ruins the king will reside in the city of an enemy the palace of the king will be abandoned and the land will go to ruin the king’s palace will be abandoned and the king will take residence in his son’s city; variant: in his enemy’s city

the king’s land will rebel against him hostility (in) the land; Nergal will devour the land there will be military campaigns of the enemy an enemy will reside in the king’s palace, the king will be slight compared to his enemy the furrow will produce/decrease its yield, there will be enemy campaigns

enemy incursions will cause the ruin of the land the palace of the prince will be besieged and pillaged there will be military campaigns of the enemy military campaigns of the enemy will again and again afflict the land the furrow will produce/decrease its yield, there will be enemy campaigns

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The picture that emerges from this data is that there are months for which the omen predictions are identical (or very nearly so), months where they differ but are not inconsistent, and months where they are incompatible. (i) Predictions in accord With the omens for Nisanu and Kislimu, the predictions are near enough identical in all sources – that there will be rebellion in the land – with the addition of revolution (Enuma Anu Enlil 22) or fire (Enuma Anu Enlil 47 B) breaking out. (ii) Predictions which are different but not incompatible Instances where the predictions from the different omen series are different, but consistently indicate calamitous outcomes. Thus, the various predictions for Abu are all in accord with population disorder – desolation and panicked movements (Iqqur ipuš 100), elements of the population fleeing and assembling in fortresses (Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 (A+B), Iqqur ipuš 101), and hunger (Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 22). Similar situations are presented by the months of Ayyaru, Arahsamnu and Ṭebetu. (iii) Divergent and contradictory predictions The final case is where the predictions for a given month from the different omen series are not only different, but divergent, if not indeed contradictory. In Simanu, for example, Iqqur ipuš 100 predicts that the rain in heaven (or the harvests) will cease, whereas Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 (A) and Iqqur ipuš 101 predict that deserted rural settlements will be repopulated, and Enuma Anu Enlil Tablets 22 and 47 (B) predict that the king will be despised. Similarly, for Du’uzu Iqqur ipuš 100 predicts that the king will become powerful, whereas Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 (A+B) and Iqqur ipuš 101 predict that the king will be humiliated, with Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 22 again giving an entirely unrelated prediction, that there will be an exodus37. More extraordinary is the case with Tašritu, where Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 (A) and Iqqur ipuš 101 predict that the harvest will prosper and that there will be hostilities – the latter confirmed by Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 (B) – whereas Iqqur ipuš 100 predicts that it will fail38; Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 22 hedges its bets, taking a page out of both books and predicting that there will be hostilities but that nevertheless the crops will flourish. With Ululu, all sources predict famine and devastation, with the exception of Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 (B), which predicts that the furrow will produce its yield. The situation with Šabaṭu and Addaru is similar, though more nuanced: all sources predict hostilities, with Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 (B) additionally predicting that the furrow will both produce and/or decrease its yield. 37

As noted by De Zorzi (2012: 218 ad line 31'), the “exodus” (nērubātu) of the Nuzi forerunner is replaced in some of the later manuscripts with “cries of woe” (urubātu). 38 Note also the observation of De Zorzi, 2020: 218 ad line 32'.

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A further complication, as noted by De Zorzi, is that the apodoses for the months of Ululu, Tašritu, Arahsamnu and Kislimu are out of step by a month with regard to the Nuzi forerunner, with the predictions for month n in the Nuzi version corresponding to n-1 in Tablet 4739. As will have been noticed, another important difference is that Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 goes beyond just giving predictions for the twelve months of the year, giving additional entries for the two possible intercalary months as well as for a number of additional scenarios such as prolonged, repeated earthquakes and nocturnal quakes. Furthermore Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 gives an example of what might be called complex omens, with a prediction for the implication of the combination of thunder followed by an earthquake. Marshalling this data puts us in a good position to see how the predictions quoted in the letters match the entries in the omens texts. This is indeed an area in which Prof. Parpola in his commentary on the letters from Assyrian scholars has led the way. In almost all cases, the predictions quoted can be traced to their sources in Iqqur ipuš Sections 100 and 101 and Enuma Anu Enlil Tablets 22 and 47. In many cases, the predictions quoted fully correspond to those found in the omens series. The prediction for Nisanu that the land will defect from the ruler (SAA 8 8, 366) is in accord with all sources. Concerning the omens quoted for Ṭebetu (SAA 8 37), the prediction that the king will dwell in his enemy’s city comes from Enuma Anu Enlil 22, the prediction that the palace of the ruler will fall into to ruin from Iqqur ipuš 100 and 101 and Enuma Anu Enlil 47 (A+B). With the quotations for Šabaṭu in SAA 8 36 and SAA 8 495, the prediction that the furrow will either reduce or produce its yield comes from Enuma Anu Enlil 47 (B), the enemy campaigns from Enuma Anu Enlil 22 and 47 (B), and the humiliation of the king before his enemy from Enuma Anu Enlil 47 (A); the prediction that a different prince will rule in the palace is not, however, known from the sources as established to date. Furthermore, the omens “If the earth quakes all day long: dissolution of the land” (SAA 10 10, 434, 493, 496), “If the earth quakes at night: worry for the land; variant: abandonment of the land” (SAA 8 8, 36, 37, 315, 366, 495, 555) and “If the earth keeps quaking: attack of the enemy” (SAA 8 8, 434, 496) are all found in Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47. As noted by Parpola40, the prediction that the king will be despised and belittled in the eyes of his courtiers in SAA 10 56 comes from Enuma Anu Enlil 22. In numerous cases the predictions can indeed be matched to entries in one or more of the sources, but it is evident that the scribe has been selective and omitted other forecasts that he could have mentioned. Thus, the prediction for Simanu that settlements in abandoned outlying regions will resettled at the command of Enlil (SAA 10 55) is found in both Iqqur ipuš 101 and Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47 (A) – but the scribe chose not to mention that the rainfall (or harvests) might 39 40

De Zorzi, 2020: 218 ad line 33'. Parpola, 1983: 40.

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cease Iqqur ipuš 101 or that the king might be despised by his courtiers (Enuma Anu Enlil 22, 47 B). The predictions for Du’uzu that the ruler will be humiliated in the land of his enemy (SAA 8 493) or in the palace (SAA 8 555) are both attested in Enuma Anu Enlil 47 (A+B) – but the scribe chose not to mention that the king might become powerful while the land will become weak (Iqqur ipuš 100), nor that he might be humiliated in his land (or in the land of his enemy or in the palace) (Iqqur ipuš 101, Enuma Anu Enlil 47). The predictions for Tašritu that the harvest of the land will prosper and that there will be hostility in the land (SAA 8 490) come from Iqqur ipuš 101, Enuma Anu Enlil 22 and 47 (A+B) – but the scribe chose not to mention that there might be scarcity (or revolt) and that the harvest of the land might not prosper after all (Iqqur ipuš 100). There are two cases where omens quoted in the correspondence are not otherwise known. The first of these – “If the sky shouts and the earth quakes” (SAA 8 36) – might be thought to correspond to the omen for “If the earth quakes and there is thunder” attested in the tablet of earthquake omens from Nuzi41, but the apodoses do not match. In the second case, in which the protasis is lost, the prediction that “[the days of] the king will be long” (SAA 8 144) is not an apodosis so far attested in extant sources of earthquake omens. Lastly, the statement in SAA 8 315 “An earthquake portends revolt” is wrong as a generalisation but could be correct if the earthquakes occurred in Nisanu (all sources), Kislimu (Iqqur ipuš 100 and 101 and, loosely, Enuma Anu Enlil Tablet 47) or Šabaṭu (Iqqur ipuš 100). The statement in SAA 8 36 that the earthquake had been predicted by the disappearance of Jupiter and Venus is of extraordinary interest as it is again a case of a complex omen, with one ominous event foretelling another. It is not improbable that earthquakes may have featured in other omen series, and it may be that such evidence will materialise in the fullness of time. Perhaps surprisingly, Šumma ālu does not contain omens referring to earthquakes, at least as reconstructed so far42. It might also be expected that earthquakes could occur in dreams, but again this is not yet attested in the extant sources43. It should also be mentioned, as noted by Gehlken, that ṣâtu and mukallimtu commentaries for earthquake omens have not yet been recovered44.

41

Lacheman, 1937 line 25. Freedman, 1991: 2006, 2017; cf. Koch, 2015: 239–255. 43 Oppenheim 1956, Butler, 1998; and cf. Edmonds, 2018: 82. For additional tablets with dream omens see MacGinnis, 1992: 6–11 No. 6; Heessel, 2007: 126–128 No. 55. 44 Gehlken, 2012: 161–162; Koch, 2015: 179–184; the small number of recovered commentaries on Iqqur ipuš do not deal with earthquakes (I am grateful to Jeanette Fincke for this information, cf. also Koch, 2015: 231). 42

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Rituals It will come as no surprise that there were rituals designed to counteract the evils of earthquakes45. There is ample evidence for the performance of apotropaic rituals (namburbû) to ward off the evils portended by earthquakes. These rituals were carried out by the kalû (“lamentation priest”) and mašmaššu (“exorcist”). Currently the best source for such rituals is the Seleucid text published by Thureau-Dangin in Rituels accadiens46. The omens quoted there are for “If the earth quakes: onslaught of the enemy, the foundation of the land will not be sure. If the earth shakes there will be no stability in the entire country; the country will go out of its mind”. The procedures outlined there involve the king purifying himself, reciting penitential hymns to Anu, Enlil and Ea, and making offerings of meat, beer, wine and milk to his personal god and goddess. After this he is shaved and the clippings put in a bottle to be deposited at the border of enemy territory. The relevant Assyrian sources, such as KAR 7 – edited by Ebeling a century ago47 – and KAR 28+249, have in recent times been largely neglected, undoubtedly due to the fragmented and disjointed state of the manuscripts48. This situation will, however, be remedied by the editions currently being prepared by Prof. Stefan Maul49. In one instance the king is informed that there is nothing the specialists can do about the portended effects of an earthquake, that the sign “has [no] cancellation; its evil cannot be averted!” (SAA 8 469). It would be highly interesting to know why this was the case but the reasoning is lost to us. Conclusions In conclusion, earthquakes are first attested in the cuneiform sources in the tablet of omens from Nuzi. The fact that this is already fully formatted suggests that it is itself based on one or more forerunners: these are likely to go back to at least the Old Babylonian period, if not earlier. In the Middle Assyrian period royal inscriptions report on earthquakes occurring in the reigns of Shalmaneser I and Aššur-dan I. In the Neo-Assyrian period there are no such reports in the royal inscriptions, but many reports on earthquakes in the royal correspondence, both letters from cosmological specialists quoting the apposite omens and letters from governors giving an account of damage incurred. These reports come from the reigns of Sargon, Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal. The principal sources for the omens quoted in the reports were the series Iqqur ipuš and Enuma Anu Enlil. 45

Parpola, 1983: 123–125; Fadhil, 1993: 277; Maul, 1994: 21–24, 56, 76, 83; Hunger / Pingree, 1999: 6, 24. 46 Thureau-Dangin, 1921: 34–37. 47 Ebeling, 1918: 37–40. 48 Earthquakes also feature as one of the evils to be counteracted in the more generalised namburbû ordinance LKA 108 (see Ebeling, 1956: 24–27); another fragment of a ritual for warding off the evil of an earthquake is Maul / Strauss, 2011: 37 No. 9. 49 Maul, in preparation.

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While in some cases these sources agree, in other cases the predictions resulting from an earthquake in a given month vary considerably and are even contradictory. This must have engendered a degree of confusion in the process of interpretation of the omens, a probably unintended side-effect of which was to allow a degree of subjectivity in selecting the predictions which were reported to the king. Nevertheless, it was believed that in most, though not all, cases the portended evil could be averted by the performance of an apotropaic namburbû ritual. The total numbers of quakes documented in all these sources is about a dozen50. Of course, this can only represent a fraction of the earthquakes that actually occurred over this timespan. This underlines that, as always in Assyriology, this review of the evidence is but one step along the way. New evidence is sure to come to light, and the picture will also be refined by the on-going research in establishing the text of Iqqur ipuš and Enuma Anu Enlil, and the new editions of the ritual texts which we can look forward to. For now, though, it is a pleasure to once more express my deep gratitude and admiration for Prof. Parpola for all that he has done for the Assyrian world. Bibliography Butler, S. A. L., 1998: Mesopotamian conceptions of dreams and dream rituals. AOAT 258. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Campbell Thompson, R., 1937: “A New Record of an Assyrian Earthquake”. Iraq 4, 186–189. De Zorzi, N., 2020: “News on Enūma Anu Enlil 47 and its Nuzi Forerunner”. Kaskal 17, 211–221. Ebeling, E., 1918: Quellen zur Kenntnis der babylonischen Religion. Leipzig: Hinrichs. — 1956: “Beiträge zur Kenntnis der Bechwörungsserie namburbi (suite)”. Revue d’Assyriologie 50, 22–33. Edmonds, A. J. 2018: Warum eroberst du ohne Ende? Studies in the Birth of the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Dissertation zur Erlangung des akademischen Grades Doktor der Philosophie in der Philosophischen Fakultät der Eberhard Karls Universität Tübingen. Fadhil, A., 1993: “Erdbeben im Alten Orient”. Baghdader Mitteilungen 24, 271– 278. Fincke, J., 2020a: “In Search of Ur in iqqur īpuš”. In G. Frame / J. Jeffers / H. Pittman (eds.): Ur in the Twenty-First Century CE. Proceedings of the 62nd Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale at Philadelphia, July 11–15, 2016. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Pp. 233–244. — 2020b: “The Series iqqur īpuš. Reworking a composition to modern standards”. In W. Sommerfeld (ed.): Dealing with Antiquity: Past, Present & Fu50

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ture – RAI Marburg, AOAT 460. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Pp. 225–232. Freedman, S.M., 1991: If a City is Set on a Height. The Akkadian omen series šumma ālu ina mēlê šakin. Volume 1: Tablets 1–21. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. — 2006: If a City is Set on a Height. The Akkadian omen series šumma ālu ina mēlê šakin. Volume 2: Tablets 22–40. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. — 2017: If a City is Set on a Height. The Akkadian omen series šumma ālu ina mēlê šakin. Volume 3: Tablets 41–63. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Gehlken, E., 2012: Weather Omens in Enuma Anu Enlil. Leiden: Brill. Goff, C., 1977: “Excavations at Baba Jan: The Architecture of the East Mound, Levels II and III”. Iran 15, 103–140. Grayson, A.K., 1991: Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC I (1114– 859 BC). Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia Assyrian Periods 2. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. — 2020: Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Heeßel, N., 2021: Divinatorische Texte III: Astrologische Omina. KAL 13. WVDOG 160. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Hunger, H. / Pingree, D., 1999: Astral Science in Mesopotamia. Leiden: Brill. Koch, U.S., 2015: Mesopotamian Divination Texts: Conversing with the Gods. Sources from the First Millennium BCE. Guides to the Mesopotamian Textual Record 7. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Kühne, H., 2016: “The impact of earthquakes on Middle Assyrian Tell Sheikh Hamad (ancient Dur-Katlimmu)”. In J. MacGinnis / D. Wicke / T. Greenfield (eds.): The Provincial Archaeology of the Assyrian Empire. Cambridge: McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research. Pp. 189–198. — 2021: Die Zitadelle von Dūr-Katlimmu in Mittel- und Neuassyrischer Zeit. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Labat, R., 1965: Un calendrier babylonien des travaux des signes et des mois (séries Iqqur Ipuš). Paris: Champion. Lacheman, E. R., 1937: “An omen text from Nuzi”. Revue d’Assyriologie 34, 1– 8. Llewellyn-Jones, L. / Robson J., 2010: Ctesias’ History of Persia. Tales of the Orient. London / New York: Routledge. MacGinnis, J.D.A., 1992: “Tablets from Nebi Yunus”. State Archives of Assyria Bulletin 6, 3–15. — 2022: “BM 99128 (A.0.100.7) – Tukulti-Ninurta II or Aššur-reš-iši?”. NABU 2022/1, No. 20. — in preparation: “How high were the walls of Mesopotamia?”. MacGinnis, J.D.A. / Raheem, K.R. / Ismael, B.B., 2020: “Excavations at the Darband-i Rania pass, Iraqi Kurdistan: Report on the 2016 and 2017 Seasons”. Iraq 82, 139–178.

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MacGinnis, J.D.A. / Raheem, K.R. / Ismael, B.B. / Dusting, A. / Kertai, D. / Greenfield, T. / Hazell, G. / Matney, T. / Heda, A.J., 2022: “Excavations of an Assyrian fort at Usu Aska in Iraqi Kurdistan”. In T. Dezsö / G. Kalba (eds.): The Archaeology of the Raparin Region of Iraqi Kurdistan: A Review of Results from the Field and Directions of Further Research. Budapest: Eötvös Loránd University. Pp. 93–149. MacGinnis, J.D.A. / Dusting, A. / Kertai, D. / Matney, T. / Petersen, A. / Ahmad, M., in press: “Excavations at the Darband-i Rania pass, Kurdistan Region of Iraq: report on the 2018–2021 seasons”. MacGinnis, J.D.A. / Skuldbøl, T. / Colantoni, C., 2020: “On the eastern frontier of Assyria: a newly discovered text from the Rania Plain in northeastern Iraq”. State Archives of Assyria Bulletin 26, 89–112. Maul, S.M., 1994: Zukunftsbewältigung. Eine Untersuchung altorientalischen Denkens anhand der babylonisch-assyrischen Löserituale (Namburbi). BaF 18. Mainz: von Zabern. — in preparation: “Ein namburbi-Ritual, durch das drohendes Unheil, das sich durch ein Erdbeben ankündigte, von König und Land abgewendet werden soll”. Maul, S.M. / Strauss, R., 2011: Ritualbeschreibungen und Gebete I. WVDOG 116. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. May, N.N., 2010: “The Qersu in Neo-Assyrian Cultic Setting. Its Origin, Identification, Depiction and Evolution”. In L. Kogan / N. Koslova / S. Loesov / S. Tishchenko (eds.): Language in the Ancient Near East. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Pp. 441–489. Oates, D. / Reid, J.H., 1956: “The Burnt Palace and the Nabu Temple: Nimrud Excavations, 1955”. Iraq 18, 2–38. Oates, J. / Oates, D., 2001: Nimrud: An Assyrian Imperial City Revisited. London: British Institute for the Study of Iraq. Oppenheim, A.L., 1956: The Interpretation of Dreams in the Ancient Near East. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Parpola, S., 1983: Letters from Assyrian Scholars to the Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal. Part II: Commentary and Appendices. AOAT 5/2. Kevelaer / Neukirchen-Vluyn. Reade, J.E., 2005: “The Ištar Temple at Nineveh”. Iraq 67, 347–90. Roberts, R.N., 2012: Terra Terror: An Interdisciplinary Study of Earthquakes in Ancient Near Eastern Texts and the Hebrew Bible. PhD dissertation, UCLA (unpublished). Rochberg-Halton, F., 1988: Aspects of Babylonian Celestial Divination: the Lunar Eclipse tablets of Enuma Anu Enlil [tablets 15–22]. Archiv für Orientforschung Beiheft 22. Horn: Berger. Stronk, J.P., 2010: Ctesias’ Persian History. Düsseldorf: Wellem. Thureau-Dangin, F., 1921: Rituels accadiens. Paris: Leroux.

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Weidner, E., 1968–1969: “Die astrologische Serie Enuma Anu Enlil (Fortsetzung)”. Archiv für Orientforschung 22, 65–75. Wittke, A.-M., 2006: “Einige Bemerkungen zu Erdbeben und ihre Verknüpfung mit religiösen Vorstellungen”. Baghdader Mitteilungen 37, 531–547.

“Why Me?” or “To Be or Not to Be” Prince Kumma’s Netherworld Vision as an Aspect of Esarhaddon’s Apologetic Creations Maria Grazia Masetti-Rouault

Introduction In recent years, the question of Esarhaddon’s succession to the Assyrian throne following his father Sennacherib’s murder has sparked renewed attention and debate. Simo Parpola’s research, published in the 26th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale proceedings, has brilliantly triggered the rediscovery of this political event that marks the history of the last phase of the Neo-Assyrian Empire.1 The story of Sennacherib’s assassination, which he reconstructed by editing and interpreting the tablet ABL 1091, achieved fame beyond the Assyriological milieu and established a kind of literary model, almost a script for a suspense movie, well remembered by every student. His opinion, which absolved Sennacherib’s son Esarhaddon of any direct responsibility for the crime, was widely accepted, partly because it was consistent with the account of the event in other ancient texts such as the Bible and Berossus’ Babyloniaca.2 Suspicion fell on one of his brothers, Arda-Mullissi, who had previously been chosen as Crown Prince by Sennacherib and was later dismissed when his father preferred for the succession Esarhaddon3, a younger son supported by an influential mother, Queen Naqi’a/Zakutu.4 In Simo Parpola’s reconstruction of events, Arda-Mullissi, possibly associated with another brother, would have removed his father by a coup d’état that culminated with his murder, when Sennacherib, ignoring the political pressure from the palace, refused to rescind his last decision on the succession. Esarhaddon was not a witness to the crime, as he was sent far away from Nineveh and the court. Esarhaddon and his father’s death in Royal Inscriptions Allusions to this dramatic situation and its political consequences both in the royal family and court and in Assyrian society and the empire as a whole can undoubtedly be found in various texts from Esarhaddon’s time, especially in the first part of one of his official royal inscriptions, the “Nineveh A”, which reports these

1

Parpola, 1980. Cf. 2 Kings 19: 5–7. 36–37; 2 Chronicles 32: 21; Isaiah 37, 37–38. Burstein, 1978: 166, 3. 167, 5b, 86–89; see also Dalley, 2007; Holm, 2014. 3 Leichty, 2011: 11–12, i l. 8–31 (Esarhaddon 1 = Nineveh A); Radner, 2003; Frahm, 2014, 2016. 4 Melville, 1999: 16–29; Streck, 1999; Kertai, 2013: 116–117. See also Leichty, 2011: 315–324. 2

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events,5 and in other literary works of the period.6 However, a clear identification of the murderer or murderers of the king, whose names are only mentioned in later and foreign sources, as well as an account of their apprehension, trial, and ultimate punishment are not yet to be found in the records of the royal chancery. While this story would surely have highlighted Esarhaddon’s engagement in restoring law and order to the country after the chaos, as well as the legitimacy of his rule, these issues seem to have been almost taboo and left in the dark. Only in a later stele, discovered in an area of the empire far to the west, does Esarhaddon claim only, among his titles, that he has carried out the vengeance for his father's death.7 A king’s murder and the realignment of the royal succession were not exceptional events in Assyria and were not even mentioned as such: the ideology of kingship always prefers to insist on the global continuity of the dynastic lineage.8 Too detailed an account of the circumstances leading to the coup d’état would have harmed the entire royal family and court. Once a king sits on his throne, he has no reason or interest in remembering how he came to that result.9 It is difficult to understand, however, why Esarhaddon’s chancery, which produced several new texts discussing Sennacherib’s policies in Babylon and explaining the new king’s attitude to them, did not analyze or detail the situation surrounding the murder and the events that followed while alluding to them. Esarhaddon’s return to Nineveh after his ‘exile’ in a distant land10, and his swift military victory over the band of his brothers and their supporters – who in the meantime had not even managed to put one of them on the throne –, are only exceptionally recounted in the Nineveh A text, but with a minimum of precision, emphasizing only the heroic aspect of 5 Leichty, 2011: 9–26 (Nineveh A). For the “apologetic” part only, cf. Talon, 1994; Knapp, 2015: 307–325. 6 Cf. Livingstone, 1989: 68–76 (Text n° 32, The Underworld Vision of an Assyrian Prince); Livingstone, 1989: 77–79 (Text n° 33, The Sin of Sargon); Cagni, 1969; Foster, 2005: 880–991. See also Livingstone, 1989: 82–91 (Texts 34 and 35, “Marduk Ordeal” in the Assur and Nineveh versions), and Livingstone, 2017. 7 Leichty, 2011: 181–186 (Monument A), found at Zincirli, cf. 184, l. 25. About the vengeance issue, cf. Knapp, 2015:303. 8 Mayer, 1998; Fales, 2014. 9 The ideological assumption would be that gods must have approved globally the king’s advent, acknowledging its legitimacy: Tiglath-pileser III’s and Sargon II’s accession history had recently given evidence of this rule, cf. Radner, 2016; for Sargon II’s accession and death, cf. Frame, 2021: 23.37. About the succession through the Assyrian king’s eldest son, cf. Knapp, 2015, 301–302. 319. 10 Without definite evidence for the place where Esarhaddon found refuge, since Leichty, 2007 it is the city of Harran which is acknowledged as the region where he stayed, possibly under the protection of his mother’s Naqi’a Aramean family and clan; cf. Frahm, 2016. In the Nineveh A text (Leichty, 2011: 12, i l. 32–40) the decision taken by the crown prince to leave Nineveh to take shelter from his brothers’ plots is motivated by a gods’ command, to preserve him for kingship.

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Esarhaddon’s enterprise.11 This choice was motivated by an ideological strategy since information about this situation must have been widespread not only in Nineveh but also in the rest of Assyria. The end of the drama is mildly formulated in the Nineveh A narrative, which mentions the fact that the guiltiest of Esarhaddon’s enemies escaped punishment by making a runaway in an unknown land beyond the imperial border.12 Beyond the positive effect of the account of rightful revenge – after all, according to the Nineveh A, Sennacherib was killed because of the support for Esarhaddon – a greater account of the way the new king treated the murderers would have freed him from the suspicion of being in any way involved in the conspiracy. This missing part of the story has recently again attracted the attention of some historians. Exploiting a new edition of the same text edited by Simo Parpola, thanks to a fragment recently joined to the tablet and following the logic of the “Cui prodest” of the crime, some assyriologists now consider Esarhaddon the more likely mastermind of the coup d’état, to avoid another change in his father’s will concerning the succession.13 From this point of view, as already suggested, it is easy to imagine that his think tank later fabricated the fake news, the story accusing his “evil” brothers of the murder, that can be read in later sources. Esarhaddon’s intellectuals were willing to go a long way to promote Esarhaddon’s political plans for rebuilding Babylon. They had already fought another communication battle and produced a series of texts in which they attempted to disprove Sennacherib’s guilt for the destruction of Babylon in 689.14 This was a political act that, ideologically, could have justified the gods’ wrath and the king’s death on its own, as Nabonidus believed.15 Against all evidence, Esarhaddon had to have his father acquitted of this war crime, while at the same time preparing for his succession and seeking an appropriate solution to keep Babylon within the borders of the Assyrian Empire. Sennacherib’s innocence would have strengthened the legitimacy of his successor and lent credibility and importance to Esarhaddon’s reconstruction plans in Babylon.16 Sennacherib, for his part, had fully accepted 11

Leichty, 2011: 13–14, i l. 53–84; cf. Van der Mieroop, 2015: 309–310. Leichty, 2011: 14, i l. 82–84a. Cf. also Leichty, 2011:14, ii l.l8–11 (later punishment of “guilty soldiers” and their families, who incited Esarhaddon’s brothers to carry out the coup d’état). Babylonian and Assyrian chronicles report that still at the end of Esarhaddon’s reign many “nobles” were executed in Assyria, cf. Glassner, 2004: 202–203, chronicle 16, iv l. 29, as well as 208–209, chronicle 18, l. 30b. 13 While some assyriologists already had expressed their doubts about Arda-Mullissi and associated party’s responsibility in the crime, the discussion has been developed mainly by Dalley, 2007: 37–46; Knapp, 2015: 301–336; 2020; Dalley / Siddall, 2021. 14 Cf. Brinkman, 1973, 1984: 55–70; Frahm, 2017: 293–294. See also Levavi, 2021. 15 Schaudig, 2001: 516 (523), i l. 35′–41′. 16 Cf. the explanation offered in Esarhaddon’s Babylon (Prism) A, before the narration of the reconstruction planned by the king according to Marduk’s order, Leichty, 2011: 194– 197, i 1–48. ii 1–49 (Esarhaddon 104). 12

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his policy concerning the Babylonians, their government, and their gods in his inscriptions.17 His chancery had no difficulty in justifying his conduct by exploiting religious and theological reasons – to secure for the god Assur and his pantheon their rightful place in the imperial religious system, which had been virtually usurped by the divine kingship of Marduk.18 And it is reasonable to conclude that Arda-Mullissi’s party shared Sennacherib’s anti-Babylonian stance so that when the king, aware of his differing attitude toward Babylon, changed his mind and chose Esarhaddon as Crown Prince, a reaction was required. Sennacherib’s murder in other texts The new reading of ABL 1091 / SAA 18 10019 shows that this text cannot be used to prove the guilt of Arda-Mullissi or the innocence of Esarhaddon, but I do not think it shows the opposite either. To reconstruct the circumstances and the atmosphere in Nineveh after Sennacherib’s death other sources that treat the same events from a different perspective than the royal inscriptions may be helpful.20 Even if these productions have been acknowledged as propagandistic texts21 – and thus in some ways not dissimilar to the official texts22 – their existence, literary form, and contents, which are original and innovative, allow us to assess what kind of issues were being discussed at the time. They provide an idea of the answers that had to be given to an audience that is unknown to us but existed and was important enough to justify the effort to produce them. The strong intertextual web created by the study of these literary creations highlights their common origin – they were all written after the assassination of Sennacherib and during the reign of Esarhaddon – and also their common audience. Erra Poem The matter of the destruction of Babylon by Sennacherib was comprehensively and successfully treated by the chancery through the production of the “Poem of Erra”, the last great epic and mythological text to be created in Akkadian.23 The plot is structured to show that Babylonian society and cities were destroyed as a result of a raving personal project of the unruly, violent god Erra, an epiclesis of 17

Grayson / Novotny 2012: 205–206, vi l. 1′–16′ (Sennacherib 24); 2014: 316–317, l. 43b– 54a (Sennacherib 223). 18 Cf., for example, Grayson / Novotny 2014: 223–225, (Sennacherib 160); Machinist, 1984/85; Tadmor / Landsberger / Parpola, 1989: 29–30; Lambert, 1997; Frahm, 2017: 293–294. In the same context were probably produced the “commentaries” known as “Marduk Ordeal”, Livingstone, 1989: 82–91 (Texts 34 and 35). 19 Cf. Reynolds, 2003; Dalley / Siddall, 2021. 20 Frahm, 2019; Masetti-Rouault, 2019a. 21 Röllig, 1987: 64–65; Tadmor / Landsberger / Parpola, 1989: 40–41; Livingstone, 1989: xxviii–xxix. 22 Liverani, 1973; Tadmor, 1981. 23 Cagni, 1969; Foster, 2005: 880–911; Masetti-Rouault, 2009; Calini, in press.

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Nergal, who was recognized at the time as the “son of the god Aššur/Anšar”.24 To enjoy his power, Erra had cunningly persuaded Marduk, king of the Babylonian pantheon, to leave his throne and descend to the Underworld to have his statue refurbished. In his absence, Erra brings havoc to the country, landscape, and society. Calmed by his advisor, the god Išum, Erra eventually stops the apocalypse he has triggered; Marduk, coming back, restores order. Sennacherib and Esarhaddon are not even mentioned in this story, but the meaning – at least how and why the scandal of Babylon’s destruction happened – should have been clear to an educated and informed audience. Another, simpler version of this theme is found in Esarhaddon’s royal inscriptions, which were intended for a Babylonian audience. It was the deep moral and religious crisis, the “sins” of Babylonian society as a whole that had led to the abandonment of the city by an enraged Marduk, who left it to the Assyrians’ rightful attack.25 “The Sin of Sargon” Another much shorter text (K4730 (+) Sm 1816), known as the “Sin of Sargon”, builds its structure given the already settled matter of Babylon's destruction.26 Sennacherib, already dead, speaks to his son and successor Esarhaddon to tell him his last will, in a situation that is not clarified for us, as the beginning of the scene is missing from the tablet. In contrast to traditional narû autobiographical compositions27, the scene is dramatically structured and recalls, for example, the invocation of the spirit of Darius by his wife in Aeschylus’ tragedy “Persians” (472 BC), to condemn the behavior of their son Xerxes.28 Among other things, Sennacherib’s spirit explains to his son that his “untimely” death was due to his failure to create or properly restore Marduk’s statue, as he had promised himself to do, with the solemn approval of the gods, which he had obtained through divination. Sennacherib’s “sin”, the cause of his death – which is quite different from the problem faced by his father Sargon – is analyzed in this way in the narrative: while he was completing the work on Aššur’s “image”, he was hampered in his efforts to create or to restore Marduk’s statue through the intervention of evil counselors (Livingstone, 1989: 79, r. l. 21’–23’), identified as the “Assyrian” (anti-Babylonian?) scribes of his court. Without asking for any form of revenge, Sennacherib’s spirit makes a distinction between these intellectuals responsible for his death, almost internal enemies, and the “diviners”, the specialists in omina interpretation, whose opinions the king could check and exploit without risk. He explains to his son that he separated them into different teams and systematically compared their reports (Livingstone, 1989: 77, l. 10–16. 21a). The unanimity of their interpreta24

Livingstone, 1989: 74, r. l. 22b. Leichty, 2011; Brinkman, 1983; Cogan, 2009; Eph’al, 2014: 53–55; cf. n.16. 26 Livingstone, 1989: 77–79; Tadmor / Landsberger / Parpola, 1989; see Weaver, 2004. 27 Rollig, 1987: 52–54. 28 Jouan, 1981; Vasseur-Legangneux, 2005. 25

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tion was required to get the truth, to know the divine message: there was no way to give the king manipulated and falsified results. Not to be fooled by anyone, Esarhaddon is instructed to follow the same scientific procedure to get the divine approval for the correct execution of every phase of his father’s plans to reconcile the gods of Babylon with his gods – the Assyrian ones (Livingstone, 1989: 78– 79, r. l. 1–19’). When Sennacherib’s spirit speaks freely to Esarhaddon of his death and explicitly conveys to him his grand political plan, the understatement is clear. Not only is he “innocent” of any (serious) war crime against Babylon,29 but his son is also innocent, has no part in the coup d’état, and is worthy of the holy mission entrusted to him (Livingstone, 1989:79 r. l. 24’–26’). Diviners’ and other specialists’ sabotage plans: the letter ABL 1216 Beyond this central message, at the beginning of the “Sin of Sargon” text the narration analyzes in detail the royal technique, apparently an innovation, to manage the class of the diviners (Livingstone, 1989: 77, l. 13′–15′), repeated later (Livingstone, 1989: 78–79, r. l. 13′–20′). This interest in the matter, which is not immediately understandable, allows the authors of the text to highlight Sennacherib’s high competence in the administration of state and palace affairs, and his (later) awareness of the dangerous influence of the pro-Assyrian scribes on his policy in the Babylonian question (Livingstone, 1989: 79, r. l. 22′–23′).30 The same issue – the reliability of divination, and its connection with culture – appears in a letter, ABL 1216, or in a document quoted in that letter (l. 7–24, r. 1–18), sent to Esarhaddon at the beginning of his reign.31 A diviner/exorcist, Bel-ušezib32, protests because Esarhaddon has not yet appointed him to his service – he prefers to use “prophets and prophetesses” instead33 – and reminds the new king of the quality and influence of his interpretation of heavenly signs on the events surrounding Sennacherib’s succession. The diviner is quoting an interpretation of an astronomical situation about Esarhaddon’s mission to “rebuild Babylon” which he communicated directly to the Queen Mother and Mr. Dada, an exorcist, while Esarhaddon was still Crown Prince.34 In contrast to the optimistic reading of this 29

As the Babylonian Chronicle records, Glassner, 2004: 198–199, l. 22b. Brinkman, 1973, 1983; Machinist, 1984/1985. 31 Cf. Parpola, 2017: 86–88 (n° 109, Omen of the Kingship of Esarhaddon); see also Labat, 1959, and Parpola, 1980: 179–180; 1983: 50. 32 Jean, 2004: 77. 33 Parpola, 1997; Nissinen, 2019. 34 Parpola, 2017: 86, l. 13’–14. Cf. Mattila, 1998a: (Dâda) and Mattila, 1998b: (Dādāya, n° 6.9). Admittedly, the name “Dada”, the exorcist, is not spelled in the same way as the name of Sennacherib’s cook in another literary text from the same period, the “Vision of an Assyrian Prince” (see later, Livingstone, 1989: 69, l. 5). However, if a connection is possible, this quotation could allow to read as a sarcastic allusion the passage of the “Vision” narration (see later) when Sennacherib leaves the government of the empire in the hand of a “cook” – a specialist of divination, moreover connected with the “queen” Naqi‘a/ 30

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situation witnessed in the “Sin of Sargon’s” text, the letter ABL 1216 denounces the atmosphere of chaos and terror experienced by the specialists at court during this period (when Esarhaddon was “exiled” far away from Nineveh) and specifically reports a conspiracy involving “evil” diviners and “evil” scribes.35 They planned not to communicate to Sennacherib any sign sent by the gods that could be interpreted as an announcement of trouble and danger, to deprive the king of any means of counteracting and avoiding evil by proper rites – a situation that may be parallel to the plot mentioned in the “Sin of Sargon” text. The letter ABL 1216, a private correspondence, not a “means of propaganda”, clearly reminds Esarhaddon that Sennacherib’s death also depended on a devious agreement among the court specialists, to highlight how important it was for the new king to be seconded by educated and loyal servants, like Bel-ušezib himself. Two hard royal deaths If the information denouncing the plot in ABL 1216 tarnishes the value of some diviners’ (and scribes’) work, it does explain the situation for which Sennacherib needed a strategy – the new protocol described as fully effective in the composition “The Sin of Sargon”. Before confirming the central point of the text – the royal policy concerning Babylon marked by the pacification of the two pantheons –, the narrative unexpectedly refers to Sargon’s death and focuses on proving that the new system does work: the diviners’ interpretation had enabled Sennacherib to know which was the true “sin of Sargon”. In this case, the gods’ revelation did not concern the future but the past: the king eventually understood the reason or reasons why his father Sargon had been killed during a campaign in southern Anatolia, and his body had never been recovered to receive the proper funerary rites36 – an obvious sign of discontent and punishment by the gods.37 Thanks to this knowledge, Sennacherib could accept his father’s loss and “pray” to the gods for him and his spirit (Livingstone, 1989:77–78, l. 23′–24′). As confirmed by the “Vision of the Assyrian Prince” text, the two violent deaths of Sargon and his son Sennacherib were still connected and related to each other in the debate that developed during that period. The inability of the dynasty to explain Sargon’s death must have cast a long shadow over the political scene at the beginning of Sennacherib's reign. Without endangering his succession, his father’s death was still debated when Sennacherib was killed.38 The assassination Zakutu, both considered influential at the royal court. For another occurrence of this name, see Parpola, 1997: 180, l. 10–13a (Adad-šumu-uṣur’s letter). 35 Parpola, 1983: 50. 36 The same kind of death is asked for, and befell on, king Gyges, in an Assurbanipal’s text, when he broke his alliance with the Assyrian king (Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 237–238, ii 103–125, Assurbanipal 11). 37 Frahm, 2014: 201–206. 38 Cf. however Brinkman, 1984: 55–56.

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of Tukulti-Ninurta I in 1207 by one of his sons, as reported in a later Babylonian chronicle – after he had conquered Babylon and moved the capital from Assur to his new foundation Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta – has provided modern historians with a model to explain the parallel story of Sargon II.39 He, too, had established a new capital, Dur-Sharrukin, which may have sparked fierce opposition from the royal family and courtiers. Since Sennacherib quickly abandoned Dur-Sharrukin after the death of his father and chose Nineveh instead as the new core of the empire40, this hypothesis is undoubtedly sound. On the other hand, Sennacherib prefers to present a different explanation in the text “Sin of Sargon”. Although Sargon II’s inscriptions prove that he participated in the rites of the national Akitu festival in Babylon celebrating Marduk’s triumph41, against the evidence Sennacherib, taking in the “Sin of Sargon” text a pro-Babylonian position, tells Esarhadddon that Sargon died in this way because he respected the Assyrian gods “too much”, more than he respected the Babylonian ones. In the same way, Sennacherib claims that his father broke an adê treaty42 with the Babylonian king (Marduk-apla-iddina II), who was sanctified by an oath and eventually took his place on the throne in Babylon (Livingstone, 1989: 77, l. 17′–22′). Adê treaties and a “Letter to the god” This reference is understandable: around 673 Esarhaddon summoned his government, all the governors of the provinces of the empire, and the political leaders of subjugated/associated countries to Nineveh to take an adê oath that ensured his succession. In this text, the future rule of the empire and Babylon, which was to be shared by two of his sons, is formulated in a new way.43 Reading the different clauses and situations evoked in the text of this adê, it becomes clear that its drafting and structure reflect Esarhaddon’s own experiences during Sennacherib’s succession and aim to avoid the problems he had met. In this political context, the function of the adê became crucial in maintaining the balance of power. Esarhaddon’s “Letter to the god”44 which like the Nineveh A inscription was also written in this period and is recognized as a royal inscription, is a literary account of his campaign against the Hurrian king of Shubria, a state in northern Anatolia.45 This king had broken the adê that bound him to Esarhaddon, namely refusing to send back some Assyrian refugees who had found asylum in his country. The “Letter 39

Cf. Glassner, 2004: 280–282, l. 13–16; Tadmor / Landsberger / Parpola, 1989: 28–29; Gilibert, 2008. 40 Novák, 2004; Van der Mieroop, 2004; cf. Harmanşah, 2012; Masetti-Rouault, 2019b. 41 Brinkman, 1984: 52–55. 42 Parpola / Watanabe, 1988: XV–XXV. There are no other mentions or traces of the text of this adê. See Brinkman, 1984: 45–51. 43 Fales, 2012; Ponchia, 2019. 44 Leichty, 2011: 79–86 (Esarhaddon 33), with bibliography; Leichty, 1991. 45 Eph’al, 2014: 59–60.

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to the God” does not mention their identities or imply that they were Sennacherib's most wanted murderers, but the Shubrian king’s “sin” against the adê oath cannot be forgiven and punishment is inevitable. Despite his pleas and the rites celebrated on this occasion to escape the divine and royal condemnation, the destruction of his country, carried out by Esarhaddon, the gods’ lieutenant, is complete. The “Underworld Vision of an Assyrian Prince” Given the strong interconnection and articulation of ideas, concepts, lexical choices, and narrative structures that these texts, diplomatic documents, royal inscriptions, and “court literature” exploit, I’d like to present another text in this debate that I believe belongs to the same literary typology and reflects the same political situation and ideological issues, albeit possibly in a new and original form. The “Underworld Vision of an Assyrian Prince” (Livingstone, 1989: 68– 76) has long been known, quoted, and analyzed by Assyriologists and historians of religion, and is considered a model for later mystical and apocalyptic “visions”.46 Even without epigraphic corrections and propositions for reading the text, I believe that what remains of the entire story it narrates can highlight other aspects of the situation at Esarhaddon’s court and the debates that took place inside and outside the court, always with a view to his succession. I will focus my attention only on the passages of this text concerning these issues. The “Vision” is widely recognized as one of the creations of Esarhaddon’s chancery team, but the text has been studied mainly for its religious content, especially the description of the Underworld and the terrifying infernal members of the court of gods Nergal and Ereškigal who are shown to the prince in a dream.47 The comparison of this part of the narrative with the description and iconography of monsters and devils attested in other materials has attracted the attention of specialists, with the “vision” eventually being seen as the principal content of the text and the message to be transmitted.48 The text, written only on one tablet (VAT 10057), is much longer and more detailed than the simple “vision” episode, with 75 (40+35) lines, while the description of the characters of the Underworld, on the reverse side, occupies only 12 of the 35 lines referring to the vision/dream and its consequences. The poor state of preservation of the tablet, with the loss of most of the signs and lines on the obverse but also with severe cuts on the reverse, probably explains why only a few scholars have underlined the fact that the “vision” is an insertion in a longer story and the visit of the “prince” to the underworld is itself just an episode in a more complex and dramatic intrigue. The difficulty of interpreting what remains of the lines and narrative, especially on the obverse, has led Assyriologists not to consider and comment on the beginning of the text and eventually forget it. 46

Livingstone, 1989: 68–76; Cf. Labat, 1970: 94–97; Bottéro, 1972–1973: 93–104; Foster, 2005: 832–839; Ataç, 2004; Sanders, 2009; Bach, 2018; Finkel, 2021: 156–168. 170–183. 47 Oppenheim, 1956: 214; Sanders, 2009: 159–161. 48 Scurlock, 2002a: 361–362; Milano, 2005: 52–55.

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While the connection between the parts of the story on the two faces of the tablet is established beyond doubt, conveniently the episode of the prince’s dream, when he meets in the Underworld Nergal’s court, starts in line 1 of the reverse side, and seems to work out alone, even isolated from the rest. In my opinion, the narrative begins with a rather unorthodox and critical summary of Sennacherib’s reign, as only a direct witness could give at close quarters. It uses a different language and ideology from the royal inscriptions and points out the limits of royal power. It could remind the perspective or spirit of the author of the letter quoted in ABL 1216. What is underlined in the introduction is the king’s interest in the techniques and specialists of divination, who advise him (l. 1–3) – the same attitude highlighted in Sennacherib’s character in the “Sin of Sargon” text. The importance of the results of divination procedures is also mentioned in Esarhaddon’s Nineveh A inscription, to strengthen the legitimacy of his election, and his father’s choice.49 The king, certainly Sennacherib in my opinion, is then represented as organizing his government and administration, “to watch over his property” (l. 4), with no mention of his military programs or his duties as god Aššur’s lieutenant and priest. The balanced situation of the state meets problems, hard to identify. In the following lines, the king seems to place a part of the administration of the country's population in the hands of his “cook” (LÚ.MU), a man named Dada.50 The allusion to large quantities of “mountain” beer in this passage (Livingstone, 1989: 69, l. 5–6a) may suggest that the king (or the cook) was a drinker. Admittedly, this is difficult to believe, but this condition could explain why at a certain moment of his reign, after his choice of Esarhaddon as Crown Prince, Sennacherib behaved inappropriately and strangely, without reflection, while keeping his moral values and somehow also his reverence for the gods (l. 6b–7). A passage in Nineveh A refers to Sennacherib’s voluble mood but confirms his authority in all political decisions.51 Anyway, during this reign, the king’s revenues grew lavishly. The wealth of every kind, like jewels, that entered his treasury, is said, by an interesting metaphor, to produce the impression that it gushed from the ground like tar and bitumen (l. 8–9), without effort or military campaigns. The reference to Sennacherib’s wealth is often repeated in his inscriptions, as in the account of the tribute that Karib-Il, king of Saba, offered to him, mentioning precious stones.52 In this way, the king can make the necessary investments to renew and improve the architecture and topography of the Assyrian cities. The text mentions the fact that the unnamed character, surely the king, had covered an entire building with a coat of some precious material (l. 10), adding 49

Leichty, 2011: 11–12, i l. 8–14b; mention of “good” omina, however associated with prophecies 14: ii, l. 5b–7. Cf. Parpola, 1993: 86, l. 9’. 16’. 50 Same as Dada the diviner/exorcist? Cf. note 34, Parpola, 2017: 86, l. 13′–15′ (ABL 2016). 51 Leichty, 2011: 12, i l. 28b–31. 52 Grayson / Novotny, 2014: 248–249, l. 48–55a (Sennacherib 168)

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silver. The statement may refer (imprecisely) to the special technique that Sennacherib attributes to his technical skills in one of his inscriptions. He covered the wooden gate of the Akitu temple he built in Assur with a gilded relief representing the battle of the god Aššur against Tiamat, engraved on a surface of the brilliant bronze, containing silver, among other precious metals.53 He also transformed and enlarged his new capital, Nineveh (l. 11–12), to the delight of all Assyrians. Sennacherib’s death, his ghost’s appeal, and a first contact The following parts of the story are more difficult to understand, even to guess, due to the state of the tablet. The narration may contain a reference to an encounter with someone who was not human, since he spoke “like a man” to the king as Sennacherib entered the city of Assur, possibly announcing bad news (Livingstone, 1989: 69, l. 13b). While Sennacherib in the next passage (perhaps mentioning “a cook” again?) seems to disregard this omen54 and keeps his good humor (l. 13–15a), in the following lines the information about his death must have appeared (l. 15b –16). The murder may have been succinctly evoked by the mention of a pig, turned dark/obscured, and (maybe hanging?) upside down. In a mythological text describing Ištar’s descent into the Underworld and her death at the hands of her sister Ereškigal queen of the place, the goddess’ body is left hanging from a beam, probably as a slaughtered animal, looking like a waterskin.55 It is difficult to understand how and why this image of the black pig conveys the idea of violent death56. The same reference to a pig appears later in the narrative in the 53

Grayson / Novotny, 2014: 224, l. 18b–20a (Sennacherib 160). For the concept of egirru, cf. Rendu-Loisel, 2016: 33–36. 43–47. 55 Bottéro / Kramer, 1989: 282, l. 167–168. The skin of a pig slaughtered for the occasion may be used to contain ritual remains supposed to be dangerous, in order to bury and hide them, cf. Scurlock, 2002a: 375; but see also Parpola / Watanabe, 1988: 49, l. 481–484, a passage in Esarhaddon’s adê treaty for his succession which mentions that traitors’ corpses should not be taken up by earth but: “May your burial place be in the belly of a dog, or a pig”. 56 In the (anti-Babylonian) ritual/commentary text “Marduk’s Ordeal”, in both versions from Assur and Nineveh, during the Akitu festival at Babylon, a pig is slaughtered before the statue of the goddess (Ištar) Lady of Babylon (Livingston, 1989: 85, l. 44. p. 89, l. 3) covered with red wool, possibly a mark of its blood; see also a broken passage in a “Mystical Miscellanea” (Livingstone, 1989: 99, l. 6b) in which the mention of the “pig” is explained as the interior of the god. The pig image is also associated with sexual male potency in magical and therapeutic texts, cf. Biggs, 1967: 46, t. 27, l. 6–10; with female fertility, in Anatolian and Aegean contexts (Collins, 2006: 157). Pigs, as well piglets, can be “substitutes” for patients in Mesopotamian rituals, implying their death and burial (Scurlock, 2002b: 389–403; Weszeli, 2009: 326; for Hurrian, Hittite and Aegean and Greek context and parallels, in relation with Underworld gods, Collins, 2006, 2015). A piglet heart is removed and placed over a sick man’s breast in a substitution ritual against an asakku demon’s attack (Scurlock, 2002a: 386). It is possibly referring to this part of the ritual that the description of the Urartian king Ursa’s suicide, who pierced his heart by a 54

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prince’s vision episode (l. 30), in his prayer to Nergal and Ereškigal, again in a broken context in which he asks the gods to reveal its mysterious identity to him. Later, among the creatures he encounters in the Underworld, he sees a “man” standing up, wearing red armor, whose head is “like an Anzû’s head”57 and whose body has turned black (r. 10). This could be his grandfather, Sargon, who has finally found his place in the Underworld and now acts as a member of Nergal’s court. Despite the differences, this connection could be possible, for the first mention of the “pig” (l. 16) is followed in a broken context by an expression quoting a “previous king”. Sargon’s death in battle, the loss of his corpse, and the menace his wandering ghost might pose to the Assyrian court58 were still an issue, and the prince could not help but think of them when confronted with the persistent wailing, the pig’s image and black form. At this point, the text must have already introduced the information about Sennacherib’s death. After mentioning a “scribe” – maybe the narrator, standing near the treasure chamber, as a witness? – the story in my opinion quotes directly apparitions or manifestations of the dead king’s ghost, which are perceived as disturbing sounds: wailings are heard without end (l. 19b–27a), terrifying the people, or at least some women.59 The text is broken here, but the spirit is seen or heard in the streets and other public events. Sennacherib’s spirit, before leaving the earth – or coming back, as Enkidu does, in tablet XII of Gilgamesh’s epic60 –, wails, maybe to have his son and successor’s attention, to communicate his “last will” to him, the same situation alluded to in the text “Sin of Sargon”. The information

blade, is given, “like a pig”, in Sargon II’s inscription, (Frame, 2021: 67, l. 164a–165b); cf. Milano, 2005: 52–54. 57 The Neo-Assyrian kings are often compared to eagles in their inscriptions (Van der Mieerop, 2015: 297; Milano, 2005: 61), but the reference is to the powerful flying bird (erû); Sargon II is like an eagle that catches his enemies as if with a net (cf. Frame, 2021: 429, l. 5’, Sargon II 111); for Esarhaddon, cf. Leichty, 2011: 13, l. 67 (urinnu). Only in 9th-century royal inscriptions, anzû appears, (cf. Grayson. 1996: 29–30, ii l. 5b–, Shalmaneser III 102.5), but, with the same meaning, referred to the Assyrian army. In the “Vision”, the quotation of the mythical Anzû’s head marks especially the hybrid, demonic nature of the image seen by the prince, shared with other members of the infernal court, (r. l. 6); cf. Ataç, 2004: 69–71. It is also attested in Esarhaddon royal inscriptions, meaning an iconographic item (cf. Leichty, 2011: 117, l. 8b–9, Esarhaddon 54). In the Gilgamesh poem, Enkidu tells his friend how he was captured in a dream like a dove by a demon, who had an “anzû” face, and was taken to the underworld (George, 2003: 642–643, l. 168– 170). These images remind the description of the posture of demons in the prince’s “Vision”. On the proximity of kings and demons in the contemporary Ninevite palaces atmosphere, cf. Ornan, 2004. 58 George, 2003: 734–735, l. 150–153 (Tablet XII). 59 Cf. Bottéro, 1983; Scurlock, 1988: 11–28; Katz, 2005, 61–68; Rendu-Loisel, 2016: 160– 162. 60 George, 2003: 528–530; text 726–735; cf. Frahm, 1999, 2005.

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about the ghost’s wail, maybe before the news of his father’s murder, was received by the prince, Kumma – clearly Esarhaddon –, when he was still exiled far from Nineveh, in a country not yet fully assyrianized. He then enters a (local) temple and plans “to descend into the Underworld”61 to investigate the matter of the ghost’s appeal (l. 27b–34). Burning some juniper, as usual in rites, including necromantic ones62, Kumma is represented while whispering63 and worshipping the goddess Allatu – the Akkadian version of the Hurrian queen of the Underworld, Allani, the equivalent of Ereškigal (l. 29–31).64 The rite he celebrates does not have the function of demanding an agreement or a way to enter her realm65, nor is it an Assyro-Babylonian necromancy protocol as we know them, not even an exorcism to drive away an evil and threatening presence.66 Kumma seems to ask for a medium, a “girl”, to contact the spirit. This scene reminds us of king Saul’s visit to the “witch of Endor” (I Sam 28, 3–25) after his god refused to communicate directly with him. Saul asks the woman to summon the prophet Samuel’s ghost, to ask him about his immediate future, in the context of the war against the Philistines and the fight with David. Samuel’s ghost, which only the “witch” can perceive, answers the king but offers no help. As in the case of Saul, Kumma’s consultation, in this nameless temple, is successful, even though it is a forbidden protocol. The spirit of Sennacherib is reached and possibly speaks through the lips of the girl, mentioning the day of his death (l. 32–33). Due to the state of the tablet, the ghost’s message is not clear, but it does not correspond to Sennacherib’s speech in the “Sin of Sargon” text. In this story, the dead king communicates directly with Esarhaddon – perhaps as if in a dream, for the son has no opportunity to reply to his father.67 Esarhaddon’s dreams and the Vision The rite Kumma celebrates for the goddess Allatu/Allani, in a distant land, with different religious customs and traditions, has the power to seriously anger the 61

As Ištar had done, and Gilgamesh too, to get a different kind of knowledge, cf. Bottéro / Kramer, 1989: 276–277, l. 1–26 (La Descente d’Inanna aux Enfers); George, 2003: 666– 675 (Tablet IX). 62 Finkel, 1983/1984:8, l. 7′, (cf. ritual to “see and speak with” a ghost); cf. Scurlock, 1988: 38–40. 45, for purification, in rituals to expel a ghost. 63 Gabbay, 2015: 211; Rendu-Loisel, 2015: 213–215. 64 Lambert, 1980: 62–64, for the correspondence Allatu/Ereškigal; but now, for the Hurrian origin of the goddess Allani, cf. Archi, 2013: 16–17; Collins, 2015: 224. For a connection with sacrifices of pigs, cf. Collins, 2006: 161–164. For Allani as queen of the underworld, cf. Bachvarova, 2018: 302, 304. 65 Cf. George, 2003: 681–682, l. 78–86 (Tablet X). 66 Finkel, 1983/1984; cf. George, 2003: 678–691, l. 1–206 (Tablet X, Gilgamesh looking for the way to get to Utnapishtim); p. 728–729, l. 11–30 (Tablet XII, Gilgamesh’ instructions to Enkidu, to go down in the Underworld). Cf. Bottéro, 1980: 39–42. 67 Oppenheim, 1956: 211–217.

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Assyrian gods (l. 29b), an unusual situation in a normally polytheistic milieu. Ereškigal appears to the prince in a dream (l. 35–36) to establish a distinction between Allatu/Allani and herself. While she would have been ready to answer his questions since she has allowed the event in question – the ghost’s apparition? –, the goddess seems to reproach Kumma for praying to Allatu first, rather than herself and the god Šamaš, who might allow, in some cases, this kind of necromantic communication.68 When the prince wakes up, he realizes his damned mistake. Anticipating the style of the description of his behavior after the next vision, the narrative shows him crying “like a dove”69 to avoid the punishment announced by the dream, the end of his quest (l. 37). After this experience, Kumma assumes a penitent’s attitude, and now asks directly Ereškigal and her spouse Nergal to reveal to him the secret of the pig–image, maybe promising abundant offerings to solve the issue it represents (l. 39–40). The narrative on the obverse of the tablet stops here; on the reverse, Kumma already appears as he sleeps again and has another dream/vision, the infernal gods’ answer to his demand. The prince now speaks in the first person and describes what he sees and hears, an all-Assyrian vision of the Underworld court of the royal couple, (r. l. 1–9) whose frightful presence he acknowledges with respect. As mentioned earlier, with them is a man in a heraldic and martial position, wielding weapons, his body is black, covered in red armor (possibly reminding his blood). I suspect that this could be Sargon II’s corpse (r. l. 10). By confirming his presence in the underworld court, the “Crown Prince” – the first identification of Esarhaddon who is still “Crown Prince” even though his father is dead – receives in a dream the same knowledge that Sennacherib had got through the (scientific) protocol of divination. The passage confirms what is already narrated in the “Sin of Sargon” text – that Sennacherib’s prayer and cultic actions eventually enabled his father to enter his eternal home (Livingstone, 1989: 77–78, l. 23′–24′), not only his spirit but also his corpse. After this first answer to his doubts – the wailing ghost quoted earlier is not Sargon – Kumma is ready to face the other part of the divine message brought to him by the vision. He approaches Nergal and, terrified, kisses his feet to show his submission (r. 13–14). In the dream, the contact with this god is both physical and verbal and is expressed as a death threat: a furious, indignant Nergal shouts at the 68

Cf. Finkel, 1983/1984: 5. 8, l. 12′. 11, l. 12–18; George, 2003: 732–733, l. 80–87 (Tablet X, Šamaš accepts the mission asked by god Ea, and leads Enkidu’s ghost to the surface, to rejoin briefly Gilgamesh who is mourning). 69 The dove’s cry is often associated with sadness and lamentations, cf. Rendu-Loisel, 2015: 84–86. The expression “qaqqari! qaqqari!”, pronounced by the prince, could be understood as a reference to the Underworld; however, as it repeats the same sounds, could be a way to reproduce the bird’s cry, as a literary game, cf. Lambert, 1970; cf. Veldhuis, 2004. But cf. also George, 2003: 644–645, l. 184–185 (Tablet X, Enkidu tells Gilgamesh how, in his dream, he has been captured “like a dove” by a demon and brought down to the Underworld, cf. n. 57).

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prince that he has insulted Ereškigal (r. l. 15). As in the Erra epic, Išum calms him down and saves the prince’s life until Nergal allows him to leave the Underworld, agreeing to Ereškigal’s orders (r. 16–19). Kumma is instructed by the god not to forget the as-yet-unspecified mission he has been given and is informed that if he does not carry out the god’s orders, his life and reign will be ravaged by disease and civil war (r. 20–21). To make his point and his instructions clear, Nergal now shows Kumma Sennacherib’s spirit, which has already taken up residence in the Underworld. In a long and unequivocal passage, the god identifies the dead king (r. 22–24) and quotes the usual terms found in royal inscriptions to refer to him. He was a conqueror, who brought home a great booty, and the builder of the Akitu temple of Aššur in Assur, according to the order he had received from his god. This passage not only confirms the identity of the spirit but also that, from Nergal’s point of view, there is no “sin”, no polemic against the dead king’s theological position that attributed Marduk’s achievements to Aššur: again, Sennacherib’s death did not depend on this issue. Moreover, Nergal explains that Sennacherib’s living body, quite unlike Sargon’s, was always protected by three foreign Elamite great gods (quoted together in Šurpu II, an exorcistic composition)70, possibly indicating the universal extent of his empire. Even if no details of his death are given, Sennacherib certainly did not die in battle, and received the necessary funerary rites: his body rests in his tomb in Assur, together with his ancestors (r. 25).71 He is explicitly acknowledged as Kumma’s father, whose wisdom, knowledge, and intelligence are extolled (r. 26). These qualities contrast sharply with his portrait drawn at the beginning of the text. Nergal’s orders and the melammu It is only at this point that Nergal’s order and judgment are announced: it is the melammu, the divine splendor of Sennacherib himself who will destroy all those who have not accepted his plans – his decision on succession –, broken the taboo of patricide and profaned the sacred rules (r. l. 27). The condemnation of the guilty is cryptically communicated to Kumma: the indictment is detailed but the god does not give any real identification of the murderers, as if the prince and also the audience knew them well. Furthermore, Nergal exploits the traditional motif of the power of the melammu, which kings share with the gods, as an instrument for the death sentence.72 In the Assyrian inscriptions, it is one of the kings’ weapons, their halo, and reputation/representation of the strength of their violence. Through the paralyzing terror it brings upon them, the melammu overpowers enemies even before a close encounter. The narrative shows that Esarhaddon understands perfectly what this means for him: ex officio, it is his duty to execute Nergal’s sentence on his father’s murderers. As the new king, he is the executive arm of the 70

Reiner 1958: 17, l. 163–164. Grayson / Novotny, 2014: 285 (Sennacherib text 204). 72 Cassin 1968. 71

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gods’ will and the manifestation of their melammu, as well as that of his father. He must punish the sinners, those who break the laws and the oaths witnessed and guaranteed by the gods (r. l. 28). The “Letter to the god” about the campaign against Shubria makes clear this function of Assyrian kingship, while the Nineveh A inscription records repeatedly the oath commitment of the royal family, the court, and the entire people of Assyria to support the Esarhaddon’s succession decided by Sennacherib.73 Waking up from a nightmare: the metaphors The situation is now clear, even from a religious, juridical, and ideological point of view. However, Kumma does not react as one would expect from an Assyrian king. He wakes up74 and tragically realizes the content of Nergal’s command which he received in his dream, and he seems to refuse it. The narrative describes the dramatic inner conflict of the prince, which is also expressed by his cries and peculiar gestures (r. l. 29a. 31–32a) not corresponding only to mourning.75 At this point, in the “Vision” text, the narrative is no longer left to the prince’s voice and point of view. With a well–known stylistic change, that makes the account more realistic, the story comes back to the narrator’s perception, maybe the “witness” who speaks at the beginning of the text. Kumma, now again the object of the narrative, is depicted as performing in a show, in a kind of trance, reacting to the prospect of the conflicts waiting for him, against his own family and the members of the court whom he knows (and the audience knows) are to blame for Sennacherib's death. His feelings and behavior are compared to a series of images – a murderer, a wild boar, then an arrow – that form a sequence of complex literary metaphors that may recall Homeric models (r. 29b–31).76 The choice of these metaphors to sketch the crown prince’s feelings is admittedly original and strange, challenging in its content, as they create a kind of ambiguity between him and his enemies. The first evokes the panic of a murderer in hiding and about to be discovered. The second, the young boar who has mounted its mate and can no longer control its body, is also close to the prince’s attitude, but could also echo the dead pig in the vision. The last, the arrow, possibly reflects the swiftness of Esarhaddon’s return to Nineveh, quoted in Nineveh A77, but this metaphor is closed by the image of the prince eating dust from the street, which recalls the dead’s food in the Underworld.78 Kumma is shown as having lost his human nature and culture: a sign of despair, but possibly also a reference to the fate of the guilty broth73

Leichty 2011: 12, i l. 15–19. 13, i l. 50–52. 14: i l. 80–81. Oppenheim, 1956: 191–192. 75 Rendu-Loisel, 2015: 122–125. 76 Moulton, 1977; Buxton, 2004; Létoublon, 2009. 77 Leichty, 2011: 13, i l. 63–68. 78 Cf., for example, George, 2003: 644–645, l. 182–190 (Tablet VIII, description of hell, in Enkidu’s report to Gilgamesh about his dream). 74

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ers. Although he complains bitterly about the severity of the mission Nergal has given him, Esarhaddon is not portrayed as a coward, afraid of his enemies; he eventually accepts his responsibility before Assyrian society but reveals he has no choice (r. 32). Furthermore, he acknowledges the power of the infernal gods and their support, since they have revealed the truth to him – this time in a different way than his father Sennacherib, namely through a dream/vision that replaces the interpretations of the diviners. Two versions of the same event: history and tragedy This description of the prince’s reaction to the news of his father's death and the prospect of punishing his brothers, the murderers, is in clear contrast to the ‘vision’ narrative of the account of the same situation found in the Nineveh A text.79 In the royal inscription, too, Esarhaddon’s behavior when he “heard” the news of his brothers’ coup d’état is certainly portrayed as marked by strong emotions and explicit acts of grief and anger80 at the same time – he cries – summoning a more common metaphor, the image of the lion. However, the scene is framed differently, more appropriate for an Assyrian king. In the royal inscription, it is inserted after the quotation of the independent decision of the gods and the Assyrian people not to support the guilty party and right before Esarhaddon’s prayer for divine help. His demand is answered by omens assuring the celestial gods’ intervention in his favor in the foreseen battle. Under these circumstances, the new king can rush into battle without hesitation, run home and meet the enemies on his way. Their army is already overwhelmed by the fright induced by the gods and, after the battle, all the survivors acknowledge him as king. If one compares the Nineveh A version of events with the account in the “Vision”, both of which are equally “literary”, one may wonder at the label of “political propaganda” attributed to the latter as its meaning and function. On the whole, the sequence of the various phases of the narrative – Esarhaddon’s assessment of Sennacherib’s death and his brothers’ responsibility while still far from Nineveh, the acceptance of his role as king and avenger, the recognition by the Assyrian gods and people – does not vary much. But the roles and the connotations of the characters (the prince and the gods) are opposite. In the Nineveh A story the (celestial) gods, including Aššur, take the initiative and control the course of events, while Esarhaddon depends on them, through a good communication system, prayers versus omens. In the “Vision”, the new king is at the center of the action: eventually, he gets the desired information by his initiative. He is the only object of the attention of the audience, who watches the show of his dream as well as of his waking up, when he tries to challenge the decisions of the Underworld gods, and resists, at least for a moment. Esarhaddon thus takes on the role and appearance of a tragic hero, but it is difficult for us to see why he needed 79 80

Leichty, 2011: 12–13, i l. 41–52. Cf. Livingstone, 1989 3: 76, r. 31.

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this, why, and in which situation this behavior was useful for his image as king. At the end of the story of the “Vision” (r. l. 33–35), in a sort of colophon, but without identifying himself, the narrator, the intellectual/scribe, who is now close to the king, affirms that he is bound to tell the truth about Nergal’s order and Esarhaddon’s attitude, and insists on the quality of his story, being “real/true” as narratives are. He offers a strange explanation for his involvement in this work, in the form of a confession, that may reflect the attitude of his king. He must obey and exactly record Kumma’s experiences and circulate them “in the palace” as an expiatory gesture to avoid Nergal’s punishment since he is implicated in the events for having participated in a wrong political action. This could be an allusion to the court specialists’ collusion against Sennacherib (r. l. 33–35) – also alluded to in the ABL 1216 letter –, rather than the plot for the coup d’état and the king’s murder, which is too criminal to be forgiven. Conclusions Once again, the text of the “Vision of the Prince” does not offer new details on the event of Sennacherib’s murder, as it could have easily been done by identifying the murderers. Compared with the “Erra Epic” and the “Sin of Sargon” compositions, its content seems to deal with another, deeper aspect of the political debates triggered by Esarhaddon’s succession to the throne. The new king’s perduring conflicts with the palace and the court are attributed to Nergal’s justice and will. The “Vision” defines the obligation for Esarhaddon to punish his enemies, to avoid chaos in the country and his life, as an order coming explicitly from a god: those he will kill are automatically the guilty party. On the other hand, the plot of the narration seems to suppress the possibility that the crown prince is his father’s murderer – how could Nergal accept such an ambiguity? If the god in the “Vision” is angry, this depends on Kumma’s ritual misconduct in his relationship with Ereškigal, and the divine wrath it generates is useful in teaching him obedience. However, Kumma/Esarhaddon is eventually portrayed as resisting a politically logical mission, apparently out of an impossibly “pacifist” sentiment for an Assyrian king, and visceral refusal of violence.81 His attitude could also remind the audience that Esarhaddon’s main goal was not to wage war, but rather to pacify the country and the gods, as commanded by his father’s ghost in the “Sin of Sargon” composition. The “Vision” explains why he first had to wage a (civil) war to carry out Nergal’s order. In the last part of the reverse of the tablet, which highlights an attitude ignored by royal inscriptions, Kumma’s character, sensitive to the voices he heard and to what he saw in his dream, is represented in a new and very literary way, dramatically and almost theatrically, as he improvises a scene described by complex met81

It could be a veiled reference to the king’s personal weakness and bad health, obviously hidden in his inscriptions, but documented by the state archives, cf. Radner, 2003: 169– 170.

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aphors before an audience we cannot exactly identify, probably the “court” itself. Even though he does not hold a skull in his hand – as he might have done, in a good necromantic ritual –, Kumma reminds us, across the boundaries of time and philology, of Prince Hamlet, who showed the same reluctance to carry out the revenge demanded by the ghost of his father, who had revealed to him the identity of his murderer. In the tragedy, Hamlet, still in doubt, takes his time acting like a madman who has lost control of his mind and body. He knows that to kill his father’s murderer, he must die, and his entire court must die with him: from a Mesopotamian point of view, Hamlet is not a good king. While his father’s ghost apparitions are important in the plot, the confirmation of the contents of his orders does not come from divination, prophetism, or a dream, but from culture – the theatrical mise-en-scene Hamlet organizes, with a company of actors, in front of the court, to study the reactions of the guilty among the audience. Esarhaddon too meets his father’s ghost, but he overcomes his doubts and accepts his mission only after a god has given him the order to kill the murderers, who are never identified. He did the right thing, survived the civil wars, and developed the imperial policy defined by his father, reintegrating Babylon into the Assyrian world – even if not for long. He was a good, legitimate king, who, at least from the point of view of the Assyrian ideology articulated by his intellectuals, could not have been his father’s murderer. Unless we follow the plot of another important story about kings, fathers, sons, murders, crises, and trustworthy oracles, the tragedy Oedipus Rex by Sophocles (429). The story of the Vision tells us that Esarhaddon ignored, but then eventually understood, that he was involved in Sennacherib’s murder, and was partially responsible – but not guilty – of it, like a modern hero. Other ancient Greek tragedies showed the same interest in the appearances of ghosts on the scene, before an attentive audience, as Darius did in the Persians, to explain how history proceeds. Cuneiform mythology had already analyzed and explained the matter: father/son relationships are always a terrible trap82 – both for the gods and humans, especially when kingship interferes with kinship. This kind of knowledge was easy to share with other cultures. Bibliography Archi, A., 2013: “The Anatolian Fate Goddesses and their Different Traditions”. In E. Cancik-Kirschbaum / J. Klinger / G.G.W. Müller (eds.): Diversity and Standardization. Perspectives on social and political norms in the Ancient Near East. Berlin: De Gruyter. Pp.1–26. Ataç, M.-A., 2004: “The ‘Underworld Vision’ of the Ninevite Intellectual Milieu”. In Nineveh. Papers of the 49th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale Part One. Iraq 66, 67–76.

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Lambert, W.G., 1970: “The Sultantepe Tablets. IX: the Bird Call Text”. Anatolian Studies 20, 111–117. — 1980: “The Theology of Death”. In B. Alster (ed.): Death in Mesopotamia. XXVIe Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale. Copenhagen: Akademish Forlag. Pp. 53–66. — 1997: “The Assyrian Recension of Enuma Elish”. In H. Waetzold / H. Hauptmann (eds.): Assyria im Wandel der Zeiten, XXXIXe Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Heidelberg 6.–10. July 1992. Heidelberg: Heidelberger Orientverlag. Pp. 77–79. Leichty, E.V., 2007: “Esarhaddon’s Exile: Some Speculative History”. In M. Roth / W. Farber / M.W. Stolper / W. Matthew / P. von Bachtolsheim (eds.): Studies Presented to Robert D. Biggs, June 4, 2004, 2. Assyriological Studies 27. Ann Arbor, Michigan: Edward Brothers. Pp. 189–191. — 1991: “Esarhaddon’s Letter to the God”. In C. Cogan / I. Eph’al (eds.): Ah, Assyria …: Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near East Historiography Presented to Haim Tadmor. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, the Hebrew University. Pp. 52–57. — 2011: The Royal Inscriptions of Esarhaddon, King of Assyria (680–669 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 4. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Létoublon, F., 2009: “Comparaisons et métaphores homériques: un formulaire traditionnel ou un art poétique?”. Aevum Antiquum Vita e Pensiero, 1–18. Levavi, Y., 2021: “The Sound of Silence: The Destruction of Babylon by Sennacherib and the Babylonian Chronicles”. In K. Strait / M. Grohmann (eds.): Culture of Defeat: Submission in Written Sources and the Archaeological Record. The Gorgias Studies in the Ancient Near East Series. Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press. Pp. 165–188. Liverani, M., 1973: “Memorandum on the Approach to Historiographic Texts”. Orientalia nova serie 42, 178–194. Livingstone, A., 1989: Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea. State Archives of Assyria 3. Helsinki: Helsinki University Press. — 2017: “Assyrian Literature”. In Frahm E. (ed.): A Companion to Assyria. Blackwell Companions on the Ancient World. Hoboken: John Wiley. Pp. 359– 367. Machinist, P., 1984/85: “The Assyrians and Their Babylonian Problem: Some Reflexions”. Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin Jahrbuch, 353–364. Masetti-Rouault, M. G., 2009: “Compte rendu des Conférences de la Chaire Religions du monde syro-mésopotamien : 1. La mythologie mésopotamienne de l’Âge du Fer : le poème de Erra et Ishum”. Annuaire de l’Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, Section Sciences Religieuses 117, 125–129. — 2014: “Fathers and Sons in Syro-Mesopotamian Pantheons: Problems of Identity and Succession in Cuneiform Traditions”. In L. Marti (ed.): La famille

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Neo-Assyrian Eunuch-Scholars Natalie Naomi May « Nous sommes tous sortis du Manteau de Gogol » Eugène-Melchior de Vogüé. Le roman russe Rehashing de Vogüé, all of us, who are dealing with first millennium Assyria, come out from the mantle of Simo Parpola’s State Archives of Assyria Project. Studying the Neo-Assyrian period would be impossible without the SAA publications. Directly or indirectly, Simo is the mentor for all researchers of the NA period that are younger than he. His own generation would not be that successful without his fundamental work too. It is my pleasure and honour to dedicate to him this article on NA eunuch-scholars, especially since he has tremendously advanced the study of these two categories of NA personnel – scholars and eunuchs – though each of them separately. Eunuchs, especially, the Assyrian ones, are particularly well studied.1 According to the consensus, in the NA milieu ša/šūt rēši (lúSAG) means eunuch.2 Some time ago Luis Siddall and Reinhard Pirngruber tried to prove that the term or its variants cannot be always taken as meaning “eunuch,” but their argument does not hold water in the light of the direct evidence of the incantation, quoted already by Kirk Grayson:3 GIM šu-ut re-e-ši la a-li-di ni-il-ka li-bal, “May your semen dry up like that of a eunuch who cannot beget.”4 In the bulk of research dedicated to Assyrian eunuchs, hardly anything has been written about eunuch-scholars.5 Scholars in Mesopotamia were usually as1

E.g., Grayson, 1995; Deller, 1999; Siddall, 2007; Pirngruber, 2011 and S. Parpola himself (1995). The list can be continued. All the abbreviations in this article are in accordance with RlA. 2 As has been pointed out already by K. Grayson and K. Deller, both AHw and CAD suggest other meanings as well, such as “courtier.” The evidence of the Sumerian Creation Myth (CT 42 40 = BM 12845 10–11) provided by W. G. Lambert (1976: 147–148) that “a man with a body lacking both penis and vulva” is ordained “to stand before the king (s a g l u g a l - l a - k e 4)” clearly points to the connection between the “courtier” and the “eunuch” and explains why lúSAG was used to designate both. Definitely the usus and connotations of the term evolved with time, but for the NA period its meaning as “eunuch” is rather unequivocal. 3 Grayson, 1995: 91. L. Siddall completely disregards this passage and R. Pirngruber though mentions it (Pirngruber, 2011: 297 with n. 89), but does not provide any new interpretation, which would confirm his argument. 4 K. 2453 (= CT 23 10): 14. See Grayson, 1995: 91 also for castration as a punishment for adultery and homosexual relationship in the MA laws. The arguments contra are not convincing. 5 K. Radner (2011: 363) mentions in passing SAA 4 300 and 337 when juxtaposing royal

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sociated with temples and eunuchs apparently could not be priests due to their physical imperfection. Karlheinz Deller noted: “They (eunuchs – NNM) are primarily associated with the palace, not with the temples. They cannot become priests; as singers and musicians they might have been admitted to religious ceremonies.”6 The diviner (barû) particularly was expected to be “without blemish in body and limbs;” The so called Enmeduranki text, K. 2486+, meticulously describes the qualities demanded of a diviner: 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

re-ḫu-ut lúNU.EŠ šá za-ru-su KÙ ù šu-ú ina gat-ti u ina ŠIDmeš-šu šuk-lu-lu ana ma-ḫar dUTU u dIM a-šar bi-ra u EŠ.BAR TE-ḫi DUMU lúḪAL šá za-ru-šú la KÙ ù šu-u ina gat-ti u ŠIDmeš-šu la šuk-lu-lu zaq-tu IGIII.meš ḫe-sír ZÚmeš nak-pi ŠU.SI ŠIR DIR.KUR.RA ma-le-e SAḪAR.ŠUB.BA-e ḫi-is-ga-lu-ú erasure of three signs šu-ba-ki-lu pi-il-pi-la-nu la na-ṣir GARZAmeš ša dUTU u dIM ana a-šar šá dÉ-a dUTU dASAR. erasure of three-four signs LÚ.ḪI u dNIN–EDIN šá-suk-kàt AN-e u KI-tì mi-nu-tu at-ḫe-e-šá ana EŠ.BAR ba-ru-ti la -ṭè-ḫe-e ta-mit pi-riš-ti ul i-pat-tu-šú

27 28 29

begotten by a nešakku-priest of pure descent, and he, whose body and limbs are without blemish may approach the presence of Šamaš and Adad, where (liver) inspection and oracle (take place). 30 The son of diviner of impure descent, and whose body and limbs 31 are not without blemish with squinting eyes, teeth 32 chipped, a cut-off finger, a ruptured(?) testicle, 32b–33a suffering from leprosy, 33 …,7 34 who does not observe the rites of Šamaš and Adad 35 may not approach the place of Ea, Šamaš, Asalluḫi magnates with scholars. The former commonly were eunuchs. For the latter as eunuchs, she knew only of these two texts. The matter of castration of lamentation priests (kalûs) was discussed by many scholars (see Gabbay, 2008), but there is no direct evidence for this and kalû is never described in texts as eunuch. For this reason this subject is not discussed in present article. 6 Deller, 1999: 303. See p. 270 with fn. 35 for eunuchs at the temple service in Babylonia. 7 Lambert translates “eunuch” here, but all the words in this line are hapaces including pilpilānu, the dual form for basically Sumerian p i l p i l i = asinnu, parrû translated by PSD as “homosexual lover; transvestite” (http://psd.museum.upenn.edu/nepsd-frame.html) and by ETCSL as a “type of cult performer” (https://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/edition2/etcsllemma. php?sortbylemma=lemma&letter=p). But it is clear that p i l p i l i was not prevented from performing at the temples because of any physical defect.

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and Bēlet-ṣēri, the surveyor of heaven and earth, the beloved of her brothers, for an oracle by divination. They will not reveal to him the secret oracle.8

Priests underwent initiation and purification rites before performing their priestly duties.9 But we have no text that contains any demands of such a physical perfection from other priests as those required from diviners.10 Assyrian practice was obviously different from theory. But this is true only for the royal court, where the scholars did not act as priests. As for temples, hereditary priests zealously secured their positions effectively using purity, physical perfection and ancestry restrictions for this purpose, thus eunuchs could not participate in temples ceremonies in Assyria too. But reports of extispicy often contain a request to disregard the impure state of the haruspex, the place of performance of extispicy or even defects and impurity of sacrificial animals.11 Similarly, Mardukšāpik-zēri advised the king to use the services of a “very strong” exorcist Aqrea, despite him having marks on his face and wrists;12 marks on a face were forbidden for priests.13 There is clear evidence for at least two, and possibly three, eunuchs acting as diviners in the reign of Assurbanipal. The overwhelming majority of the reports of two eunuch-diviners, for whom the evidence is clear, is written in NB script. They indeed served the palace and not the Assyrian temples. Such constellation should have allowed them to perform divinations despite their physical imperfection. The first one, Dannāia, eunuch and haruspex (lúḪAL)14 from Nineveh is the author or co-author of a number of reports to Assurbanipal dated to 652–650.15 8

Lambert, 1998: 149. Borger, 1973; Waerzeggers / Jursa, 2008; Löhnert, 2007, 2010. 10 The ban on imperfect priest was probably contained in the mostly broken lines 29–44 of the purification rites for nešakku and pašīšu priests published by R. Borger (1973: 165). C. Waerzeggers (2008: 3, 5) presumes that the diviners did not need an initiation and purification since they did not enter the restricted areas of the temples and did not have the direct contacts with gods, but as is clear from the passage from K. 2486+, this assumption is wrong and they did both. They were ērib bītis as well. Most probably the demands for purity and perfection were by and large the same for all kinds of priests, but no purification and initiation texts for diviners preserved, like no demands to physical perfection preserved for other priests. K 11372 ii 78–130 is a ritual, but it is too fragmentary to claim that this is an initiation ritual for barû. For barû as a priest, especially in Assyria, see May, 2017. 11 See SAA 4, XXII–XXIV on standard and SAA 4, XX–XXII on non-standard ezibformulas. 12 SAA 10 16 rev. 10–11. 13 Borger, 1973: 16, l. 42. 14 This title of him is found in SAA 4 316. 15 These are SAA 4 280 (651 BCE, NB with NA colophon, performed at the New Palace), 9

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Fig. 1: Sacrifice to the divine symbols and the royal stele at the shore of the lake Na’iri. Balawat Gates of Shalmaneser III, Band I (13th year of Shalmaneser – 848 BCE). After May, 2020: fig. 5.

SAA 4 282 (NB with NA colophon), SAA 4 283 (NB, performed at the Succession Palace); SAA 4 286 (651 BCE; NB with NA colophon), SAA 4 291 (?, name mostly broken, NB script), SAA 4 303 (651 BCE, NB with NA colophon), SAA 4 304 (NB ductus), SAA 4 308 (completely in NB, although the tablet is of Marduk-šumu-uṣur; Dannāia is said to check the exta with him and after that two unfavourable omens were added) , SAA 4 316 (652 BCE, NB with NA colophon), SAA 4 317 (651 BCE, NA), SAA 4 324 (651 BCE, completely NB although the other reporter is Marduk-šumu-uṣur, performed at Arbela), SAA 4 331 (NB), SAA 4 333 (650 BCE, NB), and SAA 4 336 completely NB although the other reporter is again Marduk-šumu-uṣur). For SAA 4 281 and SAA 4 300, see below, p. 265.

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His reports are primarily concerned with the war against Assurbanipal's brother Šamaš-šumu-ukīn and his allies in Babylonia. Dannāia is called eunuch in two reports. SAA 4 281, dated to 651 BCE, written in NB ductus, but with the colophon in NA, ascribes the tablet to Dannāia, the eunuch(?),16 and names Aššurda’in-šarru as the reporter (lúEN UMUŠ). In SAA 4 300 (Abu 11th, year broken, performed in Arbela) written completely in the NA script, Dannāia is called eunuch and figures as a reporter. In four reports Dannāia is found together with Aššur-da’in-šarru.17 The latter appears as a reporter alone in SAA 4 327 (651 BCE, NB script, performed in the Succession Palace) and in SAA 4 337 (NB ductus, date and place destroyed). In the latter he is called a eunuch. Although he is not attested with the title “diviner” and probably did not have it, his professional functions are clear. All his reports are written in NB script as well. In SAA 4 324 Aššur-da’in-šarru performs a function unique for the extispicy reports. He acts as a cupbearer (lúKAŠ.LUL), while Marduk-šumu-uṣur and Dannāia are reporters. The name of the haruspex is broken. It is not quite clear what was the role of the cupbearer in the divination, but since the extispicy was performed on a sacrificial animal, it seems plausible that Aššur-da’in-šarru served as a cupbearer during the sacrifice that preceded the divination. Sacrifices were normally accompanied by libations as shown for instance on the Band I of the Balawat Gates of Shalmaneser III (fig. 1). This miniature relief shows three clean-shaven priests in tall headgear (kubšu) upon their shaven heads assisting the king in the sacrificial ceremony. The first of them brings a basket with offerings, the last drives sacrificial animals, and the one in the middle, who holds two bеakers, is apparently the cupbearer. The eunuch Šamaš-ṣabtanni is found in SAA 4 285 (651 BCE; written completely in NB ductus) after the date formula. His role is not quite clear. The reporters seem to be Bēl-ušallim and Bānīia. Dannāia is certainly the most prominent in the team of Assurbanipal’s haruspices, which is, however, sufficiently smaller than that of this king’s father and incudes only six persons that hold this title, while the reports from the time of Esarhaddon preserved the names of thirteen diviners involved with extispicy. This development results most probably from the growing fashion for astrological divination at the court, which caused reduction of the number of haruspices employed there. Marduk-šumu-uṣur was active since 674 BCE and in the period from 672 to 663 he is attested with the title “chief haruspex” (lúGAL ḪAL). In this period, he was heading Esarhaddon’s team of haruspices.18 But in 651and 650 he is called simply a haruspex (ḪAL). Apparently he stepped off from his high position due to his old age and gave way to the new chief haruspex, Nīnuāiu, who figures only in 16

The title is half-broken – only the determinative lú* survived of it, thus it could be lúEN UMUŠ as well. 17 SAA 4 280, SAA 4 281, SAA 4 283, and SAA 4 324. 18 LAS II: 469.

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two reports, both times alone,19 while Marduk-šumu-uṣur during his career appears in twenty seven reports, eight of which date to the time of Assurbanipal. Among these eight, three divinations were performed by Marduk-šumu-uṣur together with Dannāia. Bēl-ušallim and Bānīia. Latter two were active also in the time of Esarhaddon, but in the period of Assurbanipal figure in only one aforementioned report, SAA 4 285. Besides those persons the only one known with the title haruspex in the reign of Assurbanipal is Zīzî. Both of his reports20 were written together with Dannāia. Thus, Dannāia is obviously the most productive among his colleagues in the time of Assurbanipal. In a short period between 652–651 BCE he figures in thirteen reports – this is more even than the number of Marduk-šumu-uṣur’s reports from the period of Assurbanipal. Aššur-da’in-šarru, who as has been already pointed out, is never found with the title “haruspex,” appears in six reports and thus is the third most frequently attested diviner from the reign of Assurbanipal after Dannāia and Marduk-šumuuṣur. His unique function as a cupbearer, mentioned above, is remarkable too. The activity of these two eunuchs, Dannāia and Aššur-da’in-šarru, in the reign of Assurbanipal is standing out and leaves no doubt that eunuchs could occupy high positions at the court and perform extispicy for the king. All the reports, where he appears, were written in the NB ductus, but the name of Aššur-da’in-šarru shows that he could not be a Babylonian. It is clear thus that Assyrian scholars of this level mastered the Babylonian script. It is worth notice that none of the reports of Dannāia and Aššur-da’in-šarru, as well as SAA 4 285, contain any ezib-formulas. The relief of Assurnaṣirpal II preserved the image of a diviner performing an extispicy (fig. 2). He is clean-shaven with his head shaven too – a proof that a diviner was not necessarily a “long-haired priest of Šamaš.”21 It is very possible but cannot be unequivocally proven that this diviner is a eunuch. Assyrian priests are depicted clean shaven with shaven heads as on fig. 1. But the flat-top fez on fig. 2 singles this image out of the depictions of priests wearing tall hats. It cannot be excluded that a eunuch performing an extispicy in an Assyrian military camp is depicted on this relief. The personage in a fez on fig. 2 has a beardless assistant, who takes an active part in divination. This one does have quite long hair and he is certainly a eunuch. All his appearance is very typical for eunuchs on Assyrian reliefs. Depictions of eunuchs participating in religious rituals are not at all rare in Assyria.22 19

SAA 4 326 (651 BCE, performed at the Succession Palace) and SAA 4 328 (date broken, performed at the Succession Palace). 20 SAA 4 304 (NB script) and SAA 4 331 (NB with NA subscript on the edge). 21 Cf. K. 2486+: 25 (Lambert, 1998: 149). 22 See passim in the collection of images with religious ceremonies assembled by J. Reade (2005). It is worth notice that on the relief of Sargon II depicting offerings and incense burning before the divine standards in a military camp all the participants of the ceremony are eunuchs (Reade, 2005: fig. 12).

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Fig. 2: Diviner assisted by a eunuch is performing an extispicy in the camp of Assurnaṣirpal II. A campaign of ca. 880 BCE. BM 124548. From Nimrud, carved about 860 BCE. After Reade, 2005: fig. 10. Another reason why scholars are not supposed to be eunuchs is the Mesopotamian tradition of family education. Professional knowledge was transmitted from father to son as were hereditary temple positions. Although this type of education, in which a son was also a student of his father, was particularly typical for Assyria, we know of NA scribal schools, where young scribes, after they finished their elementary education at home, were getting further specialised training. The most famous of those NA schools for “high education” was the so-called House of the Exorcist at Assur, also known as the N4 library.23 Another important cuneiform

23

See, e.g., Maul, 2010; May, 2018. See also the aforementioned SAA 10 160, the author of which, Marduk-šāpik-zēri, mentions to the king his schoolmates, who obviously were

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private library was discovered in provincial Ḫuzīrīna.24 The majority of 407 tablets found at the site of Sultan Tepe, ancient Ḫuzīrīna, belonged to the library of Qurdī-Nergal, which was inherited by his descendants. Qurdī-Nergal first appears as an apprentice in a tablet that he wrote in 701 BCE.25 Later he is attested with the title “priest of Zabāba and Bābu, dwelling in/inside Arbail, who are inside of Ḫarrānu and Ḫuzīrīna”26 in the colophons of his descendants. Fifty-seven of his library tablets have colophons. The dates span from 718 (STT 21) to 616* (STT 300) BCE. The library was certainly carefully collected for years, and not only by Qurdī-Nergal himself, but also by his offspring. But four of the nine dated tables of this collection were written in 701 BCE, the year of Qurdī-Nergal’s apprenticeship.27 Three colophons testify that their tablets were written “for the learning” of Qurdī-Nergal. Two of these colophons are appended to the tablets of the Udug-ḫul compendium. Though these two colophons contain cryptographic name writings,28 they are rather short and simple. Both say that the tablets were written by Nabû-aḫu-iddina “for the learning” of Qurdī-Nergal:29 Rev. 22′ 23′ 24′

EGIR-šú ÉN sag-ba sag -b a giš-ḫu r nu ⸢bal-e⸣ šá-ṭír mNa-bu-u–ŠEŠ–MU ana IGI.⸢DU8⸣.A ⸢mQur-di⸣–dI.SAR.PÀD.DA (the rest broken)

Rev. 22′ 23′ 24′

After it the incantation: “Oath, oath, the unavoidable design!” Written by Nabû-aḫu-iddin for the learning of Qurdi-Nergal.

And Rev.

9 10 11 12

ka-inim-ma [máš] ⸢gaba-ri⸣-ga-ke 4 EGIR-šú ÉN ⸢nam-tar⸣ x x […] ⸢gi 4 ?⸣ GIŠ mdIM.DU.DU–ŠEŠ–MU a-na ta-mar-ti mQur-di–dU.GUR

Rev.

9 10

This is the incantation for he goat’s substitute. After it, incantation: “Namtar … .”

not his kin. 24 STT. 25 STT 192+STT 195; incantation ritual of Udug-ḫul compendium. 26 STT 300 (616* BCE) lú*⸢É.⸣BAR ⸢d⸣Za-ba4-ba4 u dBa-ba6 a-šib uru40–DINGIR šá qé-reb uru ⸢ KASKAL u uruḪu?⸣-zir-i-na⸢ki?⸣ and STT 64: lú*SANGA dZa-ba4-ba4 u dBa-ba6 šá qé-reb uru 40–DINGIRmeš šá qé-reb uruKASKAL u uruḪu-zir-⸢i⸣-[na]. 27 SAA 33, STT 159, STT 192, STT 354. 28 For cryptographic name writings and other learned writings in the NA colophons, see May, forthcoming. 29 STT 161, Udug-ḫul VI and STT 172, incantation ritual, Udug-ḫul.

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Written by Nabû-aḫu-iddina, for the learning of Qurdī-Nergal.

Obviously Nabû-aḫu-iddina was very much involved in the education of QurdīNergal, who apparently was trained with care for his future priestly positions.30 The colophon of the third tablet written as well for the “learning of Qurdī-Nergal,” not by Nabû-aḫu-iddina, but by his student Nabû-reḫtu-uṣur informs us about the former’s position and functions. This colophon clearly states that Nabû-aḫu-iddina was a eunuch:31 Rev. iv 6 iv 7 iv 8 iv 9 iv 10 iv 11 iv 12 iv 13 iv 14 iv 15 iv 16 iv 17 iv 18 iv 6 iv 7 iv 8 iv 9 iv 10 iv 11 iv 12 iv 13 iv 14 iv 15 iv 16 iv 17 iv 18 30

[kīma labīrīšu] ⸢GIŠ⸣-ma bà-rì [šaṭir md]PA–⸢re⸣-eḫ-tú–ŠEŠ [lú]ŠAB.TUR-i DUMU mu-um-mu ⸢ša⸣ mdPA–PAB–AŠ lúSAG a-na IGI.DU8.A mQur-di–dU.GUR ša IR d60 lit-bal-šú ina qí-bit dPA a-šib É-zi-da a-a GÁL-ši NUNUZ-šú na-an-nab-šú ina itiŠE U4 21kám lim-mu Ḫa-na-ni lú šá-kìn uruTil–bar-si-⸢pí⸣ tup-pi la ⸢ta-ta⸣-bil IM.GÚ.[LÁ] la ta-par-ra-ru [ik]-⸢kib⸣ d60 LUGAL ZU.AB [In accordance with its original] written and collated. [Wrote] Nabû-reḫtu-uṣur, the apprentice, student (lit. – son) of the scribal school, of Nabû-aḫu-iddina, the eunuch, for the study of Qurdī-Nergal. (The one), who takes (it) away, may Ea take him away! By the command of Nabû, who dwells in Ezida, may he have no descendant, no offspring. Addaru, 21st day, eponymate of Ḫanānu, governor of Til-Barsip (= 701 BCE), Do not take away the tablets! Do not disperse the library! Abomination of Ea, the king of the Apsû.

Besides the three colophons discussed here, which state that their tablet was written for the learning of Qurdī-Nergal, in Ḫuzīrīna only the unique colophon of STT 301 informs us that the table was written for the learning of someone different than the copyist and owner (see May, forthcoming). The other instance of the tablet written for the learning of the (much higher positioned) student is K. 2016a+ written for the learning of Assurbanipal, the crown prince by young apprentice Aplāya, son of Assurbanipal’s personal tutor Kēnî. 31 STT 38, The Poor Man of Nippur.

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This colophon names Nabû-aḫu-iddina not only as a eunuch, but as the head of the scribal school (mummu), of which Nabû-reḫtu-uṣur and apparently QurdīNergal were students. Nabû-aḫu-iddina’s expertise in Udug-ḫul proves that he was a healer, probably an exorcist. His student Qurdī-Nergal, who later became the priest of Zabāba and Bābu, was a healer too.32 It is difficult to say if this scribal school was located in Ḫuzīrīna or elsewhere. The aforementioned STT 64 and STT 300 inform us that Qurdī-Nergal was affiliated with Arbela in the first place, as well as with Ḫarrān and Ḫuzīrīna. We do not really know, where he studied – the Ḫuzīrīna tablets demonstrate strong influence from Assur and some from Ḫarrān.33 The library could have been moved to Ḫuzīrīna either by QurdīNergal, or by some of his descendants. Notwithstanding, there is no doubt that Nabû-aḫu-iddina, the eunuch, was the personal tutor of Qurdī-Nergal and the head of the school where Qurdī-Nergal studied. Two more tablets with the colophons of Nabû-aḫu-iddina were found in Qurdī-Nergal’s collection: STT 237 and STT 247. The colophon of the latter calls Nabû-aḫu-iddina “the apprentice” (lúŠAB. TUR). Obviously, Qurdī-Nergal, the privileged student of Nabû-aḫu-iddina, inherited also some tablets of the collection of his childless teacher. Single Babylonian evidence for eunuch-scholar comes from VAT 1533 (= Babylon N1[133], time of Nebuchadnezzar), a roster of people found at the palace (Kasr) in Babylon. This tablet lists among others a certain Nādinu, royal eunuch (and) exorcist (ša rēš šarri āšipu [lúMAŠ.MAŠ]).34 Thus being a eunuch and a scholar was conceivable also in Babylon. Besides, in the reign of Nabonidus and the early Achaemenid period eunuchs played an important role in administration of Ebabbar and Eanna, mostly as temple treasures.35 Conclusion Despite the extreme rarity of evidence for eunuch-scholars in Assyria and Babylonia, there is no doubt that they existed. They even could occupy prominent po32

This is obvious not only from his title but also from his tablet collection, in which tablets dealing with healing prevail. 33 See May, forthcoming. 34 See Pedersén, 2005a: 114 and Jursa, 2011: 161. 35 In Sippar royal eunuchs were treasurers of Ebabbar and keepers of the temple’s cash box (Bongenaar, 1997: 100–101). These are Addu or Abi-ukin, ša rēš šarri ša ina muḫḫi quppi; Basūru ša rēš šarri ša muḫḫi quppi ; Nabû-bulluṭanni, ša rēš šarri rab quppi/ša muḫḫi quppi ša Ebabbar; Sillā, ša rēš sarri ša [muḫḫi] quppi ša Bunene (Bongenaar, 1997: 108–111). At Uruk eunuchs were treasurers and supervisors of Eanna (ša rēš šarri ša muḫḫi quppi ša šarri ina Eanna and ša rēš šarri bēl piqitti Eanna respectively; Kümmel, 1979: 144–146). See Jursa, 2011: 166 for summary. M. Jursa does not enter the discussion if ša rēšis were eunuchs; he mentions that they could have “sons” (Jursa, 2011: 159, 165, 167–168), to whom they passed their positions, he also points out that some of their functions at the court could be the same as of eunuchs at Persian court as described by Ctesias. (Jursa, 2011: 169–171).

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sitions at the court and head scribal schools. The eunuchs Dannāia (thirteen reports) and Aššur-da’in-šarru (six reports) were most active in the team of Assurbanipal’s haruspices together with the former chief haruspex, Marduk-šumu-uṣur (eight reports in the time of Assurbanipal). Eunuch-diviners could also perform some religious rites,36 at least sacrifices and offerings related to liver divinations. In Uruk and Sippar eunuchs were actively involved in temple administration, particularly as cash box keepers, although it cannot be deducted from the evidence at our disposal that they were priest or scholars. The instance of the exorcist Nādinu proves that the notion of a eunuch-scholar was not estrange in Babylonia too. Besides cuneiform sources, the Aramaic Tale of Ahiqar,37 the “wise scribe” and “counsellor of all of Assyria,” suggests that even the most high-positioned Assyrian scholars could be eunuchs.38 Although the Tale of Ahiqar, to the study of which Simo Parpola has also significantly contributed, is a later legend and not a contemporary documentary source, it is evidence for the memory of Assyrian eunuch-scholars. Its testimony complements that of the Assyrian sources. Why did eunuch-scholars exist in Assyria and Babylonia, despite the clear prohibitions for a blemished person to perform religious rites? First of all, the aforementioned ezib-formulas39 prove that at least in Assyria there were ways to make the deity “disregard” physical defects of ritual performers and other impurities that occurred during the ritual. Important is that such rituals – extispicies, including those by Dannāia and Aššur-da’in-šarru, – were performed in palaces and not in temples.40 Thus the restrictions could be not that rigid. Local Assyrian traditions might differ from the Babylonian ones. The Enmeduranki text originated from Sippar and the text with the purification rites for nešakku and pašīšu priests – from Nippur, although both were found at Assurbanipal’s library in the NA copies. But most important, the hereditary Assyrian clergy of ancient descent was not as numerous as the Babylonian clergy and the concurrence for the temple positions in Assyria could be not as stiff as in

36

A letter from the astrologer and priest of the Aššur temple, Akkullānu, to the king says that some observation should be performed by a eunuch with the “sharp eye” (SAA 10 84 rev. 7). It cannot, however, be deducted from this very laconic evidence, whether this eunuch was a scholar or a priest. Unlike extispicy, celestial observations did not involve any religious ceremony. 37 One of the most popular ancient compositions, originally written in Aramaic ca. early 5th century BCE and disseminated in multiple languages far beyond the ancient Near East. It was known in ancient Egypt and Greece as well as in Medieval Middle East and Balkans (for the most recent overview, see Moore, 2021: 1–11). 38 Moore, 2021: 79. 39 See above p. 263 with fn. 11. 40 A temple is never said to be the place of performance of extispicy in any report, even if only a city, e.g. Arbela, is pointed out as such.

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Babylonia.41 On the contrary, before the NA period important temples existed only in Assur, to much lesser extent at Nineveh, and most probably at Arbela. Building new capitals with their temples and especially Sennacherib’s extensive construction of new temples created a demand for new priests to serve there. Some were invited from Babylonia, as lamentation priests, who were aliens in Assyria.42 Thus the lamentation priests of Sîn of Ḫarrān, whose cult was embellished by Esarhaddon, as well as the other cults in this city,43 were the branch of the Babylonian Šumu-libši clan of kalûs, although they wrote in Assyrian.44 Qurdī-Nergal himself performed the duties of the priest of Zabāba and Bābu in three cities located at sufficient distance one from the other – Arbela, Ḫarrān and Ḫuzīrīna. Of these three cities, only Arbela was the ancient cult centre in the Assyrian heartland. The other two were provincial cities at the outskirts of the Empire. But the temples of Zabāba and Bābu most probably were built in all the three of them in the time of Sennacherib, whose early reign was the time of QurdīNergal’s apprenticeship. This assumption follows from the fact that Sennacherib built the temple of Zabāba and Bābu at Assur45 and from the absence of evidence about the temples of this divine couple anywhere in Assyria before Sennacherib’s reign. Construction of temples of the same deities in few locations at once could create a shortage of priests able to serve there. Thus Qurdī-Nergal occupied the same position in three different cities. His father apparently was not a healer, but had another priestly and scholarly specialisation.46 For this reason, Qurdī-Nergal was trained as a healer in the school of the eunuch Nabû-aḫu-iddina. The position at Ḫuzīrīna was apparently inherited by one of Qurdī-Nergal’s sons,47 who 41 Notwithstanding, the concurrence existed, of course. See for instance SAA 13 134, the letter which is a complaint about the lamentation priest Pūlu, who as a kalû was a part of the new temple establishment. The author denounced Pūlu, who, among other misdeeds, took over the role of a woman that traditionally performed the lighting ceremony for Tašmētu in the Nabû temple or in the goddess’s akītu-house at Kalḫu. SAA 16 65, which denounces the queen’s goldsmith, who brought a Babylonian to teach his son divination and exorcism, is another example of scholarly jealousy and competition, but for the position at the royal court. It also shows that at the Assyrian court someone of a nonpriestly descent could hope for a scholarly position (see the discussion at SAA 16, XXXV– XXXVIII). 42 See Gabbay, 2014a; May, in print 43 See May, 2017: 518–519. 44 Gabbay, 2014b: 254–255. 45 RINAP 3/2 177. 46 STT 300 rev. 24 names a priest among his ancestors: mIZI.GAR–20 lu*⸢SANGA!?.MAḪ!?46 LUGAL!?⸣ DUMU x [x lu*]A.BA MAN lu*⸢SANGA!?⸣, “Nūr-Šamaš, great priest of the king?, son of the … scribe of the king, the priest,” but these priests were nether healers, nor priests of Zabāba and Bābu. 47 Colophons of STT 64 and STT 300 (both healing texts, the latter – the Āšipus’ Almanac) preserved the names of two of his sons: the young apprentice Mušallim-Bābu and the

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brought with him his father’s library or a part of it. Qurdī-Nergal’s other sons could inherit his positions in the other two temples. Besides the temples, which could only employ physically perfect priests of pure descendance, versed in various branches of scholarship, the kings were in the acute need of scholars too. This is especially true for Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal – for the former because of his constant divinations, week health, purification and apotropaic rites against evil portents and for the latter, besides divinations, for the tremendous enterprise of his library. For this reason, Marduk-šāpikzēri dared to suggest to Esarhaddon the services of a “strong” exorcist despite the marks on the latter’s face and body.48 Babylonian scholars were obliged to write tablets as a corvée service at the Assyrian court.49 Aššur-da’in-šarru, as his name points out, was certainly Assyrian, but any other haruspex at Assyrian court could be of Babylonian origin including even the chief haruspex Marduk-šumu-uṣur himself. The instance of the exorcist Nādinu, who worked for Nebuchadnezzar II, proves that Babylonian scholars could be eunuchs too. It is no wonder in the circumstances of the high demand for scholarship, that qualified eunuch-scholars worked at the court and the eunuch-scholar Nabû-aḫu-iddina could head a scribal school, like that where Qurdī-Nergal, the priest to be, was trained. Bibliography Borger, R., 1973: “Die Weihe eines Enlil-Priesters”. BiOr 30/1, 163–176. Bongenaar, H., 1997: The Neo-Babylonian Ebabbar Temple at Sippar: its Administration and its Prosopography. Istanbul. Deller, K., 1999: “The Assyrian Eunuchs and Their Predecessors.” In K. Watanabe (ed.): Priests and Officials in the Ancient Near East: Papers of the Second Colloquium on the ancient Near East – The City and Its Life Held at the Middle Eastern Culture Center in Japan (Mitaka, Tokyo), March 22–24, 1996. Heidelberg. Pp. 303–312. Gabbay, U., 2008: “The Akkadian Word for Third Gender: The kalû (gala) Once Again”. In R.D. Biggs / J. Myers / M.T. Roth (eds.): Proceeding of the 51st Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale. SAOC 62. Chicago. Pp. 49–56. — 2014a: “The kalû Priest and kalûtu Literature in Assyria”. Orient, 115–144. — 2014b: Pacifying the Hearts of the Gods: Sumerian Emesal Prayers of the First Millennium BC. HES 1. Wiesbaden. Grayson, K., 1995: “Eunuchs in Power. Their Role in the Assyrian Bureaucracy”. In M. Dietrich / O. Loretz (eds.): Vom Alten Orient zum Alten Testament: Festschrift für Wolfram Freiherrn von Soden zum 85. Geburtstag am 19. Juni 1993. AOAT 240. Kevelaer / Neukirchen-Vluyn. Pp. 85–98. young scribe Nabû-zēru-kitti-lēšir. STT 300 was written, however, by the son of Nabûzēru-kitti-lēšir, the junior apprentice Ninurta-[…]. 48 See above p. 263. 49 SAA 11 156. See Parpola, 1972: 33 and SAA 11, XXIX for discussion.

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Jursa, M., 2011: “‚Höflinge‘ in babylonischen Quellen des ersten Jahrtausends”. In R. Rollinger / J. Wiesehöfer / G. B. Lanfranchi (eds.): Ctesias’ World. Wiesbaden. Pp. 159–223. Kümmel, H.M., 1979: Familie, Beruf und Amt im spätbabylonischen Uruk: prosopographische Untersuchungen zu Berufsgruppen des 6. Jahrhunderts v.Chr. in Uruk. Berlin. Löhnert, A., 2007: “The Installation of Priests according to Neo-Assyrian Documents”. SAAB 16, 273–286. — 2010: “Reconsidering the Consecration of Priests in Ancient Mesopotamia”. In H.D. Baker / E. Robson / G. Zólyomi (eds.): Your Praise is Sweet: A Memorial Volume for Jeremy Black from Students, Colleagues and Friends. London. Pp. 183–191. Lambert, W.G., 1998: “The Qualifications of Babylonian Diviners.” In S.M. Maul (ed.): tikip santakki mala bašmu … . Festschrift für Rykle Borger zu seinem 65. Geburtstag am 24. Mai 1994. CM 10. Groningen. Pp. 141–158. Maul, S.M., 2010: “Die Tontafelbibliothek aus dem sogenannten ‘Haus der Beschwörungspriesters’”. In S.M. Maul / N. P. Heeßel (eds.): Assur-Forschungen: Arbeiten aus der Forschungsstelle “Edition literarischer Keilschrifttexte aus Assur” der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften. Wiesbaden. Pp. 189–228. May, N.N., 2017: “The Connection of Neo-Assyrian Scholars to the Temple Officialdom: Some Evidence, Mostly from Colophons”. NABU 2017/2, no. 54, 96–101. — 2018: “Exorcists and ‘Physicians’ at Assur: More on their Education and Interfamily and Court Connections”. ZA 108, 63–80. — 2020, “’True Image of the God:’ Adoration of the King’s Image, Assyrian Imperial Cult and Territorial Control”. In E. Wagner-Durand / J. Linke (eds.): Tales of Royalty: Notions of Kingship in Visual and Textual Narration in the Ancient Near East. Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Records 23. Berlin. Pp. 185–239. — in print: “Babylonian scholars working for Ashurbanipal’s Library? Some colophons with cryptography”. — forthcoming: “Assyrian Scribes and Their Learned Writings”. Moore, J.D., 2021: Literary Depictions of the Scribal Profession in the Story of Ahiqar and Jeremiah 36. BZAW 541. Berlin / Boston. Parpola, S., 1972: “A Letter from Šamaš-šumu-ukīn to Esarhaddon”. Iraq 34/1, 21–34. — 1995: “The Assyrian Cabinet”. In M. Dietrich / O. Loretz (eds.): Vom Alten Orient zum Alten Testament: Festschrift für Wolfram Freiherrn von Soden zum 85. Geburtstag am 19. Juni 1993. AOAT 240. Kevelaer / Neukirchen-Vluyn. Pp. 379–401.

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— 2005: “Il retroterra assiro di Ahiqar.” In R. Contini / C. Grottanelli (eds.): Il saggio Ahiqar: Fortuna e trasformazioni di uno scritto sapienziale: Il testo più antico e le sue version. Studies in Biblical Literature 148. Brescia. Pp. 91–112. Pirngruber, R., 2011: “Eunuchen am Königshof: Ktesias und die Altorientalische Evidenz”. In J. Wiesehöfer / R. Rollinger / G. Lanfranchi (eds.): Die Welt Des Ktesias: Ctesias’ World. Classica et Orientalia 1. Wiesbaden. Pp. 279–312. Radner, K., 2011: “Royal Decision-Making: Kings, Magnates, and Scholars”. In K. Radner / E. Robson (eds.): The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture. Oxford. Pp. 358–379. Reade, J.E., 2005: “Religious Ritual in Assyrian Sculpture”. In B.N. Porter (ed.): Ritual and Politics in Ancient Mesopotamia. New Haven. Pp. 8–61. Siddall, L.R., 2007: “A Re-examination of the Title ša reši in the Neo-Assyrian Period”. In A. Joseph / N. Weeks (eds.): Gilgameš and the World of Assyria: Proceedings of the Conference Held at Mandelbaum House, the University of Sydney, 21–23 July 2004. Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement 21. Leuven. Pp. 225–240. Waerzeggers, C. / Jursa, M., 2008: “On the Initiation of Babylonian Priests”. ZAR 14, 1–38.

An Itinerant Tribute-Bearer’s Head from Sargon II’s Palace at Khorsabad ∗ Daniele Morandi Bonacossi Simo Parpola has made such an enormous contribution to the field of Neo-Assyrian studies, in particular to our knowledge of Sargon II’s reign, that it is hardly conceivable that anything could be written today on Sargon and Assyria without constant recourse to his essays. I dedicate to him the following thoughts on the intriguing story of a wandering Assyrian relief fragment that travelled from Khorsabad to Venice and Bologna and ended up being mortared into a wall of an eighteenth-century Venetian villa in the hope that they may be of interest to him and the readers of this volume. The Assyrian relief fragment, representing a bearded male head (Fig. 1), belongs to the private collection of Count Giulio da Schio, to whom I am very grateful for the opportunity to study and publish it and the kind hospitality he gave to me on the occasion of my visits.1 The slab fragment, which between 1909 and 2017 was walled into the rear façade of the Villa da Schio in Costozza at the foot of the Berici Hills near Vicenza, displays a slightly altered surface, possibly due to its prolonged exposure to atmospheric conditions in Northern Italy. The relief, which was carved into a small slab of fine-grained limestone 18.6 cm wide, 15 cm high and 2.5 cm thick (Fig. 2), preserves the exquisitely executed face of a bearded man looking to the viewer’s right. The face is almost entirely preserved (a vertical break line cuts the lower lip and part of the chin), while a relatively straight almost horizontal fracture has removed most of the rest of the head. Only a small, badly damaged portion of it remains above the hairband that runs around

∗

I am most grateful to Stefania Ermidoro (University of Venice) – who read and commented on a first draft of this paper – for many useful references and suggestions, and to Giovanni Battista Lanfranchi (University of Padua) who drew to my attention the Assyrian relief fragment presented here. I also thank Ariane Thomas (Louvre Museum) who discussed the tribute-bearer’s head with me and Giuseppe Sassatelli (University of Bologna) who provided me with helpful information on the 1871 “Congrès international d’anthropologie et d’archéologie préhistoriques” kept in Bologna and for authorization to use the photograph of Austen Henry Layard published in the conference photograph album. Finally, I am indebted to David Kertai who made available the plan of Sargon’s palace in Khorsabad and an anonymous reviewer whose comments helped me to improve this article. 1 The Soprintendenza Archeologia, Belle Arti e Paesaggio of the Province of Vicenza, the government department responsible for monuments, the environment and historic buildings, has been fully informed about the relief fragment, which was formally registered in 2018. The Italian state has established a legal obligation preventing its sale outside Italy.

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Fig. 1: The da Schio Collection bas-relief fragment.

Fig. 2: Back of the da Schio Collection bas-relief fragment.

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the figure’s forehead. Below, a sharp oblique fracture crosses the figure’s neck and short curly beard. The man has short hair with curved locks held on his forehead by a band, in accordance with the iconographic tradition of the cattle-andhorse-raising societies of the northwestern Zagros region (Medians, Manneans etc.).2 Faint traces of red colour are still preserved on the beard. The surface of the relief shows limited deterioration due to loss of material and slight incrustations in some places, but, on the whole, the surviving part of the face appears well preserved. The state of preservation of the slab fragment testifies to the harmful and reprehensible nineteenth-century habit of cutting the heads of human figures out of Assyrian reliefs, thus depriving them of their thematic and compositional context and making it difficult – if not impossible – to recognize their original location (Bergamini, 1995: 122).3 Entire reliefs were thus carefully hacked apart in order to provide museums and private collections with examples of the Assyrian art that the extraordinary discoveries of the French and English explorers at Nineveh, Nimrud and Khorsabad in the middle of the century had made popular and highly sought after (Bohrer, 1998 and 2003; Holloway, 2004; Petit / Morandi Bonacossi, 2017; Turner, 2021). But how and when did this slab fragment arrive in Italy? This is a fascinating story of nineteenth-century archaeological research and antiquity collection, intersecting with friendship and family relations. Alvise da Schio, great-grandfather of the present owner, acquired our bearded male head in 1900 as a consequence of a civil suit against the administrator of the estate of the only daughter of Giovanni Gozzadini (1810–1887), Countess Gozzadina Gozzadini Zucchini (1845– 1899). Senator Giovanni Gozzadini was a historian, archaeologist and politician, a scholar of the noble towers and city wall of Bologna and excavator of an Iron Age Villanovan graveyard found on his estate in Villanova di Castenaso, and subsequently of the Etruscan burial ground of Marzabotto (Schingo, 2002). He and his wife, Maria Teresa Serego Alighieri Gozzadini (1812–1881), daughter of Anna da Schio and ancestor of the current owner of the relief, exchanged correspond2

On the Medes in the Assyrian Empire and the Assyrian view concerning the Median principalities, see Radner, 2003. On the identification of our head fragment as belonging to a tribute-bearer from the Zagros region and the limits of iconographic inference, see below and Roaf, 2005. 3 The practice of hacking apart Assyrian reliefs is well documented since the earliest explorations conducted in Khorsabad. When the mission of the Oriental Institute of Chicago resumed excavations on the site in 1929 under the leadership of Edward Chiera, numerous heads of Assyrian dignitaries belonging to the royal entourage were found hidden not far below the surface of the site, among other cut-out relief fragments. The Assyrian reliefs had been cut away by peasants and local workers who had worked with the French archaeologists, who intended to hoard these fragments of sculptures to resell them at the appropriate time, which came when the American archaeologists resumed the investigation of the site (Loud, 1936: 12‒14).

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ence with Sir Austen Henry Layard (1817–1894). The friendship between Layard and the Counts Gozzadini is attested by a letter currently kept at the Archiginnasio Library of Bologna addressed to Maria Teresa Serego Alighieri Gozzadini4 and by several letters in the British Library sent to Layard by both spouses.5 Countess Serego Alighieri Gozzadini, who was the animator of a literary and cultural coterie, also had translated into Italian (by Count Ercole Malvasia) a vulgarisation of Layard’s discoveries in Nineveh, a book that she claimed was one of her favourites (Sassatelli, 2015: 88)6. Lastly, Layard took part in the fifth “Congrès international d’anthropologie et d’archéologie préhistoriques” organised in Bologna by Count Gozzadini in 1871. A photograph of “Austeno Enrico Layard” is published in the photograph album of the congress (Fig. 3; Sassatelli, 2015: fig. 15 and p. 88). The British archaeologist and his wife Enid spent part of their active old age in Venice, where from 1875 to 1894 they lived in the sixteenth-century Ca’ Cappello ‒ Layard mansion on the Grand Canal, where Layard devoted much of his time to collecting pictures of the Venetian school and writing about Italian art. The close relationship between the Gozzadinis and Layard suggests that the latter might have donated our Assyrian relief fragment to the Counts Gozzadini as a sign of friendship. Numerous other gifts of Assyrian antiquities collected during his Iraqi campaigns made by Layard to friends, supporters and institutions are known. For example, to stay in Italy, the Museo di Scultura Antica Giovanni Barracco in Rome houses an Assyrian relief fragment donated by Layard to Mr. Sloane, an Englishman long resident in Italy and an old friend of Layard’s parents (Dolce / Nota Santi, 1995: no. 40, 204; Turner, 2021: 358). In the Giovio Museum in Como there is a relief (with dedication and autograph on the back by Layard himself) originally donated to Giuseppe Molteni, an artist and picture restorer who was the director of the Brera Gallery in Milan, and then acquired by Alfonso Garovaglio, who travelled in Egypt and Mesopotamia in 1886–1887 (Dolce / Nota Santi, 1995: no. 14, 134; Turner, 2021: 161, 358). Furthermore, in 1891 Layard donated ten fragments of reliefs from his excavations in Nimrud and Nineveh – which he had kept in his private collection – to the Correr Museum in Venice (now preserved in the Archaeological Museum; Falkner, 1952‒1953; Favaretto, 1987: 231; Fales, 1990; Dolce / Nota Santi, 1995; Ermidoro, 2020). Most likely,

4

Fondo Carte Gozzadini ‒ da Schio, busta 39, fascicolo 4. Layard Papers Add MS 39068 [f. 77 and probably 78, Countess Maria Teresa di Serego Allighieri Gozzadini: Letters to Sir A. H. Layard: 1856, 1860], Add MS 39035 [f. 185 Count Giovanni Gozzadini: Letter to Sir A. H. Layard: 1881], and Add MS 38985 [f. 56 Countess Maria Teresa di Serego Allighieri Gozzadini: Letters to Sir A.H. Layard: 1856, 1860]. 6 Austeno Enrico Layard, 1855: Delle scoperte di Ninive. Bologna: Società tipografica bolognese. 5

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Fig. 3: Austen Henry Layard in a photograph from the album of the fifth “Congrès international d’anthropologie et d’archéologie préhistoriques” organised in Bologna by Count Gozzadini in 1871 (after Sassatelli, 2015: 88; courtesy of G. Sassatelli).

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the bearded head fragment from the da Schio collection was originally part of Layard’s collection of Assyrian reliefs.7 This brings us to other obscure aspects of this affair: how did Layard come into possession of the bas-relief fragment, where was it found and to which Assyrian king can it be attributed? The most reliable starting place is an analysis of the head’s iconographic and stylistic characteristics. The strongly three-dimensional sculptural forms and details of the man’s face, in particular the vigorous execution of the eyebrows, the elongated shape of the eye and pronounced lacrimal caruncle at its inner end, the very marked and fleshy nose, lips and cheekbone, the corkscrew-twisted curls of the beard and hair arranged in rows show very precise parallels with the carvings from the reign of Sargon II in his royal palace in Khorsabad. These features and the remnants of the headband that holds the hair in place are identical to details in the relief panels depicting foreign tribute-bearers aligned along the walls of Couloir 10 in Sargon’s palace, which was excavated by Paul-Émile Botta in 1843–1844 (Fig. 4). Room 10 was an approximately 22 m-long stone-paved corridor linking Court VIII of the babānu of Sargon’s palace, which gave access to throne room VII, with Court III in the northern part of the palace terrace (Botta, 1849‒1850, II: pl. 122; Loud, 1936: 40‒ 42; Fig. 5). The northeast and southwest corridor walls were lined with slabs sculpted with two processions of tributaries heading towards Court III, arranged on two registers separated by the Display Inscription (Botta, 1849‒1850, II: pl. 122; Fig. 6).8 The reliefs represent the end of a victorious campaign of conquest. In the two lower registers, foreign tribute-bearers with curly beards, curled hair locks held by a headband and wearing garments made of animal skins and high laced-up boots lead horses with elaborate trappings or offer models of cities as a symbol of their country while rising their right hand in a gesture of respect. Their costume and hair suggest an identification with captives from Media, or the Zagros region more in general (Albenda, 1986: 67‒71, pls. 26‒34; Wäfler, 1975: 266‒ 282). In the upper registers, figures with long robes and cap present models of cities, bags or wineskins and bowls, or drive horses and dromedaries (Botta, 1849‒1850, II: pls. 123‒136). Beardless Assyrian officials lead the processions of tribute-bearers. Several slabs show significant amounts of red and blue pigments, especially on the reins and chest strap of the horses and the plumes of their headdresses (Guralnick, 2010‒2011: 82‒84).

7

For other examples of gifts of Assyrian antiquities made by Layard, see Turner, 2021: 226, 255, 551, 597. Presents of archaeological finds (Assyrian relief fragments, inscriptions, and objects) were also made by H.C. Rawlinson (Turner, 2021: 82) and H. Rassam (ibid. 656, 666‒667). 8 Slabs 1–8 on the corridor’s northeast side and 9–16 on the southwest side.

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Fig. 4: A tribute-bearer from the Zagros region from Corridor 10 in the royal palace of Sargon (courtesy Musée du Louvre, AO 19918). The da Schio relief fragment matches the heads of the foreign tribute-bearers from the lower registers of the Corridor 10 slabs so closely that it seems extremely likely that its original location was in this room of Sargon’s royal palace at Khorsabad.9 The group of reliefs that Layard donated to the Correr Museum in Venice also includes three other bearded male heads facing right, cut around the outside in the same way as the head in the da Schio Collection (Falkner, 1952‒1953: relief fragments nos. 8‒10, figs. 9‒11; Correr Museum nos. 42, 49‒50). The best-preserved head (Relief no. 8) shows short strands of hair, a pointed beard without corkscrew

9

Several heads of tribute-bearers are displayed in the Khorsabad Court of the Louvre Museum: AO 1434, 19897, 19922, 19896 from the southwest corridor wall and AO 19918, 1433, 19899, 19895, and 19887 from the northeast wall. All of them share the same stylistic and iconographic characteristics as our relief fragment to the extent that it may be considered to have belonged to the same series of carvings and been made by the same royal workshop.

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Fig. 5: Plan of the royal palace of Sargon II in Khorsabad (after Kertai, 2015: pl. 11; courtesy of D. Kertai).

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Fig. 6: Elevations and plan of Corridor 10 in the royal palace of Sargon II in Khorsabad (after Botta, 1849‒1850, II: pl. 122).

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curls, no headband and a leather garment on the shoulder. It may also be a representation of a Median captive, but the differences in the hair and beard styles – which in Sargon’s tribute-bearer figures are always carefully curled, with the hair held in place by a headband – and the flatter and less vigorous relief indicate that this head should not be attributed to Sargon’s reign, but probably to that of his son Sennacherib. Depictions of foreigners wearing skin garments, showing similar hair and beards and sculpted in the same flat relief, come from Room XXXII and Court XIX of Sennacherib’s Southwest Palace in Nineveh (Layard, 1853a: pl. 78; Turner, 2021: pl. 24). The small head fragment no. 10 in the Venice Museum is also very similar and should probably be attributed to Sennacherib as well (Falkner, 1952‒1953: 34, fig. 11). Notwithstanding its worn state of preservation, Relief fragment no. 9 seems to display the same characteristics as Reliefs 8 and 10. It is possible that the da Schio Collection tribute-bearer’s head was originally part of this group of male heads of different origin that Layard found during his excavations in Iraq, cut out around the edge, kept all his life in his private collection, and eventually donated to friends and the Correr Museum in Venice during his old age. This leads us to the two final questions of the puzzle: when did Layard acquire the da Schio relief fragment and – especially – under what circumstances? Layard visited Khorsabad at least six times; the first occasion was in August 1846 (Albenda, 1986: 28). Later he returned to Sargon’s capital city no fewer than five more times between 6 October 1849 and 14 February 1850 (Turner, 2021: 106‒ 107, 200‒201 and 210).10 During his first visit in 1846, Layard reported that “since M. Botta’s departure the chambers had been partly filled up by the falling in of the trenches; the sculptures were rapidly perishing; and, shortly, little will remain of this remarkable monument” (Layard, 1849: vol. 1, 149; Albenda, 1986: 28). On his visit to Khorsabad in November 1849, Layard observed that “the sculptures in the palace itself had rapidly fallen to decay, and of those which had been left exposed to the air after M. Botta’s departure scarcely any traces remained” (1853b: 131). Possibly this deplorable state of preservation encouraged Layard to undertake excavations in order to rescue some sculptures. One of his foremen, Hannah, dug new excavation trenches in the area of Botta’s Bâtiment isolé and found two slab fragments carved with a hunting scene. One was later shipped to the British Museum (Turner, 2021: 119); Layard donated the other to the new 10

Khorsabad had already become a busy place attended by explorers and dealers immediately after the end of Botta’s first official French expedition in 1845, before Layard’s visits. For example, a notable group of sculptures from Khorsabad reached the British Museum through purchase in 1847 (Albenda, 1986: 27‒28). In 1845, Alexander Hector, a British merchant settled in Baghdad, visited Khorsabad for the first time and gathered sculptures from the site. He later returned to Khorsabad at least once and managed to sell the above-mentioned consignment of sculptures to the British Museum in 1847 (ibid. 28).

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French consul in Mosul, Marie-Eugène Perrochet de Longeville, who accompanied him to Khorsabad. De Longeville offered his slab fragment to the Louvre on his return to France in 1852. Layard returned to Khorsabad on 12 December, staying there one night. On that occasion, he wrote of “a large number of richly glazed bricks found in the excavated part of Khorsabad mound. Remains of buildings with alabaster slabs but unsculptured, within the walls – nothing found in Mounds at S.W. corner of the quadrangle” (Turner, 2021: 201). Notes like this clearly show that Layard embarked on limited excavations in Khorsabad during nearly every visit he paid to the site.11 Finally, on 25 June 1935, Sotheby & Co. sold lot 318 of a portion of the library and extensive collection of manuscripts assembled in the nineteenth century by Sir Thomas Phillipps, comprising “Nineveh. Thirty-one cartoons or drawings in Indian ink and colours of Assyrian antiquities brought from Nineveh by Sir Henry Layard”. One of the figures depicted was “(23) Khorsabad Head” (Turner, 2021: 143). It is of course impossible to tell whether this was an illustration of the da Schio Collection head, but this possibility remains open. These pieces of information attesting Layard’s rather intense archaeological activity at Khorsabad after Botta’s departure from the site make it very reasonable to assume that he retrieved the da Schio Collection head from the area of Corridor 10 by means of surface exploration or excavation during his frequent visits to Khorsabad between 1846 and 1850 and later donated it to the Counts Gozzadini as a token of friendship with the couple and scientific respect for Giovanni Gozzadini’s successful archaeological career. His participation in the 1871 Congrès international d’anthropologie et d’archéologie préhistoriques organised by Count Gozzadini in Bologna might have seemed an appropriate occasion to pay homage to his friend with a remarkable exotic gift originating from his youthful excavation season in the heart of the Assyrian Empire.12 Bibliography Albenda, P., 1986: The palace of Sargon, King of Assyria: monumental wall reliefs at Dur-Sharrukin, from original drawings made at the time of their discovery in 1843–1844 by Botta and Flandin. Paris: Éd. Recherche sur les civilisations.

11

As a matter of fact, the firman that Layard received from the Grand Vizier in Constantinople in 1846 was very broad and general. Layard was allowed to excavate wherever he pleased in the environs of Mosul, albeit only “in deserted places”, and to ship his finds back to England (Larsen, 1996: 99). 12 Gozzadini also had a very friendly relationship with other archaeologists working in the Near East, such as Heinrich Schliemann who sent him some documents on his excavations in Troy (Sassatelli, 2015: 37‒38).

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Bergamini. G., 1995: “Testa di ufficiale della guardia (TO/10409)”. In R. Dolce / M. Nota Santi (eds.): Dai palazzi assiri. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Pp. 122‒123. Bohrer, F.N., 1998: “Inventing Assyria: Exoticism and Reception in NineteenthCentury England and France”. The Art Bulletin 80/2, 336‒356. — 2003: Orientalism and Visual Culture: Imagining Mesopotamia in NineteenthCentury Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Botta, P.-E., 1849‒1850: Monument de Ninive. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale. Dolce, R. / Nota Santi, M., (eds.), 1995: Dai palazzi assiri. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Ermidoro, S., 2020: “Da Ninive a Venezia: documenti d’archivio relativi ai doni di Austen Henry Layard”. In S. Alaura (ed.): Digging in the Archives. From the History of Oriental Studies to the History of Ideas. Roma: Edizioni Quasar. Pp. 13‒32. Fales, F.M., 1990: “Austen Henry Layard collezionista a Venezia”. Rivista di Archeologia, suppl. 7, 119‒123. Falkner, M., 1952‒1953: “Die Reliefs der assyrischen Könige. Zweite Reihe. 1. Zehn assyrische Reliefs in Venedig”. Archiv für Orientforschung 16, 25‒34. Favaretto, I., 1987: “La collezione Layard: storia, formazione e vicende”. In F.M. Fales / B.J. Hickey (eds.): Austin Henry Layard tra l’Oriente e Venezia. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Pp. 227‒236. Guralnick, E., 2010‒2011: “Khorsabad Relief Fragment Project”. The Oriental Institute 2010‒2011 Annual Report, 81‒85. Holloway, S.W., 2004: “Nineveh Sails for the New World: Assyria Envisioned by Nineteenth-Century America”. Iraq 66, 243‒256. Kertai, D., 2015: The Architecture of Late Assyrian Royal Palaces. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Larsen, M.T., 1996: The Conquest of Assyria. Excavations in an Antique Land. London / New York: Routledge. Layard, A.H., 1849: Nineveh and Its Remains. London: John Murray. — 1853a: The Monuments of Nineveh. London: John Murray. — 1853b: Discoveries in the Ruins of Nineveh and Babylon. London: John Murray. Loud, G., 1936: Khorsabad, Part 1: Excavations in the Palace and at a City Gate. Chicago, University of Chicago Press. Petit, L.P. / Morandi Bonacossi, D., 2017: Nineveh, the Great City. Symbol of Beauty and Power. Leiden: Sidestone Press. Radner, K., 2003: “An Assyrian View of the Medes”. In G.B. Lanfranchi / M. Roaf / R. Rollinger (eds.): Continuity of Empire (?). Assyria, Media, Persia. Padova: Sargon Editrice. Pp. 37‒64. Roaf, M., 2005: “Ethnicity and Near Eastern Archaeology: The Limits of Inference”. In W.H. van Soldt / R. Kalvelagen / D. Katz (eds.): Ethnicity in Ancient

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Mesopotamia: Papers Read at the 48th Rencontre Assyriologique International, Leiden, 1–4 July 2002. Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten. Pp. 306‒315. Sassatelli, G., 2015: Archeologia e Preistoria: alle origini della nostra disciplina. Il Congresso di Bologna del 1871 e i suoi protagonisti. Bologna: Bologna University Press. Schingo, G., 2002: “Gozzadini Giovanni”. Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani 58 https://www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/giovanni-gozzadini_res-375cff96-87ee11dc-8e9d-0016357eee51_%28Dizionario-Biografico%29/. Turner, G., 2021: The British Museum’s Excavations at Nineveh, 1846–1855. Leiden: Brill. Wäfler, M., 1975: Nicht-Assyrer neuassyrischer Darstellungen. Kevelaer / Neukirchen-Vluyn: Butzon & Bercker / Neukirchener Verlag.

Live Sketches? Convention vs Realism in Assyrian Art Davide Nadali The production of images in ancient Assyria has always been linked with the intents of the Assyrian king (the patron) and the ideological needs of the Assyrian kingship. On one hand, this pattern is clear and, to a certain extent, it seems impossible to deny: the Assyrian king, being almost the exclusive protagonist of artistic production, is also the one who dictates content which could be executed and finally displayed only after his approval. At the same time, the ideological structure of the Assyrian empire is reflected in images: images corroborate and support it with the presentation of the success and perfection of the Assyrian State – just as an example, images of war always show the Assyrian army winning, against any enemy, on any occasion and situation. On the other hand, the monolithic and indistinct production of Assyrian art is apparent: generally when looking at Assyrian images, particularly when an analysis of king by king is preferred, it might indicate that Assyrian art is very schematic and conventional, following a pattern (particularly concerning the topic and content – war, hunt, etc.) that might differ only stylistically (in this respect, the bodies in the art of Assurnaṣirpal II are rendered very differently in the art of Assurbanipal). Style surely is an element of distinction that cannot however be ascribed solely to conventions, but is the result of more complex situations and interferences where the component of the single artist or group of artists is fundamental. This short note is dedicated to Simo Parpola, who extensively studied the importance and role of scholars and specialists in the Assyrian State organisation and management.1 Artists can deservedly be included among the Assyrian specialists who worked for the Assyrian kings to express and translate royal deeds and activities into pictures;2 at the same time, I believe they were not merely the executors of a preconceived and rigid dictation that concerned the content, but not the manner of making.3 The inflexibility and repetitiveness of Assyrian art have been considered as the result of an imposing ideology that guided and ruled the work of Assyrian artists: moreover, the anonymity of the artists who created the figurative programmes of the royal residences in the Assyrian capitals of Nimrud, Dur Sharrukin, and Nineveh increased this sensation of rigidity of content and shape, mostly the same from 9th to 7th century BC. Is Assyrian art so? Can we 1

Parpola, 1970; 1983; 1993. Nadali / Verderame, 2019: 238–240. 3 Nadali, 2012: 587. 2

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simply say that Assyrian art and the work of the Assyrian artists are subsumed by the Assyrian royal ideology in any aspect, form, and project? In the end, I suspect the answer might be yes: this however depends on the lack of information and data that could lead us to a different conclusion; it might also depend on our (in)ability to look at things from different perspectives. The details and the work of different hands in the abundant Assyrian artistic production can be used at least to ask questions and to break the systematic and canonical uniformity of Assyrian art.4 Looking at the images in the Assyrian palaces, wall panel reliefs mostly represent scenes of war: historical narratives tell the success of the Assyrian army and the political achievement of the Assyrian king in accomplishing the imperial mission dictated by the national god Assur.5 With this objective, bas-reliefs show a canonical organisation that articulate the visual story: the army approaches the battlefield, the army fights against the enemy (the Assyrian king is also personally involved, next to his soldiers, in the 9th and 8th century BC), the enemies are taken as prisoners and counted with the booty. War needs to be planned to be successful and this recurrent visual organisation of the warfare wall panel reliefs might be interpreted as precisely intended to reproduce this mechanical movement and sequence of events (before, during, and after the battle). In this respect, images of war are not only canonical but also conventional, both in the aims (exaltation of the Assyrian power) and arrangement (the schema reflects the military tactics of the troops on the battlefield). Convention shows how the Assyrian artists probably worked on general and already prepared images (as drawings of prototypes) that were then adapted to the situations (open field battles vs sieges), geography, and landscape. At the same time, however, it is undeniable to observe how Assyrian art also presents anomalies within these schematic and, apparently, repetitive images: not only we can recognise different styles in the rendering, for example, of human figures (the representation of the body), animals, geographical, and environmental features, but the general organisation and composition of historical visual narratives also changed across time. For this reason, studies of Assyrian art are usually organised reign by reign, so that within the general label of ‘Assyrian art’ we can speak of the art of Assurnaṣirpal II, Tiglath-pileser, Sargon, Sennacherib, and Assurbanipal. Which are the main changes we can identify as examples of the introduction of innovation within the convention? Once these changes have been noticed, who are the people responsible for this? If the first question can have several exhaustive answers with a rich catalogue of occurrences of the same type of image in Assyrian art that changes from one period to another, or even within the same period,6 the answers to the second are 4

Aker, 2007. Liverani, 2017: 1–9. 6 As an example among the many possible, it is interesting to quote the two representations 5

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more difficult, maybe impossible, and surely more conjectural. I want to focus on the latter, suggesting who in the end might be the person responsible for the change in Assyrian art that passes from the laws of the convention to a marked realism. Assyrian art could be defined as realistic: based on real historical events, Assyrian images reproduce, sometimes with a degree of invention or reconfiguration of the facts,7 what the Assyrian king did and achieved in any field (politics, religion, building activities). Next to the great historical narratives, however, the realism in Assyrian art can properly be seen in the representation of details, even very small particulars, which define and describe small stories within the main narrative. Indeed, it is within the large visual narratives that we can find miniatures that do not tell a different story, nor do they contrast to the main story, but they introduce moments of realism and a direct drive of encounters, dialogues, and episodes of daily life. Within a battle or a siege, we can recognise and even isolate scenes that show the reality of the effects of the conquest (for example the images of falling enemies, the gestures of people, and civilians leaving the city under attack); in the aftermath, prisoners tidily move escorted by Assyrian soldiers, but these sad and dramatic situations are interrupted with scenes of people touching, helping each other (mothers who supply water to their children), sharing food in such an intimate realism and naturalism that it seems we can even hear their dialogue. As said, conventional representations could be made upon the existence of precise rules and even prepared drawings and models that the workshops of artists had at their disposal when working. On the other hand, realism shows a high degree of invention, freedom, and the possibility of introducing new shapes, new topics, and new figures within the large main relief: thus, it seems difficult that, also for these miniatures or vignettes,8 artists could rely upon the existence of the same models and preparatory drawings for each situation. These scenes are more spontaneous and are strictly linked to the situation and context of when and where they really happened.

of the battle on the river Ulai against the Elamite king Teumman in the time of Assurbanipal: the series of reliefs in room XXXIII in the South-West Palace of Sennacherib are different from the reliefs in room I in the North Palace, not only stylistically but also for the composition, organisation, and degree of detail that indicates different hands and artists working on the two groups of reliefs (Nadali, 2019: 64–66). For the two sets of bas-reliefs, see Barnett / Bleibtreu / Turner, 1998: pls. 286, 289, 293, 297, and Barnett, 1976: pls. XXV, respectively. 7 Often claimed as the result of the Assyrian propaganda machine, visual inventions or reconfigurations can also be the result of artistic needs or artists’ choices (Nadali, 2019). 8 Reed, 2007: 107–112.

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Fig. 1: A couple of Assyrian officials, one with the tablet, the other with the scroll, room XXVIII, South-West Palace of Sennacherib at Nineveh (© MarieLan Nguyen / Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 Generic). Having this natural aspect, I used the definition of live sketches, because these scenes really and effectively seize the moment. If they cannot be the result of conventional images that reproduce recurrent actions and attitudes (as it might be for the representation of a battle that, with its own differences of setting, is mostly based on a canon), what is the nature of these live sketches? Starting from the 8th century BC, in the time of Tiglath-pileser III, Assyrian bas-reliefs document the presence of a couple of officials who are usually (if not always) represented when the battle is over, registering the data of the victory of the Assyrian king (registration of captives, booty, killed enemies by the counting of severed heads) (Fig. 1). The couple is usually interpreted as the representation of two scribes taking notes of the numbers of the victory which will then be reported in the official documents and royal inscription, writing in Akkadian (the official with the tablet) and in Aramaic (the scribe with the scroll).9 In 1970, Madhloom suggested that the man with the scroll could, on the contrary, be identified as a war artist who had the duty to sketch the scene which would then have been transferred to the wall palace reliefs:10 this hypothesis, that I personally find brilliant and convincing (or at least 9

On Aramaic language in Assyria, see Fales, 2000; 2007; 2021. Madhloom, 1970: 121–122. Few sculptors’ models or artists’ trial pieces have been

10

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why should it be denied?), has not been commonly and widely accepted by scholars who rather prefer to speak of a couple of scribes.11 Following Madhloom’s suggestion that introduces an innovation in the conventional interpretation of the Assyrian visual evidence, I wonder whether in fact the presence of war artists on the battlefield, being among the Assyrian army suite, could be the reason for the realism of Assyrian art that, not casually, we can precisely see and appreciate since the 8th century BC – the same moment when in fact the war artist starts to be depicted. As a matter of fact, this is also the moment of the expansion of the Assyrian empire to West and the creation of the provinces system under Tiglath-pileser III.12 As pointed out by Reade, “no scribes are represented in the narrative of Assurnaṣirpal II”:13 should we conclude that the art of Assurnasirpal II is more convention and less realistic than the bas-reliefs of his successors of the 8th and 7th century BC? This is probably too harsh a conclusion: the bas-reliefs of Assurnaṣirpal II also present details of realism, although in fact they are less expressed or, better to say that they are compressed and restricted. Notwithstanding this, the effect of realism in the images of Assurnaṣirpal II can be, for example, singled out in the representation of the animals – the lion and the bull in the hunt, the horses in the crossing of the river, or at the gallop on the battlefield. At the same time, however, the representation of the sieges in the throne room of the North-West Palace of Assurnaṣirpal II at Nimrud can be judged as conventional, based on the repetition of models and canons with a lack of proportion in the organisation of the figures. Indeed, the lack of proportion or the exaggerated dimensions of figures can also be found in later examples (e.g., Sargon II), but we can at the same time see general attention to a more precise and harmonic organisation and arrangement of the figures on the surface of the slabs. In the art of Sennacherib, the attention to context and, more precisely, to the environment and landscape increased: Assyrian artists meticulously reproduce the characteristics and features of the environment and landscape of the places where the Assyrian army is operating. The natural space is not just reduced to a single vegetal element or to a river next to the besieged city, but it is considered in its totality with precise references to real features and elements that otherwise could not be represented if they had not been seen in person.14 If one could accept that the accuracy of the Assyrian bas-reliefs in representing landscape, architecture, or people could depend on written accounts and oral reports of the participants,15 this identified in the archaeological finds which might in fact explain the existence and need for preparatory sketches and examples. See Winter, 1996 and Reade, 2001–2002. 11 See Reade, 2012 for a detailed evaluation of the evidence. 12 Fales, 2013. 13 Reade, 2012: 700. 14 Jeffers, 2011. 15 Russell, 1991: 207–208.

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hypothesis, I think, cannot explain the realism of live sketches that needed to be seen in person. It is in fact within the large narrative of the battles or march of the Assyrian army that we find the miniatures of animals living in their habitat, vegetation, and people involved in ordinary daily activities (e.g., fishing).16 I believe that Madhloom’s intuition needs to be considered more attentively: the acknowledgement of war artists on the battlefield explains the vivid representations of details that could not be the result of conventional preparatory drawings or oral accounts of soldiers coming back from the battle. The presence of war artists not only justifies the accuracy of the Assyrian images, but it also documents the degree of freedom Assyrian artists had. It is interesting to notice that, beyond the changes we can recognise, the official art from the 9th to 7th century BC is based upon well-established conventions (e.g., the representation of siege, the image of the king, etc.). On the other hand, Assyrian artists are free to complete the scene with details and live sketches that do not contradict the story of the main event, but rather they add notes of realism, and they contribute to depicting, more realistically, what effectively happened. In the end, the realism of Assyrian artists is not just an expression of their desires, it is functional to the Assyrian king and the reasons for the Assyrian kingship: the architecture of the Assyrian palaces, luxury goods, gardens, animals, and booty are not represented by convention, but they are realistic, exactly as real as the palaces where the king lived, the luxury items and animals the king collected, the garden he created, and the booty he conquered from sacked cities and stored in the Assyrian capitals.17 Bibliography Aker, J., 2007: “Workmanship as Ideological Tool in the Monumental Hunt Reliefs of Assurbanipal”. In J. Cheng / M.H. Feldman (eds.): Ancient Near Eastern Art in Context. Studies in Honor of Irene J. Winter by Her Students. Leiden / Boston. Pp. 229–263. Barnett, R.D., 1976: Sculptures from the North Palace of Ashurbanipal at Nineveh (668–627 B.C.). London. Barnett, R.D. / Bleibtreu, E. / Turner, G., 1998: Sculptures from the South-west Palace of Sennacherib at Nineveh. London. Fales, F.M., 2000: “The Use and Function of Aramaic Tablets”. In G. Bunnens (ed.): Essays on Syria in the Iron Age. Ancient Near Eastern Studies, Supplement 7. Louvain / Paris. Pp. 89–124. — 2007: “Multilingualism on Multiple Media in the Neo-Assyrian Period: A Review of the Evidence”. SAAB 16, 95–122. — 2013: “All’inizio: l’aramaico mesopotamico più antico”. AION 73, 15–32.

16 17

Barnett / Bleibtreu / Turner, 1998: pl. 383. Reade, 2004.

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— 2021: “Aramaic Epigraphy from Assyria: New Data and Old Issues”. In A.M. Maeir / A. Berlejung / E. Eshel / T. Oshima (eds.): New Perspectives on Aramaic Epigraphy in Mesopotamia, Qumran, Egypt and Idumea. Tübingen. Pp. 5–16. Liverani, M., 2017: Assyria: The Imperial Mission. Winona Lake. Jeffers, J., 2011: “Fifth-campaign Reliefs in Sennacherib’s “Palace without Rival” at Nineveh”. Iraq 73, 87–116. Madhloom, T., 1970: The Chronology of Neo-Assyrian Art. London. Nadali, D., 2012: “Interpretations and Translations, Performativity and Embodied Simulation. Reflections on Assyrian Images”. In G.B. Lanfranchi / D. Morandi Bonacossi / C. Pappi / S. Ponchia (eds.): Leggo! Studies Presented to Frederick Mario Fales on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday. Wiesbaden. Pp. 583– 595. — 2019: “Assyrian Stories of War: The Reinvention of Battles Through Visual Narratives”. SAAB 25, 47–72. Nadali, D. / Verderame, L., 2019: “Neo-Assyrian Statues of Gods and Kings in Context. Integrating Textual, Archaeological and Iconographic Data on their Manufacture and Installation”. AoF 46/2, 234–248. Parpola, S., 1970: Letters from Assyrian Scholars to the Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal. Part I: Texts. AOAT 5/1. Kevelaer. — 1983: Letters from Assyrian Scholars to the Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal. Part II: Commentary and Appendices. AOAT 5/2. Kevelaer / Neukirchen-Vluyn. — 1993: Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian scholars. SAA 10. Helsinki. Reade, J.E., 2004: “The Assyrians as Collectors: From Accumulation to Synthesis”. In G. Frame (ed.): From the Upper Sea to the Lower Sea. Studies on the History of Assyria and Babylonia in Honour of A. K. Grayson. Leiden. Pp. 255–268. — 2001–2002: “Unfired clay, models, and ‘sculptors’ models’ in the British Museum”. AfO 48/49, 147–164. — 2012: “Visual Evidence for the Status and Activities of Assyrian Scribes”. In G.B. Lanfranchi / D. Morandi Bonacossi / C. Pappi / S. Ponchia (eds.): Leggo! Studies Presented to Frederick Mario Fales on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday. Wiesbaden. Pp. 699–717. Reed, S., 2007: “Blurring the Edges: A Reconsideration of the Treatment of Enemies in Ashurbanipal’s Reliefs”. In J. Cheng / M.H. Feldman (eds.): Ancient Near Eastern Art in Context. Studies in Honor of Irene J. Winter by Her Students. Leiden / Boston. Pp. 101–130. Russell, J.M., 1991: Sennacherib’s Palace without Rival at Nineveh. Chicago. Winter, I.J., 1996: “Artists’ Trial Pieces from Susa?”. In H. Gasche / B. Hrouda (eds.): Collectanea Orientalia: Histoire, arts de l’espace et industrie de la terre. Études offertes en hommage à Agnès Spycket. Neuchâtel / Paris. Pp. 397–406.

Male Action in Akkadian and Hebrew Love Poetry Martti Nissinen Male actors in love poetry Only a few love poems in Akkadian language were published by the turn of the millennium, when I was preparing my paper on “Rituals and Poetry of Divine Love” for the 47th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale in 2001. Simo Parpola – my teacher and friend to whom I joyfully dedicate this essay – generously gave me his transliteration and translation of the then unpublished text LKA 15,1 supposing that many more similar poems were still awaiting publication. Simo was right, although it took another decade and a half before a workable corpus of Akkadian love poems became available to researchers.2 Due to its intrinsic genderedness, the Akkadian love poetry, together with Sumerian, Egyptian, and biblical love poems, is indispensable source material for ancient gender studies. The highly personalized mode of expression distinguishes love poems from other kinds of written sources, and gendered constructions in them often differ from what can be found in other literary texts, let alone in letters or administrative documents. Even constructions of masculinity and male agency are surprisingly variable in love poetry, as has recently been noticed with regard to the Song of Songs and the Ugaritic Baal Cycle.3 Ancient Near Eastern studies may appear as a latecomer in the study of men and masculinities; however, during recent years even these topics have been taken under scrutiny,4 modifying the ad1

Parpola’s transliteration and translation of LKA 15 was first published in Nissinen, 2001: 118–19; cf. Meinhold, 2009: 301–12; Wasserman, 2016: 119–21. 2 I.e., Wasserman, 2016. Akkadian poems had already been published in Groneberg, 1999; von Soden / Oelsner, 1991; Livingstone, 1989: 35–37; Westenholz, 1987; Black, 1983; Deller, 1983; Lambert, 1966; 1975; Held, 1961; Ebeling, 1922. A new edition of the Divine Triangle Drama (Lambert, 1975) is being prepared by Rocío Da Riva and Nathan Wasserman. Wasserman, 2016 includes new editions of the entire corpus of Akkadian love literature, both poetry and incantations, until the Middle Assyrian period (LAOS 4). It is unfortunate that many of the newly published texts are unprovenanced, purchased in recent times by private collectors (nos. 2–5; 11; 18). 3 For the Song of Songs, see especially Verde, 2020 and Nissinen, 2019; for the Baal Cycle, see Carvalho, 2020 and Nissinen, 2020. 4 Asher-Greve, 2018: 37; cf. Zsolnay, 2018. Earlier studies on men and masculinity in the ancient Near Eastern sources and the Hebrew Bible include, e.g., Clines, 1995: 212–243; Nissinen, 1998; Cooper, 2002; Chapman, 2004. Several collections of essays have appeared within the past fifteen years on men masculinity in the Hebrew Bible (Creangă, 2010 and 2019; Creangă / Smit, 2014) and in other ancient Near Eastern sources (Zsolnay, 2017 and Svärd / Garcia Ventura, 2018, especially N’Shea, 2018 and Svärd / Nissinen, 2018); cf. Kirova, 2020; Peled, 2016; Nissinen, 2020.

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vanced theoretical framework essentially informed by R. W. Connell’s classic Masculinities and its aftermath,5 and importantly complemented by queer studies.6 The essay at hand belongs to a triptych of articles, the other parts of which analyze male desire as well as jealousy and anger in Akkadian and Hebrew love poetry.7 Male speakers in ancient Near Eastern love poems can be identified by personal names and gender-specific titles, by gendered verbs and personal suffixes, and by the dialogical structure frequently employed in love poems.8 In the absence of clear markers, the gender of the speaker can only be concluded by implication of the otherwise prevalent heterosexual matrix. Whether the male actors are divine or human, named or anonymous, present or absent, they are to be seen first and foremost as poetic characters, even in poems that mention names of historical personalities. Male action is indicated by different means. Some poems include narrative sections describing the man’s undertakings, but very often the action is intended rather than executed, implying the male character’s wishes and fantasies. Male action – or the lack thereof – may also be described or fantisized by the female speaker. As love poems are all about relationship and mutual negotiation, the lovers typically interact in different gendered positions, more or less corresponding to patriarchal hierarchy. The man in action The shepherd The goal of virtually all action in ancient Near Eastern love poetry is to get into an intimate relationship with the beloved. This is not always easy, and the longing for the absent beloved is expressed by male and female voices alike. The woman is often yearning for the man who is busy elsewhere. In the woman’s imagination, the absent man is repeatedly compared to a shepherd, indeed one of the most typical metaphors for the male beloved. Many Akkadian love songs begin with addressing the male beloved as a shepherd.9 The woman in the Song of Songs wants 5

Connell, 2005 (1st ed. 1995); Connell / Messerschmidt, 2005; cf., e.g., Dudink / Hageman / Tosh, 2004; Arnold / Brady, eds, 2011. 6 For Assyriological examples, see, e.g., Guinan / Morris, 2017; McGaffrey 2002. 7 Unfortunately, there is not enough space to discuss the Sumerian (Sefati, 1997) and Egyptian (Fox, 1985) love songs in this essay. 8 The following poems are either constructed as dialogues or include dialogical elements: Song of Songs; SAA 3 14; LAOS 4 8(?); 10; 11; 15; 16; and the Divine Triangle Drama (Lambert, 1975). 9 Such poems are organized in groups in the Middle Assyrian list of incipits of love songs (LAOS 4 19 i 5–8; ii 5–9), one section of which lists “thirty-one Ištarūtu songs of the series ‘My shepherd, my shepherd’” (LAOS 4 19 ii 45–46). This tradition evidently goes back to Sumerian love poetry, where Dumuzi typically appears as the “shepherd.”

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to know where her beloved pastures his flock, and her companions urge her to follow the tracks of the flock and pasture her (sic!) kids (gǝdiyyōtayik) beside the shepherds’ tents (Cant 1:7–8). Similarly, Ištar looks for her beloved Dumuzi who is pasturing his flocks, and eventually finds him:10 Ištar is looking for Dumuzi everywhere. “My shepherd!,” she seeks, “My shepherd!”11 His flock is wandering around,12 looking for a pasture where grass veils itself with pomegranates,13 where the red flower blossoms for him on the top of the tree. His eyes scan the pasture and the meadow, seeking water-sources in the steppe and in the mountain forests. Ištar saw the beloved she had been looking for! In the hut of the Lord of Oath14 she said to him: Come, [yo]u, my shepherd, I want to lead you to the place! My shepherd, direct your flock! [The so]n of Aššur provided our abundant pasture with juniper.15 It is [y]ou who shall shepherd our meadow, who shall shepherd our abundant river-meadow! In another poem, the so-called “Babylonian Ballad,” Ištar invites her lover Dumuzi to a party hosted by her mother Ningal, eventually ending with spending the night with her: “Come in, shepherd, Ištar’s lover! Spend the night here, shepherd, Ištar’s lover!”16 Dumuzi, however, is occupied with other demanding tasks:17 10

LAOS 4 9:1–8 (Wasserman, 2016: 119); cf. the editions of Simo Parpola in Nissinen, 2001: 118–19 and of Meinhold, 2009: 302–3. Henceforth, the translations of the Akkadian texts are either my own or prepared in collaboration with Nathan Wasserman. 11 The repetition of “My shepherd” is based on the reading re-i-ia; cf. the reading ri-i-⸢ta⸣ “she searches the pasture” (Wasserman, 2016: 119; cf. Meinhold, 2009: 302). 12 Interpreting it-te-ner-ru bu-la-šu as ittenerrub būlašu, assuming the assimilation of last b of erēbu Gtn with the first letter of būlu (thus Wasserman, 2016: 121). 13 Adopting Wasserman’s (2016: 121) reading nu-ru[u]m?-m[e]? (< nurmû “pomegranate”). 14 Adopting the reading of Meinhold (2009: 307–8) reading ⸢EN ta-⸣ ma-ti-ma, admitting that the designation “Lord of Oath” is a hapax legomenon. The “hut” may echo the Epic of Gilgameš, where Šamḫat takes Enkidu “the hut of the shepherd” (ana gupri ša rē’îm) (Gilg ii 75). 15 Reading SUM-na LI (iddina burāša) “provided … with juniper”; see Meinhold, 2009: 302 and Wasserman, 2016: 122. 16 LAOS 4 7:1. This poem is included in the Middle Assyrian list of love songs (LAOS 4 19 i 7). Cf. Black 1983. 17 LAOS 4 7:15–18 (Wasserman, 2016: 111).

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The hero is worried about dogs and shepherds: Why do they hate him? He fetched and brought. He went to and fro, he fetched and brought. The hero is worried about the shepherds’ well-being. The trouble caused by “dogs and shepherds” makes Dumuzi appear in a leadership position, as he is concerned about other shepherds whose management is challenging enough to keep him busy. Ištar, however, does not become disheartened but goes directly to Dumuzi:18 Ištar went to his sheepfold. She opened her mouth and said to him: “How fresh is the water, the water of your sheepfold! Your water is burbling, the water of the cattle-pen!” The (more or less) fresh water of the cattle-pen appears as a counterpart to the sweet confection Ningal offered to her guests.19 The shepherd metaphor in biblical, Near Eastern, and Greek literature is a representation of masculinity, typically associated with kingship and leadership.20 In love literature, the shepherd metaphor is given a different twist of the absent male lover who is nonetheless reachable and willing to engage in a relationship. In the Song of Songs, the woman is encouraged to enter into the male realm, assuming the role of the shepherd with her own kids and thus emulating male control. Even Ištar goes to Dumuzi’s sheepfold and talks about “our” meadow, as if she was sharing Dumuzi’s realm of leadership. It is probably not coincidental that all three above-quoted poems mention kings (Solomon in Cant 1:1 etc., Shalmaneser in LAOS 4 9 r.6, and an anonymous šarrum in LAOS 3 7: 19),21 hence integrating the royal association of the shepherd metaphor in the language of love poetry. As a shepherd, the male lover acts like the king in a masculine leadership role, but in the world of the love poems, the shepherd’s realm is accessible to the female partner. It is the woman’s independent agency and initiative that makes it possible for the partners to pasture together.

18

LAOS 4 7:36–39 (Wasserman, 2016: 111). Ibid., lines 13–14: “After her bride (kallāssa) entered the presence of Ningal, they divided the sweet confection in the bowl.” “Her bride” probably refers to Ištar as the daughter of Ningal and as the bride Dumuzi. 20 See Haubold, 2015; Kirova, 2020: 93–121; Anthonioz, 2020. 21 Cf. LAOS 4 10:5: “may he shepherd his troops forever!” Due to the damages of the tablet, it is not clear whether this refers to the god Muati or King Abi-ešuḫ, who is mentioned on the following line. 19

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The polite warrior The ways male characters approach women in the love poems vary from a passive and iffy comportment to a more active, even aggressive and violent action. Sometimes it is the lack of male action that drives the woman crazy, especially when she is waiting for a message from him in vain:22 You have made me sit in bonds! I am waiting for a letter of love but he withholds it from me. As far as the role of the man is understood correctly in this partially destroyed poem, he is not intentionally teasing the woman or playing with her feelings, he just cannot make up his mind:23 He set off and went straight away to Tigris. When will he drink pure water? He is walking in the wasteland. When will he drink the water of Tigris? The man’s roaming in the wasteland in pursuit of water may symbolize his confusion, and the preserved parts of the text may suggest his resorting to divinatory means to resolve his dilemma.24 While this male character seems to put some effort into clarifying his mixed feelings, the Song of Songs’ male speaker expresses his love openly but may instantly give up if the woman’s response is not immediately positive. This is what happens in Cant 5:2–7, where the man seeks to enter the woman’s house, but her initial hesitation scares him away, causing her to become deeply frustrated. The male lover in the Song of Songs is usually depicted as a virile but gentle man, in contrast to other male characters who may appear as coercive, aggressive, or otherwise hegemonic.25 He does not simply come and take what he thinks belongs to him but, rather, invites the woman politely (Cant 2:8–9) or waits for her invitation (4:12–5:1; 8:13). If he takes initiative, it is rather the woman who tells about it: “He has brought me to the house of wine, and his banner over me was love” (2:4). This blended metaphor involving intoxication and a military banner turns the man into a warrior who, however, does not use violence to conquer an enemy but, instead, acts as “the medium of the vigor and ardor of love, which completely subjugates the beloved.”26 The passionate but gentle man can be found 22

LAOS 4 1 ii 10–11 (Wasserman, 2016: 66). LAOS 4 1 ii 18–22 (Wasserman, 2016: 66); “in the wasteland” is translated from i-mu?tam (immûtam = ina namûtam). 24 The poorly preserved parts of the text include the word “oracle” (têrtum, line ii 26), “dream” (šuttum, line iii 4), and “good sign” (ittum damqum, line iii 5). 25 See my analysis in Nissinen 2019. 26 Verde, 2020: 109; see his analysis of the metaphorical process in Cant 2:4 ibid., 104– 109. 23

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even in the Akkadian poems, in which the male speaker may express his wish to enter into the woman’s body rather straightforwardly: “Yalla! Let me plunge (into you)!”27 However, the active role of the male lover in the same poem is presented as a response to the woman’s wish:28 (Man) [… I] have opened your gates and borders. (Woman) Take the booty of your love! (Man) I just carried it away! Even here, the military imagery of conquering a city and taking booty is modified into an expression of passion and love, corresponding to the lovers’ mutual desire. The chariot-rider Another metaphor with a distinct connotation of conquest is the gorgeous vehicle, or at least a ride in it, provided to the woman. The enigmatic passage in Cant 6:12 (lō’ yādaʻtî napšî śāmatnî markǝbôt ʻammî-nādîb) has been interpreted in various ways, usually as a phantasy of the woman who, while innocently walking in an orchard, all of the sudden becomes hijacked by a noble young man: “Before I was aware, my soul/my fancy set me on the chariots of Amminadib.”29 The words could also be interpreted as spoken by the man who feels like he himself has been turned into “chariots of Amminadib” by the woman, earlier compared to “a mare among Pharaoph’s chariots” (1:9).30 Depending on the interpretation, hence, the chariots may represent either the man’s masculine performance or his own empowerment. Either way, the (plural) chariots may denote both luxury and military power and serve as a distinct marker of hegemonic masculinity. Even Nabû wants to provide a chariot for Tašmetu, his beloved.31 The chariot is needed to fulfill Tašmetu’s wish of “going to the garden” (ana kirî), which, again, has a ritual counterpart in the ceremonial procession of the deities attested in several Neo-Assyrian sources.32 This turns the attention to chariots as ritual vehicles and to the male role as a participant of such processions in the love poems. The ritual may be imagined as a royal wedding, such as that of Solomon in Cant 3:6–11,33 or a sacred marriage as in the case of Nabû and Tašmetu. One Neo27

LAOS 4 11:15: gana lušallīam. The verb šalûm designates the total immersion in love (Wasserman, 2016: 139), which may happen even in physical terms. 28 LAOS 4 11:3 (Wasserman, 2016: 133). 29 This is how I have understood the verse in Nissinen, 2019: 257–258; cf. different interpretations, e.g., in Barbiero, 1997: 174–189 and Gerhards, 2010: 409–415. 30 Thus Verde (2020: 118–126) who interprets the words as spoken by the man: “I am shocked; she turned me into chariots of Amminadib.” 31 SAA 3 14 r. 4: “[Let me pro]vide a new chariot for you […]” ([laš]kunki narkabtu eššētu […]). 32 See SAA 3 6:10; SAA 13 32; 56; 70; 78; cf. Matsushima, 1987; Nissinen, 2001: 97–99. 33 Instead of riding a chariot, Solomon is sitting in a baldachin, but the passage is otherwise full of military allusions. The fragmentary text LAOS 4 8 (Wasserman, 2016: 115–117;

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Babylonian text (STT 366) is all about the procession of the goddess Banitu to the “garden of junipers” (ana kirî burāši), describing in detail the decoration of two chariots, mašīru and narkabtu, the former for Banitu herself and the other presumably for her divine consort not mentioned in the text.34 When associated with ritual vehicles, the male role is that of the lover and bridegroom rather than a warrior. In the case of Nabû, providing a chariot for the beloved can certainly be considered masculine performance, but the same may be true even for Banitu, who seems to be in charge of harnessing the chariots both for herself and her anonymous lover, whose possible male agency remains hidden. The aggressor As gentle and endearing the male lovers appear in most of the poems, even the aggressive man is not absent from them. In the Song of Songs, the role of the aggressor is written for the city guards battering the female speaker (Cant 5:7). The woman’s beating, wounding, and stripping is tantamount to rape, even without the mentioning of a penetrative assault. The guards are constructed as the counterimage of the male beloved she was looking for, and they present a dystopic reversal of the happy end of the earlier similar scene in Cant 3:1–5.35 In the preserved Akkadian poems, the male character is never presented as assaulting the woman sexually. This may be a coincidence, however, since several incipits listed in the catalogue LAOS 4 18 demonstrate the presence of this feature in love poems. One of them, for instance, begins with the words “Let us call up the labia: her vagina is being taken by force!”36 Even more incipits suggesting the male character’s aggressive or offensive behaviour can be found grouped together in the same catalogue, which indicates that even aggressive language belonged to the repertoire.37 Interestingly, however, this group of incipits is followed by lines spoken by a woman who refuses to degrade herself to be a man’s servant.38 Coercive behaviour is not an uncontested feature of masculine performance in the love

Frahm, 2009: 143–145) may belong to a royal wedding ritual, although the remaining part of the text does not mention any procession vehicles. Even the fragments LAOS 4 14a–f (Wasserman, 2016: 154–168) may be related to a ritual involving King Šu-Sîn and the gods Ningal and Sîn, but the text is too damaged to allow any definitive conclusions. 34 See Deller, 1983; cf. Reiner, 1967: 180–182. The tablet is a school text containing excerpts of two separate and unrelated compositions. The name of Banitu’s consort may have been mentioned in the original composition. 35 Gerhards, 2010: 231–280. 36 LAOS 4 18:10 (Wasserman, 2016: 190; George, 2009: 72): i niqri kisalla ūraša mašḫat. I interpret the word kisallum “forecourt” as referring to the labia. The verb mašḫat is derived from mašā’u “to take away by force” (cf. LAOS 4 11:2; Wasserman, 2016: 193). 37 LAOS 4 18:15–22 (Wasserman, 2016: 190–191; George, 2009: 72); see below. 38 LAOS 4 18:24–25: “I shall not degrade myself to be your slave!” / “I shall not be serving before my friend!” (Wasserman, 2016: 191; George, 2009: 72).

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songs, since it can be refuted, if not ridiculed: “He caused a deluge – achieving what?”39 The man’s aggressive feelings find a blunt expression in the poem LAOS 4 4, that is nothing but an angry outburst of a man dumped by a woman.40 The speaker scorns the woman who does not worship him and uses offensive language of her, calling her “a daughter of a substitute with [no] dowry,” a “hellcat,” and a “field of salt” that is “all too well known” if not a “public furrow,” thus degrading her both socially and sexually.41 He presents himself in the most hegemonic manner, telling her to know her place and calumniating her future sex life as a failure.42 The poem’s message is twofold: On the one hand, it serves as a graphic example of language as a tool of gendered discourse of power and domination, but at the same time, it makes plain the helpless frustration of the man whose masculine performance has been seriously questioned by a woman. Gendered positions Hierarchical positions The discourse of domination in love poetry is seldom as overtly aggressive and misogynist as in the last-discussed text (LAOS 4 4), but gender hierarchy is nevertheless present in many poems. The culturally dominant position of men is openly manifested in the male characters of the Song of Songs other than the male protagonist, such as the city guards who abuse the woman (Cant 5:7) and the brothers who – in the conspicuous absence of the father – assume a dominant position over their sister (1:6; 8:8–943). Solomon is a king who is adored by women (1:3–4) and whose wedding procession is permeated with connotations of hegemonic masculinity while the bride is not even mentioned (3:6–11). However, this description may already be read as sarcastic, and towards the end of the Song of Songs, Solomon’s hegemonic role is degraded to that of a brothel-keeper (8:11– 12).44 39

LAOS 4 18:15: iššâ abūbam išakkan mīnam. This line may question the ideal of masculine force (cf. George, 2009: 74), or it may mock the man’s big thoughts about himself. 40 LAOS 4 4 (Wasserman, 2016: 95–96; George, 2009: 62). The text has a partial parallel in LAOS 4 16, where the lines i 2–8, ii 10–14, and ii 17–19 are almost verbatim the same as LAOS 4 4:1–8, 10–16. The notable difference between the texts is that LAOS 4 16 (Wasserman, 2016: 175–187; Held, 1961: 6–9) is not a monologue but a dialogue between a reluctant man and a woman in love, eventually taking a happy end. 41 LAOS 4 4:17, 28, 39, 41, 43. The word translated as “hellcat” is kalbatum “she-dog.” 42 LAOS 4 4:21: “Let me tell you where [your] place is”; ibid., line 36: “No one will come near to your canal.” 43 Note, however, that the speakers in Cant 8:8–9 are not identified. In the interpretation of Exum (2005: 256–57), the words are spoken by the woman’s female peers rather than her brothers. 44 For the ironical description of Solomon, see Schellenberg, 2020; Särkiö, 2018.

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The Middle Assyrian catalogue itemizes dozens of Akkadian poems that begin by extolling the male or female protagonist, typically divine or divinized; for instance:45 First-born, son of Anu, let me praise your power! Let me proclaim the praise of Adad, the god of thunder! I shall sing the praise of Ištar, the queen! The heroic daughter of Sîn, the able goddess! The amatory content of these compositions is not a matter of course, since these and similar lines sound more like incipits of laudatory hymns.46 Since, however, gods are typical protagonists of love songs, some of which even include laudatory elements,47 it is equally difficult to conclude which parts of the catalogue should not be regarded as love songs. As the remaining parts of the poems are lost, the gender configuration in them is unknown and no conclusions regarding gender hierarchy can be drawn. What becomes evident is that both male and female figures could be praised as possessing great authority. Much clearer expressions of male domination and abusive action can be found in a few incipits listed in LAOS 4 18:48 He took by force, he penetrated and is relaxed now.49 Let me perform the work of love, venting my spleen to your throat!50 I am carrying a knife and a whetstone. One woman [is o]ut, another wide open, two men are plowing them. Abundantly present in many genres of literature, the division of active and passive sexual roles and the domination of the male party can, as these lines show, be expressed most bluntly even in love poetry. Every line is explicit about the passive role and submission of the other party. All of the topics – relaxation after forced 45

LAOS 4 19 i 20, 28, ii 6, 16 (Wasserman, 2016: 206–207). Cf. Wasserman, 2016: 201; Hecker, 2013: 55. 47 E.g., LAOS 4 5:4–6 (Wasserman, 2016: 101): “O exalted one, the great daughter of Sîn! O supernal mistress of the high priest, who is worthy of being seen at your side? O Lady through true ordinances, great among lords, how majestic you are!”; LAOS 4 15 i 14–15 (Wasserman, 2016: 170): “Verily, in the month of Nisan we are the ones who always bless him, the ones who sing praise like in ancient times when he appears!” 48 LAOS 4 18:13–14, 16, 18, 20 (Wasserman, 2016: 190–191; George, 2009: 72). 49 Literally: “He took by force, he placed (it), he is silent” (imtašuḫ iškunma iqāl). I assume this to refer to penetration and the subsequent relaxation. 50 Literally: “Let me perform the work: the spleen to the mouth of uvula” (lūpiš šip[r]am ṭulīmam pî napšāri). This can hardly mean anything else but ejaculation to the woman’s mouth. 46

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penetration; semen as “spleen” in fellatio; knife and whetstone probably associated with coercive sex; gang-rape of two women – represent hyperhegemonic, violent masculinity otherwise difficult to find in Akkadian love poetry. In the absence of the rest of the poems, it is impossible to analyze how the topic of male domination, coercion, and abuse is developed in the original compositions. Have these poems indeed celebrated toxic masculinity? What happened to the targets of male aggression in these poems? Has there been a female voice refuting and ridiculing the masculine hubris? The dominant position of the man probably reflects the cultural expectiations of patriarchal society; however, love poetry demonstrates that this was not the only imaginable position between women and men. The remarkably independent, if not dominant, agency of the woman in the Song of Songs has been duly recognized,51 and strong female voices can be heard even in the Akkadian love poems.52 The woman is indeed presented as the object of male desire and sexual action, but typically not against her will. The woman is often the one who takes the initiative and invites the man to make love with her, presenting herself as the subject of lovemaking; for instance:53 Turn yourself on and let me make love [to you] in your lap soft of morning slumber! ––– Stretch your left hand and pet our54 vagina! Play with our breasts, [enter,]55 I have opened my [thi]ghs! The Middle Assyrian catalogue of love songs includes a long section of irtu poems56 beginning with the woman’s initiative; for example: “Whenever you want to enter, my lord – it is now!” – “Tonight, my love, I make you (m.) to spend the whole night with me!”57 The woman’s initiative does not as such imply a reversal of gender hierarchy – she may still address her beloved as the “lord” (bēlu) – but it nevertheless relativizes male dominance. Even the male partner may express the wish of becoming “conquered” by the woman: “Conquer what is mine and of my love! Rejoice, Queen Nanaya!”58 Without actually turning gender hierarchy 51

See, e.g., Verde, 2020: 45–101, 133–168 for military imagery used of the woman. For a more thorough analysis, see Nissinen, 2023. 53 LAOS 4 13 i 3–5, 13–14 (Wasserman, 2016: 150–151; Westenholz, 1987: 422–423); cf. Cant 1:4; 2:17; 8:2, 14. 54 The woman refers to herself in 1. person plural; for the “plural of ecstasy,” see Paul, 1997. 55 Thus according to the restoration by Westenholz, 1987: 422: [er-ba ḫa-al]-la ap-ti. 56 For this class of love poems, see Groneberg, 1999; 2003: 66–69. The section of seventeen “irtu songs of the lyre” comprises lines LAOS 4 19 vii 7–23. 57 LAOS 4 19 vii 10, 13 (Wasserman, 2016: 212). 58 LAOS 4 15 i 26–27 (Wasserman, 2016: 170; Sigrist / Westenholz, 2008: 681). “What is mine and of my love” probably stands for male genitals. 52

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upside down, verses like this give expression to the active agency of the female partner of a sexual relationship. A true reversal of roles takes place in the poem classified as a pārum (“praise”) of Ištar (LAOS 4 12).59 This Middle Babylonian text is associated with a city festival by the refrain repeated in every verse: “Celebration is the foundation of the city” (rīšātumma išdum ana ālim). The content of the poem is blatantly sexual. First, a man asks Ištar to yield to him, and another wants to pet her vagina. Ištar tells them to gather around her the young men from the city, and invites all of them “to the shadow of the wall” (ana ṣilli dūrim) to make love with her: Seven from in front of her, seven from behind of her (Refrain), Sixty and sixty relieve themselves in her vagina! (Refrain) The young men got tired, Ištar did not get tired. (Refrain) “Place it, young men, to my lovely vagina!” (Refrain) As the young woman was speaking (Refrain), the young men listened and yielded to her order. (Refrain) No-one but Ištar, who is able to change people’s gender and may herself assume a masculine role, can be imagined performing in such a manner. She is the only deity who is competent to combine sexual initiative with female gender and masculine authority. The goddess assumes a dominant sexual role, and her sexual performance is overwhelming. Virile young men attempt to demonstrate their masculinity but, eventually, cannot but yield to the order of Ištar who tires them completely. The text may be read as a carnevalist reversal of conventional gender hierarchy, but the interpretation depends on the perspective. Ištar may be presented as the paragon of women’s sexual empowerment, but the text may also be read as a distinctly male fantasy of a libidinious and insatiable woman.60 Non-hierarchical positions Apart from the texts quoted above, the relationship of the lovers is presented with little or no reference to gender hierarchy. The lack of hierarchy between the female and male lover in the Song of Songs has often been noted, and even the Akkadian poems mostly present the interaction of the lovers in equal terms. Many poems express mutual love, desire, and consent, constructing a space where the lovers communicate with each other unencumbered by structures power and authority.61 An intimate and confidential exchange with a woman was not necessarily considered manly behavior in the patriarchal society, and the man may not have been expected to share his inner feelings and other sensitive issues with his 59

Wasserman, 2016: 146–147; cf. Hurowitz, 1995; von Soden / Oelsner, 1991. Five further pārum (“praise”) songs are listed in the Middle Assyrian catalogue (LAOS 4 19 viii 16), but the nature of the category remains unclear; cf. Groneberg, 2003: 63. 60 Cf. the reading of the Song of Songs as a male fantasy by Clines, 1995: 94–121. 61 Especially SAA 3 14; LAOS 4 10; 11; 15.

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wife or any other lover because of the risk of her gaining the upper hand.62 That such relationships nonetheless existed is reflected by the incantation-like poem, in which the speaker turns to Ištar to disturb the mutual and confidential relationship of a couple: “May they not disclose to each other whatever is pure in their hearts!”63 The dialogue format is particularly apt to construct potential hierarchies in gendered relationships. Time and again, however, it is rather the lack of gender hierarchy between the lovers that is manifest in dialogues. The lovers do not only gaze one another, they openly express their mutual desire:64 (Woman) At his coming brightness broke out! How I want to embrace you! (Man) How I want to endear you! (Woman) I want to plunder your allure like a [ro]bber! (Man) When may I pull out the nose of your desire?65 Invitations to lovemaking fly to both directions.66 Sometimes they even meet with response, leading to the encounter of the lovers:67 (Man) Would you be my one and only? (Woman) You heard, my love, you listened to me! You heard my prayer, may your heart be relieved! Such an encounter happens even in the dialogue of Nabû and Tašmetu, in which the lovers are not placed in a hierarchical order; in fact, the very beginning of the poem pronounces their equal significance by way of synonymous parallelism:68 May anyone trust in whomever he trusts! We trust in Nabû, we are submissive to Tašmetu! 62

This is explicitly stated in the wisdom text Šimâ milka, lines 65–74: “Do not open your heart to your beloved wife. For otherwise she will tell you ‘Submit!’ ” (Cohen, 2013: 90– 91); cf. Wasserman, 2016: 103. 63 LAOS 4 5:3 (Wasserman, 2016: 101; George, 2009: 76). 64 LAOS 4 11:1–2 (Wasserman, 2016: 133). 65 The “nose of desire” probably means the clitoris; cf. Wasserman, 2016: 136, referring to Michael P. Streck’s suggestion. 66 The woman invites the man in Cant 1:4; 2:17; 4:16; 7:12–14; 8:14; LAOS 4 7:1–2; 9:6; 11 r. 7; 12:14; 13:3–5, 13–14; 15 i 20–21; 19 i 5–6, ii 8, vii 10, 13, 16; the man is the inviting party in Cant 2:10–14; 4:8; SAA 3 14 r. 25; LAOS 4 10:3; 11:15, r. 4; 12:9, 11; 15 i 26. The incipit LAOS 4 18:8 does not reveal the gender of the speaker: “Let us perform the work of love as long as it takes!” (i nuštaqti nēpištu râmimma; Wasserman, 2016: 190; George, 2009: 72). 67 LAOS 4 15 i 6–8 (Wasserman, 2016: 169; Sigrist / Westenholz, 2008: 679); cf. Cant 4:16–5:1; SAA 3 14 r. 15–32. 68 SAA 3 14:1–5 (Livingstone, 1989: 3–5).

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What is ours remains ours. Nabû is our lord, Tašmetu is the mountain of our trust! As in the Song of Songs, the hierarchy is found outside the relationship. Tašmetu is worried about her status among the gods, and Nabû tries to convince her about her foremost position.69 The dialogue of Nanaya and Muati (LAOS 4 10) involves even Abi-ešuḫ, king of Babylon, who is presented as the beneficiary of the divine love affair, virtually becoming the alter ego of the god Muati. The poem begins70 with a male voice wishing to make love with Nanaya, who responds with the assertion that she wants to “continually perform for Abi-ešuḫ,”71 to whom she bestows life.72 In the following section, the goddess praises the sex-appeal of Muati as a response to his gaze:73 The image you have been gazing at – is it not celebrated all the time […]?74 Let me gaze at your body, so tall, filled with joy [……]! The mutual gaze implies the lack of hierarchy, and even the ritually elevated position of Muati does not suggest the opposite, since the performance of the goddess reveals her full agency:75 Muati, the exuberant one, she treats with honour, She is the one who seated him on the gre[at] dais […]. Providing for the god-king, taking care of his supreme status, and the bold response to his gaze do not place Nanaya much lower on a hierarchical ladder; instead, the male partner is made dependent on her performance. It is the woman

69

SAA 3 14 r. 19, 25: (Tašmetu) “They did not place my throne among the councellors” – – (Nabû) “Among the councellors, her throne is foremost!” The councellors (mālikāni) probably refer to other gods. 70 Provided that the order of the obverse and the reverse of the tablet has been understood correctly; cf. Hecker, 2005: 173. 71 LAOS 4 10:6 (Wasserman, 2016: 124): […] Abī-e[š]ūḫ lūteppuš. The first six lines are partially destroyed; if the name of the male speaker is mentioned in the original poem, it has not been preserved. 72 LAOS 4 10:14, r. 6–7 (Wasserman, 2016: 125): “May the king live forever at your command! May Abi-ešuḫ live foreve[r at your command!]” – – “Nanaia [bestowed] li[fe fo]r Abi-eš[uḫ ……], she let him dwell in security [………]. 73 LAOS 4 10:11–12 (Wasserman, 2016: 125). 74 Literally: “Isn’t it constantly sated with festivals?” (iššinnū kayyān ul išše[bbi …]). The reference is probably made to the image or the statue of the goddess. 75 LAOS 4 10 r. 10 (Wasserman, 2016: 125).

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who acts throughout the poem, while the male character has no particular agency apart from lovemaking. Conclusion In view of the hegemonic ideal of male performance, usually considered the prevalent pattern in ancient sources, it is remarkable how variably the constructions of male agency are constructed in Akkadian and Hebrew love poems. The man may have an active agency but he can also be depicted as passive and iffy. He may behave aggressively, even abusively, but more often than not his actions are presented as generous, inviting, and endearing. Apart from a few texts where sexual abuse and coercion are thematized, hierarchical structures typical of patriarchal society play no role at all, or are presented as not concerning the relationship of the lovers. The hegemonic ideal may even be relativized by describing the helpless frustration of a man dumped by a woman (LAOS 4 4), or by making Ištar turn the sexual hierarchy on its head (LAOS 4 12). Many love poems employ metaphors of masculine leadership to describe male and even female agency. The shepherd metaphor is turned into the image of the absent lover without entirely losing its divine-royal connotations. Images of conquest and warfare are translated into amatory language that obscures their military implications, furnishing them with meanings of love and joy. Chariots, whether serving military or ritual purposes in the real world, become vehicles of love. The sexual act rarely appears as a performance of hegemonic masculinity in the love poems. More often than not, both parties are actively and personally engaged in the lovemaking that is presented as a mutual encounter. Especially in poems that exhibit no hierarchy between the lovers, the action of the man differs little from that of the woman. Both women and men may take the initiative and respond to the beloved in equal terms. Women can appear as strong and determined, while men can be depicted as nervous and indecisive; violence and coercion, however, remains male domain even in love poetry. As important marker of masculinity as the man’s procreative capacity would be, it is not mentioned even once in the Akkadian and Hebrew love poems preserved to us.76 Poetry is all about imagination instead of documentation. Therefore, even love poems cannot be read as giving real-life snapshots of gendered relationships in the ancient world. Instead, they tell a whole lot about the limits and freedom of human fantasy, nourishing the imagination of their readers, listeners, and performers with more or less conventional expressions of love and desire. Without any doubt, however, love poetry is based on the gendered experience of real people, testifying to social and emotional struggles as well as true feelings of love and joy. It would be too much to characterize Akkadian and Hebrew love poems as a 76

Cant 8:5 bypasses the male contribution to procreation altogether: “Under the apple tree I aroused you. There your mother was in labour with you, there she who bore you was in labour.”

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backlash to the ideal of hegemonic masculinity. Nevertheless, love literature is important in demonstrating that ancient poets, performers, and audiences could imagine a world that is not intrinsically held together by male domination. Bibliography Anthonioz, S., 2020: “The Lion, the Shepherd and the Master of Animals: Metaphorical Interactions and Governance Representations in Mesopotamian and Levantine Sources”. In M. Palladivini / L. Portuese (eds.): Researching Metaphor in the Ancient Near East. Philippika 141. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Pp. 15–26. Arnold, J.H. / Brady, S. (eds.), 2011: What Is Masculinity? Historical Dynamics from Antiquity to the Contemporary World. Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan. Asher-Greve, J. M., 2018: “From La Femme to Multiple Sex/Gender”. In Svärd / Garcia-Ventura (eds.), 2018. Pp. 15–50. Barbiero, G., 1997. “Die ‘Wagen meines edlen Volkes’ (Hld 6,12): eine strukturelle Analyse”. Bib 78, 174–189. Black, J.A., 1983: “Babylonian Ballads: A New Genre”. JAOS 103, 25–34. Carvalho, C., 2020: “Fight Like a Girl: The Performance of Gender and Violence in the Baal Cycle”. In Russell / Hamori (eds.), 2020. Pp. 32–46. Chapman, C.R., 2004: The Gendered Language of Warfare in the Israelite-Assyrian Encounter. HSM 62. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Clines, D.J.A., 1995: “Why Is There a Song of Songs and What Does It Do to You When You Read It?” In idem, Interested Parties: The Ideology of the Writers and Readers of the Hebrew Bible. JSOTSup 205. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Pp. 94–121. Cohen, Y., 2013: Wisdom from the Late Bronze Age. WAW 34. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Connell, R.W., 2005: Masculinities. Second Edition. Berkeley: University of California Press. Connell, R.W. / Messerschmidt, J.W., 2005: “Hegemonic Masculinity: Rethinking the Concept”. Gender and Society 19, 829–859. Cooper, J.S., 2002: “Buddies in Babylonia: Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and Mesopotamian Homosexuality”. In T. Abusch (ed.): Riches Hidden in Secret Places. Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Memory of Thorkild Jacobsen. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Pp. 73–85. Creangă, O., ed., 2010: Men and Masculinity in the Hebrew Bible and Beyond. The Bible in the Modern World 33. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press. — 2019: Biblical Masculinites Anew. Hebrew Bible Monographs 79. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix. Creangă, O. / Smit, P.-B., eds., 2014: Biblical Masculinities Foregrounded. Hebrew Bible Monographs 62. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press. Deller, K., 1983: “STT 366. Deutungsversuch 1982”. Assur 3, 139–153.

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Dudink, S. / Hageman, K. / Tosh, J. (eds.), 2004: Masculinities in Politics and War: Gendering Modern History. Gender in History. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Ebeling, E. 1922: Ein Hymnenkatalog aus Assur. Berliner Beiträge zur Keilschriftforschung 1/3. Berlin: Selbstverlag. Fox, M.V., 1985: The Song of Songs and the Ancient Egyptian Love Songs. Madison, WI: The University of Wisconsin Press. Frahm, E., 2009: Historische und historisch-literarische Texte. WVDOG 121 / KAL 3. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. George, A., 2009: Babylonian Literary Texts in the Schøyen Collection. CUSAS 10. Bethesda, MD: CDL Press. Gerhards, M., 2010: Das Hohelied. Studien zu seiner literarischen Gestalt und theologischen Bedeutung. Arbeiten zur Bible und ihrer Geschichte 35. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. Groneberg, B., 1999: “‘Brust’(irtum)-Gesänge”. In B. Böck / E. Cancik-Kirschbaum / T. Richter (eds.): Munuscula Mesopotamica. Festschrift für Johannes Renger. AOAT 267. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Pp. 169–195. — 2003: “Searching for Akkadian Lyrics. From Old Babylonian to the ‘Liederkatalog’ KAR 158”. JCS 55, 55–74. Guinan, A.K. / Morris, P., 2017. “Mesopotamia before and after Sodom: Colleagues, Crack Troops, Comrades-in-Arms”. In Zsolnay (ed.): 2017. Pp. 150– 175. Haubold, J., 2015: “‘Shepherds of the People’: Greek and Mesopotamian Perspectives”. In R. Rollinger / E. van Dongen (eds.): Mesopotamia in the Ancient World: Impact, Continuities, Parallels. Melammu Symposia 7. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Pp. 245–254. Hecker, K., 2005: “‘Kundbar werde mich deine Sehnsucht …’ Eros und Liebe im alten Orient”. In A. Hagedorn (ed.): Perspectives on the Song of Songs / Perspektiven der Hoheliedauslegung. BZAW 346. Berlin: de Gruyter. Pp. 163– 179. — 2013: “Texte aus Mesopotamien: 2. Ištars Geliebter”. TUAT NF 7, 63–65. Held, M., 1961: “A Faithful Lover in an Old Babylonian Dialogue”. JCS 15, 1– 26. Hurowitz, V.A., 1995: “An Old Babylonian Bawdy Ballad”. In Z. Zevit / S. Gitin / M. Sokoloff (eds.): Solving Riddles and Untying Knots. Biblical, Epigraphic, and Semitic Studies in Honor of Jonas C. Greenfield. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Pp. 543–558. Kirova, M., 2020: Performing Masculinity in the Hebrew Bible. Hebrew Bible Monographs 91. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix. Lambert, W.G., 1975: “The Problem of Love Lyrics”. In H. Goedicke / J.J.M. Roberts (eds.): Unity and Diversity. Essays in the History, Literature, and Re-

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ligion of the Ancient Near East. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Pp. 98–135. Livingstone, A., 1989: Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea. SAA 3. Helsinki: Helsinki University Press. McGaffrey, K., 2002: “Reconsidering Gender Ambiguity in Mesopotamia: Is Beard Just a Beard?” In S. Parpola / M. Whiting (eds.): Sex and Gender in the Ancient Near East. CRRAI 47/2. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Pp. 379–391. Matsushima, E., 1987: “Le rituel hiérogamique de Nabû”. ASJ 9, 131–175. Meinhold, W., 2009: Ištar in Aššur. Unterschung eines Lokalkultes von ca. 2500 bis 614 v.Chr. AOAT 367. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Nissinen, M., 1998: Homoeroticism in the Biblical World: A Historical Perspective. Trans. Kirsi Stjerna. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. — 2001: “Akkadian Rituals and Poetry of Divine Love”. In R.M. Whiting (ed.): Mythology and Mythologies. Methodological Approaches to Intercultural Influences. Melammu Symposia 2. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Pp. 93–136. — 2019: “Male Agencies in the Song of Songs”. In Creangă (ed.): 2019. Pp. 251– 273. — 2020: “Male Agency and Masculine Performance in the Baal Cycle”. In Russell / Hamori (eds.), 2020. Pp. 47–71. — 2023: “Female Voices in Akkadian Love Poetry”. In E. James / S. Chavel (eds.): Reading the Song of Songs in a #MeToo Era. Leiden: Brill. Pp. 119– 144. N’Shea, O., 2018: “Empire of the Surveilling Gaze: The Masculinity of King Sennacherib”. In Svärd / Garcia-Ventura (eds.), 2018. Pp. 315–335. Paul, S.M., 1997: “The ‘Plural of Ecstasy’ in Mesopotamian and Biblical Love Poetry”. In M. Cogan / B.L. Eichler / J.H. Tigay (eds.): Tehillat le-Moshe. Biblical and Judaic Studies in Honor of Moshe Greenberg. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Pp. 585–597. Peled, I., 2016: Masculinites and Third Gender: The Origins and Nature of an Institutionalized Gender Otherness in the Ancient Near East. AOAT 435. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Reiner, E., 1967: “Another Volume of Sultan Tepe Tablets”. JNES 26, 177–200. Russell, S.C. / Hamori, E.J. (eds.), 2020: Mighty Baal: Essays in Honor of Mark S. Smith. Harvard Semitic Studies 66. Leiden: Brill. Särkiö, P., 2018: Salomon salaisuus: Pohdintoja peitetystä Salomo-kritiikistä Vanhassa testamentissa. Suomen Eksegeettisen Seuran julkaisuja 115. Helsinki: Suomen Eksegeettinen Seura. Schellenberg, A., 2020: The Description of Solomon’s Wedding: Song 3:6–11 as a Key to the Overall Understanding of the Song of Songs”. VT 70, 177–192.

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Sefati, Y., 1997: Love Songs in Sumerian Literature: Critical Edition of the Dumuzi-Inanna Songs. Bar-Ilan Studies in Near Eastern Languages and Culture. Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press. Sigrist, M. / Westenholz, J.G., 2008: “The Love Poem of Rīm-Sîn and Nanaya”. In C. Cohen et al (ed.): Birkat Shalom. Studies in the Bible, Ancient Near Eastern Literature, and Postbiblical Judaism Presented to Shalom M. Paul on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday. Vol. 2. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Pp. 667–704. Svärd, S. / Nissinen, M., 2018: “(Re-)constructing the Image of the Assinnu”. In Svärd / Garcia-Ventura (eds.), 2018. Pp. 373–411. Svärd, S. / Garcia-Ventura, A. (eds.), 2018: Studying Gender in the Ancient Near East. University Park, PA: Eisenbrauns. Verde, D., 2020: Conquered Conquerors: Love and War in the Song of Songs. AIL 41. Atlanta: SBL Press. von Soden, W. / Oelsner, J., 1991: “Ein spät-altbabylonisches pārum-Preislied für Ištar”. Or NS 60, 339–343. Wasserman, N., 2016: Akkadian Love Literature of the Third and Second Millennium BCE. LAOS 4. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Westenholz, J.G., 1987: “A Forgotten Love Song”. In F. Rochberg-Halton (ed.): Language, Literature, and History. Philological and Historical Studies Presented to Erica Reiner. AOS 67. New Haven, CT.: American Oriental Society. Pp. 415–425. Zsolnay, I., 2018: “Analyzing Constructs: A Selection of Perils, Pitfalls, and Progressions in Interrogating Ancient Near Eastern Gender”. In Svärd / GarciaVentura (eds.), 2018. Pp. 461–479. — (ed.), 2017: Being a Man: Negotiating Ancient Constructs of Masculinity. London: Routledge.

Acting Out Suffering The Rationale Behind Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s “Funerary” Rite in Ludlul II and V∗ Takayoshi M. Oshima

Introduction: an antemortem funerary rite in Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi II and V? Crossing the intellectual boundaries into ancient cultures, for those who study them, is among the greatest challenges – and attractions – of Mesopotamia’s millennia-long literary tradition. Social practices and historical facts that lurk behind works of literature may, until the underlying realia are uncovered, obscure or twist interpretations in quite profound ways. This is especially true in the case of poetry, which thrives on figurative language and a willingness to tackle aspects of life not readily described in factual terms. The danger always exists, therefore, that an unrecognized aspect of ancient life will be misapprehended by the unknowing interpreter as mere literary artifice, and the satisfaction comes in sorting historical social fact from clever dramatic fiction, then discovering the contours of the grey areas in between. A case in point is supplied by the ancient poem known by its incipit, Ludlul bēl nēmeqi – “Let Me Praise the Lord of Wisdom.” In the past I have analysed this text differently, but as I demonstrate here, my previous position was wrong.1 Commonly dubbed the “Babylonian Job” by modern scholars, Šubši-mešrêŠakkan, the poem’s narrator and protagonist, recounts at length the severe adversity he currently faces. In the first tablets (I 41 – II 113) he complains of a medical condition so severe that no one can diagnose it or offer a prognosis. To make matters worse, he feels forsaken by his personal gods. Then, near the end of Tablet II, Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan describes his tomb as already prepared and his funeral lamentations as having come to an end (II 114–116). The poem here appears to have captured the voice of a man just barely alive who has discovered novel ways to describe an illness so grave that he has been given up for lost – or who speaks from beyond the grave:2 114 pe-ti ki-ma-ḫu er-šu-ú šu-ka-nu-ú-a 115 a-di la mi-tu-ti-i-ma bi-ki-ti gam-rat ∗

I would like to thank Dr. Alison Acker Gruseke for discussing various aspects of this contribution, helping me clarify my arguments, and editing my English. 1 In Oshima 2014: 271, I concluded that Ludlul II 106–113 refers to a substitution ritual involving animal sacrifice that was based on LKA 79 and Utukkū lemnūtu XII. 2 Based on Oshima / Anthonioz, 2023: 102–103.

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116 kal ma-ti-ia ki-i ḫa-bil iq-bu-ni 114 The tomb was open; my (funerary) ornaments were ready, 115 even before (my) death, the wailing for me was over. 116 My entire land said: “How he was destroyed!” The closeness between severe adversity and death is a widely attested motif in many cultures, and cuneiform literature is no exception.3 In English one might describe a terminally ill or very old person metaphorically as “having one foot in the grave.” Such figurative language employs verbal invention to call dramatic attention to the severity of human suffering and, at the same time, the undeniable reality of death. One may ask in this instance whether Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s reference to his tomb and funerary rituals were metaphorical, designed to depict his and his family’s despair at the realization of his illness and imminent demise, or, conversely, whether he had in fact already died. A quick look at the lines in question, however, shows that this may not be the case: the terms “tomb,” “(funerary) ornaments,” and “wailing” appear not to be used as metaphors for adversity but instead, as I argue, present a straightforward description of Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s “funeral” ritual. That is to say that this section is not best interpreted figuratively. Neither is it a post-mortem poem about the pre-burial preparations for a now deceased protagonist. Instead, it is a candid, eyewitness description of a last-ditch – and heretofore unrecognized – healing ritual undertaken on our hero’s behalf. The ritual resembles a real funeral but is designed to forestall, not commemorate, the sufferer’s death. This thesis appears to find confirmation in Tablet V,4 when the protagonist thanks Marduk for raising him from his grave (V 1–9):5 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 3

[be-l]í ⸢ú⸣-[pa]-aš-ši-ḫa-an-ni [be-l]í ú-ṣa-am-mi-da-an-ni [be-l]í ú-paṭ-ṭi-ra-an-ni [be-l]í ú-bal-li-ṭa-an-ni [i-na ḫaš-t]i e-ki-ma-an-ni [i-na pi-i qab-ri ú-s]i-pa-an-ni [i-na ka-ra-š]e-e id-⸢kan⸣an-ni

Note, for example, Atra-ḫasīs I, 162–163 (Lambert / Millard, 1965: 52–53): š[u-up-ši-ik-ku] ⸢at-ru id⸣-du-uk-ni-a-ti [ka-bi-it du-u]l-la-ni-ma ma-a-ad ša-ap-ša-qum Excessive [toil] has killed us; our work [was heavy], the distress great. See also, e.g., Mayer, 1976: 448–449; Hays, 2007: 324 for the death metaphors in cuneiform texts. 4 For the identification of the last chapter of Ludlul as Tablet V instead of Tablet IV as previously presumed, see Oshima, 2014: 5–9. 5 Based on Oshima / Anthonioz, 2023: 136–137.

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ina nāri(ÍD) ḫu-bur iš-du-da-an-ni ina dan-n[a]-ti qa-ti iṣ-bat

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

My [lord] [re]lieved me of (hardship). My [lord] applied a (healing) plaster on me. My [lord] absolved me (of my sins). My [lord] revived me. He took me away [from the pi]t. He shovelled me up [from the grave]. He raised me [from the annihil]ation. He dragged me out from the River Ḫubur. He held my hand in the ad[ver]sity.

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Again, one might wish to interpret this section metaphorically, as an artful expression of thanks for Marduk’s rescue from dire difficulty and not Marduk’s actual rescue of our sufferer from a (near)-death experience. However, recalling the funerary practices recounted in Ludlul II 114–116 above, we should consider the possibility that the text describes actual rituals acts performed for a person who still hopes for a longer life. Antemortem funeral rites were not unheard of in ancient Babylonia. W. G. Lambert (1960: 294), for example, calls attention to two lines from a long prayer to Ištar, (Lambert, 1959–1960: 52), lines 146–147: 146 147

làl-la-ru-šú kim-ta-šu i-ḫáš-[šá-šú]6 ana nu-bé-e-šú mar-ṣu-ti ip-ḫu-ra sa-la[t-su]

146 147

His (i.e. the patient’s) professional mourners gathered his family, for sorrowful lamentations; they called together [his] relat[ives].

Based on this and Ludlul II 114ff above, Lambert concludes that the ancients carried out funerary rites “in anticipation of a sick man’s [sic.] death.” If our text indeed records actual practice, then the sight of his or her own funeral cannot have been particularly encouraging for a person lying on their deathbed, and it is difficult to ascertain exactly what purpose this ritual may have served. In this essay I argue that Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s antemortem “funerary” rite actually describes a magico-medical ritual performed for a person whose death had been predicted by means of omens. One such ritual, known by its ancient name, Pūḫ amēli ana Ereškigal, “the substitute of a man for Ereškigal,” is mentioned in scholarly letters written from the Sargonid period and edited by this volume’s honouree, Professor Simo Parpola, in his Letters from Assyrian Scholars to the Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal, I–II (AOAT 5/1–2) and Letters from

6

Lambert (1959–60: 52) reads the last word dím-ta-šu i-ṣíp-[šú], “(his hired mourner) multiplied the tears.” Von Soden (1971: 49) offers a different reading which is followed here.

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Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars (SAA 10).7 These three volumes laid a solid foundation for studies on scholarly activities during the Neo-Assyrian period, and indeed, not only Assyriologists but modern scholars from a broad range of disciplines have benefitted immensely from them and from Professor Parpola’s wideranging publications, many produced in the framework of his Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, based for over three decades at Helsinki University. It is my honour to contribute this study of ancient Mesopotamian scholarly and priestly healing rituals on the occasion of Professor Parpola’s eightieth birthday. Happily – unlike the sufferer in Ludlul II – he is in fine health, and I wish him many more years of the same. Below I outline several rituals performed for a person whose imminent death has been foreseen. This will be followed by an examination of rituals performed in a pit in order to save a severely ill patient. Finally, I examine a possible allusion in Ludlul to a similar ritual, this time performed in a structure symbolizing a jail. Magico-medical rituals performed for dying patients When the passage in question begins, Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan is in critical condition, and death seems certain – so much so that in the lines leading up to the description of his antemortem funerary rites neither human experts nor his personal gods are able to help him, II lines 106–113:8 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113

ina ru-ub-ṣi-ia a-bit ki-i al-pi ub-tal-lil ki-i uduimmeri(NITÁ) ina ta-ba-áš-ta-ni-ia sakikkī(SA.GIG)ki-ia iš-ḫu-ṭu maš-maš-šú ù te-re-ti-ia lúbārû(ḪAL) ú-téš-ši ul ú-šá-pi a-ši-pu ši-kin mur-ṣi-ia ù a-dan-na si-li-’i-ti-ia lúbārû(ḪAL) ul id-din ul i-ru-ṣa ilu(DINGIR) qa-ti ul iṣ-bat ul i-re-man-ni diš-ta-ri i-da-a-a ul il-lik

106 In my own dung, I spent nights like an ox; 107 I was mixed up in my own excrement like a sheep. 108 While the incantation-priest was frightened off by the symptoms of my illness, 109 the diviner confused (var.: has looked over; abandoned) my omen. 110 Neither the incantation-priest could reveal the nature of my illness 111 nor could the diviner tell (lit.: give) the length of my illness. 112 The (personal) god neither came to my help nor held my hand, 113 the (personal) goddess neither showed mercy on me nor walked at my side.

7 8

For the letters, see below. Based on Oshima / Anthonioz, 2023: 102–103.

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In his 1991–1992 article, M. Stol observes that, in cuneiform therapeutic texts, when death has been predicted by means of omens, no treatment is normally offered.9 Given Stol’s initial observation, one might suggest that Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s family began preparations for his burial because he had no chance of recovery. Stol, however, also observes that there are several exceptional cases in which, despite predictions of death, the performance of Namburbi-rituals using figurines made of clay, flour, bread, and wax are prescribed to save the patient.10 During these rituals, by means of magical procedures, priests transfer the causes of the patient’s adversity, such as seizures caused by demons or witchcraft, sin, and divine anger to these figurines.11 Once the whole procedure is complete, the figurines are cast into a river,12 which is apparently meant to carry them into the netherworld. The end result is that the ritual agents have sent the figurines to the netherworld as substitutes for the human patients in the hope that she or he would not have to journey there just yet. The next example, Utukkū lemnūtu Tablet XII, concerns a fearsome, murderous demon who traps its victim in the netherworld.13 In this section of the Utukkūincantations, with the help of Bēlet-ilī, the mother-goddess, Enki/Ea reveals to Asaluḫi/Marduk a ritual involving a scapegoat to save the dying person (Utukkū lemnūtu XII, 34ff). Enki/Ea first instructs Asaluḫi/Marduk14 to offer a sacrifice during the daytime and to invoke the victim’s personal god (lines 60–62). Enki/Ea instructs Asaluḫi/ Marduk to bring the matter to Šamaš so that he will revive the patient (line 64). Then Enki/Ea instructs Asaluḫi/Marduk regarding the precise handling of a healthy black goat that will be sacrificed on the sufferer’s behalf (lines 65ff). The goat is not a simple offering: it will transmit its life to the human patient through its breath while the evil demon tormenting the sick person is transferred to it (lines 69–70). The whole ritual takes place in a reed hut, which the text instructs Asaluḫi/ Marduk to build and then to place the patient and his bed in it, together with incense and an incense burner (89–90). In the hut a magic circle is then drawn with flour and the liquid extract of dark clay around the patient’s bed (lines 91– 92). The black goat is to be placed beside the patient (line 97). Eventually the goat is killed and skinned, and its hide put around the human patient in order to transfer 9

Stol, 1991–1992: 52–54. Stol, 1991–1992: 53–54. 11 Maul, 1994: 72–84. 12 Maul, 1994: 85–93. 13 Geller, 2016: 399–433. For the victim being trapped in the netherworld, see ibid., 405, lines 30–31. 14 The names of the deities in question appear in the Sumerian sections as En-ki and Asarlú-ḫi, while, in the Akkadian translations, they are called Ea and Marduk (AMAR.UTU) respectively. 10

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all the evil affecting him to it. The evil returns to the netherworld, along with the goat’s hide (lines 99–111). By the end of the ritual the black goat has served as a substitute for the dying human patient. Just as in the Namburbi-rituals above, and unlike the Ludlul text we are examining, no antemortem funeral is performed, and thus it is very unlikely that Utukkū lemnūtu Tablet XII was the ritual to which Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan alludes in the poem. Ancient Babylonian magical rites performed in a pit Several cuneiform texts offer instructions for performing magico-medical rituals in a pit. The first and oldest example comes from Late Bronze Emar and contains a number of incantations against fever and their accompanying rituals – commonly known as the Fire Incantations or the Tsukimoto incantations. Its first incantation (lines 1–11) describes digging a hole for a victim with a high fever.15 It instructs that various plants be crushed with other materia magica to produce a healing plaster. Next, a pit must be dug and the patient lowered into it, then covered with plaster. The hole is not intended for the patient’s burial but functions as a place for purification.16 Unlike Ludlul II 114–116, it does not refer to the recitation of lamentations. Another example of magico-medical ritual performed in a pit is Pūḫ amēli ana Ereškigal, “a substitute of a man for Ereškigal.” This is one of the best-preserved and most detailed examples known to us thus far: its ritual procedure is fully reconstructed based on LKA 79, 1–33, KAR 245, 1–22, and a shorter version of the same ritual known from LKA 80, 1´–14´.17 A full funerary rite is the main element of this magical ritual. As is clear from the instructions, no funeral is held for the patient, but instead for the kid that is slaughtered as a substitute for him/her. The procedure is as follows: First the patient is instructed to lie down on his bed at sunset with an unblemished kid. Before nightfall a pit is dug inside the sick person’s house, and the patient is then placed in it with the kid on his lap. It seems that while the sick person and the kid are lying together in the pit, the priest first touches the patient’s throat with a dagger made from tamarisk and then slashes the kid’s throat with a bronze (var. copper) dagger. After this ritual killing, the kid is treated as a dead man and prepared for burial. The transformation of the slaughtered kid into a sub-

15

For the Tsukimoto Incantations, see Tsukimoto, 1999: 192 and 195; see also Schwemer, 2010: 41–45; Finkel, 1999: no. 30l; Bácskay, 2018: 35–37. I owe the last reference to an anonymous reviewer. 16 The text does not specify it as a pit as such but instead instructs the practitioner to dig the ground according to the size of the patient (line 8). It is later called marḫiṣu, “rinse, cleansing (place)” line 11. 17 Tsukimoto, 1985: 125–129 and Ebeling, 1931: 65–70, nos 15–16.

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stitute for the patient is completed by putting the patient’s shoes and sash18 on the kid. Then the patient stands up, exits the pit, and leaves the house. Thereafter, the incantation-priest recites an incantation. After having received a gift from the patient, the incantation-priest proclaims that the sick person has now passed away, and he performs a mourning rite. The text instructs that, following the mourning rite, kispu-offerings should be made to Ereškigal, to the ghosts of the patient’s family, and to the kid. After the incantation-priest has recited another incantation to Ereškigal, he is reminded to treat the kid as a substitute for the living patient. After additional offerings have been made to Ereškigal, to the ghosts of the patient’s family, and to the kid, the dead kid is now buried. We know from SAA 10 193,19 a letter sent to Esarhaddon – probably by Adadšumu-uṣur, chief exorcist of the king – that the ritual Pūḫ amēli ana Ereškigal was once carried out for an Assyrian crown prince, Assurbanipal, who was suffering from a fever.20 Of particular interest to us are lines 14–19:21 14 15 16 17 18 19

pu-u-ḫi amēli(LÚ) a-na dEREŠ.KI.GAL a-na mār(DUMU) šarri(MAN) né-pa-áš a-na mdšamaš(GIŠ.NU11)-šumu(MU)-ukīn(GI.NA) is-se-niš la né-pa-áš mi-i-nu ša šarru(LUGAL) be-lí i-qab-bu-u-ni

14 15 16 17 18 19

The substitute of a man for Ereškigal-(ritual) for the crown prince we shall perform. For Šamaš-šumu-ukīn we shall not perform it together. What is that the king, my lord, will order?

A second letter published by Parpola in SAA 10 further reveals that the ritual Pūḫ amēli ana Ereškigal was performed in a structure made of reed. SAA 10 89 rev. 4–6:22 4 [ xxxx š]a qanî(GI)meš lu e-piš 5 ù ⸢pu-u-ḫi amēli(LÚ)⸣ ana dEREŠ.KI.GAL 6 na-da-a-nu lu-u e-piš-ma 4 [ … made o]f reed should be built, 5 and the (ritual) giving a substitute of a man for Ereškigal 6 shall be performed. 18

The term paršigu refers to a long strip of cloth also used as a turban, like šāš in Arabic. Parpola, 1993: 157. See also Luppert-Barnard 1998: 40. 20 See Parpola, 1983: 127, the commentary on line 14. 21 The translation is mine. 22 Parpola, 1993: 66–67. The translation is mine. 19

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This is reminiscent of the ritual detailed in Utukkū lemnūtu XII, which is also performed in a reed structure.23 There are obvious differences between Pūḫ amēli ana Ereškigal and Šubšimešrê-Šakkan’s antemortem funerary rite. First, Ludlul refers neither to animal sacrifice nor a reed structure. Second, while Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan is merely an observer in Ludlul II and V, the patient is actively involved in the Pūḫ amēli ana Ereškigal ritual. However, they do share several crucial ritual elements: a pit opening for the patient, performance of a mourning ritual, and the patient’s rising from the pit. The antemortem funerary rite in Ludlul is probably not the Pūḫ amēli ana Ereškigal ritual, at least not the version known from the first millennium exemplars, but rather another magico-medical ritual reminiscent of it. Because Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s “funeral” rite refers to no animal sacrifice, its main purpose cannot have been to send a substitute into the underworld as Pūḫ amēli ana Ereškigal or the ritual detailed in Utukkū lemnūtu XII did. Rather, it seems to have been driven by a different motive, which I discuss next. An allusion to another ritual in Ludlul II? It seems that Ludlul II may refer to yet another ritual procedure. In Ludlul II, after a long description of his adversities caused by Marduk’s anger and coming just before Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s reference to the antemortem funerary rite, Šubšimešrê-Šakkan recounts how his bed and house turned into a place of confinement, where he was placed in manacles and fetters like as a prisoner. Ludlul II, 95–98: 95 96 97 98

a-ḫu-uz er-ši me-si-ru mu-ṣe-e ta-né-ḫ[u] a-na ki-suk-ki-ia i-tu-ra bi-i-tu il-lu-ur-tú ši-ri-ia na-da-a i-da-a-a maš-kan ra-ma-ni-ia muq-qu-ta še-pa-a-a

95 96 97 98

I took the bed as (the place of) confinement; going out was torm[ent], the house turned into my prison. My arms were placed in manacles of my own flesh, my feet were paralyzed (in) fetters meant for me.

Because manacles and prisons appear in Akkadian prayers as metaphors for suffering – more specifically the debilitation caused by illnesses, demonic attacks, and witchcraft24 – one might interpret them here as a figure of speech referring to the loss of the patient’s movement and the leaden feeling of his weakened body. Some modern scholars speculate, however, that the allusions to imprisonment in cuneiform texts might describe the actual circumstances in which ancient people found themselves when they were ill. For example, Hector Avalos (1995: 179) 23

Utukkū lemnūtu XII, 90. Incidentally, this structure is called karadin5, “bundle (of reed).” See Geller, 2016: 271. 24 Cf. Oshima, 2014: 258.

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interprets Ludlul II, lines 95–98 as an allusion to the protagonist’s social rejection and consequent isolation because his adversity was viewed as an indication of a curse. Behind these lines Avalos sees a sufferer’s social segregation or the “quarantine” of sick patients. I understand them similarly, although, somewhat differently from Avalos, I suggest that the protagonist is actually describing the real ritual acts performed on his behalf. We know from ancient cuneiform texts that patients were often placed in a structure made of reed, šutukku or urigallu “reed hut,” also known as bīt mēsiri, “house of confinement.” Its purpose was not to quarantine the person but to create a space in which healing rituals could be performed. For example, in the bilingual incantation series, Utukkū lemnūtu XIII–XV, Enki/Ea instructs his son Asaluhi/ Marduk as follows, lines 196–200:25 196 197 198 199 200

To appease the heart and mind of a god, erect a reed hut (šutukku) of the ‘divine protector’ for the man, son of Set (it) up over the patient’s bed, \ his god. wrap (him) with a twine of black goat hair, drive in an e’ru-wood rod, and bind (the patient’s) arms.

I now draw the reader’s attention to SAA 10 277.26 Its sender, Nabû-nādin-šumi, chief exorcist to Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal, instructs the Assyrian king as follows, lines 10b–15: … U4-7-KÁM ina lìb-bi gi urigalli(URÌ.GAL) ú-šab tak-pi-ra-a-te in-né-pašá-né-eš-šú dul-lu-šú ki-i lúmarṣi(GIG) in-né-pa-áš … … He (the king) sits for 7 days in a reed hut, and purification rites are performed upon him; he is treated like a sick person. Nabû-nādin-šumi further instructs the practitioners – probably incantation-priests – to recite Šuila-prayers to the gods of night as well as Namburbis to ward off evil of every kind. During this time, the king dwells in the reed hut for 7 days (rev. 1– 8), offering praise to his personal god and goddess. Parpola (1983: 198) cautiously suggested that this letter might allude to the ritual Bīt Mēsiri, “The House of Confinement,”27 during which the king spent seven days in a reed structure from which the name of the ritual was derived. The phrase “he is treated like a sick person” clearly indicates that the king was not ill and that the ritual was prophylactic.

25

Geller, 2016: 484–485. Note that Hg A II, 52c (= MSL 7, p. 70) equates gišú-a = šu-tukku = giurì-gal-lum. 26 Parpola, 1993: 216–217. For this text, cf. also Maul, 1994: 34–35. 27 See also Meier, 1941–1944: 140.

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Fig. 1: Impression of BM 129544 (after Oshima, 2014: pl. LXIV). Further clues to the meaning of these rituals comes from a cylinder seal housed in the British Museum (fig. 1 = BM 129544).28 It shows a man kneeling in a cagelike structure,29 flanked by two people who stand outside it facing him. The gesture of the person inside the structure – kneeling, while holding its supports with his hands – indicates that he is a prisoner, and thus the structure symbolizes a prison. However, the two men flanking it are actually performing the gesture of blessing, which is not the typical posture of jailors. Clearly the person inside the hut is not imprisoned because of some crime he has committed but for a ritual purpose. Thus, it is highly probable that this seal might represent a scene from a cleansing ritual involving the symbolic imprisonment of a person as described in a Bīt Mēsiri-ritual or SAA 10 277 above. Given these pieces of textual and iconographical evidence, one may interpret the description of Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s imprisoning house and bed in Ludlul II not as figures of speech depicting bodily paralysis but as allusions to ritual imprisonment performed during a cleansing ritual designed for healing. The Sumerian Nungal Hymn – a possible clue? Professor Simo Parpola’s edition of the letters sent by the scholars who served the Neo-Assyrian kings sheds new and important light on an enigmatic reference to antemortem funerary rites that Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s family performed for him. They were not metaphorical and should rather be understood as ritual acts per28 29

Collon, 2001: 109, no. 206 Collon (ibid) takes the structure to be a shrine.

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formed during a magico-medical rites designed to save his life. Nonetheless, as the protagonist of the poem refers to no sacrifice such as that in the Pūḫ amēli ana Ereškigal ritual or the ritual sacrifice of a goat discribed in Utukkū lemnūtu XII, it is evident that the motivation for the antemortem funerary rite in Ludlul is not to send a substitute to the netherworld but something else. By the same token, it is also possible that Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s description of how his house and sickbed became a place of confinement refers to another magico-medical ritual in which the patient is placed in a reed structure symbolizing a jail. Yet again, the rationale for the apparent confinement is not obvious. A hint toward solving this enigma is found in a lengthy Sumerian hymn to Nungal, known from early second millennium manuscripts.30 Nungal is a Mesopotamian goddess of punishment.31 Her husband is Birtum, literally “manacle, fetter.” In later periods Nungal was equated with the healing goddess Gula, but earlier she functioned as a divine punisher of human sinners and was feared as the daughter of Ereškigal, queen of the netherworld. This Nungal hymn describes the River Ordeal, a trial by a river,32 in the order in which it unfolded from Nungal’s point of view. Performed in order to determine the accused’s guilt or innocence, the Ordeal worked by plunging him or her into a river. Survival of the rushing water indicated the person’s innocence; drowning proved their guilt. The Nungal Hymn recounts how a man – a person who most likely committed a sin against his god – was brought to Egula, “Great House,” Nungal’s sanctuary within Nippur’s Ekur, the temple of Enlil, the head of the pantheon. Nungal’s sanctuary also functions as the guilty man’s jail. The hymn further relates how he was brought to the place known as ki-èn-tar-ra, “the place of interrogation,” where the River Ordeal took place (line 59).33 Here Nungal and other gods receive the accused. Nungal repeatedly states that while her temple spares the righteous, it destroys the wicked. She also states that she is a goddess of compassion who can save a sinner, clear his sins, and avert evil (esp. lines 80–82). Eventually she lets Erešdimgul, “the lady mooring pole” – a divine marshal and executioner – save the accused from drowning at the “mouth of punishment” (ka-šer7-da) and “the mouth of annihilation” (ka-garaš2) by holding out a wooden stick and pulling him out from the water with it (line 82).34 The person is later placed at é-nam-ti-la, 30

For the critical text edition, see Attinger, 2003. See also, Sjöberg, 1973; Civil, 1993. Cf. also Hallo, 1979. 31 For Nungal / Manungal, see Cavigneaux / Krebernik, 1998–2001. 32 For a concise study the river ordeal, see van Soldt, 2003–2005. 33 I follow Civil’s translation. See Civil, 1993: 73. 34 Some MSs of the Nungal Hymn preserve KI.BAD instead. For KI.BAD as an alternative writing for garaš2 (= KI.KAL.BAD), I follow Sjöberg, 1973: 34, line 82, and the footnote to this line on the same page. See also line 98 of the poem. One may speculate that this KI.BAD (var. KI.KAL?.BAD) might be read ḫabrud, “pit.” See Attinger, 2021: 519.

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“the house of life” and entrusted to the care of his personal god (line 99). His personal god then thanks Nungal for saving his human ward (line 109). This hymn additionally specifies that the accused managed to withstand the River Ordeal, not because he was proven innocent but despite his guilt. Yet due to her compassion, Nungal saved him at the very last moment. Apparently when she saw the accused drowning at the “mouth of punishment” and the “mouth of annihilation,” she suddenly became compassionate towards him and decided to forgive him. Then she allowed Erešdimgul to rescue him.35 Conclusion Based on these elements of the Nungal Hymn we can now suggest a similar scenario for the imprisonment and antemortem funerary rituals known from Ludlul bēl nēmeqi Tablets II and V. Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s imprisonment and his lying in a pit are performative acts designed to visualize his unbearable distress and the terrifying prospect of death. They elicit divine sympathy – which might, if he is lucky, result in the remission of his penalties. Ancient Mesopotamians, here and elsewhere, as I have shown, acted out their adversities by means of a jail or the grave – both unpleasant places that any person would wish to avoid – probably based on the shared association of both to human suffering. In modern terms we might apprehend imprisonment or placement in a tomb as described in these rituals like movie props, meant to conjure vivid images of the sufferer’s troubles in the hope of release. Naturally we, like the ancient sufferers, hope for a happy ending – which Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan, like the biblical Job, did finally receive. And it is thanks to Professor Parpola’s fine work that we are able to cross this perplexing cultural boundary to propose the true purpose of the rituals enacted in Ludlul bēl nēmeqi on Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s behalf.

Because ka-garaš2 parallels ka-nir-da in line 97 of the Nungal Hymn, Civil (1993: 74, 75–78) suggests that this ka-nir-da should mean “death sentence.” For ka-šer7-da = pi-i šeer-t[im], “the mouth (i.e. sentence) of offense/punishment,” see Kagal D section 3 cited in Sjöberg, 1973: 45, note to line 97. For šer7-da instead of the earlier reading, nir-da, see Attinger, 2021: 987. For pī karašê, the Akkdian equivalent of ka-garaš2, as an allusion to the place of the river-ordeal, see Frymer-Kensky, 1979: 431. 35 The Prayer to Marduk no. 1 speaks of a sufferer restrained with manacles and fetters and cast into the mouth of annihilation (pī karašê), which might be located at the gate of Marduk’s punishment. See now Fadhil / Jiménez, 2019: 169, lines 143–156. Its supplicant does not speak of his patient’s rising from a pit but requests that Marduk show him light (an expression alluding to release from confinment) and to hand him over to his personal god. This is reminiscent of the ritual actions reflected in the Nungal Hymn under discussion.

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Bibliography Attinger, P., 2003: “L’hymne à Nungal ”. In W. Sallaberger / K. Volk / A. Zgoll (eds.): Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien: Festschrift für Claus Wilcke. Wiesbaden. Pp. 15–34. — 2021: Glossaire sumérien-français: principalement des textes littéraires paléobabyloniens. Wiesbaden. Bácskay, A., 2018: Therapeutic Prescriptions Against Fever in Ancient Mesopotamia. AOAT 447. Münster. Cavigneaux, A. / Krebernik, M., 1998–2000: “Nungal”. RlA 9, 615–618. Civil, M., 1993: “On Mesopotamian Jails and their Lady Warden”. In M.E. Cohen / D.C. Snell / D.B. Weisberg (eds.): The Tablet and the Scroll: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of William W. Hallo. Bethesda. Pp. 72–78. Collon, D. with contributions by M. Sax and C.B.F. Walker 2001: Catalogue of the Western Asiatic Seals in the British Museum: Cylinder Seals V, Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Periods. London. Ebeling, E. 1931: Tod und Leben nach den Vorstellungen der Babylonier. Teil 1: Texte. Berlin / Leipzig. Fadhil, A.A. / Jiménez, E., 2019: “Literary Texts from the Sippar Library I: Two Babylonian Classics”. ZA 109, 155–176. Frymer-Kensky, T.S.: The Judicial Ordeal in the Ancient Near East. Yale University dissertation. 1979. Finkel, I.L., 1999: “Magic and Medicine at Meskene”. NABU 1999, 28–29, no. 30. Geller, M.J., 2016: Healing Magic and Evil Demons. Die babylonisch-assyrische Medizin in Texten und Untersuchungen 8. Boston / Berlin. Hallo, W.W., 1979: “Notes from the Babylonian Collection, I: Nungal in the Egal: An Introduction to Colloquial Sumerian?”. JCS 31, 161–165. Hays, C., 2007: “Chirps from the Dust: The Affliction of Nebuchadnezzar in Daniel 4:30 in Its Ancient Near Eastern Context”. JBL 126, 305–325. Lambert, W.G., 1959–1960: “Three Literary Prayers of the Babylonians”. AfO 19, 47–66 with pls. VIII–XXIII. Lambert, W.G. / Millard, A.R., 1969: Atra-hasīs: The Babylonian Story of the Flood. Oxford. Luppert-Barnard, S. M. 1998: “Adad-šumu-uṣur”. In K. Radner (ed.): The Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire, vol. 1/I. Helsinki. Pp. 37–40. Maul, S.M., 1994: Zukunftsbewältigung: Eine Untersuchung altorientalischen Denkens anhand der babylonisch-assyrischen Löserituale (Namburbi). BaF 18. Mainz. Mayer, W.R., 1976: Untersuchungen zur Formensprache der babylonischen “Gebetsbeschwörungen”. Studia Pohl: Series Maior. Dissertationes scientificae de Rebus Orientis Antiqui 5. Rome. Meier, G., 1941–1944: “Die zweite Tafel der Serie bīt mēseri”. AfO 14, 139–152.

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Oshima, T., 2014: Babylonian Poems of Pious Suffers. ORA 14. Tübingen. Oshima, T.M. / Anthonioz, S., 2023: Affronter le mal en Babylonie. LAPO 23. Paris. Parpola, S., 1970: Letters from Assyrian Scholars to the Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal, Pt I: Texts. AOAT 5/1. Kevelaer / Neukirchen-Vluyn. —1983: Letters from Assyrian Scholars to the Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal, Pt II: Commentary and Appendices. AOAT 5/2. Kevelaer / NeukirchenVluyn. —1993: Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars. SAA 10. Helsinki. Schwemer, D., 2010: “Therapeutische Texte aus Ḫattuša und Emar”. TUAT NF 5, 38–45. Sjöberg, Å.W. ,1973: “Nungal in the Ekur”. AfO 24, 19–46. von Soden, W. ,1971: “Der große Hymnus an Nabû”. ZA 61, 44–71. van Soldt, W.H., 2003–2005: “Ordal A”. RlA 10, 124–129. Stol, M., 1991–1992: “Diagnosis and Therapy in Babylonian Medicine”. JEOL 32, 42–65. Tsukimoto, A., 1985: Untersuchungen zur Totenpflege (kispum) im alten Mesopotamien. AOAT 216. Kevelaer / Neukirchen-Vluyn. —1999: “`By the Hands of Madi-Dagan, the Scribe and Apkallu-Priest´: A Medical Text from the Middle Euphrates Region” In K. Watanabe (ed.): Priests and Officials in the Ancient Near East: Papers of the Second Colloquium of the Ancient Near East – The City and Its Life Held at the Middle Eastern Culture Center in Japan (Mitaka, Tokyo), March 22–24, 1996. Heidelberg. Pp. 187–200.

Gilgamesh’s Lapis Lazuli Tablet in the Cultural Memory of Ancient Mesopotamia Beate Pongratz-Leisten

In his work on Mesopotamia, Simo Parpola taught us something essential about the literary production of ancient scholars, namely, how deeply meaningful, associative, and steeped in tradition their literary creations were. In this essay, I ponder the introductory lines’ intertextuality of the Gilgamesh Epic with the Cuthean Legend to demonstrate its indebtedness to cultural memory on the one hand and its innovative take on the concepts of author and narrator on the other. All these aspects tie into the question of authorship in ancient Mesopotamia. I am honored to have the opportunity to dedicate these thoughts to the greatest Assyriologist of our time. How do we think about authorship in a world in which the production of text took place with a strong commitment to the past? In which older passages could be reused to construct some kind of bricolage with no awareness of forgery? In which arguments were expressed not explicitly, but implicitly, through intertextual references? In which authorship was a matter of mere intellectual concern? In which the notion of the individual author played a very minor role and was forever tied to the perception of major socio-political change, as when Enheduana was institutionalized as the first author by the scribes of the Edubba who wishing to invent a Sumerian tradition credited her with various hymns at a moment when Sumerian has ceased to be a spoken language,1 or when the so-called Catalogue of Texts and Authors was created just as Aramaic-speaking scribes infiltrated the Assyrian administration?2 Since the 1990s, when Roland Barthes declared the author to be dead and Michel Foucault responded to his proclamation with the essay “What is an Author?” by emphasizing the function of authorship within society rather than the concept of the individual author, narratology studies and literary criticism have resuscitated the notion of authorship.3 A recent trend in these fields has lain in distinguishing between the author and the narrator, promoting the conceptualization of the latter as the relevant category for textual analysis, and thus establishing the concept of the voice as the central concern of analysis. This voice must be distinguished from the author despite the fact that he created the text and brought

1

Helle, 2019a. Michalowski, 1996 : 186–187; Helle, 2019b. 3 Biriotti / Miller, 1993; Jannidis / Lauer / Martínez / Winko, 1999; Jaszi / Woodmansee, 1994; Lamarque, 1990; Simion, 1996; Schönert, 2009. 2

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it into existence.4 The author decides what should be part of the narrative and is thus responsible for its content and meaning, aspects tied to its authority. These aspects have, of course, been questioned in the past. What, then, is the relationship between the author and the fictional narrator? To understand the contour, scope, and rationale of this distinction, one needs to understand another core concept, namely, fictional storytelling. The governing principle of fictional storytelling is that tellers and listeners or writers and readers not only agree on the practice of storytelling, but also on the principle of makebelieve. In other words, they must have a mutual understanding that authors create fictional worlds in which the fictional narrator may adopt the voice of the author. Authors and fictional narrators belong to different ontological categories. While the author is a human being, the fictional narrator does not have to be. Think of Virginia Woolf’s beautiful and heartbreaking novel Flush, in which a dog recounts the story of its experience with humans. In Mesopotamian literature, gods may figure as fictional narrators, as does the god Marduk when telling the story of his abduction to the land of Elam in Marduk’s Prophecy. And while human authors are limited to the human scope of knowledge, memory, linguistic capabilities etc., fictional narrators need not be.5 In the following, the introductory lines of the Standardized Gilgamesh Epic will serve as my point of departure to reflect on the author, the implied author, the fictive narrator, and the way in which the authority of the text is set by the storyline itself. The opening lines of the Gilgamesh Epic summarize the story by speaking of a protagonist who has gained knowledge and experience through as-of-yet unspecified hardships. The words, spoken by the author, stress the fact that Gilgamesh wrote his life story on a stele: 1 2 3 4 5

[He who saw the Deep, the] foundations of the country, [who knew …], was wise in everything, [Gilgamesh, who saw the Deep, the foundations of the country, [who knew …], was wise in everything! [ … ] … equally [ … ]

1 2 3 4 5

He [learnt] the totality of wisdom about everything. He saw the secret and uncovered the hidden, He brought back a message from the antediluvian age. He came down a distant road and was weary but granted rest, He set down on a stele (narû) all (his) labors.

The trope of the king who writes down his experiences so that his successor, in particular, may learn from his failures or misfortunes and bless him had long existed in Babylonian tradition by the time the Standard Babylonian version of the 4

This, however, already entails all kinds of difficulties, Biriotti / Miller, 1993: 2 with reference to Lamarque, 2010: 33–55. 5 Biriotti / Miller, 1993: 4.

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Gilgamesh Epic with its new introduction was composed. The trope is an essential aspect of the Cuthean Legend, of which the first – albeit fragmentary – version had already been transmitted from the Old Babylonian period. In it, Naram-Sin, king of Akkad and the protagonist of the story, reproaches King Enmerkar of Uruk for not having set in writing his experiences for the benefit of posterity. The singling out of Enmerkar, whom the Sumerian tale of Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta celebrates as the inventor of cuneiform writing, is in itself an interesting variation on the cultural tradition. What is interesting in both the Cuthean Legend and the Gilgamesh Epic is the carrier of the writing, allegedly a stele or stone monument (narû). The stele generally serves as a support for writing the heroic deeds of the king and is erected in the temple in order to perpetually remind the gods of his achievements, or at the city gate or periphery of the controlled territory in order to presence the king’s claim for control. Hammurabi used the term to denote the stele that bore his collection of laws and was meant to be set up in the temple. Indeed, “The leitmotif of inscribing one’s memoirs on a narû for future generations to read so that they would bless its owner, occurs for the first time in the conclusion of Hammurabi’s monument.”6 In short, the term is generally used for a category of texts meant to celebrate royal achievements and one intended for the public or semi-public eye. Moreover, it is generally the king who holds the prerogative of inscribing a stele. In sum, the term “stele” operates as an index for the implied author behind the text, namely, the king. Yet the implied author is not an intentional creation of the concrete author, but rather the “product of the reader’s meaning-making activity,”7 which, in the case of the Cuthean Legend and the Gilgamesh Epic, is prompted by the indexical sign of the stele to be known as royal carrier of writing. Tukulti-Ninurta I, in his building inscription describing the construction of the New Palace at the city of Assur provides us with some interesting detailed information with regard to the deposit of narûs, his own one and the ones of his predecessors. When clearing the ground to build the terrace he comments as follows: “The narûs (inscribed monuments) of the former kings, which lay beside the steles (asamāte), I placed at one location.”8 The curse formula then specifies that these steles normally are supposed to be visible (vii 4–10): The Great Inscription from the Collection of David and Cindy Sofer, London, vi 25–27 He who erases (my) inscription (literally, inscribed name) and inscribes his (own) inscription (literally, name), (who) removes my narûs, brings (them) to another place, where there is no visibility, and puts (them there), and conceives of or does anything injurious; … 6

Westenholz, 2010: 42. Schmid, 2009: 295. On the implied author, see further Genette, 1988: 148. 8 Bloch / Peri, 2016–2017: 32. 7

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Tukulti-Ninurta I’s inscription clarifies that the term narû indeed was used for a variety of carriers for royal inscriptions, either written on a stele or on a tablet which both were considered to be visible, even if to an exclusive audience. In the Gilgamesh Epic, the other unusual feature lies in the fact that the stele is said to have received not Gilgamesh’s heroic deeds, but his labors (manāhtu) in writing. Both texts the Gilgamesh Epic and the Cuthean Legend use narû to denote a royal inscription, but the content of this document differs from that of other steles in that it combines the heroic with failure. Consequently, rather than being celebratory in nature, narû assumes a didactic quality and function for posterity. Already in the Old Babylonian period, the Cuthean Legend, in addition, combines the practice of writing a narû with the trope of the tablet box, which, like the Sun God Tablet of Nabu-apla-iddina,9 is generally hidden from sight in the foundations of a temple and largely inaccessible. The Legend thus leaves us with two culturally distinct concepts: first, the potential semi-public or public function of the stele or clay or stone tablet as carrier of the account of royal heroic deeds; and second, the tablet-box as an index of secrecy and concealment, a means of keeping knowledge out of sight and ensuring its exclusivity. The trope of the tablet box in combination with the narû monument appears twice in the Cuthean Legend: in the opening lines where it introduces the reader to the story of Enmerkar not having left a narû for future kings to come: 1 Open the tablet box and read out the stela 2 [which I, Namram-Sin], son of Sargon, 3 [have inscribed and left for] future days.10 And it appears another time at the very end of the text where the text informs us that the narû was left in Nergal’s temple in Cutha, where only future kings and princes were incited to read it and hearken its message. Cuthean Legend, Standard Babylonian Version 149 150 151 152 153 154 155

9

atta mannu lū iššakku u rubû lū mimma šanâma ša ilānu inambûšu šarrūta ippuš ṭupšenna ēpuška narâ ašṭurka ina Kutî ina Emeslam ina papāh Nergal ēzibakka narâ annâ amurma ša pî narê anna šimēma

On the Sun God Tablet see most recently Woods, 2004 with further bibliography. Westenholz, 1997: 300–301; 1[ṭupšenna pitēma] narâ šitassi 2[ša anāku Narām-Sîn] mār Šarru-kēn 3[išṭurūma ēzibūšu ana] ūmē ṣâti. 10

Gilgamesh’s Lapis Lazuli Tablet

149 150 151 152 153 154 155

335

You, whoever you are, be it governor or prince or anyone else, whom the gods will call to perform kingship, I made a tablet-box for you and wrote a narû for you. In Kutha, in the Emeslam, in the cella of Nergal, I left (it) for you! Read this narû! Hearken unto the words of this stele!11

Note that in both cases the voice is that of Naram-Sin who speaks as the pseudoI as the implied narrator to his audience. The way in which the text is formulated in the Cuthean Legend makes it sound as though the king is writing a narû that was deposited in the tablet box, thereby implying that in this case, the carrier of the writing was not in fact a stele, but a stone or clay tablet. In other words, the notion of authority evoked by the stele as a carrier of writing – the prerogative of the king – is applied to another kind of carrier, either a stone or clay tablet. Clearly, the tablet box serves as a metaphor for the secrecy of the text and the exclusivity of its message, which is directed either at the gods or future rulers. When renovating or remodeling the temple, the latter would have found the tablet box and ritually re-deposited it in the foundations. It seems important to note that the idea of the secrecy and clandestine nature of the text as conveyed by the tablet box trope is already embedded in the Old Babylonian version, as indicated by the colophon on the second tablet: 1 2 3 4 5

DUB.2.KAM.MA ṭup-šen-na pí-te-ma ŠU Id-da-tum DUB.SAR.TUR ITI.ŠE.GUR10.KU3 UD.26.KAM MU Am-mi-ṣa-du-qá lugal-e urudu-du8-mah gal-gal-la

1 2 3 4 5

Second tablet of (the series) “Open the Tablet-Box,” Written by Iddatum, the junior scribe. Month Addar, 26th day Year, when Ammiṣaduqa, the king, (presented) a very large high copper platform.

As the text attests, the trope of the tablet box clearly antedates the standardized version of the Gilgamesh Epic, revealing the epic’s intertextual dependence on the Cuthean Legend. However, even though the Gilgamesh Epic equally plays with the use of the narû and the tablet box, its author of the Standard Babylonian version introduces an innovative take by now turning to Gilgamesh’s major achievement, namely, the construction of the city walls. In contrast to historical epics such as those of Zimrilim and Tukulti-Ninurta, the text does not celebrate the king’s valor as a warrior, as insinuated by the use of the term “stele” (narû), 11

Westenholz, 1997: 326–327.

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but rather extols him as the architect of a monumental kiln-fired brick wall that is so wide that people can climb up and walk on it. With introducing Gilgamesh’s construction of the walls of Uruk the author now has an implied narrator address the audience directly with the demand to climb the wall, walk around but also survey its foundation platform: Gilgamesh Epic I 11–23 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

ú-pi-šú dūra(bàd) šá Uruk(unug)ki su-pú-ri šá é.an.na qud-du-ši šu-tum4-mi el-lim a-mur du-ur-šú ki-ma qé-e ni-ip-š[u?] i-tap-la-as sa-me-ta-šu šá la ú-maš-šá-lu mam-ma ṣa-bat-ma giššimmilta(kun4) šá ul-tu ul-la-nu qit-ru-ub ana é.an.na šu-bat dIštar(15) šá šarru(lugal) ár-ku-ú la ú-maš-šá-lu amēlu(lú) mam-ma e-li-ma ina muhhi(ugu) dūri(bàd) šá Urukki i!(IM)-tal-lak te-me-en-nu hi-iṭ-ma libitta(sig4) ṣu-ub-bu šum-ma libitta(sig4)-šú la a-gur-rat u uš-šu-šú la id-du-ú 7 mun-tal-ku [šár] ālu(uru) [šár giš]kirâtu(kiri6) šár eš-šu-ú pi-t[ir] bīt(é) dištar(15) [3 šár] ù pi-tir Ur[u]kki tam-ši-hu

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

He built the wall of Uruk-the Sheepfold, of holy Eanna, the pure storehouse. See its wall which is like a strand of wool, view its parapet which nobody can replicate! Take the stairway that has been there since ancient times, and draw new Eanna, the seat of Ishtar, that no later king can replicate, nor any man. Go up to the wall of Uruk and walk around, survey the foundation platform, inspect the brickwork! (See) if its brickwork is not kiln-fired brick, and if the Seven Sages did not lay its foundations! [One šār is] city, [one šār] date-grow, one šār is the clay-pit, half a šār the temple of Ishtar: 23 [three šār] and a half (is) Uruk, (its measurement.

The text claims that the foundation platform was laid out by the seven sages, the helpers of Ea, who reside in the fresh-water ocean and thus guarantee the purity and sacredness of the city. It does not ascribe the construction of Ishtar’s temple to any agent, although it alludes to it with the name Eanna. This kind of division of labor with regard to the founding of the city and the construction of its various monuments complies with the ancient Weltanschauung that postulates that all cities and temples were founded by the gods in times of yore or even conceived in

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the heavens.12 The establishment of cities was a divine prerogative; any king who claimed to have built a new one was accused of hubris, as is implied by the NeoAssyrian composition of The Sin of Sargon. In other words, the Gilgamesh Epic is careful to present Gilgamesh not as the actual founder of the city, but as its caretaker, who fortifies it against potential outside threats. His walls, however, act as his very embodiment presencing the king for all eternity; with the implied narrator’s demand to look at them, to climb and walk on them the audience is called upon to engage in a very direct and performative way with Gilgamesh’s eternal presence.13 It is only after this account of how Uruk, Gilgamesh’s royal residence, came into being that the text returns to the trope of the king’s obligation to write down his experiences and deeds for his successors again by addressing directly his audience and thus following the model of the Cuthean Legend: Gilgamesh Epic I 24–28 24 25 26 27 28

[a-mur] gišṭup-šen-na šá gišerēni(erin) [pu-uṭ-ṭe]r har-gal-li-šu šá siparri(zabar) [pi-te-m]a bāba(ká) šá ni-ṣir-ti-šú [i-š]i-ma ṭup-pi na4uqnî(za.gìn) ši-tas-si [mim-m]u-ú dGIŠ-gim-maš ittallaku(du.du)ku ka-lu mar-ṣa-a-ti

24 25 26 27 28

[Find] the tablet-box of cedar, [release] its clasps of bronze! [Open] the lid of its secret, [lift] up the tablet of lapis lazuli and read out all the misfortunes, all that Gilgamesh went through!

This demand will be repeated at the end of Tablet XI this time addressing Urshanabi, the boatman, who took Gilgamesh back to Uruk. Once again, the emphasis in the proem falls not on heroic deeds, such as the slaying of Huwawa in the Cedar Forest, but on the misfortunes (marṣātu) that Gilgamesh has suffered. Unlike the passage in the Cuthean Legend, the one here, which revolves around the trope of the tablet box, no longer mentions the narû either in form of a stele or a stone tablet as the carrier of writing. While adhering to the trope of the tablet box, the author seems to have wanted to introduce another idea, namely, that of the lapis lazuli tablet. Now, one might see this as quite a natural thing to do as tablets could have been kept in tablet boxes. Moreover, lapis lazuli tablets, like those made out of gold, silver, bronze, and alabaster, could too serve as carriers

12

As temples were conceived by the gods, their construction needed to be carried out exactly according to their divinely revealed plan, Averbeck, 2002: 120; for the cosmic dimensions of building see Van Leeuwen, 2007; Hurowitz, 1992. 13 Dickson, 2009.

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of royal foundation inscriptions.14 As Gebhard Selz reminds us, the earliest archaeological evidence of such lies in the lapis lazuli tablet dedicated by King Lugal-sila-si, a.k.a. Lugal-kisal-si of Kish, to the gods An and Inanna in the 25th century BCE.15 I, however, am inclined to posit that the epic’s author was after a deeper meaning – one harking back to the role of the lapis lazuli tablet in times of yore – so as to endow the voice of Gilgamesh with forceful divine authority. The notion of the lapis lazuli tablet as a tangible signifier of knowledge dates back to the Early Dynastic period and is associated with the goddess Nisaba. The Sumerian Temple Hymns include the following statement: Temple Hymns ETCSL 4.80.1: 529–542 O house of stars, bright E-zagin (Lapis lazuli house), reaching into all lands, establishing …… in the shrine, Ereš! The primeval lords raise their heads to you every month. …… the potash plant, great Nanibgal, Nisaba, has brought divine powers from heaven and added to your divine powers. Sanctuary established for ……! To the true woman who possesses exceeding wisdom, soothing …… and opening the mouth, always consulting a tablet of lapis lazuli (dub-za-gìn-ta ad gi4-gi4-gi4), giving advice to all lands (kur-kur-ra ad-ša4-gá-gá-gá), the true woman, the holy potash plant, born of the stylus reed, applies the measure to heaven and places the measuringrope on the earth – to Nisaba be praise! Transmitted during the Old Babylonian period, the Sumerian hymns dedicated to the goddess Nisaba, patron deity of the scribes, and to kings, reveal the cultural significance assigned by the ancients to the lapis lazuli tablet and its importance in royal ideology. In a hymn to Nisaba (Nisaba A), the creator god Enki places the lapis lazuli tablet on the knees of the goddess, and through this gesture assigns her the role of both the chief scribe of An and the record-keeper of Enlil, thereby turning her into the epitome of knowledge and wisdom: A Hymn to Nisaba A (ETCSL 4.16.1) 1 nin mul-an gin7 gun3-a dub za-gin3 šu du8 Lady sparkling like the stars of heaven holding a lapis lazuli tablet … 12–13 Good woman, chief scribe (dub-sar mah) of An, record keeper (sagtun3) of Enlil, wise sage of the gods (gal-zu igi-gal2 dingir-re-e-ne) … 29 e2-geštug2 dNisaba-ke4 gal2 nam-mi-in-taka4 30 dub za-gin3 dub3-ba nam-min-in gar 31 dub mul-an kug-ta šag4 im-ma-da kuš2-u3 14 15

CAD U/W, 199 s.v. uqnû 6’. Selz, 2014: 53–54 with fig. 2.

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32 arattaki e2za-gin3-na šu-ni-še3 mu-un-gar 29 30 31 32

(Enki) has opened up Nisaba’s House of Wisdom He has placed the lapis lazuli tablet on her knees, For her to consult the sacred tablet of the heavenly stars. In Aratta he has placed E-zagin (Lapis House) at her disposal.

This text is particularly revealing as it describes Nisaba’s tablet as ku(g) or “pure” and “sacred,” covered with heavenly stars. In the ancient Near East, various materials used to craft artifacts possessed meaning beyond their value as commodities. Due to their luminous, glowing, and lustrous properties, gold, silver, and lapis lazuli, in particular, were associated with absolute purity and consequently, sanctity. This culturally assigned quality attributed potential agency to objects made out of these materials and bound them closely to the divine world.16 This was equally true of Nisaba’s tablet and measuring rope, as indicated by the following section in Enki and the World Order: Enki and the World Order, 412–417 412 413 414 415 416 417

nin9 e-gu10 kug dnisaba-ke4 gi-1-nindan šu he2-em-ma-an-ti eš2 za-gin3 a2-na ha-ba-an-la2 me gal-gal-e gu3 ha-ba-an-de2-e in he2-dub-e ki he2-sur-re dub-sar kalam-ma he2-em nag gu7 dingir-re-e-ne-ke4 šu-ni-a he2-en-gal2

412 413 414 415 416 417

My illustrious sister, holy Nisaba, Is to receive the 1-rod reed. The lapis lazuli rope is to hang from her arm. She is to proclaim all the great divine powers. She is to fix boundaries and mark borders. She is to be the scribe of The gods’ eating and drinking is to be in her hands.17 \ the land.

Also important is the fact that in this context the Sumerian term mul-an, “heavenly stars,” can also refer to cuneiform writing.18 Here, the metaphor indicates that the contents of the tablet, like the heavenly stars, had their origin in the cosmic order, and that like the course of the stars, they cannot be altered. One of the royal praises of Shulgi speaks of the contents of the hymn as the “unshatterable stars” (mul-an 16

Benzel, 2015. Quoted from Robson, 2007: 238–239. Jerrold Cooper has informed me that the version we have is probably an Isin product, even though there are no manuscripts that are that early. He also believes that there could well have been an Ur III precursor, since the presence of Dilmun and Meluhha as trading partners, and Elam and Marhashi as enemies, suggests an Ur III or earlier date for a version of the composition that predates the one we have. 18 Selz, 2014. 17

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sag2 nu-di) to which the singer should lead the scribe,19 thereby implying their divine origin and inalterability: Shulgi Hymn E, 248–251 (ETCSL 2.4.2.05) 248

nu-ha-lam(e) mul-an sag2 nu-di mu da-ri-mu-še3 249nar-e dub-sar hé(en)-ši-(in)-tum2(-mu- igi he-en-ni-[i]n-bar-re 250geštug2 gizzal dnisaba-kakam 251dub-za-gìn-gim gu3 he2-na?-ta?-de2-e

So that …. (these hymns) will never be forgotten; to (these) unshatterable heavenly stars my everlasting lines may the singer conduct the scribe; may he have him look at them; and he (the man) of Nisaba’s wisdom and intelligence, read them out for him, as from a lapis lazuli tablet. As evident from Shulgi Hymn C as well as several others directed at the kings of the Isin Dynasty, it was in the Old Babylonian period at latest that Nisaba’s role as the scribe of the land, who set boundaries and marked borders was fully emulated by the king. Quoting Shulgi Hymn C: Shulgi Hymn C, 35–49 (ETCSL 2.4.2.03) In the house of wise knowledge of the Land, I, Shulgi, king of Sumer, set a good example. My hand guides the holy reed stylus correctly. 4 lines unclear. … the fields in the sacred … and the sacred agricultural land with a lapis-lazuli measuring line, bringing in plentiful harvest, … top-quality flax, top-quality barley. I am greatly expert in assigning work with the pickaxe and the brick-mold, in drawing plans, in laying foundations, and in writing cuneiform inscriptions on pedestals; I can make things absolutely clear on tablets of lapis-lazuli. I also have a solidly based knowledge of the intelligent implementation of the counting, accounting, and planning of the Land. While one could read this passage as a rhetoric device aggrandizing Shulgi’s skills, knowledge, and intelligence, the Sumerian poem Enki and the World Order reveals that there was more to it. Nisaba’s accessories – the tablet and the measuring rope – are instrumental to the realization of the social order, as epitomized by the divine principles and institutions known as “ME” that establish borders and divide the land into lots that can then be used for agriculture and animal husbandry and provide for the temples. In other words, in bestowing these accessories on the king, the goddess not only enables him to perform his duties to perfection, but also provides him with tangible and affective items imbued with divine power and thus guarantees his infallible authority. That through the act of Nisaba handing him the lapis lazuli tablet the king receives the wisdom and knowledge to act appropriately is an idea explicitly expressed in a passage in Lipit-Ishtar B: 19

ETCSL 2.4.2.05: 248.

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Lipit-Ishtar B, 18–24 d

18 19 20 21 22 23 24

nisaba munus ul-la gun3-a munus zid dub-sar nin nig2-nam zu si-zu im-ma si ba-ni-in-sa2 šag4 dub-ba-ka gu-šum2 mi-ni-in-sag9-sag9 gi-dub-ba kug-sig17-ka šu mu-ni-in-gun3 gi-1-nindan eš2-gana2 za-gin3 giš-as4-lum le-um igi-gal2 um2-mu dnisaba-ke4 šu dagal ma-ra-an-dug4

18 19 20 21 22 23 24

Nisaba, woman sparkling with joy, Righteous woman, scribe, lady who knows everything: She leads your fingers on the clay, She makes them put beautiful wedges on the tablets, She makes them (the wedges) sparkle with a golden stylus. A 1-rod reed and a measuring rope of lapis lazuli A yardstick, and a writing board which gives wisdom: Nisaba generously bestowed them on you.

Here the cultural significance of writing on a lapis lazuli tablet has connotations similar to those of Shulgi’s use of the metaphor of the heavenly stars for cuneiform writing. The wedge-like formations (gu-šum2) of cuneiform writing are said to be beautifully (sag9) rendered on the tablet. The reference to the beauty of this cuneiform writing, I suggest, goes beyond our western notion of aesthetically pleasing to remind readers that Lipit-Ishtar’s writing on the tablet is in harmony with the things foreseen by the gods and thus, by extension, with the cosmic order.20 Such a reading is supported by the next line, which speaks of the wedges as sparkling because they are inscribed with a golden stylus. I suggest that here again gold stands for purity and sacredness, and that the cuneiform writing on the tablet thus acquires authority and inalterability due to its association with the divine world. A section in Gudea’s Building Hymn sheds more light on our understanding of the meaning of the lapis lazuli tablet in the Gilgamesh Epic. In a mythologizing passage that relates the story of Gudea’s construction of the temple for Ningirsu, patron deity of Lagash, the god Ninduba engraves the ground plan of the temple on a lapis lazuli tablet:

20

See the illuminating reflections on the notion of beauty in Chinese culture by François Cheng, 2009. For a discussion of aesthetics in ancient Near Eastern studies, see the pioneering work of Irene Winter, 1995, 2002 and recently Sonik, 2021. For aesthetics as a culturally shaped response, see Bourdieu, 1984a and 1984b. Further Eagleton, 1980; for the discussion in anthropology, see Layton, 1991; Gell, 1992 and 1998; Morphy, 1996; Burns Coleman, 2005; Rampley, 2005; DeMarrais / Robb, 2013.

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Gudea CylA v 21 – vi 5 (RIME E3/1.1.1.7.) The young woman coming forward, who did something with sheaves, who was holding a stylus of shining metal, had on her knees a tablet (with) stars, which she was consulting – she was in fact my sister Nisaba; she announced to you the bright star (auguring) the building of the House. Furthermore, as for the warrior who bent his arm holding a lapis lazuli plate – he was Ninduba: he was engraving thereon in all detail the ground-plan of the House. Several ideas play into each other in this passage: first, Nisaba is holding a shiny metal stylus as if to write something on the tablet, an image that, as shown by the various passages cited above, conveys her responsibilities in the domains of measuring, accounting, and record-keeping. In this case, however, it seems as though the tablet also records constellations that either augur the building of Ningirsu’s temple or depict the temple’s ground plan, as Sennacherib was to claim long afterwards in the building account of his palace; and third, the ground plan of the temple depicted on the lapis lazuli plate is engraved by a god. To return to the account of Gilgamesh’s experiences that was to be conveyed to his successors, we can now understand the cultural meaning revolving around the trope of the tablet box with the lapis lazuli tablet. Although seemingly presented as a foundation tablet, its cultural meaning is embedded in the rich tapestry of tradition endowing it with divine and cosmic dimensions. One might object that at the end of the second and beginning of the first millennium BCE, Nisaba no longer played a role in royal ideology as she had lost her position as patron of writing to the god Nabû.21 This, however, does not mean that the cultural significance of her lapis lazuli tablet was lost on the ancients. The words of Gilgamesh, the implied author in the proem of the epic, carry cultural weight due both to his status as the legendary ancestor of kings and their inscription on a lapis lazuli tablet. Inalterable and immutable as the heavenly stars, entrenched in the cosmic order, repeated in perpetuity to generations of future rulers, Gilgamesh’s lapis lazuli tablet represents a heavenly tablet engraved with heavenly writing; its content is written into the constellations, and so his words convey a truth that is sanctioned by its association with the divine. This truth needs to be made known to posterity; by the implied narrator’s demand to read Gilgamesh’s lapis lazuli tablet aloud, this voicing brings its narrative back to life.22 As Keith Dickson astutely observes “reading the tablet, no less than touching and pacing the wall, involves representation in the form of a kind of renewal via re-embodiment of the hero. … the bodily imitation and the equally mimetic and collaborative act of reading aloud … are mediated activities … mediated by an artifact: the wall of Uruk and the inscribed stone text, respectively, are devices by which the spatial, temporal, 21 22

Michalowski, 1998–2001. Dickson, 2009: 28.

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and narrative distance between reader and authorial hero is narrowed.”23 While as artifacts or products the wall and the tablet serve as an index of the absent Gilgamesh and thus maintain for him a presence in the world, as indices of Gilgamesh’s agency they offer themselves as instruments for the sort of imitatio encouraged by the invitation in the prologue. The first-millennium Catalogue of Texts and Authors from the libraries of Nineveh assigns an author, Sin-leqe-unninni, to the Gilgamesh Epic. We know nothing about this scholar, as is likewise the case for other authors named in this document except that during the Neo-Babylonian period families involved in animal husbandry and ones dividing into branches of lamentation singers and scribes claimed descendance of him.24 Along with Sophus Helle, I suggest that rather than dwelling on the historicity of the composers of texts, we should investigate the historical phenomenon of an emerging discourse about literature and authorship at a time when cuneiform writing had already existed for over a thousand years.25 Not only should we dwell on the meaning of providing the names of composers, performers, and scribes in colophons, rubrics, and catalogues, but we should also search for other narrative strategies and tropes used by the ancients to provide a text with an authoritative voice. In Mesopotamia, authorship worked within a stream of tradition. This kind of self-understanding is, in my view, totally congruent with the ancient concept of the person, who did not see himself or herself as an individual, but rather as a member of a family and a part of a societal network.26 Given the rich corpus of cultural texts, there is little evidence of individual authority exercised by authors who claim responsibility for particular ideas or textual production. What is evident, however, is an awareness and cognizance of centers of learning and the transmission of knowledge, as well as an explicit discourse on authorial claims even if the intention is not on historical veracity. After 1500 years of evolution, the standardized version of the Gilgamesh Epic, as Benjamin Foster observes, displays an “overall artistic unity that suggests the work of one person,”27 which, with the addition of the prologue discussed in this article, the flood story related by its hero in Tablet XI, and the knowledge of death and life in the netherworld described in Tablet XII, shifted its emphasis from the heroic to the acquisition of knowledge. This knowledge is authoritative because it 23

Dickson, 2009: 30. Beaulieu, 2000: 5. As the structure of the name is typical of Middle Babylonian onomastics Paul-Alain Beaulieu assumes that there was a historical Sin-leqi-unninni who lived during the Kassite period. 25 Helle, 2019, 2022. Sophus Helle was inspired by Michel Foucault’s notion of the author’s function as developed in his essay, “What is an Author?” which stresses the function of authorship within specific historical contexts in society rather than the individual figure of the author. 26 Pongratz-Leisten, 2022. 27 Foster, 2019. 24

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was written on a lapis lazuli tablet and by that very action evokes divine provenance. The archetypal quality generated by the cultural memory revolving around the lapis lazuli tablet turns the story into a model narrative for future rulers. Moreover, it is not only authoritative, but also exclusive because it is hidden in a tablet box and is thus accessible only to Gilgamesh’s successors in the office of rulership, who constitute the implied audience or readership. As discussed above the lapis lazuli tablet operates on two levels, as a heavenly tablet with divinely sanctioned content, i.e. a metaphor for heavenly writing, and as an index of Gilgamesh’s presence, i.e. an icon for the audience to engage with directly. To conclude, the Gilgamesh Epic offers us a chorus of voices: the voice of the author assigned to the text in the later tradition, the voice of the implied author (NOT narrator), the voice of the fictive narrator, the voice of the flood hero of antediluvian times, and the voice of Enkidu informing Gilgamesh about life in the netherworld. Bibliography Averbeck, R.E., 2002: “Sumer, Bible, and the Comparative Method: Historiography and Temple Building”. In M. W. Chavalas / K. Lawson Younger, Jr. (eds.): Mesopotamia and the Bible. Comparative Explorations. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Pp. 88–125. Beaulieu, P.-A., 2000: “The Descendants of Sîn-lēqi-unninni”. In J. Marzahn / H. Neumann (eds.): Assyriologica et Semitica. FS Joachim Oelsner. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Pp. 1–16. Benzel, K., 2015: “‘What Goes in Is What Comes Out’ – But What Was Already There? Divine Materials and Materiality in Ancient Mesopotamia”. In Pongratz-Leisten / Sonik, 2015. Pp. 89–118. Bloch, Y. / Peri, L.A., 2016–2017: “I Place my Name There: The Great Inscription of Tukulti-Ninurta I, King of Assyria, from the Collection of David and Cindy Sofer, London”. Israel Museum Studies in Archaeology 8, 2–55. Biriotti, M. / Miller, N. (eds.) 1993: What is an Author? Manchester. Burns Coleman, E., 2005: “Aesthetics as a Cross-Cultural Concept”. Literature and Aesthetics 15/1, 57–78. Cheng, F., 2009: The Way of Beauty: Five Meditations for Spiritual Transformation. Rochester, VT / Toronto: Inner Traditions. Cooper, J.S., 2016: “Sumerian Literature and Sumerian Identity”. In K. Ryholt / G. Barjamovic (eds.): Problems of Canonicity and Identity Formation in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press. Pp. 1–18. DeMarrais, E. / Robb, J., 2013: “Art Makes Society: An Introductory Visual Essay”. World Art 3/1, 3–22. Dickson, K., 2009: “The Wall of Uruk: Iconicities in Gilgamesh”. JANER 9/1, 25–50. Eagleton, T., 1990: The Ideology of the Aesthetic. Oxford: Blackwell.

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Gell, A., 1992: “The Technology of Enchantment and the Enchantment of Technology”. In J. Coote / A. Shelton (eds.): Anthropology, Art, and Aesthetics. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Pp. 40–63. — 1998: Art and Agency. An Anthropological Theory. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Genette, G., 1988: Narrative Discourse Revisited. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. George, A.R., 2003: The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Helle, S., 2019a: “Enheduana and the Invention of Authorship”. Authorship 8(1). doi: https://doi.org/10.21825/aj.v8i1.11486 — 2019b: “A Literary Heritage: Authorship in the Neo-Assyrian Period”. Kaskal 16, 349–371. Hurowitz, V., 1992: I have Built You an Exalted House: Temple Building in the Bible in Light of Mesopotamian and Northwest Semitic Writings. Sheffield: JSOT Press. Jannidis, F. / Lauer, G. / Martínez, M. / Winko, S. (eds.) 1999: Rückkehr des Autors. Zur Erneuerung eines umstrittenen Begriffs. Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag. Jaszi, P. / Woodmansee, M. (eds.) 1994: The Construction of Authorship: Textual Appropriation in Law and Literature. Durham. Lamarque, P., 1990: “The Death of the Author: An Analytical Autopsy”. British Journal of Aesthetics, 319–331. — 2010: Work and Object: Explorations in the Metaphysics of Art. Layton, R., 1991: The Anthropology of Art. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Michalowski, P., 1998–2001: “Nisaba. A. Philologisch”. RlA 9, 575–579. Morphy, H., 1996: “For the Motion”. In T. Ingold (ed.): Key Debates in Anthropology. London: Routledge. Pp. 206–209. Myers, F., 1991: “Representing Culture: The Production of Discourse(s) for Aboriginal Acrylic Paintings”. Cultural Anthropology 6/10, 26–62. Pongratz-Leisten, B., 2009: “Reflections on the Translatibility of the Notion of Holiness”. In M. Luukko / S. Svärd / R. Mattila (eds.): Of God(s), Trees, Kings, and Scholars. Neo-Assyrian and Related Studies in Honour of Simo Parpola. Studia Orientalia 106. Helsinki. Pp. 409–427. — 2022: “The Socio-morphic Structure of the Polytheistic Pantheon in Mesopotamia and its meaning for Divine Agency and Mentalization”. In M. LeonardFleckman / L.A.S. Monroe / M.J. Stahl / D.R. Johnsonm (eds.): “A Community of Peoples”: Studies on Society and Politics in the Bible and Ancient Near East in Honor of Daniel E. Fleming. Harvard Semitic Studies. Brill. Pp. 269– 299. Pongratz-Leisten, B. / Sonik, K., (eds.): 2015: The Materiality of Divine Agency. Berlin / New York: De Gruyter.

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Rampley, M., 2005: “Art History and Cultural Difference: Alfred Gell’s Anthropology of Art”. Art History 28/4, 525–551. Robson, E., 2007: “Gendered Literacy and Numeracy in the Sumerian Literary Corpus”. In J. Ebeling / G. Cunningham (eds.): Analysing Literary Sumerian: Corpus-Based Approaches. London: Equinox Publishing. Pp. 215–249. Rubio, G., 2009: “Sumerian Literature”. In C.S. Ehrlich (ed.): From an Antique Land: An Introduction to Ancient Near Eastern Literature. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. Pp. 11–75. Schmid, W. 2009: “Implied Author”. In P. Hühn / J. Pier / W. Schmid / J. Schönert (eds.): Handbook of Narratology. Berlin / New York: De Gruyter. Pp. 161– 173. Schönert, J., 2009: “Author”. In P. Hühn / J. Pier / W. Schmid / J. Schönert (eds.): Handbook of Narratology. Berlin / New York: De Gruyter. Pp. 1–13. Simion, E., 1996: The Return of the Author. Evanston, Ill: Northwestern University Press. Selz, G., 2014: “The Tablet with ‘Heavenly Writing’ or How to Become a Star”. In A. Panaino et al. (eds.): Non licet stare caelestibus: Studies on Astronomy and its History Offered to Salvo de Meis. Milano / Udine: MIMESIS. Pp. 51– 67. Sonik, K., 2021: “Art/ifacts and ArtWorks: De-Colonizing the Study and Museum Display of Ancient and Non-Western Things”. In Art/ifacts and ArtWorks in the Ancient World. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Pp. 1–82. Van Leeuwen, R.C., 2007: “Cosmos, Temple, House: Building and Wisdom in Mesopotamia and Israel”. In R.J. Clifford (ed.): Wisdom Literature in Mesopotamia and Israel. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Pp. 67–90. Westenholz, J. Goodnick, 1997: Legends of the Kings of Akkade. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. — 2010: “Historical Events and the Process of their Transformation in Akkadian Heroic Traditions”. In D. Konstan / K.A. Raaflaub (eds.): Epic and History. Malden, MA / Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Pp. 26–50. Winter, I.J., 1995: “Aesthetics in Ancient Mesopotamian Art”. In J.M. Sasson (ed.): Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Pp. 2569–2580. — 2002: “Defining ‘Aesthetics’ for Non-Western Studies”. In M.A. Holly / K. Moxey (eds.): Art History, Aesthetics, Visual Studies. Sterling and Francine Clark Institute. Distributed by New Haven / London: Yale University Press. Pp. 3–28. Woods, C., 2004: “The Sun-God Tablet of Nabû-apla-iddina Revisited”. JCS 56, 23–103.

Mountaineers in Mesopotamia Julian Edgeworth Reade It was in July 1982, at a party during the 29th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale in London, that I first listened to Simo talking about the State Archives of Assyria project. The prospect of my providing illustrations for the series emerged soon afterwards. As the proofs of over twenty volumes have passed through my hands or across my screen, I have been repeatedly impressed by the fresh insights they offer and by the ways in which they encourage us to focus our attention or broaden our horizons. I am grateful to the organizers of this volume for the opportunity to reiterate my appreciation of Simo’s work. I once visited a site between Tel’afar and Eski Mosul in northern Iraq which had commonplace pottery sherds of many periods scattered across its surface but also an exceptionally high number of small flakes of obsidian. That is the volcanic glass from Anatolia that was the finest material available in early prehistory for the production of sharp tools. I envisaged rafts carrying large blocks of raw obsidian floating down the nearby River Tigris and pausing periodically to unload. After manufacture the finished tools could have been transported overland to innumerable settlements in rich farming country – west past Tell Hawa towards the Khabur triangle, south-west and south towards Sinjar and the Wadi Tharthar, south-east towards villages like Hassuna. There must have been many such prehistoric centres of distribution for obsidian and other goods, developing and declining as supply, demand and local circumstances changed through time. The sheer complexity of the systems and the ranges of goods involved are hard to overestimate. Evidence for some kinds of interaction, such as the mobile skills of metallurgy which eventually rendered obsidian obsolete, can survive well in the archaeological record. Evidence for others such as literacy, unless conveniently deposited on bone, stone or dry clay, is liable to rot and disappear. Half a century ago Crawford (1973: 239), discussing some of the evidence for “invisible” exports, noted how the old view of Mesopotamia as “civilized centre of the universe dealing with peoples not far removed from barbarism” was being upended by new discoveries in Iran and Afghanistan. The scope of discovery in time and space has continued to expand throughout and beyond Western Asia. For instance, one cannot read a modern paper on the distribution of languages and chariot technology in Russia around 2000 BC, written by another distinguished scholar (A. Parpola, 2022), without observing its ultimate relevance to Mesopotamia too. It is not a matter of discussing whether developments are due to diffusion, invasion, invention, environment or other factors, but of recognising how all processes interact.

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Fig. 1a (top): Akkadian cylinder seal and impression (BM 89137). Courtesy Trustees of the British Museum. 1b (lower left): Stela of Naram-Sin (Musée du Louvre). Photograph Rama (cropped). 1c (middle right): arrow-heads mostly from Akkadian levels at Tell Brak, Syria (Mallowan 1947: Pl. XXXVII). 1d (lower right): arrow-heads of Qatar A–C– D type (Potts 1990: Pl. Ia; photograph by Hans Burkard).

The individuals controlling the long-distance movement of goods in prehistory remain anonymous but the systems cannot have operated without security. This introduces the idea of guards, escorts, mercenaries, enterprising young men or armed groups accompanied by their families. These people may have been among

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those bearing the greatest responsibility for the prehistoric transmission of knowledge between distant places. They emerge eventually as crucial players in Mesopotamian history. The current paper considers a few items that may help illustrate their role in later periods but can also serve as a reminder of the uncertainties around much of the evidence. The first item is a modern impression of a Mesopotamian cylinder-seal (Fig. 1a). The seal is a very fine example of a common type of stone object, dated to the Akkadian period around 2300 BC. The inscription gives the name and title of Kalki, a scribe, a servant of the brother of the king. This then is his personal seal, and the subject-matter of the carved design is related to his status and activities. Frankfort (1939: 140) and Collon (1982: 73), experts on such seals, agreed that the design showed a high official with attendants. The high official is the man in a cap, the king’s brother, Kalki's employer. The clean-shaven scribe (to the right of the official in the impression) has to be Kalki, owner of the seal. Two officers with sticks flank them on either side, while two smaller-scale servants carrying a chair and equipment follow underneath the cuneiform inscription. Who then is the figure leading the way on the left? As described by Collon, he “has a short beard, his hair in a bun and wears a short cross-over kilt and shoes with upturned toes. He carries a quiver and a bow over his left shoulder and an arrow in his right hand. A tassel is attached to his quiver.” He is more plainly dressed than the other large figures, except that he has fine shoes with upturned toes as sometimes worn by mountaineers in later periods (Reade, 2001: 74–75). His identity depends on the context of the scene. According to Frankfort, the high official is probably being “guided by tribesmen of the mountains … while in the background … two servants are carrying their master’s requisites for the wild districts which he is visiting.” Collon cited suggestions that the scene was a hunting expedition or a group of prisoners, but herself reached much the same conclusion as Frankfort, that it “seem[s] to represent … a tour of inspection… The party is led by a local mountain guide who is armed and is wearing shoes which are suitable for mountaineering”. By these interpretations the scene is anecdotal, showing something that happened in a province on the mountainous edge of the Akkadian Empire. For a formal cylinder-seal such as this, a more general interpretation seems more suitable. If so, the scene did not represent a particular episode or tour of inspection, but rather the official's standard entourage. These people would have accompanied him whether he was in the mountains or not. The leading figure was then not a guide but a soldier. Given his prominence on the seal he could have been commander of the official’s permanent escort, wearing his own traditional dress. Whether this was exactly so in this example, there must have been other such men of similar background. One basic requirement for the employment of foreign soldiers or specialists, namely a procedure for rewarding their services, was al-

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ready met. As summarized by Peyronel (2010: 935), in a discussion of silver hoards, “a process of wealth accumulation by private citizens started already at the transition between the ED and Akkadian period.” This would have particularly suited men born outside the traditional Mesopotamian economy. Through employment as guards (or indeed as guides on occasion), they will have become familiar with the landscape, resources and vulnerabilities of Akkadian territory, and they will have passed this information on to others. Anyone could have used it for advantage. The soldier’s handsome bow is also relevant. It resembles the weapon of the Akkadian emperor Naram-Sin on his famous stela (Fig. 1b). Mallowan (1947: 180–182, Pl. 37) long ago remarked on the high quality of retouched stone arrowheads excavated in Akkadian deposits at Tell Brak in Syria (Fig. 1c) and at other sites of this general period in both Mesopotamia and Iran. There are arrowheads of similar shape and quality from eastern Arabia (Fig. 1d); once thought to be far earlier, some of them may be dated later than 3500 BC (e.g. Potts, 1990: 38), and they were perhaps still being made and used there too for hunting and warfare into the third millennium. Zarins (2020: 25–32), however, has demonstrated that these fine arrowheads are most closely associated with what has been called the Bactrian Margiana Archaeological Complex, east of the Caspian Sea. This suggests the hypothesis that Akkadian rulers hired archers from the east not merely as individual guards but more systematically as regular soldiers or mercenaries. Yadin (1963: 47–48) argued, although not everyone has agreed (Hamblin, 2006), that bows like Naram-Sin’s were early examples of the composite type. This would have given soldiers using them a revolutionary advantage in warfare over spearmen such as those illustrated in earlier scenes of warfare between Sumerian city-states. The effect of large numbers of arrows on infantry is famously described in the warning given before the Battle of Thermopylae that there would be enough Median arrows to darken the sun, eliciting the Laconian response that this was excellent news, as the battle would then be fought in the shade (Herodotus, 7.226). Arrowheads found at a site can naturally have belonged to people attacking it or defending it or to both. If the Akkadians did establish or maintain their empire partly through the effective use of archers, the same weapons could also have been used against them. The subsequent disintegration of the empire was ascribed by the Mesopotamians themselves to an invasion of so-called Guti people. Zarins (2020: 36) understandably concluded that they originated east of the Caspian, but they did not necessarily travel as a single horde and there could have been many groups from Iran involved too. In any case, the knowledge and experience of soldiers from the east who had already been employed in Mesopotamia or informed about the region would have been significant factors in their success.

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Fig. 2a–d (from top down). 2a–b: Soldiers and women coming to join forces with Assyrian soldiers, and similar people being massacred as lapsed allies. Original Drawings IV.54, 53 (details). Courtesy Trustees of the British Museum. 2c: Men in Tel'afar street, April 1964. Photograph S. N. Shaw Reade. 2d: Detail from Oxus Treasure scabbard (BM 123923). Drawn by Ann Searight. Courtesy Trustees of the British Museum.

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The Guti duly established a place for themselves in the official Mesopotamian king-lists. The soldier carved on Kalki’s seal is then an illustration of the kind of circumstances that facilitated this transformation. There was a similar process, better attested in the texts, with the Kassites in the second millennium BC (Koppen, 2017: 46–54). They too were people from Iran. Kassites appear as professional soldiers in Old Babylonian documents, and a subsequent dynasty of Kassite origin ruled Babylonia for centuries. Subsequently mercenaries were active throughout the Near East. I have briefly surveyed some of the evidence elsewhere (Reade, 2019a: 452–454) and Ziemann (2019) provides a vivid account of the ubiquitous Greeks. This leads to the second item considered in the current paper. Carved stone panels, now only preserved as drawings, that formed part of the decoration of Room 46 in the palace of Sennacherib at Nineveh, include representations of two groups of people. Some of them are men, armed with the classic Iranian weapons of bow and arrow and carrying round-topped quivers, who march forward accompanied by women, to be met by Assyrian soldiers (Fig. 2a). They are plainly entering the Assyrian realm, and are presented not as defeated prisoners but as allies or auxiliaries, possibly mercenaries. Their leaders could have sworn allegiance in a vassal treaty of the kind especially well attested in the reign of Esarhaddon (Parpola / Watanabe, 1988). Not all vassal treaty arrangements were successful. Other wall-panels from the same room of Sennacherib’s palace show women in similar clothes under escort together with naked men who are being slaughtered (Fig. 2b). This could have been punishment for taking but then breaking the oaths of loyalty. Comparable scenes are painted in the slightly earlier Assyrian palace at Til-Barsib (Reade, 2019b: 82, Fig. 5). There some western foreigners are shown submitting, and the tablet and scroll on which scribes famously record this event may indeed have been bilingual drafts of a vassal treaty. On another wall in the same room similar westerners are being slaughtered. This raises the interesting possibility that the scenes of slaughter are intended to represent not what actually happened but what was liable to happen if the people concerned broke their oaths, so that these would be examples of cautionary rather than narrative illustration. Reade (1976: 97–98) suggested that the people shown in Sennacherib’s Room 46 were Ellipians from south-western Iran, arriving about 702 BC, but such precise identifications can be difficult. One element of Assyrian imperial policy, explicitly proclaimed by Sargon in the late eighth century (Frame, 2021: 231), was that deported foreign populations should learn to behave like Assyrians. Assurbanipal in the 640s collected units of troops from Elam, specified as archers, charioteers &c, and integrated them with his own forces (Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 251– 252). Radner (2003: 59–63) described written evidence for Medes resident in Assyria in the seventh century, including members of the royal bodyguard and specialised craftsmen. Yet recognisably exotic figures are not common among the

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court staff; there are few or none to add to my previous collection (Reade, 1972: 100). Even when Assyrian palace carvings do plainly represent foreigners, questions arise over how the men responsible for the illustrations chose the details of their subject-matter, how much information is missing due to loss of colour, and anyway how far the carvings ever reflected reality. So far as Elamites and Iranians are concerned, analysis of personal names led Zadok (2019: 481) to conclude that evidence for them “residing in Assyria and west of it is residual”; this suggests successful integration. Study of the relationships between Persians and Elamites presents a similar set of puzzles (e.g. Henkelman, 2003). One might compare a photograph of people in the Tel'afar market in 1964 (Fig. 2c). The main language of Tel'afar is Turkish, brought by soldiers arriving from central Asia via Iran in the Middle Ages. Over the centuries the town has had dealings with diverse people including town and desert Arab, Syriac, Kurdish, Yezidi Kurdish, Ottoman, British and so on. Local dress has evolved in its own way. In the photograph a few men are wearing trousers, but most have long robes; the robes of younger men are white with red or blue stripes. There are several jackets of northern European style. The most conspicuous article of clothing is a white head-scarf secured in position by a black band; head-scarves fastened in that way are typically worn across the Middle East by people speaking Arabic. An artist aiming to represent a stereotypical group of people from Tel’afar might have difficulty choosing satisfactory visual clues. An anthropologist studying the town might struggle to identify and define less visible degrees of acculturation and distinctiveness, but would at least be able to speak to the people themselves. I closed a previous essay in Simo’s honour (Reade, 2009: 261) by referring to a gold scabbard from the Oxus Treasure. This shows horsemen in trousers, wearing versions of the Assyrian royal hat, who are shooting lions in ways that suggest direct knowledge of Assyrian royal sports (Fig. 2d). Since in 612 BC the once notionally submissive Medes under their ruler Cyaxares were principal agents in the destruction of Nineveh, Van Loon (1966: 178) suggested that the main horseman was Cyaxares himself. Boardman (2006) confirmed that the scabbard could be appropriately dated around 600 BC. Van Loon’s idea could at that time be only a tentative hypothesis. Recently, however, Roaf (2021) has noted the existence of an Assyrian-type contract, now in the Hasankeyf Museum on the upper Tigris, whose unusual dating formula seems to mention both a governor with an Assyrian title and Cyaxares. This suggests that parts of the Assyrian administrative systems were able to survive under Median rule, just as may have happened at Dur-Katlimmu under Neo-Babylonian rule on the Syrian Khabur. One wonders how many northern Assyrian cities may have escaped destruction. A prime candidate is Erbil, which came to supersede Nineveh as principal city of the region. It is easy to imagine how an Assyrian garrison, including mercenary soldiers with roots in mountain country to the east and north, possibly including Media itself, could have success-

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fully changed its allegiance. Records of whatever was really happening at that time are interred as more state archives of Assyria within the walls of the citadel. Bibliography Boardman, J., 2006: “The Oxus scabbard”. Iran 44, 115–119. Collon, D., 1982: Catalogue of the Western Asiatic Seals in the British Museum. Cylinder Seals, II: Akkadian – Post Akkadian – Ur III Periods. London. Crawford, H.E.W., 1973: “Mesopotamia’s invisible exports in the third millennium B.C.”. World Archaeology 5, 232–241. Frame, G., 2021: The Royal Inscriptions of Sargon II, King of Assyria (721–705 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period, Vol. 2. University Park, Pennsylvania. Frankfort, H., 1939: Cylinder Seals. A Documentary History on the Art and Religion of the Ancient Near East. London. Hamblin, W.J., 2006: Warfare in the Ancient Near East to 1600 BC: Holy Warriors at the Dawn of History. London / New York. Henkelman, W., 2003: “Persians, Medes and Elamites. Acculturation in the NeoElamite period”. In G.B. Lanfranchi / M. Roaf / R. Rollinger (eds.): Continuity of Empire (?): Assyria, Media, Persia. History of the Ancient Near East Monographs 5. Padova. Pp. 181–231. Mallowan, M.E.L., 1947: “Excavations at Brak and Chagar Bazar”. Iraq 9, 1– 259. Novotny, J. / Jeffers, J., 2018: The Royal Inscriptions of Ashurbanipal (668–631 BC), Aššur-etel-ilāni (630–627 BC), and Sîn-šarra-iškun (626–612 BC), Kings of Assyria, Part 1. The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 5/1. University Park, Pennsylvania. Parpola, A., 2022: “Location of the Uralic proto-language in the Kama river valley and the Uralic speakers’ expansion east and west with the ‘Sejma-Turbino Transcultural Phenomenon’ 2200–1900 BC”. Archaeology of the Eurasian Steppes 2, 258–277. Kazan: Tatarstan Academy of Sciences. Parpola, S. / Watanabe, K., 1988: Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths. State Archives of Assyria 2. Helsinki. Peyronel, L., 2010: “Ancient Near Eastern economics. The silver question between methodology and archaeological data”. In P. Matthiae / F. Pinnock / L. Nigro / N. Marchetti / L. Romano (eds.): Proceedings of the 6th International Congress on the Archaeology of the Ancient Near East May 5th–10th 2008, “Sapienza” – Università di Roma, Vol. 1. Wiesbaden. Pp. 926–948. Potts, D.T., 1990: The Arabian Gulf in Antiquity, Vol. I. From Prehistory to the Fall of the Achaemenid Empire. Oxford. Radner, K., 2003: “An Assyrian view on the Medes”. In G.B. Lanfranchi / M. Roaf / R. Rollinger (eds.): Continuity of Empire (?): Assyria, Media, Persia. History of the Ancient Near East Monographs 5. Padova. Pp. 37–64.

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Reade, J.E., 1972: “The Neo-Assyrian court and army: evidence from the sculptures”. Iraq 34, 87–112. — 1976: “Elam and Elamites in Assyrian sculpture”. Archäologische Mitteilungen aus Iran 9, 97–106. — 2001: “The Wellesley eunuch”. Revue d’Assyriologie et d’Archéologie Orientale 95, 69–81. — 2009: “Fez, diadem, turban, chaplet: power-dressing at the Assyrian court”. In M. Luukko / S. Svärd / R. Mattila (eds.): Of God(s), Trees, Kings, and Scholars: Neo-Assyrian and Related Studies in Honour of Simo Parpola. Studia Orientalia 106. Helsinki. Pp. 239–264. — 2019a: “The Assyria-Urartu relationship and the political role of mercenaries”. In P.S. Avetisyan / R. Dan / Y.H. Grekyan (eds.): Over the Mountains and Far Away: Studies in Near Eastern History and Archaeology Presented to Mirjo Salvini on the Occasion of his 80th Birthday. Oxford. Pp. 440–456. — 2019b: “Assyrian palaces reconsidered: practical arrangements at Til-Barsib, and the garden-gate and canal at Khorsabad”. State Archives of Assyria Bulletin 25, 73–97. Roaf, M., 2021: “Cyaxares in Assyria”. N.A.B.U. 2021/4 (No. 118), 277–279. van Koppen, F., 2017: “The Early Kassite Period”. In A. Bartelmus / K. Sternitzke (eds.): Karduniaš. Babylonia under the Kassites. Untersuchungen zur Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 11/1. Berlin / Boston. Pp. 45–92. Van Loon, M.N., 1966: Urartian Art: its Distinctive Traits in the Light of New Excavations. Istanbul. Yadin, Y., 1963: The Art of Warfare in Biblical Lands. New York. Zadok, R., 2019: “Onomastics as a historical source”. In G.B. Lanfranchi / R. Mattila / R. Rollinger (eds.): Writing Neo-Assyrian History: Sources, Problems and Approaches. Proceedings of an International Conference Held at the University of Helsinki on September 22–25, 2014. State Archives of Assyria Studies 29. Helsinki. Pp. 399–488. Zarins, J., 2020: “Ur, Lagash and the Gutians: a study of late 3rd millennium BC Mesopotamian archaeology, texts and politics”. In I. L. Finkel / St J. Simpson (eds.): In Context: The Reade Festschrift. Oxford. Pp. 11–42. Ziemann, M., 2019: “Mercenary communities in the Near East and their contribution to an East Mediterranean literary koine”. Aula Orientalis 37, 173–196.

“A rose by any other name …” A note on writing conventions of Aššur and Ištar Saana Svärd Introduction The article aims to examine the writing conventions used for the divine names Aššur and Ištar. More specifically, it aims to explore this question by testing the usefulness of the new “Oracc in Korp 2021” text corpus created at the University of Helsinki’s Centre of Excellence in Ancient Near Eastern Empires.1 As Simo is both a pioneer in creating electronic text corpora in Assyriology (Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project) and a member of the National Advisory Board for the Centre, I hope this contribution will be of interest to him. The goals of this article are modest. It presents a simple statistical analysis of occurrences of different writing conventions. As the “Oracc in Korp 2021” is freely available online, readers can use it to expand on the work presented here.2 The two deities, Aššur and Ištar, were chosen for this study because they are frequently attested in texts but also because of their cultural significance. Aššur, who began his life as a prominent rock formation in the city of Assur, became the most important deity in the huge Neo-Assyrian Empire.3 Ištar on the other hand, is well attested in myriad manifestations from prehistoric times to almost the end of the cuneiform evidence. The nature of Ištar was complex and embodied interesting cultural contradictions and liminalities.4 The Open Richly Annotated Cuneiform Corpus (Oracc) is an umbrella project that brings together the work of many Assyriological projects. This text corpus is a massive conglomeration of Assyriological work from hundreds of scholars, including digitizing the original book publications and enriching this material. The old saying, “standing on the shoulders of giants” is especially well suited for “Oracc in Korp 2021.”5 1

I gratefully acknowledge the funding that has made this article possible, as the Centre of Excellence in Ancient Near Eastern Empires is funded by the Academy of Finland (decision numbers 312051, 312052, 312053, 336673, 336674, and 336675) and the University of Helsinki. Furthermore, I am very grateful to Dr. Robert Whiting for correcting my English. I would also like to thank Dr. Robert Whiting, Dr. Jonathan Valk and Dr. Krister Lindén for scientific feedback. 2 Sahala et al., 2022a, hosted in the Language Bank of Finland (FIN-CLARIN). 3 On Aššur, see for example von der Osten-Sacken, 2010, Pongratz-Leisten, 2015 and Maul, 2017. 4 For a comprehensive discussion on Ištar see Meinhold, 2009 and for the Neo-Assyrian situation see Zsolnay, 2009, esp. 4–14. 5 I am infinitely indebted to the scholars that have created it, including Simo Parpola, under

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The Korp version of Oracc is a snapshot of all Oracc material at a given time. There are several versions of Oracc in Korp6 with the most recent of them containing almost all the data that was available in June 2021. The data has been extracted from the JSON files provided by Oracc. The Oracc text corpus has been further enriched in processing it for the Korp interface. Korp is hosted by the Language Bank of Finland and forms a platform for text corpora of many different languages.7 The user interface in Korp makes it easy to examine only Akkadian texts. Each of the individual projects that together form Oracc is treated as a subcorpus (see Table 1 below). Therefore, one can choose to study a single subcorpus of “Oracc in Korp 2021,” or all of them.8 One can also choose to use an older version of the data, “Oracc in Korp 2019.”9 Korp allows researchers to do extensive searches on the texts and presents the results as a KWIC concordance list. Korp also offers statistical information and comparison of the search results. Each individual text can also be viewed separately, either in Korp or via a link back to the Oracc web pages. ADsD

Astronomical Diaries Digital

AEMW AkkLLit

Akkadian in the Eastern Mediterranean World 10

Akkadian Love Literature

ARIo

Achaemenid Royal Inscriptions online

ATAE

Archival Texts of the Assyrian Empire

blms

Bilinguals in Late Mesopotamian Scholarship

BTTo

Babylonian Topographical Texts Online

CAMS

Corpus of Ancient Mesopotamian Scholarship

CCPo

Cuneiform Commentaries Project on Oracc

CKST

Corpus of Kassite Sumerian Texts

CMAwRo

Corpus of Mesopotamian Anti-witchcraft Rituals

CTIJ

Cuneiform Texts Mentioning Israelites, Judeans, and Other Related Groups

DCCLT

Digital Corpus of Cuneiform Lexical Texts

DCCMT

Digital Corpus of Cuneiform Mathematical Texts

DSSt

Datenbank sumerischer Streitliteratur

whose leadership the Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project started in 1986. Most of this corpus is now part of Oracc. For a full list of Oracc credits, please see the individual subcorpora and project listings at http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/projectlist.html. 6 https://www.kielipankki.fi/corpora/oracc/. 7 Borin et al., 2012. 8 Sahala et al., 2022a. 9 Jauhiainen et al., 2019. 10 Lacking an abbreviation, but I will use “AkkLLit” for convenience in this article.

“A rose by any other name …”

eCUT

Electronic Corpus of Urartian Texts

EPSD2

Electronic Pennsylvania Sumerian Dictionary 2

ETCSRI

Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Royal Inscriptions

Glass

Corpus of Glass Technological Texts

HBTIN

Hellenistic Babylonia: Texts, Iconography, Names

LaOCOST

Law and Order: Cuneiform Online Sustainable Tool

OBMC

Old Babylonian Model Contracts

OBTA

Old Babylonian Tabular Accounts

RIAo

Royal Inscriptions of Assyria online

RIBo

Royal Inscriptions of Babylonia online

Rīm-Anum

The House of Prisoners

RINAP

Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period

SAAo

State Archives of Assyria Online

Suhu

The Inscriptions of Suhu online

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Table 1: List of all subcorpora included in “Oracc in Korp 2021.”11 These abbreviations will be used to refer to them in the rest of the article.

The KWIC view of Oracc in Korp organizes the attestations according to the subcorpora (for example, SAAo or ADsD), which means that the easiest comparison to carry out in “Oracc in Korp” is to compare writing conventions between subcorpora. However, although the subcorpora are most often compiled based on historical time period and genre, the subcorpora are all individual projects and not part of any kind of organized plan. Thus, the sizes of subcorpora vary greatly and texts from the same time period or the same genre appear across different subcorpora. This is why I have examined the distribution patterns of writing conventions by comparing writing conventions between genres and geographical locations (as they have been tagged in Oracc), not just subcorpora. Aššur The “Oracc in Korp 2021” attestations mostly stem from the Neo-Assyrian period, and have orthographic differences from the oldest layers of writing the name. The oldest forms were a-šùr and a-šur (a-šur4 is mostly attested in the reign of ŠamšiAdad I), but during the Middle Assyrian period, the use of aš-šur was established as the most common writing form.12 This is still the most common writing form in “Oracc in Korp 2021.” The number of attestations for both the divine name and the geographical name Aššur is 6084 in “Oracc in Korp 2021.” However, of these attestations only 3527 11 12

Based on its metadata description at http://urn.fi/urn:nbn:fi:lb-2022031705. For Old Assyrian orthography, see Galter, 1996: 129.

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refer to the deity Aššur.13 The geographical distribution of these 3527 attestations is what one would expect. The name appears throughout the Middle East, with the thickest clusters in northern Mesopotamia. There are altogether 25 variations for writing this divine name, but most of them are very rare. Only eight variations appear more than 30 times each. The variations aš-šur (1052), AN.ŠAR2 (1018) and daš-šur (767) are the most common and represent the clear majority of attestations. Map 1 illustrates the distribution of these three variations – altogether 2837 attestations of the total of 3527 attestations.

Map 1: Occurrences of the writing conventions aš-šur (1052), AN.ŠAR2 (1018) and daš-šur (767) in Korp.14

In addition to aš-šur, AN.ŠAR2 and daš-šur, the other writing variations appearing more than 30 times are: da-šur (250), da-šur3 (114), aš-šur-ma (68), da-šur4 (62) and aš+šur (31). I focused my inquiries on these eight writing conventions and examined if there were differences across the subcorpora (see Table 2). Many of 13

Results filtered in Korp with the “oracc_pos_subcategory” labeled “DN Divine Name.” The “Show map” button is located under the “statistics” tab in Korp. In the “statistics” tab one simply selects which text attributes to include in the map. Exact numbers of attestations, names of locations and other information are available by hovering the mouse over each of the dots. 14

“A rose by any other name …”

361

DCCLT

eCUT

0

0

0

AN.ŠAR2

1018

0

0

4

0

0

767

0

7

5

0

0

daš-šur

99

SAAo

CAMS

1

RINAP

BTTo

20

1052

RIBo

ATAE

3

aš-šur

RIAo

AkkLLit

Writing

Total

the subcorpora had no attestations of “Aššur” at all15 and two did not have attestations of any of the eight common variations.16

585

0

344

0

1

22

847

144

3

138

0

392

222

da-šur

250

0

1

0

0

1

0

174

0

62

12

da-šur 3

114

0

0

0

0

0

0

114

0

0

0

aš-šur-ma

68

0

0

0

0

0

0

68

0

0

0

da-šur 4

62

0

0

0

0

0

0

25

0

29

8

aš+šur

31

0

29

0

2

0

0

0

0

0

0

Table 2: Distribution of the eight most common writing conventions for the divine name Aššur, arranged according to “Oracc in Korp 2021” subcorpora.

One could choose to combine some of the different writing conventions, especially aš-šur and aš-šur-ma, as -ma has no bearing on the name itself. However, aš-šur-ma only appears 68 times and a distinct feature of the distribution is visible without manually combining writing conventions. When examining these ten subcorpora in Table 2, a distinct statistical anomaly is apparent between the RIAo and RINAP subcorpora. The writing aš-šur is prevalent in RIAo (and SAAo) whereas the almost equally common writing AN.ŠAR2 is prevalent in RINAP. This discrepancy is not immediately explainable by genre, as both RIAo and RINAP consist of royal inscriptions. When these two attestations are examined more carefully, by arranging the attestations by “period,” “subgenre,” and “primary publication” (in the “statistics” view of Korp), it seems that AN.ŠAR₂ is favored in the texts from later periods. Texts where AN.ŠAR₂ appears are mostly tagged as Neo-Assyrian, but seven texts are tagged as Hellenistic or Achaemenid. On the other hand, the writing aš-šur is tagged Middle Assyrian in 196 attestations, the rest are tagged Neo-Assyrian. This variation shows up in the geographical distribution of the attestations as well. The writing AN.ŠAR₂ clusters in Nineveh (750) whereas the majority of occurrences of aš-šur are more evenly distributed between Assur (404), Nimrud (228), and Nineveh (289). These differences most probably reflect the chronological scope of two subcorpora.17 15

ADsD; AEMW; ARIo; CCPo; CKST; CTIJ; DCCMT; DSSt; EPSD2; ETCSRI; Glass; HBTIN; LaOCOST; OBMC; OBTA; Rīm-Anum; Suhu. 16 CMAwRo; blms. 17 The chronological scope of the RINAP project is 744–609 BCE (see http://oracc.mu

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Ištar Regarding the goddess Ištar, I searched “Oracc in Korp 2021” for the base forms Issar (32) and Ištar (1943). As for the geographical location of these attestations, more than half come from Nineveh (1011); other localities do not even come close to this number. The city of Assur has 187 occurrences of the name and Uruk 288 occurrences. These 1975 writings of Issar/Ištar were written in 31 different ways (as seen in the “statistics” view of Korp). I examined the statistics of the occurrences in those subcorpora where either name is attested.18 As with Aššur, many of the writing conventions for Ištar appeared only a few times. There were only eight writings that occurred more than 30 times: d15 (896), diš-tar (306), d INANNA (233), dINANA (174), diš8-tar2 (106), dIŠ.TAR (81), dINNIN (48) and d U.DAR (31). Some manual harmonization was needed for these Korp results, as some of the writings clearly reflect the differences in the transliteration practices of individual subcorpora. Three writing conventions of Ištar, namely dINANNA (233), d INANA (174) and dINNIN (48) all refer to the same sign, MÙŠ.19 This is reflected in the statistics as well; all subcorpora (except two) consistently use only one of these three options, thus following a transliteration practice consistently within their own subcorpus.20 When one manually combines dINANNA (233), d INANA (174) and dINNIN (48), it becomes apparent that using the signs DINGIR and MÙŠ to write Ištar’s name is the second most common way of writing the name of the goddess. A similar case is presented by the use of diš-tar (306) and dIŠ.TAR (81) where only the subcorpora ATAE and SAAo use both variants. Finally, diš8-tar2 (106) and dU.DAR (31) are written with almost identical signs. Originally the sign iš8 was written with an oblique, nearly vertical, wedge. However, with the passage of time the oblique wedge evolved into a winkelhaken and the distinction between the sign iš8 and the sign U was lost. Therefore, a later writing of diš8-tar2 would be indistinguishable from dU.DAR.21 None of the subcorpora use both writings, only one or the other (U.DAR only used in AEMW and SAAo). Therefore, these two writing conventions were combined manually as well.

seum.upenn.edu/rinap/), whereas RIAo (see http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/riao/) represents an older layer of texts. 18 ADsD; AEMW; AkkLLit; ATAE; blms; BTTo; CAMS; CCPo; CMAwRo; DCCLT; EPSD2; HBTIN; RIAo; RIBo; RINAP; SAAo; Suhu. 19 In Labat, 2011 sign 103 (mùš and Innana) and in Borger, 2010 sign 153 (mùš, INANNA, INNIN). 20 However, ADsD uses both dINANNA and dINNIN and CCPo uses both dINANA and d INNIN. 21 I owe thanks to Dr. Robert Whiting for pointing this out. See in Labat, 2011 sign 362′ (p. 167) and in Borger, 2010 sign 670.

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363

ATAE

blms

BTTo

CAMS

CCPo

CMAwRo

DCCLT

HBTIN

RIAo

0

0

16

0

8

52

11

2

3

1

0

455

6

5

11

6

1

18

85

3

0

5

387

0

0

1

14

22

9

32

10

0

25

1

8

137

0

12

10

0

1

0

16

2

0

27

0

48

Suhu

AkkLLit

3

SAAo

AEMW

896

RINAP

ADsD

d15

13 474 311

2

59

RIBo

Writing

Total

When one compares the distribution of the different writing conventions across subcorpora after harmonizing the data, they are fairly evenly distributed (see Table 3). All four writing conventions appear across different subcorpora and therefore seem to have been used across genre borders and different chronologies. The writing convention dU.DAR / diš8-tar2 appears in 10 subcorpora out of 16. The writing d15 appears in 12 out of 16 subcorpora. Most occurrences can be found in the RINAP and SAAo subcorpora but the writing is well attested in other corpora as well. The variation diš-tar / dIŠ.TAR is even more evenly attested, since it appears in 13 out of 16 subcorpora. The writing dINANNA / dINANA / dINNIN appears in 14 out of 16 subcorpora.

dINANNA; dINANA;

71 103

46

36

0

38 149

77

1

19

0

dINNIN dIŠ.TAR; diš-tar diš -tar / 8 2 dU.DAR

1

1

Table 3: Distribution of the four most common different writing conventions for the divine name Ištar, arranged according to “Oracc in Korp 2021” subcorpora.

Finally, I examined potential differences in distribution according to geographical location and genre. The most frequently attested, d15, is the most evenly spread. Examining geographical or genre patterns in Korp gave no clear results as to any specialized use for d15. However, the writing dINANNA / dINANA / d INNIN was spread throughout Mesopotamia and the Levant, but the largest cluster was located in Uruk (178 out of the total of 455) in southern Mesopotamia. In contrast to this, diš-tar / dIŠ.TAR (although used throughout Mesopotamia and the Levant) occurs frequently in texts from northern Mesopotamia, particularly Nineveh (200 out of the total of 387). The small cluster of 137 attestations of the writing convention dU.DAR / diš8tar2 focuses on the north of Mesopotamia, with 101 attestations in Assur or Nineveh and interestingly 12 attestations in Ugarit. In texts from Ugarit, this is the prevalent writing conventions (altogether 18 occurrences of Ištar from Ugarit).

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Conclusion The diverse writing conventions for the divine name Aššur seem to exhibit some differences according to chronological distribution. Regarding the writing conventions for the divine name Ištar there seem to be some regional differences. This could have something to do with the histories of these two deities. Aššur existed in and through the city of Assur and its dynasties, in a fairly coherent tradition compared to Ištar. The differing traditions related to Ištar and her many manifestations possibly resulted in the regional and genre distinctions that can be observed in the distribution patterns of the various ways of writing her name. Finally, a few words about the potential usefulness of “Oracc in Korp 2021” are in order. The diverse options for statistical analysis offered by the Korp interface make it a powerful research tool. The interface was designed for linguists with varying interests, which means that on the basic level it is easy to use.22 In this article, I have focused on writing conventions but Korp enables the user to carry out analysis on various categories (e.g., lemmas, genres, POS-tags etc.) either alone or in combinations. Oracc with its functionalities is well suited for the study of texts, but for a corpus linguistic approach “Oracc in Korp 2021” is better. The “Oracc in Korp 2021” text corpus has further been used to create a lexical portal, which in some cases will help lexical and semantic research even further.23 As a final caveat I would like to emphasize that statistical examinations, such as have been used in this article, are wholly dependent on the available text corpora and its enriched metadata. “Oracc in Korp 2021,” despite its size (6,899,579 words), represents only a small slice of all available cuneiform texts and is neither chronologically nor genre-wise a representative sample.24 Bibliography Alstola, T. / Jauhiainen, H. / Svärd S. / Sahala, A. / Lindén, K., 2022: “Digital Approaches to Analyzing and Translating Emotion: What Is Love?” In K. Sonik / U. Steinert (eds.): The Routledge Handbook of Emotions in the Ancient Near East. Pp. 88–116. Borin, L. / Forsberg, M. / Roxendal, J., 2012. “Korp – the corpus infrastructure of Språkbanken”. In Proceedings of LREC 2012. Pp. 474–478. Borger, R., 2010: Mesopotamisches Zeichenlexikon. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Galter, H., 1996: “Gott, König, Vaterland. Orthographisches zu Aššur in altassyrischer Zeit”. WZKM 86, 127–141. Jauhiainen, H. / Sahala, A. / Alstola, T., 2019: Open Richly Annotated Cuneiform Corpus, Downloadable Version, May 2019 [text corpus]. Kielipankki. Re22

For a user guide to Korp, see the section “Documentation” at http://urn.fi/urn:nbn:fi:lb2022031705. 23 Sahala et al., 2022b. For an example of what kind of research can be carried out with lexical networks, see most recently Alstola et al., 2022. 24 Newest version, “Oracc in Korp 2023,” is planned to be released in early 2024.

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trieved from http://urn.fi/urn:nbn:fi:lb-2019121801 Labat, R., 2011: Manuel d’épigraphie akkadienne: signes, syllabaire, idéogrammes. 6th edition. Paris: P. Geuthner. Maul, S., 2017: “Assyrian Religion”. In E. Frahm (ed.): A Companion to Assyria. Hoboken: Wiley Blackwell. Pp. 336–358. Meinhold, W., 2009: Ištar in Aššur: Untersuchung eines Lokalkultes von ca. 2500 bis 614 v. Chr. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Pongratz-Leisten, B., 2015: Religion and Ideology in Assyria. Boston: De Gruyter. Sahala, A., 2021: Contributions to Computational Assyriology. PhD dissertation, University of Helsinki. Sahala, A. / Alstola, T. / Jauhiainen, H., 2022a: “Open Richly Annotated Cuneiform Corpus, Korp Version, June 2021 [text corpus]” Kielipankki. Retrieved from http://urn.fi/urn:nbn:fi:lb-2022031705. Sahala, A. / Jauhiainen, H. / Alstola, T. / Hardwick, S. / Bennett, E. / Jauhiainen, T. / Lindén, K. / Svärd, S., 2022b: “ANEE Lexical Networks v.2.0.” URN: http://urn.fi/urn:nbn:fi:lb-2022100301. Von der Osten-Sacken, E., 2010: “‘Assur, grosser Berg, König von Himmel und Erde’: Darstellungen des assyrischen Hauptgottes im Wandel vom numen loci zum Götterherr”. UF 42, 731–822. Zsolnay, I., 2009: The Function of Ištar in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: A Contextual Analysis of the Actions Attributed to Ištar in the Inscriptions of Ititi through Šalmaneser III. PhD dissertation, Brandeis University.

The Concept of Just War in the Ancient Mesopotamian and Greek Traditions Krzysztof Ulanowski Abstract Especially today, in the face of new war challenges and the violence followed by atrocities related to the war in Ukraine, as well as attitudes towards its the Patriarch of Moscow and All Russia Cyril (Kirill) I, it is worth pondering the ancient idea of “just war”. The ancients, for whom the threat of war and violence related to it were always there and constant possibility, considered the issue of just war with great inquisitiveness. It is commonly believed that Augustine, the Christian bishop of Hippo was the first to explore this issue in the historical record. However, this claim is not true, because during the reign of the Mesopotamian and later Greek civilizations, this notion was deliberated in detail within the framework of ideology. These ancient civilizations took particular pleasure in debating the role of divine consent, oath-keeping, and the infidelity of the enemy, the intent being to establish a definition of a “just war”. There is no doubt that the Mesopotamian and Greek civilizations are historically and geographically different entities, although they interact on many levels of mutual influence. Since war was such a unique factor influencing the shape of both civilizations, it seems reasonable to compare the factors that shaped the notion of “fair”. An equally important issue is to confront the ideological definition thus created with its practical reflection evoked from the military practices of both civilizations. Introduction The history of warfare is probably as old as human existence. Every war is associated with violence and aggression with human harm and injustice as accompanying outriders. In antiquity, war was treated as a natural part of the legacy of civilization. Hence, the ideological apparatus of succeeding societies attempted to find justifications for conducting war. In this article, the author compares two different civilizations and their attitude to war, to find the main differences between them and, if possible, some similarities. Conducting war properly was obligatory due to divine and human rules. Presenting themselves as a powerful, but also a just rulers was a monumental challenge for Mesopotamian and Greek rulers, yet doing so offered many advantages in real politics. The ideological apparatus of these cultures deliberately cared about presenting their rulers as representative of the heavens above us. Bellum iustum, was not Christian or even Roman innovation. Many scholars claim that St. Augustine of Hippo was the father of the notion of “just war”, because he

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wanted to justify Christian participation in the wars of the late Roman era.1 This article presents a search for traces of “just war” not only hundreds, but thousands of years earlier than St. Augustine. War as a very peculiar gift In the Mesopotamian world, war was an inevitable part of human and divine existence. War was deeply rooted in Mesopotamian culture,2 because it belonged to the gifts offered by civilization, one of the ME’s.3 The demonstration of force could be explained as a method of maintaining peace through the threat of war.4 The concept of peculiar balance between peace and war is presented in the Epic of Tukulti-Ninurta I: “Peace will not be concluded without a fight. Good relations will not come about without a battle”.5 In official propaganda, every war must have a iusta causa. A war should be motivated by moral and ethical reasons, and aim to uproot the enemy king’s evils.6 It was very important to understand that the policy of the Neo-Assyrian Empire was based on the concept that any war had to be considered just.7 Officially, war was seen as motivated by moral and ethical reasons and by quest for justice.8 From this reason, war was judged just or unjust according to the reasons and principles (good or evil) that engendered it. Consequently, according to Oded: “the grounds for war constitute important elements in the royal inscriptions which were written for commemorative and propagandistic reasons, demonstrating that they had acquired their dominion justly. The causes for war imply the awareness of: (a) the legal authority to declare war, (b) just cause, such as self-defence, (c) righteous intention, (d) warfare being conceived as a religious act, hence it is just”.9 *** According to Ancient Greek historians, war alone deserved to be called a phenomenon worthy of description. A particularly suggestive vision of war as a monster “devouring its children” is presented in the Iliad.10 It was the Iliad that pre1

Augustine, 1998, Book XIX. However, the treatment of Mesopotamian’s approach to warfare as a unity is inappropriate. The Sumerians had different ideas from the Assyrians and they had different from the Babylonians etc. This experience of war was in constant change. 3 Bottéro, 1992: 245, see also Farber-Flügge, 1973. 4 Oded, 1992: 162. 5 Epic of Tukulti-Ninurta I, col. iii, ll. 15–16, cf. Oded, 1992: 58. 6 Oded, 1992: 38; Fales, 1982. 7 Fales, 2010; Liverani, 2017: 33–40. 8 Oded, 1992: 38. 9 Oded, 1992: 178–179. 10 Il. 19.313: ‘πολέμου στόμα αἱματόεντος’; Raaflaub, 2007: 81f; Burliga, 2016. Interestingly, war is described as a monster also in the Sumerian lamentation literature, see Cavigneaux, 2013. 2

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sented war as tragedy and inspired the tragic poets in the fifth century BC.11 The philosophers Plato and Aristotle realistically accepted war as a necessary evil that can be ignored only at the peril of extinction.12 Aristotle added, that peace is a goal in itself.13 With the development of civilization, the violence of the gods was treated as a destructive power (good examples are the rituals of sparagmos, omophagia in Eurypides’ Bakchai.14 Xenophon emphasized his belief in the existence of divine justice punishing crimes because, according to him, the gods always see everything.15 In the Classical Period, the gods were often mentioned as being protectors of peace.16 In Greek and Roman eyes, the defensibility of the campaign as a factor of “just war” was of the greatest importance to the ruler.17 Indeed, long before, St, Augustine, Aristotle formulated the first ideas about legitimate causes of war and even used the term “just war”: διὸ καὶ ἡ πολεμικὴ φύσει κτητική πως ἔσται … ὡς φύσει δίκαιον τοῦτον ὄντα τὸν πόλεμον, “And so, in one point of view, the art of war is a natural art of acquisition … for war of such a kind is naturally just”.18 Only and exclusively with divine consent: “If the gods so grant” The Assyrians were convinced that imperial expansion was justified and divinely sanctioned (for example, by oracles). The Neo-Assyrian kings went to war in the name of their gods and with their support, giving their military activities the necessary ideological legitimacy. However, it should be remembered, that divine approvement although it is necessary to wage war, it is one of several elements of the concept of “just war”. In the Assurbanipal’s Coronation Hymn, a priest recited a formula: “May they (the god Aššur and great gods) give him (the king) a straight sceptre to extend the land and his people” and further: “Place in his hand the weapon of war and battle”.19 In the Sumerian period, the gods were also very strictly connected with the king. The king of the city Lagash was the favourite of many gods: “[The god Ni]n[gir]su [imp]lanted the [semen] for E-[a]natum in the [wom]b”,20 “The goddess Inanna accompanied him”.21 He was as representative of the god Ningirsu22

11

Bernard, 2001: 100. Wood, 2007: 458. 13 Arist. Pol. Book VII, 1334a. 14 Bielawski, 2006: 34–36; Astour, 1992: 1–2. 15 Xen. Hell. 6.5.41. 16 Aesch. Supp. 99, for further reading Raaflaub, 2020: 47–54. 17 Bahrani, 2008: 197. 18 Arist. Pol. Book I, 1256b, 23–27. 19 LKA 31; SAA 3 11, 17 and, respectively, r. 17. 20 E-anatum E1.9.3.1, col. iv 9–12 in RIM 1 129. 21 E-anatum E1.9.3.1, col. iv 18–19 in RIM 1 129. 22 In some terms – also “a son of the god” – “semen implanted by the god”. 12

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as the Neo-Assyrian rulers were the representatives of Aššur in avenging any injustice and in protecting cosmic order. The initial passage of the Stele of the Vultures summons the gods (first of all, Ningirsu) to support E-anatum against the city of Umma and its ruler.23 These gods promised to destroy the king’s enemies. Interestingly, even the sun-god Utu (counterpart of the Akkadian god Šamaš), who was the patron of justice and lawfulness, was directly involved in this war. Utu, being a patron of justice, can only have been the patron of a just war. The text even suggested that the defeated citizens of Umma killed their own ruler to avoid the suspicion of being partners in the injustice committed by him – which was justifiably punished by the gods in battle.24 It would be in vain searching in the Mesopotamian pantheon for the god(s) of peace. Surprisingly, the Storm-god (Adad/Addu) of Aleppo was attested as keeper of justice.25 This explains why the Assyrian kings cared so much about places connected with the cult of Adad. He was treated not only as a violent militaristic god, but he was associated with justice – and the king who supported him was automatically a just king. However, undoubtedly, the most important god of justice was Šamaš. He could survey the Earth by day and the Underworld by night and therefore nothing could remain hidden from his eyes. He was revered as the god of truth and justice, who corrected injustice and mitigated the portents of evil omens.26 In the epilogue of the Code of Hammurabi, Šamaš was called dayyānum rabûm ša šamê u erṣetim, “the almighty judge in heaven and earth”.27 The “relationship between text, ideology, and political control”28 is decisive in understanding the Mesopotamian cosmos and politics. In their manner of thought, military defeat is related to injustice and the meting out of divine punishment for ignoring divine rules. A good example is the insolence of the Elamite king, Teumman, who was punished at the divine level by the goddess Ishtar and on the Earthly one by king Assurbanipal.29 In Mesopotamian times, a king was treated as the guardian of cosmic harmony, and, while warfare was glorified, the king had to be not only military powerful, but be just and a preserver of social and cosmic order.30 The king in his military commitment was seen as the human counterpart to the divine king battling against Chaos.31 *** 23

For further reading, see Winter, 1985. E-anatum E1.9.3.1, col. viii 1–2 in RIM 1 131. 25 Charpin, 2013: 79. 26 Steinkeller, 2005: 34–35; Charpin, 2013: 68, 74; Frahm, 2013: 101. 27 Richardson, 2004: E10, 123. 28 Cooper, 1993: 13. 29 SAA 3 31. 30 Oded, 1992: 178–179. 31 Maul, 1999. 24

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The Greeks, like the Mesopotamians, also postulated waging a fair war. The Greek philosopher and war theorist, Onasander, studied the principles of the “just war” (Latin: bellum iustum; Greek: δίκαιος πόλεμος). He considered this notion to consist of two components: jus ad bellum (justice of war, the reason for war must be just) and jus in bello (actions conducted in war must be just and fair). Jus ad bellum refers to “just declaration of war”. It comprises six principles: just cause, last resort, proper authority, right intention, reasonable chance of success, and proportionality. The just cause principle requires a just reason for declaring war. Onasander claimed that: “It should be evident to all that one fights on the side of justice. For then the gods are also kindly disposed, become comrades in arms to soldiers, and men are more eager to take their stand against the foe. For with the knowledge that they are not fighting an aggressive, but a defensive war, with conciseness free from evil designs, they contribute a courage that is complete; while those who believe an unjust war is displeasing to heaven, because of this very opinion, enter the war with fear… The general should call Heaven to witness that he is entering upon war without offence”.32 He explained that divine powers must be propitiated before battle, because “soldiers are far more courageous when they believe they are facing dangers with the good will of the gods”.33 Wars were given religious justification with regard to the justice of going to war and war being just. The Spartans especially cared about divine permission to conduct war.34 It was extremely important to convince the gods about the rightness of one’s own case because the gods could enter the fight personally in the battle on one’s side. The best-known example is the Iliad, but even in historical times we have dozens of such examples. The gods are even called parastatai, because they stand abreast in the same battle line with humans (an idea found in Homer).35 In this context, it is worth recalling the words of Pericles. He said that even if the gods were invisible, their presence may be inferred from the blessings they give to the men. One of such blessings is military victory.36 In the Ancient Greek world, success could be achieved only: “If the gods so grant”.37 The first step before starting any military activity was connected with consulting the oracles, the most famous of these was that of Apollo of Delphi. According to Onasander, before going to war and entering battle, a general should perform the appropriate religious rituals and necessarily ask for (and correctly interpret) the omens he receives.38 The answers of the oracles were taken very seriously. 32

Onas. 4.1–3, cf. Chlup, 2014: 46. Onas. 10.26. 34 Thuc. 4.87, 2.74–75, 7.18. 35 Sekunda, 2000: 21. 36 Plut. Per. 8.6. 37 Arr. An. 6.6.34. 38 Onas. 10.25–28. 33

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Agesipolis in 387 BC, went to Olympia and Delphi and put forth the question as to whether “he might with piety refuse to acknowledge the holy truce. The oracles skilfully informed him that he might decline a truce demanded unjustly. Agesipolis then returned and informed the Argive heralds that the gods authorized his disobedience to their summons and he marched into Argive territory. A purported religious inspiration, the move was practical because the entire Lacedaemonian army could have been detained for several days in neutral territory with provisions running low, while it awaited the decisions of Zeus and Apollo”.39 The reasons for war: “these blasphemous enemies” and the need of self-defence. Oath as a synonym of fairness There is no extant Sumerian or Akkadian treatise on the just war. In the case of Assyria, war was considered just in one of two cases.40 One was if a war was defensive. It seems that in case of the Assyrian policy of aggression, it would be difficult to find justification for its conquests. However, it is always possible to find an appropriate ideology that solves even such demanding problems. In fact, this was the case throughout Mesopotamian history. Many of the Early Dynastic records indicate that the cause of any war can justified as being defensive and necessitated by the need to protect one’s home territory and take back the stolen territory of his god from the vicious aggressor.41 One of the first examples is above-mentioned case of E-anatum of Lagash, who claimed the need to defend his territory against Umma. In the Victory Stele of Eanatum (Stele of the Vultures), the text recounts that he was looking for the council of a dream oracle to ascertain the sanction of the gods in this matter, at the same time the ruler of Umma is depicted as the evil aggressor.42 The Assyrian royal records are the after-effects of this ideology. As a consequence, they include lengthy disquisitions on the baseness of the enemy, the brilliance and justice of the Assyrian king and his resemblance to the gods.43 The expansion of the Assyrian hegemony “from East to West” by war was justified by depicting the enemy as “ferocious and merciless,” barbarians (lā sanqu) and malefactors.44 The enemy was described as having sinned against the gods; therefore, victory was represented as the triumph of justice. The enemies are wicked – this is the message of every conqueror, in order to overcome the guilt complex of murder – “it was their fault if we had to kill them”.45 Their attitude is presented in Psalm to Aššur for Tukulti-Ninurta I: 39

Xen. Hell. 4.7.2; Arist. Rh. 1398b. Fales, 2010: 14. 41 The development of political concepts, including the idea of enemy and universal kingship, from the Sumerian city states to the Akkadian empire, see Steinkeller, 1993. 42 Fales, 2010: 153. 43 Fagan, 2010: 89. 44 Oded, 1992: 178–179. 45 Liverani, 2006: 2361. 40

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They (foreign countries) have concerted to plunder your country, O Aššur, they … for treachery. The lands crave night and day for the destruction of your wondrous sights. Everywhere they seek to overthrow your cities, And they yearn to inflict a defeat upon(?) the spirits (of) his (ancestors?), All the evildoers await a dark day without sunshine, Their threatening fingers are stretched out to scatter the armies of Aššur.46 The boundary between a just Assyrian king and a blasphemous, ungodly enemy was designated by keeping a taken oath. This is an idee fix of the Assyrian propaganda, however, it seems to be resting upon solid theological fundaments. In Atrahasis, Enlil exclaims: “All we great Anunnaki decided together on an oath”.47 The breaking of the oath and the command of a god was treated as the eating of asakku (taboo) or the violation of holy or banned objects.48 In Sumer, divine acceptance for human plans was implied by the act of taking an oath. Warfare in Mari documents of the 18th century was regarded as the judgment of the gods for violation of a treaty. The treaty document itself was a “tablet of the life of the gods”. A breach of treaty was to invoke the wrath of the deities who witnessed the ratification of the treaty.49 This was a religious sin that challenged Assyria and justified every extreme military action made against the sinner. In this case the sinner must be punished by the Assyrian ruler according to the will of the Assyrian gods, who want to restore the cosmic, eternal order.50 The oath-breaker was conceived needing to suffer in the same way as the object used during the oath ceremony. One reads in the Vassal-Treaties of Esarhaddon: “Just as this waterskin is slit and its water runs out, so may your waterskin be slit in a region of thirst and famine”.51 Interestingly, there is a parallel in the Iliad, before the duel between the Achaeans and Trojans who pray to Zeus and the other gods: “Whichever ones first violate these oaths, let their brains flow out on the ground like this wine, theirs and their children’s; and let their wives be subjected to others”.52 Very similar procedure we know from the Hellenistic Crete: “If I should swear falsely to the things that I have sworn and agreed, may the gods by whom I have sworn be angry and may I be destroyed in the most miserable way, and may earth nor trees bear fruit, nor the women bear according to the laws of nature, and in war may I be defeated. But if we keep our oath, may the gods be propitious and may everything go well.53 46

Psalm to Assur for Tukulti-Ninurta I, 24’–30’ in Foster, 2005: 320. Atra-Hasis, tab. III, vi 7–8 in Lambert / Millard, 1999: 101, for further reading SAA 2. 48 Kang, 1989: 48. 49 Kang, 1989: 14. 50 Text 13:13 in Postgate, 2005: 257; Oded, 1992: 87. 51 The Vassal-Treaties of Esarhaddon, 102 (652) in Pritchard, 1992: 69. 52 Il. 3.295–301; cf. Brown, 1995: 272–273; Van Wees, 2006: 145. 53 Chaniotis, 1996: 432–39, no. 74. 47

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To deliver a sworn agreement was one of the main virtues of the Assyrian kings, and the breaking of an oath made with the great gods with water and oil incurred great shame, and was very often the cause for a declaration of war or rather a good pretext for it.54 Assurnaṣirpal II ascertained that he is the king “who has always acted justly with the support of Aššur and Šamaš”.55 Esarhaddon explained all his actions by the fact that “the gods had granted to me justice and righteousness, (to see) that oaths should be kept”.56 The reference to justice and righteousness, the language of order, as well as the taking of oaths, highlighted Esarhaddon’s concerns with legitimacy.57 The Neo-Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar II argued that the anger of Marduk for the injustice committed by the Elamites, gave him cause to undertake his military expedition, and to take the statue of the god back to Babylon. By contrast, his self-attitude can be portrayed as full of humility and reverence.58 *** Socrates’ dialogue with Alcibiades is typical for understanding the Greek tradition: “Might there ever be circumstances, where you would advise your polis to wage war against a community that is not directing any such harmful activity against us? If there are, Alcibiades replies, I would refrain from admitting that our prospective enemies are free of any wrongdoing, for wars waged against innocent parties are never justifiable”.59 In turn, the Spartan king Archidamus encouraged the Spartans to accept Athens’ offer because it would be wrong to attack a polis that has offered arbitration: “They say that they are willing to have the matter tried; and against one who offers to submit to justice you must not proceed as against a criminal until his case has been heard”.60 However, he added that in this time his troops should prepare for war. A military attack that has no justification was considered unethical. In case of being right, the Spartans should attack the Athenians “the evil-doer”.61 Both the Athenians and the Spartans had very similar understandings of war and the same definition of “just war”. The Cyrus summarized: “what is lawful is right and what is unlawful is wrong”.62

54

Melville, Adad-nirari II in Chavalas, 2006: 283; Melville, Sennacherib in Chavalas, 2006: 346–347; Melville, Ashurbanipal in Chavalas, 2006: 364. 55 AKA 261, 22. 56 ARAB, part 2, 236 §607. 57 There are hundreds of examples, some of them; 1, iv 25–26 in RINAP 4: 19; 30; 7´–9´ in RINAP 4: 75; 31, 2´–4´ in RINAP 4: 77; 33, obv(?) ii 1–2 in RINAP 4: 80. 58 The Seed of Kingship, 36–40 in Foster, 1995: 200. 59 Pl. Alc. 1 109, Plato, 2001: 40, 41–42, and 114–115, cf. O’Driscoll, 2015, comp. Thuc. 3.59.1. 60 Thuc. 1.85, cf. 1.81.5. 61 Thuc. 1.86.5. 62 Xen. Cyr. 1.3.18.

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War should be justifiable by gods and this happen if it is defensive. Xenophon’s Cyrus announces: “Our enemy strikes the first blow in an unrighteous cause, and our friends call us to protect them. What is more lawful than self-defence? What is nobler than to succour those we love?”.63 According to Onasander, not to violate a treaty is one of the most important rule of acting in accordance with the divine laws: “ἀσφαλὴς γὰρ οὖτος καὶ προμηθής, ὃς οὐδὲ βουληθεῖσι τοῖς πολεμίοις ἐπιθέσθαι τὸν τοῦ δύνασθαι παρασπονδῆσαι καιρὸν ἀπολείπει, (that general is wise and cautious who affords the enemy, even when they desire to attack, no opportunity to break their agreement)”.64 Most agreements between communities were accompanied by the mutual swearing of oaths (horkoi). The Greeks often swore an oath while grasping an object, the horkos, which gave its name to the Greek oath, embodying the powers invoked; so the gods swore holding a jug with water of the Styx, and we know from different testimonies that the Greeks in such the cases swore on Zeus Horkios, i.e. “Zeus of the Oath”.65 The invocation of gods as guarantors, and the pouring of libations (spondai) was celebrated frequently in such situations.66 In the Iliad we find an example of the oath: “May now Zeus know first, most high and most perfect of the gods, and Earth and Sun and the Furies who under the Earth punish men who swear false oath …”.67 Before Archidamus began the siege of Plataea, in his speech, he addressed the gods of Plataea: “You gods and heroes, who protect the land of Plataea, be witnesses that we did no wrong in the beginning, but only after these people had first broken their oath did we come against this land, where ours fathers, invoking you in their prayers, conquered the Persians and which you made a place of good omen for the warfare of the Hellenes; nor in our actions now shall we be acting aggressively. We have made a number of reasonable proposals, but these have not been accepted. Grant us, therefore, your aid and see to it that the punishment for what has been done wrong may be successful in our aim, which is a just revenge”.68 Thucydides also emphasized the correlation of war and taking the oath, and wrote “they made all the soldiers swear the greatest oaths”.69 According to Curtius, in opinion of the Scythians, the oath is a common Greek religious caution, as they jointly seal agreements by calling upon the gods.70 In Anabasis, as the Persians had breached their oath, the Greeks even found reason to feel in the moral 63

Xen. Cyr. 1.5.13. Onas. 37.3, cf. Chlup, 2014: 57. 65 Paus. 5.24.9–11; Soph. Phil. 1324, cf. Soph. Oed. Col. 1767 “and the all-seeing Oath of Zeus” and P. Pyth. 4.167, Zeus himself is “the strong oath”. 66 Rawlings, 2013: 6. 67 Il. 19. 252–268. 68 Thuc. 2.74–75, 4.87. 69 Thuc. 8.75.2; cf. Brown, 1995: 258. 70 Curt. 7.8.29. 64

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right, and this being the case, to believe that their retreat could be successful. For the Greeks breaking the oath meant “shame before the gods and men”.71 Failure to comply with a sworn agreement incurred shame, for which there was no excuse, and which was avenged by Zeus the patron of hospitality. Shame associated with breaking the oath was irreversible. It will last as long as iron thrown into the sea will not be taken back, that is forever.72 Practical application of (in)justice Shalmaneser III justifies the actions to be taken against the enemy by their disloyalty to Aššur: He slashed the wombs of the pregnant, ripped out babies, Of their strongest, he cut the necks; the smoke of their land shut off their troops The one who sins against Aššur, turns into ruin!73 The Assyrian enemy violated an oath given to Aššur and the gods of Assyria, if he had no respect for the gods and uttered the blasphemies.74 If he “spoke great insults (sillatu) against Aššur”,75 he will be tortured and slaughtered and this is a just response to his deeds.76 The kings of Assyria ordered an oath of loyalty to the Assyrian gods from their subordinates.77 Neo-Assyrian treaties with foreign rulers were made in presence of images of both Assyrian and foreign gods.78 In Assyria, one swore not only by Šamaš and Nabû, but by the kings as well, e.g. before the statues of Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal. Yamada even connected the location of the divine status in the enemy cities in the temple and cultic places with the practice of swearing an oath before them.79 Some oaths were sworn ina saparrim, literally “through/with a net”. The rays of the sun are similar to a net that capture the evildoer and then the content of the oath: “Your brilliance overwhelms the earth like a net”.80 Not accidentally, in the Great Hymn to Šamaš, Šamaš is presented with his “battle net”.81 This raises the question whether Mesopotamian rulers recognized the idea of “holy war”? In Espak’s opinion: “The inscriptions of the king E-anatum can be 71

Xen. An. 2.3.22. Plut. Arist. 25. 73 The Hunter and the Asses, rev.3–6 in Fink / Parpola, 2019: 178. 74 Fales, 1982; Oded, 1992: 12–13, 56–57, 87–94, 97–99, 121–137. 75 Holloway, 2002: 99, ref. 78; Russell, 1999: 163; 28 (Text A, SWP, Room XXXIII), 28v (Text B), 180, fig. 64. 76 Russell, 1999: 164; 29 (Text A); Yamada, 2000: 89. 77 “Oath” – adu, cf. Cogan, 1974: 42–49. 78 Holloway, 2002: 175; Gunter, 2009: 35. 79 Yamada, 2000: 295–297; Dalley, 1986: 97–98. 80 CAD Š/2: 142b, l. 5, cf. Charpin, 2013: 66. 81 Great Hymn to Shamash, 83 in Foster, 1995: 257. 72

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considered to be the first recorded evidence of “holy war or theology of war” in human history”.82 However, in opinion of Liverani, divine war was never treated as holy war because “Assyria never forced conquered peoples to revere Aššur, but remained content to show Aššur’s superiority to their own gods”.83 There is also no evidence of replacing local gods with Assyrian ones and this act of loyalty to god Aššur was a political i.e. control over the land and taking booty rather than a religious initiative because the existence of non-Assyrian gods was commonly accepted. A similar situation lies in Greek tradition. The Greeks discerned two types of war: internal or civil war (stasis) and external war (polemos).84 Accordingly, war between Greeks should only be stasis, as polemos was reserved for barbarians.85 The Greeks even had their own notion of “holy war” (hieros polemos), but as in case of the Mesopotamians, it was not “holy war” seeking to annihilate any other religion and believing its own to be the only true one. Such type of war was understood as a war only in defence of poleis and religious sites.86 When states went to war, they often asserted religious offences of the other side as a justification of war. For example, the Persians in 480 BC claimed to burning Greek shrines in revenge for the burning of the temple of Kybebe at Sardis in 499 BC.87 War was thus conceived as a process whose outcome served as testimony of who was righteous and who was guilty. The battlefield is the law court and the place of the ordeal. The result of combat was the manifestation of the divine justice and decision because ultimate victory was considered to be the god’s verdict (dīnu).88 Unfortunately for this perfect ideological picture, the motivation of “just war” could be totally different than the promoted official propaganda. The royal scribes stressed the role of the moral motivation of the campaign against the enemy, but the studies of Neo-Assyrian tribute often emphasized the economic importance of taking booty.89 The moral and political justifications for war that was offered in royal inscriptions serve only to camouflage the real aims of exploitation and greed for power and richness.90 ***

82

Espak, 2011: 126. For further reading Sazonov, 2016; Fink, 2016. Liverani, 2017: 225, see also Cogan, 1974: 61. 84 Wheeler, 2007a: xliv. 85 Wheeler, 2007: 42. 86 Wheeler, 2007a: xxxviii. 87 Hdt. 5.102.1; Ersöz, 2013: 167. 88 Oded, 1992: 38–40; Von Soden, 1963: 136; Kang, 1989: 15–19, 91. 89 Ussishkin, 2003: 215, fig. 6. 90 Gunter, 2009: 169. 83

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Waging war by Greeks in the proper way required the adequate provision of victims of war, respect for sacred places, preservation of the physical integrity of being affiliated with a religion, recognition of oaths with religious sanction, allowing the defeated on the battlefield to take away the bodies of the dead and refraining from unjust cruelty.91 This is an idealistic picture, thus, it is profitable for this article to compare it with some historical data. In practice, vengeance was misled with justice and was often an appropriate motive for waging war. In historical times, war was not treated any more as a holy festival. In Anabasis, is difficult to find justification for a just war, because for most of the Greeks, including Xenophon himself, the war had initially served merely as a source of profit. Even Aristotle gave the possibility that waging war to establish “mastery only over those who deserve to be slaves”.92 This “only” should be respected and limit the law of expansion, but it is the conqueror that subjectively decides “who deserve to be slave” and this condition might be ideologically abused. The most unjust case of the Peloponnesian War was related to the Athenian siege of Melos. Melos refused to submit to the power of Athens. Athens tried to convince Melos, saying according to its own interest: “the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must”.93 After Melos surrendered unconditionally in the ensuing siege, Athens put to death the entire male population, enslaved the women and children, and recolonized the city. Theoretically, battle has its own rules, and it should be properly prefaced by a ritual challenge and acceptance of the challenge, but Peisistratos in 546 BC, attacked during the afternoon siesta,94 while Cleomenes did so after the herald gave the order for breakfast.95 Moreover, Agesilaos said: “To do wrong after making a treaty is impious, but to outwit the enemy is not only just and reputable, but also pleasant and profitable”.96 Lysander said that one must “cheat boys with knucklebones, but men with oaths”,97 and “where the lion’s skin does not reach, it must be patched out with the fox’s”.98 We know many cases of winning the battle by deceptions by the Spartans.99 Sacred truces, especially those declared for the celebration of the Olympic games should have been respected, but Aeneas Tacticus noted in the 4th century BC that an ideal time to attack an enemy was during festival.100 Xenophon’s Cyrus says: “it is a custom established for all time among all 91

Garlan, 2000: 68–69. Arist. Pol. Book I, 1255b, 35–40. 93 Thuc. 5.89. 94 Hdt. 1.63. 95 Hdt. 6.77–78. 96 Plut. Mor. 209b. 97 Plut. Lys. 8.4. 98 Plut. Lys. 7.4. 99 Plut. Mor. 232a; Polyain. 11.6; 1.15; Paus. 4.12–13. 100 Aen. Tact. 4.8. 92

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people that when a city is taken in war, the persons and the property of the inhabitants belong to the captors”.101 A similar meaning can be found in Brasidas: “(5) But if, despite what I have said, you still refuse to help me, I shall lay waste your land and try to bring you over by force. We Spartans are justified in liberating people against their will, since we are acting for the good of all”.102 After victory in the conquered camp, no form of evil was lacking, since the cruelty and license of the victor was ranging among all ranks and ages.103 The Athenians, in turn, defended their occupation of the Theban temple by claiming that: “anything done under the pressure of war and danger might reasonably claim indulgence even in the eye of the god”.104 Long before their rise to dominance in the ancient world, the Greeks established certain places as asylia, that is, inviolable spaces, free from war. These refuge places were under divine protection, hence, attack on them must take in account the divine counterattack. However, in the cruel reality of war, warriors who were defeated and looked for asylum were often killed – even in the temples.105 Moreover, because in response to the Ionian Revolt, the Persians burnt the Greek temples at Eretria and Athens,106 in the campaigns of Alexander the Great, he ordered the wholesale killing of inhabitants of the city he conquered and their pillaging. In these conquests, the unarmed wretches were butchered everywhere, foundations were undermined and sacred groves were cut down. In his opinion, these acts were not a cruelty but a just and divine vengeance.107 Summary In studying in detail the conception of “just war” in two different civilizations, I constantly had an impression of déjà vu scenario. We are aware of all the differences existing in time and space between these civilizations. Thus, the direct implementation of ideas from one society to the other should be rather excluded. Yet, the conception of the Mesopotamian and Greek “just war” is similar in many points. In both civilizations, war had to be just, i.e. divinely sanctioned and should have exclusively defensive dimension. In Mesopotamia, the god Utu/Šamaš was respected as a god who patronizes “just war”,108 in the Athenian polis, the goddess Athena played this role, the aggressive Ares had not even a temple in Athens. 101

Xen. Cyr. 7.5.73, cf. Pl. Resp. 468a, Pl. Leg. 626b; Arist. Pol. Book I, 1255a. Thuc. 4.83–87. 103 Curt. 3.11.22. 104 Thuc. 4.98. 105 ThesCRA, vol. III, 227–229, 230–231. 106 Hdt. 6.101, 8.53. 107 Curt. 7.5.28–35; Strabo 11.11.4. 108 Truly important is the role of the god Utu in Utu-hegal’s victory text (c. 2120 BC). This text presents the real face of war during the Neo-Sumerian period. For further reading, see Espak, 2016. 102

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Both civilizations asked gods for permission to begin a war and to take part in it, certainly on their own side. They both believed in a holy oath and the claim that breakers of oath will be severely punished by gods. In both cases, however, the brutal practice of war differs significantly from the postulated theses. Justice has become part of ideology facilitating the real political and military conquest. In the opinion of the Assyrians, they never attacked the enemy, they only always restore the order. Dewald even claims that the Ancient Greeks had not an idea of “just war”.109 Still, both civilizations did not practice “holy war”, as later developed by monotheistic religions. This study did not confirm any essential differences in the concept of “just war” in both these civilizations. Why? The answer for this question seems to be more anthropological and sociological than historical. Over all, one can say that the course of war in all polytheistic, ancient societies and civilizations followed similar principles. Many of these practices and ideological manifestations are still practiced nowadays. Only the victor has the right to judge and vae victis, although this is, according to the conquerors, still the fault of the vanquished. Bibliography: Astour, M.C., 1992: “Sparagmos, Omophagia, and Ecstatic Prophecy at Mari”. UF 24, 1–2. Augustine. 1998: City of God against the Pagans (trans.), R.W. Dyson. Cambridge: CUP. Bahrani, Z., 2008: Rituals of War: The Body and Violence in Mesopotamia. New York: Zone Books. Bielawski, K., 2006: “Theology of Violence in the Greek Tragedy”. In J. Styka (ed.): Violence and Aggression in the Ancient World. Kraków: Księgarnia Akademicka. Pp. 27–36. Bernard, W., 2001: “Homers Ilias. Die ‘Bibel’ der Griechen.” In B. TheuneGroßkopf et al. (eds.): Troia: Traum und Wirklichkeit. Stuttgart: Archäologisches Landesmuseum Baden-Württemberg. Pp. 98–102. Berndt-Ersöz, S., 2013: “Kybebe on fire! The significance of the goddess in the Ionian Revolt”. In A.-L. Schallin (ed.): Perspectives on Ancient Greece: Papers on Celebration of the 60th Anniversary of the Swedish Institute at Athens. Stockholm: The Swedish Institute at Athens. Pp. 153–171. Brown, J.P., 1995: Israel and Hellas. Berlin / New York: Walter de Gruyter. Bottéro, J., 1992: Mesopotamia: Writing, Reasoning, and the Gods. Chicago / London: UPC. Burliga, B., 2016: “The Terrified Face of Alcyoneus: The Religious Character of Greek Warfare, or What about the Vanquished?”. In K. Ulanowski (ed.): The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome. Leiden 109

Dewald, 2013: 28–30.

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/ Boston: Brill. Pp. 133–165. Cavigneaux, A., 2013: “Le monster du troisième acte dans la ‘Lamentation sur Uruk’”. ZA 103/1, 4–15. Chaniotis, A., 1996: Die Verträge zwischen kretischen Poleis in der hellenistischen Zeit. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Charpin, D., 2008: “‘I Am the Sun of Babylon’: Solar Aspects of Royal Power in Old Babylonian Mesopotamia”. In J.A. Hill / P. Jones / A.J. Morales (eds.): Experiencing Power, Generating Authority: Cosmos, Politics, and the Ideology of Kingship in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Pp. 65–96. Chlup, J.T., 2014: “Just War in Onasander’s ΣΤΡΑΤΗΓΙΚΟΣ”. JAH 2(1), 37–63. Cogan, M., 1974: Imperialism and Religion: Assyria, Judah and Israel in the Eighth and Seventh Centuries B.C.E. Missoula, MT: Scholar Press. Dalley, S., 1986: “The God Salmu and the Winged Disk”. Iraq 48, 85–107. Dewald, C., 2013: “Justice and Justifications: War Theory among the Ancient Greeks”. In J. Neusner / B.D. Chilton / R.E. Tully (eds.): Just War in Religion and Politics: Studies in Religion and Social Order. Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Pp. 27–50. Eph’al, I., 2013: The City Besieged: Siege and Its Manifestations in the Ancient Near East. Jerusalem: The Hebrew University Magnes Press. Espak, P., 2011: “The Emergence of the Concept of Divine Warfare and Theology of War in the Ancient Near East”. ENDC Proceedings 14, 115–129. — 2016: “The Establishment of Ur III Dynasty: From the Gutians to the Formation of the Neo-Sumerian Imperial Ideology and Pantheon”. In T. Kämmerer / M. Ko͂iv / V. Sazonov (eds.): Kings, Gods and People: Establishing Monarchies in the Ancient World. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Pp. 77–108. Fagan, G.G., 2010: “‘I Fell upon Him like a Furious Arrow’: Toward a Reconstruction of the Assyrian Tactical System”. In G.G. Fagan / M. Trundle (eds.): New Perspectives on Ancient Warfare. Leiden / Boston: Brill. Pp. 81–100. Fales, F.M., 2010: Guerre et paix en Assyrie: Religion et impérialisme. Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf. — 1982: “The Enemy in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: ‘The Moral Judgment’”. In H. J. Nissen / J. Renger (eds.): Mesopotamien und seine Nachbarn: Politische und kulturelle Wechselbeziehungen im Alten Vorderasien vom 4. bis 1. Jahrtausend v.Chr. XXV Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Berlin, 3. bis 7. Juli 1978. Berlin: Reimer. Pp. 425–435. Fink, S., 2016: “Battle-descriptions in Mesopotamian Sources I: Presargonic and Sargonic Period”. In K. Ulanowski (ed.): The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome. Leiden / Boston: Brill. Pp. 51–64. Fink, S., / Parpola, S., 2019: “The Hunter and the Asses: A Neo-Assyrian Pean Glorifying Shalmaneser III”. ZA 109(2), 177–188.

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Farber-Flügge, G., 1973: Der Mythos ‚Inanna und Enki‘ unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Liste der m e. Rome. Foster, B.R., 1995: From Distant Days: Myth, Tales, and Poetry of Ancient Mesopotamia. Bethesda: CDL. — 2005: Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature. Bethesda: CDL. Frahm, E., 2013: “Rising Suns and Falling Stars: Assyrian Kings and the Cosmos”. In J.A. Hill / P. Jones / A. J. Morales (eds.): Experiencing Power, Generating Authority: Cosmos, Politics, and the Ideology of Kingship in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Pp. 97–120. Garlan, Y., 2000: “Człowiek i wojna”. In J.-P. Vernant, (trans. P. Bravo, Ł. Niesiołowski-Spano) (ed.): Człowiek Grecji. Warszawa: Świat Książki. Pp. 65–106. Gunter, A.C., 2009: Greek Art and the Orient. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Holloway, S.W., 2002: Aššur is King! Aššur is King! Religion in the Exercise of Power in the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Leiden / Boston: Brill. Kang, S.-M., 1989: Divine War in the Old Testament and in the Ancient Near East. Berlin / New York: Walter de Gruyter. Lambert, W.G. / Millard, A.R., 1999: Atra-Hasis. The Babylonian Story of the Flood. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Liverani, M. 2006: “The Deeds of Ancient Mesopotamian Kings”. In J.M. Sasson (ed.): Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, vol. III & IV. New York: Hendrickson. Pp. 2352–2366. — 2017: Assyria. The Imperial Mission. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Maul, S.M., 1999: “Der assyrische König – Hüter der Weltordnung”. In K. Watanabe (ed.): Priests and Officials in the Ancient Near East: Papers of the Second Colloquium on the Ancient Near East – The City and its Life, held at the Middle Eastern Culture Center in Japan, March 22–24, 1996. Heidelberg. Pp. 201–214. Melville, S.C., 2006a: “Adad-nirari II (118)”. In M.W. Chavalas (ed.): The Ancient Near East: Historical Sources in Translation. Oxford: OUP. Pp. 282– 285. — 2006b: “Ashurbanipal (Apology and Egyptian Campaigns)”. In M.W. Chavalas (ed.): The Ancient Near East: Historical Sources in Translation. Oxford: OUP. Pp. 363–365. — 2006c: “Sennacherib (130. Oriental Institute Prism)”. In M.W. Chavalas (ed.): The Ancient Near East: Historical Sources in Translation. Oxford: OUP. Pp. 345–349. Oded, B., 1992: War, Peace and Empire. Justification for War in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions. Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag.

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O’Driscoll, C., 2015: “Rewriting the Just War Tradition: Just War in Classical Greek Political Thought and Practice”. International Studies Quarterly 59, 1– 10. Plato. 2001: Alcibiades. N. Denyer (ed.). Cambridge: CUP. Postgate, J.N., 2005: Early Mesopotamia: Society and Economy at the Dawn of History. London, New York: Routledge. Pritchard, J.B., 1992: The Ancient Near East: A New Anthology of Texts and Pictures, vol. II. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Raaflaub, K.A., 2007: “Homer and Thucydides on Peace and Just War”. In M. B. Cosmopoulos (ed.): Experiencing War: Trauma and Society from Ancient Greece to the Iraq War. Chicago: Ares Publishers. Pp. 81–94. — 2020: “Human Nature, Peace, and War”. In S. L. Ager (ed.): A Cultural History of Peace in Antiquity. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Pp. 37–54. Richardson, M.E.J., 2004: Hammurabi’s Laws. Text, Translation and Glossary. London / New York: T&T Clark International. Rawlings, L., 2013: “War and Warfare in Ancient Greece.” In B. Campbell / L. A. Tritle (eds.): The Oxford Handbook of Warfare in the Classical World. Oxford: OUP. Pp. 3–28. Russell, J.M., 1999: The Writing on the Wall: Studies in the Architectural Context of Late Assyrian Palace Inscriptions. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Sazonov, V., 2016: “Some Remarks Concerning the Development of the Theology of War in Ancient Mesopotamia”. In K. Ulanowski (ed.): The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome. Leiden / Boston: Brill. Pp. 23–50. Sekunda, N.V., 2000. Greek Hoplite 480 – 323 BC. Oxford: Osprey. Steinkeller, P., 1993: “Early Political Development in Mesopotamia and the Origins of the Sargonic Empire”. In M. Liverani (ed.): Akkad: The First World Empire: Structure, Ideology, Traditions. Padova: SARGON. Pp. 107–130. — 2005: “Of Stars and Men: The Conceptual and Mythological Setup of Babylonian Extispicy”. In A. Gianto (ed.): Biblical and Oriental Essays in Memory of William L. Moran. Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute. Pp. 11–47. Ussishkin, D., 2003: “Symbols of Conquest in Sennacherib’s Reliefs of Lachish: Impaled Prisoners and Booty”. In T.F. Potts et al. (eds.): Culture Through Objects: Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of P.R.S. Moorey. Oxford: OUP. Pp. 207–217. Van Wees, H. 2006: “‘The Oath of the Sworn Bands’. The Acharnae Stela, the Oath of Plataea, and Archaic Spartan Warfare”. In A. Luther / M. Meier / L. Thommen (eds.): Das frühe Sparta. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Pp. 125– 164. von Soden, W. 1963: “Die Assyrer und der Krieg.” Iraq 25, 131–144.

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Wheeler, E. L. 2007: “Ephorus and the Prohibition of Missiles”. In E. L. Wheeler (ed.): The Armies of Classical Greece. Aldershot: Ashgate. Pp. 19–44. — 2007a: “Introduction”. In E.L. Wheeler (ed.): The Armies of Classical Greece. Aldershot: Ashgate. Pp. xi–lxiv. Winter, I. J. 1985: “After the Battle is Over: The ‘Stele of the Vultures’ and the Beginning of Historical Narrative in the Ancient Near East”. In H. Kessler / M.S. Simpson (eds.): Pictorial Narrative in Antiquity to the Middle Ages. Washington, D.C.: National Gallery. Pp. 11–32. Wood, N., 2007: “Xenophon’s Theory of Leadership”. In E.L. Wheeler (ed.): The Armies of Classical Greece. Aldershot: Ashgate. Pp. 447–480. Yamada, S. 2000: The Construction of the Assyrian Empire: A Historical Study of the Inscriptions of Shalmaneser III (859–824 BC) Relating to His Campaigns to the West. Leiden / Boston: Brill.

SAA 21 134 and the Curious Case of Teispes(?) the šūt rēši Matt Waters Beyond his multiple, seminal contributions to Assyriology, Simo Parpola’s work over the years has spurred incisive questions that inspire wider historical investigation. It is in that spirit that this short, impressionistic essay is offered, with its focus on the historical milieu of mid-seventh century BCE Assyria and its potential lines of influence upon the Achaemenid Empire. Achaemenid ideology and administrative apparatus owe a fundamental debt to their Assyrian predecessors. The phenomenon is well-acknowledged in its myriad manifestations, somewhat less appreciated in its ramifications, and barely broached in its means of transmission. With regard to the last, Babylonia was of course a main conduit for transmitting elements of the Assyrian imperial system to the early Achaemenids. Nonetheless, several prominent aspects of Achaemenid ideology tap directly into the Assyrian, aspects that are not found – or not found consistently – within Babylonian imperial expression. One often-cited example is the figure in the winged disk and its special relationship to the king, a common (indeed, central) phenomenon in Assyrian and Achaemenid royal iconography; a phenomenon that, beyond the occasional representation of Shamash in conjunction with other divine symbols, seemingly bypassed Babylonian royal iconography. In such instances it is necessary to look to other potential channels of transmission, among them the remains of Assyrian palace centers and (or) representations of reliefs therefrom; the royal iconography of neighboring peoples that themselves may have adapted modes of Assyrian imperial expression; or the dissemination of Assyrian ideology via Assyrian expatriates or foreign specialists who had served in Assyria and went elsewhere after its fall. The extant evidence, though, is rarely as illustrative as we would like. Of particular focus herein is an Assyrian letter published by Simo Parpola as SAA 21 134. The letter dates sometime between 653 and the mid-640s. The entire tablet’s transliteration and translation are included as Figure 1. The letter offers several items of interest, the main one here being reference to a šūt rēši named m te-⸢i?-iṣ?⸣-i-pi-di (rev. 8), the name normalized as “Teiṣipidi” in the SAA print translation and “Teispes” in the online translation.1 The individual in question, 1

The letter was initially published in hand copy as CT 54 177 (Dietrich, 1979). Table 1 is adapted from Parpola, 2018: 116–117 and the ORACC-saao publication of the same: http://oracc.iaas.upenn.edu/saao/saa21/P237459/html, accessed on 13 June, 2022. I thank Simo for discussing this with briefly me in-person in November, 2018. When I asked why the normalization “Teispes,” Simo indicated his intent was to see what someone would do with it. I am happy to oblige as a small token of my regard for his work. My thanks also

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Teiṣipidi – the orthography here a plain normalization from the transliteration – enters the letter’s contents at a change of subject, but whether related or not to the preceding subject matter is unclear since the remainder of the letter is destroyed. If “Teispes” is a satisfactory rendition of mte-⸢i?-ṣi?⸣-i-pi-di, the mention of a Teispes serving in the Assyrian administration of the mid-seventh century warrants attention. While not a unique name, Teispes is an unusual one, and one that of course resonates in Achaemenid studies. The most prominent individual of that name was Cyrus the Great’s great-grandfather – or ancestor, as some commentators prefer – mentioned in line 21 of the Cyrus Cylinder.2 In addition, we find a Teispes named as the father of Cyrus (I) in the inscription of PFS 93*, again presumably the same Teispes as mentioned in the Cyrus Cylinder, but that “presumably” remains an object of contention among those who study the matter. Transliteration and translation of SAA 21 134 Beginning broken away (Beginning destroyed) 1′

ki-i! ⸢a!-na! x⸣ [x x x x x]

2′

tal-tal-lak-ku-ma u ⸢x⸣+[x x x x] 2′ the taltallakku and […]

3′

um-ma šá KUG.GI e-pu-⸢uš⸣ [x x]

4′ 5′

1′ if to [……]

3′ saying, “Make it of gold!” […]

md

AMAR.UTU–LUGAL–ŠEŠ u 4′ Marduk-šarru-uṣur and the ch[ief euLÚ.⸢GAL?⸣–[SAG?] nuch] – these were present. an-nu-tu ú-šu-uz-zu [0?]

6′

it-ti LÚ.GAL–SAG LUGAL ENa

7′

ki-i iš-pu-ra-an-ni

8′

URU.É–mim-bi-ía ni-iṣ-ṣa-bat

9′

AMA-a ŠEŠ.MEŠ-e-a u UN.MEŠ É-ía

10′

[a-na pa-an] LUGAL EN-ía altap-ra

e.11′

[LÚ.GAL?–ki]-⸢ṣir⸣ LÚ.GAL– SAG

e.12′ [x x x x] ⸢x⸣-ki e-te-⸢lu?⸣-u’-ma

6′ When the king, my lord, sent me with the chief eunuch, we conquered Bit-Imbiya, (and) I sent my mother, my brothers and the people of my house [into the presence] of the king, my lord.

11′ [The coh]ort [commander] of the chief eunuch [and …] ascended and

to the editors and anonymous referees for suggestions and for catching some infelicities. 2 The translation of “great-grandfather” or “ancestor” depends on the understanding of the variable Akkadian genealogical term liblibbu, q.v. Waters, 2019: 31–32. Darius I mentions the same Teispes labeled in literal, genealogical terms as his great-great-grandfather in DB §2. Even if “Teispes” is a suitable rendering of the name Teiṣipidi of SAA 21 134, it is certainly not assumed here that this individual was Cyrus’ great-grandfather.

SAA 21 134 and the Curious Case of Teispes(?) the šūt rēši

e.13′ [x x x x x x] DUMU da-nim

13′ [……] the Son of Anu

e.14′ [x x x x x].MEŠ LUGAL EN-a

14′ [the …]s of the king, my lord

!

Rs. 1 [x x x x x] al ki ⸢x la ⸣ a

?

?

387

Rs. 1 [……] …

2

⸢ma ⸣ [x x um]-⸢ma⸣-nu šá madak-tum

2 [… the crafts]man of the camp

3

šá ⸢x⸣ [x x] mku-ri-i’-du-ú

3 who […] Kuri’dû

4

šá KASKAL ⸢x⸣ [x x] ⸢x⸣ ù ki-i mim-ma bi-i’-šú

4 of the campaign […]

5

šá ma-dak-tum al-te-mu-ú

6

a-na LÚ.DUMU–DÙ.MEŠ aqab-bi

7

a-na UGU md+AG–DÙ-uš [[x x]]

8

ù mte-⸢i?-ṣi?⸣-i-pi-di LÚ.SAG

5 And if I should hear anything bad about the camp, I will tell it to the nobles.

9

7 As to Nabû-ipuš [[…]] and Teispes, ⸢te⸣-[x x x]-šu-ú-a u m⸢si?⸣-[x x x] the eunuch

10

⸢x⸣+[x x x].MEŠ⸣ [x x x x] rest broken away

(Rest destroyed)

The name “Teispes,” as it is typically normalized in English, stems from the Greek Τεΐσπης. In Herodotus 7.11, a Teispes is mentioned twice in Xerxes’ rehearsal of his own lineage, a conflation of two lines of familial descent, in the dramatic debate scene on whether the Persians should invade Greece.3 The Τεΐσπης of Hdt. 7.11 represents the same person-name as Elamite Šešbeš of PFS 93* and Akkadian Šišpiš of line 21 of the Cyrus Cylinder. In Darius’ Bisotun inscription (DB §2) the name is spelled Zišpiš (Elamite), Šišpiš (Babylonian), and Čišpiš (Old Persian).4 Whether or not the Assyrian Teiṣipidi represents a variant of the same name also remains, at best, an open question, as signified by the dashed lines and question marks in the rough schematic of Figure 2. The Τεΐσπης of Greek texts is phonetically much more akin to the Teiṣipidi of SAA 21 134, though the extra dental at the end (-d-) is problematic, and in any event the form does not well approximate the Šišpiš from other Akkadian attestations. I defer to the linguists on the particulars of alveolars, post-alveolars, places of articulation, and related phonetic matters, as these are matters well out of my bailiwick.5 With the main 3

A slight variant Τεάσπις is also extant, the brother-in-law of Darius I and the father of Sataspes and Pharandates (Hdt. 4.43, 7.79, and 9.76); Balcer, 1993: 45–46 and 73. 4 The etymology of the name, considered by most commentators as either Elamite or Old Iranian, remains disputed, see especially Tavernier, 2007: 519, with references and note the short PNA entry, Talon, 2011. A different Zišpiš is attested in PFT 388:3 and 524:3; Hallock, 1969: 160 and 184. 5 Note that the genitive of Τεάσπις occurs in Paus. 3.4.9 as Τεάσπιδος. I acknowledge and

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focus herein on SAA 21 134 and its historical significance, I use the normalized form Teiṣipidi in the following, even if the final vowel was unlikely to have been articulated and the first two syllables may be better normalized as Te’i-.

Figure 2: Schematic orthographies of the name Teispes. Dashed lines with question marks indicate uncertain equivalency of the orthography of the name, not equivalency of an individual.

Anyone with the fortitude to read this sort of treatment is well aware of the difficulties presented by the all-too-common fragmentary state of many preserved tablets. As regards the Neo-Assyrian correspondence, an identifiable sender and recipient, full (and fully comprehensible) contents, and dates all remain wish-list items, granted in occasional circumstances but as exceptions rather than the norm. Until recently, up-to-date and accurate renderings of much of the corpus were inaccessible, or barely accessible, even to Assyriologists unless working in the British Museum, where the bulk of the tablets reside. With the exceptions of hand copies published in CT 53 and CT 54 (Parpola, 1979 and Dietrich, 1979, respectively) and scattered journal articles, published copies of the tablets’ script appear in stylized type in the volumes of the so-called Harper Letters (Harper, 1892– 1902); thus, not even hand copies have been available for the majority of these letters. Transliterations, with the notable exception of a handful of articles or published dissertations, were available for the better part of the twentieth century only

thank my UWEC colleagues in linguistics studies – Profs. E. Benson, M. Lindseth, and J. Miller – for their patient attempts to explain the finer points of phonetic and linguistic transmission.

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via Waterman, 1930–1936. This has changed dramatically with the steadily increasing number, though still unfinished as of this writing, of published volumes in the State Archives of Assyria series under the umbrella of the Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project (NATCP). The collated transliterations and updated translations are having a major impact on the study of the Neo-Assyrian period, and those civilizations it encountered or influenced. Nevertheless, study of this material still poses numerous challenges. In the SAA publications, many letters are relegated to sections entitled “Varia and Unassigned” or the like, necessarily categorized as such because of their fragmentary nature. SAA 21 134 falls into that category. Assessing the historical context of the letters is also compounded by the profusion of homonymous individuals, i.e., names that are common enough to lend uncertainty to which individual bearing that name is meant in a given letter. The individual named Teiṣipidi does not present that problem, however, since as of this writing the name is attested only this one time in the corpus. The proper translation of the title šūt rēši, a variant of ša rēši, also remains an object of contention. It was a commonly-held epithet that is often translated, especially within the publications of the NATCP, as “eunuch.” That admirable consistency, however, minimizes an intractable problem. The translation “eunuch” as applied in Neo-Assyrian contexts appears in the main physiognomic – involving the question of facial hair, or lack of it – aside from the more fundamental question of whether a given ša rēši was a castrato.6 Doubts persist that the translation “eunuch” for ša rēši (or šūt rēši) is appropriate in all cases. Thus, translating the term as “eunuch,” without any qualification, has farreaching implications for our understanding of the Akkadian term, and, for that matter, understanding the office(s) and functioning of those individuals termed as such held in the Neo-Assyrian royal administration – and, by extension, the NeoBabylonian and Achaemenid administrations as well. If only the preceding were the end of the difficulties. To return to the contents of SAA 21 134, its main focus concerns the conquest of Bīt-Imbî, an Elamite fortress located in the Elamite-Babylonian borderland region of Rāši, southeast of Dēr. This was a contested area. Bīt-Imbî was a target of Assurbanipal’s first campaign against the Elamite king Humban-haltaš III in 647.7 6

See Baker, 2017: 177–182 listing scores of individuals bearing the title ša rēši and its variants. The growth of a natural beard seems to be often conflated with the ceremonial wearing of a false beard, of varying elaborateness depending on status, such as indicated by the distinction between ša ziqni (bearded) and ša rēši (beardless). For a sampling of the problems, compare Brinkman / Dalley, 1988: 85–86 n. 27 with references to earlier literature; Dalley, 2001; Briant, 2002: 276; Pirngruber, 2011; Barjamovic, 2011: 57–59; Jursa, 2014: 129; Peled, 2012: Chapter 4; Waters, 2017: Chapter 1; Zorzi / Jursa, 2011; Kraus, 2015; and Frazer, 2022. 7 Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 245–246 Edition A iv 123–132. The description includes an account of Sennacherib’s previous (maḫrû) conquest of Bīt-Imbî; Grayson / Novotny,

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It was described as a “royal city” (āl šarrûti) and the “city of Elam’s security which like a great wall blocks Elam” (āl tuklāte ša Elamti ša kīma dūri rabê pan Elamti parku). The fortress commander there was one Imbappi, described as a chief bowman (rab qašti) of Elam in Edition F of Assurbanipal’s annals (iii 53) and called the qîpu-official of Bīt-Imbî as well as a son- or brother-in-law (ḫatānu) of the king Huban-haltaš III in Edition A (v 1–2).8 According to those accounts, Imbappi was bound and sent to Assyria. The author (whose name is not preserved) of SAA 21 134 reports that he and the rab ša rēši have conquered Bīt-Imbî.9 The author also noted that he sent his own mother, brothers, and people of his household to Assurbanipal (obverse 6–10). This report converges with the annals’ account that the queen and sons of Assurbanipal’s inveterate foe Te’umman, who had apparently taken refuge in BītImbî, were captured during the campaign of 647.10 It must be granted, however, that consistent Assyrian military pressure against Elam, and its destabilizing effects, makes for a confusing situation. Frequent campaigns against Elam resulted in a host of extended royal family members and their entourages having fled to Assyria, or otherwise on the run from Assyria – or on the run from their fellow Elamites, as the situation in Elam continued to unravel. As regards the capture of Bīt-Imbî in 647, the explicit reference in SAA 21 134 (obv. 6–10) to the author’s mother and brothers taken as captives offers a potential match with the description in Assurbanipal’s annals’ reference to the capture of Te’umman’s family. A group of captives, explicitly identified as Te’umman’s wife and sons is referenced also in SAA 21 56 (obv. 8–11), another letter referring to the capture of Bīt-Imbî.11 That the same group of people appears to be referenced by the author of SAA 21 134 as members of his own family, his mother and brothers, leads to the premise that the author of SAA 21 134 was a son of Te’umman, a son who was fighting on the Assyrian side. Such a convoluted family affair is not atypical. Only a tithe of the extended Neo-Elamite royal family – offspring of the previous kings Humban-haltaš II, Urtak, and Te’umman – are explicitly named in the sources, among hundreds of ad2012: 180 iv 64 (et al.) for the previous Bīt-Imbî. For the location, see Zadok, 1985: 92; Waters, 2000: 69–71 for discussion. 8 Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 245–246 and 198, respectively. Hinz / Koch, 1987: 753 interpret Imbappi as a shortening of Elamite Huban-ahpi; cf. Zadok, 1984: 6 and 11–12 (Hubanapi) and see Waters, 1998. Ambappi, who may be provisionally identified with this Imbappi, was the recipient of a warning from Assurbanipal (ABL 1260 = SAA 21 55) that likely preceded the campaign of 647. 9 On the rab ša rēši, cf. Mattila, 2000: 61–76; Desző, 2012: 222–227; and Baker, 2017: 114–115. 10 Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 246, Edition A v 6–10. 11 The name of the author of SAA 21 56 is broken away, it may be from Assurbanipal. A certain Sikdê, another hapax PN but identified as the brother of Humban-haltaš and commander of the archers, was killed.

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ditional Elamite refugees who had fled to Assyria at one time or another.12 The sources suggest this was not an uncommon phenomenon, despite (or perhaps because of) the antipathy between the two powers, relations between Elamite and Assyrian royals were simultaneously close and fraught, interchange between them likely far more consistent than we can readily discern from the extant sources. There are on record two prominent episodes where large groups of Elamite royals and nobles sought refuge in Assyria: in the aftermath of Te’umman’s accession to the throne in 664 and in the aftermath of Tammaritu’s flight to Assyria, after his overthrow by Indabibi in 649. The shifting allegiances among these refugees can be bewildering to sort. As one example, Urtak’s son Humban-nikaš II fled to Assurbanipal after his sire’s death in 664; he was installed as king of Elam after Te’umman’s defeat in 653; and he rebelled against Assyria within a year afterwards in conjunction with the Šamaš-šum-ukin rebellion. Tammaritu had a similarly checkered career. He is noted in the annals as protesting the beheading of Te’umman (Tammaritu had “spoken insolently” – mēreḫtu iqbû). He rebelled against Humban-nikaš II but then, like Humban-nikaš II, also aided Šamaš-šumukin in his rebellion against Assurbanipal; after his overthrow by Indabibi, Tammaritu then fled to Assurbanipal with a sizable entourage.13 Among those who fled with Tammaritu to Assyria was a certain Humban-haltaš (Akkadian Ummanaldasi), son of Te’umman; this Humban-haltaš was not the same Humbanhaltaš as the Elamite king Humban-haltaš III, who was the son of a certain Attahamiti-Inšušinak (Akkadian Attametu) and against whom the campaign in 647 was directed. The Humban-haltaš, son of Te’umman, may be considered a provisional candidate as author of SAA 21 134. Two other individuals are mentioned in SAA 21 134 who provide opportunity for connections or, more realistically put, speculation about such. The first, Marduk-šarru-uṣur (obv. 4ʹ) had a common name, with forty discrete entries listed in the Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire. At least one Marduk-šarru-uṣur was quite active in Elamite affairs after 653, prominent in the annals, correspondence, and (if the same individual) administrative documents. But the numerous references to a Marduk-šarru-uṣur during this time-frame in southern Babylonia and Elam could refer potentially to four distinct individuals, at least; further, several attestations of the name are accompanied by the appellation ša rēši, while others are not.14 Is the same individual meant in a given set of letters, whether or not the epithet ša rēši is included? Identifying the Marduk-šarru-uṣur of SAA 21 12

Waters, 2006: 61–63 and Gorris, 2020: 53 for chart and references. Edition A iv 12–36, lines 12–20 for his insolent speech; Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: 243. See Waters, 2000: 62–64 and 2001: 478–479 on the difficulties in differentiating the three (at least) Tammaritus mentioned in Assyrian sources, cf. Gorris, 2020: 47–54. 14 Some distinct entries may refer to the same individual, however, especially as regards the Marduk-šarru-uṣur in question; see Baker, 2001: 730 no. 24 and “possibly identical with 23” and also possibly the same as nos. 21 and 22. 13

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134, who is not identified as a ša rēši therein, thus remains another intractable problem. The other individual mentioned in SAA 21 134, in the same context as Teiṣipidi (rev. 7–8), is one Nabû-epuš, who is a bit of a cipher. The broken context of SAA 21 134 offers no further information on this Nabû-epuš.15 Even by standards of Elamite history, this aggregate yields a high level of uncertainty. Interpreting and contextualizing the Neo-Assyrian correspondence as it regards Elam is an exercise in qualifications. With regard to our main subject, Teiṣipidi, and any significance of the name’s attestation in SAA 21 134 for Achaemenid studies, the result is a similar chain of suppositions. To conclude, it seems appropriate to return to one of the possibilities of transmission posed at the start of this short piece, posed as an indirect question: might this Teiṣipidi be representative of a foreigner who served in Assyrian administration but returned to Elam, or Parsa, after Assyria’s fall, who brought with him experiences of working within the Assyrian imperial system. An additional step, also with caveats, may ask how and why a hypothetically Elamite or Persian individual came to serve in Assurbanipal’s administration. Considering that we have no origin- or end-story for the Teiṣipidi in question, we are left to consider the general phenomenon of how (or perhaps yet another “if”) these individuals may be considered as means of transmission of Assyria’s influence on its neighbors and successors. Bibliography Baker, H., 2001: “Marduk-šarru-uṣur.” In H. Baker (ed.): Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire 2/II. Helsinki. P. 730. — 2017: Neo-Assyrian Specialists: Crafts, Offices, and Other Professional Designations. PNA 4/I. Helsinki. Baker, H. / Van Buylaere, G., 2001: “Nabû-ēpuš.” In H. Baker (ed.) Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire 2/II. Helsinki. Pp. 825–826. Balcer, J., 1993: A Prosopographical Study of the Ancient Persians Royal and Noble, c. 550–450 B.C, Lewistown, NY. Barjamovic, G., 2011. “Pride, Pomp, and Circumstance: Palace, Court and Household in Assyria 879–612 BCE”. In J. Duindam / T. Artan / M. Kunt (eds.): Royal Courts in Dynastic States and Empires: A Global Perspective. Leiden. Pp. 27–61. Boucharlat, R., 2019: “Cyrus and Pasargadae: Forging an empire – fashioning paradise.” In Cyrus the Great: life and lore, ed. R. Shayegan. Boston. Pp. 131– 149. Briant, P., 2002: From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire, translated by P. Daniels, Winona Lake. Brinkman, J.A. / Dalley, S., 1988: “A Royal Kudurru from the Reign of Aššurnādin-šumi.” ZA 78, 76–98. 15

A possible connection is the prebendary Nabû-epuš referenced in another broken letter in connection with Uruk, CT 54 137, see Baker / Van Buylaere, 2001: 825–826 no. 3.

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Dalley, S., 2001: “Review of R. Mattila, The King’s Magnates”. BiOr LVIII, No. 1–2, 197–206. Desző, T., 2012: The Assyrian Army. I: The Structure of the Neo-Assyrian Army. 1. Infantry. Budapest. Dietrich, M., 1979: Cuneiform Texts from Babylonian Tablets in the British Museum: Neo-Babylonian Letters from the Kuyunjik Collection. CT 54. London. Frazer, M., 2022: “Heads and Beds: On the Origin of the Akkadian Term for Eunuch or Courtier.” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern History 9/1, 95–112. Gorris, E., 2020: Power and politics in the Neo-Elamite Kingdom. Leuven. Grayson, A.K. / Novotny, J., 2012: The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC), Part 1. RINAP 3/1. Winona Lake, Indiana. Hallock, R.T., 1969: Persepolis Fortification Tablets. OIP 92. Chicago. Harper, R.F., 1892–1902: Assyrian and Babylonian Letters Belonging to the K. Collection of the British Museum. Parts I–VII. London / Chicago. Henkelman, W., 2008: The Other Gods Who Are: Studies in Elamite-Iranian Acculturation Based on the Persepolis Fortification Texts. Leiden. Hinz, W. / Koch, H., 1987: Elamisches Wörterbuch. Berlin. Jursa, M., 2014: “The Neo-Babylonian Empire”. In M. Gehler / R. Rollinger (eds.): Imperium und Reiche in der Weltgeschichte. Wiesbaden. Pp. 121–148. Kleber, K., 2017: “Administration in Babylonia”. In B. Jacobs / W. Henkelman / M. Stolper (eds.): Administration in the Achaemenid Empire: Tracing the Imperial Signature. Wiesbaden. Pp. 699–714. Kraus, N., 2015: “Revisiting the Courtier in the Commentary”. NABU 2015, Note 55. Mattila, R., 2000: The King’s Magnates. SAAS 11. Helsinki. Novotny, J. / Jeffers, J., 2018: The Royal Inscriptions of Ashurbanipal (668–631 BC), Aššur-etel-ilāni (630–627 BC), and Sîn-ŝarra-iškun (626–612 BC), Kings of Assyria. RINAP 5/1. University Park, PA. Parpola, S., 1979: Cuneiform Texts from Babylonian Tablets in the British Museum: Neo-Assyrian Letters from the Kuyunjik Collection. CT 53. London. — 2018: The Correspondence of Assurbanipal. Part I: Letters from Assyria, Babylonia, and Vassal States. SAA 21. Helsinki. Peled, I., 2012: “The Third Gender in the Ancient Near East: A Study of Institutionalized Gender Otherness”. Ph.D. dissertation. Bar-Ilan University. Pirngruber, R., 2011. “Eunuchen am Königshof. Ktesias und die altorientalische Evidenz”. In J. Wiesehofer et al. (eds.): Ktesias’ Welt. Wiesbaden. Pp. 279– 312. Talon, P., 2011: “Teiṣīpidi”. In H. Baker (ed.): Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire 3/II. Helsinki. P. 1322. Tavernier, J., 2007: Iranica in the Achaemenid Period (ca. 550–330 B.C.): Lexicon of Old Iranian Proper Names and Loanwords, Attested in Non-Iranian Texts. Leuven.

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Waterman, L., 1930–1936. Royal Correspondence of the Assyrian Empire. Parts I–IV. Ann Arbor. Waters, M., 1998: “Ambappi”. In K. Radner (ed.): Prosopography of the NeoAssyrian Empire 1/I. Helsinki. P. 99. — 2000: A Survey of Neo-Elamite History. State Archives of Assyria Studies 12. Helsinki. — 2001: “Mesopotamian Sources and Neo-Elamite History”. In T Abusch et al. (eds.): Historiography in the Cuneiform World. Proceedings of the XLVe Rencontre Assyriologique International. Volume I. Bethesda. Pp. 473–482. — 2006: “A Neo-Elamite Royal Family”. Iranica Antiqua 41, 59–70. — 2017: Ctesias’ Persica and Its Near Eastern Context. Madison. — 2019: “Cyrus Rising: Reflections on Word Choice, Ancient and Modern”. In R. Shayegan (ed.): Cyrus the Great: Life and Lore. Boston. Pp. 26–45. Zadok, R., 1984: The Elamite Onomasticon. Naples. — 1985: Geographical Names According to New- and Late-Babylonian Texts. RGTC 8. Wiesbaden. Zorzi, N. / Jursa, M., 2011: “The Courtier in the Commentary”. NABU 2011, Note 33.

Cambyses and Artaxerxes III in Egypt Literary Topos and beyond Agnieszka Wojciechowska1 Egypt was conquered by Cambyses in 526 BC, retaken after short-lived rebellions in the 520s BC, 480s BC and 450s BC, and then by Artaxerxes III in 340/339 BC, upon a long period of independence under 28th–30th dynasties.2 For many years the second conquest of Egypt by Artaxerxes III was dated to 343/342 BC, with the valuable exception of Wiedemann who conjectured 340 BC as the date.3 Ancient sources never state the exact date of Artaxerxes’ conquest of Egypt and 343/342 BC has been proposed as the date on combination of information contained in Diodorus, Isocrates, Didymus’ commentary to Demosthenes and the letter of Speusippos to Philip II.4 When we analyze all the sources, also Egyptian and Babylonian and compare information not only about the Persian king, but also about the last native pharaoh of Egypt – Nektanebo II, we can see that Artaxerxes III conquered Egypt in 340/339 BC.5 Cambyses and Artaxerxes III are the two Persian kings about whose deeds in Egypt seemingly similar stories were told. Yet the lasting effect of their conquests was quite dissimilar. Cambyses initiated over a hundred years of comparatively stable Persian rule in Egypt which lasted until 399 BC. The principal narrative source about his rule in Egypt is Herodotus, who paints a picture of violation of

1 ORCID 0000-0001-9844-1231. – This research was funded in whole by National Science Centre (Poland) UMO-2021/42/A/HS3/00421 “Epigraphic culture in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Middle East in antiquity: status, display, democracy, identity”. I would like also thank Prof. Krzysztof Nawotka (University of Wrocław, Poland) for his friendly support on this paper. 2 For the date 526 BC see Quack, 2011. 3 Wiedemann, 1880: 365‒367. 4 D.S. XVI 44.1, 44.2, Isoc. 4.161, 12.17, 12.159, 12.267; D. 10.34, 12.6; Did. 8.5‒17; Speus. 8‒10, 12. 5 Man. Hist. FGrH 609 F 2‒3C; D.S. XVI 44.1, 44.2, Isoc. 4.161, 12.17, 12.159, 12.267; D. 10.34, 12.6; Did. 8.5‒17; Speus. 8‒10, 12 see also: Bickermann, 1934: 83‒84; Depuydt, 2010: 224‒225.; Demotic Chronicle II.11 (transl. Depuydt); IV.18; Cuneiform tablet (diary) BM 71537 and Ptolemy’s Canon: Depuydt, 2006: 281; Depuydt, 2010: 202., Dream of Nektanebo: Ryholt, 1998: 197‒198 and inscription from Edfu temple of Horus: Bickermann, 1934: 82; Meeks, 1972: 19; Manning, 2003: 246; Spiegelberg, 1914: 15, n. 2; Depuydt, 2010: 205. See also: Beloch, 1922: 534‒535; Hall, 192: 152; Bickermann, 1934: 80‒81; Depuydt, 2006: Depuydt, 2008; Depuydt 2010; Wojciechowska / Nawotka, 2014: 49; Wojciechowska, 2016: 7‒14; Nawotka, 2017: 37–38. More detail analize of conquest date 340/339 BC see Wojciechowska, 2016: 7‒14.

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Egyptian law and tradition, of barbarity and madness.6 Herodotus says: “I hold it then in every way proved that Cambyses was very mad; else he would never have set himself to deride religion and custom”.7 From among a number of colourful stories about Cambyses in the Histories of Herodotus a few gave birth to literary topoi. One belongs to the story of Psamtik III, who was initially spared by Cambyses only to suffer humiliation watching his daughter dressed like a slave girl carrying water buckets in the company of well-born Egyptian maidens. Psamtik was soon forced to commit suicide on charges of conspiracy against Cambyses.8 Not much later Cambyses entered the palace of Amasis in Sais, ordered his body to be exhumed, then “to scourge it and pull out the hair and pierce it with goads, and to desecrate it in every way” and then had it burnt.9 The high point of Cambyses’ mayhem in Egypt was the killing of the Apis bull and his priests. The King reportedly inflicted a wound with his dagger in the thigh of Apis, laughingly denouncing Egyptian gods who could be wounded and killed. The wounded Apis was left to die in his temple and his priests were slaughtered on orders of Cambyses.10 Next came atrocities against the Persians with Smerdis the brother of Cambyses as the first victim killed because Cambyses saw him in a dream sitting on his throne and touching heaven with his head.11 A sister and the wife of the king followed suit in somewhat unclear circumstances related in two alternative stories.12 The next victim was the son of a Persian aristocrat Prexaspes shot with Cambyses’ arrow through the heart.13 The sure hand of the King-the-archer was to be the proof of his perfect health in spite of rumours of his drinking habit related to Cambyses by Prexaspes. Book III of the Histories is filled with lesser stories of Cambyses opening Egyptian graves, watching dead bodies in Memphis, desecrating the temple of the Kabiri, which was normally only accessible to the priests, burning and ridiculing statues.14 These are topical elements of the picture of the growing insanity of Cambyses. The historical accuracy of this rendition of Cambyses has, however, been doubted on more than one occasion. By happy coincidence, the easiest to verify in light of external evidence is the pivotal story of the killing of the Apis bull. In this case, this is done with help of a stele from the Serapeum, where Apis bulls were buried, dated to the sixth year of the reign of Cambyses.15 It attests a grandiose funeral of Apis who had been 6

Vasunia, 2003: 85. Hdt. III 38.1. 8 Hdt. III 14f. 9 Hdt. III 16. 10 Hdt. III 27‒9. 11 Hdt. III 30. 12 Hdt. III 32. 13 Hdt. III 34f. 14 Hdt. III 37. 15 Stele from the Serapeum, Apis’ epitaph: Posener, 1936: Text 3, 30‒35; Agut-Labordère, 7

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born in the twenty-seventh year of Amasis and died under Cambyses. The mummified body of the bull was placed in a richly decorated sarcophagus on orders of Cambyses who wanted his father Apis-Osiris to be entombed with due honours, as we learn from the tomb inscriptions.16 The next Apis bull was enthroned during the reign of Cambyses and died in the fourth year of Darius I.17 Although we do not have sure evidence of that, modern scholars generally agree that there were only two Apis bulls during the reign of Cambyses in Egypt: the one buried in his sixth year and the other recognized upon the death of his predecessor.18 Apis inscriptions prove that the Apis bull enjoyed regular cult administered by Cambyses.19 In light of contemporary Egyptian evidence, the story of the killing of the Apis bull by Cambyses is just a story heard by Herodotus in Egypt.20 It should be juxtaposed with the image of Cambyses drawn by Egyptian evidence which show him as the legitimate king who properly honoured the gods of Egypt, and not a mad despot disrespectful of local customs. This evidence speaks against the veracity of the episode of dishonouring of the Apis bull by Cambyses. Evidence of a different nature is the statue of Udjahorresnet, a physician and high official under the Saite dynasty,21 commanding the navy of Psamtik III.22 The inscription on his statue relates events of the reign of Cambyses in Egypt, claiming that his royal titles were made by Udjaroressnet himself.23 This claim needs not to be read literally: obviously Udjahorresnet did not have such powers as to give royal titles to a new king. He most probably secured a proper wording for the Egyptian titulature of Cambyses in order to make the new pharaoh closer to his Egyptian subjects and more acceptable as a ruler. John David Ray compares this act to the coronation, which gave Cambyses an opportunity to be akin to the Egyptians, to their culture and tradition.24 Good supportive evidence is provided by the Apis stele with a representation of Cambyses in the traditional Egyptian attire and kneeling in honour of Apis; the stele is accompanied by an inscription

2017: 149. The same year of Apis’ death given by Cuyler Young, 1985: 51, who explains that it happened when Cambyses was in Upper Nubia. See also Lloyd, 2002: 383; Devauchelle, 1995: 69; Wojciechowska, 2004: 49. 16 Stele from the Serapeum, the sarcophagus’ inscription: Posener, 1936: Text 4, 35f. Bresciani, 1985: 504; Lloyd, 2002: 383; Cuyler Young, 1985: 51; Wojciechowska, 2008. 17 Stele from Serapeum, Apis’ epitaph: Posener, 1936: Text 5, 35‒41, Bresciani, 1985: 504. 18 Stele from Serapeum, Apis’ epitaph: Posener, 1936: Text 5, 35‒41, Grimal, 2004: 378; Ray, 1988: 260; Cuyler Young, 1985: 51; Wojciechowska, 2008. 19 Ray, 1988: 260; Bresciani, 1985: 504; Wojciechowska, 2008. 20 Depuyt 1995, esp. 125–126. 21 Statue of Udjahorresnet: Posener, 1936: Text 1, 1‒29; Bresciani, 1985: 503. 22 Statue of Udjahorresnet: Posener, 1936: Text 1, 1‒29; Ray, 1985: 256. 23 Posener, 1936: 7; Bresciani, 1985: 503; Grimal, 2004: 366‒368. 24 Ray, 1985: 256.

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made for Apis as an offering from the new pharaoh Cambyses.25 His full royal title was “Horus, Smatawy, king of Upper and Lower Egypt, Mesut-Re, son of Re, Cambyses, living enduringly.”26 The perfect style of this stele leaves no doubt that the priests wanted to approximate Cambyses to their religious milieu.27 The statue of Udjahoressnet also shows Cambyses as the protector of the temples of Egypt. In his account foreigners came to Egypt and established their quarters in the sanctuary of Neith in Sais. The pharaoh Cambyses banished them from the country, destroyed their quarters and ordered the purification of the temple of Neith, restored its profits, so that now the priests could perform ceremonies and processions. To round up the picture, Cambyses is shown revering the goddess from Sais too.28 Another time-honoured responsibility of a legitimate pharaoh was building temples. Indeed, inscriptions from quarries of the Wadi Hammamat attest that the quarries used from the Old Kingdom on operated also under 27th dynasty. One inscription found in Wadi Hammamat names Cambyses.29 The inscriptions of Wadi Hammamat do not say for what building projects stone was used but in their light there is little doubt that the purpose of quarrying was to secure stone for building projects, following the tradition of king-sponsored construction works at Egyptian temples. But the positive picture emerging from the Apis stele and inscriptions from Wadi Hammamat is certainly more nuanced thanks to the evidence of the socalled Demotic Chronicle of the third century BC. It refers, in a somewhat cryptic way, to raising funds from temples by Cambyses to reimburse the costs of his invasion of Egypt.30 Although it was still allowed to worship gods in the traditional way, the temples’ profits established before the Persian conquest were reduced.31 On the testimony of the Demotic Chronicle Cambyses reduced by about half the number of animals used for rituals, allowing priests to make bird-offerings only if they had raised birds. The exception to this law was limited to three privileged temples: the temple of Ptah in Memphis, the temple of the Nile in Heliopolis and the temple Wenkhem north of Memphis. Damien Agut-Labordère rightfully remarks that Cambyses, broadly speaking continued the policy of previous pharaohs with regard to temples. Supporting temples was of paramount importance for local economy bearing in mind the pivotal role played by Egyptian temples in

25

Stele from Serapeum, Apis’ epitaph: Posener, 1936: Pl. III; Cuyler Young, 1985: 51. Stele from Serapeum, Apis epitaph: Posener, 1936: Text 5, 36‒41; Olmstead, 1974: 102. 27 Ray, 1985: 261. 28 Statue of Udjahorresnet: Posener, 1936: Text 1, 1‒29; Bresciani, 1985: 505; Vasunia, 2001: 130; Lloyd 2014, 187‒188. 29 Inscriptions from Wadi Hammamat: Posener, 1936: nos. 11–35, Cambyses no. 28; Gyles, 1959: 39, 54; Grimal, 2004: 378. 30 Demotic Chronicle: Bresciani, 1985: 505f. 31 Demotic Chronicle: Bresciani, 1985: 506; Ray, 1985: 260; Manning, 2003: 41. 26

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economy of many parts of Egypt.32 Then regarding the second invasion of Egypt, Diodorus says “Artaxerxes [III], after taking over all Egypt and demolishing the walls of the most important cities, by plundering the shrines gathered a vast quantity of silver and gold, and he carried off the inscribed records from the ancient temples, which later on Bagoas returned to the Egyptian priests on the payment of huge sums by way of ransom.”33 Plutarch goes even further in his report of the misdeeds of Artaxerxes: “when he had massacred many people, afterwards slaughtered the Apis, and feasted upon him, both himself and his retinue, they called [him] the Sword”. Reportedly the Egyptians called Artaxerxes ass since he allegedly ordered to kill the Apis bull as a sacrifice to an ass.34 Thus the modern historiography often perceives the reign of Artaxerxes III in Egypt as a period of chaos and disrespect for local tradition. In a way, opinions of this kind follow in footsteps of John Malalas in whose view Artaxerxes III destroyed Egypt.35 The similar stories conveyed by classical authors about the Persian conquerors of Egypt were for a long time the principal source of information for modern scholars about the reign of Cambyses and Artaxerxes III as Egyptian kings. But we have to look at Cambyses through other sources than Herodotus and through what we know about Persian customs and traditions. There is nothing immediately suspicious in the story of the death of Psamtik’ III and, notwithstanding the idealizing pro-Cyrus account of Herodotus, death had befallen a few other kings defeated by the Persians, Astyages of Media and Croesus of Lydia being the most prominent example.36 But the story of desecrating the mummy of Amasis is different. No matter whether Cambyses followed the teaching of Zarathustra or not, to the Persians fire was a sacred element.37 Burning the dead body of Amasis, would not only run against the deepest Egyptian beliefs but it would have also pollute the sacred fire.38 And this was of course utterly unacceptable to the Iranians.39 The Greeks did not share this conviction and much later parallels attest burning portents in situations in which in the East they would have been thrown into the river.40 Thus the story of burning the mummy of Amasis is ultimately a Greek tale dressed in a Persian garb. Of course, in Egyptian beliefs burning a dead 32

Demotic Chronicle: Spiegelberg, 1914; Bresciani, 1985: 506; Ray, 1985: 260; AgutLabordère, 2005: esp. 15‒16. 33 Diod., 16.51.2 (trans. Oldfather); Ray, 1987: 84, 90. 34 Plut., De Is. et Osir. 11 (355 C), 31 (363 C) (trans. Goodwin); Ael., NA 10.28; Ael., VH 4.8; Petrie, 1906: 389; Bresciani, 1985: 526. 35 Malalas, Chronographia 7.17; Petrie, 1906: 389; Drioton, 1970: 235; Daumas, 1973: 93; Bresciani, 1985: 526; Ray, 1987: 90; Trigger / Kemp / O’Connor / Lloyd, 2006: 298. 36 Wiesehöfer, 1996: 43; Wojciechowska, 2008. 37 Olmstead, 1974: 48; Wojciechowska, 2008. 38 Hdt. 3.16. 39 Briant, 2002: 248–250. 40 Nawotka, 2017: 165–166.

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body would have been an ultimate punishment depriving the affected person of afterlife. Although the Amasis story of Herodotus cannot be verified in absolute terms, these circumstances cast some doubt on it. It may, however, reflect Cambyses’ enmity towards Amasis whose name was at that time erased from cartouches.41 Clearly literary topoi were taking shape in ancient accounts of Cambyses and Artaxerxes III. The first and foremost is that of the killing of the Apis bull. Plutarch’s and Aelian’s accounts of Artaxerxes slaughtering Apis are apocryphal as is that of Herodotus about a similar crime of Cambyses.42 The late tradition made also Artaxerxes order Egyptians to worship a donkey instead of a bull. To make things even worse he reportedly had other sacred animals killed too: the Mnevis bull and the goat from Mendes.43 Most likely these are just stories. Surely no Apis was killed on Artaxerxes’ orders as a sarcophagus is extant of the Apis bull who lived through the reign of Artaxerxes III to die and to be buried under Khababash in 336 BC.44 The Apis bull resurfaces in Arrian’s account of the conquest of Egypt by Alexander the Great who, unlike his Persian predecessors, sacrificed properly to Apis and to the Buchis bull and forbade his European soldiers to enter the necropolis of sacred animals in Saqqara.45 The tarnished reputation of the Persians acquired by the alleged violation of the cult of the Apis bull, one of the most important Egyptian cults of the Late Period, was probably known to Alexander from Herodotus. It appears that Herodotus created a literary topos of a mad king (Cambyses) slaughtering a sacred animal, later adopted to the story of another cruel and mad ruler, as Artaxerxes III is often presented. The story of Alexander, true as it is, plays to the same basic idea of respect for/outrage against a foreign animal cult as a gauge of a king’s general moral value and sanity.46 The two stories about Cambyses and Artaxerxes III belong to the literary topos of mad sacrilegious king, but there is a striking difference of the rendition of the two Persian kings in Egyptian sources. They show Cambyses as a good legitimate pharaoh, while the Egyptian sources of the age of Artaxerxes III and later display a markedly different attitude. A telling example is the inscription on the statue of Djedhor mentioning “foreigners” and this word in the Egyptian cultural context was often tantamount to “enemies”.47 The enemies are here the Persians hidden 41

Bresciani, 1985: 504. Hdt., III 29; Wojciechowska, 2008; Lloyd, 2014: 186; Colburn, 2015: 182; Wojciechowska, 2020: 99. 43 Plut. De Is. et Osir. 355C; 363F; Ael. NA 10.28; Ael. VH 6.8; Bresciani, 1985: 526; Vasunia, 2003: 267; Wojciechowska, 2004: 53. 44 Gunn, 1926: 86–87; Spalinger, 1978: 143; Ray, 1987: 90; Schlögl, 2006: 352. 45 Arr. An. 3.1; Nawotka, 2010: 204; Wojciechowska, 2008. 46 Bresciani, 1985: 505–520; Ray, 1988; Cuyler Young, 1988: 51; Nawotka, 2010: 199; Lloyd, 2014: 186. 47 Wojciechowska, 2016: 74. 42

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under the same metonym as was used in the Demotic Chronicle48 and in the inscription of Petosiris.49 The Satrap Stele of Ptolemy (I Soter) dated to the seventh year of Alexander IV (311 BC) mentions a king #SryS, for a long time read as Xerxes,50 but we know now that the name on the Satrap Stele must represent Artaxerxes III. Indeed the Egyptian #SryS is quite close to the Persian name Xšayârša (Xerxes in Greek) but the time span between the dates of Xerxes’ rule and the times referred to in the Satrap Stele and the fact that Xerxes never visited Egypt preclude this identification since #SryS of the Satrap Stele was active in Egypt.51 #SryS is not Arses either because this son of Artaxerxes III is mentioned elsewhere in the Satrap Stele.52 Perhaps #SryS could also be translated as Artaxerxes, but Artaxerxes and Xerxes names are written in a different way in Egyptian and Old Persian sources.53 The name #SryS appears three times in the Satrap Stele, twice accompanied by the word xft(y), or “enemy/foe”. All this evidence shows the Persian king as an Egyptian ruler who did not behave as a pharaoh, because he did not offer gifts to the gods of Pe and Dep and he took away its offerings, thus disregarding the fundamental responsibilities of the king of Egypt.54 It seems that additional, if circumstantial evidence to the nature of the second Persian rule in Egypt can be adduced. It is a well-known truth that the 30th dynasty undertook numerous building projects in Egyptian temples.55 This in itself is significant by the sheer contrast with the age of the second Persian rule, completely devoid of evidence of state-sponsored building activity in the temples of Egypt. But some examples of damaged building projects are even more telling. We know of two structures of religious significance which were damaged during the invasion of Artaxerxes III: the tomb of Nepherites in Mendes, and the Great temple in Bubastis. Some construction projects of the 30th dynasty were left unfinished after the invasion of Artaxerxes III, like the temple of Sopt in Phacusa. In some, construction works which were interrupted during Persian rule were resumed in Macedonian times: the New Opet temple in Karnak, a temple in Naucratis, the temple of Montu in El-Tod, the temple of Isis in Phylae, the temple of Osiris and Isis in Behbeit el-Hagar, the temple of Onuris in Sebennytos, the temple of Amun and a 48

Demotic Chronicle II.25; Sherman, 1981: 90, 95, 100; Devauchelle, 1995: 73. Demotic Chronicle II.25; Spiegelberg, 1914, 6; Lefebvre, 1924: 137, inscr. 81.III; Menu, 1994: 321–323, inscr. 59, 2‒3; Devauchelle, 1995: 77; Burstein, 2000: 153; Lichtheim, 2006: inscr. 81.25‒35. 50 Wilcken, 1897: 82‒85; Briant, 2003: 67; Lloyd, 2014: 186‒187; Colburn, 2015: 175‒ 177; Wojciechowska, 2016: 73; Wojciechowska, 2020: 97. 51 Spiegelberg, 1907: 5‒6; Spalinger, 1978: 152; Devauchelle, 1995: 77; Ladynin, 2005: 98‒113; Wojciechowska, 2016: 74; Wojciechowska, 2020: 98. 52 Goedicke, 1985: 39, 53‒54. 53 Colburn, 2015: 177. 54 Sethe II.17; Spalinger, 1978: 150‒151; Kienitz, 1953: 185; Bresciani, 1985: 526‒527; Briant, 2002: 1018; Briant, 2003: 68; Agut-Labordère, 2017: 151. 55 Wojciechowska, 2016: Catalogue of buildings: 115‒135. 49

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small temple in Karnak, the temple of Khnum in Elephantine. All in all, out of 146 examples of building projects of the 30th dynasty 11 were interrupted after the Persian invasion, 10 of them to be resumed in the Macedonian age. It looks that the second Persian rule was an abnormal age in history of Egypt with no trace of state-sponsored building activity, as if Artaxerxes III and his Achaemenid successors took no interest in pursuing the time-honoured activity prescribed for legitimate pharaohs.56 This stands in sharp contrast not only with the native pharaohs of the 30th dynasty but also with Macedonian kings, both the Argeads and the Ptolemies who invested heavily in temples of Egypt, surely acting on advice of Egyptian priests.57 It is no surprising therefore that in the eyes of the Egyptian elite the last Achaemenid kings were enemies or foreigners at the best and their rule did not differ much from a military occupation. Quickly after the death of Artaxerxes III a revolt of the native pharaoh Khababash almost succeeded in liberating of all of Egypt and it took the Persian troops some two years to re-establish control in the country.58 The topos of a sacrilegious king developed by Herodotus for Cambyses and applied to Artaxerxes III by Plutarch and Aelian is not accurate as the rendition of real deeds of both kings. Possibly Herodotus conveys the story he learned from the part of the Egyptian priesthood estranged by Persian confiscation of property and income of many but not all temples. Although partly true, this image is not complete, as surviving Egyptian sources testify to Cambyses’ efforts to gain recognition as legitimate pharaoh worshipping the gods of Egypt. But the topos of the mad king created by Herodotus for Cambyses came handy for erudite scholars of the early Roman Empire who made use of it in painting a picture of Artaxerxes III, another Persian madman on the throne of Egypt. In terms of actual crimes attributed to Artaxerxes III it is not any closer to the truth than the description of madness of Cambyses. But in essence the picture of Artaxerxes the tyrant conveys the same basic truth as the late-fourth c. BC Egyptian sources: that of lack of legitimacy of Artaxerxes III as pharaoh because of his disregard for religion and customs of Egypt. Bibliography Agut-Labordère, D., 2005: “Le sens du Décret de Cambyse”. Transeuphratène 29, 9–16. — 2017: “Persianism through Persianization: The Case of Ptolemaic Egypt”. In R. Strootman / M. J. Versluys (eds.): Persianism in Antiquity. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Pp. 147–162. Beloch, K.J., 1922: Griechische Geschichte, II: Bis auf die sophistische Bewegung und die Peloponnesischen Krieg, III.1: Bis auf Aristoteles und die Eroberung 56

Wojciechowska, 2016: Catalogue of buildings: 115‒137. Ladynin, 2014. 58 Wojciechowska, 2016: 75‒79. 57

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Asiens. Berlin / Leipzig: Walter de Gruyter. Bickermann, E.J., 1934: “Notes sur la chronologie de la XXXe dynastie”. In Mélanges Maspero, I: Orient Ancien. Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale. Pp. 77–84. Bresciani, E., 1985: “The Persian Occupation of Egypt”. In The Cambridge History of Iran, II. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pp. 502–528. Briant, P., 2002: From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire. Winona Lake, Indiana. — 2003: Darius dans l’ombre d’Alexandre. Paris: Fayard. Burstein, S.M., 2000: “Prelude to Alexander: The Reign of Khababash”. AHB 14.4, 149–154. Colburn, Henry P., 2005: “Memories of the Second Persian Period in Egypt”. In J.M. Silverman / C. Waerzeggers (eds.): Political Memory in and after Persian Empire. Atlanta: SBL Press. Pp. 165–202. Cuyler Young, T.: 1988, “The Early History of the Medes and the Persians and the Achaemenid Empire to the Death of Cambyses” In Cambridge Ancient History, IV2, Cambridge University Press. Cambridge. Pp. 1–53. Daumas F., 1973: Od Narmera do Kleopatry. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN. Depuydt, L., 2006: “Saite and Persian Egypt, 664 BC‒332 BC (Dyns. 26‒31, Psammetichus I to Alexander’s Conquest of Egypt)”. In E. Hornung / R. Krauss / D.A. Warburton (eds.): Ancient Egyptian Chronology. Leiden / Boston: Brill. Pp. 265‒283. — 2008: From Xerxes’ murder (465) to Arridaios’ execution (317): updates to Achaemenid chronology (including errata in past reports). Oxford: Archaeopress. — 2010: “New Date for the Second Persian Conquest, End of Pharaonic and Manethonian Egypt: 340/39 B.C.E.”. JEH 3.2, 191‒230. Devauchelle, D., 1983: “Notes sur les inscriptions démotiques des carrières de Tourah et de Mâsarah”. ASAE 69, 169 ‒182. — 1995: “Le sentiment anti-perse chez les anciens Égyptiens”. Transeuphraténe 9, 67 ‒80. Drioton, E., 1970: Egipt faraonów. Warszawa : Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN. Goedicke, H., 1985: “Comments on the Satrap Stela”. BES 6, 33‒54 Grimal, N., 2004: Dzieje starożytnego Egiptu. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN. Gundlach, R., 1986: “Wadi Hammamat”. In W. Helck / E. Otto (eds.): Lexikon der Ägyptologie (LdA), VI, O. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Pp. 1099‒1113. Gunn, B., 1926: “The Inscribed Sarcophagi in the Serapeum”. ASAE 26, 82‒91. Gyles, M.F., 1959: Pharaonic Policies and Administration, 663 to 323 B.C. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press.

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Hall, H.R., 1927: “Egypt to the coming of Alexander”. In The Cambridge Ancient History, VII. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cambridge. Pp. 137‒ 166. Kienitz, F.K., 1953: Die politische Geschichte Ägyptens vom 7. bis zum 4. Jahrhundert vor der Zeitwende. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Ladynin, I.A., 2005: “Adversary #SryS(A)”: His Name and Deeds According to the Satrap Stela”. CE 80, 87‒113. — 2014: “The Argeadai Building Program in Egypt in the Framework of Dynasties’ XXIX–XXX Temple Building”. In V. Grieb / K. Nawotka / A. Wojciechowska (eds.): Alexander the Great and Egypt: History, Art, Tradition. Wiesbaden: Harassowitz Verlag. Pp. 221‒240. Lefebvre, G., 1924: Le tombeau de Petosiris, I : Description. Cairo: Impr. de l'Institut français d’archéologie orientale. Lichtheim, M., 2006: Ancient Egyptian Literature. The Late Period, III. Berkeley: University of California Press. Lloyd, A.B., 2002: “The Late Period (664‒332 BC)”. In I. Shaw (ed.): The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pp. 369‒394. — 2014: “The Egyptian Attitude to the Persians”. In A. M. Dodson / J. J. Johnston / W. Monkhouse (eds.): A Good Scribe and an Exceedingly Wise Man: Studies in Honour of W.J. Tait. London. Pp. 185–197. Manning, J.G., 2003: Land and Power in Ptolemaic Egypt. The Structure of Land Tenure. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Meeks, D., 1972: Le grand texte des donations au temple d’Edfou, LIX: Texte des donations au temple d’Edfou. Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale. Menu, B., 1994 “Le tombeau de Pétosiris. Nouvel examen”. BIFAO 94, 311‒327. Nawotka, K., 2010: Alexander the Great. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. — 2017a: The Alexander Romance by Ps.-Callisthenes: A Historical Commentary. Leiden / Boston: Brill. — 2017b: “The omina in Babylon and the death of Alexander the Great”. Archäologische Mitteilungen aus Iran und Turan 47, 159‒170. Olmsted, A.T., 1974: Dzieje imperium perskiego. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN. Petrie, W.M.F., 1906: A History of Egypt from the XIXth to the XXXth Dynasties. London: Methuen & Co. Ltd. Posener, G., 1936 : La première domination Perse en Égypte. Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale. Quack, J.F., 2011: “Zum Datum der persischen Eroberung Ägyptens unter Kambyses”. JEH 4/2, 228–246. Ray, J.D., 1988: “Egypt 525‒404 B.C.”. In The Cambridge Ancient History, IV2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pp. 254‒286.

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Ryholt, K., 1998: “A Demotic Version of Nectanebos’ Dream (P. Carlsberg 562)”. ZPE 122, 197‒200. Schlögl, H.A., 2006: Das Alte Ägypten Geschichte und Kultur von der Frühzeit bis zu Kleopatra. München: Beck. Sherman, E.J., 1981: “Djedhor the Saviour Statue Base OI 10589”. JEA 67, 82‒ 102. Spalinger, A., 1978: “The Reign of king Chabbash: An Interpretation”. ZÄS 105, 142‒154. Spiegelberg, W., 1907: Der Papyrus Libbey: ein ägyptischer Heiratsvertrag. Strassburg: Karl J. Trübner. — 1914: Die Sogenannte Demotische Chronik: Des Pap. 215 der Bibliothèque Nationale zu Paris. Nebst den auf der Rückseite des Papyrus stehenden Texten. Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs. Trigger, B.G. / Kemp, B.J. / O’Connor, D. / Lloyd, A.B., 2006: Ancient Egypt: A Social History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vasunia, Ph., 2001: The Gift of the Nile. Berkeley / London: University of California Press. Wiesehöfer, J., 1996: Ancient Persia from 550 BC to 650 AD. London: I.B. Tauris. Wilcken, U., 1897: “Zur Satrapenstele”. ZÄS 35, 81‒87. Wojciechowska, A., 2008: “The Black Legend of Cambyses in Herodotus”. In J. Pigoń (ed.): The Children of Herodotus: Greek and Roman Historiography and Related Genres. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pp. 26‒33. — 2016: From Amyrtaios to Ptolemy: Egypt in the Fourth Century BC. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. — 2020: “Stela satrapy Ptolemeusza (przyszłego Ptolemeusza I Sotera)”. Meander 75, 81‒101. Wojciechowska, A. / Nawotka, K., 2014: “Chronology of Alexander’s stay in Egypt”. In K. Nawotka / V. Grieb / A. Wojciechowska (eds.): Alexander the Great and Egypt: History, Art, Tradition. Harrassowitz Verlag. Pp. 49‒54.

The Šulgi Prophecy in the Kassite and Neo-Assyrian Periods A Consideration of the Original Composition and its Later Reception* Shigeo Yamada

1. Introduction The Šulgi Prophecy is an Akkadian literary composition including a pseudo-prophetic speech. It is a text belonging to a small group of historical literary texts1 categorized as “literary predictive texts” (Ellis, 1989; cf. Frahm, 2006–2008: 8 “literalischen Prophetien”), “fictional Akkadian autobiography with prophetic ending” (Longman, 1991), or “Akkadian ex eventu prophecies” (Neujahr, 2012).2 It is known from two copies in Neo-Assyrian script, one from Nineveh and the other from Assur, both dating to the 7th century BC (see below, Section 4). The original composition of the text, however, must be older, probably dating to the 12th century BC, as suggested by the historical incidents described in the narrative (below, Section 3). The text begins with a self-introductory opening of the divine Šulgi as the beloved of Enlil and Ninlil, ruler of the world, and founder of Nippur (cols. i–ii). It is followed by his prophetic speech concerning Babylonian history during the second millennium BC. However, it is actually a post-event prophecy given with “deliberate obscurity” that describes the reigns of anonymous rulers of Babylon and nearby lands. As if they were real predictions, the narrative goes on to evaluate each of the reigns in a negative or positive light in order to add credibility to the concluding positive prediction that legitimates the contemporary reign of a Babylonian king. In this paper, I will consider the circumstances under which this unique text was originally composed in Babylonia and was then copied in Assyria some 500 years later. *

Dedicated to Prof. Simo Parpola, the esteemed founder of modern Neo-Assyrian scholarship, with pleasure. I owe an anonymous reviewer for several important remarks and references. I am grateful to Timothy S. Hogue, who corrected my English, giving useful comments. This study was carried out with the financial support of the grant-in-aid of the Japanese MEXT 18H05445. 1 For the term “historical literary texts”, see Grayson, 1975a: 4–9; Grayson, 1980: 182– 188. 2 The genre is composed of five texts: the Marduk Prophecy (Borger, 1971: 3–13 and 16– 20), the Šulgi Prophecy (Borger, 1971: 13–15 and 20–21), Text A (Grayson / Lambert, 1964: 12–13 and 29), the Uruk Prophecy (Hunger / Kaufman, 1975; Hunger, 1976: 21–23 and 124, no. 3), and the Dynastic Prophecy (Grayson, 1975a: 24–37; van der Spek, 2003: 311–340).

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Beginning at the end of the 19th century, several fragments bearing part of the text were found in the collections of the British Museum and the Vorderasiatisches Museum and joined together. The currently known text was first established by R. Borger in 1971.3 He found new fragments of the prophetic text, 797-8,98 and K 4445, that revealed that those and another fragment K 4495 + K 4541 + K 155084 were the obverse and reverse of a single tablet. Furthermore, he identified K 5346 + K10020 as the fragment bearing the beginning of the text. Then, he called the reconstructed text (K 4445 + K 4495 + K 4541 + K 15508 + 79-7-8,98 (+) K 5346 + K10020) Šulgi-Prophetie.5 Borger presented the edition of this exemplar (our Ms. A) from Nineveh, noting the variants of another exemplar from Assur, VAT 14404 (Assur 13956 hc), which had been published with a hand copy by E. Weidner (1939–41: 234–237) (our Ms. B). Since then, the text was reedited and studied by T. Longman (1983: 439–445; 1991: 142–146), M. Neujahr (2012: 41–50), and T. Sugie (2012: 72–98). It was also translated by B. Foster in his anthology of Akkadian Literature, Before the Muses (2005: 357– 359).6 The Šulgi Prophecy, along with similar Akkadian prophetic literature, has attracted scholarly interest especially from a literary and ideological viewpoint, because of its inclusion of post factum prophecies or vaticinium ex eventu strikingly similar to those of biblical prophetic-apocalyptic literature (Grayson, 1980: 183– 184; Hallo, 1966; Longman, 1991: 131–190; Nissinen, 2003; Neujahr, 2012; Nissinen, 2017: 111–115). The purpose of the present article is instead philological and historiographical, concerning the historical contents dealt with in the text and the date and circumstances of its composition as well as its later reception. Borger (1971: 23) concluded that the text must have originally ended with a description of the reign of a late Kassite ruler, such as Adad-šuma-uṣur, Melišihu or Merodachbaladan, who reigned sometime after Tukultī-Ninurta I’s conquest of Babylon, from the late 13th to the early 12th centuries. He supposed that the text was composed sometime during their reigns at Nippur. More than half a century after Borger’s fundamental study, however, it is now of value to review the text in light of several new pieces of information. I will scrutinize the contents of Šulgi’s speech in association with known historical events and propose a more specific 3

Borger, 1971: 13–15 and 20–21. Joined and published by W. G. Lambert in: Grayson / Lambert, 1964: 19–21, Text C. 5 The photographs of the joined fragments are now available as CDLI photos: P395554 (K 4445+); P396003 (K 5346+). 6 R. D. Biggs suggests that three fragments from the Nabû temple in Kalḫu (Wiseman / Black, 1996, nos. 64, 65, and 69) come from the same tablet bearing a copy of the Šulgi Prophecy, allegedly preserving the missing part between cols. i and ii. One of the fragments (no. 65) refers to [LU]GAL si-mu-ur-ri (l. 6’) and its ruler tab-ba-a[n-daraḫ] (l. 10’), so it may relate to Šulgi’s conquest of Simurrum. However, these cannot be ascribed to Šulgi Prophecy with certainty, so I do not include these fragments in our discussion. 4

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date and aim of the composition. Furthermore, I will consider late scribes’ motives for copying this Babylonian composition in the late Neo-Assyrian period to hold it in the libraries of Nineveh and Assur. In this connection, it is noticeable that the incipit of the Šulgi Prophecy, anāku Šulgi, is given in the colophon of a copy of the Marduk Prophecy, another ex eventu prophetic text from Nineveh (Borger, 1971: 13 col. iv 16’). The colophon reveals that the two prophetic texts were read in sequence as a series, with the Marduk Prophecy first and then the Šulgi Prophecy. I will consider the reason for the creation of this apparently later combination, and ponder the contemporary concern of the Assyrian scribes and the manner of their reception of the Šulgi Prophecy. My own edition of the text is given below in order to review it and to facilitate my discussion. 2. Text Edition and Notes Transliteration and Translation Col. i (Ms. A) 1 a-na-ku dšul-g[i] 2 na-ram En-líl ù dnin-l[íl] 3 e-tel-lum dUTU iz-zak-ra-an-[ni] d 15 be-el-ti ú-šab-ra-[an-ni] 4 5 AD-ma u4-ma-am ù DINGIR x [x x x] 6 mi-im-man ša i-na pi-i DINGIR.MEŠ [GAL.MEŠ] 7 iš-mu-ú ⸢AD?⸣-ú-a ED[IN? x x] 8 ŠEŠ.UNUG.KI li-iz-z[a-am-mur] 9 UD.UNUG.KI l[i-…] 10 i-na ú-ri-šu ur-d[u x x x] 11 i-na ú-ri KÁ.GAL-[šu? ur?-du?] 12 ri-mu ù sír-ri-mu [x x] 13 [š]a URU E[N.LÍL.KI?] 14 [M]ÁŠ?-ra MA DA A [x x x] 15 [x]-x.KI 6-šu li-[x x x] 16 [x x (x)] li-[x x x] 17 [x x x] x x [x x x x] (lacuna of a few lines)7 1’ [x x x x x x x x (x) ME]Š? 2’ [x x x x x x x x (x) K]I? 3’ [x x x x x x x x (x) T]I? 4’ [x x x x x li-iz-za-a]m-mur 5’ [x x x x x x x x].KI 7

The sizes of lacunae follow the calculation of Borger (1971: 14–15), which can be confirmed by CDLI photos of K 4445+ (P395554) and K 05346+ (P396003).

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6’ [x x x x x x x n]a.KI 7’ [x x x x x x GU.Z]A?-šú 8’ [x x x x x x M]AŠ?.DÀ 9’ [x x x x x x L[Ú]?(LU[GAL]?).MEŠ 10’ [x x x x x x i?-p]ar?-ri-ik 11’ [x x x x x x M]AŠ? NA 12’ [x x x x x x] AŠ? DA 13’ [x x x x x x D]U10.GAR.KI 14’ [x x x x x x] x DU10.GAR.KI 15’ [x x x x x x] AŠ? KI 16’ [x x x x x x] x MA 17’ [x x x x x x] ⸢E?⸣ 18’ [x x x x x x] ⸢E?⸣ (lacuna of c. 13 lines) Col. ii (Ms. A) (lacuna of at least 13 lines) 1’ x x x x x x x (x) 2’ e-be-el UB.DA.LÍMMU.BA 3’ iš-tu dUTU.È 4’ a-di dUTU.ŠÚ.A a-na-ku 5’ ú-šar-ši-id EN.LÍL.KI dur-an-ki 6’ e-pu-uš pi-ia DINGIR.MEŠ še-mu-nin-ni 7’ i-na zu-un-ni ra-ma-ni-ia 8’ BÀD ša-a-šu lu-ú e-pu-uš 9’ lu-ú ú-ki-in 10’ iq-ba-a-am den-líl e-pu-uš UD.UL.LA 11’ den-líl iq-ba-a-am-ma 12’ BAL.DA-ḫa-a lu-ú uš-ḫar-miṭ 13’ iq-ba-a-am den-líl 14’ e-pu-uš qab-lam 15’ den-líl iq-ba-a-am 16’ BAL.DA-ḫa-a lu-ú uš-ḫar-miṭ 17’ i-na ki-im-ti(on erasure)-šu 18’ e-li kib-ra-a-ti lu-ú uš-te-eš-šer 19’ iq-ba-a-am dnin-líl 20’ dḫu-um-ba si-dir 21’ ša LUGAL EREN 22’ [x] x x x 15 x 23’ [x x x x] x BAL x [(x)] (lacuna of c. 10 lines)

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Col. iii (Ms. A) (lacuna of a few lines) 1’ [x x x x x x x x x]-⸢ma?⸣ 2’ [x x x x x x x x x]-šir 3’ [x x x x x KÁ].DINGIR.RA.KI 4’ [x x x] ⸢DUMU.MEŠ dEN⸣.LÍL.KI 5’ [LUGAL?] KÁ.DINGIR.RA.KI 6’ [(eli) ṣe-e]r? ša-a-šu la iz-za-az 7’ [i-na-ad]-di-na-aš-šu 8’ [GIŠ.GIDRU?] BALA-am 9’ [i-na-d]i-na-aš-šum-ma 10’ [x x] kib-ra-a-ti 11’ [ša? a-na? D]UMU.MEŠ dEN.LÍL.KI 12’ [ù KÁ.DINGIR.RA.K]I i-te-gu-ú 13’ ⸢di-in⸣ [m]i-šá-ri 14’ la id-di-⸢nu⸣-[šu]-nu-ti 15’ NUN šu-ú i-na ⸢u8⸣-i a-a-i 16’ it-ta-na-al-lak 17’ a-na LUGAL KÁ.DINGIR.RA.KI 18’ ù EN.LÍL.KI 19’ iš-te-niš na-ad-na KUR.KUR 20’ a-a-ú LUGAL šá EGIR-ia 21’ il-la-a e-li BAL.D[A?(-ḫa?)] 22’ KUR ELAM.MA a-na dUTU.⸢È⸣ 23’ iš-te-niš i[n-neš?-ši?] 24’ ḫa-at-tu-ú x [x x x x] 25’ KÁ.DINGIR.RA.KI [x x x x x] 26’ a-ḫu-ú [x x x x x x] 27’ i-n[a x x x x x x x] 28’ KIŠ [x x x x x x x x] 29’ x [x x x x x x x x x] (lacune of c. 17 lines) Col. iv (Mss. A and B) (lacuna of c. 17 lines) 1’ A 1’ [x x] x [x x] ⸢in-né⸣-e[p-pu-uš] 2’ A 2’ i-na ⸢ka-mat⸣ [K]Á.DINGIR.R[A.KI] 3’ A 3’ e-piš É.GAL šá-a-ši i-nam-⸢ziq⸣ 4’ A 4’ NUN šu-ú ma-ru-uš-ta im-mar 5’ A 5’ ul i-ṭa-ab ŠÀ-šu 6’ A 6’ a-di šar-ru-ti-šu 7’ A 7’ MÈ u qab-lum

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A 8’ ul ip-pár-ra-su B 1’ [ul ip]-⸢pár⸣-[ra-su] 9’ A 9’ ina BAL šu-a-tu ŠEŠ ŠEŠ-šú GU7 B 2’–3’ [ina] ⸢BAL šú⸣-[a-tu] / ŠEŠ ŠEŠ-⸢šú⸣ [GU7] 10’ A10’ UN.MEŠ DUMU.MEŠ-ši-na B 4’ UN.MEŠ DUMU.⸢MEŠ⸣-[ši-na] 11’ A 11’ a-na KÙ.BABBAR BÚR.MEŠ B 5’ ana KÙ.BABBAR BÚ[R.MEŠ] 12’ A 12’ KUR.MEŠ iš-te-niš ⸢in-neš⸣-ša-a B 6’. KUR.KUR DIŠ-niš in-ni-iš-ša-⸢ma⸣ 13’ A 13’ GURUŠ KI.SIKI[L iz-z]i-ib B 7’–8’ LÚ.GURUŠ MUNUS.ar-da-tum / e-zi-ib 14’ A 14’ ù KI.SIKIL iz-⸢zi⸣-ib GURUŠ B 9’ u KI.SIKIL mu-sa e-zi-ib 15’ A15’ AMA UGU DUMU.MUNUS KÁ-šá id-dil B 10’–11’ AMA UGU DUMU.MUNUS-ša / KÁ-ša e-dil 16’ A16’ [N]ÍG.GA KÁ.DINGIR.RA.KI B 12’ NÍG.GA KÁ.DINGIR.RA.KI 17’ A17’ ⸢a⸣-na qé-reb SU.BIR4.KI B 13’ a-na qé-reb KUR su-bar-ti 18’ A18’ ⸢ù⸣ KUR aš-šur.KI ir-ru-ub B 14’–15’ u URU.aš-šur.KI / ir-ru-ub 19’ A19’ LUGAL KÁ.DINGIR.RA.KI B 16’ MAN URU.KÁ.DINGIR.RA.KI 20’ A20’ a-na NUN aš-šur.KI NÍG.ŠU É.GAL-šu B 17’–18’ a-na URU.aš-šur.KI / NÍG.ŠU É.GAL-šu 21’ A21’ [N]ÍG.GA-šu a-na qé-re[b aš-šur.K]I B 19’–20’ NÍG.GA-šu / a-na qé-reb aš-šur.[KI] 22’ A22’ [u]š-te-e[ṣ-ṣi] B 21’ uš-te-ṣi B ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 23’ A 23’ ⸢a⸣-di ⸢ul⸣-[la-a] B 22’ a-di ul-la-a 24’ A24’ ⸢da-ri?⸣-[im URU.bal-til] B 23’–24’ da-ri-im / URU.bal-t[il] 25’ B 25’ [NÍG?.G]A?-šu ul x x [x] B ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 26’ B 26’ x MI? [x x x] 27’ B 27’ [x] x [x x x] (lacuna of a few lines)

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Col. v (Mss. A and B) 1 A1 [x (x) u]š? ⸢DIŠ/ŠÁ?⸣ i-re-e[ḫ] 2 A2 [x x x] ŠI-da-a-tum 3 A3 [(x x)] (space with no sign?) 4 A4 [iš-š]ak-ka-na-ma 5 A5 [ib-r]u ib-ra-šu ina GIŠ.TUKUL ú-šam-qat 6 A6 [ru]-⸢u8⸣-a ru-u8-a-šú ina GIŠ.TUKUL ú-ḫal-laq 7 A7 [KUR?.ME]Š UR.BI ZÁḪ.MEŠ-ma 8 A8 [UN?].MEŠ TUR.ME[Š] 9 A9 [d+EN].LÍL.KI in-na-ad-d[i] 10 A 10 [NU]N šu-ú re-šá-a-šu il-la-[a] 11 A 11 [UR]U šá ina GÚ ÍD.IDI[GNA] 12 A12 ⸢ù⸣ ÍD.BURANUN ša[k-nu DÙ?] 13 A 13 ⸢i⸣-na qí-bit d+e[n-líl] 14 A 14 [B]ALA LUGAL KÁ.DINGIR.[RA.KI] 15 A 15 i-qá-at-ti-[x (x)] 16 A 16 a-a-um-ma ⸢i-na KUR?⸣[x x x] B 1’–2’ [x x x x] / [x x x] x 17 A 17 i-t[e?-eb?-bi? x x x x] B v 3’–4’ [x x x]x / [x x x] x 18 A 18 KUR s[u?-ḫa? x x x x] B v 5’–6’ [KUR su?-ḫ]a? / [i-ka-ša]-da B ––––––––––––––––––– 19 A 19 ⸢e-la-a-ti bàd⸣-[tibira.K]I B v 7’–8’ [re?-e?-e]š-ti / [bàd-ti]bira.KI 20 A 20 a-na áš-ri-šú [ú]-tar B v 9’–10’ [a-na] áš-ri-šu / ⸢ú⸣-ta-ar 21 A 21 [G]ÍR.SU.KI ù ŠI[R].BUR.LA.KI B v 11’ [UR]U la-ga-áš 22 A 22 ⸢ú⸣-ta-ad-da-áš B v 12 ú-ta-da-áš B ––––––––––––––––––– 23 A 23 [eš]-⸢ret⸣ DINGIR.DINGIR in-né-ep-pu-uš B v 13’–14’a [e]š-re-et DINGIR.MEŠ / [x x]-⸢pu-uš⸣ 24 A 24 [NIDBA.MEŠ a-na DIN]GIR.MEŠ ú-ka-an B14’b–16’ [Š]UG.d+INNIN.MEŠ / [a-na DIN]GIR.MEŠ / [ú-ka-a]n 25 A 25 [x x x x] u BÁRA.MEŠ B 17’ [x x x x BÁRA.ME]Š 26 A 26 [a-na KI]-⸢šú⸣-nu ú-tar B 18’–19’ [a-na KI-šu-n]u / [ú-ta-a]r 27 A 27 [(x x) eš-re]t EN.LÍL.KI 28 A 28 [Dēr] ì-si-in.KI

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29 A 29 [u Marad] in-né-ep-pu-uš 30 A 30 [x x x] x in-na-ad-di 31 A 31 [x x x l]i-⸢ib⸣-bi-šú 32 A 32 [x x x x il-l]a-a 33 A 33 [x x x x x x x K]I (lacuna c. 13 lines) Col. vi (Ms. A only) (lacune c. 17 lines) 1’ [x x x x x x x x] AN ––––––––––––––––––– 2’ [a-na-ku dšul-gi AL.TI]L Translation Col. i 1–2I am (divine) Šulgi, beloved of Enlil and Ninl[il]. 3The lord Šamaš told me. 4Ištar, the mistress, revealed (this) to [me]. 5Father daytime, god […] 6–7Whatever my fathers heard from the mouth of the [great] gods […]. 8–9May Ur repeatedly sing (and) may Uruk [constantly …] 10–11From its roof […] went down. [They went down] from the roof of [its] gate. 12Wild bulls and onagers […]. 13– 14 Concerning the city of Ni[ppur], omen much …[…] 15[…] may […] six times. 16–17 […] may […] (lacuna of a few lines) 1’–4’[…..] may sing […..] 5’–18’[….. Ešnunn]a … its [thro]ne … [ga]zelle … [bl]ocked off… Damru … Damru …… (lacuna of c. 13 lines) Col. ii (lacuna of c. 13 lines) 1’–4’….. I ruled the four quarters (of the world) from the rising of the sun to the setting of the sun. 5’I founded Nippur, Bond of Heaven and Earth. 6’I opened my mouth (and) the gods were listening to me. 7’–9’By my own provision, I indeed built that wall (and) surely made (it) firm. 10’Enlil ordered me: “Make it forever.” 11’–12’Enlil ordered me, and I indeed annihilated Baldaḫâ. 13’–14’ Enlil ordered me: “Wage war!” 15’–16’Enlil ordered me, (and) I indeed annihilated Baldaḫâ. 17’–18’From his/its family, I put (them) in order on the quarters (of the world). 19’–20’Ninlil ordered me: “Put Humba (i.e. Elamite deity) in order.” 21’– 23’ Of the king of Elam, …… (lacuna of c 10 lines) Col. iii (lacuna of a few lines) 1’–2’[…] and […].. 3’[… Ba]bylon 4’… the citizens of Nippur. 5’–6’[The king of] Babylon will not overc[ome] that [one]. 7’–8’He will give him the [scepter and reign]. 9’–10’He will give him [the rule] of the quarters. 11’–16’ [One who] would be negligent [about the ci]tizens of Nippur [and Babylo]n (and) would not give the righteous judgement, that prince will walk around (with) “woe!” and “alas!” 17’–19’To the king of Babylon and Nippur, all the lands will be given as one. 20’–21’Whichever king after me will arise against the nearby dynasty (of Elam?). 22’–23’The land of Elam toward the rising sun will be co[nfused] altogether. 24’The Hittite […..] 25’Babylon […] 26’a stranger […..] 27’–29’……

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(lacuna) Col. iv (lacuna of c. 17 lines) 1’[…] will be [built]. 2’–3’In the area of Babylon, the builder of that palace will be vexed. 4’–5’That prince will experience trouble (and) his heart will not be pleased. 6’–8’During his exercise of kingship, the war and fight will not be kept away. 9’–11’In that reign, brother will devour his brother, (and) people will release their children for silver. 12’The lands all together will be confused. 13’–14’The young man will leave (his) girl, (and) girl will leave (her) man. 15’ Mother will close her door against (her) daughter. 16’–18’The property of Babylon will enter into the land of Subartu and the land/city of Assur. 19’–22’The king of Babylon will let the possession of his palace, for the prince (var.: city) of Assur, go out into the midst of Assur. 23’–25’Forever, Baltil will not [release] its [proper]ty. 26’–27’….. (lacuna of a few lines) Col. v 1Its […] will remain. 2–4[…] … will be taken place. 5–6Friend felled his friend with a sword (and) colleague destroyed his colleague by a sword. 7–8[The land]s all together will be destroyed, and the [populat]ion will decrease. 9Nippur will be thrown down. 10That prince’s head will be raised. 11–12A city that is situated on the bank of Tigris or Euphrates [will be constructed]. 13–15By the order of Enlil, the reign of the king of Babylon will come to an end. 16–17A certain one will mo[ve out] from the land of […]. 18He will [conqu]er the land of S[uh]u. 19–20He will restore the upper/prime (structures) of Bad-tibira. 21–22He will renew (Girsu and) Lagaš. 23The sanctuary of the gods will be made. 24He will establish offerings to the gods. 25–26He will restore the […] and thrones to their places. 27–29The shrines of Nippur, [Der], Isin [and Marad] will be made. 30–31He will lay out […] (and) his heart […] 32[He will co]me up. 33….. (lacuna of c. 13 lines) Col. vi (lacuna of c. 17 lines) 1’[…..]… (after a dividing line) 2’“I am (divine) Šulgi”, completed. Notes Col. i Line 2: nin is partly broken on the CDLI photo, but copied by Borger. Line 5: an alternative reading “father and mother, (personal) god [and (personal) goddess]” is suggested by Foster (2005: 357; cf. also Neujahr, 2012: 42 “father and mother(?), god […]”. However, u4-ma-am can hardly be interpreted as ummam “mother”. Lines 10–11: The lines apparently describe a ritual performance on the roof of a city gate, possibly relating to construction. Cf. i-nu-ú-ma SISKUR a-na d iš8-tár i-na ú-ri É.GAL in-na-qú-ú MU.BI.IM “when sacrifices were offered

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to Ištar on the roof of the palace, list” (Dalley, 2009: 70, MS 2200/69 lines 1–3); NAR.MEŠ ša i-na KÁ É.GAL iz-mu-rù “musicians who sang at the palace gate” (ibid.: 86, MS 22000/87 lines 4–5); i-nu-ma … NAR.MEŠ i-na (date) i-na KÁ É.GAL iz-mu-ru-ma “when musicians sang at the palace gate on …” (ibid.: 87, MS 2200/88 lines 1–3). Line 6’: Güterbock (1934: 84) suggested restoring the place name [èš-nun?]na.KI. Col. ii Line 10’: Güterbock (1934: 85 n. 7) compared UD.UL.LA with bàd-ud-ul-dùa, the wall of Sippar attested in Weissbach, 1899: 660, II R 50, viii 33. Borger offered an alternative interpretation to compare it with Marduk’s Capella éed-ul within Esagil (cf. Ebeling, 1938; George, 1992: 390–391). It is not certain if Sippar or Babylon indeed has its place in this context. Taking into consideration a parallelism in lines 10’–12’ and 13’–16’, one may expect to find a synonym of qablu “battle” (l. 14’) here in line 10’, though I can suggest no specific word. Lines 12’ and 16’: BAL.DA-ha-a: Though this must be an inimical entity, the reading and meaning remain uncertain. CAD B, p. 63 reads baldaḫû (hapax), regarding it as gentilic. Foster (2005: 357 with n. 2) compares it with Baldahdah, a leading figure of mystic mountain hordes that came to attack the Mesopotamian plain in the Cuthean Legend of Naram-Sin (Westenholz, 1997: 310 and 341, line 44). Alternatively, L. Vacin (2011: 249) suggests associating it with Tappa(n)-daraḫ, ruler of Simurrum, who is attested in extispicy texts to have been defeated and captured by Šulgi (for Tappan-daraḫ, see Molina, 2011–2013; cf. Biggs, 1997). There is another possible garbled form: [..]-ban-ga-ár, a king of Subartu, in a later chronicle written in Hellenistic Uruk (Glassner, 2004: 288, text 48, line 5), which P.-A. Beaulieu (2022: 253f.) reads as [Tab]bangar and interprets as a garbled form of Tappandaraḫ. Alternatively, one might interpret BAL.DA-ḫa-a as a rebus-writing composed of the BALA/palû “circle, dynasty” and DA/ṭehû, “nearby” to mean the country of the Zagros highland. Line 18’: Borger suggested two alternative readings of the verb uš-te-eš-šer (uštēšer, ešērum Št pret.) and uš-te-eš-bu (< uštēšibū, wašābum Št pret.). I prefer the former interpretation, since the plural ending in the second alternative is hardly explicable. Line 21’: LUGAL EREN: Güterbock (1934: 85 n. 1) suggested that EREN means Susa, noting that dINNIN.EREN means Elamite goddess Inšušinak. For MÙŠ/MÚŠ-EREN/ŠEŠ = šušin, šušan, šušinak, see Borger, 2010: 284 nos. 152 and 153. Col. iii Line 5’–6’: Borger translates lines 4’–6’ “[…] Einwohner von Nippur [und(?)] Babel / diesen […] soll nicht stehen”; it is followed by Foster (2005: 358)

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and Neujahr (2012: 44). However, this is unlikely, since the verb izzaz in line 6’ is singular and not matching to the plural subject “Einwohner (DUMU.MEŠ)”. One should search for the subject in singular in line 5’, restoring a word such as “[the king (LUGAL)] of Babylon”. šâšu in line 6’ is probably genitive and requires a preceding preposition or prepositional phrase such as (eli) ṣēr. The sign trace before ša-a-šu fits the left end of the ER sign with remaining two horizontal wedges and the head of a vertical that probably crossing the lower horizontal. Alternatively, one may read: [(eli) ṣēr x] x šâšu “against that …” with a certain noun modified by the demonstrative šâšu. Col. v Line 2: Borger (1971: 15) read: [xxxx] u? šip?-ṭa-a-tum “[…] und(?) Strafgerichte(?)”, though the alleged two signs u? and šip? are located too close to each other, looking altogether like ŠI. Lines 7–8: [KUR?.ME]Š … [UN?].MEŠ TUR.MEŠ: the restoration follows Borger (1971: 15). Cf. CAD Ṣ: 121 and AHw: 1087 for the land (mātum) or the people (nišū) as the subject of the verb ṣeḫērum “to be small, few” in omen texts. Lines 11–12: ⸢ù⸣ is interpreted here ū “or” rather than u “and”, since it is not expected that a single city will be located on both the banks of Tigris and Euphrates. DÙ is speculative restoration, attempting to understand the passage as dealing with the construction of Kār-Tukultī-Ninurta by TukultīNinurta I. Line 18: A: KUR s[u?-ḫa? x x x x], B(v 5’/6’): [KUR su?-ḫ]a? / [i-ka-ša]-da. The signs on Exemplar B can be read so on Weidner’s copy (1939–41: 235) as well as on the photo taken by myself (in 2009 July). The line is restored with the assumption that it relates to the conquest of the land of Suḫu by Adadšuma-uṣur (see below, Section 3). Line 19: ⸢e-la-a-ti bàd⸣-[tibira.K]I / [re?-e?-e]š-ti / [bàd-ti]bira.KI: Restorations imply the variants in the exemplars. Line 27–29: Noting that Nippur, Der, Isin and Marad were destroyed by the Elamite king Kidin-Ḫutran as recorded in Chronicle P (Grayson, 1975b: 176–177, iv 14–19), Borger suggests restoring the names of Dēr and Marad in the lacunae of lines 28 and 29, respectively. 3. Described Historical Details, and the Time and Aim of Composition The text opens with the pseudo-autobiographic speech of Šulgi. In col. i, he claims that Šamaš and Ištar revealed something esoteric to him, and that “my (fore-)fathers” heard something from the great gods (i 3–7). Though the passage is fragmentary and partly unclear, it appears to claim the divine origin of Šulgi’s subsequent prophetic speech given in the following columns iii and iv. Then, the narrative in col. ii describes Šulgi’s world dominion and his foundation of Nippur, in

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a style similar to a royal commemorative inscription (Borger, 1971: 22). The foundation of Nippur by Šulgi is of course not precisely factual, though he is known to have carried out construction in the city.8 The defeated enemies mentioned here include the Elamites, represented by the Elamite god Humba and the king of Susa, as LUGAL EREN (ii 20’f.). The nearby Zagros countries may be mentioned as well, if they are intended by BAL.DA-hu (ii 12’ and 16’; see above, note to ii 12’). After a lacuna at the end of col. ii and the beginning of col. iii, the text resumes with a post-event prophecy dealing with political events that took place before the text was composed. The historical events described in col. iii are quite obscure. However, the text refers to the Hittites (Hattû) in iii 24’, perhaps pointing to Mursili I’s attack on Babylon that brought about the downfall of the First Dynasty of Babylon (Borger, 1971: 23). Therefore, the preceding lines are expected to relate to the last decades of the First Dynasty of Babylon before its downfall. The passage in col. iii seems to refer to the “[king] of Babylon” ([LUGAL] KÁ.DINGIR.RA.KI) (iii 5’), describing his failure to resist an aggressor, who extended his lawless dominion over Nippur and Babylon (iii 5’–16’). Then, the lands are said to be given to a king of Babylon and Nippur (iii 17’–19’). In this context, one may expect the involvement of the First Sealand Dynasty that established itself in southern Babylonia during the late Old Babylonian and early Kassite periods. Our knowledge about this dynasty has greatly increased with several new documentary sources, in addition to the long known Chronicle of Early Kings (Grayson, 1975: 156, Chronicle 20B, r. 1–4). The new sources include: nearly 500 archival texts that originated in First Sealand Dynasty, especially from the reigns of the eighth and ninth kings, Pešgaldarameš and Ayadaragarama (Dalley, 2009); 152 inscribed tablets and fragments from Tell Khaiber near Ur from approximately the same period (Robson in Campbell et al., 2021: 5–8; cf. Campbell et al., 2017: 28–33); and the epic of the king Gulkišar, the sixth king of the Sealand, which was found on a tablet from Hilprecht Collection (Zomer, 2019: 3–37 and pls. 1–6). Several studies on these sources have clarified the historical substance of this dynasty, which ambitiously expanded from the south to extend its influence over central Babylonia (Boivin, 2018; Paulus / Claydon, 2020). In particular, the epic of Gulkišar proves that he was a contemporary of Samsu-ditana, the last king of the First Dynasty of Babylon, and suggests that the former defeated the latter. Thus, E. Zomer, who published the text, proposed that Gulkišar temporarily controlled Babylon.9 Based on this new piece of information, one might identify the “[king of] Babylon” and his superior opponent (iii 5’–8’) with Samsu-ditana and Gulkišar, respectively. The latter might be equated with the “prince” who moves around (iii 15’–16’), and further with the “king of Babylon and Nippur” to whom the lands are given (iii 8

For Šulgi’s construction works at Nippur, see Frayne, 1997: 126–131 nos. 17–22 (Damgalnunna temple, weir for Enlil, Inanna temple); cf. Sallaberger, 1999: 151. 9 Zomer, 2021: 330; cf. Zomer, 2019: 24–26; Boivin, 2018: 117–121, and Dalley, 2020.

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17’–19’), though no direct outside evidence exists for his control of those cities.10 The historical details hidden in the following lines somehow concerning Elam (iii 20’–23’) remain unclear,11 though the next passage probably relates to the fall of Babylon by the force of Mursili I, king of the Hittites (iii 24’–25’), as already noted. After the subsequent lacunae (c. 34 lines) from the end of col. iii to the beginning of col. iv, the text resumes in describing an unfavorable situation of Babylonia full of wars and trouble during the reign of a certain king, apparently of the Kassite dynasty (iv 1’–18’). It is followed by the transfer of the property of Babylon to Assur (iv 19’–25’). Then, after a small lacuna of few lines at the end of col. iv, the text describes a troublesome time during which the Babylonian population decreases, Nippur is destroyed, and the reign of a king of Babylon terminates (v 1–15). In the following passage (v 16–33), the text turns to the conclusion narrating the coming of a good age, in which a prince recovers Babylonian prosperity. This prince rebuilds significant structures in Bad-tibira, Girsu, Lagaš, Nippur and Isin. The rest of this narrative is broken. Some of the details given in cols. iv and v correspond with events recorded in other historiographic sources, especially Chronicle P12, col. iv, which records Babylonian history in the latter half of the 13th century BC.13 In particular, the transfer of the property of Babylon to Assur (iv 19’–25’) was associated by Grayson and Lambert (1964: 9) with the defeat of Kaštiliašu IV, king of Babylon, by Tukultī-Ninurta I of Assyria, and the latter’s sack of Babylon narrated in Chronicle P (Grayson, 1975b: 175–176, Chronicle 22, iv 1–8). For the subsequent lines, Borger proposed identifying the destruction of Nippur (v 9) and the end of a Babylonian king’s reign (v 13–15) with the invasion of Kidin-Ḫutran of Elam, who caused the destruction of Nippur and Der and terminated the reign of Enlil-nādin-šumi, king of Babylon (Chronicle P, iv 14–16). After Borger’s study, as well as the holistic treatment of available sources concerning Babylonian history by Brinkman (1976; cf. 2017), however, the publication of Chronicle 25 (Walker, 1982) has opened a new stage of research. It revealed that Babylonian independence was not re-established after the conquest of Babylon by Tukultī-Ninurta I during his reign, nor during those of his three successors, Aššur-nādin-apli, Aššur-nērāri III, and Enlil-kudurrī-uṣur. Cols. iv and v of the Šulgi Prophecy should be reviewed therefore in a fresh light. In 2003, I have attempted to reconstruct Babylonian political history of the pertinent period, by examining the available historical sources, including Chronicle 25 (Yamada, 2003). 10

See, however, some circumstantial evidence discussed by Boivin (2018: 86–125). However, the Elamite army is counted as one of the possible hostile forces coming against Samsu-ditana in a Babylonian oracle (ND 5492 = IM 67629; Wiseman / Black, 1996: no. 63 = Lambert, 2007: No. 1, line 31). 12 Grayson, 1975b: 175f.; Glassner, 2004: 280f. 13 As noted by Grayson / Lambert, 1964: 9; and Borger, 1971: 23. 11

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Then, further elaborations and modifications to my chronological scheme were suggested (Fuchs, 2011: 310; Jakob, 2011 194–205 and 208; Liebig, 2011).14 Without repeating the previous discussions concerning chronological issues, I present below the reconstructed flow of historical events during the period under discussion,15 during which Babylon was caught between the two aggressive nearby powers of Elam and Assyria, both of which apparently aimed to control Babylon. (Stage 1) After several military encounters between Tukultī-Ninurta I and Kaštiliašu IV, the former captured and deported the latter (= the end of Kaštiliašu IV’s reign). The Babylonians avoided the conquest of Babylon by recognizing the sovereignty of Tukultī-Ninurta I (Tukultī-Ninurta’s royal inscriptions Grayson, 1983: A.0.78.23, 60–67, Tukultī-Ninurta Epic,16 and Chronicle P, iv 2)

14 There are points of dispute concerning when and how Tukultī-Ninurta I’s rule of Babylon was executed and when and where the recovery of Babylonian kingship was proclaimed by Adad-šuma-uṣur. Following the scheme that I have proposed (as Stages 1– 9 given below), A. Fuchs suggested that the 30-year reign of Adad-šuma-uṣur, as given in Babylonian King List A, should be counted from Tukultī-Ninurta I’s conquest of Babylon, assuming that the rise and enthronement of Adad-šuma-uṣur took place somewhere outside of Babylon soon after its fall to Assyria. This is opposed to my suggestion that he ascended only after the seven years of Tukultī-Ninurta’s rule of Babylon. Fuchs’ chronological reconstruction better fits Babylonian King List A, which does not record Tukultī-Ninurta I’s rule of Babylon, though the timing and place of Adad-šuma-uṣur’s accession, in any case, remains obscure (see below). Alternatively, M. Liebig proposed the order and years of reigns of the Babylonian kings as: Kaštiliašu IV (until 1231) – Enlil-nādin-šumi (1230) – Kadašman-Ḫarbe II (1229) – Tukultī-Ninurta I (1228) – Adad-šuma-iddina (1227–1222, as overlapping for six years with the seven year rule of Tukultī-Ninurta I) – Adad-šumauṣur, based on the dates of the archival texts that refer to campaigns to Babylonia during the reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I (once in his 13th year and then his 16th year). However, this scheme is hardly reconciled with Chronicle P (iv 1–9), which describes Adad-šuma-uṣur, not Adad-šuma-iddina, as the founder of the new independent Babylonian government. Since more than two battles could have been fought between Kaštiliašu and TukultīNinurta, it remains uncertain whether the two dates of the archival texts may be associated with the deportation of Kaštiliašu and the fall of Babylon. For the possible dates of many battles fought between Kaštiliašu and Tukultī-Ninurta, see the evidence given by Jakob, 2011: 196–202, and Llop-Raduà, 2011: 213–214; cf. Paulus, 2014: 73–75, following Jakob and Llop-Raduà. 15 The modifications added after Yamada 2003 are regarding the Assyrian control of Babylon (Stage 8 below), which could have been unstable, allowing various parties to struggle for the throne of Babylon (see below, n. 18). 16 Machinist, 1978; cf. Foster, 2005: 298–317; Jakob, 2017.

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(Stage 2) After the capture of Kaštiliašu IV, Enlil-nādin-šumi ascended the empty throne of Babylon and reigned “one year, six months” (MU 1 ITI 6) (Babylonian King List [=BKL]-A, ii 8’17). (Stage 3) The Elamite king Kidin-Ḫutran invaded southern Babylonia, destroyed Nippur and Der and somehow ended the reign of Enlil-nādin-šumi (Chronicle P, iv 14–16). (Stage 4) Kadašman-Ḫarbe ascended the Babylonian throne and reigned “one year, six months” (MU 1 ITI 6) (BKL-A, ii 9’). (Stage 5) Kadašman-Ḫarbe was presumably dethroned in an internal conflict, and Adad-šuma-iddina ascended the throne in Babylon, to rule for six years (BKL-A, ii 10’). (Stage 6) During Adad-šuma-iddina’s reign, the Elamite king Kidin-Ḫutran again invaded southern Babylonia, destroying Isin and Marad (Chronicle P, iv 17ff.). (Stage 7) With the aim of establishing Assyrian control over the politically unstable Babylonia, Tukultī-Ninurta I came to conquer Babylon, took the statue of Marduk to Assyria, and initiated direct rule over Babylon by appointing governors (Chronicle P, iv 3–7). This probably marked the end of Adad-šumaiddina’s reign. (Stage 8) Adad-šuma-uṣur rebelled with the help of Babylonian elites and ascended the throne somewhere in Babylonia. Yet, Babylon remained under Assyrian and/or perhaps other outsiders’ control during the period of TukultīNinurta I’s remaining reign and the reigns of his successors, i.e. Aššur-nādinapli (3/4 years), Aššur-nērērī III (6 years) and Enlil-kudurrī-uṣur (5 years) (Chronicle P, iv 8–9; Chronicle 25, ll. 1–2).18 (Stage 9) Adad-šuma-uṣur attacked Babylon, which had been in Assyrian hands, and liberated it (Chronicle 25, ll. 7–10). In accordance with this historical scheme, one may propose new interpretations of some passages of the Šulgi Prophecy, cols. iv and v. The time of turmoil in Babylonia described in v 1–8 appears to be associated with the period with the two Elamite invasions (above, Stages 3–6), as Borger already considered (see above). “That prince” ([NU]N šu-ú) whose “head will be raised” (v 10) seems now best to be identified with the “Assyrian prince” (NUN aš-šur.KI)19 mentioned in iv 20’, who must be Tukultī-Ninurta I. Accordingly, all narrated in the 17

Grayson, 1980–1983: 90–93 (Babylonian King List-A). The continuous and uninterrupted stability of Assyrian rule over Babylon cannot be proved by sources. This period may be regarded as a time of confusion, as I. Singer (2008: 237) suggested, stating: “the expulsion of the Assyrians from Babylon created a power vacuum in which various parties tried to promote their candidates for the coveted throne of Babylon.” 19 Variant in Exemplar B: URU, for NUN. 18

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passage of v 10–15 reflects the events relating to Tukultī-Ninurta I, i.e. his resumption of military aggression (v 10), his construction of Kār-Tukultī-Ninurta (v 11–12), and the end of the independent kingship of Babylon (v 13–15). This runs counter to Borger’s connection of these events to Kidin-Ḫutran of Elam (1971: 23). Thus, the events deliberately related in obscurity in the Šulgi Prophecy can be associated with known historical events in nearly historical order, as follows: (1) Tukultī-Ninurta I’s taking possession of the property of Babylon by defeating Kaštiliašu IV (iv 16’–24’ // Stage 1). (2) Turmoil in Babylon during the period of the three short reigns of Kaštiliašu’s successors, and the destruction of Nippur by the Elamites (v 1–9 // Stages 2– 6). (3) Tukultī-Ninurta I’s rise, his eventual conquest of Babylon, and the end of Babylonian independence (col. v 10–15 // Stage 7). (4) Recovery of order in southern Babylonia by Adad-šuma-uṣur (v 16–33// Stage 8). The subsequent missing part of c. 30 lines concluding the text may have contained a passage relating to the recovery of Babylon by Adad-šuma-uṣur (Stage 9). In any case, the text is expected to have praised his epoch-making recovery of Babylonian independence and order, with his conquest of Babylon and construction in Nippur. Accordingly, the text was most probably composed during Adadšuma-uṣur’s reign, if not slightly later. In addition to the above-mentioned historical sources, several further texts should also be taken into account to reconstruct the contents of the remaining and missing concluding lines, which likely related to the rise and accomplishments of Adad-šuma-uṣur. One is a royal letter from Elam to Babylonia preserved in a late copy (VAT 17020 = VS 24 91; van Dijk, 1986) that refers to Adad-šuma-uṣur as “son of Dunna-Saḫ of the bank of the Euphrates” (mār Dunna-[S]aḫ ša aḫ Pratti) (l. 30); Dunna-Saḫ is apparently to be equated with “Tunamissaḫ, son of Ḫammurapi” (Tunamissaḫ mār Ḫammurapu), a distant ancestor of Šamaš-rēša-uṣur and Ninurta-kudurrī-uṣur, governors of the lands of Suḫu and Mari in the eighth century BC, as claimed in their inscriptions (S.0.1002.1: i 3 and passim; Frame, 1995: S.0.1001.2: obv. 3 [restorable]). I. Singer (2008: 229–230) noted that the fragmentary letter Tukultī-Ninurta I sent to Šuppiluliuma II, king of the Hittites (KBo 28.61–64; see Mora / Giorgieri, 2004: no. 8) refers to “a servant of the land of Suḫu” (wardu ša māt Suḫi) apparently as a significant activist in the contemporary power struggle against Tukultī-Ninurta I after the latter’s takeover of Babylon (ll. 13′, 16′, 21′, 28′). He cogently suggested that this figure was identical with Adad-šuma-uṣur, who is said to be “of the bank of the Euphrates” in the Elamite king’s letter.20 Furthermore, he drew our attention 20

This view was followed by Jakob (2011: 204f.) and Paulus (2013: 434–435; 2014: 74 n. 100). Accordingly, Singer further suggested that Adad-šuma-uṣur was not the son of

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to the Adad-šuma-uṣur Epic (Grayson, 1975a: 56–77), noting that it refers in its fragmentary lines to a “Suḫaean woman” (ana pāni MÍ.su-ḫa-’i-tum) and “Suḫaean(s) (LÚ.su-ḫa-’a) (iv 10 and 18, respectively). Accordingly, as Singer proposed, Adad-šuma-uṣur appears to have founded his initial power base in Suḫu in the middle Euphrates before he established his rule in southern Babylonia including Nippur. He then conquered Babylon. My tentative restoration of v 18: KUR S[uḫ]a (KUR s[u?-ḫa?]/[KUR su?-ḫ]a?) is suggested based on the assumption that the v 16–18 originally described Adad-šuma-uṣur’s rise in the land of Suḫu. It escapes us how much of the discussed historical details were originally given in the missing portion of the prophetic speech and what was the exact ending of the narrative. Since the text pays special attention to Nippur from beginning to end, the original composition was most probably made in Nippur. Especially instructive is the content of Šulgi’s opening speech in col. ii in the style of royal inscription (Borger, 1971: 22), including: “I ruled the four quarter (of the world)” (ii 2’); “I founded Nippur dur.an.ki” (ii 5’); “by my own provision, I indeed built that wall (and) surely made (it) firm” (ii 7’–9’). This commemorative statement must reflect the circumstances of the composition, as Borger considered (1971: 22). Thus, the original text should have been composed to be displayed or deposited somewhere at the city, either in the temple of Enlil, or in or near the city wall, presumably after its restoration by Adad-šuma-uṣur.21 4. Later Reception in Assyria The exact course of transmission for the Šulgi Prophecy from Nippur in the late Kassite period to Nineveh and Assur in the late Neo-Assyrian period is hardly possible to follow with documentary evidence, such as copies of the text representing an intermediary stage of transmission, or a commentary on the text that reveals its later reinterpretation.22 One can only ponder, based on circumstantial evidence, what kind of concern of the Neo-Assyrian scribes motivated them to copy and preserve the text in their libraries and how they could have read, understood and interpreted it. As already noted (above, in Section 1), the most notable piece of information in this regard is the fact that one of the three copies of another post-event prophetic text, the Marduk Prophecy (Borger, 1971: 3–13 and 16–20: K 2158 + K 3353 + K 8708 + K 13678 + Rm 297 (+) K 7065 + K 12697 + 89-4-26.62 + BM 99210

Kaštiliašu, as given in his inscriptions on a bronze dagger (Dossin, 1962: 150 nos. 1–2 and pls. 13–14; cf. Brinkman, 1976: 90–91, C.2.2, and C.2.3). 21 Borger speculated quite specifically that the inscription was deposited as a Mauererbauinschrift, and even wondered whether the inscription was hidden in the destroyed city wall (as stated in v 9) and found “accidentally” during its reconstruction (as mentioned in v 27ff.). 22 For the texts with commentaries, see Frahm, 2011: 260–261.

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(+) K 13434)23, which is found in Assurbanipal’s Library at Nineveh, has a colophon revealing that the Šulgi Prophecy was read in sequence after the Marduk Prophecy. It reads as follows: iv 9 10 11 12 13

d

ḫa-ḫar-num dḫa-a-a-šum AL. TIL –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– a-na-ku dšul-gi ki-i KA GIŠ.LE.U5.UM GABA.RI KÁ.DINGIR.RA.KI KUR AN.ŠÁR-DÙ-A MAN ŠÚ MAN KUR AN.ŠÁR.KI

9

“The God Ḫaḫarnum, the God Hayašum” complete. –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 10 “I am (divine) Šulgi’” 11 According to the writing bord, copy of Babylon 12–13 Palace of Assurbanipal / king of the world, king of the land of Assur After designating the conclusion to the text of the Marduk Prophecy with its incipit Ḫaharnum Ḫayašum and a subsequent dividing line, the incipit of the Šulgi Prophecy anāku Šulgi is given as the next text to be read in continuation. Since the Marduk Prophecy is said to have been copied from the writing board held in Babylon (iv 11), it was probably brought from Babylon to the library of Assurbanipal to be copied anew in Assyrian script during the king’s reign.24 Though it is unclear exactly when the two originally separate prophetic literary texts were connected to each other, the Šulgi Prophecy was possibly brought from Babylonia in a similar way to be copied and connected with the Marduk Prophecy. The connection of the two texts was obviously made at least because of the similarity in literary genre and the common historical events dealt with therein. The Marduk Prophecy is stylized as the speech of the god Marduk addressing the great gods, Anu, Enlil, Ea and Nabû. In the text, Marduk narrates his past journeys to Hatti, Assyria, and Elam, and then presents a prediction of the rise of a king of Babylon who will restore Marduk’s Temple of Esagil, lead Marduk back to Babylon, and recover Babylonian prosperity and order while restoring the temples in Babylonian cities and defeating Elam. Borger persuasively suggested the association of Marduk’s journeys and other incidents narrated in the text in the style of “deliberate obscurity” with specific historical events (Borger, 1971: 21–22), i.e., the 23

CDLI photos P394223, P397003, and P400295, respectively. J. E. Reade notes that the proprietary code “Palace of Assurbanipal …” is crudely scratched later (Reade, 1986: 219–220 with fig. 3 [colophon of K2158+]). Nevertheless, the tablet may well have been inscribed in seventh century BC Assyria, as its script suggests. Borger argues that this tablet (K 2158+) was written by a scribe different from the one who made a copy of the Šulgi Prophecy found at Nineveh (K 4445+), noting that the shape of TI is different in the two copies (Borger, 1971: 4). 24

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move of Marduk to Hatti with Mursili I’s raid of Babylon that caused the downfall of the First Dynasty of Babylon25; Marduk’s stay in Assur blessing the land of Assur with Tukulti-Ninurta I’s raid of Marduk and his control of Babylon (see above); and the third journey of Marduk, now to Elam, with the raid of Babylon by the Elamite Kutur-Nahhunte III.26 Borger further identified the blessed Babylonian prince with Nebuchadnezzar I, the fourth king of the Second dynasty of Isin, who conquered Elam to recover (the statue of) Marduk to Babylon,27 while suggesting that the text was composed during his reign. These two prophetic literary texts, the Šulgi Prophecy and the Marduk Prophecy, are similar to each other in several points regarding their literary style and contents. Both texts contain divine prophetic speech dealing with events that took place around the Babylonian sacred capitals of Babylon and Nippur. Both also contain post event prophecy that keeps the names of the rulers of Babylon and nearby countries anonymous. Furthermore, the time scale of narration and the related events are largely common in the two texts, both covering the downfall of the First Dynasty of Babylon and Tukultī-Ninurta I’s conquest of Babylon, though the text of the Marduk Prophecy reaches some 50 years later than the Šulgi Prophecy (see above). One may suppose that Marduk’s stay in Assur blessing the land of Assur as narrated in the Marduk Prophecy (i 1’–14’) and the transfer of the property of Babylon to Assur narrated in the Šulgi Prophecy (iv 16’–25’) may have attracted the attention of Assyrian readers. They were likely compared with each other, possibly being detached from the originally intended event of Tukultī-Ninulta I’s Babylonian control. Similarly, the eventual return of Marduk to Babylon and the prediction of the restoration of Babylon and other Babylonian sanctuaries by a king of Babylon, as given in the Marduk Prophecy (ii 12ff.), was presumably compared with the conclusion of the Šulgi Prophecy, which predicts the rise of a hero who would restore Nippur and other Babylonian sanctuaries. It is further possible that the predictions of those texts were reinterpreted by later readers from their contemporary view. In this connection, M. de Jong (2007: 423–424), T. Sugie (2012: 63–67) and J. P. Nielsen (2018: 109–111) argued that the eventual restoration of Babylon by the anonymous Babylonian king, as well as his destruction of Elam, predicted in the Marduk Prophecy was read in the seventh century BC Assyria in association with the restoration of Babylon by Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal after its destruction by Sennacherib as well as with Assurbanipal’s conquest of Elam.28 One may suppose that the Šulgi Prophecy was read in a similar 25

See Grayson, 1975b: 156, Chronicle 20B, r. 11; CTH 19 (van den Hout, 1997: 195, §9). Frame, 1995: 20 B.2.4.6 lines 10’–13’. 27 Frame, 1995: 17–35 B.2.4.5–11; cf. also a prayer apparently related to the king’s victory (Oshima, 2011). 28 De Jong argued that the Marduk Prophecy was revised with the addition of the passage narrating Marduk’s blessing of Assur during the reigns of Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal (de Jong, 2007: 423–424). Nielsen (2018: 110) further entertains the possibility that the 26

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manner.29 The Assyrian aggression on Babylon (by Tukultī-Ninurta I) and the subsequent Babylonian recovery (by Adad-šuma-uṣur) described in deliberate obscurity in the Šulgi Prophecy were possibly read in association with the deeds of Sennacherib, who destroyed Babylon, and those of Esarhaddon and/or Assurbanipal, who restored it. The perplexing theological issue for Assyrians behind the destruction and restoration of Babylon is expressed in a most intriguing manner in “The Sin of Sargon” (K 4730 (+) Sm 1876). This is a fragmentary text first properly interpreted by Simo Parpola (Tadmor / Landsberger / Parpola, 1989). The text is formulated as the speech of the spirit of the assassinated king Sennacherib addressing his son and successor Esarhaddon, pondering what was the sin of Sargon and the mistake of Sennacherib that caused their tragic deaths. The former was killed in military action in Anatolia, and the latter assassinated by one of his own sons in the revolt

text was composed in the seventh century BC in Babylonia by an author who was mindful of the concerns of the Marduk cult at that time and possessed or found it expedient to adopt a pro-Assyrian outlook. Cf. Pedersén, 1986: 56, Mayer, 1988: 154–157, and Nissinen, 2003: 141, who all similarly suggest the possibility that the text was composed in the seventh century BC. Nissinen (ibid.) also considers the possibility of a later date of composition for the Šulgi Prophecy. However, given that the plots of the Marduk Prophecy and the Šulgi Prophecy end with the reign of Nebuchadnezzar I and that of Adad-šumauṣur, respectively, it seems difficult to me to regard them as originating from such a late date without concrete outside evidence. The unpublished dissertation of Sugie written in Japanese (2012: 59–71) treated the reception of the text at Nineveh and that at Assur separately, based on his observations on several texts included in the library of Assurbanipal at Nineveh, i.e., the inscriptions of Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal (RINAP 4, 107– 108, 136–137, nos. 48, 60; Frame, 1995: 200 B.6.32.2), the copies of Nebuchadnezzar I’s inscriptions and literary texts relating to him (Frame, 1995: 17–21 B.2.4.5–6; 23–31, B.2.4.8–9), historical literary texts and omens relating to wars against Elam (Livingstone,1989: 48–52, nos. 20–22, and 67–68, no. 31; Starr, 1985); and those in the library of exorcists’ family in Assur, i.e., the Marduk Ordeal (Livingstone, 1989: 82–86 no. 34); Cultic Commentary VAT 8917 (Livingstone, 1989: 99–102 no. 39), Incantation Commentary A 163 (+) 195 on “Marduk’s address” (Frahm, 2011: 123–127 [description and bibliography]), and Götteradressbuch (George, 1992: 167–184). Following the argument of Neujahr about the reception at Nineveh (Sugie, 2010; Sugie, 2012: 63–67), he postulates that Assurbanipal’s military achievement against Elam was compared with Nebuchadnezzar’s victory over the Elamites described in the Marduk Prophecy by intellectuals at Nineveh. As for the reception at the library of the exorcists’ family at Assur, Sugie argues that the Marduk Prophecy was read mainly from a theological concern about the status of Marduk in imperial Assyria (Sugie, 2012: 67–71). Such a distinction stemming from the different concerns in the royal palace and in the Assur temple is possible, though it is difficult to prove. 29 Cf. de Jong, 2007: 426, who states: “It is conceivable that Assyrian kings such as Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal had an interest in this text (Šulgi Prophecy [SY]) too, as it deals with the ideal image of the king as protector/restorer of the Babylonian cult.”

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in Nineveh. The cause of the tragedies is eventually explained in the text to be their failure to pay the proper and balanced attention to the Assyrian and Babylonian chief gods, Aššur and Marduk, the deities competing for the highest divine authority in Assyrian elites’ minds, especially since the annexation of Marduk’s seat of Babylon to the Assyrian empire. As Parpola suggested, the text probably aimed to defend Esarhaddon’s policy of restoring Marduk’s cult in Babylon after its brutal destruction by Sennacherib. Considering this text, as well as other evidence for the religious dilemma experienced by Assyrian intellectuals and the cultic reforms they carried out to cope with it during the reigns of Sargon II, Sennacherib and thereafter,30 one can reasonably assume that some Assyrian intellectuals were highly interested in the relations between Assyrian and Babylonia in the past and the divine intervention of Enlil-Assur and Marduk into them. A broader interest of Assyrian scribes in Assyro-Babylonian relations in the past is detectable in the inclusion of several texts relating to Assyro-Babylonian history in the two libraries in which copies of the Šulgi Prophecy and the Marduk Prophecy were stored, i.e. the library of Assurbanipal at Nineveh, and the library of the exorcists’ family in Assur (N4 Archive).31 The most notable texts in this regard may be the following: (1) The Synchronistic History (Grayson, 1975b, Chronicle 21), one of whose copies (K 4401a + Rm 854) bears a part of the Assurbanipal library colophon.32 This text of Assyrian origin is a concise narration of Assyro-Babylonian relations in the 15th to 8th century BC particularly referring to the border agreements and the wars between the two kingdoms.33 (2) Synchronistic King List Fragment Assur 13956 dh=A.118 (Grayson, 1980– 1984: 124–125 King List 17 = Chen, 2020: 115–117; cf. Yamada, 2021) is 30

Especially for the religious reforms of Sargon II and Sennacherib, see Frahm, 1997: 282–283. 31 A copy of the Šulgi Prophecy (K 4445+) and two copies of the Marduk Prophecy (K 2158+ and Sm 1388) come from Kuyunjik; the former bears the Assurbanipal Library colophon ekal Aššur-bāni-apli, and the latter probably originated in the South-West palace. Reade (1998–2001: 422) ascribes the items signified with 89-4-26 (joined with K 2158+) to the South-west Palace, Room 54 area. Another copy of the Šulgi Prophecy (Assur 13959 hc = VAT 14404) and one of the Marduk Prophecy (Assur 13348 ek = VAT 20776) stem from the library of the exorcists’ family in Assur (Pedersén, 1986: 41–76, N4 nos. 436 and 617). For the exorcists’ family and their tablet collection, see also Maul, 2010. 32 iv 31: [ēkal Aššur-bāni-apli šar kiššati] LUGAL ⸢KUR Aš-šur.KI⸣. Cf. Hunger, 1968: 97, no. 317, and Galter, 2000: 30 n. 8. The other copies, K 4401b and Sm 2106, also probably belonged to the same collection, since the former one has a number close to the copy K 4401a and the latter one is designated by Sm and is probably to be assigned to the South-West Palace (Reade, 1998–2001: 422). 33 For the nature of the text, see K. Yamada / S. Yamada, forthcoming; cf. Galter, 2000.

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found in the library of the exorcists’ family (N4 Archive) (Pedersén, 1986: 67–68, no. 358). The text, though fragmentary, enumerates the names of Assyrian and Babylonian kings from a time in the distant past, which is unfortunately broken off but probably the Old Assyrian/Babylonian period, to Aššur-etel-ilāni, son of Assurbanipal. (3) The historical literary text “The Dialogue between Išme-Dagan I and Enlil(/Assur)” is known from two copies, VAT 14418 and 81-2-4 (Frahm, 2009: 145–151. no. 76 / 76a); the former found at N4 Archive in Assur, and the latter probably belonging to the library of Assurbanipal, as Frahm noted. In this text, after the dialogue between the king Išme-Dagan and the god Enlil, the latter blesses the king, who will restore the cult and plan of Enlil’s two sacred cities, Nippur and Assur. As Frahm suggested, Išme-Dagan is most probably to be identified with the Old Assyrian king Išme-Dagan I, son of Šamsi-Adad I (Samsi-Addu), and the text may defend the syncretism of Enlil with Aššur and may claim Išme-Dagan I’s influence over Assur and Nippur. Without attempting an exhaustive search for royal inscriptions, divinations, prayers, and commentaries somehow relating to the cities Assur, Babylon, and Nippur, and the gods Enlil-Assur and Marduk, the above-mentioned texts found in Nineveh and Assur may demonstrate Assyrian scholarly concern with Assyro-Babylonian relations in the past and divine intervention into that history, which may have motivated scribes to copy and preserve the Šulgi Prophecy. Another possible motive to copy the Šulgi Prophecy was the antiquitarian zest of Assyrian scribes. Even though Sumerian literature, including the Šulgi hymns, was not in standard use anymore in Mesopotamian scribal training in the first Millennium BC (Gesche, 2000), Šulgi was well-remembered by late Babylonian intellectuals. His inscriptions and letters were copied, and he was described as taking a negative or positive role in later chronicles and historical literary works.34 In Assyria, the education of Assurbanipal while he was crown prince as described in his inscriptions, particularly Prism F (Novotny / Jeffers, 2018: no. 9, i 24–31) and Tablet L4 (K 2694+K 3030; Novotny, 2014: no. 18, i 14–23), may imply the influence of Šulgi’s self-praise as found in Šulgi Hymn B (ETCSL 2.4.2.02, esp. ll. 11–20 and 56–113). Though we have not discovered any fragment of the royal hymn from the first millennium BC, it is remarkable that the texts of Assurbanipal and Šulgi place a strikingly similar stress on the king’s literary wisdom as well as his 34

See Frahm, 2006; Vacin, 2011: 248–252; Sallaberger, 2011–2013: 278–279; Cavigneaux 2018; Glassner, 2018; Glassner, 2019: esp. 500; Beaulieu, 2022. It is notable that Šulgi was continuously discussed in Babylonian historiographic tradition until the Hellenistic period, though he was curiously often remembered as a harmful ruler who was punished by a god, such as Marduk or Anu, due to his sacrilegious acts. See especially Cavigneaux, 2018; Glassner, 2018; and Beaulieu, 2022.

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strength in fighting against both humans and beasts.35 Šulgi could have been accepted as an outstanding historic figure as either a divine giver of prophetic speech or the image of an ideal king in the late Assyrian period. Bibliography Abbreviations follow Reallexikon der Assyriologie (=RlA), vol. 15 (2016–2018), iii–xlvii. Beaulieu, P.-A., 2022: “The Death of Antiochus IV in the Context of Babylonian Hellenistic Historiography”. In E. Anagnostou-Laoutides / S. Pfeiffer (eds.): Culture and Ideology under the Seleucids: Unframing a Dynasty, Berlin / Boston, Pp. 251–266. Biggs, R.D., 1997: “Šulgi in Simurrum”. In G.D. Young / M.W. Chavalas / R.E. Averbeck (eds.): Crossing Boundaries and Linking Horizons. Studies in Honor of M.C. Astour on His 80th Birthday, Bethesda, MD, Pp. 169–178. Boivin, O., 2018: The First Dynasty of the Sealand in Mesopotamia. SANER 20. Boston / Berlin. Borger, R., 1971: “Gott Marduk und Gott-König Šulgi als Propheten: Zwei prophetische Texte”. BiOr 28, 3–24. –– 2010: Mesopotamisches Zeichenlexikon, Zweite, revidierte und aktualisierte Auflage. AOAT 305. Brinkman, J.A., 1976: Materials and Studies for Kassite History, vol. 1: A Catalogue of Cuneiform Sources Pertaining to Specific Monarchs of the Kassite Dynasty. Chicago. –– 2017: “Babylonia under the Kassites: Some Aspects for Consideration”. In A. Bartelmus / K. Sternitzke (eds.): Karduniaš. Babylonia under the Kassites, the Proceedings of the Symposium Held in Munich 30 June to 2 July 2011, vol. 1: Philological and Historical Studies. UAVA 11/1, Pp. 1–35. Campbell, S. / Killick, R. / Moon, J. / Calderbank, D. / Robson, E., 2021: “Summary Report on Excavations at Tell Khaiber, an Administrative Center of the Sealand Period, 2013–2017”. Sumer 65, 1–24 and pls. 1–3. Campbell, S. / Moon, J. / Killick, R. / Calderbank, D. / Robson, E. / Shepperson, M. / Slater, F., 2017: “Tell Khaiber: An Administrative Centre of the Sealand Period”. Iraq 79, 21–46. Cavigneaux, A., 2018: “Shulgi, Nabonide, et les Gres”. In Y. Sefati / P. Artzi / Ch. Cohen / B. Eichler / V. A. Hurowitz (eds.): “An Experienced Scribe Who Neglects Nothing”. Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Jacob Klein. Bethesda, MD. Pp. 63–72.

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See May, 2013 for the influences of Neo-Sumerian royal literature on Assurbanipal’s self-image. Cf. also Yamada, forthcoming, in particular for the image of Assurbanipal as a hunter-warrior as depicted in his inscriptions and relief epigraphs, which formulated similarly to Šulgi’s self-praise.

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Chen, F., 2020 Study on the Synchronistic King List from Ashur. Cuneiform Monographs 51. Leiden. Dalley, S., 2009: Babylonian Tablets from the First Sealand Dynasty in the Schøyen Collection. CUSAS 9. Bethesda, MD. –– 2020: “The First Sealand Dynasty: Literacy, Economy, and the Likely Location of Dūr-Enlil(ē) in Southern Mesopotamia at the end of the Old Babylonian Period”. In S. Paulus / T. Clayden (eds.): Babylonia under the Sealand and Kassite Dynasties. SANER 24. Boston / Berlin. Pp. 9–27. De Jong, M.J., 2007: Isaiah among the Ancient Near Eastern Prophets: A Comparative Study of the Earliest Stages of the Isaiah Tradition and the Neo-Assyrian Prophecies. VTS 117, Leiden. Dossin, G., 1962: “Bronzes inscrits du Luristan de la collection Foroughi”. IrAnt. 2, 149–164 and pls. 13–34. Ebeling, E., 1938: “Eudul”. RlA 2, 483. Ellis, M.J., 1989: “Observations on Mesopotamian Oracles and Prophetic Texts: Literary and Historiographic Considerations”. JCS 41, 127–186. Foster, B.R., 2005: Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature, 3rd ed. Bethesda, MD. Frahm, E., 1997: Einleitung in die Sanherib-Inscriften. AfO Beiheft 26. Horn. –– 2006: “Šulgi Sieger über Assur und die Skythen?” NABU 2006/1, 21–22 no. 25. –– 2006–2008: “Prophetie”. RlA 11, 7–11. –– 2009: Historische und historisch-literarische Texte. KAL 3, WVDOG 121. Wiesbaden. –– 2011: Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries: Origins of Interpretation. GMTR 5. Münster. Frame, G., 1995: Rulers of Babylonia, From the Second Dynasty of Isin to the End of Assyrian Dominion (11157–612 BC). RIMB 2. Toronto / Buffalo / London. Frayne, D.R., 1997: Ur III Period (2112–2004 BC). RIME 3/2. Toronto / Buffalo / London. Fuchs, A., 2011: “Das Osttigrisgebiet von Agum II. bis zu Darius I. (ca. 1500 bis 500 v. Chr.)”. In P.A. Miglus / S. Mühl (eds.): Between the Cultures: The Central Tigris Region from the 3rd to the 1st Millennium BC. HSAO 14. Heidelberg. Pp. 229–320. Galter, H., 2000: “Die Synchronistische Geschichte und die assyrische Grenzpolitik”. In L. Milano / S. de Martino / F.M. Fales / G.B. Lanfranchi (eds.): Landscapes, Territories, Frontiers and Horizons in the Ancient Near East: Papers presented to the XLIV Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Venezia, 7– 11 July 1997. Vol. II: Geography and Cultural Landscapes. HANEM 3–2. Padova. Pp. 29–37. Glassner, J.-J. 2004: Mesopotamian Chronicles. WAW 19. Atlanta, GA. — 2018: “L’abdication de Šulgi”. In K. Kleber / G. Neumann / S. Paulus (eds.):

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Grenzüberschreitungen: Studien zur Kulturgeschichte des Alten Orients. Festschrift für Hans Neumann zum 65. Geburtstag am 9. Mai 2018. dubsar 5. Münster. Pp. 245–265. — 2019: Le Devin historien en Mésopotamie. AMD 16. Leiden. George, A.R., 1992: Babylonian Topographical Texts. OLA 40. Leuven. Gesche, P. 2000: Schulunterricht in Babylonien im ersten Jahrtausend v. Chr. AOAT 275. Münster. Grayson, A.K., 1975a: Babylonian Historical Literary Texts. Toronto / Buffalo. –– 1975b: Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles. Locust Valley, NY. –– 1980: “Assyria and Babylonia”. Or. 49, 140–194. –– 1980–1983: “Königslisten und Chroniken. B. Akkadisch”. RlA 8, 86–135. –– 1983: Assyrian Rulers of the Third and Second Millennia BC (To 1115 BC). RIMA 1. Toronto / Buffalo / London Grayson, A.K. / Lambert, W.G., 1964: “Akkadian Prophecies”. JCS 18, 7–30. Güterbock, H.G., 1934: “Die historische Tradition und ihre literarische Gestaltung bei Babyloniern und Hethitern bis 1200”. ZA 42, 1–91. Hallo, W.W., 1966: “Akkadian Apocalypses”. IEJ 16, 231–242. Hunger, H., 1968: Babylonische und assyrische Kolophone. AOAT 2. Neukirchen-Vluyn. –– 1976: Spätbabylonische Texte aus Uruk, Teil I. ADFU 9. Berlin. Hunger, H. / Kaufman, S. A., 1975: “A New Akkadian Prophecy Text”. JAOS 95/3, 371–375. Jakob, S. 2011: “Das Osttigrisgebiet im strategischen Konzept mittelassyrischer Könige zwischen 1350 und 1056 v. Chr.” In P.A. Miglus / S. Mühl (eds.): Between the Cultures: The Central Tigris Region from the 3rd to the 1st Millennium BC. HSAO 14. Heidelberg. Pp. 191–208. — 2017: “‘One Epic or Many?’ Das Tukulti-Ninurta-Epos zum Ersten, zum Zweiten und zum …?”. In O. Drewnowska / M. Sandwicz (eds.): Fortune and Misfortune in the Ancient Near East. Proceedings of the 60th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale at Warsaw 21–25, July 2014. Winona Lake, IN. Pp. 259–268. Lambert, W.G., 2007: Babylonian Oracle Questions. MesCiv. 13. Winona Lake, IN. Liebig, M., 2011: “Die Feldzüge des Assyrerkönigs Tukulti-Ninurta I. nach Babylonien und seine Zeitgenossen auf dem babylonischen Thron”. NABU 2011-1, 21–24, no. 19. Livingstone, A., 1989: Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea. SAA 3. Helsinki. Llop-Raduà, J. 2011: “The Boundary between Assyria and Babylonia in the East Tigris Region during the Reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I (1233–1197 BC)”. In P.A. Miglus / S. Mühl (eds.): Between the Cultures: The Central Tigris Region from the 3rd to the 1st Millennium BC. HSAO 14. Heidelberg. Pp. 209–225.

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Longman, T., 1983: Fictional Akkadian Royal Autobiography: A Generic and Comparative Study. Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University. –– 1991: Fictional Akkadian Autobiography: A Generic and Comparative Study. Winona Lake, IN. Machinist, P., 1978: The Epic of Tukulti-Ninurta I: A Study in Middle Assyrian Literature, Diss. Yale University. Maul, S.M., 2010: “Die Tontafelbibliothek aus dem sogenannten »Haus des Beschwörungspriesters«”. In S.M. Maul / N.P. Heeßel (eds.): Assur-Forschungen: Arbeiten aus der Forschungsstelle »Edition literarischer Keilschrifttexte aus Assur« der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften. Wiesbaden. Pp. 189–228. May, N., 2013: “‘I Read the Inscriptions from before the Flood …’: Neo-Sumerian Influences in Assurbanipal’s Royal Self-Image”. In L. Feliu et al. (eds.): Time and History in the ancient Near East. ARRAI 56, Barcelona, 26–30 July 2010. Winona Lake, IN. Pp. 199–210. Mayer, W., 1988: “Der babylonische Feldzug Tukultī-Ninurtas I. von Assyrien”. SEL 5, 143–161. Molina, M. 2011–2013: “Tappan-daraḫ”. RlA 13, 452. Mora, C. / Giorgieri, M., 2004: Le lettere tra i re ittiti e i re assiri ritrovate a Ḫattuša. HANEM 7. Padova. Neujahr, M., 2012: Predicting the Past in the Ancient Near East: Mantic Historiography in Mesopotamia, Judah, and the Mediterranean World. Brown Judaic Studies 354. Providence, RI. Nielsen, J.P., 2018: The Reign of Nebuchadnezzar I in the History and Historical Memory. New York. Nissinen, M., 2003 “Neither Prophecies nor Apocalypses: The Akkadian Literary Predictive Texts”. In L.L. Grabbe / R.D. Haak (eds.): Knowing the End from the Beginning: The Prophetic, the Apocalyptic and Their Relationships. Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Supplement 46. London. Pp. 134–148. –– 2017: Ancient Prophecy: Near Eastern, Biblical, and Greek Perspectives, Oxford. Novotny J., 2014: Selected Royal Inscriptions of Assurbanipal L3, L4, LET, Prism I, Prism T, and Related Texts. SAACT 10. Helsinki. Novotny, J. / Jeffers, J., 2018: The Royal Inscriptions of Ashurbanipal (668–631 BC), Aššur-etel-ilāni (630–627 BC), and Sîn-šarra-iškun (626–612 BC), King of Assyria, Part 1. RINAP 5/1. University Park, PA. Oshima, T. 2011: “A Forgotten Royal Hymn to Marduk and Its Historical Background”. JANES 32, 107–116. Paulus, S., 2011: “Foreigners under Foreign Rulers. The Case of Kassite Babylonia (2nd Half of the 2nd Millennium B.C.E.)”. In R. Achenbach / R. Albertz / J. Wöhrle (eds.): The Foreigner and the Law: Perspectives from the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East. Wiesbaden. Pp. 1–15.

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–– 2013: “Beziehungen zweiter Grossmächte – Elam und Babyloniern im der 2. Hälfte des 2. Jt. v. Chr.: ein Beitrag zur internen Chronologie”. In K. de Graef / J. Tavernier (eds.): Susa and Elam. Archaeological, Philological, Historical and Geographical Perspectives. Proceedings of the International Congress held at Ghent University, December 14–17, 2009. Leiden. Pp. 429–449. –– 2014: “Babylonien in der 2. Hälfte des 2. Jts. v. Chr. – (K)ein Imperium?, ein Überblick über Geschichte und Struktur des mittelbabylonischen Reiches (ca. 1500–1000 B.C.)”. In M. Gehler / R. Rollinger (eds.): Imperien und Reiche in der Weltgeschichte. Epochenübergreifende und globalhistorische Vergleiche, Teil 1: Imperien des Altertums, Mittel alterliche und flühneuzeitliche Imperien. Wiesbaden. Pp. 65–100. Paulus, S. / Clayden, T. (eds.), 2020: Babylonia under the Sealand and Kassite Dynasties. SANER 24. Boston / Berlin. Pedersén, O, 1986: Archives and Libraries in the City of Assur: A Survey of the Material from the German Excavations, Part 2, Studia Semitica Upsaliensia 8. Uppsala. Reade, J.E., 1986: “Archaeology and the Kuyunjik Archives”. In K. R. Veenhof (ed.): Cuneiform Archives and Libraries. CRRAI 30, Leiden, 4–8 July 1983. Leiden, Pp. 213–222. –– 1998–2001: “Ninive (Nineveh)”, RlA 9, 388–433. Sallaberger, W., 1999: “Ur III Zeit”. In W. Sallaberger / A. Westenholz: Mesopotamien Akkade-Zeit und Ur III-Zeit. Freiburg / Göttingen. Pp. 121–390. –– 2011–2013: “Šulgi”. RlA 14, 270–280. Singer, I., 2008: “KBo 28.61-64 and the Struggle over the Throne of Babylon at the Turn of the 13th Century BCE”. In G. Wilhelm (ed.): Ḫattuša – Boğazköy: Das Hethiterreich im Spannungsfeld des Alten Orients, CDOG 6, 22.–24. März 2006, Würzburg. Wiesbaden. Pp. 223–245. Starr, I., 1985: “Historical Omens concerning Ashurbanipal’s War against Elam”. AfO 32, 60–67. Sugie, T., 2010: “The Reception of the ‘Marduk Prophecy’ in Seventh-Century B.C. Assur”. Bulletin of the Society for Near Eastern Studies in Japan 53/2, 74–93 (Japanese with English Summary). –– 2012: Babylonian Historical Prediction Texts – Literary Characteristics and Ideological Background. Ph.D. Diss. University of Tsukuba (Japanese). Tadmor, H. / Landsberger, B. / Parpola, S., 1989: “The Sin of Sargon and Sennacherib’s Last Will”. SAAB 3/1, 3–51. Vacin, L., 2011: Šulgi of Ur: Life, Deeds, Ideology and Legacy of Mesopotamian Rulers as Reflected Primarily in Literary Texts. PhD. Diss. SOAS, University of London. van den Hout, T., 1997: “The Proclamation of Telipinu”. In W. W. Hallo / K. L., Younger, Jr. (eds.): The Context of Scripture, vol. 1: Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World. Leiden / New York / Köln. Pp. 194–198.

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van der Spek, R.J., 2003: “Darius III, Alexander the Great, and Babylonian Scholarship”. In W. Henkelman / A. Kuhrt (eds.): A Persian Perspective: Essays in Memory of Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg. Leiden. Pp. 289–346. van Dijk, J., 1986: “Die dynastischen Heiraten zwischen Kassiten und Elamern: eine verhängnisvolle Politik”. Or. 55, 159–170. Walker, C.B.F., 1982: “Babylonian Chronicle 25: A Chronicle of the Kassite and Isin II Dynasties”. In G. van Driel / T.J.H. Krispijn / M. Stol / K.R. Veenhof (eds.): Zikir Šumim: Assyriological Studies Presented to F. R. Kraus on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday. Leiden. Pp. 398–417. Weidner, E.F., 1939–1941: “Texte – Wörter – Sachen”. AfO 13, 230–237. Weissbach, F.H., 1899: “Die geographische Liste II R 50”. ZDMG 53, 653–667. Westenholz, J.G., 1997: Legends of the Kings of Akkade. MesCiv. 7. Winona Lake, IN. Wiseman, D.J. / Black, J.A., 1994: Literary Texts from the Temple of Nabû. CTN 4. Oxford. Yamada, K. / Yamada, S., forthcoming: “Synchronistic History Writing in Mesopotamia and the Biblical Historiography”. Yamada, S., 2003: “Tukulti-Ninurta I’s Rule over Babylonia and Its Aftermath: A Historical Reconstruction”. Orient 38, 153–177. –– 2021: Review of: F. Chen, Study on the Synchronistic King List from Ashur (CunMon. 51. 2020). BSOAS 84/2, 565–567. –– forthcoming: “Assyrian Royal Hunt and Acquisition of Wild Beasts and Exotic Animals: an Examination of Textual Evidence in the Royal Inscriptions”. Zomer, E. 2019: Middle Babylonian Literary Texts from the Frau Professor Hilprecht Collection, Jena. TMHC 12. Wiesbaden. –– 2021: “Enmity against Samsu-ditāna”. In K. DeGraef / A. Goddeeris (eds.): Law and (Dis)order in the Ancient Near East, CRRAI 59, Ghent, Belgium, 15– 19 July 2013. University Park, PA, 324–333.

Plan B(abylonia) Adapting Neo-Assyrian Imperial Projects to Local Circumstances in Babylonia Shana Zaia1 Introduction Running the Assyrian empire was not a one-person job, despite how royal inscriptions tend to portray the king as single-handedly consolidating his territory and building up his empire. The state archives reveal a very different image, one in which the kings relied upon a complex administrative apparatus, and on local agents in particular, to manage the empire and bring their military and infrastructure projects to fruition. These officials were faced with the unenviable task of managing the logistics of realizing the king’s plans on the ground, no matter how grandiose or idealized the king’s vision was. It is at these local levels that we can observe the many potential failure points between the king issuing his command to his top-level administrators and its actual execution. These problems are particularly visible in letters between the king and his officials, and include: labor and cash shortages; the unavailability of necessary resources, especially imported ones; incompetent and insubordinate officials; negligence and errors; and resistance to changes in administration. What follows is not a survey of these obstacles, but rather the specific failures that occurred because of where a royal project was localized; that is, cases in which something about the place presented distinct challenges to realizing the imperial initiative. These case studies are based in Assyrian-controlled Babylonia in the 1st millennium BCE. Unlike their northern counterparts, who tended to use homogenous or – perhaps better – homogenizing labels like “Assyria” and “Assyrians,” using terms such as māt Aššur, mārē or nišē māt Aššur, and aššurû/aššurāyē, Babylonians had more strongly articulated local identities and traditions.2 There was no one word for “Babylonia” or “Babylonians” to refer generally to southern Mesopotamia and

1

I am delighted to dedicate this study to Simo Parpola, a dear friend of the Assyrian community and without whom Neo-Assyrian studies would not be the vibrant field it is today. It is my hope that this contribution, which was inspired by some of Simo’s many publications and projects, will serve as a small token of my immense gratitude to him. This research was conducted within the project “The King’s City” (grant no. 749965), funded by a Marie Skłodowska-Curie Individual Fellowship undertaken at the University of Vienna. I thank Michael Jursa for comments on an earlier draft of this article and the anonymous reviewers for their suggestions. 2 On Assyrian conceptualizations of territory, citizenship, identity, and ethnonyms, see Parpola, 2004; Fales, 2015; Valk, 2018 and Machinist, 1993.

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its inhabitants.3 Instead, southerners were often identified by their cities or regions of origin, particularly in the constructions mār [city name] (“son of [city name]”) or LU2.[city name](-a-a).4 Individual Babylonian cities, many of which were ancient settlements, had their own local customs and traditions, administrative hierarchies, and societal priorities, which were not necessarily compatible with imperial agendas.5 The case studies below show how the logistical, cultural, or political characteristics of a particular city could exacerbate typical logistical issues and necessitated a more nuanced approach in Assyrian efforts to consolidate their hegemony in Babylonia.6 Case #1: Dēr Royal projects often involved construction work, including on monumental buildings such as temples and arsenals, or on infrastructure like canals and city walls. It is thus fairly common that officials wrote to each other or to the king about problems with construction, usually about interruptions in the supply chain or a shortage of workers.7 One project in Dēr, however, demonstrates a more unusual problem that arose due to local circumstances. Dēr was a frontier city situated on the border between Assyria, Babylonia, and Elam and therefore had strategic value for the Assyrians, who used it as a fortress from which to campaign against the Elamites and surveil the political situation in Babylonia.8 There was a con3 Southern Mesopotamia was often referred to generally as Sumer and Akkad (šumeru u akkadî) and some inscriptions utilized the antiquated term Karduniaš, which designated the region under Kassite control in the 2nd millennium. See also Richardson, 2017: 21–28 for conceptions of Babylonia and city identities in the Old Babylonian period, which remained similar in the 1st millennium. 4 Fales, 2013: 66–69, 71–72, including that some of the prominent Assyrian cities also used these constructions to designate their inhabitants. 5 On the fragmentary political, social, and cultural landscape of southern Mesopotamia, see Fales, 2013: 71–73. 6 See Pirngruber, 2018 for Babylonian administrators’ relationships with both the Assyrian kings and each other. 7 See Parpola, 1995 on the logistics of building Dūr-Šarrukīn and the correspondence about it. 8 For Dēr under the Assyrian kings, see Frahm, 2009. A number of letters to Sargon II from the qīpu of Dēr, Šamaš-bēlu-uṣur, illuminate Dēr’s position in Assyrian imperial policy, since he wrote several times to report on the activities of the Elamite king (e.g., SAA 15 114, 115) and coordinated responses and levied troops from the entire region in the wake of an Elamite attack (SAA 17 120). The governor (šaknu) of Dēr, Il-yada’, regularly corresponded with Sargon II as well (Postgate / Mattila, 2004). A reference to Sargon II defeating the Elamite ruler Ḫumban-nikaš I near Dēr may also suggest that the Assyrian king was using the city as a military outpost, but this is not made explicit (RINAP 2 43:17). At some point, Marduk-nāṣir asked Sargon II’s brother and sukkallu, Sîn-aḫuuṣur, to station troops at Dēr in response to escalating military tensions (SAA 17 136). Later, Assurbanipal marched into Dēr to advance against Teumman of Elam (RINAP 5/1

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sistent Assyrian royal presence in the city starting already at the beginning of the first millennium,9 but the Sargonid kings in particular seem to have viewed investing in the city and its local infrastructure as beneficial to maintaining their authority there.10 Kings were involved in the local cults and may have even visited the city.11 Some kings expanded Dēr’s privileges and powers: Sargon II abolished corvée labor and established šubarrû-privileges for the citizens12 of Dēr, and Sennacherib gave Dēr’s rab birti (garrison commander) purview over border cities that Sennacherib had reclaimed from Elamite control.13 However, Dēr’s border status posed unique challenges. Illustrative is a letter from Mār-Ištar to Esarhaddon about the king’s temple building project there. He writes that the officials in Dēr had only managed to lay the foundations and the project has not progressed because the šatammu (the local temple administrator) and bēl piqittāte (commissioners) keep putting off the work and avoiding respon-

3 v 79–82). Imperial responses were not exclusively focused on Elam: Assurbanipal claims that the citizens of Dēr (mārī Dēr) petitioned him for military protection against the people of Qirbit, a nearby city to the north (RINAP 5/2 207 r.12–16). On military troops and provisions based in the city, see Postgate / Mattila, 2004: 238. In general, there were close ties between Dēr officials and the Assyrian high command, and a governor of Dēr, Šulmubēli-lašme, was even eponym in 670 BCE (Millard, 1994: 122). 9 The first known attestation of the city in the Assyrian royal inscriptions is on a brick of Old Assyrian king Ilu-šumma, who mentions Dēr ša Ištarān as one of the cities for which he established andurāru (RIMA 1 A.0.32.2:49–65). The direct Assyrian control of the city appears in royal inscriptions with Adad-nērārī II, who claims to conquer it and its territory (RIMA 2 A.0.99.2:28). Šamšī-Adad V also captured the city, deporting the local deities (RIMA 3 A.0.103.2 iii 37′–48′, SAA 3 41:5–r.4). Dēr’s history is discussed in Postgate / Mattila, 2004. 10 This included military infrastructure: Šamaš-bēlu-uṣur mentions (e.g., in SAA 15 113) construction on the local fort (bīrtu) and outer city wall (šalḫû) and possibly a garrison (maṣṣartu). Šamaš-bēlu-uṣur and Nabû-dūru-uṣur often mention Dēr and the bīrtu together in their epistolary greeting formula, for instance SAA 15 113 and SAA 15 131. 11 A royal order to Zerūti and the ēribūti bīti (“temple enterers”) of Dēr advises them of an intercalary month and ends with the command “perform the festival and rites of my gods in a propitious month,” indicating that the king, either Esarhaddon or Assurbanipal, viewed Dēr as part of the religious network of the empire (SAA 13 4). The gods of Dēr were integrated into the tākultu rites of Sennacherib (SAA 20 38 r. iv 29–35). For possible royal visits to the city, see SAA 15 129 r.1–4 (concerning a construction project) and SAA 21 157 (related to military movements). 12 “Citizens” in this article is used to convey the sense of city-based identity in formulae such as mār GN and is essentially synonymous with “inhabitants,” it does not refer to anachronistic conceptions of citizenship. See also Barjamovic, 2004. 13 For privileges: RINAP 2 7:8–10 (with numerous other Babylonian cities), 8:4 (šubarrûprivileges), 41:5–6 (“who abolished corvée duty for Dēr (and) gave relief to their weary people”). For the garrison commander: RINAP 3/1 23 iv 52–53, with parallel passages in other inscriptions.

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sibility: And the temple of Dēr: from the moment its foundations were laid until now, the šatammu and the bēl piqittāte of Dēr have been pushing (the responsibility) onto each other, and nobody has set about it. This year they started to build, (but) one day they do the work, (and) the next day they abandon it.14 The temple is presumably Edimgalkalama, the home of the city’s patron deity, Anu-rabû (also known as Ištarān), whom Esarhaddon claims to have restored to his seat in that temple, along with other Dēr-based deities that had been removed by a previous king.15 As this letter shows, the king’s reconstruction efforts stalled because of local incompetence and negligence, which is certainly not unheard of with royal projects. But unlike those conducted in cities within the Assyrian core, Dēr’s border with Elam meant that the local administration’s disorganization and lack of motivation had broader implications than just the project lagging. In fact, it created an opening for a prince of Elam to make a good-will offering: he sent laborers, most likely to make bricks, a physically demanding task, which would surely win over the locals who would otherwise have to do it themselves. The letter reads: I heard that a prince of Elam has become troublesome and sent corvée workers (urāsū) there. Dēr is situated on the border of another land. If it pleases the king, my lord, let a bodyguard (ša-qurbūtu) and an Assyrian foreman (etinnu) go and live there. Let them perform the work (dullu) on the temple and [establish the name of the king, my lord,] forever. The king, my lord, should [not neglect] the guard of [the temple / the city].16 This complication jeopardizes Dēr’s loyalty to Assyria, and Mār-Ištar explicitly cites the city’s frontier location as an important consideration in both the problem and the possible solutions.17 One issue seems to be the absence of Assyrian 14

SAA 10 349 r.11–18. “Esarhaddon … (who) made Anu-rabû (Ištarān) enter his city Dēr and his temple Edimgalkalama and had (him) sit upon (his) eternal dais” (RINAP 4 128:10) and “I returned Anu-rabû (Ištarān), Šarrat-Dēri, Niraḫ, Bēlet-balāṭi, Kurunītum, Sakkud of the city Bubê, (and) Mār-bīti to Dēr, their city” (RINAP 4 48 r.94). Šamšī-Adad V had earlier reported taking almost all of these same deities from Dēr to Assyria, for instance in RIMA 3 A.0.103.2 iii 42′–48′. Assurbanipal later records work on Edimgalkalama as well (RINAP 5/1 10 iii 15–17). See Frahm, 2009: 55–64 for the Assyrian building projects related to this temple. 16 SAA 10 349, translation modified. For another discussion of this letter, see Frahm, 2009: 56–57. 17 This is not the only time that Dēr officials leveraged their political networks for royal support; for example, the qīpu Šamaš-bēlu-uṣur communicated with the Assyrian governor in Arrapḫa, who then acted as a liaison between Dēr and Sargon II, to resolve an issue 15

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oversight that created a logistical vacuum for the Elamite prince to fill.18 After all, the šatammu and other officials may have come from local families rather than being Assyrian officials who were dispatched there. Mār-Ištar therefore suggests that Esarhaddon deploy an Assyrian foreman and bodyguard to thwart the Elamite prince’s overtures and ensure that the temple project moves forward and remains a solely Assyria-sponsored production. Case #2: Babylon Some problems were grounded in cultural or ideological idiosyncrasies. A good example is Babylon, which presented unique challenges because it was the political and religious capital of Babylonia. Most of the Neo-Assyrian kings wanted to maintain control over Babylonia for reasons related to resources (e.g., local and trade goods) and prestige, which meant that they needed to act as kings of Babylon and carry out the duties important to this office.19 In particular, they had to be patrons of the capital and its institutions, and to respect the special status of Babylon’s inhabitants that set them apart from other Babylonians. This included historical exemptions from undue taxes and conscripted labor, precisely the demands the king would make on a local population to carry out his building or military plans.20 This meant that projects based in Babylon largely relied upon labor and materials sourced from other cities, but Babylon itself provided little support to the rest of the empire. Nonetheless, Assyrian kings had to invest in the city because of its ideological and political importance, even if it made undertaking projects more difficult logistically. about inscriptions for the temple wall (SAA 15 4). For further coordination between the two cities, see also SAA 19 82. 18 Dēr’s struggles to manage their own projects may have been systemic, as this is not the only time Dēr needed to import foremen and builders; for instance, the šandabakku of Nippur took over logistics in a similar way at one point and he appointed a certain Bāniya (who was overseeing the construction of a ziggurat) to handle repair work in Dēr (OIP 114 no. 33). I thank Bernhard Schneider for bringing this letter to my attention. 19 On non-Babylonian kings performing Babylonian kingship, see Waerzeggers, 2015; Zaia, 2019. 20 The citizens of Babylon and Babylon itself were occasionally identified as belonging to special categories such as ṣābē kidinni (u) šubarrê “people of kidinnu (and) šubarrû privileges” (RINAP 4 105 vii 12–17) and āl kidinni “city of kidinnu privileges” (RINAP 4 114 iv 18, RINAP 5/2 231:3′). Babylon was not the only city given kidinnūtu; indeed, a number of Babylonian cities received this privileged status (i.e., Borsippa, Sippar, and Nippur) and Assur was an āl kidinni as well (RINAP 2 89:11–12), but there was an especial emphasis on granting this privilege to Babylon’s citizens, see Reviv, 1988. For the description of the citizens of Babylon as ṣābē kidinni within New Year’s Festival texts, see most recently Debourse, 2019: 186, 189 fn. 47, 193–196, though she notes that, by the time of these texts’ composition (around the 4th–2nd centuries BCE), this may have referred only to the priestly and scholarly families creating these texts.

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This privileged status was not simply a propagandistic fiction touted in the royal inscriptions to demonstrate the king’s benevolence. Letters suggest that the people of Babylon truly considered themselves a special group, distinct from those living in other Babylonian cities.21 A message from Assurbanipal addressed ana Bābilaya ṣābē kidinnīya “to the Babylonians, the people of my kidinnūtu privileges,” which parallels the usage of ṣābē kidinni in royal inscriptions to describe the inhabitants of Babylon, confirms at least some effort on the part of the Assyrian kings to pander to this attitude.22 This belief of exceptionalism created additional hurdles for the kings and their local representatives, who were faced with inhabitants of Babylon refusing to cooperate or provide manpower and money for royal initiatives.23 Several Babylonian leaders directly appealed to the king to release them from these burdens by invoking the historical protections of the city, such as in the following letters to Sîn-aḫu-uṣur (Sargon II’s brother and the sukkallu “vizier”)24 and to Sargon II, respectively: I prayed to Bēl and Nabû for the good health of the king, my lord, and of the sukkallu, saying, “When will the king, my lord, come here and establish the protection (kidinnūtu) of Babylon?” Every day the Babylonians are confident (raḫṣū) … Šamaš and Marduk have installed you for intercession in Assyria. Persuade the king to come here and to release (zakû) Babylon for Marduk, and (make) your name everlasting in Esagil and Ezida!25 As we have heard, the magnates (rabûtu) of the king are telling the king, my lord, that he should not go to Babylon. Tiglath-pileser (III) [and Shalmane]ser (V), who went (there), […] … If you come, (as) [a king who] receives the leftovers (of the gods), [who] restores peace (and) […] to Es21

See Scurlock, 2012 for ideological rivalries between Babylon and other cities. SAA 21 1:1. Assurbanipal assures the inhabitants of Babylon that “your brotherhood with the Assyrians and your kidinnūtu-status, which I have established, remain valid” (SAA 21 3:15–17). A letter to Esarhaddon mentions an attempt by local officials to collect debts in Babylon that were incurred before Sennacherib’s destruction of the city, reporting that the king became angry at this request, replying “What is there in Babylon (to collect)? The city was in ruins, and I have resettled it and established its freedom (andurāru),” releasing these debts (SAA 10 169:8–11). On this letter, see also Streck, 2002: 212–215. 23 Richardson (2017: 26), writing about the Old Babylonian period, remarks that these exemptions and privileges “legally limited the reach of state power, and began to build lines of city-identity by enumerated rights, rather than clientage. This trajectory did not result in any finished, generalizable form, and it was a long way from citizenship; but it later pushed in that direction by legally defining individuals and cities according to bundled entitlements determined by place.” These 1st millennium examples suggest a similar limitation on state power. 24 See May, 2017 for the sukkallu and his responsibilities. 25 SAA 17 21:10–r.16, translation modified. zakû ana DN is often used in the sense of “to release (and dedicate) to DN” (CAD Z, zakû 5.2′). 22

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agil (and) Babylon, secures its protection (kidinnu) [and] carries out (the agreement) with the inhabitants of Babylon (mārī Bābili), [who reple]nishes [the trea]suries of Esagil and Ezida – Bēl and Nabû will grant (you) a long life, good health and happiness … [May the gods of the king], my [lo]rd, kn[ow that …] the earlier kings indeed [did establish] (our) protection (kidinnūtu).26 These letters reveal an expectation on the part of the citizens of Babylon that the king would establish kidinnūtu privileges, with the appeal noting that earlier kings had done so.27 It was not enough to grant these protections, however; the people of Babylon desired the very presence of the king in their city, not only for ensuring their kidinnūtu agreement, but also for his participation in the temple cult. While other cities also received certain special exemptions, these letters frame the relationship between state and city as one that is between the king and all of the citizens of Babylon equally. Confidence (raḫṣu) was normally bestowed upon elites by the king, and it was an expression of the latter’s support, “something broader than mere personal confidence and more like political credibility.”28 But here, it is not the king who gives raḫṣu to his elites, but in fact every person in Babylon has confidence in the king, suggesting a perception of generalized elite status for the population as well as a special relationship between them and their ruler. This close relationship is also expressed when the letter writer claims that, to receive the blessings of Bēl and Nabû, Sargon II should not only set into place the privileges (kidinnu kaṣāru) but he must also “carry out (the agreement) with the citizens of Babylon” (itti mārī Bābili šullumu).29 This is of course in addition to patronizing the main temples, Esagil and Ezida, which are central to the duties of the king of Babylon.30 26

SAA 17 23:21–r.15, translation modified. SAA 17 21 and 23 were likely both authored by Bēl-iqīša, who may have tried appealing directly to the king and, receiving no answer, addressed his pleas to the sukkallu, especially given the stated hope that the latter would intervene on his behalf to Sargon II. On Bēl-iqīša and these letters, see Pirngruber, 2018: 128–129. 27 On kidinnūtu, see Pongratz-Leisten, 1997; Porter, 1993: 64 fn. 145; and Reviv, 1988. 28 Richardson, 2016: 59–62. 29 An appeal to the king from the people of Babylon states the “whoever enters inside it (Babylon), his kidinnūtu is secured (kaṣāru)” (SAA 18 158:9). The rest of the letter is difficult to understand but seems to be concerned about protections for the foreign widows of a Babylonian family (Eṭiru and his sons) whose men were put to death by Šuzubu (Nergal-ušēzib) for their loyalty to Assyria. Eṭiru was the šatammu of Esagil and was killed during Esarhaddon’s reign (PNA 1/II: 408). Letters from the king also addressed the citizens as a group: for example, Assurbanipal also writes to the Babilaya as a general group (see SAA 21 3:1). Usually letters are addressed first to individual officials, even if the address includes general audiences as well, cf. “the king’s (Assurbanipal’s) word to Enlil-bāni and the Nippureans, old and young” (SAA 21 18:1–3). 30 Waerzeggers, 2010: 4–8.

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One letter from Mār-Ištar seems to detail the fallout when local officials ignored these protections and attempted to forcibly raise funds for an Assyrian military campaign. Mār-Ištar reports to Esarhaddon that a conflict broke out between the governor (šākin ṭēmi) of Babylon and the locals, writing: Necessitated by the fact that the governors (šākin ṭēmāni) were told to ready their war-chariots, they assigned much silver (dues) to the citizens of Babylon, Borsippa and Cutha, and collected it. The citizens of Babylon (mārī Bābili), muškēnūtu31 who are (subservient) to nobody (ša memmēnišunu laššūni), raised a clamor and protested. The governor (šākin ṭēmi) imprisoned (some) men from amongst them (on the pretense): “You threw clumps of dirt at my messengers” … I have heard that the judge Ṭabî incited the men who protested.32 In short, the city governors taxed the people of Babylon, Borsippa, and Cutha to raise money because they were commanded to prepare their war chariots, probably for a military campaign. When the governor of Babylon collected this tax, the people of Babylon, described as noncompliant types, complained and protested, allegedly (according to the governor) even throwing lumps of dirt at him, though Mār-Ištar posits this last claim as a pretense to jail the ones leading the charge. Mār-Ištar additionally claims that he heard it was a judge who encouraged this protest, perhaps further suggesting that they believed they were being treated in an unlawful way. Inhabitants of Babylon were not exempt from all forms of taxation, but this type of ad hoc tax to support an expensive royal project was clearly out of bounds for this privileged group, which presumably did not usually have to contribute. The Borsippeans and Cutheans seem not to have responded in the same way, at least. Thus, Assyrian kings were limited in what local human and financial resources were available to them for projects in Babylon, and they could not rely on the people of Babylon, the largest and most populous city in the south, to contribute these assets to any royal initiatives anywhere else in the empire. Moreover, Babylon’s status as the capital caused an administrative hurdle for local building projects during Assurbanipal’s early reign, when his brother Šamaššuma-ukīn was the official king of Babylon. While Šamaš-šuma-ukīn had to invest in local institutions because of the duties of his office, Assurbanipal also had an interest in patronizing Babylon in order to cultivate Babylonia’s loyalty to Assyria and to bring him prestige.33 This created a cumbersome process in which local officials had to report to two separate kings and get approval from both, 31

On this complicated term, see Richardson (2017: 47 n. 35): “most Old Babylonian usage points toward those under personal obligation to the King (not a citizen’s obligation to his state), and thereby exempt from additional duties.” 32 SAA 10 348 b.e.23–r.21, translation modified. 33 On the dual regency, see Frame, 1992: 102–114.

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adding logistical obstacles to every royal undertaking in the city. A letter from Urdu-aḫḫēšu, an official based in Babylon, exactly demonstrates this problem when he writes to Assurbanipal about completed work on Esagil, the temple complex of the city patron god, Marduk. He describes in detail the many renovation projects that have been successfully completed in the temple complex thus far, which Assurbanipal had ordered: Esagil, (including) the upper courtyard in the temple in which Bēl and Bēltiya reside, together with its sanctuaries, and the cella of Tašmētu, the lower courtyard, together with its san[ctuaries] – every bit of this has been c[ompletely] rebuilt. The plaster … the daises of [Bēl] and Nabû […], the burnt brick[s for …] we have made and we have […]. All the drainage pipes [are finished]. We have placed battlements of bitu[men and] burnt brick on all the temples. We are awaiting the parṣū. The king, my lord, should know (this).34 At the end of his report, Urdu-aḫḫēšu adds that Šamaš-šuma-ukīn had ordered work on Esagil too, specifically on its wall and courtyard, and on the temple of Bēlet-Bābili. He writes, “The king of Babylon has told us: ‘You should rebuild the enclosure wall of Esagil. You should rebuild the temple of Bēlet-Bābili. Let the oth[er] corvée workers (urāsū) make the baked bricks for the courtyard of Esagil.’ The king, my lord, should know (this too).”35 The implication is that the foremen in Babylon received commands from both kings and kept one (if not both) appraised of the other’s directives. While these kings might have conducted overlapping projects in other Babylonian cities,36 it was Babylon’s particular political, ideological, and cultural significance to both the king of Assyria and the king of Babylon that prompted this unnecessarily convoluted oversight of local projects. Case #3: Nippur The final case study is Nippur, one of Assyria’s more consistent allies in Babylonia. Nippur is unusual in that most of the challenges were due to Nippur’s relationships with other Babylonian cities. Essentially, in wanting to control Nippur, the Assyrian kings inherited a millennium’s worth of cultural baggage between 34

SAA 13 168:12–r.7. SAA 13 168 r.8–16, translation modified. 36 For instance, both kings claim in their Babylonian inscriptions to have renovated Ebabbar in Sippar (RIMB 2 B.6.33.2 and B.6.32.12:16–18) and Ezida’s enclosure wall in Borsippa (RIMB 2 B.6.33.3:13–16, RIMB 2 B.6.32.14:33–36 with almost identical wording). In the latter case, the inscriptions are on stelae depicting the respective kings carrying work baskets and were both found a room in the Ezida, but it is not clear whether they were created at the same time. Both were written in Babylonian script, but Assurbanipal’s has Neo-Assyrian sign forms as well (RIMB 2: 217). 35

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Nippur and its neighbors. Nippur had never quite recovered psychologically from losing its status as the primary religious center to Babylon in the 2nd millennium, and the city never really integrated well with the rest of Babylonia, preferring to retain its own traditions and networks.37 When it was allied with the Neo-Assyrian kings, Nippur enjoyed a relatively privileged role rather than its normally marginal one. It became an important Assyrian base of operations in Babylonia, and the kings were invested in keeping a foothold in the city, whose loyalties had tended to fluctuate.38 Consequently, Assyrian kings sponsored major building projects, including for the temple and ziggurat of Enlil, Nippur’s patron deity; they improved the canal works, which were critical to the city’s survival; and they integrated the city into Assyrian networks of trade and communication, even installing a local post station and garrison.39 In general, Nippur’s infrastructure benefitted greatly from Assyria’s investments, but this patronage came at a high price, as it further estranged and isolated Nippur from other Babylonian cities, particularly in moments when tensions between Assyria and Babylonia escalated. Assyria was basically a victim of its own success in cultivating loyalty in Nippur, as challenges in maintaining Nippur’s safety and infrastructure stemmed from problems with other Babylonian cities that were exacerbated primarily by Assyria’s involvement. Letters from Nippureans to the Assyrian king certainly give the impression of a vulnerable city being threatened and harmed because of their political affiliations. One letter from Nippur’s šandabakku (city governor) to the Assyrian king, probably Esarhaddon, states the situation rather bluntly: “The king knows that all the lands hate us because of Assyria. We don’t have safe passage in any lands. Wherever we go, we get killed with the words: ‘Why did you grasp the feet of Assyria?’ Now we’ve blocked off the city gates (and) we don’t go out to the open country.”40 Having Nippurean associates was not going to help the Assyrian king build networks of allies and collect intelligence in Babylonia if his local agents were consequently isolated and confined within the city limits. While this would have been aggravating to any king trying to use Nippur as a power base, it also made carrying out royal projects in the city more problematic because the kings had to invest more and more of their resources there, and often to maintain a status quo rather than improving Nippur’s standing and utility. To this end, the šandabakku complains to the Assyrian king that Nippur’s water supply had been cut off by a man named Ṣillaya, who opposed Assyrian presence in Babylonia. Warfare via water access had a long tradition in Babylonia, and Nippur was especially vulnerable to this tactic, as it was not located on the 37

On the history of Nippur, see Cole, 1996: 5–22. See also Scurlock, 2012 for tensions and competition between Nippur and Babylon. 38 Cole, 1996: 69–83. 39 Cole, 1996: 75–80. 40 SAA 18 70:11–b.e.20, translation modified.

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Euphrates River and relied more heavily on canals for irrigation and transport.41 The šandabakku relays the urgency of the city’s aquatic precarity – “there’s no water, don’t let us die of thirst!”42 He claims that the king’s father had brought water to Nippur by building a new arm off the Bānītu Canal near Babylon. It was this very waterway that Ṣillaya had now dammed up, so the šandabakku appeals to the Assyrian king to command the governor of Babylon to open a new arm from the Bānītu Canal to Nippur.43 As simple and vital as this request seems, substantial resources would have needed to be reallocated for its execution, potentially placing an unexpected burden not only on the workforces the king already had nearby, but also possibly forcing the king to collect and dispatch additional funding and workers to dig the new waterway. But the letter made clear that the king had little choice in this matter if he wanted to keep Nippur as an Assyrian base. Otherwise Nippur would “slip from the king’s hands because of thirst,” which the king should seek to prevent so that “all the lands cannot [s]ay: ‘The people of Nippur (LÚ.EN.LÍL.KI.MEŠ) who [gr]asped the feet of Assyria were filled to the brim with thirst.’”44 In other words, Nippur’s neighbors would judge the king for leaving his loyal allies to die rather than provide the basic necessity of water. He implies this would undermine Assyrian efforts to secure other allies, as it was hardly a persuasive advertisement for joining the empire. The Assyrian kings also had to provide Nippur with military personnel and equipment. A letter to Assurbanipal from the šandabakku Enlil-bāni and Nippur’s clergy members45 indicate that the city is under threat by its enemies, including nearby Aramean and Chaldean groups. They ask the king for an assurance that he and his military forces would protect them. They claim they have too few soldiers to fend off an attack on their own, and that the Assyrian forces should stay in the city to defend Nippur from an enemy takeover: “We are few and are no match for a[ll …] … The f[orces] should [s]t[ay] with us, [so tha]t we can guard Nippur and deliver it to the kin[g]. But even i[f the fo]rces do [not] stand gu[ard] with us in Nippur, the king must not leave u[s] to the hands of the enemy.”46 41

Nippur used to be on the Euphrates River route but the river changed course in the late second millennium BCE, thereafter it “strongly favoured the western cities while turning the old heartland of the alluvium around Nippur into a region of secondary importance at best” (Jursa, 2010: 34). 42 SAA 18 70 r.5–6. 43 “The king, your father, granted us water from the Bānītu Canal, saying: ‘Dig an arm of the Bānītu Canal to Nippur!’ Ṣillaya has shut us off. Now, may the king command Ubaru, the governor (šākin ṭēmi) of Babylon, to grant us an arm of the Bānītu Canal, so we can use the water together with them” (SAA 18 70 r.5–14, translation modified). 44 SAA 18 70 r.10–r.e.22, translation modified. 45 “Enlil-bāni, and your servants, the Nippurians (LÚ.EN.LÍL.KI.MEŠ/Nippuraya), nešakkupriests and ‘temple-enterers’ (ērib bītāti) young and old” (SAA 18 199:1–4). 46 SAA 18 199 r.6′–11′.

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Another letter shows the same šandabakku and the šaknu Aššur-bēlu-taqqin (writing on behalf of the people of Nippur) claiming that the territory around Nippur was too large for their archers alone to patrol and that they needed a cavalry force, asking that the king send them horses. They write, The king, ou[r] lord, [knows] whether we ever left our watch or were negligent in our watch since the king, our lord, appointed u[s] to [our] watc[h]. The territory before us is extensive. Five stages of territory square, forty length units, is the stretch of a watch for (both) cavalry and archers. We have written several times to the house of our lords about horses. We are currently keeping watch with archers (only) and praying to the gods of the king, our lord.47 Stationing some number of Assyrian soldiers in Nippur and deploying horses or trained cavalry there may have diverted resources from elsewhere and meant that these soldiers were not available for other campaigns. Thus, Nippur’s dependence on Assyrian protection from its neighbors may have stretched Assyrian forces thinner and hindered military responses elsewhere in the south. Conclusions These examples demonstrate some of the different ways in which local circumstances changed, hindered, or even thwarted the realization of imperial projects beyond the expected hiccups of disorganization, errors, shortages, or inattention that one often finds in the letters between the Assyrian king and his officials. For Dēr, its geographical location as a border city meant that state inattention jeopardized not only the temple building project but also the empire’s control of a tactically important stronghold at the Elamite border. For Babylon, the city’s status as the southern capital meant that the strategies Assyrian kings normally employed to raise funding and labor resources for military and construction projects were not available to them, and the city in general was subject to different expectations and procedures. For Nippur, its historical tensions and rivalries with other Babylonians were exacerbated when it was allied with Assyria, potentially creating a vicious cycle in which the alliance fueled aggression against Nippur, forcing the kings to invest more heavily in the city’s defenses and infrastructure, which only provoked more ire against Nippur for its relationship with Assyria. This diverted much needed resources from other projects around the empire. These and other local circumstances, some of which may have been predictable and others less so, meant that Assyrian kings and their officials had to be prepared to adapt their idealistic visions to whatever complicated or chaotic local realities they faced.

47

SAA 18 197:8–r.4.

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Abbreviations CAD Gelb, I.J., et al., 1956–2010: The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Chicago / Glückstadt. OIP 114 Cole, S.W., 1996: Nippur IV: The Early Neo-Babylonian Governor’s Archive from Nippur. Oriental Institute Publications 114. Chicago, IL. PNA 1/II Parpola, S., et al, 1999: The Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire, Volume 1/II: B–G. Helsinki. RIMA 1 Grayson, A.K., 1987: Assyrian Rulers of the Third and Second Millennia BC (to 1115 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia: Assyrian Periods 1. Toronto. RIMA 2 Grayson, A.K., 1991: Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC I (1114–859 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia: Assyrian Periods 2. Toronto. RIMA 3 Grayson, A.K., 1996: Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC II (858–745 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia: Assyrian Periods 3. Toronto. RIMB 2 Frame, G., 1995: Rulers of Babylonia: From the Second Dynasty of Isin to the End of Assyrian Domination (1157–612 BC). Toronto. RINAP 2 Frame, G., 2021: The Royal Inscriptions of Sargon II, King of Assyria (721–705 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 2. State College, PA. RINAP 3/1 Grayson, A.K. / Novotny, J., 2012: The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC), Part 1. The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 3/1. Winona Lake, IN. RINAP 4 Leichty, E., 2011: The Royal Inscriptions of Esarhaddon, King of Assyria (680–669 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 4. Winona Lake, IN. RINAP 5/1 Novotny, J. / Jeffers, J., 2018: The Royal Inscriptions of Ashurbanipal (668–631 BC), Aššur-etel-ilāni (630–627 BC) and Sîn-šarraiškun (626–612 BC), Kings of Assyria, Part 1. The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 5/1. State College, PA. RINAP 5/2 Novotny, J. / Jeffers, J., 2018: The Royal Inscriptions of Ashurbanipal (668–631 BC), Aššur-etel-ilāni (630–627 BC) and Sîn-šarraiškun (626–612 BC), Kings of Assyria, Part 2. The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 5/2. Online resource: http://oracc. museum.upenn.edu/rinap/rinap5/ pager Accessed March 6, 2022. SAA 3 Livingstone, A., 1989: Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea. State Archives of Assyria 3. Helsinki. SAA 10 Parpola, S., 1993: Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars. State Archives of Assyria 10. Helsinki.

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Cole, S.W. / Machinist, P., 1998: Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Priests to Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal. State Archives of Assyria 13. Helsinki. Mattila, R., 2002: Legal Transactions of the Royal Court of Nineveh, Part II: Assurbanipal Through Sin-šarru-iškun. State Archives of Assyria 14. Helsinki. Fuchs, A. / Parpola, S., 2001: The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part III: Letters from Babylonia and the Eastern Provinces. State Archives of Assyria 15. Helsinki. Dietrich, M., 2003: The Neo-Babylonian Correspondence of Sargon and Sennacherib. State Archives of Assyria 17. Helsinki. Reynolds, F.S., 2003: The Babylonian Correspondence of Esarhaddon and Letters to Assurbanipal and Sin-šarru-iškun from Northern and Central Babylonia. State Archives of Assyria 18. Helsinki. Luukko, M., 2012: The Correspondence of Tiglath-pileser III and Sargon II from Calah/Nimrud. State Archives of Assyria 19. Helsinki. Parpola, S., 2017: Assyrian Royal Rituals and Cultic Texts. State Archives of Assyria 20. Helsinki / Winona Lake, IN. Parpola, S., 2018: The Correspondence of Assurbanipal, Part I: Letters from Assyria, Babylonia, and Vassal States. State Archives of Assyria 21. State College, PA.

Bibliography Barjamovic, G., 2004: “Civic Institutions and Self-Government in Southern Mesopotamia in the Mid-First Millennium BC.” In J. G. Dercksen (ed.): Assyria and Beyond: Studies presented to Mogens Trolle Larsen. PIHANS 100. Leiden. Pp.47–98. Cole, S.W., 1996: Nippur in Late Assyrian Times c. 755–612 BC. Helsinki. Debourse, C., 2019: “Debita Reverentia: Understanding Royal Humiliation in the New Year’s Festival Texts.” Kaskal 16, 183–200. Fales, F.M., 2013: “Ethnicity in the Assyrian Empire: A View from the Nisbe, (I): Foreigners and ‘Special’ Inner Communities.” In D. S. Vanderhooft / A. Winitzer (eds.): Literature as Politics, Politics as Literature: Essays on the Ancient Near East in Honor of Peter Machinist. Winona Lake, IN. Pp. 47–73. — 2015: “Ethnicity in the Neo-Assyrian Empire: A View from the Nisbe (II): ‘Assyrians.’” In M. G. Biga / J. Cordoba et al. (eds.): Homenaje a Mario Liverani fundador de una ciencia nueva, Madrid. Pp. 183–204. Frahm, E., 2009: “Assurbanipal at Der.” In M. Luukko / S. Svärd / R. Mattila (eds.): Of God(s), Trees, Kings, and Scholars: Neo-Assyrian and Related Studies in Honour of Simo Parpola. Helsinki. Pp. 51–64. Frame, G., 1992: Babylonia 689–627 B.C. A Political History. Leiden.

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Jursa, M., 2010: Aspects of the Economic History of Babylonia in the First Millennium BC. Münster. Machinist, P., 1993: “Assyrians on Assyria in the First Millennium B.C.” In K. A. Raaflaub (ed.): Anfänge politischen Denkens in der Antike: Die nahöstlichen Kulturen und die Griechen. Oldenbourg. Pp. 77–104. May, N.N., 2017: “The Vizier and the Brother: Sargon II’s Brother and Vizier Sîn-aḫu-uṣur and the Neo-Assyrian Collateral Branches.” BiOr 74.5–6, 492– 528. Millard, A., 1994: The Eponyms of the Assyrian Empire 910–612 BC. Helsinki. Parpola, S., 1995: “The Construction of Dur-Šarrukin in the Assyrian Royal Correspondence.” In A. Caubet (ed.): Khorsabad, le palais de Sargon II, roi d’Assyrie. Paris. Pp. 47–77. — 2004: “National and Ethnic Identity in the Neo-Assyrian Empire and Assyrian Identity in Post-Empire Times.” Journal of Assyrian Academic Studies 18.2, 5–22. Pirngruber, R., 2018: “‘The King Paid no Heed to Any of the Words We Sent Before:’ The Communication between the Early Sargonids and Babylonian Notables.” WZKM 108, 125–142. Pongratz-Leisten, B., 1997: “Das ‘negative Sündenbekenntnis’ des Königs anläßlich des babylonischen Neujahrsfestes und die kidinnūtu von Babylon.” In J. Assmann / T. Sundermeier (eds.): Schuld, Gewissen und Person. Gütersloh. Pp. 83–101. Porter, B., 1993: Images, Power, and Politics: Figurative Aspects of Esarhaddon’s Babylonian Policy. Philadelphia. Postgate, N. / Mattila, R., 2004: “Il-yada’ and Sargon’s Southeast Frontier.” In G. Frame (ed.): From the Upper Sea to the Lower Sea: Studies on the History of Assyria and Babylonia in Honour of A.K. Grayson. Leiden. Pp. 235–254. Richardson, S., 2016: “Getting Confident: The Assyrian Development of Elite Recognition Ethics.” In M. Lavan et al. (eds.): Cosmopolitanism and Empire: Universal Rulers, Local Elites, and Cultural Integration in the Ancient Near East and Mediterranean. Oxford. Pp. 29–64. — 2017: “Before Things Worked: A ‘Low Power’ Model of Early Mesopotamia.” In C. Ando / S. Richardson (eds.): Ancient States and Infrastructural Power. Philadelphia. Pp. 17–62. Reviv, H., 1988: “Kidinnu: Observations on Privileges of Mesopotamian Cities.” JESHO 31, 286–295. Scurlock, J., 2012: “Marduk and his Enemies: City Rivalries in Southern Mesopotamia.” In G. Wilhelm (ed.): Organization, Representation, and Symbols of Power in the Ancient Near East. Winona Lake, IN. Pp. 369–376. Streck, M.P., 2002: “Der Wiederaufbau Babylons unter Asarhaddon und Assurbanipal aus Ninive.” Altorientalische Forschungen 29, 205–233.

450

Shana Zaia

Valk, J., 2018. “Assyrian Collective Identity in the Second Millennium BCE: A Social Categories Approach.” PhD Dissertation. Institute for the Study of the Ancient World, New York University. Waerzeggers, C., 2010: The Ezida Temple of Borsippa. Leiden. — 2015: “Babylonian Kingship in the Persian Period: Performance and Reception.” In J. Stökl / C. Waerzeggers (eds.): Exile and Return: The Babylonian Context. Berlin / Boston. Pp. 181–222. Zaia, S., 2019: “Going Native: Šamaš-šuma-ukīn, Assyrian King of Babylonia.” Iraq 81, 247–268.

Index

Abi-ešuḫ 302, 311 Adad 217, 262, 307, 370 Adad-nirari I 171–172, 177 Adad-nirari II / Adad-nērārī II 437, 374 Adad-nirari III / Adad-nārārī III / Adad-nērārī III 53, 68, 71, 77, 85, 91–92, 96 Adad-šuma-iddina 420–421 Adad-šum-uṣur / Adad-šumu-uṣur 192, 194, 215–216, 239, 323 Adad-šuma-uṣur 408, 417, 420– 423, 426 Addu 370 Adummatu 148 Aelian 400, 402 Aeneas Tacticus 378 Aeschylus 237 Agesilaos 378 Agesipolis 372 Aḫi-Mīti 94 Ahiqar 271 Aḫizuḫina 80 Aḫtâ 145 Aia-ḫālu 69, 78, 80, 84 Akkad 436 Akkullānu 271 Al-Bilakhiyya 139 Alcibiades 374 Aleppo 37, 47, 51, 59, 370 Alexander the Great 101, 379, 400 Allani 245 Allatu 245 Al-Mina 145–146 Amasis 396–397, 399 Ambappi 390 Ambaris 53–54 Amminadib 304

Ammiṣaduqa 335 Ammon 91 Ammu-ladīn 96 Amun 401 Amurrû 92, 94, 96 An 338 Anatolia 133, 347, 426 Anšan 6, 9 Antiochus 103–104 Antiochus IV Epiphanes 105 Antiochus VII 106 Anu 228, 307, 387, 424 Anu-Adad temple 70 Anunnaki 373 Anu-rabû 438 Aphek – Tel Hadid – Gezer region 140 Apis 396–400 Apis-Osiris 397 Aplaya 213 Apollo 371–372 Aqrea 263 Arabia 133, 350 Arados 136 Arahab 11 Aratta 333, 339 Arbela 272 Archidamus 374–375 Arda-Mullissi 233, 235–236 Ares 379 Argeads 402 Argive 372 Arik-den-ili 191 Aristotle 369, 378 Armenia 108–109, 112, 172 Arrapha 207, 438 Arrian 400 Arsacids 101–102, 111

452

Arses 401 Arslantash 31, 35, 38–39, 42, 47, 50, 56 Arslantepe (Malatya) 51 Artabanus 107–108 Artavasdes I 109 Artaxerxes III 395, 399–401 Arwad 92, 93, 96, 138, 144 Asalluhi / Asalluḫi / Asaluhi / Asaluḫi 215, 262, 321, 325 Ashdod 94, 137–138 Ashkelon 94, 96, 136–137, 146, 153 Ashurbanipal → Assurbanipal Ashurnasirpal II 44 Assur 70, 216–217, 240, 243, 272, 292, 333, 361, 363–364, 407– 409, 415, 419, 423–428, 439 Aššur 40, 130, 158, 191, 237, 243, 247, 249, 271, 301, 357, 359, 361–362, 364, 369–370, 373– 374, 376–377, 427–428 Assurbanipal / Ashurbanipal 24, 89, 91, 96, 115–117, 120–126, 138, 146–147, 158, 192, 194, 212–214, 216–217, 228–239, 263, 265–266, 269, 271, 273, 291–293, 319, 323, 325, 352, 369–370, 374, 376, 389–393, 424–429, 436–438, 440–443, 445 Aššur-bēlu-taqqin 446 Aššur-būnā’i-uṣur 84 Aššur-da’’in-aplu 67–68, 72, 74– 77, 79–81, 83, 85, 90 Aššur-da’in-šarru 265–266, 271, 273 Aššur-dan I 210, 228 Aššur-de’iq 131 Aššur-etel-ilāni 428 Aššurītu 158 Aššur-nādin-apli 419, 421

Index

Assurnaṣirpal II / Aššurnaṣirpal II 70, 93, 179, 181–182, 190, 194, 199, 207, 266–267, 291–292, 295, 374 Aššur-nērērī III / Aššur-nērāri III 419, 421 Aššur-reš-iši 211 Aššur-uballiṭ I 190 Assyria 385, 390, 392, 407, 419– 421, 423–426, 435–436, 438, 440–446 Astyages 399 Athena 379 Athens 374, 378–379 Atrahasis 373 Atta-hamiti-Inšušinak 391 Attametu 391 Augustine 367, 368–369 Austen Henry Layard 277, 280– 281, 286–287 Ayadaragarama 418 Ba‘al 135 Baba-aḫa-iddina 85 Babel 416 Bābu 268, 272 Babylon 11, 27, 65, 75, 82–84, 96, 102–108, 111–112, 120, 127, 156, 158, 161–162, 164, 194, 212, 234–240, 243, 251, 258, 270, 311, 374, 407–408, 414– 426, 428, 439–446 Babylonia 319, 385, 391, 407, 435–436 Bad-tibira 415, 419 Bagayasha 104 Bagoas 399 Balasî 193, 215 Baldaḫâ 414 Baldahdah 416 Baltil 415 Bānīia 265–266 Banitu 305

Index

Bānītu Canal 445 Bāniya 439 Başarköy Deresi 173 Batman 167–169, 171–174, 177– 182 Behbeit el-Hagar 401 Bēl 440–441, 443 Bēlet-Bābili 443 Bēlet-balāṭi 438 Bēlet-ilī 321 Bēl-iqīša 441 Bell, Gertrude 32 Bēltiya 443 Bēlu-lū-balaṭ / Bēl-lū-balaṭ 40, 62, 84 Bēl-ušallim 265–266 Bel-ušezib 191, 238–239 Berossus 233 Birtum 327 Bisotun 387 Bit-Adini 54 Bīt-Ammān 91, 93–96 Bīt-Amukāni 147 Bīt-Imbî 389–390 Bit-Imbiya 386 Bīt-Purutaš 54 Borsippa 106–107, 214, 439, 442, 443 Brasidas 379 Bubastis 401 Bubê 438 Buchis 400 Busayra 97, 98 Byblos 96, 136, 143, 145 Calah 79 Cambyses 395–398, 400 Characene 103 Cilicia 57, 143–145 Čišpiš 387 Cleomenes 378 Crete 373 Croesus 399

453

Curtius 375 Cutha 334, 442 Cyaxares 353 Cyprus 95, 142, 144–145, 151 Cyrus 374, 378, 386, 399 Dada 238, 242 Dagan 141 Daiān-Aššur 69, 72, 74–79, 81, 84 Damascus 61, 92 Damdammusa 179–182 Damgalnunna 418 Dannāia 263–266, 271 Darband-i Rania 207, 230 Darius 237, 387 Darius I 387, 397 Deir el-Balah 139 Delphi 371 Demetrius II 104 Demosthenes 395 Dep 401 Dēr / Der 5–7, 9–10, 85, 389, 413, 415, 417, 419, 421, 1436–439, 446 Didymus 395 Dilmun 339 Diodorus 395, 399 Djedhor 400 Dumuzi 300–302 Dunna-Sah 422 Dur Sharrukin 291 Dur-Katlimmu 210, 353 Dūr-Šarrukīn / Dur-Sharruken / Dur-Sharrukin 37, 212, 217, 240, 436 Ea 215, 228, 262, 269, 321, 325, 336, 424 Eanatum 372 E-anatum 370, 372, 376 Eanna 336 Ebabbar 443 Edfu 395 Edimgalkalama 438

454

Edom 91–98, 147 Egula 327 Egypt 94, 96, 133, 135–137, 139– 141, 147, 190, 271, 280, 395, 397–404 Ekron 94, 137–138 Ekur 327 Elam 339, 352, 390–392, 414, 419–420, 422, 424–425, 436, 438 Elephantine 402 Elmedina 168 El-Tod 401 Eluḫat 167, 170–172, 177–182 Elymais 103–107, 110, 112 Emar 322 Emeslam 335 Emutbalum 5 Enheduana 331 Enki 321, 325, 338–340 Enkidu 244, 246, 301, 344 Enlil 226, 228, 327, 338, 373, 407, 414–415, 418, 423–424, 427– 428, 444 Enlil-bāni 441, 445 Enlil-kudurrī-uṣur 419, 421 Enlil-nādin-šumi 419–421 Enlil-narari 191 Enmerkar 333–334 Erbil 353 Ereš 338 Erešdimgul 327–328 Ereškigal 241, 243–247, 250, 319, 322–324, 327 Eretria 379 Erishkigal 212 Erra 236 Esagil / Esagila 101, 103, 416, 424, 440–441, 443 Esarhaddon 53, 58, 63, 67–68, 73, 81, 86–89, 95–96, 135, 141, 143–144, 147–148, 190, 192–

Index

196, 212–214, 216–217, 228, 233–251, 265, 272–273, 297, 319, 323, 325, 352, 373–374, 376, 425–426, 437–442, 444, 447 Eski Mosul 347 Ešnunna 414 Eṭiru 441 Euphrates 5, 7, 31, 58, 61–62, 92, 101–102, 143, 170, 175, 183, 415, 417, 422, 445 Eurypides 369 E-zagin 338–339 Ezida 440–441, 443 Faynan 97 Furies 375 Gaza 93–94, 136, 139–140, 145, 147, 148 Gercüş 168, 172–182 Gilgamesh 244–246, 248, 331– 337, 341–344 Girra 3 Girsu 415, 419 Gotarzes (I) 109 Gudea 341 Gula 327 Gulkišar 418 Guti 350, 352 Gutium 11, 13, 108, 110 Haçgöz 47 Hadattu 31, 35, 38–39, 42, 47, 50, 56 Ḫaḫarnum 424 Ḫalziluḫa 179–180 Ḫalziluḫat 179–180, 182 Hammurabi 333, 370 Ḫammurapi 422 Hanigalbat / Ḫanigalbat 54, 171, 177 Ḫariṣû 143 Ḫarrān 272 Ḫarrānu 268

Index

Hasankeyf 168–169, 172–174, 176–179, 181–182, 353 Hassuna 347 Ḫattâ 141 Hatti 424 Hayašum 424 Heliopolis 398 Herodotus 395, 397, 399–400, 402 Ḥijāz 148 Ḫilakku 54 Hippo 367 Homer 371 Horus 395, 398 Ḫšryš 401 Huban-ahpi 390 Huban-api 390 Ḫubur 319 Ḫulāiia 179, 181–182 Ḫullî 53 Humba 414, 418 Humban-haltaš 390–391 Humban-haltaš II 390 Humban-haltaš III / Huban-haltaš III 389–390 Ḫumban-nikaš I 436 Humban-nikaš II 391 Huwawa 337 Ḫuzīrīna 268–270, 272 Hyspaosines 104–108 Iarīm-Lîm of Alalaḫ 71 Ibrat 5, 7 Iddatum 335 Idibi’ilu 147 Idrimi 12, 71 Ikkilû 144 Iluh 167–174, 176–182 Ilu-šumma 437 Il-yada’ 436 Imbappi 390 Inanna 338, 369, 418 Indabibi 391 Indupanē 106

455

Inšušinak 416 Inūrta-bēlu-uṣur 38, 47, 50, 53–55 Inurta-ilā’ī 80 Ionia 142, 144–146 Ishtar → Ištar Isin 415, 417, 421 Isis 401 Išme-Dagan I 428 Isocrates 395 Išpilipria 180, 181 Issar-šum-ereš / Issar-šumu-ereš 192, 212–214 Ištar / Ishtar 158, 210–211, 243, 301–302, 307, 309–310, 312, 319, 336, 357, 362–363, 414, 416 Ištarān 437–438 Išum 237 Itti-Šamaš-balāṭu 144 Jāmānī 94 Job 328 Judah 94, 140 Kabiri 396 Kabtî 67–68 Kadašman-Ḫarbe 421 Kadašman-Ḫarbe II 420 Kalḫu 87, 92, 94, 138–139, 272, 408 Kalki 349, 352 Kammūsu-nadbi 94 Kamnaskires 104–105, 110 Kamnaskires I of Elymais 104 Kandalānu 129, 130 Kar Shalmaneser → Kar-Shalmaneser Kār-Aššur-aḫa-iddina 95 Karatepe 30, 43, 51, 53, 57 Karduniaš 436 Karib-Il 242 Karkemish 31–32, 43, 49, 51, 126 Karnak 401, 402

456

Kar-Shalmaneser / Kār-Shalmaneser / Kar Shalmaneser 29, 35, 38, 42, 47, 50, 55, 73 Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta / Kār-TukultīNinurta 240, 417, 422 Kaštiliašu 423 Kaštiliašu IV 419–422 Khababash 400, 402 Khabur 347, 353 Khnum 402 Khorsabad 37, 277, 279, 282–287 Kidin-Ḫutran 417, 419, 421–422 Kilizu 80 Kipšūna 80 Kish 338 Kiṣir-Aššur 212 Kültepe 172 Kumma 245–248, 250–251 Kuri’dû 387 Kuriki Höyük 169 Kurunītum 438 Kutha 335 Kutur-Nahhunte III 425 Kybebe 377 Lagaš / Lagash 341, 369, 372, 415, 419 Laluralima 162 Larsa 5–10 Lipit-Ishtar 341 Lugal-kisal-si 338 Lydia 399 Lysander 378 Māʼab 91, 96 Malatya 51 Malgium 5, 7, 13 Manungal 327 Marad 415, 417, 421 Mār-bīti 438 Mardî 196 Mardin 167, 176 Marduk 24, 155, 158, 160, 192, 216, 237, 247, 318–319, 321,

Index

324–325, 328, 332, 374, 407, 409, 416, 421, 424–425, 427, 440, 443 Marduk-apla-iddina II 240 Marduk-balāssu-iqbi 85 Marduk-nāṣir 436 Marduk-rēmanni 83, 89, 94 Marduk-šapik-zeri / Marduk-šāpikzēri 195, 263, 267, 273 Marduk-šarru-uṣur 386, 391 Marduk-šumu-uṣur 192, 264–266, 271, 273 Marduk-zākir-šumi 82, 83 Margiana 350 Marhashi 339 Mari 170, 179, 373 Mār-Ištar / Mar-Issar 193, 194, 437–438, 442 Media 109, 111, 353, 399 Melišihu 408 Melos 378 Meluhha 339 Memphis 396, 398 Mendes 400–401 Merodachbaladan 408 Mesene 103–108, 112 Midyat 176 Mithridates I 103–104 Mithridates II 108–109 Mnevis 400 Moab 91 Montu 401 Mount Kašiiari 171, 180 Mount Lebanon 134 Mount Uḫira 180 Muati 302, 311 Mursili I 418–419, 425 Mutarriṣ-Aššur 84 Nabonidus 10, 15, 148, 235, 270 Nabû 71, 196, 216–217, 269, 304, 310–311, 342, 376, 408, 424, 440–441, 443

Index

Nabû-aḫu-iddina 268–270, 272– 273 Nabu-apla-iddina 334 Nabu-dūru-uṣur 437 Nabû-epuš 392 Nabû-ipuš 387 Nabû-iqbi 213 Nabû-nādin-šumi 325 Nabû-reḫtu-uṣur 270 Nabû-šum-ka’’in 216 Nādinu 270–271, 273 Nairi 73, 174, 179–180, 182 Namram-Sin 334 Namtar 268 Nanaia 311 Nanaya 308, 311 Nanibgal 338 Naqi’a 233–234 Naram-Sin 13, 333, 335, 348, 350, 416 Naṣibina 80 Naucratis 401 Nazi-Maruttaš 155 Nebuchadnezzar 270 Nebuchadnezzar I 425 Nebuchadnezzar II 273, 374 Neith 398 Nektanebo II 395 Nepherites 401 Nergal 237, 241–242, 244, 246– 250, 334–335 Nergal-ilā’ī 80 Nergal-ušēzib 441 Nile 398 Nimrud 44, 46, 48, 55, 61, 63–64, 89, 92, 200, 210, 231, 267, 279– 280, 291, 295, 361 Ninduba 341 Nineveh 24, 44, 59, 70, 73, 95–97, 117, 120, 123–125, 138–141, 143, 179–180, 194, 203, 210– 211, 215, 233–236, 239–240,

457

242–243, 245, 248–249, 263, 272, 279–280, 286–287, 291, 294, 343, 352–353, 361–363, 407–409, 423–424, 426–428 Ningal 301–302, 305 Ningirsu 341–342, 369 Ninlil 407, 414 Nīnuāiu 265 Ninurta 73, 192 Ninurta-kudurrī-uṣur 422 Nippur 8, 105, 158–159, 162, 164, 269, 271, 327, 407–408, 414– 419, 421–423, 425, 428, 439, 443–446 Niraḫ 438 Nirbu 180–182 Nisaba 338–342 Nungal 327–328 Nur-Adad 7 Nuzi 217, 226–228 Olympia 372 Onasander 371, 375 Opet temple 401 Orodes 110 Osiris 401 Oxus 353 Pahḫārānu 78 Parsa 392 Parthia 101–103, 107, 109–112 Pe 401 Peisistratos 378 Pericles 371 Pešgaldarameš 418 Petosiris 401 Phacusa 401 Pharandates 387 Phoenicia 134, 136, 142, 145 Phraates II 106 Phylae 401 Pilistāiu 141 Pittiti 108 Plataea 375

458

Plato 369 Plutarch 399–400, 402 Pornak Tepe 170, 177 Prexaspes 396 Psamtik III 396–397, 399 Ptah 398 Ptolemies 402 Ptolemy (I Soter) 401 Pūlu 272 Qarqāru 93 Qattunan 179 Qauš / Qôs 97 Qaus-ʻanali 97 Qauš-gabri 95–96 Qauš-malaka 93 Qausu 97 Qirbit 437 Que (Cilicia) 143 Qurdi-Aššur-lāmur 134, 143–144 Qurdī-Nergal 268–270, 272–273 Raman Dağ 173–174 Rāši 389 Re 398 Rim-Sîn 10 Rimutu 214 Romans 101 Saʼarri 96 Saba 242 Šadikanni 59, 74, 80, 81 Saggaratum 179 Sais 396, 398 Sakkud 438 Samaria 135, 140 Šamaš / Shamash 189–190, 192, 196, 246, 262, 266, 321, 370, 374, 376, 379, 385, 414, 440 Šamaš-bēlu-uṣur 436–438 Šamaš-rēša-uṣur 422 Šamaš-ṣabtanni 265 Šamaš-šum-ukin / Šamaš-šumaukīn / Šamaš-šumu-ukīn 157, 265, 323, 391, 442–443

Index

Šamḫat 301 Šamšī-Adad 76 Šamši-Adad I / Šamšī-Adad I / Šamsi-Adad I (Samsi-Addu) 70, 359, 428 Šamšī-Adad V 69–71, 73, 75–77, 80, 83–85, 437–438 Šamšī-ilu 29–31, 38, 40, 42, 47, 50–56 Samsimurūna 136, 143 Samsu-ditana 418 Sangû-Issar 67 Šangû-Issār 142 Šapiku 214 Saqqara 400 Sardis 377 Sargon 334, 352, 426 Sargon II 53–54, 59, 68, 94, 120, 126, 133, 135, 137–140, 143, 199, 212, 234, 237, 239–240, 244, 246, 266, 277, 282, 284– 285, 292, 295, 354, 427, 436– 438, 440–441 Šarrat-Dēri 438 Šarrat-Nipḫi 38, 44, 46, 48, 50 Šarru-ḫattu-ipēl 80 Sataspes 387 Sealand 418 Sebennytos 401 Seleucia-on-Tigris 104–107 Seleucids 101, 103–104 Şenköy 176 Sennacherib 30, 60, 94, 97, 130, 137–139, 141, 143, 148, 204, 233–240, 242–251, 272, 286, 292–295, 342, 352, 374, 389, 425–427, 437, 440 Serapeum 396, 398 Šešbeš 387 Shalmaneser I 170–172, 210, 211, 228 Shalmanassar II 32

Index

Shalmaneser III / Shalmanasser III 29, 35, 54, 69–70, 72, 74–75, 77–78, 82–83, 89–90, 93, 194, 199, 244, 264–265, 376 Shalmaneser V 64, 68, 86, 440 Shamash → Šamaš Shereshevsky 17–26 Shubria 240 Shulgi 340–341 Šiddi-ḫirīte 97 Sikdê 390 Ṣillaya 444 Šimaški 5 Ṣimirra 134, 143 Simurrum 408, 416 Sîn 157, 192, 305, 307 Sîn of Ḫarrān 272 Sîn-aḫu-uṣur 436, 440 Šinamu 170 Sin-iddinam 5–7, 9–10, 12 Sinjar 347 Sin-leqi-unninni 343 Sippar 147–148, 164, 270–271, 273, 416, 439, 443 Šišpiš 387 Smerdis 396 Socrates 374 Solomon 302, 304, 306 Sophocles 251 Sopt 401 Speusippos do Philip II 395 Styx 375 Subartu 415, 416 Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan 155 –156, 158–163, 317–322, 324, 326, 328 Suhu / Suḫu 359, 361, 415, 417, 422 Šulgi 407–409, 414, 421 Šulmu-bēli-lašme 437 Sumer 340, 373, 436 Šumu-libši 272

459

Šuppiluliuma II 422 Susa 416, 418 Šu-Sîn 305 Šuzubu 441 Syria 133 Ṭabātum 179 Ṭabî 442 Ṭāb-ṣil-Ešarra 147 Taita 43, 51 Tall al-Kheleifeh 97 Tammaritu 391 Tappan-daraḫ 416 Tarsisi 144 Tašmetu / Tašmētu 158, 272, 443 304, 310–311 Taymā’ 148 Te’umman / Teumman 293, 370, 390–391, 436 Teiṣipidi 385–387, 389, 392 Teispes 385–388 Tel’afar 347, 353 Tell ‘Aǧāǧa (Šadikanni) 46, 50–49, 56, 59, 72, 74, 79–81 Tell Ahmar 32–33, 35–36, 47, 54, 58 Tell Bassetki 178 Tell Brak 348, 350 Tell er-Ruqeish 139 Tell Fekheriye 53 Tell Halaf 51, 53 Tell Hawa 347 Tell Khaiber 418 Teumman → Te’umman Thermopylae 350 Thucydides 375 Tiamat 243 Tidu 177 Tiglath-pileser I 120 Tiglath-pileser III 50, 55, 64, 69, 87, 93–94, 133–135, 139, 145, 147, 234, 292, 294–295, 440 Tigranes I 109

460

Tigris 5, 7, 9–10, 12, 58, 61, 88, 109, 167–187, 303, 347, 353, 415, 417, 430 Til Barsip / Til-Barsib / Til-Barsip 29–33, 35, 37, 42, 47–48, 50, 52, 54–56, 58, 85, 269, 352 Tillê 80, 85 Timarchus 106 Timotheus 107 Transjordan 133 Tukulti-Ninurta 335 Tukulti-Ninurta I / Tukultī-Ninurta I 79, 191, 194, 199, 201, 204, 240, 333–334, 368, 372–373, 425, 408, 417, 419–422, 425– 426 Tunamissah 422 Tur Abdin 167, 169–171, 173–180 Tušhan 170 Tyre 92, 95, 134–136, 143 Uaiteʼ 96 Ubaru 445 Üçtepe (Kurkh) 170 Udjahorresnet 397 Udūmu 91–93, 96 Ugarit 12, 57, 59, 230, 344, 363– 364 Ulūlāiu 68 Umm al-Biyara 96 Umma 370, 372 Ummanaldasi 391 Ur 414, 418 Ur’a 105 Urdu-aḫḫēšu 443

Index

Ur-Nintinuga 162 Urtak 390, 391 Uruk 23, 28, 104–105, 110, 270, 271, 274, 333, 336–337, 342, 362–363, 381, 392, 407, 414, 416 Usu Aska 207–209 Utu 6, 190, 370, 379 Utu-hegal 379 Wadi Hammam 398 Wadi Hammamat 398 Wadi Tharthar 347 Warad-Sîn 9 Warassa 6, 9–10, 12 Wenkhem 398 Xenophon 369, 375, 378 Xerxes 237, 387, 401 Yamnāya 133, 142, 144 Yauna 143 Zabāba 268, 270, 272 Zagros 5, 84, 110, 207, 279, 282– 283, 416, 418 Zakir 213 Zarathustra 399 Zarpānītu 157–158, 160–161 Zerūti 437 Zeus 372–373, 375–376 Zeus Horkios 375 Zimrilim 335 Zincirli (Sam’al) 51 Zišpiš 387 Ziyaret Tepe 170–171, 186 Zīzî 266