The Bloomsbury Handbook of Material Religion in the Ancient Near East and Egypt 9781350280816, 9781350280847, 9781350280823

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series
Title
Copyright
Contents
Figures
Contributors
Introduction
PART ONE Material Religion
CHAPTER ONE Chance and Lived Religion: The Material Culture of Transforming Randomness into Purpose
PART TWO The Human Body
CHAPTER TWO Material Religion and the Body in the Ancient Near East
CHAPTER THREE Jewelry as a Powerful Tool in the Religious Discourse between Humans and the Supernatural in the Ancient Near Eas
CHAPTER FOUR Body Politic: Body-Objects and Necropolitics Past and Present
CHAPTER FIVE Behind the Cultic Statue: The Materiality of Religion in Ancient Mesopotamia
CHAPTER SIX Meanings and Practices in the Design of Objects: What Does Design Reveal about Experiences?
CHAPTER SEVEN The Brief but Spectacular Lives of Figurines in Hittite Ritual
PART THREE The Architecture
CHAPTER EIGHT Religious Life, Urban Fabric, and Regeneration Processes at Mari during the Second Half of the Third Millennium
CHAPTER NINE Sacred Space and Immigrant Identity in the Middle Bronze Age: The Case of Tell el Dab.a
CHAPTER TEN Evidence for an Urartian Belief System: The Institutionalization of Religion in the Mountainous Eastern Anatolian H
CHAPTER ELEVEN The Price of Devotion: Costly Signals in Neolithic and Chalcolithic Architecture on the Anatolian Plateau (SHA
CHAPTER TWELVE Building Temples in the Northern Levant
CHAPTER THIRTEEN Sacred Architecture in Iron II Southern Levant
PART FOUR The Written Words
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Scribes in the Temple: Materializing Missing Monuments in Mesopotamia
CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Heraldry of Early Iranian Religion
CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Materials of Hittite Magic and Religion
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Experiencing the Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead: A Funerary Text Corpus as a Material Object
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Pottery and Magic: A Glimpse into Late-Antique Mesopotamian Religious Tradition and Its Materiality
CHAPTER NINETEEN The Biblical Priestly Tradition as Material Religion: A Comparative Ancient Mediterranean Approach
PART FIVE The Animals
CHAPTER TWENTY Man, Animal, and Gods: Animal Remains as Indicators of Beliefs in the Ancient Near East
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Resting on Strong Shoulders: The Power of Animal Scapulae in the Near Eastern Neolithic
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Animals and Ideology in the Pre-Pottery Neolithic B of the Southern Levant
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Sharing Animals: Animal Imagery as Late Antique Intercultural Dialogue
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR The Theriomorphic Images of the Hittite Gods
PART SIX The Landscape
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Material Religion and the Perception of the Sacred Landscape in Ancient Mesopotamia
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Imagining the Supernatural: The Landscape of Kura-Araxes Sacred Funerary Mounds
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Cultic Aspects of the Egyptian Desert
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Deconstructing the Shrine: An Assay in Understanding Desert Cult
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Maritime Viewscapes and the Material Religion of Levantine Seafarers
References
Index

Citation preview

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THE BLOOMSBURY HANDBOOK OF MATERIAL RELIGION IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST AND EGYPT

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Also Available from Bloomsbury: The Bloomsbury Handbook of Religion and Migration, Edited by Rubina Ramji and Alison Marshall The Bloomsbury Handbook of Religion and Nature, Edited by Laura Hobgood and Whitney Bauman The Bloomsbury Handbook to Studying Christians, Edited by George D. Chryssides and Stephen E. Gregg

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THE BLOOMSBURY HANDBOOK OF MATERIAL RELIGION IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST AND EGYPT

Edited by Nicola Laneri and Sharon R. Steadman

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BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2023 Copyright © Nicola Laneri, Sharon R. Steadman and contributors, 2023 Nicola Laneri and Sharon R. Steadman have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editors of this work. Cover image: Gobeklitepe National Park © serkansenturk/Getty Images All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any thirdparty websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-3502-8081-6 ePDF: 978-1-3502-8082-3 eBook: 978-1-3502-8083-0 Typeset by Newgen KnowledgeWorks Pvt. Ltd., Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.blo​omsb​ury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

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CONTENTS

L ist L ist

of of

F igures   C ontributors  

Introduction  Nicola Laneri and Sharon R. Steadman

viii xiii 1

Part I  Material Religion 1 Chance and Lived Religion: The Material Culture of Transforming Randomness into Purpose  David Morgan

9

Part II  The Human Body 2 Material Religion and the Body in the Ancient Near East  Brenna R. Hassett 3 Jewelry as a Powerful Tool in the Religious Discourse between Humans and the Supernatural in the Ancient Near East  Zuzanna Wygnańska 4 Body Politic: Body-Objects and Necropolitics Past and Present  Melissa S. Cradic

23

37 55

5 Behind the Cultic Statue: The Materiality of Religion in Ancient Mesopotamia  Davide Nadali and Lorenzo Verderame

69

6 Meanings and Practices in the Design of Objects: What Does Design Reveal about Experiences?  Michael S. Chen

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7 The Brief but Spectacular Lives of Figurines in Hittite Ritual  Billie Jean Collins

91

Part III  The Architecture 8 Religious Life, Urban Fabric, and Regeneration Processes at Mari during the Second Half of the Third Millennium bce  Pascal Butterlin

105

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CONTENTS

9 Sacred Space and Immigrant Identity in the Middle Bronze Age: The Case of Tell el DabꜤa  Danielle Candelora

119

10 Evidence for an Urartian Belief System: The Institutionalization of Religion in the Mountainous Eastern Anatolian Highland––The Case of Ayanis  Mehmet Işıklı

129

11 The Price of Devotion: Costly Signals in Neolithic and Chalcolithic Architecture on the Anatolian Plateau  Sharon R. Steadman

153

12 Building Temples in the Northern Levant  Stefania Mazzoni

167

13 Sacred Architecture in Iron II Southern Levant  Ido Koch

189

Part IV  The Written Words 14 Scribes in the Temple: Materializing Missing Monuments in Mesopotamia  Jennifer C. Ross

203

15 The Heraldry of Early Iranian Religion  Jacob L. Dahl

213

16 The Materials of Hittite Magic and Religion  Gregory McMahon

225

17 Experiencing the Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead: A Funerary Text Corpus as a Material Object  Christina Geisen

237

18 Pottery and Magic: A Glimpse into Late-Antique Mesopotamian Religious Tradition and Its Materiality  Marco Moriggi

253

19 The Biblical Priestly Tradition as Material Religion: A Comparative Ancient Mediterranean Approach  Seth Sanders

261

Part V  The Animals 20 Man, Animal, and Gods: Animal Remains as Indicators of Beliefs in the Ancient Near East  Jwana Chahoud and Emmanuelle Vila

277

21 Resting on Strong Shoulders: The Power of Animal Scapulae in the Near Eastern Neolithic  Nerissa Russell

289

CONTENTS

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22 Animals and Ideology in the Pre-Pottery Neolithic B of the Southern Levant  305 Max Price and Jacqueline Meier 23 Sharing Animals: Animal Imagery as Late Antique Intercultural Dialogue  Marica Cassis, Sydney Burton, and Sanaz Safari

315

24 The Theriomorphic Images of the Hittite Gods  Stefano de Martino

333

Part VI  The Landscape 25 Material Religion and the Perception of the Sacred Landscape in Ancient Mesopotamia  Anna Perdibon

343

26 Imagining the Supernatural: The Landscape of Kura-Araxes Sacred Funerary Mounds  Chiara Pappalardo and Nicola Laneri

351

27 Cultic Aspects of the Egyptian Desert  Laurel Darcy Hackley

371

28 Deconstructing the Shrine: An Assay in Understanding Desert Cult  Steven A Rosen

387

29 Maritime Viewscapes and the Material Religion of Levantine Seafarers  Aaron Brody

399

R eferences  

413

I ndex  

499

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FIGURES

2.1 The site of Başur Höyük near Siirt, Turkey, with the Early Bronze Age 1 period cemetery region inset 

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2.2 Schematic (unscaled) of burial position at Başur Höyük 

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2.3 Objects associated with the dead in Grave 17, immediately to the east of stone-lined cist Grave 15 

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3.1 Drawing of the gold pendant from the second half of the second millennium bce 

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3.2 Close-up of the stele of the Assyrian king Ashurnasirpal II 

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3.3 Tentative reconstruction of a gold necklace with pendants 

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3.4 Amulets from the third millennium bce children graves 

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3.5 Amulet-plaquette from the first millennium bce Uruk in southern Mesopotamia 45 3.6 Early second millennium bce terracotta plaquette from Eshnunna in Mesopotamia 

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3.7 The mid-third millennium bc adornments buried with Queen Puabi in the Royal Cemetery of Ur 

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3.8 Adornments found in the first millennium bce Assyrian queens’ tombs in Nimrud 

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6.1 Image Metternich Stela 

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6.2 Image Horus-upon-the-crocodiles motif, Metternich Stela 

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6.3 NME 76 

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6.4 NME 92 

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8.1 Mari, City II, the main buildings 

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8.2 Mari, City II, monumental religious center 

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8.3 Mari, City II, restitution of the monumental center 

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8.4 Mari, City II, palace P 2, central space ritual installation, 3D modélisation, Iconem 

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8.5 Mari, City II, ritual paths in the central space of palace P 2 

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8.6 Mari, City III, Monumental center, situation of foundation deposits 

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FIGURES

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8.7 Mari, southeastern corner of Massif Rouge, with situation of the foundation deposits of Cities II and III, 3D model, artifact 

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8.8 Mari, City III, restitution of the religious and political center 

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9.1 Area A/II sacred precinct, Tell el DabꜤa 

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9.2 Gold piriform pendant, Tell el Ajjul, Middle Bronze Age. Ashmolean Museum AN1945.305 

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9.3 Tree of Life stele, Mari, Early Bronze Age 

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9.4 Court 106 and investiture halls, Palace of Zimri Lim, Mari 

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10.1 Map showing Urartian geography and sites mentioned in the text and on the Urartian King List 

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10.2 Sacred rock monuments (Ḫaldi Gates) 

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10.3

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Urartian stelae 

10.4 1. Drawing showing worship at the Altıntepe Stelae; 2. Drawing suggesting the function of the Teişeba relief at Kef Castle 

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10.5 Plate showing Urartian temple plans 

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10.6 Urartu temples unearthed by excavations 

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10.7 Drawing of relief showing the plundering of Musashir Temple 

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10.8 Aerial photograph showing Ayanis City and its surroundings 

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10.9 Aerial photograph of the temple area at the Ayanis Citadel and plan of the temple area 

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10.10 Reconstruction drawings of the Ayanis temple area 

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10.11 Important finds from the Ayanis temple area 

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10.12 Ayanis Ḫaldi Temple 

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10.13 Carved inlaid (intaglio) decorations inside the Ayanis Ḫaldi Temple 

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10.14 Ayanis temple area and “The Hall” with Podium 

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10.15 Cult/ceremonial corridor in the Ayanis citadel 

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11.1 Map of sites discussed in the text 

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11.2 Overview of Göbekli Tepe site showing structures and T-shaped pillars 

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11.3 Example of images carved on stone pillar at Göbekli Tepe 

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11.4 Plan of Aceramic Asikli Höyük settlement showing nondomestic complex  160 11.5 Examples of wall art found on house walls at Çatahöyük 

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11.6 Example of typical Çatalhöyük house that might have displayed wall art 

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11.7 Example of infant jar burial (F164 at Çadır Höyük) placed within the architectural fabric of a domestic structure 

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FIGURES

11.8 Example of infant jar burial (F169 at Çadır Höyük) placed within the architectural fabric of a domestic structure 

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11.9 Reconstruction of infant burial within architecture of Çadır Höyük Chalcolithic house 

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12.1 Map of Northern Levant and Syria with the sites mentioned in the text 

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12.2 Temples of the Upper Euphrates 

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12.3 Early Bronze Age temples of western Jezirah and inner Syria 

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12.4 Early and Middle Bronze Age temples of Ebla 

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12.5 Middle Bronze Age temples of Ebla 

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12.6 Late Bronze Age temples of the Upper Euphrates 

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12.7 Late Bronze Age temples in Northern Levant 

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12.8 Iron Age temples of Northern Syria 

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12.9 View of the eastern wall of the Temple of Aleppo 

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12.10 View of the Temple of Ain Dara 

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12.11 Late Iron Age temples of Northern Syria and Northern Levant 

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13.1 Map of southern Levantine sites mentioned in the text 

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13.2 Ground plans of the temples of Moza and Arad 

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14.1 Victory stele from Sargon, king of Akkad, showing prisoners marching and armed warriors, c. 2300 bce 

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14.2

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Old Babylonian Sammeltafel CBS 13972 

15.1 On the left, Late Uruk offering list (MSVO 1, 95 [IM 055578]) 

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15.2 M46 in proto-Elamite texts 

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15.3 MDP 17, 81+347, proto-Elamite texts recording distribution of food-stuff 218 15.4 Proto-Elamite and Late Uruk household 

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15.5 Proto-Elamite seals with animals acting as agents (MDP 16, nos. 331, 265, and 336) 

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17.1 Amulets from Tutankhamun’s burial assemblage 

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17.2 Wooden shabti of Tutankhamun with BD 6 

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17.3 Royal head on a lotus from Tutankhamun’s burial assemblage 

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17.4 Upper body of Tutankhamun’s mummy with embellishments as found at discovery 

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17.5 Upper body of Tutankhamun’s mummy with falcon collar and other items as found at discovery 

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17.6 Upper body of Tutankhamun’s mummy with amulets as found at discovery 246

FIGURES

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17.7 Golden mask of Tutankhamun with BD 151a 

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17.8 Tutankhamun’s heart scarabs 

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21.1 Map of the eastern Mediterranean 

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21.2 Two views of Çatalhöyük human/cattle face pot, Space 279 

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21.3 Two views of Çatalhöyük rod-shaped plaster tool made on an aurochs scapula, 4183.F19 

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22.1 Map of sites and taxa parts mentioned in the text with some examples corresponding to locations near human remains 

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23.1 Griffin eating a lizard; Great Palace mosaic 

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23.2

Ṭāq-e Bostān; Larger Grotto, left wall; boar hunt 

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23.3 Plate of King Hormizd II or Hormizd III hunting lions 

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23.4 Plate of Shapur II 

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23.5 Hunting scene, Villa Armerina pavement 

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23.6 Two men hunting a tiger, bottom corner. Register A, Great Palace 

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23.7 Parthian Shot Mosaic from Register A of the Great Palace  

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23.8 Griffin attacking a deer, Great Palace Mosaics 

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23.9 Oratory of Sant’ Andrea, Archepiscopal Chapel 

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24.1 Stag-god on a stag, discovered at Kalavasos-Hagios Dimitrios, Cyprus Museum Nicosia 

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24.2 Silver stag-vessel from Shaft Grave IV at Mycene, National Archaeological Museum, Athens 

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26.1 Topographic map of Northwestern Azerbaijan with the sites mentioned in the text 

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26.2 Analysis of elevation through fishnet of 10 × 10 km and zonal statistics 

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26.3 Plan and pictures of the Kura-Araxes I kurgans from the plateau of ŞadılıUzun Rama 

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26.4 Distribution on the Şadılı-Uzun Rama plateau of the kurgans 

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26.5

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Kurgan 8 

26.6 Section view of a 3D reconstruction of Kurgan 8 showing the architectural features identified during the excavation 

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26.7 Primary depositions from the funerary chamber of Kurgan 8 

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26.8 Funerary depositions on the western side of the funerary chamber 

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26.9 Assemblage of juglets and deep bowls of Monochrome Burnished Ware from the burial chamber of Kurgan 8 

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FIGURES

26.10 UML (Unified Modeling Language) schema of the path framework system of the Kura-Araxes communities of the Southern Caucasus 

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26.11 Workflow with ModelBuilder 

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26.12 Schematic representation of the key attributes of ancestral landscapes 

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27.1 Map of the Afterlife from the Book of Two Ways 

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27.2 A tamed griffin. Twelfth Dynasty. Tomb of Khety I, Beni Hassan 

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28.1 Map of the regions discussed with sites mentioned in text 

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28.2 Composite plan showing the relationship between different elements in a shrine complex 

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28.3 The stratigraphy at Shrine 4, Ramat Saharonim (RS) 4 showing squarish structure resting on loess accumulation above original land surface 

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28.4 Har Tzuriaz Shrine 9 drone photos 

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28.5 Makhtesh Ramon shrine, rectangular structure, Map 201, site 217, looking west 

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29.1 Coins: warship with horse-headed prow, riding on hippocamp, Byblos; and “Marine God” on his hippocamp, Tyre 

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29.2 Phoenician ships with crescent-and-disk standards at their stern, coins; and details of crescent and crescent-and-disk stern standards, coins 

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29.3 Examples of signs of Tanit and caduceus on ship’s standards, sacrificial stele, Carthage 

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29.4 Smiting god on prow of Phoenician warship, seventh to sixth centuries bce tomb painting 

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29.5 Phoenician ships with anthropomorphic figures and apotropaic eyes at their prows, coins 

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29.6 a. Symbols of anchors on sacrificial stelae, Carthage; b. Ship’s rudder, dolphin, and sign of Tanit; sacrificial stela, Carthage 

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29.7 Nautical relief from the mortuary complex of Sahu-Re, Abusir; and nautical relief depicted on a funerary causeway of the Pharaoh Ounas, Sakkara 

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29.8 a–b. Levantine ships docking in Egypt, painting from tomb of Kenamun, Thebes 

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CONTRIBUTORS

Aaron Brody is the Robert and Kathryn Riddell Professor of Bible and Archaeology and Director of the Badè Museum at Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, California. Research interests include household archaeology; the archaeology of religion, society, economy, identity, and ethnicity; postcolonialism; sex, gender, and sexuality; and maritime and deepwater archaeology. Recent publications have focused on household religion, metallurgy, and interregional trade at Tell en-Nasbeh, in the southern Levant, from holdings in the Badè and Rockefeller Museums. Sydney Burton is a PhD student at the University of Calgary in the Department of Classics and Religion. Her interests focus on gender, sexuality, and hagiography in the Late Roman and early Byzantine world. Pascal Butterlin is a Professor at Paris 1 Panthéon Sorbonne University, Paris, France, and Directeur d’études at École pratique des hautes études, Paris, France. His research focuses mainly on the development of complex societies in the ancient Middle East, especially during the fourth and the third millennia bce. He has published on the development of Uruk, the city and its culture, and also on his research on the city of Mari, where he directed the excavations from 2004 up to 2011. His most recent book is Architecture et société au Proche-Orient ancien ancien, les bâtisseurs de mémoire en Mésopotamie (2018). Danielle Candelora is an Assistant Professor at SUNY Cortland in the Department of History. Her research investigates the multivariate processes of identity negotiation in the Eastern Nile Delta during the Second Intermediate Period. She has published on how immigrants integrated into and influenced Egyptian society, as well as the cultural blending that resulted. Danielle is a codirector of the AEF Osiris Ptah Nebankh Research Project and a codirector of the Museology Field School at the Museo Egizio di Torino. Marica Cassis is an Associate Professor in the Department of Classics and Religion at the University of Calgary. Her work focuses on Byzantine and Syriac archaeology in Anatolia, as well as gender theory in medieval archaeology. Jwana Chahoud is a Professor at the Université Lumière Lyon 2 and a Researcher at the Centre national de la recherche scientifique/Université Lyon, France. She is a specialist of Near Eastern archaeology and an archaeolozoologist specializing in Holocene animal diversity, sociocultural practices, economy, and subsistence of ancient societies of the Near East. She is the Director of the ArchéoSciences Research Group at the Lebanese University, Lebanon, and currently Director of Survey and Excavations in the Bekaa and Akkar, Lebanon. Michael Chen is an independent scholar whose research interests are focused on Egyptian healing practices. He received his PhD in Near Eastern Languages and Cultures

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CONTRIBUTORS

(Egyptology) from the University of California, Los Angeles, and has received research fellowships from the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Fulbright Commission. Billie Jean Collins is Director of Lockwood Press and an Adjunct Instructor in the Department of Middle Eastern and South Asian Studies at Emory University. Her research focuses on Hittite religion and society. She is author of The Hittites and Their World (2007). Melissa S. Cradic is Lecturer in History and Judaic Studies at the University at Albany, SUNY; Curator at the Badè Museum of Biblical Archaeology at Pacific School of Religion; and 2021–2 National Endowment for the Humanities–Getty Research Institute Postdoctoral Fellow at the Getty Villa Museum in Los Angeles. Her research interests focus on mortuary archaeology, ancestors, and afterlives in ancient southwest Asia and theories of materiality, embodiment, and personhood. Her research articles have appeared in numerous edited volumes as well as journals such as BASOR, Levant, and Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports. Jacob L. Dahl is a Professor of Assyriology at the University of Oxford. He is a specialist of the early writing systems of ancient Iraq and Iran, and works on early social history of Mesopotamia. He has published on patterns of succession, administrative systems, animal herding, and more. Dahl is Codirector of the Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative and has led initiatives at improving the digitalization of cuneiform tablets and more recently cylinder seals. Stefano de Martino is a Professor of Hittitology at the University of Turin (Italy) in the Department of History. His research interests deal with the civilizations of Anatolia and Syria in the second millennium bce, and mostly with the political history of the Hatti and Mittani, Hittite society and religion, and Hurrian magic rituals and mythology. His most recent book is Handbook Hittite Empire (2022). Christina Geisen is an affiliated Lecturer for Egyptology in the Archaeology Department of the University of Cambridge, UK. Her research interests focus on ritual and funerary texts of ancient Egypt, ritual landscape and performance, as well as the perception of geography. She has published on the Book of the Dead, ritual performance, and personal names. Her most recent book is A Commemoration Ritual for Senwosret I—P.BM EA 10610.1–5/P.Ramesseum B (Ramesseum Dramatic Papyrus) (2018). Laurel Darcy Hackley is a Research Associate in Classics at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and an Associate Researcher at the Laboratoire Histoire et Sources du Mondes Antiques, Lyon, France. Her research focuses on human experience in archaeological landscapes, especially in Egypt. Her current projects concern the tension between quantitative and phenomenological approaches to landscape studies. Brenna R. Hassett is a Researcher at University College London and a Scientific Associate at the Natural History Museum, London. As a biological anthropologist, her research focuses on health and growth in the past, while as an archaeologist she is interested in understanding changes in human health and growth alongside major transitions in lifeways. Her current research projects include the Early Bronze Age cemetery at Başur Hoyuk, near Siirt, Turkey, and the Anatolian Pre-pottery Neolithic site of Balıklı. Her

CONTRIBUTORS

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most recent publications include books on the evolution of human life history (Growing Up Human: The Evolution of Human Childhood) and the effects of urbanism on human disease (Built on Bones: 15,000 Years of Urban Life and Death). Mehmet Işıklı is a Professor of Archaeology, Atatürk University, Erzurum, Turkey, and Director of Ayanis excavations since 2013. Interests include South Caucasian and East Anatolian Archaeology. Notable publications include Doğu Anadolu Erken Transkafkasya Kültürü: Çok Bileşenli Gelişkin Bir Kültürün Analizi (2011); edited volume of International Symposium of Eastern Anatolia and Southern Caucasus Cultures, with B. Can (2015); “The Kura-Araxes Culture in the Erzurum Region: The Process of Its Development” (2015). He has published an extensive number of articles, papers, presentations, projects, and books regarding the archaeology of this remarkable and still mysterious region of Eastern Anatolia and the Southern Caucasus. Ido Koch is a Senior Lecturer at Tel Aviv University, Israel, in the Jakob M. Alkow Department of Archaeology and Ancient Near Eastern Cultures. His research interests focus on the society of the southern Levant during the second and first millennia bce. He has published on local reactions to colonialism, Late Bronze and Iron Age iconography and religion, and Middle Bronze Age to Persian period glyptic and coroplastic studies. He has been codirector of the Tel Hadid archaeological project since 2018, and codirector of Stamp-seals from the Southern Levant Swiss–Israeli project since 2020. Nicola Laneri teaches Archaeology and Art History of the Ancient Near East at the University of Catania, Sicily, and is Director of the School of Religious Studies (SORS, Florence). He has directed archaeological projects in Turkey, Azerbaijan, Iran, and Iraq. Recent publications include I costumi funerari della media vallata dell’Eufrate durante il III millennio a.C. (2004), Biografia di un vaso (2009), Archeologia della morte (2011), The Hirbemerdon Tepe Archaeological Project 2003–2013 Final Report: Chronology and Material Culture (2016), and the edited volumes Performing Death: The Social Analysis of Funerary Traditions in the Ancient Near East and Mediterranean (2007), Defining the Sacred: Approaches to the Archaeology of Religion in the Near East (2015), Sacred Body: Materializing the Divine through Human Remains in Antiquity (MaReA series volume 1, 2021). Stefania Mazzoni is Full Professor of Archaeology and Art History of the Ancient Near East (University of Florence), has excavated at Tell Mardikh/Ebla, Tell Tuqan, Tell Afis, and Tell Fray (Syria), surveyed in North Yemen, and directed the archaeological expeditions of Tell Afis (Syria) and Uşaklı Höyük (Turkey). She is the editor of archaeological publications and series, and scientific director of the journal Asia Anteriore Antica. Her publications concern materials and visual arts of the Luwian and Aramaean Iron Age, Hittite and Aramaean sacred architecture, seals and pottery of the Early Bronze, and Late Chalcolithic of Syria. Gregory McMahon is a Professor of Classics and Ancient History, University of New Hampshire. He directed the Çadır Höyük archaeological project in Turkey from 2010 to 2019. Notable publications include The Hittite State Cult of the Tutelary Deities (1991); The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Anatolia, edited with S. R. Steadman (2011); “Agency and Identity among the Hittites,” in Agency and Identity in the Ancient Near East (2010); and “Stability and Change at Çadır Höyük in Central Anatolia: A Case of Late Chalcolithic

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Globalisation?” with S. R. Steadman, B. Arbuckle, M. von Baeyer, A. Smith, B. Yıldırım, L. D. Hackley, Stephanie Selover, and S. Spagni (Anatolian Studies, 69, 2019). Jacqueline Meier is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of North Florida. She studies human–animal relations in ancient societies in the Mediterranean. Marco Moriggi is an Associate Professor in Semitic Philology at the Università di Catania, Honorary Senior Research Fellow at the University of Exeter, and Honorary Research Fellow at Birkbeck, University of London. His research interests include Syriac incantation bowls, Syriac language, Aramaic epigraphy in Late Antique Mesopotamia and the Gulf, and Aramaic dialectology. His latest titles include Aramaic Graffiti from Hatra: A Study Based on the Archive of the Missione Archeologica Italiana (2019, with Ilaria Bucci); Studies in the Syriac Magical Traditions (2022, with Siam Bhayro). David Morgan is a Professor of Religious Studies at Duke University in the Department of Religious Studies with an additional appointment to the Department of Art, Art History, and Visual Studies. His focus of research is the material culture of religion, especially in the modern era. His books include Visual Piety (1998), The Sacred Gaze (2005), Images at Work: The Material Culture of Enchantment (2018), and most recently, The Thing about Religion: An Introduction to the Material Study of Religions (2021). Davide Nadali is an Associate Professor in Near Eastern Archaeology at Sapienza University of Rome. His main interests of research concern art, architecture, and urbanism in the Assyrian period; the study of ancient warfare; the use, meaning, and reception of the production of images and pictures in ancient Mesopotamia and Syria; the incipient urbanism in ancient Mesopotamia. Since 2014 he codirects the Italian archaeological excavations at Tell Zurghul, ancient Nigin in the State of Lagash in Southern Iraq. In 2019 he has been appointed vice-director of the Italian Archaeological Expedition to Syria (Tell Mardikh-Ebla). Chiara Pappalardo is a PhD candidate in Archaeology of the Ancient Near East at the University of Catania (Italy). During her studies she spent research periods in Austria and Germany and joined numerous international archaeological projects in the Middle East and the Caucasus. Her present research investigates the ancestral landscape of mobile protohistoric communities and aims at proposing a theoretical and methodological model to interpret their funerary behaviors through a phenomenological-cognitive approach and the use of digital technology. She is the curator of the Virtual Kurgan Archaeological Park. Anna Perdibon is a researcher, writer, and teacher in the fields of religion, anthropology, and the environmental humanities. She delves into New Animism and ethnography of plant–human relationships in ancient and contemporary cultures. She completed her PhD in ancient Near Eastern religions at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem (2019) and authored the book Mountains and Trees, Rivers and Springs: Animistic Beliefs and Practices in Ancient Mesopotamian Religion (2019). Currently, she collaborates with the School of Religious Studies, Center of Ancient Mediterranean and Near Eastern Studies, Florence, and with the Consortium of Environmental Philosophers (https://anim​ist-turn. org/).

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Max Price is Assistant Professor of Zooarchaeology at Durham University. His research focuses on animal husbandry in Neolithic, Chalcolithic, and Bronze Ages as well as complex societies in the ancient Near East. Steven A Rosen is the Canada Professor of Near Eastern Archaeology in the Department of Archaeology at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. His research interests focus on early desert pastoral adaptations using the Negev as a backdrop, the analysis of chipped stone tools in the Metal Ages, and general Levantine prehistory. His two most recent books are Revolutions in the Desert: The Rise of Mobile Pastoral Societies in the Negev and the Arid Zones of the Southern Levant (2017) and Flint Trade in the Protohistoric Levant with Francesca Manclossi (2022). Jennifer C. Ross is a Professor of Art and Archaeology at Hood College, in Frederick, Maryland. Her research interests encompass the archaeology of technology and technological change in the ancient Near East, with a focus on writing as a technology. She is an associate director of the Çadır Höyük archaeological project in Turkey and has published extensively on the Iron Age materials at the site. Her most recent book is Ancient Complex Societies (with Sharon R. Steadman, 2017). Nerissa Russell is a Professor of Anthropology at Cornell University. Her research interests focus on human–animal relations and the social and symbolic roles of animals, primarily in the Neolithic of the Near East and Europe. She has published extensively on the zooarchaeology and worked bone assemblages of these areas, particularly at Çatalhöyük in Turkey. Her first book is Social Zooarchaeology: Humans and Animals in Prehistory. Sanaz Safari is a PhD student at the University of Calgary in the Department of Classics and Religion. She completed her master’s degree at the Art University of Isfahan in the Department of Historical Archaeology. Her areas of concern are Middle East archeology, ancient architecture, Persian Empires’ history, Elamites, and Late Antique Near East. Seth Sanders is a Professor in the Department of Religious Studies and the Jewish Studies Program at University of California, Davis. He studies the composition and social life of ancient West Semitic literatures. His most recent work is From Adapa to Enoch: Scribal Culture and Religious Vision in Judea and Babylon and the first open-access edition of the Bible’s founding documents, pentateuch.digital. He is working on a book about early Hebrew literary values and ritual ideologies. Sharon R. Steadman is SUNY Distinguished Professor of Anthropology at the State University of New York College at Cortland, and Co-Director of the Çadır Höyük Archaeological Project in central Turkey. Her research interests center on the archaeology of architecture and prehistoric religion and ritual in Anatolia. Her most recent book is No Place Like Home: Ancient Near Eastern Houses and Households (2022), coedited with Aaron Brody and Laura Battini. Lorenzo Verderame is a Professor of Assyriology at “Sapienza” University of Rome, where he gives courses on Sumerian and Akkadian languages and Ancient Mesopotamian literatures, religions, and cultures. His main research interests are divination and third millennium administrative texts, as well as other major topics in Mesopotamian religion, literature, and material culture. He is the author of seven books and a hundred academic

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articles and the editor-in-chief of the series wEdge and Studi Semitici. He is the epigraphist of the Italian archaeological mission to Tell Zurghul/Nigin (Iraq). Emmanuelle Vila is a CNRS Researcher Specialist in zoological, socioeconomic, cultural, and religious aspects of the relationship between man and animal in early societies (sixth to first millennium bce). She works on livestock management in historical times, animal economy, and dietary habits in the frame of first cities development and complex societies in the Eastern Mediterranean, Middle East, and the Horn of Africa. She is currently leading an ANR Projet (EvoSheep) on the origin and development of sheep breeds. E. Vila is a researcher at the Centre national de la recherche scientifique/Université Lyon, France. Zuzanna Wygnańska is an Assistant Professor at the Institute of Mediterranean and Oriental Cultures, the Polish Academy of Sciences. Her research interests focus on personal adornments in material, cultural, and spiritual aspects; mortuary archaeology; and early polities formation in the Middle East and Arabian Peninsula. She currently codirects the Polish–Swiss research project “The First Megalith Builders of the Northern Levant: A Multidisciplinary Investigation of Akkar’s Archaeological Landscape (Lebanon, fourth to third millennia bce)” funded by National Polish Centre Poland and Swiss National Science Foundation. Her most recent book coauthored with Amir Golani is Beyond Ornamentation. Jewellery as an Aspect of Material Culture in the Ancient Near East (2014).

1

Introduction NICOLA LANERI AND SHARON R. STEADMAN

Crosses, mosques, churches, stupas, religious clothes, ritual paraphernalia, and sacrificed animals constitute a material dimension of religious practices and beliefs that are intimately entangled with the spiritual “idea” of the divine that has characterized human religiosity since the prehistoric origins of ritual performance. Thus, a material approach to religion is an inescapable endeavor for scholars and students interested in the field of religious studies. This is even more evident when dealing with ancient ritual practices, the traces of which are largely buried beneath the earth. Occasionally, fortune offers written sources that can also help us reconstruct the beliefs and religious practices of ancient communities. In their absence, however, identifying which deity was worshipped, or how and where ritual practices were actualized can only be accomplished through a detailed investigation of associated relics uncovered during archaeological excavations. To achieve this goal we must focus on how archaeological correlates of religious practices and beliefs can be connected, thereby providing a method for reconstructing a materialization of religious beliefs that is the quintessential aspect of any form of religiosity, be it ancient or modern. It is based on the foregoing premises that this volume on Material Religion in the Ancient Near East and Egypt has been conceived. The intention is to offer contributions that investigate the fundamental importance of a material approach to studying ancient forms of religiosity enacted by ancient Near Eastern communities from prehistoric periods until Late Antique times. When formulating the book’s contents we were certain we wanted an introductory chapter (Chapter 1) from a major figure in the field of material religion. There is no one with more gravitas in this field than David Morgan, and his willingness to contribute such a chapter to the project was a wonderful turn of events. We gave him no guidance other than to note it was an introduction to the entire volume and its various parts. It comes as no surprise to us, however, that he constructed the perfect introduction to this volume. His goal is to offer a definition of “lived religion” as a tool to manage the randomness of everyday life. People manage this randomness through belief in the power of actions and materials to solve problems. Morgan then seats this theory in a wonderful discussion that incorporates each of the thematic parts in this volume. Throughout the chapter, Morgan incorporates the “written words” that were offered centuries ago about human religion, including writings from David Hume in the 1700s, Bernard of Anger a millennium ago, and Prudentius in the 300s ce. These written words seek to clear away the opacity so evident in religious beliefs in an effort to transform “randomness into purpose.” In addressing the “human body,” rather than representations, Morgan discusses the actual human body in the form of early Christian saints who died for their religion and then became the object of cults. The burial sites, and the location of saints’ relics, offered concrete material locations for believers to reaffirm their faith. In

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his studies on the use of divination, employing material objects to defy the randomness of catastrophe in human life, Morgan treats the other parts found in this volume. One method derives from the Classical Greek period using the written word, in the form of plaques, to enable the city to make use of the landscape that was seen to be in the sacred possession of a goddess. Another method was the Roman practice of making use of animals, in this case birds, to identify auspicious or problematic circumstances. Morgan’s chapter offers a brilliant treatise on how humans continually attempt to grapple with the randomness of life through religious belief and demonstrates how the parts of this volume are indeed relevant to a better understanding of ancient Near Eastern material religion. The human body represents a starting point for framing religious beliefs among most societies due to the ubiquitous belief in a spiritual human essence. It is through mortuary behaviors that the first forms of religiosity began shaping beliefs in the supernatural within prehistoric societies. This is certainly the case in the ancient Near East where the first traces of beliefs in the afterlife are evident in the burials of Palaeolithic communities in the Levant (e.g., Ohalo II), northern Iraq (e.g., Shanidar), and elsewhere. In this volume, the sacred value of the human body in ancient Near Eastern communities has been tackled in different ways by the six contributions included in Part Two. Hassett (Chapter 2) and Cradic (Chapter 4) focused their attention on the actual use of the body by the community of the living as a source for “thinking” about religion in two different geographical and chronological settings (i.e., Hassett deals with ancient Mesopotamia during the third millennium bce, whereas Cradic treats the second and first millennia in the Levant). Cradic also tackles the subject of how the relics of ancient bodies can become a political discourse linked to the religiosity of contemporaneous communities, as is the case in Israel. The body as a locale for adornment is the subject of the contribution by Wygnańska (Chapter 3). The author focuses her attention on the role jewelry played in creating a religious discourse that transcended body adornment. Jewelry became a continuous religious medium for the “ritual negotiations between the human and the divine,” manifested in the magical power embodied by these objects. The other three contributions to the part on the human body (i.e., Chapter 5 by Nadali and Verderame, Chapter 6 by Chen, and Chapter 7 by Collins) address the materiality of icons, statues, and figurines as clear tools for creating a strong bond between divine spirits and the anthropomorphic physical presence of the divine in the earthly world. This is evident in most ancient Near Eastern societies (as vividly highlighted in the contribution by Nadali and Verderame for Mesopotamia and Collins for Anatolia) in which the spirit of the deity is physically present through his or her statue (e.g., salmu in ancient Akkadian) located in the temple and toured during specific calendric festivals. Statues can also embody healing properties as demonstrated by the Egyptian examples dated to the first millennium bce and presented in Chen’s contribution. The statue serves not just as a representation of the deity, but also the actual deity who must be fed, anointed, and worshipped within the temple he or she inhabits. The five chapters in Part Three on architecture span the Neolithic to the Iron Age. Two of the chapters, by Mazzoni (Chapter 12) and Steadman (Chapter 11), discuss architecture over multiple millennia. The other three focus on specific regions and periods, highlighting issues such as ethnic identity, religious diversity, and political power, across the ancient Near East. Chapters span the regions from Central Anatolia to Egypt. Mazzoni skillfully traces the origins of the temple footprint known as the “temple in antis,” which developed in the third millennium in the Northern Levant, and provided a continuous temple footprint in the region for the following three millennia.

Introduction

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Steadman investigates costly signaling theory as it is expressed in Neolithic structures in Southeastern Anatolia. She then argues that costly signals are still projected in the far less dramatic, and more invisible, architecture of Late Chalcolithic Central Anatolia millennia later. The other three chapters in this part treat specific time periods as well as specific temples. Candelora (Chapter 9) discusses the early second millennium bce temples at Tell el Dab˓a which rests at the intersection of Egypt and the Levant. She demonstrates how an immigrant population from Southwest Asia influenced both the footprint and the activities in these temples, creating a blend of Egyptian and Levantine architecture and ritual action. Butterlin (Chapter 8) focuses on the temples at Mari in the third and second millennia bce. He argues that the multiple renovations of these temples, particularly after destruction, reflect a regeneration of an urban center, a remaking of Mari identity by dynasts who intended to maintain their power and highlight the importance of their city. Işıklı (Chapter 10) provides a comprehensive overview of Urartian religious architecture, mounting an argument that explains the correlation between the growth of the Urartian state and the development of Urartian state religion. Koch (Chapter 13) addresses sacred architecture in the Iron Age Levant. In a similar vein to Butterlin, Koch outlines the diverse nature of sacred buildings in the various polities in the Southern Levant, demonstrating how each region sought to project its own methods and styles of worship and belief while simultaneously affirming the power and agency of regional leaders. The six chapters in the “written words” Part Four truly span the ancient Near East, with a discussion of religious texts found in Anatolia, Mesopotamia, Elam, Egypt, and the Levant. In these chapters, the human agency of scribe, practitioner, priest, and worshiper are delineated through their interactions with ancient texts. In an exploration of cuneiform texts found in Ur III and Old Babylonian contexts, Ross (Chapter 14) traces the origins of many of these to their original inscriptions on Old Akkadian monuments. Later scribes copied earlier inscriptions as a testimony to the power of ancient leaders and the preeminence of Mesopotamian deities; these texts became, in and of themselves, objects of respect and even worship. Dahl (Chapter 15) offers a fascinating look at what one can learn from the absence of text. In an examination of proto-Elamite texts, he notes that there is a dearth of religion and ritual. Nonetheless, Dahl is able to identify hints of religiosity in proto-Elamite glyptic art on seals, which may well have portrayed a strong religious connotation to anyone viewing the sealing. Geisen (Chapter 17) focuses on the Egyptian Book of the Dead and the relationship ancient Egyptians had with this artifact when planning for their post-death life. She highlights the materiality of the artifact and its text, including its color, form, and suggested items needed for a proper ritual burial, and many other material aspects associated with this critical juncture in ancient Egyptian life. Sanders (Chapter 19) investigates how the biblical Priestly corpus intersects with the materiality of ancient Judaic ritual practices. He describes intersections in Priestly narratives regarding the need for silence, the critical role of speech, and how worship in such settings should be practiced. McMahon (Chapter 16) offers a survey of Hittite ritual texts that demonstrate the utility of nearly every imaginable daily item for usage in their rituals. Everything from water and wine, to metals, mud, and animals, made an appearance in the texts which instruct the religious practitioner on how to counteract trouble, or effect positive change. Moriggi (Chapter 18) describes the fascinating practice of inscribing spells on “Aramaic Incantation” bowls in Late Antique Mesopotamia. These everyday bowls become powerful religious materials once an incantation adorned them, enabling them to repel evil in the form of disease, demonic possession, and all manner of misfortune.

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Animals are a great resource not only for economic subsistence, but because they are considered an embodiment of the divine, especially among non-Western communities. Among complex societies, animals establish a clear symbolic connection with the divine world as is the case in the reference to a theriomorphic representation (i.e., bovine) of Yahweh in the Hebrew Bible. Consequently, their role in ancient societies must be investigated in order to better understand the ritual aspects associated with their use and representation. Part Five is composed of five contributions that consider animals as the embodiment of spiritual essence within a long chronological framework spanning the PrePottery Neolithic to the Byzantine periods. This chronological sequence demonstrates the continuous role animals have played in establishing connections with the divine. In the Pre-Pottery Neolithic animals take on increased importance in ancient Near Eastern societies effected by the utterly transformative changes witnessed in the Neolithic Revolution regarding farming and animal breeding. Such a transformation is clearly visible also in the iconographic representation of wild animals in ceremonial contexts, investigated in the contribution by Russell (Chapter 21), and by Price and Meier (Chapter 22). These authors demonstrate how animal agency played a fundamental role in framing the spirituality of these “communities in transformation”; this is especially true in the case of Göbekli Tepe, in Southeastern Turkey, where the first ceremonial architecture in human history is marked by a visual narration of animal domains in the bas-reliefs engraved in the T-pillars embedded in the famous stone circles. The centrality of animals in Near Eastern rituality is further confirmed in later periods as demonstrated by Chahoud and Villa (Chapter 20). These scholars analyze the animal remains found in temple contexts from the third and second millennia bce in Lebanon and Western Syria. The spirits embodied by animals are even more evident in material culture and in the written source of the Hittites during the second millennium bce. This subject is brilliantly discussed by de Martino (Chapter 24). He reviews the long-standing tradition of Anatolian communities that, from the Neolithic periods onward, emphasize the spiritual force of wild animals in constructing their religious beliefs. Finally, while wild animals frequently appear within ritual beliefs and behaviors, they are also a fundamental economic resource to be hunted. Cassis, Burton, and Safari (Chapter 23) reveal how the activity of hunting served as a symbolic visual source for sharing a language of ritual power and domination over nature that continued to be narrated even into the Late Antique periods. Landscape, the last part of this volume (Part Six) investigates how the environment– human relationship can be interpreted as a fundamental nexus in structuring the religiosity of ancient Near Eastern communities. Perdibon (Chapter 25), for example, discusses the role written sources play in defining how mountains, stones, trees, plants, water, and rivers were envisioned as part of the immanent divine world of the ancient Mesopotamians. Pappalardo and Laneri (Chapter 26), through the creation of artificial funerary mounds (i.e., kurgans) in a large plateau near the Kura river, show how local communities of the Kura-Araxes period (i.e., fourth millennium bce) created an ancestral landscape that was used to anchor their community’s history within the mountainous natural landscape. The desert is interpreted by Hackley (Chapter 27) for ancient Egypt and by Rosen (Chapter 28) for the Negev in the Levant (both authors addressing multiple prehistoric millennia) as a natural resource to be used for creating cult strategies (i.e., creation of chapels, cult shrines, desert festivals, tumuli, etc.) aimed at defining the limen between mythological and real worlds for the societies inhabiting such a difficult terrain.

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Seawater is the natural environment addressed by Brody (Chapter 29) in the book’s final contribution. Brody analyzes the sacred landscapes created by Levantine seafarers who mitigated the dangers of their work by imbuing a sense of magic in ritual practice, and creating religious materialities that would guaranteed divine protection. The religious world is flooded with material elements that can be framed in a divine narrative that includes things, words, practices, humans, architecture, and other-thanhuman beings that inhabit the natural world. All these elements are part of a wider network of elements that are entangled and codependent. It is with this perspective that this volume was conceived, resulting in the creation of the six parts described above. The chapters within define research trajectories useful for a better understanding of the materialities in ancient Near Eastern religions. While not chronologically or geographically comprehensive, which would be possible only in a multi-volume set of tremendous girth, this volume is an important step towards the acknowledgment by the scholars interested in the ancient Near East, and religious studies in general, of the fundamental importance of confronting religiosity through material lenses.

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PART ONE

Material Religion

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CHAPTER ONE

Chance and Lived Religion: The Material Culture of Transforming Randomness into Purpose DAVID MORGAN

Chance poses a rich field of inquiry for the material culture of enchantment in everyday life, stretching from antiquity to the present. This chapter connects material practices that extract information from randomness since antiquity, framing the study in two important ways. The first involves material practices that use chance constructively, or generatively, while the second considers practices that eliminate, or at least reduce, randomness. Divination is an eminent example of the first operation and consists of a large variety of procedures that openly rely on chance, such as casting lots, rolling dice, palm reading, bibliomancy, reading tarot cards, tea leaves, or the tripudium, which was the omen in ancient Rome determined by grain or dough that happened to fall from a hen’s beak after being fed by an augur. Cicero transmitted a fundamental definition of divination when he quoted the Stoic philosopher Chrysippus of Soli, who described it as “the power to learn, to see, and to interpret the portents that are given to mortals by the gods.”1 In order to interpret an omen, one must first be able to recognize it. The production of signs commonly relies on a device or medium that operated as a random generator of a mark or pattern that is so accidental it could not reasonably be expected to occur naturally. The device also eliminates human intervention. The high margin of chance assures participants that the mechanism has not been manipulated, which effectively transforms the random result into one bearing meaning. The engagement of chance relies on a material apparatus that serves as a random generator such as codices, cards, or dice, or natural events such as meteors, earthquakes, or volcanic eruptions. All are divinatory technologies able to be interpreted by use of lore or codes. The other common way of dealing with chance consists of structuring human–divine relations in forms of exchange, or what may be described as sacred economies. This approach controls randomness by regulating access to spiritual goods or favors in patterns of dependence and response. By matching need with favor in protocols of exchange, sacred economies nurture relations between human and divine, cultivating trust and

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therefore encouraging the formation of relationships among partners in ongoing forms of exchange. The site of exchange is often an artifact—a saint’s image, shrine, or relic/ reliquary—that where petitions are addressed to a saint or god, or where an ex-voto object is deposited in thanks for a favor delivered. The preponderance of my focus here will be with divination and the uses of chance that it involves. But it will be helpful at least to explore the relevance of sacred economy in Late Antiquity, in order to clarify how it operates on randomness differently than divination since I will argue that any useful definition of lived religion must be one that turns on the practical problem-solving that using or regulating chance allows and that harvesting purpose from chance commonly relies on some manner of material apparatus. But first it is necessary to think about the meaning of lived religion.

DEFINING LIVED RELIGION The concept of “lived religion” emerged in European sociology of religion in the 1950s and 1960s as a way of focusing attention on everyday life and lay religiosity. Historians such as Carlo Ginzburg made powerful contributions in works such as The Cheese and the Worms, 1976, under the rubric of “microhistory” (Ginzburg 2013). Sometimes the concept of lived religion has been closely associated with “popular religion,” though the two should not be collapsed into one another.2 The designation of popular religion has been driven more by class distinctions in modern usage, sometimes linked to modernization or to mass culture (Williams 1980; Parker 1996; Forbes and Mahan 2017), or to the class-driven template of the two-tiered model of elite versus popular or vulgar, as it was used in a long trajectory of historiography outlined and usefully criticized for the study of Christian Late Antiquity by Peter Brown.3 Popular religion for David Hume, and for those such as Gibbon, who followed Hume’s account in The Natural History of Religion, 1757, was the idolatrous, superstitious, irrational product of the vulgar—human nature driven by a stubbornly primitive impulse. This stood in stark contrast to a civilization’s elite stratum, which reasons from first cause to recognize divine power, and therefore pits theism against the idolatry of blinkered polytheism. Brown argued that the resulting two-tier model predisposed historians seeking to explain the rise of the cult of the saints in Late Antiquity to regard it as the elite’s submission to the democratization of popular attitudes and practices (Brown 1981: 17). Apparently, superstition spreads more readily than enlightenment. Such broad and facile distinctions as “elite and popular” have multiplied over the years to include a loose kinship of like gestures: official and lay, public and private, high and low, progressive and conservative, cosmopolitan and provincial. To be sure, every such pairing captures something in its binary form, but all too often serves a virally reductive logic that does more to dim our view than to clarify it. The facts commonly belie the simple distinctions that such pairings make. For example, the learned churchman, Bernard of Anger, educated at the Cathedral School of Chartres, and serving as headmaster of the school at Angers, traveled to Conques about 1013 to investigate the many wonders attributed to Sainte Foy, whose relics were contained in a lavish reliquary of gold and encrusted gems in the Abbey Church there. In his own words, Bernard opened the book detailing Sainte Foy’s miracles with a frank admission of his initial skepticism that reflects the very two-tier model that shaped scholarly practice down to modernity: “Partly because it seemed to be the common people who promulgated these miracles and partly because they were regarded as new and unusual, we put no faith in them and rejected them as

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so much worthless fiction.” But the power of the saint’s miracles was something the scholar and teacher could not deny, and so he confesses: “What was true through God’s will could not be suppressed and belief in its truth was already spreading through all Europe” (Sheingorn 1995: 39). When it became possible for Bernard to arrange leave of his pedagogical duties, he traveled to Conques to observe the saint’s cult firsthand and to record what he saw and heard. The result was his book, which is a remarkable document of lived religion. But what does that term mean? In an influential volume, Lived Religion in America, David Hall affirms the importance of avoiding the split between high and low in the study of lived religion or between professional clergy and laity. Lived religion, as discussed by the contributors to the volume that Hall edited, signals keen interest in practice, that is to say, religion as a lived reality, what people do—the struggles, rites, routines, and attitudes of everyday life, which may be official or not, clerically regulated or not, theologically informed or not (Hall 1997: ix). In Studying Lived Religion, sociologist Nancy Ammerman has summarized the approach to the study that she has shared with other scholars of American religion: lived religion is “how religion happens in everyday life … To study religion in this way is to expand our lens beyond the official texts and doctrines so as to see how ideas about the sacred emerge in unofficial places. It is to include the practices of ordinary people, not just religious leaders” (Ammerman 2021: 5). Ammerman importantly includes embodiment and materiality as fundamental aspects of lived religion.4 Recent work on lived religion as a category in Late Antiquity, such as that by Jörg Rüpke, has stressed its individual character in contrast to a conventional view of Roman religion as uniform and changeless (Rüpke 2016). Ammerman, Hall, and others have been careful not to define lived religion as focused exclusively on “unofficial” domains of religious life and practice. And for good reason. If we might agree that lived religion is what people do to keep their worlds in working order, can’t we say the same of even the densest, most academic theology or religious philosophy that wrestle with something as ordinary and everyday as suffering and death? There is no reason to sever such searching thought from everyday religious practice. Although the two can operate in very different registers, they don’t have to. It is not difficult, for instance, to imagine hospital chaplains applying to the all-tooreal situation of aggrieved parents the reflections on evil and divine action formulated by Augustine or Thomas Aquinas, or perhaps the contemplations of Job. Theodicy happens at bedside. Yet lived religion is a domain in which the point is not intellectual virtue or axiomatic certainty. The task is to manage the devastating paradoxes and body blows that life deals real people. Or, less dramatically, to manage the disorder that looms when things don’t go as planned, to ward off misfortune in the undertaking of a new venture, or to fulfill a need that requires the potent assistance of a god, ancestor, saint, or spirit. For the purposes of this essay, I will define lived religion as practical religion—what people do and believe in regard to managing problems of scarcity and contingency, because it is these forces that shape everyday life, both public and private, elite and popular, though in very different ways. Where theology and philosophy produce systems of thought, lived religion is what people do to manage problems in the ordinary, extraordinary, official and everyday circumstances of their lives. At its heart, I want to argue, lived religion is driven by the need to deal with randomness or chance, and to do so by invoking a variety of powers in practices that range across a wide variety of descriptors such as supernatural, magical, occult, theurgic, and miraculous.5

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To this end, I would like to describe two broad categories that help define lived religion: those that seek to regulate or reduce contingency and those that make generative use of it. To do so, I will examine the two domains of material practice across several centuries, seeking to show how saintly intercession and divination operated as key aspects of lived religion in Late Antiquity, medieval, and early modern societies. The point is not to overlook differences, which are obvious and many, but to demonstrate the utility of scrutinizing the material culture of lived religion as a primary matrix of religious practice. Lived religion is not limited to material culture, but its practical nature very commonly takes shape in material forms of devotion and divination, and often could not do otherwise since the practicality of religion readily takes the form of what human bodies physically experience and perform.

SACRED ECONOMIES IN LATE ANTIQUE CHRISTIANITY When Christianity achieved a new status in the course of the fourth century, the material consequences became evident. By the following century, the cult of the saints focused increasingly on the public domain of shrines and churches dedicated to martyrs. These sites served as pilgrimage destinations for festivals to the martyrs, promoting both the cult of the saints and the elaborate material culture associated with the cult. The altars erected in the rise of church construction in the later fourth and fifth centuries were invested with relics of the saints to which the church or shrine was dedicated. The revelation and discovery of the relics was part of a larger system of material–metaphysical exchange, a spiritual economy that runs in one form or another throughout the history of Christianity. Indeed, the materiality of Christianity can be framed by accounts of this economy since it serves to explain the material culture of tokens, symbols, relics, icons, and altars as well as practices as diverse as pilgrimage, penance, donation, commemoration, devotion, prayer, and evangelism. One of the victims of Diocletian’s persecution of Christians was Vincent of Saragossa, who died in 304 ce. His passion was praised by the Gallic monk and hymnist Prudentius (348–c. 405 ce), who invited the martyr to bless his feast day, the anniversary of his execution, the day “On which you purchased with your blood/The glorious crown of victory” (Prudentius 1962: 146, ll. 3–4). The hymn celebrated the physical horrors of the saint’s abuse, rushing from stanza to stanza, to recount a crescendo of sadistic devices and pain. Yet the story is a familiar one of triumph. Refusing to worship Roman gods, Vincent was condemned by an enraged prefect. After a long regimen of vicious treatment, Vincent died. The prefect was irate at the saint’s premature departure and indulged his rage by desecrating the body. But the corpse, “the glorious relics of the saint” (l. 400), was protected from violation and miraculously whisked away to a discreet burial. The body rested intact until the Roman foe “at last was quelled” and a shrine could be erected (l. 513). Prudentius ended his poem by asking Vincent to intercede as “Our advocate at God’s high throne” (l. 548). Placing himself and his readers in the shrine, before the relics, he limned the moment of critical negotiation enabled by his poem’s valorization of his patron, Vincent. Having praised his perseverance and soldierly example, Prudentius ventured the query that the whole spiritual economy of intercession was designed to support—the well-placed patron’s condescension: If we with joyful heart and tongue Observe your feast with solemn rites

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And kneel before this holy shrine Where your exalted relics lie, Come hither for a little while And win for us the grace of Christ, That souls oppressed by sin may feel The solace of His pardoning love. (ll. 561–8) The power of the tomb of the saints became a familiar feature in Italy and Gaul. Shortly after he became bishop of Tours, Gregory became deadly ill with dysentery. After all medical intervention had failed to stem the infection, he directed his physician to bring him “dust from the most sacred tomb of the lord Martin [St. Martin of Tours], and make a drink with it for me. If this does not have an effect, all ways of evading death have been found wanting” (Gregory of Tours 2015: 533). As soon as he drank the mixture, he remarked, “I received my health from the tomb” and was quickly restored. Gregory’s delivery was the result of his patron’s favor, but that favor followed upon the client’s devoted request and enduring relation with the patron. Peter Brown aptly stressed the importance of the patronage system in Late Antique Christianity for the emergence of the cult of the saints (Brown 1981: 50–68). Although the cult of the saints spread throughout the Latin Church, the understanding of the saints and their relics varied considerably. Not every bishop understood devotion to the saints in the same way. The material economy of relics promoted by some bishops was challenged by others. At the end of his life, Augustine preached a sermon in which he proclaimed that God “doesn’t grant health to everyone through the martyrs; but to all who imitate the martyrs, he does promise immortality … After all, even those people too who are now cured, die sooner or later; those who rise again at the end will live with Christ forever” (Augustine 1991: v. 8, pt. 3, 103). Martyrs were inspiring models of courageous faith, but their relics were a medium of divine operation that were not to be separated from their proper source. Augustine explained the economy of a martyr’s relics as follows: Those who shed their blood for their redeemer were redeemed by his blood. He shed his as the redemptive price of their salvation; they shed theirs as a means of spreading his gospel. They gave him something in exchange, but not from their own resources; their ability to do so, after all, was his gift; and for that to be done which could be done by them, was his gift. As a mark of his favor, he provided them with the occasion of their martyrdom. (Augustine 1991: v. 9, pt. 3, 147) This economic relation was not a quid pro quo exchange between two parties. The martyr did not earn salvation by his act of sacrifice since his life was already redeemed by the sacrificial death of Jesus. The economy in question is based on the gift. By offering the life of his son for all, God expects humankind to reciprocate, which is what the martyr does. But the martyr spent his life as an investment in the future wealth of the gospel. His act paid forward rather than back. Augustine indicated that St. Stephen’s grave remained hidden because God had intended its disclosure for the present: “both this place and this day is being commended,” the bishop proclaimed in his sermon, to the devotion of those listening to him (Augustine 1991: v. 9, pt. 3, 147). Martyrdom was part of an extended spiritual economy that engaged the present with the past and oriented it toward the future. The distinction would return to frame the Protestant Reformation a thousand years later in part of the history of Christianity’s widely varying articulations of sacred economies.6

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But in every case, the purpose of the economy was to organize the understanding of the Christian’s relationship to a divine agent—Jesus or his special friends, the saints, and martyrs—in terms of debt and payment expressed in the form of an exchange of offer and response. This exchange was couched within an ongoing relationship between patron and devotee and served to regulate the daily life of the client, buffeted by the vagaries of illness, want, aggression, and misfortune. Perhaps the clearest example in antiquity and the medieval eras was the votive gift deposited at the god or saint’s shrine when the votary wished to thank the benefactor for his or her assistance (see Hughes 2017; Weinryb 2018). The act generally used a token such as a wooden, metal, or wax figure of the body part that was healed. So, it was not a quid pro quo transaction but rather a deferential gesture that marked the client’s gratitude within the ongoing relationship between the patron and the devotee. The vagaries of life were managed by reliance on one sacred economy or another—the intercessory cult of the saints or Augustine’s view of the unilateral gift of salvation.

RELIGION AND THE PROBLEM OF CONTINGENCY Although there is much in David Hume’s account to criticize or altogether dismiss, he hit on something important in regarding accident or contingency as an active cause of religion, and he saw in the human impulse to fashion a likeness to human beings a pervasive and powerful means of reducing what he called “unknown causes” to manageable problems. By framing the study of religion as natural history, Hume was able to recognize its practicality. His approach presumed that religion was an expression of “human nature,” which the philosopher held in low regard, since its deeper engine was fear and ignorance, which meant that the religious impulse emerging from human nature produced what Hume characterized as the error and primitive delusion of idolatry and polytheism. Only theism, the belief in a single deity, supreme overall, the first cause, was the discernment of reason, that higher endowment of humanity that emerges only over the course of time, the result of “the natural progress of human thought” (Hume 2008: 135). Thus, noble religion is intellectual and philosophically inclined; rude religion is obsessed with the fumbling ignorance of fear and superstition. As I said, there is much in Hume’s account to be set aside. Yet grounding religion in the evolution of the species and the historical formation of societies and looking for the practical work that religions perform in helping to make a home for human beings in the world offers the rudiments of a conception of lived religion. Hume characterized the human situation as the motive for religion: We are placed in this world, as in a great theatre, where the true springs and causes of every event are entirely concealed from us; nor have we either sufficient wisdom to foresee, or power to prevent those ills, with which we are constantly threatened. We hang in perpetual suspense between life and death, health and sickness, plenty and want; which are distributed amongst the human species by secret and unknown causes, whose operation is oft unexpected, and always unaccountable. (Hume 2008: 140) Grappling with these unknown causes is the work of religion, which imagines the powers at work in nature in a way that admits of negotiating with them in some manner. Hume did not allow that “the ignorant multitude” could devise any other way than superstition and idolatry. His less-than-generous view of religion as erroneous thinking prevented him from recognizing the important social and cultural work of religion in providing

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existential benefits—benefits that will never be provided entirely by reason or science. It is these benefits that are the focus of lived religion, and Hume, in spite of himself, helps us realize their source. “There is a universal tendency among mankind,” he continued, “to conceive all beings like themselves, and to transfer to every object those qualities with which they are familiarly acquainted. We find human faces in the moon, armies in the clouds; and by a natural propensity … ascribe malice or good-will to everything that hurts or pleases us” (Hume 2008: 141). Hume saw this as an error awaiting correction, the task of enlightened reason, but if we understand lived religion as the existential problemsolving that enhances human life, we can see in the anthropomorphism he describes a powerful resource of world-building and social construction. Hume described how human religions deal with the unknown causes by bringing “invisible powers … nearer to a resemblance with ourselves” (Hume 2008: 142). Seeing such likeness at work in natural events need not be dismissed as mere delusion or superstition, but as an imaginative means of crafting a habitable relation with the powers that govern the universe. The anthropomorphic practice of discerning a likeness between humankind and powers governing events is particularly evident in devotion to saints or ancestors, who enter into ongoing relations with human beings mediated in sacred economies, forms of exchange that seek to regulate scarcity or mitigate misfortune. Managing the inchoate, undefined nature of unknown causes addresses the menace of randomness or contingency. Where sacred economies invoke higher powers to intervene in one’s favor, thus correcting the accidents that have befallen the faithful, divination posits a universe in which future events exhibit signs or omens that can be discerned in order to anticipate the events. This involves the use of images and other forms of material apparatus that do not limit, conceal, or deny chance but rather exploit it. In divination, what I have called a random generator is any material apparatus whose proper use eliminates the human hand and increases the odds against natural occurrence to introduce the “divine hand” as an external agent. I turn to particular moments from Late Antiquity to the medieval and early modern eras in order to demonstrate how lived religion makes use of randomness.

DIVINATION IN PRACTICE: FOUR EXAMPLES Let us consider four discrete instances of divination from antiquity to the early modern period from which to extract some general characteristics of the material operation of divination. The first instance involves the use of two inscribed plaques, the second the flight of birds, the third the use of codices, and the fourth the use of lots. In each of these material instances, we will recognize the reliance on chance to determine its very opposite—meaning—and the use of material devices for doing so. On the matter of how to use a tract of land sacred to Demeter and another goddess, possibly Athena, a mid-fourth-century bce inscription from Athens records the ritual resolution of a municipal problem. The city’s council was directed to prepare two inscriptions on tin plaques of the same size. The first stated that it was auspicious to use the land for a sanctuary to the two goddesses; the second that it was better to let the land stand fallow. The two plaques were separately wrapped in wool and bound so that their identity was concealed, then publicly inserted into two jugs—one gold and one silver—sealed by members of the city council and countersealed by any Athenian who wished to do so. No one knew which plaque was in which jug. The jugs were then deposited on the Acropolis and three Athenians were selected to go to Delphi and “enquire of the god according to which of the writings the Athenians are to act

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concerning the sacred tract.” The query would be answered by the oracle indicating either the gold jug or the silver. The inscription stipulates that “according to whichever of the writings the god ordains it to be preferable and best for the Athenian People, according to those they are to act.”7 The second example consists of the Roman practice of taking the auspices of bird flight, song, or other behavior, conducted by augurs who relied on a templum as marking out a discrete space or enclosure in which birds were to be observed from the position of the auguraculum, a ritually designated site.8 Varro described how the templum was to be made as a kind of incantation that anticipated the demarcations that would be part of ceremonial magic many centuries later. Varro took the following formula from an area of the Capitoline hill that was the site for observing omens: “Let the boundaries of my temples and wild lands be as I shall declare them with my words. That tree of whatever kind it is which I deem myself to have named, let it be the boundary of my temple and wild land to the right.”9 And so to the left. The resulting space was used by the augur “to define the view of the eyes,” that is, a field of vision or gaze in which omens could take place in the form of bird flight, bird song, or the appearance of any of the birds specified by Roman ornithomancy. According to Etruscan practice, the source of Roman augury, birds on the augur’s left were a favorable omen.10 The viewer faced south, which meant birds appearing on the eastern half of the templum were auspicious. Bibliomancy, or in Latin, sortes biblicae, was the prevalent form of divination described by Gregory of Tours in his History of the Franks (594 ce). There we read of Chramn, the ambitious son of King Lothar I with his fourth wife. Scheming with Lothar’s brother, Childebert, Chramn seized a portion of his father’s territory. Lothar dispatched two of his sons from his second marriage to deal with Chramn’s aggression. Through trickery, Chramn eluded conflict with them and marched for Dijon. Tetricus, Bishop of Langres, who resided in the Burgundian city of Dijon and was related to Gregory of Tours, had three of his priests conduct the sortes biblicae in order to determine “what would happen to Chramn, whether he would ever prosper and whether or not he would come to the throne” (Gregory of Tours 1974: 212). The procedure consisted of placing on the altar of the bishop’s church the three books of scripture: the (Old Testament) prophets, the epistles (of Saint Paul), and the gospels. In this instance, the bishop’s clergymen decided to sync the consultation of each text to the liturgical structure of the mass, where passages of the prophets, Pauline epistles, and the gospels were read aloud as part of the formal worship service. Doing so clearly enhanced the divinatory authority of the readings. Each priest would read the passage that “he found when he first opened the book.” The three passages were read in conjunction to render the divination. The first (Isa. 4: 4-5) indicated an uprooting and new growth; the second (1 Thess. 5: 2-3) announced the day the Lord would arrive as a thief in the night, foreboding destruction rather than peace or safety; and the third (Mt. 7: 26-27) sounded a grim pronouncement by warning that those who do not heed the Lord’s words “shall be likened to a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand: And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it” (Gregory of Tours 1974: 213). This appears to have been enough for the Bishop to keep Chramn at arm’s length. He did not allow him to enter the city of Dijon. Chramn later departed for Paris to continue his machinations with Childebert. When Childebert soon after fell ill and died, Chramn fled to Brittany to form an alliance there with the Count of the Bretons to fight against Lothar. When Lothar’s force arrived, the Count’s army was routed and Chramn apprehended with his family. Lothar ordered them confined to a hut and burnt

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alive. Gregory left no doubt as to the accuracy of the bibliomancy. The ritual opening of the books clearly foresaw the calamitous fall of Chramn. Finally, we draw on an example in the modern era from the history of the Moravian Brotherhood, a European Protestant group that moved from Bohemia to Saxony in 1722, and from there sent out mission groups around the world well into the nineteenth century. The Moravians employed the use of lots for making important ecclesial decisions as well as for personal matters such as approval of choices in marriage. It was Moravian missionaries who taught John Wesley the use of lots during the transit from England to the colony of Georgia in 1735.11 Drawing lots was a practice easily justified by appeal to scriptural precedent. The book of Acts records, for instance, that the first group of Jesus’s disciples cast lots to replace Judas (Acts 1: 23-26). And there were many warrants of the practice to be drawn from the Old Testament (Lev. 16: 8; Num. 26: 55; Josh. 7: 14; Prov. 16: 33). In 1756, Moravians founded a city named Lititz near Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The use of the lot in the selection of a superintendent for the church in the Pennsylvanian city was described in church records: In as much as the superintendency of the country churches had been originally committed to [Bishop Matthew] Hehl, it would have been natural to give him the position at Lititz, without further ceremony. But, at the Sixteenth Provincial Synod, two other bishops, besides himself, were proposed, [August Gottlieb] Spangenberg [who had become a friend of Wesley’s during their voyage to Savannah in 1735] and Peter Boehler. Thereupon, the Synod resolved to leave the decision to the Lord by the lot, and to use it, in this instance, in the same way in which it had been used by the Bohemian Brethren, in 1467, at the Synod of Lhota, when appointing their first ministers. Accordingly, four tickets were prepared, of which three were left blank, and one was inscribed with the Latin word Est. A fervent prayer having been offered, the three bishops, Spangenberg, Hehl, and Peter Boehler, advanced and drew each a ticket. Upon opening them it appeared that the one marked Est was in the hand of Bishop Hehl. In this way he became Superintendent at Lititz. In case all three of them had drawn blanks, Bishop David Nitschmann, who was in America at the time, would no doubt have been appointed. (Anon. 1886: 267–8) The lot was performed at Lititz on the occasion of the 300th anniversary of the founding of the original Moravian Brethren in 1457—the town was named after a castle in Bohemia near a village where the Bohemian Brethren had begun. So the ritual resounded with special resonance. But drawing lots was a common practice among the Moravians until the end of the nineteenth century. Comparing the four cases that I have sketched here reveals some striking similarities that tell us something about the materiality of divination. Material devices instrumentalize randomness as a way of eliminating human manipulation and regarding chance as no other than divine agency. In the instance of the Athenian divination, the two plaques with inscribed outcomes were concealed within jugs crafted from different metals and the Delphic Oracle was asked to select between the jugs, not the plaques. Masking the plaques meant securing the god’s choice alone. The two parties in Athens could not argue with Apollo, and the careful protocol for ensuring there was no human intervention was critical to resolving the conflict as an act of pious submission to divine will. The Roman use of the templum in aviary augury meant establishing an agreed upon space in which certain events could become signs, omens of divine disposition. Without the limitation,

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the signs might not occur, might not even be visible as signs. The material structure of a designated enclosure or zone transformed a passing bird into an omen, morphing a random event into a divine revelation. Gregory of Tours described the successive use of scriptural texts in the mass, which corralled three consecutive acts of randomly opening the codices: with each additional reading, the message took shape. A book is a random generator, offering hundreds of passages to choose. The inherent ambivalence of random readings is successively transformed into some manner of consensus since the individual texts work together to evoke and confirm a pattern among themselves. Using three texts rather than only one or two enhanced the mechanics of divination because it reduced the odds of an indeterminate result. Finally, the use of lots among Moravians structured the options in a discrete number of blank lots that equaled the contending parties, with an additional marked lot. The chance of selecting none of the three contenders was one in four, enough of a margin to regard the result as divinely determined. The Moravians always used greater numbers of lots than parties in order to make the odds of any outcome less than 50 percent. The idea in every case is that by removing human intervention, the result would be regarded as divinely intended. Paradoxically, it is a process that uses chance in order to deny it. The materiality of the apparatus that each procedure relied on was an essential part of its objectivity: the process worked autonomously, which means self-effacingly so as to create a transparency that disclosed the god’s disposition on the matter at hand. The materiality of the apparatus is a public performance that ensures no preference in order to vouchsafe the authenticity of the end result as divinely determined. The device properly used is divine speech, the god’s reply to questions properly presented. It is noteworthy that speaking of oracles at Delphi, sortes biblicae in Gregory, or lots among the Moravians followed an identical pattern: the procedure in every case is described as the god speaking through the oracle—whether Greek priestess, bird flight, bible opening, or drawing lots. The examples I have discussed suggest that lived religion is not simply the domain of nonclerical or nonofficial religious practice. Indeed, each of the four instances come directly from the heart of official religious rites in ancient Greece and Rome, Merovingian Catholicism, and Moravian Protestantism. Lived religion, whether official or lay, formal or informal, high or low, elite or popular, is religion that solves problems. And two of the most important ways of doing so across a broad variety of religions was regulating the scarcity of good fortune through appeal to a sacred economy of exchange; and the use of randomness or chance through different kinds of material apparatus. Both relied on material forms and practices to bring the divine into sympathetic relation to the lives of mortals.

NOTES 1 “Vim cognoscentum et videntem et explicantem signa, quae a diis hominibus portendantur,” in Cicero (1923: 516), translation modified by the author. 2 Maitre (1980) stressed the distinction of official authority and popular practice and belief: “Le concept de religion populaire prend sa signification dans des sociétés où fonctionnent des autorités religieuses assurant une forte régulation de l’orthodoxie et de l’orthopraxie; la religion populaire est alors une religiosité vécue—au niveau des représentations, affects et coutumes—sur le mode d’une différence par rapport à la religion officielle.” https://www. univ​ersa​lis.fr/encyc​lope​die/relig​ion-la-relig​ion-popula​ire/.

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3 Brown (1981: 12–22). An example of the study of ancient religion as popular, defined as the everyday world of practice of Athenians “apart from poets and philosophers” is Mikalson (1983: ix). 4 Ammerman devotes chapters to each (2021: 75–97 and 98–121). 5 For a treatment of lived religion in antiquity that treats magic in such terms, see Denzey Lewis (2017: 257–76) and various contributions in Boschung and Bremmer (2015). 6 For further consideration of a succession of rival economies in modern Christianity see Morgan (2015: 71–104). 7 “On the Boundaries of a Sacred Tract,” IG II3 1 292, ll. 23–51, Attic Inscriptions Online, https://www.attici​nscr​ipti​ons.com/insc​ript​ion/IGII2/204. On divination in antiquity, see Johnston and Struck (2005) and Johnston (2008). 8 On the auguraculum, see Scheid (2003: 113–14). An informative essay on bird omens in ancient Greece is Matthew Dillon. Dillon (1996: 107) notes that several ancient Greek texts and inscriptions imply “that the movements of birds were observed from a particular vantage point. There is some evidence to suggest that the seers of the community might have had an actual seat of divination, a place from which to observe the stars and birds, and advise on future events for their communities.” 9 Quoted and discussed in Beard, North, and Price (1998: vol. 2, 86–7). 10 Pallottino (1975: 144–45). For comparison of Greek and Roman practice on this point, see Schilling (1992: 96). 11 For discussion of the Moravians and Wesley in the larger history of sortition, see Morgan (2018: 138–67); on chance and materiality in religious practice, see Morgan (2010: 29–30).

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PART TWO

The Human Body

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CHAPTER TWO

Material Religion and the Body in the Ancient Near East BRENNA R. HASSETT

In introducing the idea of the materiality of religion in the context of human remains, it is necessary to first make a large caveat: the identification of “religion” itself in the past is a subject of considerable complexity (Insoll 2012). Because spiritual and immaterial aspects of human life are often expressed through ritual, much of the search for religion in archaeological contexts has examined evidence for religion-in-practice, meaning we see religion materialized largely through sites, landscapes, and material culture (Rowan 2011). Ritual is, in fact, very often tethered to the physical world and deeply embedded in ways of life (Brück 1999). There are rituals across human societies associated with turns of season and weather; there are rituals associated with interactions with the plants and animals we eat. Also, key to the discussion here, there are rituals that are tied to the physical state of an individual––directly to the body; either as a way of life, for example, dietary restrictions, or as markers of specific events such as birth, adolescence, or death. This chapter explores those instances where it is possible to look for the materialization of religious belief in the human body: through activities that leave traces in bones and teeth, and through the final deposition of human remains. It will look at where belief intersects with the biological individual, and how we can trace belief in the bodies of the past.

MATERIALIZING A RELIGIOUS LIFE Spiritual practices that affect the physical body in such a way that they are discernible hundreds or thousands of years down the line are incredibly rare. However, this may be an artifact of how we consider ritual, or religious action, in the present: as a distinct moment of conscious, nonfunctional behavior (Brück 1999). If we instead allow for a past where belief systems are not isolated from “everyday” activity and in fact inseparable from them, nearly all human actions become “ritual,” in that human action might always be said to negotiate the material and immaterial worlds. In this incredibly broad sense, the record of past lives, written in the physical remains of individuals, must be the result of a lifetime of mediating mundane reality and the rich interior world of human consciousness. However, this is too blunt a tool for understanding how religion might have materialized

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in the past. Instead, we might usefully look at differences in lived experiences, as we can interpret them from bones, teeth, and other parts of the skeleton, and use these to address the many ways that human belief may have interacted directly with the body. The vast majority of spiritual practices that would have affected the body leave no trace on the skeleton. For instance, the blood-letting rituals of Mesoamerica, affecting biodegrading soft tissue, left no trace on the skeletal remains preserved in the archaeological record (Read 2020). There are many well-documented modifications to the human body made in the name of religion, ranging from specific grooming habits to tattooing to circumcision that affect ephemeral tissues, not the durable bones and teeth that tend to survive archaeologically. It is only in specific environmental conditions that preserve these tissues––hair, skin––that we can see how past peoples might have bodily mediated their interactions with the immaterial world in life. Tattoos were potentially widespread in the past and appear almost everywhere in the archaeological record where conditions permit (Deter-Wolf et al. 2016). A connection with shamanism is purported for the tattoos of abstract animals found on the mummified remains of a young woman buried in the fifth century bce in Siberia (Polosmak 1994). The mummified remains of an Egyptian Middle Kingdom priestess bear the same patterns of geometric dots as contemporary figurines, and slightly later mummies at Deir-el-Medina have a stylized image of the god Bes on their inner thigh, and one is heavily tattooed with symbols, animals, and designs (Austin and Gobeil 2017). Not all tattoos are easily linked to known religious symbols, such as the sixty-one symbols on the mummified “Iceman” of Tyrol (Samadelli et al. 2015). As with tattoos, the preservation of grooming patterns, for example, hairstyles, is rare and requires ideal preservation conditions. Other body modifications such as circumcision, piercing, scarring, or branding may have been widespread but are identifiable only in mummified remains, for example, circumcision in Ancient Egypt linked with religious beliefs regarding the god Osiris (Morimoto 1989), or from use-wear and material analysis of tattooing or other body modification equipment (Gorman 2000). Textual evidence also provides evidence of body modification such as circumcision or the “crusader cross” branded into the bodies of medieval European crusaders (Purkis 2018), or other examples that communicated identity other than religious belief (Nowell and Cooke 2021). Archaeological evidence of body modification tends to occur in the anterior dentition (Larsen 2017a). Dental tissues can be modified with relatively little injury, and the front teeth in particular (incisors, canines) are highly noticeable in life. Again, however, many of these modifications communicate aspects of identity not directly related to the immaterial world or religious belief. Tooth ablation, usually the removal of one or more of the central incisors, has a near-global distribution and is associated with everything from social identity to mourning to puberty to beatification (see numerous case studies in Larsen 2017b). Tooth filing and decoration is also global in scope; it is found in Viking Age cemeteries (c. 800–1050 ce) (Loe et al. 2014; Alexandersen, Lynnerup, and Larsen 2017), in Micronesia (Ikehara-Quebral et al. 2017), and among the Maya to display wealth and status (Tiesler et al. 2017). There is also considerable ethnographic evidence for ritual dental modification, particularly associated with the transition to adulthood. Tooth filing in Bali is part of a puberty religious ritual (manusa yadnya) that removes the animal-like qualities of the canine teeth, eliciting a sympathetic response in the adolescent’s character (Artaria and Larsen 2017). However, without textual or ethnographic evidence, it is difficult to understand the relationship between dental modification and religious or spiritual belief in the past.

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Food is another aspect of materialized religion that can be identified in the physical body. What we eat is deeply enmeshed with cultural identity and practice, and many aspects of religious practice involve specific dietary observances. Diet is traceable within the body both through the effects of nutrition on development and health and through the actual physical residue of the chemical composition of what is eaten. Particularly, stable isotopes analyses have led to the identification of dietary differences between communities, with different ratios of carbon and nitrogen isotopes specifically able to untangle variation in consumption of terrestrial and marine proteins and different kinds of plant foods. Part of the material effect of lived cultural and religious differences in foodways should be identifiable in trace evidence of stable isotopes. This is potentially seen in the archaeological record of the communities of late medieval Muslims in Gandia, Spain, which demonstrated skeletal evidence of more elevated levels of C4 plants (possibly related to work with sugarcane or millet consumption) in their diet than contemporary Christians (Alexander et al. 2015). The medieval Portuguese diet transitioned from terrestrial to marine resources after the shift from Islamic to Christian control (Toso et al. 2021). In the ancient Near East, archaeological research has identified differences in diet associated with belief both across groups within societies and across larger cultural groups over time and space. However, dietary differences, like the bodily modifications discussed above, can also arise from differences in status and social identity; for example, men might have preferential access to meat in some societies (Le Huray and Schutkowski 2005). Some of these variations are directly attributable to religious ritual with the aid of textual evidence, such as the Late Bronze Age feasting practices attested by both text and faunal remains at Hazor that distinguish elite and nonelite contexts (Lev-Tov and McGeough 2007), or the identification of a specific part––the right side––of the animal in an Iron Age temple complex at Tell Dan in Israel attested as the “priestly portion” in a text (Greer 2019). There is now an emerging literature on tracing the physical materialization of feasting to bolster the well-known textual history (e.g., Altmann and Fu 2014). However, while the identification of feasting contexts in the archaeological record through evidence such as faunal remains and associated vessels is commonplace, the actual materialization of these practices, or any ritual, in the human body is far more difficult to access. At least for now, isotopic studies reveal lifetime, or at least, long-period dietary patterns; singular ritual events are not identifiable. What we can identify through trace stable isotope data in individual bodies are the shifts in dietary patterns that may be related to aspects of culture and, therefore, the mediation of material and immaterial in human lives. The ability to tie these findings to lived religious practices is however very tenuous in prehistory, though the longstanding interest in the origins of the dietary laws of Leviticus has invited many scholars to seek correlates in the archaeological record, for example, the presence or absence of pig remains (Sapir-Hen et al. 2013). Differences are observed, however: the Kura-Axes culture sites of the Southern Caucasus (c. 3500–2500 bce) appear to rely less on wheat and more on barley and prefer herbivore meat to pig than earlier and later inhabitants of the same region (Herrscher et al. 2021).

MATERIALIZING A RELIGIOUS DEATH The archaeological marker of the material realization of ritual in a human body that is most commonly encountered is, of course, the way in which dead bodies are treated. Funerary treatment of the body may well be the ultimate material marker of religious

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activity in the past; the ways in which humans dispose of their dead are myriad and reflect the worldview of the living (Ucko 1969; Parker Pearson 1999). The disposition of human remains is a vast subject, but it is possible to identify broad categories within this treatment: ways in which belief in the immaterial is manifested in the physical remains themselves through their postmortem treatment, material objects placed with the body, and their interactions with the world after death. Postmortem treatment of remains has a great deal to do with belief systems that determine the appropriate ways of disposing of the dead. These are legion, as famously outlined in Ucko’s 1969 survey, but might include burial, cremation, mummification, exposure, defleshing, decoration, curation, consumption, or any combination thereof. In the ancient Near East, we can identify several types of mortuary treatment but do not necessarily have textual evidence for religious belief. Elaborate mortuary treatments such as those that produced the defleshed, bound, plastered, and decorated remains found at Pre-Pottery Neolithic Kortik Tepe are interpreted as ritual responses to death, with the “purification” of remains at Kortik Tepe manifesting a belief in the separation of death from life (Erdal 2015). In the deep past associated with the earliest farming communities, we find a tradition of curation of defleshed and decorated human remains, particularly skulls. This is seen in the re-creation of the appearance of a living head such as the famous plastered skulls from Jericho. These heads, in particular, have been interpreted as representing ancestors and lineage, with the act of curation a part of a belief system that creates a larger community linked together by shared ancestry, while both memorializing and erasing individuality (Kuijt 2008). At Catalhöyük, the interpretation of this sense of belonging imparted by the presence of curated human remains has been extended to the burials located within domestic spaces, identifying human remains as special objects that materialize a belief in connection to a house or space (Hodder and Cessford 2004); the curation of human remains near to hand, within houses, is also suggested as part of the process of grief (Croucher 2018). Collection and curation of remains is a common feature of secondary burial, the interment of an individual or some parts of an individual, sometime after primary mortuary treatment has occurred. To examine this phenomenon we look to the case study of Başur Höyük. On the edges of prehistory, in the transition to the third millennium bce at this site we find a tradition of interment that has individuals as a focal point rather than drawing on symbols of shared supra-group identity found in collective or curatorial traditions, even though at Başur Höyük treatment of those individuals may be accorded based on an ascribed group— lineage or kinship—status rather than one earned in life. Single-individual interments, burials, usually in stone cist tombs, start to appear in the Upper Euphrates (Laneri 1999; Ökse 2005; Palumbi 2005; Helwing 2012). The use of intramural burial in this period, within a settlement, has been attributed to cementing relationships between domestic or ritual architecture and ancestors (Laneri 1999). This new tradition of individual burials has also been interpreted as marking a shift in emphasis toward individual identities (Helwing 2012) and has been tied by some to the influence of the Trans-Caucasian KuraAxes culture and their practice of interment in monumental graves (Palumbi 2005). The monumentality of the burials observed in the upper basin of the Euphrates is, however, debatable; rather than a single mound constructed as part of the burial ritual, the stonelined cist graves that appear along the Euphrates may not be particularly visible in the monumental sense (Hassett, in press). Later tomb traditions in the region, however, are very much associated with monumentality and display (Porter 2002) and the emergence

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of dynastic power and the importance of lineage. The situation along the upper Tigris River is less well known than that of the Euphrates, but here stone-lined cist graves also appear in the fourth millennium. Sites such as Aşaği Salat, Müslümantepe, Kuriki, and Tatika all have stone cist graves, as well as a repertoire of Nineveh 5-style pottery similar to that seen at Başur Höyük (Batıhan and Aydoğan 2019). These may, if fact, even predate the stone cist grave tradition on the Euphrates, calling into question the social worlds that this type of burial belongs to. Material objects that accompany human remains are also integral to understanding the belief systems of those undertaking their disposition. “Grave goods” are not, in fact, limited to graves but might be any object that accompanies a body: jewelry, for instance, clothing, or personal items such as knives and tools. Like all material culture, these can carry symbolic weight that speaks to belief and worldview (Ekengren 2013). Material culture associated with human remains might also represent roles played in life, for example, the stereotypical weapons for warriors, or bottles for babies; or they might reflect status as with the inclusion of valuable objects (or lack thereof). The deposition of large numbers of grave goods has even been interpreted as a display of power, demonstrating the material wealth of those removing valuable objects from circulation (Wengrow 2011). There are several cases where objects included with human remains are part and parcel of a belief system. We know precisely the religious belief that places sacred scarabs within the wrappings of a mummy, or wedjat eye beads on a burial, in Ancient Egypt thanks to the textual record (Quirke 1992). Even without text, however, we can identify some form of symbolic mediation with an immaterial world in the paraphernalia of mortuary contexts; for instance, there is likely to be some significance to the more than eighty-five tortoises buried alongside an older woman in the cave of Hilazon Tachtit in the late Natufian period 12,000 years ago (Grosman and Munro 2016). Finally, we can consider the interactions of the body with the material world after death has occurred as a critical materialization of the belief. Treatment of the human body after death is not necessarily limited to a single event or moment but can occur over considerable time spans; even a singular event like a burial might have an impact thousands of years later when excavated by archaeologists. Human remains may not be universally accessible; they may be visible or visitable only by a set group within a community. Alternately, they may be displayed and made available to the broadest possible public. Burial or cremation might happen immediately, or within a set time frame; conversely, a body might be subject to a process of excarnation or disarticulation over time. Human remains might be cached underground or above; within the home or without; in an area specially reserved for the dead, or one used by the community of the living, as in the case of the preserved skulls discussed earlier. Remains might be subject to visitation, manipulation, veneration, or even more practical use: for example, as tools, like the many skeletal remains in medical teaching facilities today. These interactions reveal the beliefs of the living about the spiritual meaning of human remains, which may not be the same for all those who interact with them. In the ancient Near East, there are two aspects of activity after death that are particularly well known. The first is the tradition of preserving and curating skulls seen across a large swathe of the Near East, from the Natufian period in the Levant to the Pre-Pottery Neolithic of Anatolia. The second falls just outside of written history in the construction of the monumental burial complexes in settlements such as Mari, Ebla, and, of course, the Royal Cemetery of Ur.

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CASE STUDY: BAŞUR HÖYÜK The materialization of belief in human physical bodies has the potential to take many forms and therefore be visible in so many ways in the archaeological record that without an ethnographically or historically known system of belief, identifying that system is quite challenging. Better, then, to take the opposite approach, and qualify those aspects of materialization for which there is archaeological evidence. As discussed earlier, this includes evidence for the mediation of the immaterial world in life: markings such as tattoos, brands, scars, and dental modifications; differences in diet; and even quality of diet. It also includes evidence for the posthumous mediation of the immaterial: the treatment of remains; grave goods; and the interaction of living communities with human remains. Using the case study of an elaborate burial ground dating to the transition between the fourth and third millennia bce in the Upper Tigris region of Southeastern Turkey at the site of Başur Höyük, it is possible to explore how the religious beliefs of a community are materialized through the physical bodies of the dead. Excavations at Başur Höyük (Figure 2.1) led by Haluk Sağlamtimur revealed nearly seven thousand years of activity at a mound site located at the confluence of the Başur River, a tributary of the Tigris, and overland routes to the east and west (Batıhan and Aydoğan 2019; Saǧlamtimur, Batıhan, and Aydoğan 2020). The human remains discussed here come from burials constructed in the Early Bronze Age 1 period, between about 3100 and 2800 cal. bc, dug into earlier Uruk period levels in a very rough line on the elevated side of the mound (Hassett, Sağlamtimur, and Batıhan 2020; Saǧlamtimur, Batıhan, and Aydoğan 2020). Burials were found both in stone cist tombs and in unwalled adjacent burials, as well as in simpler pit burials; most graves held more than one individual, and one constructed near the end of the sequence held at least sixty-three. The cists contain considerable numbers of metal (copper alloy) objects, ceramics, and beads. Two stone cists contemporary with the burials held no human remains at all but rather a subselection of metal objects and numerous associated ceramic finds. In at least one cist tomb and associated adjacent burial, it is possible to identify a retainer burial1 from the positioning and violent deaths of several young people (Hassett and Saǧlamtimur 2018). We have no written record for this period and region; and, thus, if we want to understand the–– possibly multiple––immaterial worlds materialized in the bodies of Başur’s dead then, we must turn to archaeological evidence. The evidence for the lived experience of belief from these bodies is, sadly, poor. While in some cases textiles survive, the harsh cycle of heat, cold, and humidity in unforgiving stone cists do not preserve any bodily decoration. The teeth, which do survive, are not always in situ, but there is no evidence for dental modification as part of ritual practice. Issues of preservation also impact the evidence of dietary difference based on stable isotope analysis, but there appears to be no difference across the three grave types (Pilaar Birch, personal communication 2022), nor is there evidence for specific diseases of malnutrition. There is only one evidentiary aspect of lived belief that might be considered relevant: at least some portion of the individuals buried in the EBA 1 cemetery at Başur Höyük’s lived experience was to die violently and concurrently with other individuals, placed in what we previously interpreted as a retainer burial (Hassett and Saǧlamtimur 2018). The deaths of the individuals placed at the feet of two adolescents in a large stone cist tomb (Grave 15) were a requisite part of the mortuary practice surrounding the two adolescents, and it is here we come to the intersection of materialization of religion in the bodies of the living and the dead.

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! FIGURE 2.1  The site of Başur Höyük near Siirt, Turkey, with the Early Bronze Age 1 period cemetery region inset (white). Grave architecture is outlined in lighter shade (source: Başur Höyük Research Project).

Given the difficulty of obtaining evidence for materialization of lived belief from skeletal remains in all but the most favorable conditions, it is unsurprising that at Başur Höyük we must instead look to mortuary practice for further information. Human remains at Başur are deliberately interred in one of three ways: in simple pits, in stone-sided and stone-capped cist tombs, or adjacent to stone cists with varying levels of additional stones marking their borders. These are three clearly different forms of mortuary treatment occurring over the very brief (c. 300-year) lifetime of the burial ground. The treatment of the dead, the objects placed with them, and the interactions of the dead with the community of the living form the best possible evidence base for understanding the way in which worldviews of the immaterial may have been made manifest in such different ways.

Treatment of the Dead All of the human remains at Başur Höyük are from burials. They are placed either in subterranean structures––cist tombs––or in earthen excavations below what we believe the contemporary soil level to have been. All of the burials appear to be primary inhumations; that is, the bodies were buried intact, without previous processing (such as exposure). Taphonomic damage in the intervening five thousand years has affected the preservation of remains, particularly within the stone-lined cists, but bones of the hands and feet were found in situ in several instances suggesting that remains had not been moved post-skeletonization.

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C3

C2

C1

D4

D3

D2

D1

E4

E3

E2

E1

F4

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G4 G4

G3 G3

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H4 H4

H3 H3

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FIGURE 2.2  Schematic (unscaled) of burial position at Başur Höyük. Disposition of partial skeletons identified from the mass death pit, Grave 16, are shown enlarged in the inset box. Stone-lined cists are outlined in solid line, adjacent graves with short dash and pit graves with long dash. North is to the right of the image; question marks indicate unknown burial position (source: B. Hassett).

While burial position can be a critical clue to the social or ritual role of the dead, it is not clear that these burials were positioned in a specific, intentional way in all cases (Figure 2.2). In fact, there may be several different concepts of the appropriate treatment of human remains evident within the burials at Başur Höyük. These seem to align with the three types of burials identified. While determining the position of the bodies from the fragmentary remains within the completely stone-lined cists is difficult due to poor preservation, in some cases we can identify what those doing the burying at Başur considered to be the appropriate position. The stone-capped Graves 7 and 8, which share a common wall but are both stone-lined, contain single adult male burials placed in the crouched or flexed “Hocker” position on their right sides, facing south with their heads to the west and feet to the east, in the center of their respective graves. While there is no information remaining on the position of the adolescent from the stone-lined cist Grave 6, in Grave 13 the flexed spine of the adult burial suggests a crouched burial in the northeastern corner, with the adolescent skeleton is placed in the Hocker position on its left side, facing north, with its head to the east in the center of the grave. In the largest of the stone-lined cists, Grave 15, there are two adolescents in the Hocker position, with one in the center of the grave with their feet oriented toward the east and heads slightly more toward the southwest of the cist tomb and the fragmentary remains of the second in the southwest corner of the tomb. The burials adjacent to the stone cists, meanwhile, are also in naturalistically flexed positions but are not placed in the center of their respective burials. Graves 6, 13, and 15 have burial trenches adjacent to their southern walls, creating secondary features that have a clear structural, if not clear chronological, relationship. Grave 9, which takes the southern wall of Grave 6 as its northern boundary, preserved no information about the

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burial position of the four individuals identified within. However, Graves 14 (adjacent to 13) and 18 (adjacent to 15) both contain human remains in flexed position against the northern wall that separates them from the stone-lined cist, placed on top of a large collection of ceramic vessels. In Grave 14, there are three individuals nearly on top of each other with their heads to the east: an adult male in the center of the grave facing north whose knees touch the northern wall, and an adult female and adolescent positioned slightly further to the north with their spines towards the wall, faces to the south. In Grave 18, there are at least two individuals in semi-flexed positions on their right sides, with their heads to the east, also laid almost entirely on top of each other, facing south. In the exceptional case of Grave 17, there are eight individuals represented in an earth-lined burial extending east from the stone-lined cist Grave 15. These burials are flexed with their heads, as far as can be reconstructed, to the north; they face west toward Grave 15, with the bodies laid on top of one another against the wall of the stone cist grave, with ceramic vessels located to the south of the bodies. The pit burials at Başur Höyük represent yet further means of treating the dead. There is no coherent pattern of interment to these graves. Grave 4 is a simple circular pit containing the bodies of two individuals, a young woman and an approximately four-yearold child, buried flexed and on their sides, with their heads bowed together. The woman faces north, with her head to the east, the child, south. Grave 5 is possibly truncated, and the remains of at least two individuals are too poorly preserved to identify positioning. Grave 10 presents an entirely novel burial of much older (thirty to forty-plus years) adults than are generally found within the cemetery, in a striking pattern where flexed bodies are placed in a daisy-chain-like circle. Two individuals are on their left sides, with heads to the east and facing north; two other individuals are situated next to each other, both with heads to the north facing east. The burial position of the other remains is not clear, but all six individuals were deliberately laid out in contrasting positions within a relatively simple pit. Grave 16, by contrast, has no intentional burial positioning whatsoever. It is a mass death pit containing the remains of approximately sixty-three mostly young (ten to twenty-five years) individuals crammed into a shallow pit that has been lined with some slightly finer soil, perhaps river clay, and measures less than 2 m × 3 m in size. From the incidental positions observed, bodies appear to have been deposited while still flexible and aggressively made to fit into the pit. Other evidence of specific aspects of the burial ritual that could be identified from mortuary treatment are very limited. There is no evidence of relatively common practices in human burial rituals such as cremation, defleshing, exposure, collection, or curation of body parts. Of interest is the prolific bitumen staining visible on several ceramics (Connan et al. 2018) and in very small flecks upon the skeletons in Grave 13 and possibly also in Grave 6, suggesting that bitumen may have been heated to liquidity and distributed throughout the grave, perhaps by a whisk or similar ritual item.

Objects Placed with the Dead This chapter will not go into the full detail of the inventory of goods identified within the cemetery at Başur Höyük. The considerable number of copper-alloy metal finds has been discussed elsewhere (Sağlamtimur and Massimino 2015; Saǧlamtimur, Batıhan, and Aydoğan 2019) as have parts of the bead assemblage (Richards 2020; Baysal and Sağlamtimur 2021); in addition there is considerable ongoing work on the ceramics, animal bone, lithics, and other small finds. Instead, I will consider items within the grave

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as they relate to the associated human remains and how those items might signal the materialized beliefs and worldview of those who placed them. Both the stone-lined cist graves and the adjacent graves contained the largest number of copper-alloy finds known in the region and period (Sağlamtimur and Massimino 2015), many of which are in the form of spearheads or ritual objects with animal or human– animal hybrid decoration. The connection between these ritual objects, which are not yet published, and individual burials is not clear. These objects, like the wide variety of ceramics, including both earlier Uruk traditional forms such as four lugged jars and reserved slip ware, vessels from the Nineveh 5 repertoire, and many vessels in a local tradition, were carefully placed both in the cist graves and in the adjacent graves (Saǧlamtimur 2017). The exception appears to be in Grave 18 and possibly 14, where bodies were placed on top of the ceramics, rather than next to them. A small number of metal and ceramic objects are found in the other pit graves, except Graves 10 and 16, which contain no items other than the personal adornments worn by the individuals in death. Individual accoutrement includes metal objects, such as the many types of copperalloy pins usually found directly under the mandible. While the majority of these pins are relatively small, approximately 10 to 20 cm (Sağlamtimur and Massimino 2015), a size to perhaps serving as a garment closure, in Graves 17 and 18 (adjacent to large stone-lined cist Grave 15) and in Grave 13 (adjacent to Grave 14), very large pins of between 30 and 45 cm in length are found in the same position; in Grave 17 one individual can clearly be seen positioned with fingers gripping a large pin (Figure 2.3).

FIGURE 2.3  Objects associated with the dead in Grave 17, immediately to the east of stone-lined cist Grave 15. Note the harlequin panel of beads and the large bronze pin that the individual to the northwest had several fingers wrapped around, shown in the white inset box (source: Başur Höyük Research Project).

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Similarly, the thousands and thousands of beads observed at the site are usually found in direct connection with human remains. In both the stone-lined cists and adjacent burials, “harlequin panels” of black and white alternating diamond-shaped beads are found. These seem to have been worn near the waist and are associated with the younger individual (c. ten years) in cist-adjacent Grave 18, with some individuals in cist-adjacent Grave 17, and only one individual in the actual stone-lined cist Grave 15 (Baysal and Sağlamtimur 2021). Similarly, they are worn by all individuals in cistadjacent Grave 14, but by only one individual in stone-lined cist Grave 13 (Richards 2020). While the situation in the remainder of the pit graves is not clear, in mass Grave 16, the bead tradition is very different from that seen elsewhere on the site (Baysal personal communication 2020). One final type of object that is unique in the cemetery and, indeed, the world, is what may be the world’s earliest game pieces, a beautifully stone-carved set containing a variety of groups of shapes (Saǧlamtimur and Ozan 2014; Saǧlamtimur 2017).

Interaction Evidence of interaction postmortem with the remains buried at Başur provides perhaps the strongest evidence of the way in which human remains might physically embody a worldview, as these interactions can be seen as representing specific ritual activities through which communities materialized their belief systems. As mentioned earlier, the burial positions of the many bodies in Grave 16 clearly demonstrate that (possibly) predeath interaction with these bodies was very limited due to the hasty and compressed nature of burial and lack of any objects associated with funerary ritual. By contrast, the large number of ceramic vessels in the rest of the cemetery and associated animal bones suggest some sort of commemorative feasting activity occurring at or near the burial site. In the Early Bronze Age cemetery at Başur Höyük, it is retainer burial that most clearly articulates the interaction between communities burying the dead and a belief system. The construction of impressive stone-lined cist graves was followed by the interment of more than one individual, though in the case of Graves 1 through 3 we cannot be sure whether this was simultaneous or a tradition of revisiting and reopening graves in order to inter new individuals. In the case of Graves 6 and 9, 13 and 14, and the group including 15, 17, and 18, however, the burials are clearly simultaneous. This means that as part of the interaction with the dead, the people enacting these funerary rituals were required to provide additional bodies for burial. Insufficient evidence from the skeletons remains to state conclusively whether these burials were constructed through human sacrifice, but it remains a strong possibility.

CONCLUSIONS While the state of preservation of human remains at Başur Höyük prevents us from identifying differences in the lived experience mediating their belief system, treatment in death does offer us insight into how the people burying their dead materialized their worldview using human remains. The relative positioning of the bodies in the stonelined cist graves and their adjacent burial contexts suggests relationships marked out by the community that placed them. The bodies in the cist graves are placed semicentrally, while the bodies in the adjacent graves are pressed against the cist grave. This clearly

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places the focal point of these related structures with the occupants of the cist graves and displays a worldview held by the community that renders the burials adjacent to the cist graves subsidiary to the occupants of the stone-lined cists themselves. Positioning the adjacent burials on top of or next to the ceramics that are perhaps associated with funerary ritual clearly demonstrates that, in the belief system expressed at Başur Höyük, deceased humans were deposited––and perhaps intentionally created––as part of the funerary ritual itself. From the treatment of the individuals in the pits, we can again ascertain something of the worldview of those burying them. It seems plausible to assume that some held a worldview recognizing the bond between mother and child in death, given the sympathetic positioning in Grave 4. The multiple individuals placed in close proximity, but in contrasting positions, in Grave 10, seem to suggest the perception of a much more complicated relationship between living and dead. Grave 16, by contrast, suggests bodies that were buried quickly, without sentiment, and covered over without ceremony. The objects placed with the dead denote different social identities and indicate that these transcend burial position, as in the case of the single individuals in cist Graves 13 and 15 that wear the harlequin panel beads more commonly found in the cist-adjacent burials. The large copper-alloy pins also may denote a special identity or rank. In addition, the grave goods segregate two very different traditions of adornment found in Grave 16 from that of the rest of the cemetery, making a clear distinction between identities of those buried. Finally, the disposition of the dead indicate interactions with death that materialize a worldview, and, in the case of Başur Hoyuk, this act of construction may also require a transformation of the living into the dead. There is no clear evidence that the retainer burials at Başur are human sacrifices, killed deliberately as part of the funeral ritual. Of course, there is no clear evidence to the contrary, either. Meanwhile, despite the elaborate treatment of the retainer burials, there is an entire mass death pit of adolescents where ritual interaction is strictly limited. The evidence suggests that there are several potentially very different worldviews – beliefs – materialized through the human remains at Başur Höyük. One worldview, encapsulated in the commemoration of young individuals and the creation of retainer burials, leans heavily away from the idea of the new Early Bronze Age tradition of burials reflecting the prowess or achievements of an individual. Individuals as young as the two 12-year-olds in Grave 15, for instance, are unlikely to have accrued the prestige in life that gave them one of the richest burials identified in the region until the Royal Cemetery of Ur; instead their special treatment may be associated with a special status afforded by association with a lineage, ritual condition (such as stage of life), or some other critical identity. Another sees and reproduces the recognition of different social bonds, recognized in the placement of a woman and child in Grave 4, and the circular relationship between the older individuals in Grave 10. And finally, in the last burial created on site, we see in the mass death pit a worldview materialized that has excluded an entire group of sixty-three young people from the need for care, ritual, or special treatment after death.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Many thanks are due to the Başur Höyük team, particularly to Metin Batıhan and Inan Aydoğan for their advice and of course to the director, Haluk Sağlamtimur, for inviting

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me to take part in this important project. Thank you to the team at Ege University for supporting my research visits and to the editors for inviting me to take part in this fascinating discussion.

NOTE 1 “Retainer burial” is used here as the most accurate description of the relationship between the burials of the several young people external to the two adolescent individuals in the large cist grave, at least eight of whom were buried at the main cist occupants’ feet. This term is used because while a plausible scenario, this description of the relationship does not automatically infer that the individuals were sacrificed.

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CHAPTER THREE

Jewelry as a Powerful Tool in the Religious Discourse between Humans and the Supernatural in the Ancient Near East ZUZANNA WYGNAŃSKA

While the role of personal adornment is often, and correctly, associated with demonstration of its wearer’s tastes and elements of social identity, numerous studies show how much more meaningful and complex its use can be depending on context. Both dress and personal ornamentation can act as key material attributes shaping individual and group identities or social memory; they can embody religious practice and negotiate social norms (Mattson 2021: 1–24; see also Choyke and Bar-Yosef Meyer 2017: 2–3; Neuman 2017: 4; Baysal 2019: 28–36). Rich textual and archaeological evidence shows that adornments were especially chosen by ancient people of the Near East to act as a medium in a religious discourse between humans and the gods. Jewelry’s agency was often dedicated—via its form, iconography, or inscription—to a specific supernatural being and used as a potent tool for contacting the divine. Conceptually created to be worn on the body, jewelry was especially suitable for transferring beneficial divine power onto its wearer. Three factors were seemingly equal or interchangeable conditions for activating the agency of religious jewelry: contact with the wearer’s body, predestination of certain materials to channel the divine, and consecratory rites sealing this relation. As the efficacy of adornments was directly correspondent to the belief in the agency of the supernatural powers, it is possible to speak of “religious jewelry.” With this reservation, this term refers to adornments hired for pious practice in a way much akin to Christian rosaries or prayer beads from other religious systems. Was such religious jewelry a necessary means of contact with the supernatural? The answer is probably not, just as modern rosaries are not a prerequisite of an appropriate prayer. Their role was, however, to facilitate and assure this connection.

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Considered here are various examples of jewelry used in religious ceremonies and magical rituals from different regions and periods, on the assumption that belief in the divine was a fluid system where magic, ritual, and religious praxis permeated each other and remained within an official doctrine (Abusch 2007; Maul 2007). Hence, whenever the term “magical” or “ritual” is used here, it is meant as an aspect of religion. Examples include religious jewelry for practical, that is, medicinal applications, and symbolic, that is to say, religious uses, for the living and the deceased and for royalty and commoners. Eventually, the use of jewelry in disconnection from the body is discussed—when its genuine demonstrative functions and bodily association were transmitted to an object detached from the body as in the case of bead deposits. Covered here are Mesopotamia and the Levant; the chronology spans the millennia preceding the Hellenistic period when contact with religious systems culturally distanced from the ancient Near East began.

AGENCY OF HOLY INGREDIENTS: COLORS, MATERIALS, SHAPES Agency of ancient religious jewelry was closely associated with its physical parameters— material and color. It was believed that some materials were endowed with imminent qualities or special powers allowing them to effectively channel the divine and predestining their use in the ritual context. These superpowers inherent to some of the materials might have been associated with certain esthetics of the minerals, their color, and luster (Winter 1995, 1999).

Colors and Materials It can be assumed that the color of the materials used for the personal adornments played an important role in the religious practices of the prehistoric communities of the Near East. While white, black, and red were colors dominating prehistoric art and personal adornment, green and blue appeared later, and the use of these colors in jewelry might have mirrored the onset of agriculture. Daniela Bar-Yosef and Naomi Porat (2008) showed how the introduction of green-hued stone beads accompanied the civilization’s turn from hunting-gathering to agriculture in the Levant between the late Epipaleolithic and the Neolithic–Chalcolithic periods. As Bar-Yosef (2019) suggested, universal crosscultural meanings behind the colors might have played a role in their choice for personal adornments at this very meaningful civilizational change; ethnographic comparisons show that the basic colors white, black, red, yellow, green, and blue relate to aspects of the life cycle (birth, puberty, fertility, death), or the natural world, sun, sky, water, plants, and animals. By association they represent what these cycles or cosmic entities stand for— health, well-being, continuity, purity, and so on. Conceptually, the green color, which mirrored the growth and fertility of crops in the fields, was transferred to the personal ornaments to secure ritually similar positive qualities to the beads’ wearers (Bar-Yosef 2019: 85). We see similar although much more complex mechanisms of ascribing meaning to the colors in cuneiform sources of the later periods. As David Warburton (2019) notes, conceptual appreciation of some colors in Mesopotamia was rooted in the fact that they were reserved for the deities, and only these divine hues had a translation into a written language. For example, in the third millennium bce, dark stones such as diorite and lapis lazuli, reminiscent of the dark sky illuminated by heavenly bodies, were especially valued

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and were favored in fashioning images of deities (Winter 1999; Amrhein 2019). With the flow of time and changing ideological concepts, preference shifted toward more luminous materials in later millennia, and these gems were deemed appropriate for cultic purposes that were associated with divine light (Amrhein 2019: 93). Besides the colors, texts and archaeological discoveries show that some materials were deliberately chosen as predestined for the gods and “fit for cultic purposes” (Seltz 1997: 195). Richard Ellis (1968: 35), interpreting foundation deposits that included beads and raw materials, suggested that the choice was made based on their intrinsic potent qualities, while Nicolas Postgate (1997: 211) sees them rather as samples of “natural substances.” Some texts linked specific materials with particular deities in list form, although there is neither consistency nor logic in this matching from our modern perspective (Amrhein 2019), nor do the texts explain the logic behind the choice of these particular materials. We hypothesize that some materials were rare and represented appropriate visual properties that made them favorable for cultic purposes. It has been long noticed that Mesopotamians, at least from the third millennium bce onward, favored gold, silver, lapis lazuli, and carnelian for religious jewelry and other religious objects. These particular precious metals and minerals were believed to be pure and endowed with divine favor to act beneficially toward their wearers as agents of potent powers. Gold was perceived as genuinely imbued with special powers, not only in the ancient Near East but also in many other cultures and periods (e.g., in modern India: Jørgensen 2012). In Mesopotamia, it was associated with the otherworldly radiance melammû, a vital life force controlled by gods and transmitted to the material world and manifested there as light (Winter 1994; see also Winter 2012). Silver, Sumerian “white metal,” was also referred to as “pure” or “sacred” (Benzel 2015: 96–8; Ramez 2022). Gold and silver were associated with the sun and moon and, thus, presented prophylactic and apotropaic qualities (Maxwel-Hyslop 1971: lxiii). Lapis lazuli and carnelian––expensive and exceptionally prized in religious jewelry–– reflected the peculiar beauty of the deities in third millennium bce religious poetry. Texts indicate that in the treasuries and in adornment sets, these stones were often compiled with gold. The late third millennium bce myth named Lugal-e from Sumerian offers the etiology of good and bad stones according to a classification conducted by a great god Ninurta (Foster 2014: 51–6; Ramez 2018). Although some explanation is given, not all of Ninurta’s choices for good and bad are comprehensible to a contemporary reader of the myth. Nevertheless, it is a hint as to why certain materials were considered so effective in antiquity. Additionally, we may suppose that some universally perceived ritual meanings of colors were sought in the materials, that is, red carnelian for blood and flesh connotations, to appropriate their ritual agency. In the second millennium bce, the list of the materials suitable for cultic purposes broadened to include artificial, vitreous materials (Amrhein 2019). We learn from a first millennium bce inscription of the Assyrian king Sennacherib that pendû-stone was selected to fashion the bull colossi and sphinxes owing to the stone’s appropriate qualities as a transmitter of divine power. Although it seems quite obvious to the ancient people that this stone was chosen by the gods and added protective powers to the statues, it remains obscure from a perspective of modern material knowledge: Pendû stone, whose appearance is as finely granulated as mottled barley (and) which in the time of the kings, my ancestors, was considered valuable enough to be an amulet,

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made itself known to me at the foot of Mount Nipur. I had (it) fashioned into sphinxes and had (them) dragged into Nineveh. (Grayson and Novotny 2014: 51; Ramez 2022). A collection of incantation texts documents the practice of using a set of different types of stone beads, arranged in chains, to be used in various situations by healing specialists against natural and supernatural forces (Schuster-Brandis 2008; Simkó and Stadhouders 2020). The Mesopotamian priests were even provided with magical necklaces featuring a predetermined fixed order of stones, both natural and artificial, to be used in exorcist rituals and magical healing rituals (Galter 1987; Schuster-Brandis 2008; Geller 2015; Simkó 2021). The beads were strung together with other ritual objects inserted into a leather pouch and hung around the person’s neck or on that part of the patient’s body causing pain (Geller 2015). Incantation texts about these “remedies” concerned effectiveness against various magico-medical problems rather than actual medical treatment, connecting them strongly to the religious sphere. Remarkably, when used medicinally in prescriptions, these stones do not appear in proscribed “chains.” Apart from intrinsic qualities, the secrets of craftsmanship––the working of precious hard stones and the transformative properties of materials, for example, sand into glass, were greatly admired and were perceived as participation in the metaphysical processes necessary for cult usage (Postgate 1997; Winter 2009a; Benzel 2015). In this regard, it seems probable that beads found near the chest or wrists of those buried in many private graves, from different periods, might have represented a purposeful choice of selected potent materials for their magical agency (see Figure 3.4). Given that these beads were barely visible and thereby likely not for decorative purposes, they may rather have functioned as the amulets connecting an individual with their gods for protection.

Forms and Iconography A variety of jewelry can be classified as reserved for religious purposes due to iconographic depiction linking them strictly with the representation of divine beings. Anthropomorphic images of deities on jewelry, usually pendants, are present but rather rare (Figure 3.1). Important gods were most often represented by symbols, including the star, the sun disk, or the moon. Examples of these on personal adornments was very widespread and occurred in almost all regions of the Near East in different periods (Figure 3.2, 3.4b). These symbols can be clearly associated with the triad of the top celestial gods. The jewelry bearing iconography of the more important local gods prevailed in the official temple or royal context. Silver pendants in the shape of lamassatum––protective goddesses––were mentioned in the early second millennium bce texts from the archive at Mari as necklace elements worn by the ladies of the palace (Ramez 2022). They were threaded with other symbolic elements: a silver ruhmu ornament, a kulīlum (a possible divine headdress), and a gold sun disk (Arkhipov 2012: 429; see also Ramez 2022). A gold necklace of the same date originating from Dilbat in Southern Mesopotamia perfectly fits this description––it includes lamassatum pendants––and others with divine symbol disks, a crescent moon, and snakes (Figure 3.3). Unfortunately, the exact provenance of the necklace is unknown, but it must have functioned as an adornment for the statue of the female deity, her priestess, or a high-status lady. Much more widespread on jewelry were depictions of lesser supernatural beings worn either to bring protective attention or to avert malevolent intent. In Mesopotamia, the majority of apotropaic jewelry depicts demons and mythical creatures such as Lamashtu,

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FIGURE 3.1  Drawing of the gold pendant from the second half of the second millennium bce depicting a naked goddess standing on a lion––possibly Ashtoreth or Ashera/Ishtar, Ugarit, Syria (source: Z. Wygnańska, based on Yon 2006: 166, fig. 58a).

Pazuzu, or Huwawa, as well as other supernatural beings not always recognizable from the canonic religious texts. These were worn in a form of figural pendants or plaquettes and are usually classified as amulets (Figure 3.4a–c).

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FIGURE 3.2  Close-up of the stele of the Assyrian king Ashurnasirpal II showing the divine symbols in the upper left corner and a royal necklace containing pendants with the same symbols; the king is also wearing a necklace of beads of possible apotropaic meaning, royal bracelets, including one decorated with a rosette––an element of jewelry worn also by deities and the earrings (rendering by D. Majchrzak after © Andreas Rueda/Commons wikimedia).

Although there are several terms in Sumerian and Akkadian for this kind of ritual pendant, none of them read as “amulet” (Schuster-Brandis 2008: 59–63). Accompanying inscriptions connect their use to magical and/or medical purposes in association with a particular deity or demon, and sometimes indicate near which part of the body it should be worn (Schuster-Brandis 2008). The wearing of a pendant with head threaded on a necklace would ensure that the demon’s or tutelary deity’s gaze was directed outward, toward a possible danger (Wee 2021). Belief in the magical potency of such amulets was not just a question of common superstitions but also part of the official religion. The amulets’ figural representations allowed for easy identification of specific deities or mythical creatures with their characteristic attributes. For instance, widespread Lamashtu amulets depict this ambiguous, malicious, but also caring demoness, with nuanced features of her identity, surrounded by animals and objects essential for performing the charm against her malevolent actions (Figure 3.5). This complex iconographic composition details everything known about the demoness and her actions from the incantations and provides a window into the interplay of meanings among ancient images and texts (Wee 2021). The textual background allows understanding of the cult of Lamashtu as an element of the religious doctrine canon.

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FIGURE 3.3  Tentative reconstruction of a gold necklace with pendants depicting minor protective deities and the divine symbols from a metal hoard from Dilbat in southern Mesopotamia dated to the first half of the second millennium bce (drawing by D. Majchrzak).

Figurative religious jewelry also appeared in other shapes: animals, plants, parts of the body, or objects. Similarly, as in the case of the demons, belief in their magical potency seems to be on the margins of official doctrines but still in agreement with them. For instance, animals and insects depicted on jewelry were associated with the realms of particular deities, equated with these animals’ natural behaviors and characteristic features (Lion and Michel 1997; Dietrich and Götting-Martin 2021) (Figure 3.4c).

RELIGIOUS JEWELRY ON THE BODY Cultic Agency as an Extension of the Body People experience and interpret the cultural and physical world through their bodies as seats of agency and identity pivotal in the enactment and reproduction of social

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FIGURE 3.4  Amulets from the third millennium bce children graves: a. Lapis lazuli pendant of a bull with human face (possibly a minor protective deity) from Tell Arbid in Syria; b. Collection of zoomorphic shell pendants and a vitreous pendant with a stylized star/rosette from a child grave at Tell Rad Shaqra in Syria; c. Shell fly-shaped beads, a pierced lapis lazuli tabular bead, a black stone bead and a bivalve shell from an infant grave at Tell Arbid, Syria (photos by Andrzej Reiche, courtesy of the Polish Centre of Mediterranean Archaeology, University of Warsaw).

relations (Mattson 2021; further comprehensive bibliography in this essay). Displayed on the individual body, the personal adornments act as extensions of a biological body and therefore are as efficacious as the original source itself (Mauss 1973; Benzel 2015; Mattson 2021: 5). In the Mesopotamian mindset, it was believed that identity and presence could reside in both the body and inorganic objects that were in contact with the body, thus participating in the conceptual operation of distributed agency (Winter 2007; Bahrani 2008: 78; Pongratz-Leisten 2011, 2015; Benzel 2013: 46–7, 201).

Adornment on the Divine Body: Jewelry as an Animated Cult Object The cultural value of the material components of gods’ dress and personal ornamentation was inextricably linked to their identities and had an integral role in creating the divine

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FIGURE 3.5  Amulet-plaquette from the first millennium bce Uruk in southern Mesopotamia depicting demoness Lamashtu (note that despite amuletic function the plaquette does not have a suspension hole) (source: Z. Wygnańska, based on Crüsemann et al. 2013: Abb.45.9).

markers of the gods on earth (Benzel 2013: 93; Neuman 2017: 4). In the palace and temple records, each deity received a well-defined set of ornaments, clothes, and attributes. While gods seem to have received mostly crowns, tiaras, and bracelets, goddesses also received pectorals and necklaces (Quillien 2022). Rich and intricate personal ornamentation closely associated with goddesses known from cuneiform sources and corroborated by iconography on statues, figurines, or seals show that these were primarily a female attribute. Luise Quillien (2022) noted that despite being perceived as linked to individual identity, jewelry circulated between the goddesses. It was the amount and weight of

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adornments that mattered in the case of important goddesses. Divine adornments not only were identity markers but also reflected a belief in the cultic agency and divine power of jewelry displayed on the divine body. Multiple textual examples demonstrate that the donning of adornments were essential elements in ritualized transformations of man-made statues into gods (Benzel 2013; Neuman 2017). An early second millennium bce letter from Mari advises that in order to animate a statue of the goddess Bēlet-bīri, her adornment should be placed upon her (Ramez 2022). Another second millennium bce text commemorates an installation of the en-priestess of the moon-god Nanna and the fashioning of his adorned statue, cursing anyone “who might be tempted to remove the jewels from the statue” (Frayne 1990: 224–31 no. 15; see also Benzel 2013: 194–5, 2015: 93). This demonstrates that the donning jewelry was considered an integral ritual in the bringing to life of the statue. According to Kim Benzel, the jewelry’s efficacy had the same potency as the divine statue itself (2013: 195–6). Benzel (2013, 2015) also pointed out that similar observations refer not only to the female deities but also to their religious female personnel. For example, in the case of the nu-gig priestesses (Sumerian term for female personnel for various goddesses), the specific jewelry signifying their office was intimately related to the ritual placement and removal of objects, transforming inanimate into animated objects and thus were crucial to the effectiveness of the cultic performance (Benzel 2013: 195–7). Physical removal of the emblems of divine identity equated to the symbolic withdrawal of their powers. Several Mesopotamian myths and ritual texts describe such a situation. As Benzel (2013) and Quillien (2022) indicated, in the Babylonian creation myth Enuma Elish, ripping off the headdress and the melammu-radiance of the primordial deity Apsu by the god Ea was a direct cause of Apsu’s death. In the Epic of Erra, when Marduk decided to leave his temple, he removed the tiara from his statue, causing its death. Garments and jewelry were especially closely tied to the identity and powers of Inanna. In the Sumerian narrative Enki and the World Order, the god of wisdom, who is in charge of dispensing powers and functions me (Sumerian term for divine powers), reminds the disappointed goddess who was refused me, that her powers are her garments and jewelry, which Benzel (2013: 200) interprets as requisites of Inanna’s special prerogatives. In the myth of Inanna’s/ Ishtar’s Descent to the Netherworld, jewels were first put on her, and then removed, on the way to the Land without Return, resulting in her death (Benzel 2013: 199–200). Adornments are also linked to the goddesses in her visual imagery (Figure 3.6). Remarkably, the deities, especially goddesses, were also sometimes adorned with apotropaic jewelry. For instance, we know from the Mari archives, that the characteristic jewelry of the palatial goddess Ištar-Irradān included, among other things, lion-shaped pendants and an amulet with the head of the giant Ḫuwawa (Ramez 2022). Amuletic beads or bead necklaces are also listed in the Neo-Babylonian temple inventories for divine statues (Niederreiter 2018: 70). Since Mesopotamian gods were as vulnerable to misfortunes as human beings, they may also have desired apotropaic protection; alternatively, the protective efficacy of these amulets may have been aimed outward, toward the king and the state, through contact with the divine body of a deity wearing the jewels.

Religious Jewelry on the Body of a Commoner Religious jewelry intended for humans, bearing either depictions of demons or symbols, or with accompanying inscriptions, or simply using a specific potent material, embodied

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FIGURE 3.6  Early second millennium bce terracotta plaquette from Eshnunna in Mesopotamia depicting goddesses Ishtar with her characteristic beaded necklace (© Marie-Lan Nguyen/ Commons Wikimedia, CC BY 2.5).

the negotiation of human with divine. Occasional inscriptions leave no doubt that the agency of the adornments was believed to act in a strict connection with a deity. Numerous descriptions in incantations used in magico-medical rituals indicate that amulets, stones, and organic materials were supposed to be worn around the neck, hands, or feet, to activate their healing agency (Schuster-Brandis 2008: 63–8). For instance, so-called neck stones (aban kišādi) specifically shaped as oval, plano-convex beads were intended to be worn around the neck, possibly fitting the suprasternal notch and to protect against ailments concentrating around the head. The visibility of such jewelry was probably of lesser importance here as the object’s agency was realized directly through contact with the individual’s body and attracting the attention of the proper deity. Some amulets may even have been hidden under cloths, near the body. Though some amulets were theoretically formed as pendants, they lack a suspension hole (Wee 2021) (Figure 3.5), suggesting the effectiveness of these small plaquettes was in keeping them in proximity to the body of a wearer and not as visible jewelry.

Magic in the Grave Amulet pendants with depictions of demonic beings and animals are a frequent element of grave inventories from various periods demonstrating that belief in the effectiveness of the amulets transgressed the borders of life and death, accompanying

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the body on the way to the netherworld. Sets of amulets––pendants, seals, and plaquettes––were deposited in the Assyrian queens’ burials at Nimrud. Their distribution pattern in the grave, next to the neck or flanking the feet of the deceased, indicate that they might have carried apotropaic qualities that were advantageous for the deceased, as they had been during life (Gansell 2018: 80). Some of these amulets were meant as adornment, and some were not strictly jewelry but were meant to be close to the queen’s body. Sets of zoomorphic shell amulet-pendants threaded into necklaces and bracelets were discovered in children’s burials at several mid-third millennium bce sites in Northern Mesopotamia (Dunham 1993; Szeląg 2014). The pendants, not only in the form of quadrupeds, birds, and fish, but also disks with a rosette were deposited exclusively with infants (Figure 3.4b). They possibly served as protection against different types of danger lurking in the afterlife for the infants, an especially vulnerable age category, still incapable, unlike adults, of recognizing evil and reacting with appropriate behavior (Szeląg 2014). The depiction of animals as amulets might be interpreted as the representation either of particular demons or nature in its totality summoned to assist the child in this life and the netherworld.

Detached from the Body but Still Effective Jewelry is created to be worn on the body but in some circumstances, its agency was believed to work without such a connection. In ritual depositions, jewelry––usually the beads of various materials, buried in a meaningful location, was withdrawn from everyday circulation and reserved as a material gift for nonmaterial beings. From the third millennium bce in Mesopotamia, gifts of beads and unworked artificial and organic materials were deposited under important official buildings and the city gates (Ellis 1968; Tsouparopoulu 2014). Deposits of thousands of beads and amulet pendants, mainly of the vitreous, faience-like material, but also of shell, silver, bitumen, lapis lazuli, and other stones were found in association with the third millennium bce foundations of Ishtar temples in Ashur and Nineveh (Gut, Reade, and Boehmer 2001). Similarly in the Levantine area, beads were discovered in foundation deposits at the temples and defensive structures. They were deposited during the Early Bronze Age and Middle Bronze Age with other items such as miniature pottery, weapons, pins, and animal bones at Byblos, Tell el-Judeideh, Tel Dan, Kfar Monash, Nahariya, or Megiddo where they possibly represented “objects with the cosmological referents” (Philip 1988), elements in the sacrifice of a variety of valuables in “reciprocation of gifts given by a deity” (Ilan 1992: 262). Either alone or in kits, the beads belonged to a class of objects involved in ritual negotiations between the human and the divine. It was not by chance that beads were used, which represented a basic example of personal ornamentation. In the deposits dedicated to the supernatural powers, the meaning of jewelry transcended its essential relationship with the body of the wearer and extended its agency even in detachment from it. Additionally, these were the very materials that appear to carry potential efficacy––it has been noted that the beads deposited under the third millennium bce. Mesopotamian official buildings were sometimes accompanied by fragments of similar repertoire of worked and unworked materials such as stone pebbles or pieces of chipped stone along with shells, artificial materials, and metals (Amrehin 2019: 95) possibly representing samples of materials possessing certain qualities (Postgate 1997: 211).

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ACTIVATING RITUALS Written sources show that the metaphysics of transformation necessitated that rituals bring a selected piece of mineral or metal into an animated object. It was at this moment that the material, genuinely fit for cultic purpose, became connected to the divine and developed its cultic potency Several texts from Mari mention an “activation” of the crafted object in the pīt pî (mouth opening) ritual, which allowed the embodiment of the divine potency into the object (Ramez 2022). Incantations were recited at several stages of the preparation and application of, for example, a string of beads. The process started with the creation of the stones and was followed by successive steps of crafting and consecrating a string of amulet beads (Simkó and Stadhouders 2020). At each step, different gods were involved: Ea, god of magic and of arts and crafts; artisan deities associated with crafts and the mining of precious stones (e.g., Ninkurra); Gula, the physician; and Asalluhi, the exorcist of the great gods (Simkó and Stadhouders 2020). Similarly, when the statues of gods and their jewelry were refurbished by the Assyrian king Esarhaddon, a similar ritual sequence was involved. The stones selected for the jewelry were genuinely perfect, yet not sacred: (…) products of the mountains, for which Ea magnificently fixed a destiny of splendour, (fit) for lordly works (…) (RINAP Leichty 2011: 4 48 ll. 82–83, after Simkó and Stadhouders 2020: 30). Only with the support from gods could jewelry made from a range of materials function as a medium for channeling the divine and became suitable for cultic purposes. This is reminiscent of the contemporary use of prayer beads, which in themselves have no potency but which become religious jewelry through prayer.

DEMONSTRATIVE USE IN OFFICIAL CONTEXT Jewelry Materializing the Royal Connection to Gods Unlike in the case of the commoners, the demonstrative aspect played a crucial role in the jewelry adorning the representatives of ruling elites. The royal mimicked the divine, and the boundaries between the two were deliberately blurred to activate the presence of the sacred in the mortal component (Benzel 2013: 206). The adornment that was worn by the kings and queens as mediators between humans and gods had to embody the straightforward connection to the divine. It was accomplished through the use of rich symbolics, forms, and materials that were presented on the body in public display. An extraordinarily rich and meaningful collection of jewelry originates from the so-called royal tombs from the mid-third millennium bce Royal Cemetery at Ur. As many scholars argued, the females buried in the Royal Cemetery, who were especially lavishly adorned, probably represented different ranks of the priesthood, carrying extraordinary status resulting from their connection with the sacred (Pollock 1991; Gansell 2007; Tengberg, Potts, and Francfort 2008: 934; Benzel 2013: 198; Hafford 2019). The elaborate female ornamentation, tiaras, breast ornaments, combs, and hair ribbons probably mirrored the divine set of jewelry and embodied the relation between the echelon of Ur society and the heavenly. Each element of the female intricate headdresses and wreaths made of precious materials was composed of a variety of floral and vegetal motifs: male inflorescence and fruit-bearing branch of date palm, pomegranate, or apple (Pittman 1998: 90; Miller 2000: 149). The use of crowns and wreaths of leaves was a

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widespread phenomenon in various other ritual contexts, and the choice of plant species was never haphazard but corresponded to a specific meaning (Tengberg, Potts, and Francfort 2008: 934). The possible identification of the golden ovate leaves from the Ur burial wreaths as Pakistani rosewood leaves suggests that funerary adornment mimicked the use of the plant in the rituals among the living (Tengberg, Potts, and Francfort 2008). As Benzel (2013: 197) argued, the richest and most symbolically complex personal ornamentation of gold, carnelian, and lapis lazuli found with the queen and highest priestess Puabi (Figure 3.7) can be considered as ritually mirroring jewelry of goddesses as known from the myths. The ritual use of spectacular jewelry in the mid-second millennium bce Royal Hypogeum at Qatna, Syria, was discussed by Elisa Roßberger (2014), who interpreted it as an embodiment of the cultural memory of the Qatna dynasty. The lavish adornments made of precious and exotic materials were found exclusively with the most recent burials indicating that they were deposited in the tomb temporarily to keep the dead visually “beautiful” and “alive”; the adornments were subsequently removed to mark the transition from a first to a second form of postmortem identity. The “theatrical” temporary display in the tomb of the purposefully compiled jewelry suggested that it was used rather as a memory aid for the successors than as a means to satisfy the practical necessities of the deceased. At the same time, jewelry was an important requisite for manifesting the relations between the royals in Qatna and the divine, for example, through donations of adornments to the dynastic goddess worshipped in the palace (Roßberger 2014). Demonstrative circulation of intricate jewelry from Qatna between the living and the deceased, between the people and the deities, took it beyond the personal or familyrelated level, making it a tool in ritual negotiations between the royals and the heavenly. The demonstrative use of religious jewelry is even more pronounced in the later periods in Assyria. The exclusive status of the Neo-Assyrian king as an intermediary between the gods and humans included the ruler in heavenly esteem and allowed him to share the divine visual features, including splendorous radiance. Royal religious adornments were occasionally accessible for other royals––Assyrian queens, crown princes, or even some of the courtiers. The adornments worn by king displayed not only his ultimate rank as a mundane leader but also his relationship with the divine, fusing royal and religious (Winter 2009b, 2016). This suggests that the gods and the kings were portrayed wearing the same types of jewelry. Sets including earrings, bracelets with symbolic decoration, and armlets with lion-headed finials displayed the physical resemblance between the king and the gods (Maxwell-Hyslop 1971: 235–60). Motifs presented on royal adornment were imbued with strong religious connotations with the main pantheon and were related to sacral motifs known from large-scale palatial depictions. Pomegranates, a sacred tree of life or lion/ bull/ram, symbolized the abundance and prosperity of the land remaining divinely protected (Figure 3.8a). Identical jewelry is also worn by the protective minor deities and genies presented on the palatial reliefs or lamassu figures from the palatial gateways (Collon 2010: 152). Similarly, a stele depicts the Assyrian king Ashurnasirpal II wearing a necklace with pendants shaped like the gods’ symbols, also found in the stele’s upper field, to signal the king is under the protection of the pantheon (Maxwell-Hyslop 1971: fig. 118; Winter 2009b: 87–8) (Figure 3.2). In this context, we may observe pairs of massive gold cloisonné bracelets with rondels decorating each of the king’s and queen’s wrists on the palatial reliefs. The inlaid rondels were decorated with rosettes, possibly a symbol of fertility and protection, safeguarding the king’s main artery and reflecting the role of the king as the protector of his realm

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FIGURE 3.7  The mid-third millennium BC adornments buried with Queen Puabi in the Royal Cemetery of Ur: a sophisticated gold headdress composed of floral and vegetal elements of possible ritual significance (top); beaded cape and gold jewelry (bottom) (source: photos by Mary Harrsch, 2016, CC-BY 2.0).

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FIGURE 3.8  Adornments found in the first millennium bce Assyrian queens’ tombs in Nimrud: a. Crown from Coffin 2, Tomb III, Northwest Palace, Nimrud (© Lari Pittman/Wikimedia Commons, CC0 1.0); b. Two views of a bracelet from the first millennium bce Assyrian queen’s Tomb II in Nimrud––a central rosette is encircled by motives of protective kneeling geniuses flanking a rosette symbolizing a tree of abundance (source: Z. Wygnańska, based on Oates and Oates 2001: Plate 6a).

(Collon 2010: 152). Exceptionally, pairs of such bracelets found in the royal females’ tombs in Nimrud bear depictions of kneeling apotropaic figures flanking a “rosette-tree” or a disk, a motif depicted also on the palatial walls in Nimrud, Til Barsip, and Dūr Šarukkīn (Collon 2010; Gansell 2018) (Figure 3.8b). The royal bracelets appeared almost exclusively in the context of Assyrian kingship (Collon 2010: 153). There are no straightforward indications that the royal Assyrian jewelry acted as an animated actor in the rituals. It rather materialized connection to the divine and visualized the rhetoric of the royal dialogue with the supernatural and gods’ involvement in the physical person of the king (Winter 2009b, 2016).

DISCUSSION In the ancient Near East, the use of jewelry in religious contexts can be summarized as manifesting a personal connection to the divine. Wearing religious jewelry was not obligatory but was eagerly practiced—to judge by the richness of the archaeological record—in an effort to show one’s faith in the supernatural powers. There could have been a social aspect to it, showing one’s affiliation with a religious group. Three conditions contributed to the agency of religious jewelry in contact with the heavenly: the potency of materials, contact with the wearer’s body, and consecrating rituals. Beads, pendants, and even seals, made of carefully selected materials, such as stones, metals, vitreous materials, and shells, were believed to be potent facilitators of contact with the divine. The potency of these materials was activated through direct contact with the wearer’s body, a concept expressed in mythological texts and especially in the more practical incantations for magico-medical purposes. The distributed agency of the divine body on which the jewelry was displayed might have even transferred divine powers onto the worn item, thus making the jewelry itself an object of cult. To animate a flow of the divine potency, rituals had to

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be performed, the aim being to awaken the powers in a potent object or material. Only after being subjected to appropriate consecratory rituals could jewelry become a religious object facilitating transcendental contacts. There were two trends, official and popular, in the use of religious jewelry in the ancient Near East. Members of the royalty were expected to demonstrate their direct connection and similarity to the gods in harmony with official religious doctrine. This intention is recognizable in personal ornamentation on royal depictions and in elite funerary contexts. Intricate jewelry seems to be above all an attribute of female identity, for the goddesses, their priestesses, and high-status ladies. Gifts of jewelry were often an element of rituals determining female status, both in the case of goddesses and high-status ladies. This does not mean that men did not wear jewelry, but it played a secondary role in marking their identities. In the context of the official trend, jewelry detached from the body should be mentioned. Deposits of beads and pendants in temples and in the foundations of official buildings show how the symbolic meaning of jewelry could be carried down even if there was no intention of wearing it. The popular trend is hardly ever represented in the official written sources, although there are some hints in various magico-medical texts. Our interpretation of the popular use of religious jewelry is biased by this deficiency, leaving the field open to speculation and even giving the impression of a contradiction when compared to official religious interpretations. The demonstrative use of jewelry was a condition in divine and royal contexts, as there was nothing private about the royal body. But on the private level, wearing jewelry was not always for display; religious adornments were meant to ensure the wearer’s personal contact with the divine and might have been entirely hidden from sight. Besides being an emblem or decoration, adornments were used as a tool for a pious connection between a believer and the supernatural, bringing the attention of a deity. Apparently, they were believed to have an apotropaic or healing effect on their wearers, and it is important to note that it was not just a matter of popular belief. It was rooted in official religious doctrines, invoking specific deities of the local pantheons. Even the gods wore such powerful jewelry to mark their identities on earth and safeguard their well-being, and its forceful removal would leave them powerless, if not dead.

CONCLUSIONS Our understanding of religious practices using jewelry in the ancient Near East is hampered by the lack of written sources in some regions or periods, preventing discussion of an uninterrupted tradition of religious jewelry use across time and place. Moreover, especially in the archaeological record, ritual-purposed jewelry can be quite difficult to differentiate from mundane, nonsacral ornament uses. It is always the find context that plays a pivotal role in understanding symbols and ritual practices. Examples from different authors analyzing jewelry from selected sites or periods were mentioned here to illustrate various approaches and interpretations. Despite the differences in understanding jewelry meanings, these examples clearly confirm the deliberate use of personal adornments in religious practice, proving an intrinsic belief in the agency of material objects in contact with the supernatural. Space prevents a comprehensive survey of jewelry use in the ancient Near East; offered here is a review of a variety of ways in which adornments were used in the context of religious practices materializing beliefs in contact with the supernatural.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to offer my special thanks to Dr. Christina Tsouparopoulu (Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński University and Durham University) and Dr. Dariusz Szeląg (University of Warsaw) for the discussions and their insightful comments to this text as well as their valuable bibliographical hints.

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CHAPTER FOUR

Body Politic: Body-Objects and Necropolitics Past and Present MELISSA S. CRADIC

NECROPOLITICS AND CULTURAL HERITAGE Through the systematic recovery of ancient mortal remains, mortuary archaeology provides a window into body-related practices in contexts remote in time and space. However, disciplinary standards of exhumation and study of excavated human remains may be at odds with original intentions of ancient inhumations. Direct archaeological interventions not only disrupt and destroy the locus of burial but also transform the status of the human remains, in some cases altering their place in the social fabric from subjects to objects, and from persons to things. The ethical conundrum that arises from handling past human remains in part rests on unsettled questions of whether exhuming the dead harms them as people, as humans, and/or as skeletal remains. Geoffrey Scarre (2013: 669) identifies several problems that arise from these questions: first, that Western worldviews may not apply to the dead encountered in archaeological contexts; second, that the wishes and eschatological belief systems of the researched subject may not be knowable and therefore may be impossible to follow; and, finally, that the dead may leave behind a “moral estate of present interests” that create obligations for the living to take seriously the deceased’s antemortem wishes, such as where and how they will be disposed of after death. Within this framework, Scarre (2013: 670) writes that it is the [past] living, ante-mortem person (an indisputably existing subject) that is the real subject of harmful or wrongful acts committed after … death, the harmful or wrongful impact being, in effect, retrospective. This chapter considers the implications of the moral estate of the dead and presentday consequences for living stakeholders, including descendant communities and archaeologists. Like their ancient counterparts who inhumed the remains of the dead, today’s archaeologists who exhume these same remains exert agency over their treatment as they remove them from original contexts and establish new dispositions and new ontological statuses of human remains within museum, university, or heritage collections.

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This discussion contributes to a growing corpus of literature in cultural heritage, museum studies, and archaeology that questions the ethics and disciplinary practices concerning handling of excavated human remains. These debates have emerged out of discourse concerning the scientific, cultural, and historical value of—and control over—human remains. Often, the rhetorical framework draws on Marxism, feminism, and postcolonialism, highlighting the legacies of violence suffered by indigenous and colonized populations that were (and still are) perpetrated against these groups through forcible dispossession and relocation of their historical heritage and bodies (Hallote and Joffe 2002; Fforde 2004; Jenkins 2011; Leshem 2015; Schug et al. 2021). In many of these discussions, framing the body as a domain of control and oppression, drawing on the works of Foucault (1973, 1977), extends to the bodies of the dead as particularly symbolic flashpoints for contemporary politics and society (Jenkins 2011; Leshem 2015). Layered into this debate is the potential emancipatory role of cultural heritage as a tool for social justice, particularly for indigenous and marginalized peoples whose histories have been warped or ignored in the dominant “colonial narrative” (Nilsson Stutz 2012: 227).1 Excavated human skeletal remains acquired under colonial power structures represent a salient, powerful, and meaningful material for restitution and reclamation of ancestors of descendant communities. Repatriation of tangible and intangible heritage to communities of origin serves as a strategy to reclaim a “right to … culture, traditions, and ways of life” as well as the “right to define one’s own history” (Nilsson Stutz 2012: 227). These discussions have focused primarily on excavations, collections, exhibitions, and repatriation in North America, Britain, Europe, and Australia (e.g., Fforde, Hubert, and Turnbull 2002; Fforde 2004; Jenkins 2011; Giesen 2013; Fletcher, Antoine, and Hill 2014; Giles and Williams 2016; Nilsson Stutz 2016; Williams and Evans 2020; Meloche, Spake, and Nichols 2021), with far less attention devoted to the Middle East generally or to Israel/Palestine specifically (see Hallote 2001; Hallote and Joffe 2002; Nagar 2002, 2011a, b; Nilsson Stutz 2012, 2013; Leshem 2015; Sulimani and Kletter 2017). The goals of this chapter are to advance these ongoing discussions in two new directions. First, this study situates these issues within contemporary archaeology in the modern State of Israel. It considers excavated human skeletal remains through the lens of necropolitics, a framework that views control over human remains and burial sites as a tool to exert power, legitimacy, and authority over the past. Laws and practices concerning archaeological excavation of human remains operate within structures of power that inform the way that exhumed bodies are treated (Hallote and Joffe 2002; Jenkins 2011, 2016; Nagar 2011b; Nilsson Stutz 2012; Leshem 2015; Sulimani and Kletter 2017). These norms may become entangled in sectarian conflicts and legal contests between various stakeholders (Hallote and Joffe 2002: 84–6; Nilsson Stutz 2013). Second, this study reflexively situates heritage professionals as participants in the ongoing mortuary histories of the person(s) whose remains are at the center of their professional activities. This study contends that mortuary activities performed on the deceased body before, during, and after burial—termed here the funerary sequence— do not constitute a finite process that started and ended in the past. When viewed as a progressive system of connected practices structured around the body, the ongoing funerary sequence creates a bridge between body-oriented practices in the ancient past and in contemporary disciplinary practices today. In other words, exhumation, publication, and/or public displays of excavated human remains become part of the construction of the deceased’s afterlife just as their original inhumation and postdepositional disturbances did in antiquity; these practices may “[afford the dead with] new afterlives” (Williams

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and Evans 2020: 179; see also Giles and Williams 2016). This shift in viewpoint may contribute toward breaking the person–object barrier that is often imposed on ancient human remains as a by-product of their study. It may also prompt inquiry about if, when, and how the funerary sequence transforms the body from a site of inhabitation and personhood into a material bereft of these qualities: a body-object. Adopting this perspective places human remains in a special category of archaeological material, as is already widely recognized in the international community.2 However, in practice, this status does not always translate to treatment of human remains as different from other archaeologically recovered materials. Decisions by today’s heritage professionals place them in a position of contested authority over the dispositions of the ancient mortal remains, which may be treated in categorically different ways: as venerated ancestors who are ritually reburied, as scientific samples that are treated much like other archaeologically recovered biological specimens, as cultural artifacts that are stored or displayed alongside human-made objects, or even as disposable waste (Hallote 2001: 194–207). Contemporary necropolitics influence the differential nature of how excavated human skeletal remains are treated in the State Israel today with varying degrees of respect and care.3 Using three recent archaeological case studies, this study asks how archaeological research methods impact and transform the ex situ dead through their bodies? How, and under what circumstances, does contemporary archaeology situate excavated bodies as data sets, cultural artifacts, or venerated ancestors? This wide spectrum of outcomes places excavated ancient human remains on an ontological gradient of person-object. Outcomes may be informed by practical concerns over storage space, competing priorities of researchers, biases concerning identity politics, and lack of awareness about legal policies and ethical issues. These issues are compounded when dealing with fragmented, dislocated, and incomplete remains (Williams and Evans 2020). Moreover, as demonstrated later in the text, in cases where laws are vague or not enforced, policies may be applied unevenly, with decision-making shifted to dig directors and excavators at the trowel’s edge. In these instances, precedent and consensus of normative practice may play an outsized role in determining the processes and outcomes of how human skeletal remains are treated in archaeological contexts. Viewing field archaeologists and heritage professionals as part of the continuing funerary sequence of those they excavate, study, and curate may advance conversations by reshaping the discourse of respect, agency, and ethical obligations owed to the deceased, their remains, and their dispositions. This reflexive framework contextualizes the shifting priorities and consequences of necropolitics and may open new perspectives on the multivalent values of the dead in archaeological practice as persons, ancestors, and material remains.

EXCAVATED HUMAN REMAINS IN THE STATE OF ISRAEL The State of the Issue In the State of Israel, archaeological excavations are conducted by academic institutions and by the government’s antiquities body, the Israel Antiquities Authority (IAA), which operates most salvage digs (Nagar 2011a, b). According to IAA osteologist Yossi Nagar (2002: 87, 2011b: 613), roughly three hundred new sites are excavated by the IAA annually, and between 10 and 30 percent of these excavations yield human remains

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that represent “every human population that has inhabited the region” over the past 1.5 million years (Nagar 2002: 87, 2011b: 613). Under Section 1.1. of a 1978 Israel Antiquities Authority Antiquities law, an antiquity is defined as “any object, whether detached or fixed, which was made by man before the year 1700 of the general era” ( “The Antiquities Law” 1978). A 1994 ruling by the Attorney General of Israel included in this definition grave sites and artifacts as well as zoological and botanical remains dating before 1300 ce but specifically excluded human osteological remains. The ruling transferred legal authority over human skeletal remains from the IAA to the control of the Ministry of Religious Affairs, establishing a policy for immediate reburial of any human skeletal remains (Hallote and Joffe 2002: 97; Nagar 2002: 87, 2011a: 1, 2011b: 614). There are several important implications of this redefinition. As Nagar (2011b: 614) explains, the amendment largely restricted the excavation of human remains and dramatically reduced the amount of bones unearthed. Since human remains are not considered antiquities, they are taken to reburial by representatives of the Ministry of Religious Affairs, forcing a shift to rapid data collection in the field, rather than a slow and thorough laboratory study. According to archaeologists, the default practice is to assume that all remains might be Jewish and to treat them as such, with reburial following Jewish religious law (Hallote and Joffe 2002: 97; Nagar 2002). As a result, “numerous prehistoric, pagan, Christian, and Moslem remains were in a sense belatedly adopted into the Jewish community, or were at least put under Jewish control” (Hallote and Joffe 2002: 97).4 This policy may advance “facts on the ground,” buoying the claim of one group’s ancestry, history, and territory to the exclusion of others (Abu El-Haj 2001; Hallote and Joffe 2002: 96; Kletter 2006; Greenberg 2009; Nilsson Stutz 2012, 2013; Leshem 2015; Sulimani and Kletter 2017: 342). However, in practice, inconsistent policy enforcement applied to some remains further complicates the matter (Nagar 2011b: 615), and criticism to the policy has surfaced several opposing viewpoints. Opposition to this policy has come from a range of stakeholders with a variety of motivations, including archaeologists, Muslim and Palestinian descendant communities, and an Ultra-Orthodox advocacy group, Athra Kadisha, which “vehemently opposes the excavation of human bone” on the basis of the remains’ presumed Jewish heritage, since disturbance would amount to desecration (Hallote and Joffe 2002; Nagar 2011b: 615). The unifying thread between such disparate “claims-makers” (Jenkins 2011)— regardless of the ethical, moral, or legal high ground—is the use of bodies as political tools to advance an agenda particular to that group. For all stakeholders, including archaeologists, curators, and legal authorities, some bodies matter as past persons, and others do not. To again evoke Foucault (1977), exhumed human remains become sites of contestation, negotiation, power, and violence through their forcible displacement, dislocation, disturbance, and disarticulation. Three case studies examine varying treatment of recently excavated ancient human remains in the State of Israel through the lens of necropolitics. Where possible, these examples follow the chain of custody of the remains from the initial excavation and recovery to their current dispositions. Through encounters with archaeologists, ancient peoples’ remains have resurfaced and their mortuary histories have been reinitiated, sometimes becoming entangled within contemporary value systems that may conflict with the moral estate of the dead.

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Mortal Remains as Body-Objects The first case study focuses on the recent excavation of Bronze Age chamber tombs at a major tel site carried out under the auspices of an Israeli university. The tombs, which date to the second millennium bce, contained the disarticulated and commingled remains of one to two dozen individuals (Cradic 2017a, forthcoming; Martin and Cradic 2022; Martin, Cradic, and Kalisher 2022; Faerman and Smith 2022). Drawing on the framework of the moral estate of the dead explained above, the skeletal remains are positioned within their emic context of Canaanite necropolitics and eschatology. This example demonstrates that the fragmented skeletal remains inside tomb chambers were viewed on a sliding scale between persons, bodies, and objects in antiquity as they transformed in a multi-staged funerary sequence from living persons to collective ancestors. Moreover, archaeologists’ interventions are viewed as part of the ongoing funerary sequence of the dead whom they exhume. An explanation of the methods of excavation, documentation, analysis, and storage of the human remains highlights how Bronze Age skeletal remains, like prehistoric and other pre-Judaic human remains, are often handled in academic archaeological projects in the State of Israel. During excavation, trained field archaeologists treated the human skeletal remains in a special manner through highly detailed documentation with careful attention to burial context, stratigraphy, in situ finds, and osteology; field identification and sorting of human bones as a separate category of finds; and gentle handling of the remains. Detailed documentation methods included frequent photography, videography, notetaking, drawing and annotating of plans, collection of geospatial data to plot each major skeletal element precisely, and (once available) photogrammetry to create georectified digital 3D models (Homsher et al. 2016). This special treatment of human bones also involved handling through gloves, assigning of individual registration numbers to bones according to their precise location within burial contexts, and grouping and labeling of osteological elements that belonged together based on extant skeletal articulations. Access to the tomb chambers was limited to one or two staff members to minimize trampling and disturbance. The realities of the poor preservation of the skeletal remains in many cases constrained this careful and slow approach, however. The high degree of fragmentation that had turned the bones dry and brittle; often, bone dust and debris had to be collected en masse in buckets for sifting in order to maximize complete recovery. Beyond the special care afforded to the human skeletal remains, they were treated much like other categories of archaeological finds bound for lab analysis. The chain of custody was streamlined: following in situ documentation, the exhumed bones were packed in labeled boxes on site. At the end of each workday, they were carried carefully by hand and transferred by car to the field laboratory at the excavation’s local accommodations. At the end of the season, they were transported by van to the university for further sorting, study, analysis, and sampling by osteologists and specialists in a temperature-controlled and secured clean laboratory room with specialized air filtration to stabilize the materials and prevent contamination.5 Through the process of excavation, the ancient human remains had transformed from embodied subjects into objects of heuristic value for their scientific and historical data about ancient lives, biographies, health, diet, and environment. The disarticulated nature of the human skeletal remains created a conceptual distance—adding to the already vast temporal and cultural gap between the sixteenth century bce Canaanites

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and 2010s excavators—between the living, breathing analysts and the dry, dusty, and sometimes barely recognizable bones. Because these Bronze Age peoples lack active descendant communities to claim their remains, contest their dispositions, or enforce reburial policies, archaeologists became the default stakeholders in their treatment, which is informed by disciplinary standards that prioritize scientific study over immediate reburial. The conditions of contemporary excavation—the long temporal remove and dispassionate scientific approach—directly impacted ways in which human skeletal remains were viewed and treated as body-objects during field work and postexcavation analysis. However, it is argued that, in this case, the process of transformation of the dead from subject to object was started in antiquity through a ritual sequence of postdepositional skeletal fragmentation. As the dry bones were moved around the tomb chambers during repeated mortuary activities, they became broken, disassembled, and intermixed with the bones of other individuals, with those of animals, and with objects such as whole and broken pottery vessels. From a functional standpoint, fragmented human skeletal materials were undifferentiated from other kinds of broken and scattered materials deposited in the shared tomb spaces, a process that John Chapman and Bisserka Gaydarska (2007) have termed “enchainment” of persons, places, and things. For commingling and shared tomb spaces, fragmentation of the body may have been the end goal rather than the incidental result of repeated interactions with skeletal remains (Cradic 2017a, 2021, 2022). In this model, disarticulation, dispersal, and fragmentation of dry bones—as practices of objectification—may have signaled that the dead had entered a new phase of their mortuary biography: the afterlife. In this context, ritualized breakage carried a positive eschatological valence of transition. Intermixing of the dispersed remains of many individuals together reconfigured their postmortem embodiment into a new collective entity, possibly understood as a corporate group of the dead who may have functioned socially as ancestors (see Cradic 2017a, b, 2018, 2021, 2022 for further discussion). Although once having comprised the coherent bodies of past persons, the sequence of postburial activities carried out in antiquity changed the nature of the bones that were excavated and removed some three thousand five hundred years later. The entombed bones occupied a vague conceptual space, understood neither as coherent bodies belonging to recognizable persons nor as human-made objects. Rather, they were bodies transformed by human hands, like an object, through an iterative, sequential, and ritualized process of disarticulation, fragmentation, dispersal, and intermixing (Cradic 2017a, b, 2018, 2021, 2022). In their afterlives, past and present, the mortal remains of the dead emerged as an entirely new category of materiality and of social status: they became body-objects. In the Canaanite context, body-objects represent material residues of ancient necropolitics because this treatment applied to some, but not all, burials. Secondary inhumations in reused tombs were less common overall than single, primary inhumations that, unlike multiple successive chamber tombs, were intended to remain undisturbed and intact in perpetuity (Cradic 2018).6 These differences indicate that a range of rules governed the ways that the bodies of the dead were inhumed, with some forms of postdepositional disturbance allowable in specific cases.7 The resulting body-objects slid between the categories of human body, past person, and material object on a slippery and ontologically ambiguous spectrum. As Tiffany Jenkins (2011: 107, citing Geary 1986) explains, human remains

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hold a social category as a ‘person’ (human, body), but are also a ‘thing’ (remains, corpse, cadaver, skeleton). As a ‘border subject,’ human remains disturb the boundaries of the real and the not-real, between person and non-person. They have once embodied personhood and, at the same time, that personhood has come to an end exist simultaneously as persons and as things. Ancient funerary practices obscured and elided these meanings. As an assemblage of archaeological materials encountered in the present, the fragmented human skeletal remains likewise did not easily fit categories of person, body, or object. Excavation further altered the physical and ontological nature of the disposals in ways that contradicted the original intentions: it disentangled the commingling remains, separating bones that had been intentionally intermixed; it reconstructed, reordered, and reconstituted fragments into wholes, conceptually as well as physically, through bone sorting, identification, and determination of minimum number of individuals interred; and the process of excavation exhumed the skeletal remains from their sealed tombs. Handling and removal of the bones from their mortuary contexts fundamentally altered their dispositions, which in antiquity may have been closely connected to the postmortem status of the dead as ancestors. On one hand, archaeologists’ interventions resumed an established tradition of postdepositional disturbance and perpetuated the treatment of human skeletal remains as body-objects. On the other hand, excavations were carried out with different goals and within a disciplinary value system that is far removed from those of the original context of Canaanite mortuary culture. The example here emphasizes the importance of scrutinizing and reflecting critically on each excavated mortuary context on its own terms in order to handle, excavate, and determine appropriate and ethical dispositions of human remains within their emic value systems and with consideration to the moral estate of the dead.

The (Arti)factual Dead The second case study focuses on an Iron Age Philistine cemetery excavated at Ashkelon. The excavation of human skeletal remains of Philistines—a group villainized in the Hebrew Bible as enemies of the Israelites, like their Canaanite counterparts examined in the case study above—largely did not elicit objections from active stakeholders in contemporary necropolitics in Israel. The exhumed remains’ perceived ethno-historical identities as Philistines—and who are therefore unrelated to ancient and contemporary Jewish populations, who may view Israelites as their ancestors and progenitors—may have insulated these finds from the brunt of negative attention from stakeholders in contemporary Israeli necropolitics despite the high-profile critical scrutiny that they received of their excavation in Israeli press, as explained below. As a result, Ashkelon’s Philistine remains, much like other burials uncovered by other academic digs in Israel, were treated as cultural artifacts and as biological samples. In this case, they were primarily valued for the historical and genetic data that they supplied, which were used to address thorny ethno-historical questions about possible origins of this group of people.8 Excavated between 2013 and 2016, this burial ground contained more than 200 individuals, most of whom were buried as single, primary inhumations in simple pits (Master and Aja 2017). Many burials remained undisturbed until their excavation (Master and Aja 2017). Excavation methods followed normative practices of academic digs in Israel, as highlighted in the previous case study, involving a meticulous, rigorous, and scientific approach to exposure, documentation, sampling, study, and publication (Master

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and Aja 2017; Feldman et al. 2019). The human osteological finds from Ashkelon, like remains from Canaanite chamber tombs, were studied in a lab and involved export and destructive sampling of at least 108 bone elements for ancient DNA (aDNA) analysis (Feldman et al. 2019).9 After keeping the discovery secret until completion of the excavations, the archaeologists announced their finds in July 2016. Because it was prominently publicized in one of Israel’s major newspapers, Haaretz (Bohstrom 2016), the Philistine cemetery attracted considerable interest. Much of this attention was driven by the news media’s publication of controversial photographs showing the excavation and temporary field storage conditions of human bones. One photograph, for example, depicted a wellpreserved human skull sitting inside a disposable aluminum tray. The image provoked a strong response from Israel Hasson, then-director of the IAA, who was reported by a journalist to be “furious” about the “appallingly insensitive” photograph that objectified the remains and exposed the archaeological community’s treatment of ancient human remains to scrutiny (Hasson 2016). Hasson may have issued these statements in anticipation of full-scale protests, as well as harassment, threats, and vandalism, like those that had targeted former IAA director Yehoshua Dorfman in 2009 in the aftermath of earlier excavations of a different set of ancient burials at Ashkelon (Hasson 2016). In this case, expected protests from Athra Kadisha community members did not materialize with the same level of intensity, likely because “archaeologists could convince [opponents] that only Philistines were among the dead” (Hasson 2016). Photographs of clearly identifiable human skeletal remains still routinely appear in news media and on projects’ public websites as of the writing of this essay (Leon Levy Expedition to Ashkelon 2022).10 The controversy over the photographs prompted journalist Nir Hasson (2016) to investigate the little-discussed problem of necropolitics and their influence on discrepancies in treatment of excavated human remains in archaeological practice in the State of Israel today. Hasson identified two factors that determine the differential treatment of excavated human remains. The first is who is excavating them—whether an academic or government entity—and second is the perceived historical, ethnic, and religious identity of the deceased individuals (Hasson 2016). In his 2016 article, titled “Israeli Archaeologists Dodge the Law to Study Human Remains,” Hasson cogently summarized the multifaceted “dilemma” between competing interests, including the desire to collect important scientific data (the perspective of archaeologists); the fact that theoretically all human remains are subject to reburial under the authority of the ministry of Religious Affairs (the legal perspective); and the need to respect the voices of stakeholders like Athra Kadisha (the perspective of communities who claim shared heritage or descent and who object to disturbance of burials). The article also brought to light an open secret in Israeli archaeology: that teams operating academic digs—often foreign teams working in cooperation with Israeli universities—surreptitiously circumvent reburial requirements in order to analyze human remains that are not Jewish. For example, in order to sidestep reburial regulations and avoid drawing protestors, academic excavations may employ code words to refer to human skeletal remains and make efforts to conceal the burial contexts during active excavations (Hallote 2001: 194–5). These measures effectively shield excavators from protestors and inspectors, allowing for careful scientific documentation and recovery of the burial contexts, following established disciplinary standards, value systems, and priorities (Hallote 2001: 194–5).

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Concealment of the human remains on site and during postexcavation analysis may be prioritized in order to “quietly” perform postexcavation research, including destructive sampling for DNA and isotopic analyses (Hasson 2016, quoting an anonymous source). However, these practices may carry unintended consequences, resulting in the treatment and storage of the remains in less-than-ideal conditions. In addition to the aluminum container caught on camera, for example, an archaeologist described storing skeletal remains in “buckets” in university offices (Hasson 2016). Moreover, despite the legal framework mandating reburial without lab analysis, the analytical findings routinely get published in academic venues, leading Hasson (2016) to speculate that archaeologists “figure ultra-Orthodox Jews won’t be reading scientific journals.” The Ashkelon case study illustrates the real-world consequences of identity politics and necropolitics on archaeological practice in Israel today. Although the antiquities law does not discriminate based on the identity of the remains, stakeholders and claimsmakers may exert pressure to prohibit disturbance of graves possibly inhabited by Jewish persons or their ancestors while by and large ignoring exhumation of bones perceived to belong to anyone else. The mortuary histories of Philistines, like other excavated ancient peoples, may become entangled within the priorities of contemporary necropolitics, which influence their dispositions and treatment.

The Disposable Dead The final case study focuses on the excavation of the historic Mamilla cemetery in Jerusalem. Based on historical sources and archaeological evidence, Mamilla was used continuously and extensively for at least nine hundred years, spanning the eleventh century through the first half of the twentieth century ce (Sulimani and Kletter 2017: 324). Active use of the cemetery stopped after 1948, and it fell into disrepair after it was incorporated into West Jerusalem, which is predominately inhabited by Jewish populations today. In the following decades, its footprint was diminished from c. 13.5 to 2 ha due to construction of buildings, a public park (Independence Park), a road, and parking lots (Sulimani and Kletter 2017: 324). These twentieth-century development projects on the cemetery premises destroyed tombs “without documentation,” a situation that continued in the mid-2000s (Sulimani and Kletter 2017: 324). The approval (in 2002) and subsequent permitting of land (in 2004) within the known cemetery boundaries to build the Museum of Human Dignity and Tolerance (MOT) prompted the IAA Jerusalem District to begin trial excavations, a routine procedure during the development of known antiquities sites, which have protected legal status under Israeli antiquities law (Sulimani and Kletter 2017: 325–6).11 Initial test trenches from the IAA salvage dig revealed a densely occupied cemetery containing at least a thousand tombs in five superimposed layers. The excavations demonstrated that the graveyard had been in continuous use for nearly a millennium, confirming historical sources and traditional knowledge about the site. These findings underscored the cemetery’s potential for research about “burial customs … [and] the population of Jerusalem from the 12th century ce onwards,” prompting the head district archaeologist at the time, Gideon Sulimani, to request a large-scale salvage excavation prior to the site’s development (IAA response to Israeli High Court 52/06 prepared by the IAA layer Yoram Bar-Sela, quoted in Sulimani and Kletter 2017: 328–9). Sulimani’s request was met with opposition by multiple stakeholders, including those invested in the MOT construction project and local descendant communities who

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raised concerns about exhuming the graves. The legal question of whether or not the cemetery could be disturbed was in the hands of the Israeli Supreme Court of Justice, which heard the case following a petition in opposition filed in December 2005 by the Al-Aqsa Corporation (Sulimani and Kletter 2017: 324–30). A group of descendants from Jerusalem who were distantly related to those interred at Mamilla successfully petitioned the Muslim Religious Court in Israel to stop the salvage excavations, although city police failed to enforce the court order (Sulimani and Kletter 2017: 327–8). The situation continued to become more complicated with an ever-growing list of stakeholders and legal petitioners entering the dispute with competing priorities, motivations, and goals. Eventually, the Supreme Court approved development of the land, prioritizing construction of the MOT—which had backing of prominent business and political leaders—over the archaeological and historic value of the site; the moral estate of the dead; and the wishes of descendant communities. After MOT took control of the area, the human remains were removed by a private contractor rather than being led and supervised by the IAA as is the more typical situation. According to Sulimani and Kletter (2017: 341–5), the burials were cleared not only without being recorded or published according to archaeological standards but also without being exhumed or reburied under Muslim supervision, raising many unresolved ethical questions about the handling of the remains. According to Sulimani, the exhumed human remains were reburied secretly en masse in an unmarked “boneyard” located within MOT’s property (Sulimani and Kletter 2017: 341–5). The mass burial pit was placed in an area outside of the building zone so as not to create an occupied area that would be considered impure due to corpse contamination from a Jewish religious perspective of halakha (Sulimani and Kletter 2017: 341–5). The unmarked burial pit’s location, therefore, avoided offending the sensibilities of MOT and its stakeholders but disregarded the sensitivities of local Muslim religious authorities and of descendant communities, whose family graves were removed without their consent or knowledge (Sulimani and Kletter 2017: 341–5). This choice of location and treatment by MOT prioritized the needs of one group of stakeholders while ignoring the wishes and religious regulations of the primary claims-makers, the descendant communities and Muslim religious authorities, who were deeply invested in both the proper disposition of the exhumed human remains and in the land-use of the historical cemetery. The Mamilla cemetery example highlights a fraught case of high-stakes necropolitics and demonstrates the direct and harmful impacts of contemporary identity politics on the remains of the dead in archaeological practice (Leshem 2015). These issues of necropolitics matter because, in the words of Liv Nilsson Stutz (2013: 803), contested burials are a matter for the living and … it is their sensitivities and desires that are at stake in these conflicts, which are always politically, historically, and culturally situated [italics in original]. Archaeological excavation of human remains from an original locus of burial is a transformative act that fundamentally alters the grave from a “place for the dead [into] … the locus for a story … of the past” (Nilsson Stutz 2013: 804). Whose narratives are told, by whom, and how depends on the treatment of the remains of the dead by heritage professionals, by stakeholders, and by legal authorities. In this case, the mortuary histories of the dead were rewritten against the wishes of descendant communities through grave destruction, lack of documentation, and reburial in unmarked locations.

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Disturbance of graves and dislocation of the interred remains at the Mamilla cemetery exemplify how necropolitics can be used as a tool of erasure. In this case, the exhumation of graves, the razing of an established cemetery, and the illicit reburial of exhumed bones in a mass grave erased one historical community’s embodied ties to a place, to history, to heritage, and to family legacies. This example illustrates necropolitics’ influence on how certain bodies matter and others do not, leading to a spectrum of treatment of ancient human remains along a sliding scale of person–body–object, from venerated ancestor to cultural artifact to biological specimen to refuse.

CONCLUSIONS This study has highlighted the differential handling of excavated human remains and their entanglement within necropolitics of the State of Israel. It argues that treatment of archaeologically recovered human remains falls on the categorical spectrum of person–body–object. Within this gradient, some human remains are treated like venerated ancestors (respected persons); some like cultural artifacts (historically valuable objects); some like biological specimens (scientifically valuable objects); and some as detritus (disposable objects). Control over excavated human remains and their treatment may serve as a tool to advance the agenda of particular groups. Within the framework of contemporary necropolitics of Israel, some ancient bodies matter and others do not. The positions of various claims-makers over archaeologically exhumed human remains serve as a proxy for competing claims to establish facts on the ground that impact legal, political, economic, and cultural legitimacy over heritage, history, and territory. Specifically, established disciplinary practices of field archaeology treat Canaanite and Philistine human skeletal remains primarily as cultural artifacts and as biological specimens on the basis of their historical, research, and scientific value rather than their status as ancestors or as past persons. The “moral estate”—and its attendant obligations to the dead as past living persons—typically does not extend to ancient “pagan” groups in contemporary necropolitics in Israel. Likewise, prehistoric hominid and human skeletal remains, like those of Neanderthals and Homo sapiens from Carmel caves, are treated like natural history specimens and may be studied in a lab as well as curated and displayed in public settings like cultural, historical, and science museums without issue (Nagar 2011b: 615). For example, an assemblage of Neolithic plastered skulls excavated from burials at the site of Yiftahel have been “housed in the anthropological collection at Tel-Aviv University” without protest since 2008 (Slon et al. 2014: 1). In contrast, human remains from marked and unmarked Muslim graves—some quite recent and within living memory of descendants—have been treated as discard, exemplified by the Mamilla cemetery case. The most vocal and visible necropolitical stakeholders in Israel today are mainly concerned with protecting the interests of remains identified (however problematically or inaccurately) as possibly Jewish and which, in contrast, are treated as persons and ancestors. This chapter has also offered a reflection on the role of archaeologists and cultural heritage professionals in necropolitics. As Bruno Latour (1987) has explained, a search for a scientifically neutral perspective is virtually impossible to realistically achieve because all stakeholders—including archaeologists—are entangled in political systems. The dominant system in archaeological practice prioritizes objectivity, values data collection, and rewards publication. Prehistoric and other human remains that lack invested stakeholders outside

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of the archaeological community, like those labeled as Canaanites and Philistines, may be subject to different standards of handling and disposition than those with advocates who demand their legal protection and equitable treatment. Inconsistent enforcement also contributes to archaeologists’ lack of awareness and genuine confusion about these policies. It is often beyond the power of these practitioners to change legal policy or its enforcement. It is within their power, however, to implement standards of respectful conduct and careful handling of human remains as a universal category, whether in the field or the museum, without regard to the origins or identities of those individuals. For instance, the British Museum (see Fletcher et al. 2014) may serve as one model for protocols that satisfy competing stakeholders without prioritizing any single claimsmaker over another. When possible, it may be the most ethical choice to avoid disturbing human burials altogether despite the plethora of important information that they may yield, if objectified treatment of these remains cannot be justified from a culturally and historically informed perspective. In the case of historical cemeteries, and crucially for those with living descendant communities, the best practice—if exhumation cannot be avoided—would be to proceed in close consultation and cooperation with these stakeholders following models implemented in the past several decades in the United States and in Australia, which were created to rectify past violations of indigenous sanctity and sovereignty (Fforde 2004). Another approach would be to position heritage practitioners as participants in the ongoing funerary activities of their subjects of study and who are driven by contextspecific and culturally acceptable mortuary practices. This approach is a humanizing and reflexive way of creating accountability through connecting practices of exhumation, study, curation, and reburial with the original practices of mourners in the past. It also opens new pathways to treating human remains as a special category of archaeological material beyond established categories of artifact and ecofact. Framing mortuary-oriented activities as a progressive system of connected practices that are structured around the body, whether inhumation carried out in antiquity or exhumation carried out today, brings a new awareness to the roles of all mortuary participants, past and present. It also creates a contextualized mortuary history and biography for the dead. This perspective allows their later removal by archaeologists to be placed within the context of the ongoing funerary sequence. It also places heritage professionals in direct, face-to-face dialogue with these individuals by adding new elements to their afterlife biographies. For example, it may be acceptable to treat fragmented human remains from Canaanite multiple-successive tombs as a special category of body-objects, meaning that recovery and documentation could proceed delicately with care for the human remains as the remnants of ancestors, as would have been afforded in antiquity. This practice would be couched within an informed understanding of the original cultural framework in which fragmentation of the body served higher ritual, ontological, and eschatological purposes of transforming those individuals into ancestors. Reburial, ideally, would involve redeposition in a similar enclosed hollow space that could accommodate a tertiary disposal of all of the original commingling remains together. These reflexive perspectives may encourage greater interrogation of current and future disciplinary practices in the hope of creating a more ethically sound and communityengaged archaeology. Instead of becoming mired in necropolitics, these informed approaches may help resolve tensions and create a more balanced and equitable resolution to the many challenges posed by dealing with ancient human remains.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This research project was carried during the 2021–2 academic year while in residence at the Getty Villa Museum, with generous support from the Getty Research Institute– National Endowment for the Humanities Postdoctoral Fellowship. I would like to thank the Getty Research Institute and extend deep gratitude to my fellow Getty Scholars, especially Gala Porras-Kim, for sharing feedback and insights on early versions of this essay. Any and all errors remain the sole responsibility of the author.

NOTES 1 For example, O’Dell (2013) describes the weaponization of necropolitics and historical cultural heritage at one of its most disturbing and destructive levels, describing the destruction of Sufi shrines and burials in Timbuktu, Mali, exemplifying “how heritage can be used to wage war on the already dead, terrorize the living, and repudiate materiality” (O’Dell 2013: 507). 2 The Vermillion Accord on Human Remains established a set of ethical guidelines for archaeologists that were drafted at the 1989 World Archaeology Congress. In short, these principles call for “respect” for “mortal remains” of all deceased, regardless of “origin, race, religion, nationality, custom and tradition.” It also calls for respecting the “wishes of the dead concerning disposition … whenever possible, reasonable and lawful, when they are known or can be reasonably inferred” (Scarre 2013: 668–9). 3 Scarre (2013: 668–9), acknowledging the vagaries encapsulated by the notion of “respect,” lays out what it may mean to respect the dead, defining four ways of applying this principle: (1) to the person whom the remains represent, (2) to the remains as physical entities, (3) to the shared humanity that the remains represent, and (4) to the wishes and sensibilities of surviving family members or descendants of the dead whether cultural or genetic. 4 Drawing on Hallote and Joffe’s (2002: 97) usage, the term “pagan” is used throughout this work to refer to ancient cultural groups with polytheistic and non-Yahwistic belief systems falling outside the Judeo-Christian Abrahamic religions, including the Canaanites and Philistines, who feature as enemies of the Israelites in the Hebrew Bible. 5 This disposition of human skeletal remains from academic excavation projects in Israel is not unusual. Yossi Nagar (2011b: 613) notes that the Sackler Faculty of Medicine at Tel Aviv University houses a “large human bone collection, specializing in the local populations of this region, with special emphasis on prehistory. In the collection one can find skeletons of Neanderthals and Early Homo sapiens, Neolithic, Chalcolithic and historical populations, and these are continuously studied by anthropology students and visiting scholars from around the world.” Likewise, a collection is maintained at Hebrew University of Jerusalem’s Laboratory of Bioanthropology and Ancient DNA in the Faculty of Dental Medicine. 6 Likewise, a small corpus of mortuary and commemorative inscriptions from the first millennium bce Levant attests to a general expectation of undisturbed rest. The epigraphic evidence, found in both Judah and Phoenicia, makes clear the concerns of the deceased and their families about tomb robbing or disturbance that would involve opening of their graves and moving the remains. The texts explicitly prohibit these activities, cursing violators with dire consequences that fit the crime, such as a “lack of their own resting place, lack of proper burial, divine retribution, and lack of offspring” (Sonia 2020: 49). 7 My interpretation of the funerary sequence of disturbed tombs represents one archaeologist’s contemporary perspective in 2022 based on current research. This interpretation will remain open to challenge and should not be read as overly deterministic or with any finality as

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mortuary studies continue to develop new methods and theoretical frameworks. Likewise, one researcher’s view of the original intentions of a grave context should not necessarily influence the methods of excavation and treatment of human remains in similar contexts. This retrospective view is offered with the benefit of hindsight. Based on biblical, archaeological, and genetic evidence, Philistines have separate cultural and genetic ancestry from ancient Israelites. Although the data set is limited, genomic analyses of seven individuals from Iron Age Ashkelon demonstrate that they are genetically linked to European gene pools, likely pointing to a shared group origin that is distinct from the local Levantine populations (Feldman et al. 2019). This perspective upholds the archaeological and historical consensus view of Philistines as migrants who arrived in the southern coastal plain of the Levant in the late second millennium bce. The total assemblage of 108 sampled skeletal elements was not exclusive to the Philistine cemetery but included individuals from a variety of mortuary contexts excavated between 1997 and 2016. Ten samples yielded sufficient amounts of DNA. The materials were exported to Germany for analysis at the aDNA facilities housed at the Max Planck institute for the Science of Human History (Feldman et al. 2019). However, Nagar (2011b: 615) notes that “transportation of bones abroad is strictly forbidden.” http://diga​shke​lon.com/. Accessed March 21, 2022. On the “Press” page of the project website, which features additional photographs of human remains in situ in the cemetery, the critical Haaretz article is notably omitted from the long list of news media reports from 2016 that highlight the discovery of the Philistine cemetery. Under British Mandate authorities, the cemetery had first been established as an antiquities site in the 1940s. Its status was declared again in 1964 based on its historical significance and the presence of tombs, many of which belonged to important historical figures with living descendants (Sulimani and Kletter 2017: 325–8).

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CHAPTER FIVE

Behind the Cultic Statue: The Materiality of Religion in Ancient Mesopotamia DAVIDE NADALI AND LORENZO VERDERAME

Production of images, more precisely of statues, is an ancient and common activity in Mesopotamia since the earliest periods (Spycket 1981). The archaeological evidence is scant, but cuneiform texts refer directly to statues or indirectly to materials, artisans, and actions related to––and made around––statues. The statues do not properly reflect the need to represent divine and human figures: at the same time, they cannot be considered decorative elements of closed and open spaces, as the statue is not the result of a series of aesthetic choices and solutions intended to attract viewers in admiration of a beautiful masterpiece. Statues were not created to be seen from a distance, untouchable; ancient Mesopotamian temples, where the majority (if not all) of the statues were placed, cannot be compared to museums where items, objects, and images are displayed at a safe distance from visitors. On the contrary, statues in Mesopotamia were living beings, intended to stand in a place, but not just passively (and for that reason ritual actions were purposely applied, see later in the text): they were not powerless images but were supposed to act in a place by means of gestures, words, and interactions with the space around and with other beings (statues or people). In this respect, statues in ancient Mesopotamia were intended to mark a place: this can also be seen in the creation of reliefs that were directly sculpted on the walls of significant places (e.g., passages at Nahr El-Kalb in Lebanon or the sources of the river Tigris in Turkey; Feldman 2004), and this situation created further occasions for interactions and exchange between carved images (images dialoguing with each other) and between carved images and beholders. If one takes into account the information provided by texts on the production and display of statues in Mesopotamia, as well as the archaeological evidence, it seems clear how interaction and reciprocal dialogue were built upon the artificial disposition of statues to create a tableau vivant: inside temples, statues of kings were supposed to entertain a constant dialogue with those of the deities; they also had the duty to listen to the words of the deities; consequently, other interactions would then have been possible showing different degrees and level of reciprocity and dependency. Looking at the scenes of presentation on the cylinder seals from the end of the third millennium (Ur III) and beginning of second millennium bce (Old Babylonian period), one

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may infer that the person, introduced by the goddess Lama, is presented to the statue of the seated deity or king, the statue thus acting as if it were the body of the god and the monarch (Nadali 2013). To facilitate this special encounter, statues were not only fashioned with different types of materials (e.g., precious metals distinguished the physical traits of the face and the skin of the body), but they were also dressed with clothes. Gestures and types of statues (seated vs. standing) can be used to infer the possible interactions between statues and between a statue and its beholder: generally speaking, seated statues are supposed to be recipients, while standing statues, often to be placed in front of other carved images, perform a task, such as the presentation of offerings or paying homage. Combining these features indicates and describes the process of making statues and interacting with statues, in particular, but one could also encompass all types of statues, divine and human, with a cultic function and destination, disclosing the multilayered complexity of images in Mesopotamian religion. This, however, does not mean that images are merely passive recipients of human actions, as might be thought for cultic statues; because of their shape, their assigned position, and the ritual passages they undergo, divine statues are the presence of an absence. They are projected to interpret a role, and this goes beyond the physical presence of humans before and around them; being alive, they live, they perform actions, and they might even have desires (Mitchell 2005): they surely require attention and regularly had offerings presented to feed them. At the same time, the space around the statues, as well as the series of activities that were performed by statues themselves or on them, is central to understanding how carved images in the round physically occupy a place and, consequently, how they mark that place. Therefore, once the statue is taken away, that place loses importance and its specific connotation, which, by extent, then affects the entire city and the community, as, for example, when statues of gods are deported. The context is important for several reasons: since statues might have been grouped together, the removal of one element inevitably interrupts the relations among the parts; furthermore, positioning was planned according to not only the presence of other carved (fixed or movable) features but also the issues of visibility and light: in this respect, the illumination of a statue or group of statues by the sun or the moon is part of the artificial setting within a temple. The light enacts the radiance of the statues (that were coated with gold or silver foils) and, consequently, it translates the epiphany of the divine power, or it emphasizes the royal power. This contribution highlights the aspects of the process of making a statue and the impact statues had in ancient Mesopotamian societies, particularly as concerns the religion and cultic activities centered on the presence of images of divinities and kings.

THE MAKING, ACTIVATION, AND RESTORATION OF STATUES The archaeological evidence that survives consists mostly of stone statues and spare parts such as copper heads, stone wigs, inlaid eyes, and similar individual pieces of statuary. The written sources, however, provide detailed information on a variety of statues since disappeared (Verderame 2023). They record that the cultic statues were of medium to small size and composite: metal parts (head, arms), and inlaid details such as eyebrows and eyes, were inserted over a wooden structure. Gold foil was used to decorate nude parts (face, arms). In addition, the statues were dressed and adorned with jewels, wigs, crowns, and other accessories.

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The cultic statue was continuously enriched and embellished through works committed by the king and devotees’ gifts. Many of these objects, often inscribed with the devotee’s dedication, have survived while the statues disappeared. These include jewelry, mace heads, precious stones (eyestones), and so on. Furthermore, the wooden perishable structure of the cultic statue had to be periodically restored, which at times could change its appearance. Thus, the cultic statue was continuously modified and renewed, an idea that is far removed from the immutability and endurance of the stone royal statuary (Verderame 2023). Indeed, the cultic statues undergo not only specific ritual processes to make them act in the world, but they also undergo––one could also even say they suffer–– the wear of the cultic activities and performances centered on and around the statues that were certainly seen, but also touched and moved, on special occasions. In this respect, even some royal statues could then be objects of cult (e.g., the statues of the ruler Gudea of Lagash were venerated during the time of the Third Dynasty of Ur at the end of the third millennium bce). In a famous Old Testament verse from the book of Jeremiah, the prophet condemns the cult of idols: the beautiful statues created by sculptors and jewelers, covered with blue and purple dresses, are made by human hands and are “false” (‫ )ׁשֶ קֶ ר‬and without “breath” ( ַ‫ ;רּוח‬Jer. 9, 10, and 14). The prophet’s attack reflects the monotheistic and aniconic Hebrew perspective on pagan idolatry, but it deals with an aspect perceived by the Mesopotamians themselves, namely, the divine presence in an artifact (Berlejung 1998). A Mesopotamian perspective on the matter is offered by the ritual for the restoration of divine statues known as “washing of the mouth” (mīs pī) or sometimes “opening of the mouth” (pīt pī) ritual (Berlejung 1997). The complete ritual is documented in two similar versions from first millennium sources, Neo-Assyrian witnesses from Nineveh (c. seventh century bce) and a later tablet (c. sixth century bce) from Babylon (Walker and Dick 2001). The term “washing of the mouth” (mīs pī/ka-luh) and “opening of the mouth” (pīt pī/ ka-du8) are found in older sources and, occasionally, in reference to objects other than cultic statues (Walker and Dick 2001: 15–16). The Babylonian and Ninevite “washing of the mouth” ritual deals with the restoration or, according to the editors of the texts, the “induction” (Walker and Dick 2001) of the cultic statue. Both versions have the same incipit (“when you wash the mouth of the god,” e-nu-ma ka dingir luh-ú) and structure. The ritual has two parts: the preparation of the basin and the “water” on the riverbank, and then the procession of the divine statue from the artisans’ workshop and its activation or “induction” in the orchard. The first phase is dedicated to the survey and preparation of the locations through ritual actions and incantations. These locations are the artisans’ workshop, the riverbank, and the orchard. The cultic operator––possibly the “exorcist” (āšipu)—goes back and forth from the town and these places to arrange the ritual and then leads the god statue in procession from one site to the other. The cultic operator first goes to the riverbank, places offerings to the river, and recites incantations to it. Here he ritually prepares the water basin (egubbû) and its content. The water for the washing of the mouth will be drawn from this receptacle. The cultic operator then goes to the artisans’ workshop “where the (statue of the) god has been created” (ina bīt mārī ummâni ašar ilu ibbannû, l:55) and performs the first mouth washing and the mouth opening on the “god,” that will be repeated in the orchard. The ritual provides no details about the mouth washing and opening itself, and it is unclear what type of operation was enacted on the statue. From the workshop, the god statue, together with the artisans who “approached” it and their equipment, is led to the riverbank. Here the statue is placed on a reed mat and

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offerings are placed in front of it. The tools of the artisans together with a silver and gold turtle and tortoise are placed in the thigh of a ram and thrown into the river. They are sent back to the abzu and to the sweet water and crafty god Ea, who is the main divine protagonist of the ritual. In fact, most of the incantations are devoted to the god and his abode. Ea intervenes in the ritual in two ways. First, as the god of sweet waters and incantations, he is summoned for the preparation of the water and the basin (egubbû) on the riverbank. Second, Ea is the crafty god and patron of the divine artisans who dwells in the abzu that will mythically fashion or renew the statue. The divine artisans are ritually summoned to create the statue in the mīs pī ritual. This has a mythological parallel in the Epic of Erra (ll. I 140–162), where Marduk tells how after the deluge he made the fire god Girru restore his “appearance” (statue) and then he concealed the place of the mēsu-tree, “flesh of the gods” (the wooden structure of the composite statue), and he sent the divine craftsmen to the abzu. To again have his “appearance” cleaned and restored, Marduk must now leave his throne and descend into the abzu. In a fragmentary passage, the god Ea refers to himself as the one who creates divine images (ṣalmu) among the men (l. II 17). As in the myth, to consecrate a new cultic statue or restore an old one, the divine artisans must intervene in the ritual as well. In the orchard, several offerings and incantations are performed in front of the divine artisans and other gods, together with mouth washings and openings. At a certain point, the cultic operator approaches the statue/god and whispers in its right ear. He then gathers (human) craftsmen who are commanded to approach the statue and swear that they didn’t make the statue, but rather the divine artisans did. In the Babylonian version, this declaration is followed by the symbolical cut of the craftsmen’s hands with a tamarisk knife. The ritual concludes. Incantations accompany the dismantling of the ritual apparel. The rest of the Ninevite version is lost, but the Babylonian one retains a section with the procession from the orchard to the temple gate and then the introduction of the statue into the cella. A further mouth washing is performed, accompanied by incantations.

STATUES AND THE SPACE AROUND In historical periods, the divine statue is the traditional and diffused way of embodying the divine, in addition to symbols, standards, and betyls that may have been objects of worship as well (Selz 1997; Verderame 2022). The presence of the statue in the temple symbolizes the presence of the god on earth. The divine presence grants harmony and wealth to the city. If the god/goddess abandons their statue or the statue is removed from the temple, the city loses its divine protection. The city is exposed to enemy attacks and is doomed to disintegration. It is the main task of the lamentation priest (gala/kalû) to pacify the heart of the gods and avoid their anger and eventual abandonment (Gabbay 2014), while the deportation of the enemy’s cultic statues becomes a diffused practice known as godnapping, which is discussed later. Not only is the representation of the divine anthropomorphic (the statue), but its daily life and actions among the humans are also (Verderame 2022). Neither Sumerian nor Akkadian have specific terms for “temple” for which the generic word “house” (e2/bītu) is employed. The gods’ houses are symbolically, terminologically, and in some cases spatially arranged similarly as those of the humans. The god’s house has a bedroom, a kitchen, a dining hall, a wardrobe, and a treasury. These rooms have the same names as those in a large house, and in them the god performs his daily tasks as would a human. Daily meals

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are served in front of the god’s statue: two main meals (naptanu) and two second meals (tardennu) according to the first millennium sources (Linssen 2004: 130–8). Music and dances are performed, and perfumes are burnt in the censers. Furthermore, the statue is periodically bathed and anointed. To facilitate the god’s daily tasks, the temple is provided with furniture such as a throne, a bed, and a table, where the god seats, sleeps, and eats, as well as other objects (tableware, dresses, etc.) and vehicles, such as sedan chairs, chariots, and boats. Statues inside and outside temples define the sacred space: their presence inside the temple can be seen as the natural place of the god’s statue, reinforcing the manifestation and materialization of the divine that is distributed by the statue itself and the architectural building projecting the melammu (divine radiance) (Winter 2012). Outside of temples, statues could be located within the urban space as a distributed presence of the divine inside the city: small structures, such as niches or minor sanctuaries, could host the images of gods that were thus more accessible and visible to a larger number of people, away from the main city temple that had more restricted and selected access. It is interesting to note that city gates were usually named with gods’ names or divine attributes that describe an attitude or an action: the city gates, as a boundary between inner (city) and outer regions (countryside), have a fundamental role of control and marker. The divine presence underlines this role and contributes to the distributive effect of divine agency beyond the temples. As a consequence, cultic statues or images related to the divine word can also be present at city gates: in the first millennium bce, the Syro-Anatolian city-states in Northern Syria (e.g., Karkemish, Zincirli; Gilibert 2011) and Central-Southern Anatolia (e.g., Malatya; Osborne 2014, 2021) show, within city-gates and in the surrounding spaces of processional streets, the representation of wall panel reliefs depicting moments of daily life of the ruling class (the king and his family) and images of gods and goddesses as members and protagonists of civic life. The statue found by the walls of the city of Assur is interesting: the seated male figure, whose head is missing, has been interpreted as representing the Assyrian king Shalmaneser III (Strommenger 1970: 15–16, S 1)––the presence of royal statues by city-gates in other contexts of the Near East is a common and recurring feature (Ussishkin 1989). Julian Reade (1986), however, suggested to the contrary that the statue represents the god Kidudu, who is quoted in the inscription carved upon the monument that explicitly mentions that the Assyrian king made a new statue of the god, the old one having decayed (see Nadali and Verderame 2019, for a different interpretation). In the temple, the statue of the god/goddess was placed on a podium in the cella or on pedestals to create groups of statues (exclusively divine, or divine and royal) entertaining a dialogue (Nadali and Verderame 2019). The statue of the spouse, as well as those of other members of the family or the court, may have been displaced to other rooms of the temple. The temple was closed at night and admittance to the cella was restricted to cultic personnel and artisans during the day. Thus, the access to the divine statue within the temple was limited for devotees. This has an important implication for the understanding of the Mesopotamian temple and the divine statue. The temple was not meant as the place where the community gathered for the cult of the divine statue. The temple was the seat of the gods on earth, their house, where their material form, the statue, lived. It is difficult to ascertain if and when the devotees had access to the temple’s cella. Indirect evidence, such as scattered references in literature or inscribed votive objects in the cella,

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suggests that activities were undertaken by the community of worshippers (Verderame in press). The actions of the divine statue, however, are not confined to the temple perimeter. The divine statue moves periodically and occasionally for different reasons. In these circumstances, the devotees have the chance to have contact with the divine: to see the god––and have the possibility that the god would return their gaze––and that they might touch the divinity (Verderame 2023). The main occasion for this opportunity was the yearly procession during the New Year festival (a2-ki-ti/akītu). The statue of the god is led in procession from his “house” to the akītu house, a temple extra moenia (PongratzLeisten 1994). The abandonment by the god (statue) of his mundane seat (temple) results in a vacancy of the divine presence until his return to the temple. This momentary suspension of time and power, paired by the deposing and enthronement of the king during the ceremony, ends and begins the cyclical yearly renewal celebrated in the New Year (Verderame 2017). The gods (i.e., their statues) travel for many other reasons. Sumerian literature celebrates divine travels to the main cultic center of Nippur, where the god/goddess renews their prerogatives and powers from the head of the pantheon, Enlil. The divine statue may join the spouse during the celebration of the yearly ieros gamos, or accompany another god, such as Nabû, with his father Marduk, during the New Year festival, or attend state matters such as the king’s military triumph or the entering into a treaty. A specific case is that of the deportation of the cultic statues, or godnapping (Zaia 2015), a practice aimed at depriving cities and states of their divine protection. The statue of Marduk of Babylon was “kidnapped” at least four times between the sixteenth and the seventh centuries bce by the Hittites, the Assyrians, the Elamites, and again by the Assyrians. In Babylonian theology, Marduk’s exile is presented as the god’s own will to abandon his people and his return as a regained benevolence towards them as it is shown in chronicles and epic texts. As mentioned above, the gods were periodically provided with clothes and jewelry that were worn by the statue (Nadali 2021). No clues are provided on the interaction of the statue with objects and furniture. Divine statues were led in procession on chariots, boats, and palanquin. However, chariots, thrones, and other objects received an independent cult as well. It is therefore difficult to ascertain if the divine statue sat on the throne or was placed on the bed, or if these objects played a symbolic function in the cult of the deity independently from the statue (Verderame 2023).

THE MATERIALITY OF STATUES It is difficult to define the relationship between the god and the statue in a single word or concept. Any attempt to define this relationship (see most recently Pongratz-Leisten and Sonik 2015) must face the different information provided by the written sources that goes from the anthropomorphic representation and “human” life of the statue to the mystical and hermetic representation of the divine body. Some of these aspects specifically concern polytheistic religions; others are more generally related to the problem of the materiality of the divine in religions. In particular, the issue of materiality not only concerns the different types of materials from which a statue is made (and consequently the different skills ancient artists had in working and shaping materials, or the presence of articulated workshops of artists working

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on the different parts of a statue according to the material––body, face, decoration, etc.), but it also involves the question of perception and the sensorial dimension a statue describes and enacts within its space. Being or acting as human beings, statues had the same needs as a person: a statue breathes, eats, hears, sees, speaks, and eventually also moves. The entire set of senses is involved, and it is difficult to distinguish whether the beholder transfers their senses to the statue or the statue itself leads the beholder to sensorially answer because of its marked agency (Winter 2007), that is, they listen to the words of the statues, speak to the statue, and look the statue in the eyes (Verderame 2023). In Mesopotamia, divine statues are made of different parts of various materials inserted onto a wooden structure. In Erra and Išum, the mēsu-wood is called “flesh of the gods” (mēsu šīr ilāni). This prerogative is attributed to the tamarisk in the Sumerian version of Date Palm and Tamarisk and confirmed by first millennium incantations (Walker and Dick 2001: 100). The naked part of the body, covered with gold or silver foil, had to reproduce that dazzling aura, the melammu, which was believed to envelop the gods. Dresses, accessories, and jewels completed an image whose materials and shape were meant to convey a message and project a proper code and aesthetic. This produced an effect on the observers that combined with the other sensorial stimuli in the temple or in the other occasions of interaction with the cultic statue. The worshipper stares at the statue, speaks, prays, and even touches it, and, above all, trembles (ni2 te/tuku/palāhu) in front of the statue, since this is the effect of divine epiphany and the correct way to revere the gods. Sounds and music, light and darkness alternance, and colors, perfumes, and fumigations, were all part of the sensorial experience of the divine. The divinity experiences the same human and sensorial world through the statue (Verderame 2023). They bless the worshipper through a benevolent gaze or via their votive statue that remains in the cella in front of the divine statue, staring with wide open eyes. Through the statue the god/goddess hears the prayers of the worshippers, enjoys the music and lamentations that are performed daily in the temple, but could also be annoyed by unpleasant sounds and rumors, and subsequently decides to abandon the statue. In front of the statue are placed the meals that the deity is supposed to eat, even if we know that the part of the sacrifice the gods enjoyed was the smell. Together with the perfumes and the aromatics burned in the censers, these were part of the daily divine olfactory experience of the world.

CONCLUSION Cultic statues are effectively active members of ancient Mesopotamian society: their aesthetic value and dimension are perfectly described by the sensorial effects these monuments created in the spaces where they were placed. This is in fact even more evident when one considers not only the presence but rather the absence of the statue, particularly when this condition has been caused by a deliberate act, such as a godnapping or physical destruction. Whether the presence creates the perfect conditions for happiness and prosperity, the absence is seen as the most tremendous situation of despair, fear, and abandonment. While the presence opens a direct sensorial dialogue with the beholder, that is, the senses of both parts are interacting, the absence causes a deep impact on the emotions of the beholder: this physical change, the absence, brings about negative feelings.

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The material engagement of deity with statue or statue with god/goddess and, finally, the divine image with beholder, describes the mutual relationship that is created at different levels, according to the place and the type of people involved: the set of actions that are behind the cultic statue are fundamental passages to express and enact what will be then made and performed in front of the cultic statue.

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CHAPTER SIX

Meanings and Practices in the Design of Objects: What Does Design Reveal about Experiences? MICHAEL S. CHEN

Ancient Egyptians had a variety of healing solutions for the illnesses and injuries that they encountered in their lives. In many instances, the Egyptians turned to their gods for assistance and guidance in crafting both medicinal and magical solutions. The healing objects that were used in the rituals and practices mediated these interactions with the divine. Thus, the design of healing objects offered a glimpse into how healing was intended to work in ancient Egypt. In the summer of 2019, I traveled to Stockholm to examine two unpublished examples of ancient Egyptian healing statues in the collection of the Medelhavsmuseet (NME 76 and NME 92). I was in the process of building healing statue typologies based on all the known examples of Egyptian healing statues, and during my analysis, I discovered that these two statues appeared to have unique compositional designs of mythological scenes that differed from the other known healing statues. I wanted to understand their variations in the design of religious imagery and what these variations revealed about how the statues were used in religious practices. The approachability of the religious knowledge displayed on these objects lies at the core of the healing statue’s design, and the materiality of these statues should be central to how we think about people’s experiences with them. Healing statues were created in the first millennium bce by elite Egyptians to present themselves as sponsors of important healing rituals. The corpus of surviving Egyptian healing statues is not large, and there are scarcely more than forty-one known examples by Egyptologists (Chen 2020). To be sure, this relative scarcity of healing statues is not a reflection of the rarity of healing rituals as there were a larger number of related healing objects (e.g., Horus cippi and Isis statuettes) that tapped into the same religious knowledge for their designs and functions. Instead, this rarity highlights the challenge of combining personal commemoration with healing practices within the statue medium, because the insertion of a statue commissioner as a catalyst for a religious ritual was a new

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and innovative religious strategy. The use of religious knowledge within these statues’ compositional designs was a critical part of building meaning for these statues within their use context. Healing statues were constellations of religious practices in the lives of ancient Egyptians. These statues were at the center of both healing and commemorative practices, existing as both generators and recipients of religious power. They embedded religious knowledge into a material form through densely inscribed spell texts and carvings of religious imagery. Within this presentation, religious knowledge became both approachable and distant, thereby endowing the statues with their own potency and allowing visual displays of these religious objects to be deeply interconnected with their ritual functions and meanings. The designs of ritual objects serve as a critical perspective on thinking about religious practices and the experiences of the Egyptians who interacted with them. This chapter is an exploration of how studying the design of two healing statues provided a unique perspective into the experiences of the people who created these statues and who used these statues for healing. By considering people’s experiences, this analysis is based on how religious power is centered in materiality and the materiality of religious images and people’s interactions with them. This interaction allowed healing statues to serve as a bridge for a physical need and meaning.

BACKGROUND AND CONTEXT Ancient Egypt was an agricultural society that flourished along the banks of the Nile River for more than three millennia. However, just beyond the fertile riverbank was a harsh desert landscape that made life inhospitable. In the first millennium bce, Egypt was closely engaged with the other cultures and empires of the ancient Mediterranean through economic exchanges and political interactions (conquests and subjugations). There was a steady flow of cultural exchanges of ideas and goods that led to a degree of flexibility in the development and acceptance of new ideas. This context shaped the emergence of new religious practices such as those centered around healing statues. Egyptian religion was polytheistic, with a long historical tradition of religious practices. The central pantheon of Egyptian gods was centered around the Egyptian myth of kingship and the divine legitimacy of the Egyptian king. Alongside the central cast of Egyptian gods were localized and more personalized gods that influenced the lives of less politically connected Egyptians. In the first millennium bce, the decentralized political climate led to a similar decentralization of religious power that laid the groundwork for developing new ways to solve challenges in the lives of private individuals. The support of state temple cults became a greater local priority, with greater autonomy and agency now in the hands of local priests and leaders (Lloyd 1983: 301–9; Eyre 2011: 701–11). In turn, people’s interactions with religious practices for immediate life crises––such as seeking out medicine and healing––was a local affair. The production of Egyptian religious objects was closely linked with economic power in ancient Egypt. Visual display was central to the effectiveness of said objects, which were intended to serve the goals and needs of the state and the leaders who controlled these objects and practices. Objects always had a functional meaning, and statues were no exception. Egyptian statues served as vessels for embodiment. As religious objects, statues could be inhabited by the life forces (the Egyptian ka) of individuals or gods. Statues were commonly found in both public and private spaces, and in both contexts the embodiment of the ka permits interactions with the living. For example, the statues of gods are used in

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religious cult and participate in religious rituals. During religious festivals, the cult statues would parade through Egyptian towns and communities in a public display of their divine manifestation on earth. Statues served as the foci of religious energy and guided how Egyptians experienced their relationship with the gods (Frood 2019). Healing statues were a unique development in the religious and material history of Egyptian statuary, because while their statue forms were typical of other first-millennium bce statues, their designs were visually distinct. Although Egyptian statues rarely included text or images directly on the surface of the skin of statues, healing statues were densely inscribed with magical spell texts and decorated with mythological images. This clear manipulation of meaningful religious knowledge on the statues’ surfaces taps into how the visual display of these statues played a role in Egyptian experience and engagement with a manifestation of religious knowledge. Furthermore, by commissioning and erecting these healing statues, elite members were able to sponsor their own commemoration and remembrance in a novel way. As the instructions on these statues explain, practitioners would have poured water over these statues, which would then be charged with healing powers; the liquid would then be consumed or applied to the body to cure illnesses. While no healing statue has been discovered in situ, from contextual clues it is likely that they were set up in temple or shrine settings that were semirestricted spaces. Thus, as living Egyptians continued to use these statues for healing rituals, the individuals represented in these statues continued to be remembered and memorialized over time through ritual practice. The placement of designs on healing statues help build religious efficacy and authority for these objects. One of the clearest examples of this is the magical healing stela commonly known as the Metternich Stela (Metropolitan Museum of Art 50.85; Figure 6.1), where the inscription of one of the spell texts (“Story of Isis and the Infant Horus”) is carved in such a way that the reader would have to physically circumambulate the religious object three times in order to read the spell from beginning to end. The prescribed movement of the spell text, and in turn, the practitioner, highlights not only the intentionality of the design but also that the designers were aware of the user’s experience (Chen 2020: 190–3). The design of a religious object reflects the time and context in which it was created. For the Egyptians, the power and meaning of images converge in healing statues to allow ordinary Egyptians to participate in a healing ritual. Beyond their aesthetic appeal, these images have mythological narrative power, and their reference to scenes in past mythological time creates a link to the experiences of the divine.

RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE IN TEXTS AND IMAGES Healing statues have religious knowledge encoded in both texts and images. Both texts and images reference mythological precedents as a way to tap into authoritative religious power. In particular, many of the myths and narratives include important Egyptian gods and goddesses in the foundational myths of Egyptian religion (e.g., cosmogony or the myth of kingship) and ones that specifically refer to healing (e.g., the revival of the god Osiris). Because Egyptian religion is dependent on religious translation, or linking a current issue to a mythological one, the most important narratives for healing are ones when the gods asserted their dominance over venomous creatures or when they themselves required healing (Assman 2001: 47–52). This religious narrative then encodes the ritualist with the same positive outcome in a predetermined manner. In a similar vein, religious images create relationships with Egyptian gods and influence can flow in both

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FIGURE 6.1  Image Metternich Stela (source: The Metropolitan Museum of Art 50.85/Fletcher Fund 1950).

directions (Nyord 2020: 54). After all, because images were manifestations of the divine, any physical manipulation of images was presumed to affect the divine. Egyptologists have long tracked the historical trajectory of healing spells and identified written occurrences across Egyptian history in a variety of different mediums such as tombs, papyri, stelae, and so on (for an example, see Gutekunst 1995). Healing spells also conform to the typical structure and format of magical spells (title, invocation,

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request, threat, instructions; Sørensen 1984: 7–17). This formulaic nature sets proper expectations for both ritualists and users interacting with these religious objects. In all likelihood, a similar oral tradition may have existed that parallels the written record, so users were familiar with the use and performance of the spell text corpus. On healing statues, healing spell texts were usually organized by a grid line system of horizontal row lines and vertical column lines. These structural elements added additional surface areas to the statues for textual inscriptions and paralleled the dense grid lines of biographical texts found on Egyptian block statues. In contrast to block statues, however, these grid lines were imposed upon bodily surfaces on healing statues instead of just on the clothing. This textual application was part of the statue’s prominent trademark visual display, which is in essence a conspicuous display of religious knowledge. In contrast to the Egyptological interest in spell texts, there has been less Egyptological scholarship devoted to the historical trajectory of mythological scenes related to healing. Visual display and effect were undoubtedly important to the Egyptian viewers of healing statues, especially since literacy rates were low, so few Egyptians would have had the command of the language to read the spell texts. However, the challenges in understanding and tracing the images is that there is a large volume of variations within the scenes and that many scenes include characters that are unidentifiable by modern scholars: namely, trying to trace challenges for a particular mythological scene across contexts or across time is extremely difficult. Therefore, it has been necessary to adapt the methodology used to categorize and understand the religious images on healing statues and use a framework that is more intently focused on the materiality and the design of these statues. Indeed, the fundamental questions around the religious images have been centered around how they were designed and positioned on the body of the statue. The structure of the image layout is as important as the textual grid line layout for the statue’s design. On healing statues, this structuring takes the form of framing lines that adds delineation and emphasis to mythological scenes. Three of the most common mythological scenes found on healing statues are the Horus-upon-the-crocodiles motif, the Adoration of Amun, and the Isis of Akhbit. Reflecting the hierarchy of scale, these are often the largest depictions on the statues and placed in prominent front and center locations. Among these scenes, the Horus-upon-thecrocodiles motif is the most important image (Figure 6.2), and it is often depicted on the stelae held by the statue. The reference in this image is to Horus as a child god demonstrating his dominion over crocodiles and other venomous animals by stepping on them and grasping them in his hands (for a detailed study, see Sternberg-El Hotabi 1999). Because of its importance, the Horus-upon-the-crocodiles motif is often rendered in raised relief, whereas other scenes are usually rendered in sunken relief. The Adoration of Amun scene depicts the god Amun being adored by the creator gods (in a grouping known as the Ogdoad). This particular scene is known to be used in ritual contexts to ward off crocodiles and is thought to represent the solar theme of order over chaos. The Isis of Akhbit scene depicts the moment when the goddess Isis was sheltering and protecting the child god Horus in the marshes of the Egyptian Delta from dangerous animals and forces. These common scenes all reference overcoming health challenges, and thereby serve as focal points of religious healing energy for the practitioner. The materiality of the healing statue is an important component of their design, because the material is the conduit for the religious power driven by the religious translation.

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FIGURE 6.2  Image Horus-upon-the-crocodiles motif, Metternich Stela (source: The Metro­ politan Museum of Art 50.85/Fletcher Fund 1950).

Similar to other rituals of religious translation, material objects must receive the focus of religious energy for the ritual to have meaning for the practitioners and participants. This analysis of the two healing statues from Stockholm highlights how Egyptian commissioners and designers manipulated religious knowledge to create a powerful vessel for healing practices that were meaningful to the Egyptians who used them.

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TWO EGYPTIAN HEALING STATUES IN STOCKHOLM Stockholm’s Medelhavsmuseet has two healing statues in its collection, NME 76 and NME 92. These statues have different compositional designs, even though they serve similar functions. The approach here is to study the two statues as an example of design contrasts in order to showcase how personalized decisions around design shaped the experiences that users might have had when interacting with these objects and their meaning. NME 76 and NME 92 are both Type II healing statues, meaning that their designs combined both texts and images to create a cohesive design program (Chen 2020: 15). Among Type II statues, standing healing statues are more common than kneeling statues. Type II healing statues are typically holding or presenting either a stela or a naos-shrine, which serves as the religious focal point of the statue composition. NME 76 is a kneeling statue (cf. Oxford Ashmolean AN 1990.60) holding a naos-shrine, while NME 92 is a standing statue (cf. Paris Louvre E 10777 among many others) holding a stela. For healing statues, the focal point (within the naos-shrine or on the front of the stela) is the Horusupon-the-crocodiles motif, which is what is depicted on the two statues from Stockholm. This is the most recognizable and characteristic religious image for this entire genre of healing objects as evidenced by how common Horus cippi (stela with the Horus-uponthe-crocodiles motif) were in the first millennium bce. Within the subset of Type II healing statues, the two Stockholm examples are above average in their quality of the execution. The highest quality examples, such as Louvre E 10777 or Turin 3030, were finely executed with precise details in the image quality and clearly legible hieroglyphic textual inscriptions. The higher quality examples also offer more organizing structures in terms of grid lines and framing that produce a better indication of the mental model that the designers and commissioners used in their design. Moreover, these structuring elements also permit a more feasible discussion of the intertextuality and intericonicity of the religious knowledge on the statues. To be sure, the stone material is an important indicator in assessing economic value and the associated quality; NME 76 is a basalt statue, whereas NME 92 is a limestone statue. The carvings and inscriptions on NME 76 are more precise and clearly defined than the ones on the limestone example of NME 92.

NME 76 NME 76 is a headless healing statue fragment that is well-preserved from the neck down (Figure 6.3). The chest, torso, and upper portions of the legs are preserved, along with the naosshrine that the statue is holding in front of the body. Stylistically, the statue depicts an elderly male wearing a kilt, with a waist-line belt directly below the navel. The statue does have pronounced breasts that reflect the older age of the individual. The textual inscriptions of healing spell texts are centered around the naos-shrine and the back pillar of this statue. Around the naos-shrine that encloses the Horus-uponthe-crocodiles motif, the inscriptions are structured in multiple columns that span top, sides, and bottom of the naos-shrine utilizing the structure of textual framing in building a visual effect. There are also columns of spell texts that are arranged on the front of the statue’s body surfaces (reading) from the left arm across the chest and on the right arm. In contrast, the mythological scenes are less structured in their arrangement. While the scenes more or less fall into “registers” in how they are laid out on the statue’s surfaces

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FIGURE 6.3  NME 76 (source: photo by Ove Kaneberg, Karl Zetterström, or Tony Sandin, 2016, Image No. 1/National Museums of World Culture—Mediterranean Museum, Sweden).

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(upper chest, arms, right and left sides of torso, right and left sides of upper leg), there are no register lines that delineate the separation between the images. However, some of the scenes do have ground lines below the images, although several images of gods do not, thereby creating a floating layout. Some of these scenes do have image labels that are either the names or epithets of the gods depicted. The Isis of Nekhbit scene, another common and important mythological scene, is depicted on the front upper chest of the statue. The scene is flanked by five gods, although their identities are not easily identifiable due to the poor condition of the accompanying label texts. The position of the scene here is unique among the known examples of healing statues, because many healing statues utilize the Adoration of Amun scene in this prominent location. As such, this emphasis on the “woman and child” motif represents an interesting transference of power that underscores the important relationship between the two figures. In the same way that the goddess imparts healing onto the child, the healing statue will impart healing onto the Egyptian using this object within a healing ritual. The carvings of other mythological scenes and gods are given less attention in terms of execution than the Isis of Nekbhit scene on NME 76. There are other images on the arm, on the backsides of the statue, and on the sides of the back pillar. On the right side of the statue, there are five rows of scenes stacked atop one another, without register lines for separation. On the left side of the statue, there appears to be six rows of scenes, but this is not certain due to the fragmentary narrative of this side and the lack of register scenes. All of these scenes and images are front facing, indicating that the practitioners likely approached the statue from a straight on perspective. These locations, then, were also less important visually, which could partially explain their rougher execution and patchy organization. In analyzing the compositional design of NME 76, it is evident that the spell text structure takes priority over the image layout design. Not only is the execution of the textual spell texts better than the images, but the spell texts are also placed in more prominent locations on the statue’s surface. This prioritization for a ritual object implies that design plays a significant role in how people experienced these statues. More specifically, how people saw these statues and understood what they saw are important components for the statues’ power. People needed to be familiar with the iconography and the restricted religious knowledge on these statues to associate them as effective ritual objects.

NME 92 NME 92 is a roughly executed healing statue holding a Horus cippus stela that is wellpreserved (only the lower left back side has a missing fragment) (Figure 6.4). The statue depicts a nonathletic male with a shortened neck, and the face exhibits the Late Period archaic smile. The statue itself is poorly aligned, in that the statue body does not stand erect but is hunched over toward the left side with the head leaning toward the body’s left side. Similarly, the Bes-head on the stela is off-center and leans toward the left like the statue. The textual inscriptions of healing spells can be found on the edges of the Horus cippus, the lower portions of the statue’s body, the back pillar, and in columns across the statue’s bagged wig. The texts are organized into columns that are clearly delineated with grid lines. The inscriptions are shallow and at many places (especially on the side)

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FIGURE 6.4  NME 92 (source: photo by Ove Kaneberg, Karl Zetterström, or Tony Sandin, 2013, Image No. 1/National Museums of World Culture—Mediterranean Museum, Sweden).

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illegible due to wear and tear. The wrapping of the text across the bagged wig starts from the top of the back pillar and proceeds over the top of the head and up to the forehead of the statue. When viewed from the back, the spell text inscriptions on the back of the wig appear upside down. Egyptian texts are rarely inscribed onto statues in an upside-down manner, so this design must have created a striking effect on the viewer. Besides the Horus-upon-the-crocodile motif on the stela, the mythological scenes are structured into three registers on the front of NME 92. The sunken relief in these registers are roughly carved in a way that some identifiable characteristics are recognizable but do not have crisp, cleanly delineated lines. To be sure, the precise identification of many of the scenes or gods is a challenging project that has been a relatively unproductive exercise (Kákosy 1999). The top register includes the pectoral worn by the statue and two figures on each side flanking the pectoral. The center register is an oversized double register with a combination of scenes and figures (gods?) in procession. The left (statue right) side of this oversized register has the remnants of a register line or a ground line, but the right side does not. The bottom register that flanks the top portion of the Horus cippus also has a number of scenes and gods in procession. In addition to these three primary registers that are carved front and center on NME 92, there are also two adoration scenes on each side of the bagged wig and an Adoration of Amun scene at the top portion of the back pillar. On NME 92, the images take priority over texts in the compositional design. The images are carved on the prime display locations on the front chest of the healing statue. Moreover, the manner by which the registers are wrapped around the contours of the statue’s body and how the textual columns are wrapped around the form of the bagged wig demonstrate how restricted religious knowledge is used to empower ritual objects. Similar to how religious knowledge helps make Egyptian coffins effective ritual objects, herein lies a dependency of the material object on the religious content to create meaning.

THE EXPERIENCE OF THE USERS Despite the variations between healing statue designs, the statues were used to serve the same function as ritual objects for healing practice. The variations highlight flexibility in design and raise two priorities within the patterns of design. One, could users understand the design? Do users have consistent experiences? Two, how does statue creation reflect a balance between pragmatism and individuality? Namely, what do these statues show us about how design decisions were shaped by pragmatism or by individual preferences? To comprehend the influence of these different variations of design, I want to provide greater context into how different categories of users interacted with healing statues and use this summary to illustrate how we should think about the experience of users in understanding these two priorities in healing statue design. In turn, we are able to understand how religious meaning is formed in ritual objects for the Egyptians.

Statue Owners For statue owners, commissioning and creating healing statues allowed them to present themselves within socially powerful spaces and situations. These owners were able to build their own commemoration and legacy within a ritual setting, thereby ensuring longevity as long as the healing ritual is being actively practiced. Every time a healing statue is being used to create healing waters, the owners themselves participate in

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this creative process. Furthermore, these owners are able to associate themselves with restricted religious knowledge in the same manner that previous elite Egyptians used to build divine relationships. In essence, they served as a bridge to the divine much like how the intermediary statues that once adorned temple spaces would pass requests and prayers from ordinary Egyptians to their gods. Statue owners were able to successfully integrate themselves into these manners depending on their ability to tap into displays of religious knowledge. As NME 76 and NME 92 illustrate, Type II healing statues employ a coherent design program using both text and image sources. But while NME 76 emphasizes its textual program, NME 92 does the same for its images program. Although the design decision process remains opaque, undoubtedly the owners considered the cost of design and production in the design of these statues. There is not enough context for these statues to assess how access to religious materials shaped the religious knowledge selection on statues, but the flexibility indicated by the variations does suggest that the actual selection of religious knowledge is less important than the visual display of it in the statue format.

Priests For the ritualists and the priests who guided the healing ritual practices, their relationship to healing statues is centered on their control of ritual power. As custodians of the ritual practice, they not only held religious power, but social, political, and economic powers as well. These material objects allowed them to monetize religious practices regardless of the precise exchange that took place in activating and using the healing statues. Indeed, they themselves did not need to be fully knowledgeable about the restricted religious content on healing statues; rather, they just needed to know enough information to demonstrate the process and the intended effect of the healing ritual. The priests needed to be able to explain enough of the religious knowledge to assert their authority while maintaining the restriction and desirability of the religious content. The prominence of the Horus-upon-the-crocodiles motif on NME 76, NME 92, and other examples of healing statues indicates that this scene served as a context signal for users. When users saw this scene, they understood the mythological narrative and its healing context. Therefore, the visual cue of the scene situated the setting and the mythological episode most well-known for religious translation. Within a highly nonliterate population, the visual images on healing statues were touch points of an explanation of benefits and helped the priests to guide the faithful through the healing practice. After all, the visual and sensual sensation of pouring water over a powerful religious object and transferring the collected healing waters to the sick was in itself a spectacle of experience.

Faithful/Adherents People seek out healing practices when they have an immediate physical need due to an illness or injury. While these physical crises may not be solvable by the remedy offered by healing statues, these users do approach these religious objects within this experiential framework set in a restricted religious setting. In other words, they are seeing and using these religious objects at critical moments of need. Within this space, we must consider the potential visual display of these statues and how that impacted the experience of these users in crisis. The density of decorations and texts is striking, but on approaching these statues, most ill and injured people were probably not in the right headspace to analyze or appreciate

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their religious content. Therefore, the design serves the user and provides them with reassurance and trust in the ritual process. If the priests were presumed to rely on image touchstones like the Horus-upon-the-crocodiles motif to introduce the statue’s function, how might we understand the familiarity of these religious images serving the users? Furthermore, how do these users become advocates for future users of these statues? Common scenes and images help amplify the object’s impact. The use of the Isis of Nekhbit scene and the Adoration of Amun scene on NME 76 and NME 92, respectively, help connect meaning to function. While unlocking design decisions with certainty eludes the current state of evidence, stylistic choices can provide clues into the process. For instance, the Horus-upon-the-crocodiles motif on both statues were created in raised relief, while the other scenes were in sunk relief. In considering the process of statue creation, the raised reliefs were likely rendered first in the production process, because the artistic style is more integrated into the structural integrity of the statue itself. Sunk reliefs that are carved into bodily surfaces are applied secondarily. The people seeing the Horus-upon-the-crocodile motif first within the visual display were guided to do so by the intentional design of these religious objects.

CONCLUSION The manipulation of religious knowledge onto healing statues created a unique opportunity for us to study the design of ritual objects and consider the experiences of the users of these objects. The materiality of the objects is central to their meaning, as it is the focus of the ritual energy. NME 76 and NME 92 offered different arrangements of content but aimed to serve a similar function. While flexibility was central in statue design, this was nonetheless driven by practicality and logistics but also the availability of sources and individual preferences. In addition, the Stockholm statues illustrate how building typologies for religious objects provide only the most fundamental of frameworks in analyzing the behavior and use of religious objects. Religious knowledge is materialized into a statue format as different user groups adopt it for their differing goals and needs.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I want to thank Dr. Sofia Häggman, Curator at the Medelhavsmuseet in Stockholm, for being generous with her time and energy in allowing me to study these two healing statues in Medelhavsmuseet’s collection.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

The Brief but Spectacular Lives of Figurines in Hittite Ritual BILLIE JEAN COLLINS

The material evidence for Hittite magic is slim at best. Many factors might account for this. Early excavation reports often do not provide sufficient details of find contexts. In some cases, excavation finds remain unpublished (Schachner 2012: 156, n. 48). The materials used in magic rituals were often perishable and so not retrievable archaeologically. The remains of ritual activity were typically either destroyed or disposed of away from inhabited spaces and thus disappear from good society and the material record. Further, much of the material used were objects of daily life, making it difficult to determine when a deposit signals ritual activity. Finally, it is the nature of Hittite archaeology that excavations are of public spaces within imperial cities and not residential areas. The tendency in Greece and Rome to find material evidence of magic in cemeteries is not paralleled in Late Bronze Anatolia for the simple reason that the Hittites did not dispose of their rank and file in cemeteries.1 Finds of theriomorphic figurines are abundant enough, and even anthropomorphic figurines have been excavated,2 but how they connect with ritual practice is not easily reconstructed.3 Where aggressive magic is concerned, we lack the evidence of the sorcerer, written as well as material.4 Nevertheless, the Hittite Laws address the manufacture of figurines for the purpose of bewitchment: “[If] anyone fashions clay for an [effi]gy(?), it is sorcery (and) a case for the king’s court.”5 One historical instance of such an alleged crime is the subject of a Hittite legal deposition, in which a hierodule named Hilamaddu testifies in a case of sorcery involving image magic directed at three Hittite administrators. The acts described took place, it seems, at night in a forest: They made three figurines (ALAM) of wax (and) sheep fat. […] They coated [the figures wi]th clay. On one figurine [they placed the name …, on] the other figurine they placed the name Urawalwa, and [on] (the third) [figurine] they placed [the name Šarri]-kušuh. And they buried them.6 As has been pointed out (Miller 2010: 173–6), accusations of sorcery in Hittite Anatolia do not mean that the sorcery actually took place, and so even this historical document must be viewed with caution, particularly since these acts were apparently carried out in

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secrecy (i.e., how did the accuser know?). Still, that figurines were believed to be created, manipulated, and disposed of in the performance of magic rituals in Hittite society is not in doubt. Beyond this unique document, our written witnesses primarily comprise magic rituals designed to counter sorcery that has been directed at the individual for whom the ritual is being performed—that is, defensive magic. Their goal is to turn the evil back upon the sorcerer and reunite the victim with his gods. It is generally understood that defensive magic mirrored the techniques of the sorcerer, allowing us to reconstruct the rituals of the sorcerer as well. However, the reliability of the ritual texts as witnesses to actual practice is undermined by the fact that they blend organic traditions with the literary craft of a scribal apparatus operating on behalf of the Hittite state. The ritual compositions are not manuals of magic per se, but scribal products that have been cherry-picked and embellished to cater to the needs of the royal court. We need not doubt that many—if not all—were performed at one time or another; however, their actual use may have been limited in time and circumstance. We should not, for example, expect them to correspond precisely to any ritual deposits we should be lucky enough to uncover. And this is a problem because texts mislead, where archaeology does not. Finally, interrogating these sources for answers to such questions as the manner of production of figurines, the process of fixing the identity of the referent onto them, and the means of disposing of them when they have served their purpose is challenging, since the very rituals for which these matters are the most critical have in the end very little to say about them.

USES OF FIGURINES IN HITTITE RITUAL Figurines connect with Hittite rituals in a number of ways (Schwemer 2007: 200; Barrett 2015: 405). They might serve as offerings to the gods, or themselves be the recipient of cult. They may be used to draw the gods to the rites as witnesses, or even to control them (Wilburn 2019: 459). They may stand in for the ritual client who is in need of ritual purification as his or her substitute to receive the impure substances. Or they may make possible the enchantment of human beings who are not present. Figurines found in Hittite magic ritual are generally either theriomorphic or anthropomorphic. The word to indicate an anthropomorphic figurine or effigy used in magic is šena-. The Sumerogram ALAM, “statue, statuette, form” is also often used, though rarely its Hittite reading ešri-. Animal figurines, in contrast, are usually described only by their material—“an ox of clay,” “a puppy of tallow,” and so forth—indicating that šena- tends to be reserved for anthropomorphic figurines.7 Animal figurines were most often used as substitutes, but also apotropaically, and to render in material form an evil portent so that it could be controlled. Anthropomorphic figurines as a category include those in the shape of body parts, like hands, mouths, and especially tongues, symbolizing the manual and oral sources of the sorcery. Modeled body parts were used to counter acts of sorcery or negative portents and represent the curse or omen rather than the individual that was its source.8

LIVES OF FIGURINES IN HITTITE RITUAL In the performance of image magic, the figurine undergoes a full life cycle, from creation to “death,” though, as noted above, the details are rarely laid out neatly for us, even in the better-preserved witnesses.

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Fashioning the Image The act of creating the figurine provides control to its creator (Freedberg 1991: 265) while taking away from the vitality of the antecedent (Freedberg 1991: 281). It is key to the process of image magic. Yet, the rituals as a rule do not go into detail about the manufacture of the figurines beyond naming the material used.9 Most commonly attested are figurines made of clay, wax, sheep fat, dough, and less often wood, but a variety of substances might be used.10 The choice often had to do with how the figurine was to be disposed of—wax and sheep fat for melting, wood for burning, and so on—but the method of disposal itself is often not preserved, so a link cannot always be made. Wrapping or coating a wax or tallow image in clay, as in the legal deposition described above, may have been so that the figurine’s insides would melt upon burning while leaving intact the external form of the victim. We may assume that the fairly crude figurines were small enough to be held in the hand, while their resemblance to the referent remained minimal. Their simplicity meant that anyone could make them. A ritual for treating a bewitched person attributed to the female ritualist Šehuzzi describes the preparation of figurines shaped as mouths and tongues (or perhaps figurines with mouths and tongues indicated). The mouths were packed with ash and sealed with clay to stop the evil words: Šeḫuzzi (speaks) as follows: “When I put a bewitched (person) in order, I treat him pantuga. (They take) mud of the šalwina-, mud of the ant(heap), clay of the river bank, all seed (varieties), malt, (and) beer-bread. They are milled ‘backwards’ (and) mixed together with clay. I make figurines (ALAM) (equipped with) mouths (and) tongues (or: mouth and tongue figurines; or: figurines, mouths, and tongues). I fill the mouth with ashes, cover it with clay, (and) seal it.”11 The list of substances here, with its focus on the inferior nature of the material, indicates what is to be used in the creation of the figurines.12 These substances are ground “backwards,” an act explained by the poorly preserved incantation that follows, which calls for turning back the evil so that it goes into the body of the evildoer.

Fixing the Identity As noted above, images used in magic were probably rudimentary, since, as pointed out by Andrew Wilburn (2019: 459), precise modeling was not necessary for efficacy.13 It was sufficient in some cases simply to differentiate the effigy by gender, as in a ritual against sorcery attributed to the woman Alli, in which both male and female figurines are required because the identity of the sorcerer is not known. The figurines are differentiated by fitting them with gender-specific accoutrements—headdresses for the females, hunting bags for the males. In a substitution ritual performed for King Tudhaliya IV (late thirteenth century bce), the figurine is described as that of a young man, suggesting age differentiation was also possible. This ritual also attests to the practice of attaching facial hair to the figurine representing the royal victim, as a means of further fixing the identification. In doing so, the bewitcher has consigned the victim (in this case the king) to the realm of the Sun Goddess of the Earth, queen of the underworld: The scribe speaks as follows: “[Insofar as] a (hair of) eyebrow, an eyelash, (or a hair) of beard has been [fixed] on a figurine of a young man (representing) Tudhaliya, he

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has been bewitched and he has been handed over [to you], O Sun Goddess of the [E]‌arth.”14 The ritual of the woman Allaiturahi for this same king also seems to describe the use by the sorcerer of substances that have been in contact with the victim—ousia in Greek— including “a hair of the head,” “saliva of the mouth,” “perception of the eyes,” “impurity of the (body) hair,” “perspiration of the body,” “impurity of the hands and feet,” “fringe of a maššiya-garment,” “leftovers from a kitchen vessel,” and “dirt of a chariot wheel.”15 Otherwise, the most effective means of attaching the correct identity to the effigy was to put the antecedent’s name on it, as was done according to the testimony of Hilamaddu in the deposition already mentioned above.16 A ritual “against an enemy of the king” performed by the woman Nikkaluzzi, offers another such example: We made two statuettes: [we made] one statuet[te (ALAM) of cedar wood], and the (other) statuette we made of clay. [On] the cedar-wood [statuette we] plac[ed] the name of the enemy of His Majesty. And on the clay statuette [we placed] the name of Hešmi-[Šarruma]. On/At the statuette of Hešmi-Šarruma […].17 The different substances used for the king’s antagonist and the (presumed) ally (HešmiŠarruma) for the statuettes is not explained and the details of their disposal are not preserved. As noted by Daniel Schwemer (2007: 272), this is not a defensive spell but is stylized as one to destroy the enemy, blurring the line between evil magic and defensive magic. The omission of the name of the antagonist while that of Hešmi-Šarruma was provided may have been purposeful to avoid any accusation of sorcery. In countersorcery rituals, the identity of the antagonist is usually not known. So, an alternative to attaching the name or substances was to present the figurine in some way while orally identifying it with the sorcerer without naming names. In the ritual attributed to the woman Alli, the ritualist arranges all the figurines as well as the bewitched person, who is placed before the Sun God. She then holds one of the clay figurines up to the deity while pronouncing: “Solar deity of the Hand, here are the sorcerous people!”18 The act serves not only to fix the identity of the figurine but also to activate it. A similar process is followed in the Luwian “Great Ritual” (šalli aniur): The Wise Woman takes back the two effigies (šena-) of dough and holds them up to the solar deity. Then she makes an offering and incants (in Luwian) as follows: § “… Whoever burdened it, whoever distrained it, the ritual patron’s statue, flesh, bone, halhalzani-, strength, agility, eyelashes, eyebrows, and ‘divine path.’”19 Here the incantation appeals to the deity to bring the sorcerer under the ritualist’s control. In doing so, it makes reference to the image of the victim and the facial hair that might have been attached to it.

Manipulating the Image Image magic utilized a wide range of techniques, a few of which are described here. All have in common the combining of rites and incantations to affect the desired result. In Tunnawiya’s river ritual, the wise woman fashions a variety of figures (§9) made from the clay of the riverbank, including two (anthropomorphic) effigies, twelve tongues, two oxen, and two door hinges (perhaps representing the household of the ritual patron). In addition to the clay figures are a piglet of dough and two further effigies, one of wax and one of sheep fat, both wrapped in fat. She “lifts” these and other objects over the

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patient (§§11–14) so that they can absorb the impurity as she recites the appropriate incantation for each. Finally (§15), she comes to the effigies of wax and fat: Next she lifts the effigies of wax and sheep fat over her and says: “Who(ever) were making this person impure, I am now holding these two magical figurines (alwazenuš šēnuš) and I am now t.-ing and e.-ing this one.” Then she melts them down and says: “Let the evil persons who were making her impure likewise be melted down.”20 Analogic magic was commonly used in Hittite ritual to bring about the desired result, and the substances used in fashioning the figurines—in this case wax and fat—guaranteed the efficacy of the act—melting. The ritual does not say what happened to the two effigies of clay that were waved, although another clay effigy of the ritual patron, used as a substitute to absorb her impurities, was thrown into the river.21 In Alli’s ritual, intoxication serves as a metaphor for disablement brought on by sorcery and the incantation serves to transfer it from the bewitched person to the figurines: [The wise wom]an takes wine and says as follows: “Who has intoxicated this [mor]tal and bewitched him, [now] I am intoxicating [him] and transferring the drunkenness to the figurines.”22 In Hebattarakki’s ritual for unbinding a bewitched person, the ritualist makes effigies of two demons that personify the bewitchment. She presses them against the ritual patron as she recites an incantation to break their malevolent hold on him and send the affliction back to the sorcerer: I make a dough, and mix in various plants and some dog excrement. I knead it and I make it into two effigies, and I place one effigy on the right shoulder and one effigy on the left (shoulder) of the person I am treating. I take the dough in which the ingredients are mixed and press it against the person and I recite the following incantation: § “I have removed Agalmati from you. I have driven Ānnamiluli from your head. I have extinguished the fire in your head and made it burn in the head of the bewitcher. I have driven from you the odor of the dog. I have burned the excrement of the dog, the flesh of the dog, and the bones of the dog. § Whoever turned them on you (as) evil, now I draw (that) away (from) you. I cast it away and cast it on the bewitcher.”23 In this case particularly noxious substances are used to fashion the effigies of the equally noxious demons. In Maštigga’s ritual against family quarrel, models of hands and tongues, representing the oral and manual techniques of bewitchment, are placed on the heads of the ritual patrons before the wise woman breaks them, then waves them over the ritual patrons while saying, “Let the tongues of that day be removed! Let the curses of that day be removed!”24 The hands and tongues are then thrown into the hearth to be burned. King Tudhaliya I (late fifteenth century bce) commissioned rituals to counter sorcery he believed his sister Ziplantawiya had directed against him and his family. Two sets of seven tongues of dough are placed in separate kurtali containers of clay. An incantation is recited over the first container (§3): These evil, … tongues, Ziplantawiya made them. And now (they are) evil tongues. They (are) from the mouth in which Zi. [pu]t(?)/[ma]de(?) them. … The evil that she spoke against Tuthaliya [and] Nikalmati (and) their sons, she [ma]de them in the form of tongues. And she spoke [evi]l over them to the Sun God of Blood and to the Storm God. She bewitched them.25

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Fat and honey are then poured over the tongues in the container to nullify the evil while another incantation is recited. Forty wooden statuettes have also been gathered. They are pinned beneath a rock while the container of tongues, honey, and fat are placed on the rock (§7ʹ). An incantation makes it clear that the rock symbolizes permanence, a quality wished upon the royal house. This is contrasted with the tongues, which are poured out (§9ʹ): Just as these perish, which Ziplantawiya has made against the lord with his wife and his sons, so let Ziplantawiya’s sorcery and her evil words perish in the same way! And let it not come back!26 A remarkable feature of this ritual is the sacrifice of a mouse in front of the wooden figures and the tongues. The officiant then directs the statues and/or tongues to eat it: “Mouth, tongue, tooth! Eat!” (§29ʹʹ). The liver and shoulder of the mouse “which she sacrificed to make the tongues” are cooked and placed (as an offering) on the rock while the rest of the mouse is burned on the hearth (§31ʹʹ). The poor offering befits its equally disagreeable recipients.

Consigning the Image to the Underworld As explained by Alice Mouton (2010: 121), “To bewitch someone is to draw them irresistibly into the world of the dead … The bewitched person enters into a state of in-between, of liminality as anthropologists would say, which puts them in danger: they already have one foot in the world of the dead without being totally integrated into it.”27 For this reason, in order to reverse the enchantment, the substitution ritual for Tuthaliya IV must retrieve the figurine of the king from the earth and place it in the care of the celestial gods: You, Sun Goddess of the Earth and underworld deities, look to these substitutes and tribute! Let the heroism of (the figure of) the young man, the bone, the [halh]anzana-, the eyebrow, the eyelash, (and) [the beard] of Tudhaliya, ascend (to) me! [Hand] it [ov]er [benevolently] to the Sun God [of Heaven] and the celestial god[s]‌!28 Once the rites were completed it was necessary to dispose of the figurine in such a way that its power to do harm was permanently disabled. Simply dumping ritual residue was illegal at best and a capital crime at worst, as the Hittite Laws indicate: “If anyone performs a purification on a person, he will dispose of the remnants (of the ritual) in the crematory. But if he disposes of them in someone’s house, it is sorcery (and) a case for the king’s court” (§44b). In Mesopotamia, burning and burying were the most common techniques for destroying the figurine (Schwemer 2019: 45–6). The same holds true for Hittite Anatolia. Burning  We have already noted the burning of the hands and tongues representing the actions of the bewitcher by Maštigga. Like the river, fire served as an intermediary between this world and the realm of the Sun Goddess of the Earth (Puertolas Rubio 2019: 155). This becomes apparent in the substitution ritual for Tuthaliya IV, whose figurine had apparently been handed over to the Sun Goddess of the Earth by means of burning, as the god Zalipura “of the hearth” is invoked to return it: Burning (god) of fire, Zalipura of the Hearth, appropriate these substitutes [and] (this) tribute but return to me the young man’s figure (representing) the sponsor of the

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ritual, the bone, the halhalzana-, the (hair of) eyebrow, the eyelash, (the hair of) beard from the hearth!29 Burial and Nailing Down Returning one last time to the legal deposition regarding a case of sorcery, the accused women are said to have buried the effigies while one of them uttered an incantation.30 This is corroborated by the rituals, in which burial is a common means of disposing of the polluted remains. Alli’s ritual, for example, describes the burying of the ritual implements, which probably included the five figurines representing the bewitchers described above: Nearby she digs the earth up and inserts the ritual implements (into the hole). She pours mortar over and smooths (the hole). She hammers the wooden pegs and says as follows: “Who bewitched this (one), now I have removed the spell of that one (the sorcerer) and given (it) back. I have placed it in the earth and fastened it. Let the sorcery and ominous dreams be fastened! Let them not come back up; let the dark earth constrain them!”31 An Old Hittite tablet contains four separate rituals for the royal couple (CTH 416); two of them utilize figurines. In the first ritual, the king and queen are given two wooden Hantašepa deities to hold in their hands. These entities are described as holding human heads and spears, with blood-stained eyes and blood-red robes. In sum, they are demonic forces, which, once the rite is complete, are buried in the ground.32 This ritual also suggests that figurines were capable of being the offering: at one point in the ritual the officiant “slaughters” a clay figurine of an ox.33 The fourth ritual on this table features a clay effigy made with šalwina-mud (see earlier). Speaking directly to the effigy, which he or she is holding in his or her hand, the officiant commands: “Take the woe, pain, and worries (aīn wāīn pittuliuš) of the king and queen!”34 It is among the materials that are later “fixed,” probably referring to the act of nailing the materials down in the earth, as described in Alli’s ritual.35 The covering over and nailing down of the hole containing the materials ensure that the evil cannot return, as the rituals on behalf of Tudhaliya IV cited above imply is possible. The Dark Earth and the Sun Goddess who presides over it will constrain the evils where they can no longer do harm. Consigning to the River Rivers in Hittite religion were direct passageways to the underworld as well as the source of the clay from which the mother goddesses created humankind. In Amma’s ritual, which is designed to address, among other things, bewitchment, an effigy of a frog, a puppy figurine of clay, and other materials used in the ritual are consigned to the river upon conclusion of the rites. Afterward they dig that place (and) leave the earth to the river. The effigy of the frog, the clay puppy, and the cloak, the band, and the tablets [are] left to the river.36 For an example of a human figurine, we note again the clay effigy used to purify the ritual patron in Tunnawiya’s ritual, which was thrown into the river after use (see earlier). Last, the river is the recipient of offerings in Allaiturahhi’s quest to locate the figurine of the victim (i.e., the king), which has been secreted away by the bewitcher:37 “Eat, fate goddesses of the shore! If the bewitching man, the evil person, has given the figurine of this person either to the shore or to the stream of the river, now give it to back to him!”38

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By handing the enemy figurine over to the underworld, it takes the place of the victim in the state of liminality. But the power of the figurine—victim or sorcerer—to affect its referent is never eradicated, only neutralized.

TRIAL BY FIGURINE Among the rituals that require the use of figurines, that of the augur Pupuwanni, though incompletely preserved, stands out. The ritual is performed “whenever the gods are bewitched with respect to a person and further for that person the šeknu-robe is turned up.” The expression “the šeknu-robe is turned up,” whatever its literal meaning, portends evil for the recipient of the gesture. Hence the need for an augur as the ritualist. The gods whose anger is ultimately the source of the disastrous omen are said to be bewitched, implying that their decision regarding the individual is the result of (human) maleficence and thus correctable. Clay figures of the plaintiff and his gods as well as his most valuable possessions—wagons, horses, and servants—are set out in the house of the plaintiff according to a specific arrangement. In addition, figures of the Storm God, Sun God, Protective Deity, the Fate Goddesses, and the Tarawa-deities are made. The same is done for the adversary or litigant. The presence of the figurines of the gods of the two rivals in the ritual allowed the ritualist to control them. If the gods can be bewitched through sorcery, then they can be restored through countersorcery. The presence of the major deities, who must pass judgment, is ensured by offerings made to their figurines. The resulting scene must have been a veritable diorama. No description of the process of fixing the identification of either the plaintiff or the adversary onto the figurines is offered. In the morning, before dawn, the plaintiff and the two figurines representing both him and his adversary remain inside; each is given a human companion who serves as his advocate. The plaintiff pleads his case before the gods of clay. His advocate also speaks. The plea for the Sun God’s judgment in favor of the client is followed by an analogic rite directed against the sorcerer. The text is difficult to follow at this point, but it seems that the figurines are removed. The image of the sorcerer is taken to “another place” where it is presumably disposed of, but we are denied those details. The ritual’s distinctiveness is attributable to the fact that the concerned parties are male—not only the practitioner but also the supplicant and his adversary. As Schwemer (2019: 50–1) describes for Mesopotamia, the male stereotype of the performer of dangerous ritual is the adversary in a court proceeding, called litigant, adversary, or evildoer. The turning up of the šeknu-robe in our example, which is an act directed against male associates,39 also points to Schwemer’s “plotting male opponent” rather than the “dangerous, ritual-performing woman” that we have seen so far.40 Pupuwanni’s ritual raises several questions, the deposition of the figurines upon completion of the rites not the least of them. We may imagine that the figurines connected to the sorcerer were buried or burned somewhere. But how were the figurines connected with the plaintiff disposed of so as not have an adverse effect on him? And why have figurines of the plaintiff at all since he and his advocate were “in the room” already? It is plausible that once the trial was complete and the sorcerer dealt with, the images representing the plaintiff were treated as substitute images and disposed of accordingly. The models of the possessions of the parties involved were an extension of them and presumably suffered the same fate as their anthropomorphic representations.

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A MATTER OF AGENCY To understand Hittite image magic it is helpful to consider “the conceptions of causality and agency implied by the magical practices and objects themselves” (D. Collins 2003: 20). An illustration may be found among the Zawalli-deities, spirits that dwelt in transportable images representing people, both living and dead, which were located in sanctuaries and were considered a part of the divine realm. Both Muršili II and Muršili III (Urhi-Teshub) had Zawalli-deities. The image of the latter was housed in the temple in Zithara where it was the recipient of offerings. A Zawalli-deity representing the “House of His Majesty’ (Muršili II) was kept in the palace of the vassal king Mašhuiluwa in Arzawa as an object of homage until the vassal uttered curses before it. As a result of these curses both the Zawalli and the Hittite king were bewitched. An oracular investigation was undertaken to determine how best to treat the bewitchment resulting in the ritual cleansing of both king and image.41 As Petra Goedegebuure (2012: 421) concluded in a discussion of this same episode, “Clearly, then, images had derived agency. Images could act upon their surroundings and the surroundings could act through images.”42 Like statues, magical figurines were social agents capable of causing events.43 This is why the officiant’s instruction to the effigy he holds in his hand to “take the woe, pain, and worries of the king and queen” is effective. The effigy of Tudhaliya IV that his sorcerer made had real-world effects, or we would not have two rituals to mitigate those effects. The ritual authors did not see the need to describe in detail the process by which figurines became magical; indeed only Tunnawiya calls the two effigies she made of wax and fat “magical.” But the treatment of effigies in Hittite magic ritual depends on a belief that the figurines were capable of agency.

NOTES 1 On the absence of empire-period Hittite cemeteries, see Seeher (2015). On the archaeology of magic in the Roman period, see, in particular, Wilburn (2013). 2 Two anthropomorphic clay figurines were discovered on the acropolis of Büyükkale at Hattuša in 1954 (Bittel 1955: 22–3 with fig. 9). One was male in form, while the other, of which only the torso is preserved (height c. 8 cm), depicts someone with both male and female sexual characteristics. Börker-Klähn (1992: 69–70) suggested the latter figurine could have been part of an oath ceremony perhaps of the sort reflected in CTH 782, a ritual of the oath goddess Išhara against perjury, in which such a figurine, made of wood, is described (Haas and Wegner 1988: 400). More recently, excavations in the rubble layers in the valley west of Sarıkale “Yellow Fortress”—a prominent rock outcropping in Hattusa’s Upper City theorized to have had a religious function, perhaps having to do with the cult of dead kings—have recovered numerous animal figurines clustered together with a smaller number of anthropomorphic figurines. Schachner proposes they might be the inventory of a ritual priest used in substitution rituals (2008: 127–9, 2012: 156–8 with figs. 20 and 21). 3 See Schwemer (2007: 212–14) on a singular find from the Old Babylonian layers of Tell ed-Dēr in northern Babylonia of an unfired clay figurine fragment that had been pierced repeatedly with a needle-like instrument, probably a date palm spine. It is the only material remnant of defensive magic that has been recovered from Mesopotamia, for many of the same reasons that we lack evidence from Bronze Age Anatolia.

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4 One possible historical example of the use of tallow and clay to make figurines is found in an Old Hittite fragment from the Annals of Mursili I(?) (KBo 3.46 ii 13ʹ; CTH 13; de Martino 2003: 132–3 n. 361; Schwemer 2007: 262 n. 25). 5 Hittite Law §111; edition Hoffner (1997: 107). 6 KUB 40.83 obv. 14–17; CTH 295.10; edition Werner (1967: 64–5); see also Puertolas Rubio (2019: 307–10). 7 However, contra CHD Š, 370–73, esp. 373 {i.e., this is CHD vol. Š}, this is not exclusively the case, as Amma’s ritual (CTH 456.2.1; KBo 34.49 iii! 3 w. dupl.) clearly indicates that a šena- of a frog is used. The CHD, which incorrectly puts the šena- with the puppy rather than the frog in §19′′′′′ of this text (KUB 36.83 iv 9′ w. dupls.; the phrase is BIL.ZA.ZA šenaš IM UR.TUR) nevertheless does not think this can be an effigy of the puppy because it would be the only example of šena- used nonanthropomorphically and prefers to translate “frog(s), clay statuettes, (and) a puppy.” However, we know from the previous paragraph of the tablet that the frog is definitely a šena-: nu-za BIL.ZA.ZA TUGk[u-re-eš-n]a-n-ta-a[n] še-ena-an da-a-i, “She takes the effigy of the frog equipped with a headdress” (KBo 34.49 iii! 3 w. dupl.; §18′′′′′ in Fuscagni’s 2014 online edition). 8 Puertolas Rubio (2019: 141) notes as well figurines (LA¯NU and ešri-, respectively) representing abstract aspects of the individual: “life” and “wellbeing” in Allaiturahi’s ritual (KBo 31.143+ obv. 19′; CTH 780); and “longevity” in Zuwi’s ritual (“I pronounce the name of [the person whom I am t]reating. He holds an ešri- of his longevity” (KUB 12.63 obv. 12′–13′; CTH 412.2.A). 9 For a discussion of the evidence for the animation of divine images in Hittite Anatolia, see B. J. Collins (2005, 29–35). 10 See examples in CHD Š/3, sub šina-, 372–3 (1b). 11 KUB 9.39 + KUB 43.59 i 1–8; CTH 453.2; edition Fuscagni (2012b). 12 In particular, note that šalwina-, “mud” is the food of the dead in the underworld: KBo 22.178+ iii 6; CTH 457.7.2; edition Fuscagni (2012a); see CHD Š/1, 109–10. For another figurine made with šalwina-, see KBo 17.3 iv 18 w. dupl.; CTH 416; discussed later in the text. 13 On the similar process of identifying image and king in Mesopotamia, see Bahrani (2003: 130). See Wilburn (2019: 461) on the criteria for selecting what features to include. 14 KUB 24.12+ ii 19–23 (CTH 448.4.9.a); edition Taracha (2000: 88–9); see also Mouton (2010: 114); Puertolas Rubio (2019: 96–7). 15 KUB 41.21 i 7′–16′, CTH 780; Haas and Wegner (1988: 161–2); see also Mouton (2019: 94). 16 Note that the verb used in both texts is “place” not “write, inscribe.” The implication is that the names were attached to the figurines somehow rather than written directly on them, which would require that the accused women in the deposition knew how to write, which can hardly be assumed for this period. Since Nikkaluzzi’s ritual, on the other hand, was performed for the king, the names could conceivably have been written on the figurine; however, it is likely that writing was not the usual method for attaching the name. 17 KUB 7.61 i 4–8; CTH 417.1; edition Fuscagni (2016). 18 KBo 12.126++ i 12–13 w. dupls.; CTH 402. 19 KUB 35.45+ ii 15–24; CTH 761.II.2.A; edition Starke (1985: 152–3); trans. of Luwian section from Yakubovich (2012: 333); see also Mouton (2019: 94, and 95) for the significance of the “divine path.” 20 KUB 7.53 + KUB 12.58 ii 14–20 w. dupl. (§15); CTH 409.I. 21 KUB 12.58 iii 14–16 (§26); CTH 409.I: “They bring down the remnants fr[om the shelte]r and the figurine, and [thr]ow it into the river.”

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2 Bo 3582 ii 6′–10′; KBo 21.8 ii 11–15; §16; CTH 402. 2 23 KUB 24.14 i 11–28 w. dupl.; §§3–5; CTH 397; edition Melzer and Görke (2016). 24 KBo 39.8 ii 13–14; §17; CTH 404.1.I; edition Mouton (2016). 25 KBo 15.10 i 13–16, 18–21; §3; CTH 443.1; edition Görke (2013). 26 KBo 15.10 ii 13–16; §9ʹ; CTH 443.1. 27 Translated from the original French. 28 KUB 24.12(++) ii 28–34 (Taracha 2000: 88–9; Puertolas Rubio 2019: 96–7). 29 KUB 24.12(++) iii 10ʹ–14ʹ (Taracha 2000: 90–1). For Zalipura/Zilipuri, see Yoshida (1991: 56–60). 30 KUB 40.83 obv. 19; CTH 295.10; edition Werner (1967: 64–5). 31 KUB 24.9 ii 18′–25′ with dupls.; §20; CTH 402. 32 KBo 17.5 ii 1–2; §16; CTH 416; edition Montuori (2015). 33 wilnaš GU4-un huekmi; KBo 17.1 i 41ʹ; §15; CTH 416; edition Montuori (2015). 34 KBo 17.1 iv 30–1 w. dupl.; §45; CTH 416, edition Montuori (2015). 35 KBo 17.2++ iv 3′; §48; CTH 416; edition Montuori (2015). A rare archaeological find of this kind of disposal was made at Yazılıkaya, the rock sanctuary outside of Hattuša, where a pig embryo had been buried and fixed with nails (Hauptmann 1975: 64–70). 36 KUB 36.83(++) iv 8ʹ–10ʹ w. dupls.; §19′′′′′; CTH 456.2.1; edition Fuscagni (2014); cf. HW2 Ḫ, 391a, which translates appa tarna- “hinter deponieren.” 37 VSNF 12.57+ i 19′–20′ w. dupl.; CTH 780.II.Tf01; see Puertolas Rubio (2019: 155). 38 KUB 17.27+ ii 20′–22′ w. dupl.; CTH 780.II.Tf01; edition Haas (2007: 16, 26). 39 The ritual of the augur Banippi (CTH 401.1) is performed under the same circumstances as Pupuwanni’s. Here, though, it is specified that the litigant is the plaintiff ’s “(business) associate” (Akk. LÚTAPPÛ; KUB 30.36 i 2), confirming again that both are male-oriented rituals. 40 On the two classes of imagery, that used in judicial (public) contexts and those used in private contexts (witchcraft), see Freedberg (1991: 247). 41 For the text of the oracular inquiry and a discussion, see van den Hout (1998: 3–6). 42 We might assume then that, as in Mesopotamia, the image served as “a form of essential presence” (Bahrani 2014: 75) of the king and an assault on it was an assault on his physical person. (Bahrani’s discussion is in the context of the Mouth Opening Ceremony performed on the ṣalmu “image” of the king.) However, Petra Goedegebuure (2012) has offered a more precise understanding of Hittite images not as “animated entities that not only represent their referents, but are their referents” (410), but rather as portals through which the referent could be acted upon. She writes, “Thus when Mashuiluwa uttered curses standing in front of the Zawalli-deity of the royal household, the curses were channeled through the image to the household. The image is therefore best described as a portal with two-way traffic: on the one hand the deity worked through the image, and on the other hand one could contact the deity through the image.” In sum, “the cult image in Hittite society is not to be equated with its deity but serves as an indexical nexus, medium, or portal” (423). I was unaware of Prof. Goedebuure’s 2012 article until the present article was in proofs, but was gratified to find that she also saw in the Zawalli-deities a cogent example of the agency of Hittite images. 43 See D. Collins (2003: 37–44) for a discussion of agency and figurines.

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The Architecture

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CHAPTER EIGHT

Religious Life, Urban Fabric, and Regeneration Processes at Mari during the Second Half of the Third Millennium bce PASCAL BUTTERLIN

Mari was a great economic, commercial, and political center of Syria in the third and the beginning of the second millennium before our era. It was also, like all the great Mesopotamian city-states, a religious metropolis. After forty-eight campaigns of excavations at the site, the number of sanctuaries unearthed is considerable; the palaces and the temples of Mari are better known than the city itself of which only a tiny part has been explored. From the first campaigns on, and in particular the exploration of the temple of Ishtar, Mari appeared as an original center, where very diverse cultural influences mixed together. Considered first as an outpost in Syria of the “Sumerian” culture by its first excavator, André Parrot (Parrot 1945, 1956, 1967, 1974), Mari was later considered either as a gateway between western and eastern Semitic cultures or as one of the main intermediaries between Northern and Southern Mesopotamia. Margueron notably has considered that the religious architecture in Mari was the resonance chamber of various influences (Margueron 2004): his phenomenological approaches to the temples in Mari emphasized a major shift from the so-called second city period (2550–2300 bce) to the third city period (2300 to 1759 bce), that is from the time of the city-states to the Amorite kingdoms. Mari would have experienced a kind of east–west cultural pendulum movement from city-period 2 to 3; the temples from City II are related to the temples of Southern or Central Mesopotamia, in particular the temples excavated in the Diyala, to the southeast of Mari, whereas the temples of City III are considered “Syrian,” and compared to temples excavated in the Northern Levant, northwest of Mari. In its last phase, Mari would again have been much more oriented toward the east, with a Babylonization of the culture. In between these phases, Mari experienced a major crisis and was destroyed by Akkadian kings c. 2300 bce.

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FIGURE 8.1  Mari, City II, the main buildings (source: Pascal Butterlin, mission archéologique française de Mari).

Recent research, using both the old excavation data from the Parrot archives and the last excavations at the site under my direction, has refined this chronological frame, particularly the chronological evolution of the religious center of the city, notably during the City II phase (Figure 8.1). I suggest here a reevaluation of part of the data, with a more dynamic approach to the evolution of the city; the construction and reconstruction of the temples was part of a very dynamic urban fabric, considered here less as an expression of a type of historic succession of ideal types of the “oriental temple” and more as a complex process in which a major city of the Ancient Near East found the means to regenerate itself in spite of several major destructions. The temples and their furniture played a major role in this process, allowing the regeneration of a complex society, centered on the “Euphrates’s metropolis.”

RELIGIOUS LIFE IN MARI? Between Biblical Archaeology and Phenomenology Parrot identified two main cities at Mari: the “ville présargonique,” contemporaneous to the great Sumerian cities of Southern Mesopotamia, and the paleobabylonian city, destroyed by Hammu-rabi. He excavated five main temples attributed to the “ville présargonique.” From the first publications devoted to these buildings, Parrot defined interpretative lines that changed little until his last campaigns. The temple of Ishtar had been identified thanks to the inscriptions appearing on the statues collected (Parrot 1956). These objects were, in the manner of the Sumerian customs, ex-votos dedicated by

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worshippers or pilgrims in the two chapels or cella. The sanctuary was divided into two parts—a profane part and a sacred part. According to Parrot, the sanctuary is “a sacred domain, within which the sacred certainly has its zones of variable intensity. And this is well within the Semitic mark. Let us remember the story of Moses” (Parrot 1945: 84–5). This vision of sacred space dominates the description of the temple of Ishtar, which is reduced to a graduated system of sacredness and to biblical analogies: the courtyard of the temple, open to the laity, is the holy place, where the sacrifices and the water and fire ceremonies take place. As for the cella, it is the most holy place, where the priests deposit the ex-voto of the faithful. The analogy with the Temple of Jerusalem is explicit, even before the presentation of the religious installations or the foundation deposits. Parrot quickly compared the discoveries he made at Mari with those of the Diyala temples. In both cases, the prevailing idea was that the cella housed the statue of the god on a podium and was surrounded by votive objects placed on benches or on the floor. The votive objects were thus placed in the presence of the divine. Parrot emphasizes on several occasions that no image of a divinity was discovered in the sanctuaries, but the entire analysis of the statues, their immense eyes, and their smile that so impressed Malraux, is based on the idea that they are the expression of the individual piety of the worshippers and a connection with the divine, via “direct visual contact with the resident divinity” (Parrot 1974: 55: Evans 2012: 102, citing Irene Winter). From then on, the interpretative framework is fixed: the whole thing is the transposition to Mari of a system elaborated in the excavations in Iraq, by Andrae in Asshur and then by Frankfort in Diyala, and developed after the discovery of the Inanna Zaza (formerly read as the Ninni Zaza) temple (Parrot 1967). J. Margueron conducted a systematic analysis of the morphology of the temples of Mari, gradually developed in several publications, devoted in general to Mesopotamian temples or more specifically to Mari. This approach is based on a basic principle: “the fundamental organization of the temple” (Margueron 1995: 69, fig. 3). The Near Eastern model of the temple, manifest in the organization of the Temple of Jerusalem, is based on “a tripartition of the progression towards the sacred” (Margueron 1995: 69). This tripartition thus sees the development from the outside inwards from the door/entrance that is both a passage and a protective barrier of the sacred space. The second stage of the progression toward sacredness is the place of the daily service of the god, the holy place where the offering occurs, the Hekal of the Temple of Jerusalem. Finally, the last stage of the progression, the place of epiphany, is the place of the divinity’s manifestation. This holy place or Holy of Holies, the Debir of the Temple of Jerusalem, is a closed place, the place of the ultimate encounter between the divinity and his servants. Under the influence of the religious phenomenology developed by Eliade (1983: 310– 26), Margueron has thus considerably refined the considerations of Parrot. The novelty lies less in the use of the paradigm than in its intersection with a spatial analysis in the tradition of the German school of architectural analysis in Near Eastern archaeology. This analysis is applied to the nine sanctuaries attributed to the City II of Mari, a new term to designate the pre-Sargonic city of Parrot. These are levels P 1–P 2 of the sacred enclosure, level P 0, the temples of Inanna Zaza, Ishtarat, Shamash, Ishtar, and Ninhursag, the object of new excavations since 1990. To these were added the “Tower Temple” located west of the Massif Rouge and the “anonymous temples” located under the Dagan esplanade of city 3, south of the same Massif. All these sanctuaries are not contemporary with each other, P 0 and the anonymous temples date from the Akkadian period and are significantly later, and we shall see that the Tower Temple is also later. Compared to the

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data available to Parrot, only the City II temple of Ninhursag, excavated by D. Beyer, is a novelty (Beyer 2014). The morphological approach to the sanctuaries of City II is based on a combined analysis of the holy place and the most holy place (Margueron 2004: 251). Three types of holy places are distinguished: central/courtyard space, with four examples; central portico space, with two examples; and irregular central space, with one example. Finally, the two temple complexes mentioned earlier (Tower Temple and anonymous temples) do not have a holy place. Two main types of most holy places are distinguished: oblong room, with five examples, and square room, with two examples. The combination of these two variables of most holy place and holy place results in a summary table presenting three main types: the first associates a square holy place with a portico and a most holy place, the second a square holy place and an oblong most holy place, and the third type gathers together sanctuaries represented by a single unit, sanctuaries that are atypical either by the shape of the holy place or by their “compact character.” The characterization of both the spatial and temporal dimensions of sacredness has been at the heart of phenomenological approaches to the religious phenomenon (Laneri 2015). In the case of Mesopotamian city-states, it manifests itself in an urban fabric, where architecture and its structural units give rhythm and organization to the time and space of individuals. This type of analysis usually insists on places and their properties on the one hand, and on authorized or unauthorized routes or movements on the other. The systems of relations are conceived essentially from bodily experiences put in relation to spaces that generate meanings. When one reduces sacredness to universal requirements in terms of light, staging, or relationship, one risks to not consider the historical context and, thus, plastering modern conceptions on ancient or archaic perceptions.

DYNAMICS OF SPATIAL ORGANIZATION IN THE RELIGIOUS CENTER OF CITY 2 One way to overcome this obstacle is to push the analysis further in terms of dynamics, and with regard to movement in particular (Butterlin 2022b). Ristvet has emphasized the role played by religious ceremonies in creating the landscape of cities and their hinterland (Ristvet 2013). In the case of City II, we can thus distinguish, through the new research results, how not only preferential paths were constituted, but also partitions created, within the city beyond the sanctuaries themselves. The basic data have been enhanced by the excavation of the Temple of the Lord of the Land in 2007–10. We have therefore eight temples attributed to City II, but more than thirty deities were worshipped in Mari, according to the written records from City II. This leaves room to analyze the functioning of this major religious center (Lecompte 2022). There would have been three “paths” (Figure 8.2): two distinct peripheral paths around the Massif and a vertical circulation leading from the Southern Sanctuary to what is known as the Northern Sanctuary (Butterlin 2022b: 105–8). The latter, according to its northern outlet, would draw a “sacred loop.” With its processional alley, this ensemble opened out into the house of the high priest via the lapis corridor (Margueron 2004, 2007). One can thus envisage several itineraries likely to accommodate processions: an itinerary that I would call urban, along the via sacra leading to the Temple of the Lord of the Land, a reserved itinerary from the house of the High Priest leading to the two sanctuaries and to the summit of the Massif.

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FIGURE 8.2  Mari, City II, monumental religious center (source: Pascal Butterlin, mission archéologique française de Mari.

The importance of the Massif Rouge in the structuring of this religious center is obvious. We know now that the Massif Rouge was built before the palatial complex, following new archaeomagnetic dating (Butterlin and Gallet 2014: 8–9; Butterlin 2022b: 98–9). It could be the heart from which the city of Mari II was structured, which thus presents three very distinct religious complexes: the Massif Rouge complex and its associated sanctuaries,

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a complex that I would call the “urban temples,” and finally, a specific space of royal religiosity. The first is the Massif Rouge complex associated to the south with the Temple of the Lord of the Land and to the north with a sanctuary that is called, by default, “Northern Sanctuary.” This space is limited on the east by the via sacra which runs alongside it. It is connected to the west with the house of the sanga, at least in the last stage of the Massif Rouge. The analysis of the circulations revealed several privileged routes, a partial circumambulatio from the west that links the Northern Sanctuary to the Temple of the Lord of the Land. This kind of circumambulation is well attested in cuneiform sources (Catagnoti 2015). From the sanga’s house, one could reach the processional alley that ran along the eastern façade of the Massif Rouge. Many uncertainties remain concerning the functioning of the complex associating the Temple of the Lord of the Land and the high terrace, and at this stage we can only propose hypotheses that account for the close link between the buildings. The modalities of access to the Massif Rouge remain uncertain, but the idea of access through the Temple of the Lord of the Land seems to be a legitimate one. This complex is in any case very specific and was renovated and enlarged three times during the evolution of City II. It has been shown elsewhere (Butterlin 2019b) that in its dimensions, the first stage of the Massif is quite comparable to the other terraces of the contemporary Mesopotamian world, the third stage being comparable with what is known of the high terrace of Girsu, under the king Entemena. It is therefore a monument that can easily be placed in the series of these buildings, except that it is a stepped terrace and is not isolated within a sacred perimeter. In this respect, the only comparable monument is the terrace of Adab. We propose here a new restitution of the center figuring hypothetically a high temple, similar to the temples at Girsu or Adab (Figure 8.3). The

FIGURE 8.3  Mari, City II, restitution of the monumental center (source: courtesy of Balage Balogh and Pascal Butterlin, mission archéologique française de Mari).

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Massif Rouge rather announces the developments that will be observed, for example, in Assyria in the second millennium. As for the Temple of the Lord of the Land, its massive morphology makes it a very specific monument, comparable in scale to the Temple of the Rock at Ebla, for example. Certainly, it is not a temple in antis, but a complex that appears as a massive whole adjoining the terrace, preceded by a chicane vestibule. This urban itinerary linked the different steps of a religious complex, comprising on the left the Shamash temple and the Ninhursag temple, and to the right, the Inanna Zaza temple and the Ishtarat temple. The itinerary ended at the high sanctuary of the Massif Rouge. To the south of the Massif and below, on either side of the via sacra, what I would call “urban sanctuaries” develop, with a type of sanctuary that is related to “templehouses,” which open onto the great avenue below the temple of the major god (Butterlin 2021). Only one of these sanctuaries has a processional way, and the temple of Ninhursag clearly appears as the heir of a long tradition, with a specific orientation, a very massive character, and a very holy place raised above the other temples. To the west of the Massif Rouge, the residence of the high priest/sanga communicated with the Massif Rouge sector through a chicane passage that is not very clear. It opened on the north side onto an alleyway that runs west, and in particular toward the gate of the City II palace. The palace is, however, a closed ensemble that responds to a logic even different from the one we have identified in our analysis of circulations. The sacred enclosure has its own processional alleyway that served the holy place and the holy of holies of this outstanding complex, which has never been thoroughly published. This remarkable closed ensemble could, in my opinion, be linked to royalty, and more precisely to the cult of royal ancestors. One statue discovered by Parrot in the latest level was dedicated to Ama Ushumgal, that is, Dumuzi, as the strength of the palm tree. In a place which in the later Amorite phase was known as the “Palace of the Palmtree,” this is not a minor piece of information. It means that the royal line in Mari was honoring this Uruk king as the ultimate source of its power, whatever the link between the kings of Mari and Uruk. The cult was organized in the sacred precinct. A perimetral corridor enclosed two ceremonial places: an almost square courtyard, and south of it, the long room XXVI, opening toward the east to a sacred place. Parrot identified four different levels in this compound, with ritual installations both in the courtyard and in the holy of holies. On level P 2, in courtyard XXV, three low libation platforms in the central space could have supported three statues, possibly of royal ancestors. Enclosed by a bitumen-laid alleyway, to the north, east, and west, the central courtyard presented a set of installations that have never been understood completely. Looking through the archive data, it is possible to make a proposal about the kind of ritual paths that existed in central place XXVI in palace P 2 (Figures 8.4 and 8.5): when arriving from the north, the visitor found to the right a great basin, embedded in a brick installation. He could pour out some liquid and could then move toward the central area: to the left, three bronze jars were also embedded in the soil, representing three points of libation facing the three pedestals. Interestingly, among the three bases, one seems to have been different, as if it was of a dissimilar type, perhaps an earlier one. The pedestal fits well as a support for a statue, as is the case, for example, in the palace of the Deified Royal Ancestors in Ebla (which is much later, Middle Bronze Age II, Matthiae 2021: 336–8). After pouring a libation in the cupule beneath the statue, one could move toward the southeast: there, Parrot found the remnants of three rectangular cavities in a partition

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FIGURE 8.4  Mari, City II, palace P 2, central space ritual installation, 3D modélisation, Iconem (source: Pascal Butterlin, mission archéologique française de Mari).

FIGURE 8.5  Mari, City II, ritual paths in the central space of palace P 2 (source: Pascal Butterlin, mission archéologique française de Mari, plan A 226).

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wall separating the stone pedestal from the southern part of the court. These “coffers” have found no satisfying explanation for now, and I wonder if they were not destined to welcome additional statues or wooden structures. Anyway, the place situated between this installation and the southern recessed wall of the court was covered by thick layers of burnt debris, notably reed mattings, and wood. After the water-based rituals, which occurred in the northern half, this could have been a place for a fire ritual. On level P 1, it seems to me that the free-standing “altars” uncovered by Parrot could have served as pedestals for four royal statues, while the leaning altar built at P 0 would have accommodated a fifth. I suggest therefore that the evolution of these ritual installations is to be linked to the slow enlargement of the set of royal ancestor worshipped there: a first royal ancestor (level P 3?), then three (level P 2), four, or five (level P 1) and then possibly a fifth or sixth at level P 2. The shift from “low podium” to altars (Figure 8.5) is not the result of a transformation of rituals as proposed by Margueron (2004: 335), it is a different display of statues worshipped by pouring liquids in the small cavities at their base and along the niches situated over it in the case of the so-called altars. The whole process is directly linked to the evolution of the royal line. This is a third system of paths, explicitly linked to royalty. The sacred enclosure was the end point of a whole processional path in the palace itself, from the north gate to the sanctuary. And one must also allow that this royal itinerary developed through the city via another axis leading to the west. I have proposed elsewhere that the Temple of Ishtar was part of a system for installing kingship at Mari (Butterlin 2022a). Located along the western city wall, north of a gate that may have been the royal gate mentioned later in the Mari texts, this shrine would have been the place of investiture of the kings of Mari. It would have played a role comparable to that of the Temple of the Rock at Ebla (Matthiae 2021: 297–301), a milestone between the outside and the inside of the city before the king entered the palace. One of the most problematic points in the excavation of the Temple of Ishtar is space 20 located south of the temple. The quality of the furniture excavated there by Parrot has been emphasized (Butterlin and Cluzan 2014). Margueron has suggested that these extraordinary objects come from a water flow that carried votive deposits that would have been found in the chapels of the temple (Margueron 2017). This seems very unlikely to me. On the other hand, Parrot found installations below the temple: a gypsum pavement and fragments of walls with niches and recesses (Parrot 1956). If the sacred enclosure was the palatine place of veneration of statues of royal ancestors, the question remains open as to the place of burial of these kings of Mari. Several options are possible. The first concerns the temple of Ishtar itself. A. Otto proposed that the stone tomb known as tomb 300 as well as the two stone tombs located to the east (Otto 2014) were visible and that the temple of Ishtar was a place of veneration of the founding heroes of the city. Even if it is not possible that these tombs were still visible at the time of the temple’s use, it is not impossible that these were the tombs of the three royal ancestors venerated on level P 2 of the palace at Mari. The temple of Ishtar would thus have been a very particular place, associated with the royal necropolis of the founders of city 2, but not, as far as we know, the later kings.

REGENERATION OF THE SACRED IN MARI A major political center, Mari was first and foremost a religious center. Its space seems to be carefully organized and arranged in a tiered urban scenography, dominated by the major sanctuary of the Seigneur du Pays and its High Terrace, and flanked to the west by

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the royal sanctuaries. To the south lay the urban sanctuaries where the piety of an urban society dominated by the elites linked to religious and political power was expressed. The new stratigraphic data permit the study of the diachronic evolution of this religious city landscape. Both at the palace and at the Massif Rouge with its low temple (Temple of the Lord of the Land), four phases have been identified. The two first phases belong to the early City II, both complexes show traces of a major destruction, possibly by an earthquake. The third phase at the Massif Rouge and the level P 1 at the palace are the result of massive terracing work and reinforcement of the structure by gypsum stone blocks. The Massif Rouge was enlarged, with a collection of large gypsum blocks. It is difficult to correlate precisely this synchronic tableau of palace and Massif Rouge with the evolution of the other sanctuaries. The Ishtar temple sequence remains a disputed question: Parrot identified three levels, which could be matched with the three city 2 levels at the palace and the Massif Rouge (Parrot 1956); Margueron identified two levels only and recently proposed a questionable attribution of the last level to the City III of Mari (Margueron 2017; Butterlin 2022a, b). This level, founded upon walls of gypsum blocks, is the destruction level of City II, as are the phase 3 of the Massif Rouge and the palace in P 1. Interestingly, this phase at the Ishtar temple saw the building of a second cella, and an enlargement of the sacred precinct to the west. Apart from the Shamash temple, whose stratigraphic record remains problematic, the Ninhursag, Inanna Zaza, and Ishtar temples presented two levels, the last level possibly destroyed as the P 1 palace, phase 3 of Massif Rouge, and level A at the Ishtar temple by the Akkad kings. The evolution of these temples was part of a very discontinuous urban history: the City II of Mari was the result of a major refounding of the city, c. 2500 bce. It began, as we have seen, with the building of the Massif Rouge (Phase 1) and slightly later with the building of the palace (level P 3). The foundation process was accompanied by foundation deposits at the Massif Rouge, the palace P 3, and the Ishtar temple (with bronze nails). The classical foundation set comprised a large bronze nail set in a ring and epigraph tablets (lapis lazuli and limestone or marble). A first renovation process occurred after a short time span, the Massif Rouge was enlarged (Phase 2), the palace level raised 1 m high, with three pedestals, and two other tombs could have been added to the Ishtar temple. A first destruction occurred around 2400 bce, with massive reconstructions. They were accompanied by a new set of foundation deposits, one at the Massif Rouge discovered in 2007, at the Ishtar temple, and in the palace. These rituals were clearly part of a regeneration of the power of the city. This city was destroyed by Sargon of Akkad around 2300 bce. What happened next remains difficult to understand. It is usually believed that the P 0 level of the palace is to be dated to the same phase as the so-called anonymous temples (built above the Temple of the Lord of the Land), namely, to the “Akkadian” period, which remains illdefined at Mari. The whole city had been destroyed, including its temples, and Mari offers an exceptional case study of what should be seen as a “ritual destruction”: I have presented elsewhere (Butterlin 2016) how the votive statues became targets of specialized units, using sculptor tools and practicing targeted mutilations upon the statues. This ritual treatment of the defeated population, and notably their ancestor statues, is part of a general process of ethnic annihilation, and the destruction of the Massif Rouge is part of this process. Interestingly, the low temple of the Massif Rouge and the palace were reconstructed, but not the Massif itself. These reconstructions were short lived, and followed by the slow development of the first line of the so-called shakkanakkû rulers of Mari. Major transformations occurred during the twenty-second century BCE, which

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FIGURE 8.6  Mari, City III, Monumental center, situation of foundation deposits (source: Pascal Butterlin, mission archéologique française de Mari).

can be understood thanks to the foundation deposits recovered in the new generation of temples built at that time at Mari, unearthed by Parrot in 1937–8 and myself in 2007. Niwar Mer first built the Ninhursag temple, a tower temple with a double-columned portico and in antis entrance. It was followed by the construction of the Lion temple, an antis temple with a very long room, adjoining the high terrace. This was built by Ishtup El, known by his statue and three foundation deposits. The twenty-second century bce was the time of the “restorator shakkanakkû,” a time of slow recovery of a monumental center reconstructed (Butterlin 2007). These reconstructions are witnesses to the very specific and ritualized rhythm of the reconstruction of a royal city (Figure 8.6). The next step occurred at the very end of the twenty-second century bce: a new dynastic line begins with Apil Kin, a contemporary and ally of Ur Nammu of Ur. We knew from Parrot’s old excavations that Apil Kin was the builder of the “sahuru,” thanks to two foundation deposits found in the walls of a monumental entrance built between the Lion and Ninhursag temples. Thanks to the discovery of a new set of deposits in 2007 at the southeast angle of the Massif Rouge, including a new inscribed tablet of Apil Kin, we know that the Massif Rouge was part of the process (Figure 8.7); it remained in ruins for 150 years, and the functional ensemble associating Massif Rouge and Temple of the Lord of the Land was replaced by the Lion temple (devoted also to the Lord of the Land) and the new high terrace. It was only around 2100 bce that Apil Kin created a sacred enclosure centered on Parrot’s so-called esplanade de Dagan, which covered the remains of the former major temple. The whole place was therefore saturated with deposits creating a symbolic border between a sacred temenos and the city.

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FIGURE 8.7  Mari, southeastern corner of Massif Rouge, with situation of the foundation deposits of Cities II and III, 3D model, artifact (source: Pascal Butterlin, mission archéologique française de Mari).

FIGURE 8.8  Mari, City III, restitution of the religious and political center (source: courtesy of Balage Balogh and Pascal Butterlin, mission archéologique française de Mari).

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The foundation rituals evolved considerably: the shakkanakkû deposits comprise a bronze tablet perforated by a long bronze nail. Inscribed in one case, they are usually anepigraphic and associated with inscribed tablets (whether on stone for Ishtup El or bronze for Apil Kin), and set in complex installations, stone or wood coffins. The ritual evolved as did the organization of the temples: two tower temples and one “Langraum” temple, both types considered as “Syrian.” One may wonder why the old bent axis system was replaced by this new kind of temple footprint. The general orientation of the temples also evolves: the Massif Rouge and the Temple of the Lord of the Land were oriented toward the northeast, the new terrace is oriented toward the north, and the main entrance of the temple faces east. The whole monumental center seems to make a shift of 30° toward the west, a movement perhaps linked to the development of Akitu rituals during the equinox at the end of the third millennium in Southern Mesopotamia. The whole process of regeneration was completed slightly later by the shakkanakkû Ilum Ishar, who left inscribed bricks in the Great Royal Palace. He can be considered the actual builder of it rather than the later ruler Hanun Dagan, whose inscription has been discovered in a reused stone door socket in the same palace (Figure 8.8). The regeneration process was twofold: there are clear indications of a general trend, linked to the actual renegotiation of the political situation in the region, while a solid continuity is put forward through the renewal of the old local tradition. Understanding the reasons for these changes remains a considerable challenge, as the very foundations of the new political regime escape us. We now know that the title of “shakkanakkû” existed during the last years of the City II, before the arrival of the kings of Akkad. To explain the architectural choices made by these dynasts remains on the other hand a difficult undertaking, except that they seem to link the dynasty more to Northern Mesopotamia than to Central Mesopotamia.

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CHAPTER NINE

Sacred Space and Immigrant Identity in the Middle Bronze Age: The Case of Tell el DabꜤa DANIELLE CANDELORA

When scholars approach the study of religion and cult in Egypt, discussions often take for granted that temple-based religious practice and knowledge were highly secretive, with rituals being performed in the deepest, darkest parts of the temple—off limits to all but the highest-ranking priests (Bell 1985: 275; Shafer 1997: 5–6). The only occasions that seem to have put religion on more public display were the major religious festivals and processions, such as the Opet or the Beautiful Feast of the Valley, and funerals. Egyptian temples then seem to obstruct regular people’s knowledge of, and access to, the rituals occurring within. Yet, the temples of Second Intermediate Period/Middle Bronze Age (c. 2000–1550 bce) Tell el DabꜤa come from an incredibly different socio-historical context than a standard Egyptian temple. This bustling port city, located in the borderland between Egypt and the Levant, had a large immigrant southwest Asian population. The resultant mingling of social traditions and practice spanned several aspects of daily life, from foodways to burial, to religion (Porada 1984; Redmount 1995; Forstner-Müller 2008; Bietak 2009; Bader 2013; de Vreeze 2016; Candelora 2019). The religious example most often discussed is the syncretism of the Egyptian god Seth with Baal (Allon 2007; Schneider 2011; Mourad 2019), and the construction of a major temple to this new “Seth of Avaris,” which would be active for at least 400 years (Bietak 1990). In this unique context, it is crucial to not only examine the influences of both cultural traditions on sacred architecture and the materiality and performance of ritual practices but also to investigate how these elements could serve to negotiate or broadcast communal identity.

THE MANY MEANINGS OF SACRED ARCHITECTURE Architectural theorist Nelson Goodman argued that architecture has more in common with music than any other artistic production, because unlike painting or literature, buildings are “seldom descriptive or representational … they mean … in other ways”

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(Goodman 1985: 642). He goes on to note that architecture’s practical function especially tends to “obscure its symbolic function” (Goodman 1985: 643), or its ability to evoke or signify something. Spuybroek emphasizes that architects are trained to “plan movement first,” to outline the building plan or “surface of action” before the façade or surface of perception (Spuybroek 2008: 79). Although action is prioritized, both it and perception necessitate built forms that are shaped according to culturally specific needs. This dialogic relationship between culture and the built environment (in contexts wherein cultural groups are constructing their own buildings) has been termed “vernacular architecture.” Cultural groups have shared values and worldviews that structure the way they design their environments—not just buildings but also open spaces—in layout, function, and visual aesthetic (Rapoport 1987: 10–11; Oliver 2007: 3–16). Indeed, the ability of architecture to shape our impressions of a place and people have been reified in recent law––legal scholarship argues that architecture “serves as a regulatory force,” which can express “cultural or symbolic meanings … affect how people interact … be biased and favor certain social groups or values” (Shah and Kesan 2007: 351-2; see also Katyal 2001). Architecture is also a material manifestation of a “highly partial message about the city, identity or place” (Jones 2009: 2529). For monumental buildings especially, these social messages also represent the politicoeconomic power that commissioned their construction. For instance, in her study of architecture as empire in Ming China, Aurelia Campbell examines how the usurper emperor Yongle used new structures of particularly Chinese style to assert his presence in regions further from the capital and legitimize his claim to the throne (Campbell 2020). There are numerous examples of this phenomenon from the European empires of the nineteenth century across their colonial holdings in Africa and India (see Bremner 2016 and references therein). In the case of Tell el DabꜤa, the monumental structures at the site, including temples, palaces, and the city fortifications, were built in an overwhelmingly West Asian architectural style. I have compared this “foreign” cityscape to the Greek monuments of Ptolemaic Alexandria—which, like Yongle’s imposed imperial buildings–– served to simultaneously broadcast both the ruler’s power and their identity (Candelora 2019: 83). Religious buildings can also embody aspects of identity or ethnicity in local contexts. For example, a mosque built in British Lagos in 1894 stood as a symbol of the hybrid community locally called the Òyìnbó Dúdú, translated as “white-black.” At the time, British Lagos was home to locals, immigrants from other African regions like Sierra Leon, Afro-Brazilian immigrants, and British colonists (Teriba 2020: 279). The African immigrant communities often adopted aspects of British culture, such as dress, to distinguish themselves in origin and social status––hence the designation “white-black” (Teriba 2020: 281). This hybridity was reified and embodied in the construction of a new mosque, the façade of which replicates British Neoclassical architecture, while wood elements evoke Brazilian Jesuit styles and the colorful ceramic tiles of the pediment included local Lagosian tradition (Teriba 2020: 283–4). In these cases, it is clear that architecture can “help make and unmake identities, … create, reproduce or break up communities” (Verkaaik 2013: 13). Yet material approaches to religion have begun to push past the idea of buildings as simple symbols, or purely the locations in which phenomenological experiences occurred, instead exploring the agentic roles played by these structures (Latour 2005; Keane 2008; Insoll 2009; Hazard 2013). As noted earlier, architecture can predetermine the types of actions and interactions that take place within it. In the case of typical Egyptian temples,

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the enclosed, dark shrines at the back of the structure exerted a similar restriction on people, even long after the original religious specialists who designed the building died. It is through their materiality that religions become “part of experience and provoke responses, that they have public lives” (Keane 2008: 124). This “relative autonomy” allows material things to acquire new features, inferences, or symbolic meanings over time and in new contexts (Keane 2008: 124–5). In this way, religious practice, architecture (or spaces), and material objects can be seen as mutually constituted phenomena (Hazard 2013: 68–9). Sacred buildings, whether monumental temples or communal shrines, were interacted with frequently by numerous individuals, making the structures themselves important members of the community. Taken together then, architecture—location, style, and visibility—and the archaeological remains of practice can tell us much about not only ancient religious belief but also community identity.

SACRED ARCHITECTURE AT TELL EL DABꜤꜤ A At Tell el DabꜤa, the major temples in Area A/II were built in West Asian style (Figure 9.1). This sacred precinct was converted from an earlier, possibly temporary, settlement into a cemetery featuring two main temples during stratum F of the local area stratigraphy. Temple III is an example of the standard West Asian broad room temple structure with central axis, a procella, and included a wide cultic niche in the center of the rear wall of the cella (Bietak 1996: 36–40, 2009, 2016, 2019: 48). This structure is about 30 m long, making it one of the largest sanctuaries from the Middle Bronze Age, and plaster fragments indicate it was painted blue (Bietak 1996: 36). Aligned with the western wall of Temple III, to its north is Temple II, identified as a bent-axis temple with an

FIGURE 9.1  Area A/II sacred precinct, Tell el DabꜤa (source: courtesy of Manfred Bietak).

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attached tower. This temple also consists of a procella and cella, with a cult podium or altar originally located slightly off-center on the rear wall and moved to a more central position in a later phase (Bietak 2003, 2021: 121). Temple II had two entrances on the east wall, and Bietak notes that the location of the thresholds indicates the temple was entered through the northern door and exited via the southern, closest to the Holy of Holies, creating a processional route (Bietak 2019: 127). These entrances were connected to a large courtyard, hemmed in on the south and west by the two temple structures and potentially shared by both. This courtyard contained a mudbrick altar for burnt offerings, several offering or feasting pits, one or two tree pits, and two further pits each holding a pair of sacrificed equids (Bietak 1996: 36–40, 2021: 123). While evidence suggests that Temple III was in use through the end of the Hyksos period (Bietak 2019: 48), Temple II was abandoned in Stratum E/1 and emptied of all cult objects besides a bronze harpoon buried within the cult podium (Bietak 2021: 122). While it is impossible to know for certain what the façade of these temples looked like given the preservation of only their foundations, there are some reasonable conclusions to be made. Within the same sacred precinct, excavators uncovered foundations of small tripartite sanctuaries or chapels. Based on their tripartite form, these structures have been identified as Egyptian in style, following the Egyptian tradition of worshipping a divine trio (father, mother, and son) within the same temple (Bietak 2021: 122, 134, 2016). An earlier Twelfth Dynasty temple built in nearby area R/I also provides a strong example of this tripartite structure and seems to have been dedicated to the cult of Amenemhet I, strengthening the Egyptian association with this temple form at Avaris (Czerny 2016). Given this distinction in architectural style, it seems likely that the external appearance of Temples II and III may also have reflected their West Asian-ness. The monumentality of Temple III, and the fact that these buildings were likely the tallest structures in this area of the city, would have visibly reinforced and broadcast the foreign identities of the cult and the community members who adhered to it (Candelora 2019: 83).

SACRED ARCHITECTURAL PARALLELS IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST With that in mind, we can turn to the West Asian religious traditions that may have influe­ nced the A/II temples. In Jill Katz’s study of cultic structures in the Middle Bronze Age II Southern Levant, she determines that generally these sacred complexes occur on high ground and featured multiple cultic installations, such as “altars, niches, benches, hearths and pits,” especially in the courtyards. The main architectural form was a direct axis temple that varied greatly in terms of size and elaboration (Mazar 1992; Katz 2013: 154–5; Burke 2021: 302–18). Indeed, Katz notes that the small size of the temples restricted indoor activities to a limited number of people, while the open courtyards provided access to the entire community (Katz 2013: 158). Ritual practice may have centered on the courtyard and was intended to be seen and participated in by large numbers of people. While cultic activity likely differed between these temples, some similarities do arise: the presence of faunal remains, mainly of caprids, as well as miniature votive vessels either as foundation deposits or in proximity to the altar. Several examples have altars or hearths in the courtyard, likely where animal sacrifices were made, offerings burnt, feasts consumed, and divination rituals occurred––as evidenced by clay liver models from Hazor (Burke 2021: 314–17). The courtyard thus served as a place where such a community would be able to emphasize their shared identity. Interestingly, this also means that the external

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appearance of the temple, rather than its functional layout, may have had more of an impact on the maintenance and advertisement of community identity. Also, the distribution of male and female iconography within temple complexes shows that female imagery tends to be displayed more in courtyards. At Tel Kitan, a massevah in the form of a nude woman was discovered in the courtyard, which has been linked to Asherah or Astarte. At the temple courtyard in Nahriya, a mold and figurine fragment tentatively associate the temple with Asherat-Yam (Cross 1981: 81), while a figurine at Megiddo has been connected to Asherah (Kempinski 1989: 85–6; Katz 2013: 157–8). In a survey of broad-room and bent-axis temple structures from across second millennium bce West Asia, Bietak distinguishes the closest parallels to the Area A/II Temples in northern Syro-Mesopotamia. Broad-room examples occur at sites such as Byblos, Hazor, Ugarit, Alalakh, Aleppo, and Ebla, as well as extending into the Jezirah at sites like Tell Brak and Tell Qitar, and down the Euphrates at Mari (Bietak 2019: 59, especially fig. 17; see discussions in Mazar 1992; Pinnock 2000; Matthiae 2006a, b, 2007; Pinnock 2021). Bent-axis temples can be found at Byblos, Ebla, Tell Brak, and Mari, as well as Assur and southern Mesopotamian cities (Bietak 2021: 130, see also figs. 10, 18; see discussions in Mazar 1992; Pinnock 2000; Matthiae 2006a, b, 2007; Pinnock 2021). The vast majority of these parallels are also relatively small and connected to a courtyard containing an altar or other cultic installation. Bietak also works to identify the tutelary gods of these temples, suggesting that the broad-room type was often dedicated to a male storm god, while the bent-axis temples were most often dedicated to goddesses. It should be noted that several of these assignments are not secure, based on single inscribed objects that were often not found within the temple structure or even dating to the same stratigraphic phase— this is not to say that these assignments should be disregarded, just regarded as less confident. In fact, Bietak notes several examples of both temple types that have been attributed to deities of the opposite gender, as well as that several pieces of evidence potentially linking male gods to broad-room temples post-date the Area A/II temples (Bietak 2019, see fig. 23; 2021, see fig. 16). His conclusion, based also on the discovery of a cylinder seal with a male storm god from Area F/I, is that Temples II and III at Tell el DabꜤa were dedicated to a divine pair, with the broad-room temple dedicated to Hadad/Ba’al Zephon and the bent-axis to a female deity, possibly Asherah of the Sea (Bietak 2019: 60; 2021: 143). As these two distinct temple types were paired at Tell el DabꜤa, Bietak also seeks examples of this combination elsewhere. The strongest parallels to the Area A/II temples seem to be from Early Bronze Age Southern Mesopotamian sites. The Early Dynastic II–III precinct at Nippur includes a bent-axis temple—associated with Inanna by inscriptions on votive bowls—and a broad-room temple next door, though the deity remains unidentified. The Giparu at Ur was active from the Third Dynasty of Ur through the Kassite period and includes a bent-axis structure near a broad-room temple with courtyard, which Bietak identifies as belonging to the Entu-priestess (as the embodiment of Ningal) and Nanna, respectively (Bietak 2021: 136–7). Examples from the Middle Bronze Age present slightly more tenuous parallels for Area A/II, as they include a bent-axis structure located directly in front of a broad-room structure, as is the case at the Obelisk Temple at Byblos, and the vestibule and throne room from the Zimri Lim palace at Mari. While the Obelisk Temple is dedicated to a male deity, Herishef-Re (possibly syncretized with Resheph), the bent-axis structure in front is not identified with a divinity and the Mari rooms are part

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of a palace—though still possibly of sacred function. Bietak identifies another “doubtful” example at Ebla, where the Temple of Resheph, problematically a long-room rather than broad-room temple, is located near an unidentified bent-axis building (Bietak 2021: 138– 9). In all, especially considering the scarcity of secure evidence assigning temples to deities, Bietak’s explanation of a divine pair at Tell el DabꜤa seems very likely. Yet, there are a few pieces of evidence that may contribute more to the understanding of Area A/II and its role in the identity of the local community.

Sacred Spaces, Sacred Trees As shown in the parallels from the Levant and Mesopotamia, the space within these temples was rather limited, encouraging ritual acts to be performed in the courtyards, which tend to feature installations for this purpose. The majority of the evidence for cultic practice at the Area A/II temples suggests that it also occurred mainly in the courtyard, which feature feasting pits (though lacking pig bones), an altar for burnt offerings, and two sacrificial pits (see Figure 9.1). One of the most enigmatic finds from the area is a collection of acorns (Quercus pubescens Willd., see Bietak 2021: 122, n. 8), wrapped in a mud casing and burnt, which were found on the altar itself. Bietak also identifies one or two of the pits southeast of the altar as tree pits containing the oak tree that produced these acorns (Bietak 1996: 36, 2021: 122). As he notes, the downy oak (Quercus pubescens) is not native to ancient Egypt but rather to the Aegean and Anatolia, with several other oak species indigenous to slightly higher latitudes in Anatolia and the Levant (Rushforth 1999). Consequently, this oak tree would have to have been transplanted and carefully attended to ensure its growth in a hotter, drier climate. Bietak has suggested that this oak in the A/II temple courtyard may represent a tree cult, citing the reference to the pillar/ Asherah in the book of Judges (Bietak 1996: 36, 2021: 122 and references). This is an interesting situation for it is likely that not just the tree was transplanted. While Egyptian temples, especially royal mortuary temples such as that of Nebhepetre Montuhotep II at Deir el Bahri, had gardens with trees, they tend to occur in symmetrically planted arrangements featuring numerous trees and until the New Kingdom are of local species like sycomore fig, acacia, and tamarisk (Arnold 1979: 21–4). It is not until the reign of Hatshepsut that imported, nonnative trees are planted in her temple garden at Deir el Bahri (Dixon 1969), or an entire nonnative garden represented in stone at Thutmose III’s Akhmenu (Beaux 1990), perhaps an idea inspired by the West Asian immigrants from Tell el DabꜤa. Further, longstanding religious traditions in Egypt link gods like Osiris to local trees, so the selection of an oak could have been an active rejection of Egyptian religious concepts,1 or a strategic entanglement with West Asian beliefs. Though the Biblical reference postdates the A/II temple context, it is clear that West Asian goddesses such as Ishtar, Astarte, and Asherah have all been associated with trees–– most frequently date palms, but also oak trees, starting in the third millennium bce. West Asian images of these tree goddesses show them in a full range from (usually nude) human to part human, part tree, to full tree, and in these forms they represent fertility and sustenance (Figure 9.2). Often this iconography is tied in with “tree of life” motifs, and the sacred trees are grazed upon by a pair of ungulates (Figure 9.3; Keel 1998; Hadley 2000; Cornelius 2004; Keel and Uehlinger 2010; Ziffer 2010). In fact, this iconography may be the inspiration for the increasing popularity of tree cults to goddesses, rather than gods, in New Kingdom Egypt, especially in Theban tombs (Candelora forthcoming).2

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FIGURE 9.2  Gold piriform pendant, Tell el Ajjul, Middle Bronze Age. Ashmolean Museum AN1945.305 (source: line drawing by D. Candelora).

The dedication of the Area A/II temple courtyard specifically to a goddess fits well with the evidence from the southern Levant (Katz 2013: 157–8). The rest of the puzzle may be completed by the palace of Zimri Lim at Mari (Figure 9.4). In the center of Court 106, two large square stones were found with a deep hole cut through them, c. 30 cm in diameter. Margueron proposed that this hollow served as a flowerpot of sorts for a date palm (Margueron 1987), and Durand and Charpin have used Mari texts to demonstrate that this area was called the Court of the Palm (in the singular) (Parrot, Dossin, and Durand 1982: 215; Charpin 1983: 213; Nunn 1988: 77). Palm trees are rarer in the regions around Mari, as lower winter temperatures are less amenable to date palm growth and fruit production (Margueron 2000; Luciani 2010: 114; Ziffer 2010: 419). Apart from being placed at the exact center of the court, the date palm was reflected in the famous investiture painting on the wall leading into the “vestibule” and “throne room”—precisely the structures identified by Bietak as a contemporary example of a broad-room and bent-axis combination. The painting features two date palms flanking the central scene, in which Ishtar presents the symbols of rule to Zimri Lim (Nunn 1988: 77–8; Margueron 1987, 1992, 1995, 2000; Luciani 2010; Ziffer 2010: 417–19). It should be noted that scholarly opinions differ as to whether this tree

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FIGURE 9.3  Tree of Life stele, Mari, Early Bronze Age (source: line drawing by D. Candelora, after Ziffer 2010: fig. 1).

pit held a real date palm (Luciani 2010; Ziffer 2010: 417–19) or an artificial version constructed of a wooden inner structure clad in bronze and silver plating (Margueron 1995: 892). Here I side with the scenario featuring a real tree, but in both cases Ishtar is identified with the palms in the image, which represent the single palm tree in the courtyard (Ziffer 2010: 417–19). I would argue that the Mari palm tree formed the central focus of religious rituals related to kingship—those that were meant for more public eyes, with the palm itself standing in as the physical manifestation of the goddess— while the more secretive aspects of the ceremony were performed inside the adjacent investiture halls.3 Palatial gardens in the ancient Near East are often linked to fertility, the feminine (see, e.g., Besnier 2002; Ziffer 2010), as well as kingship. These gardens represent the power of the king through his domestication of nature, especially in cases where the flora is not native to the region (Wilkinson 2003: 65)—see again the Egyptian example

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FIGURE 9.4  Court 106 and investiture halls, Palace of Zimri Lim, Mari (source: line drawing by D. Candelora, after Margueron 1995: 888).

of Thutmose III’s “Botanical Garden” at Karnak (Beaux 1990). Additionally, Ishtar, often linked with the date palm, is also associated with kingship (Cornelius 2004: 85; Ziffer 2010: 418), and sometimes the color blue. She is symbolized in the Mari Investiture scene as a light-blue dove in the fronds of the date palm (Pinnock 2000; Luciani 2010: 106; Ziffer 2010: 418), and the Ishtar Gate and throne room at Babylon famously featured blue glazed bricks (Marzahn 1992). Potentially the sacred precinct at Tell el DabꜤa reflects the case at Mari, with the oak, the embodiment of Ishtar/Astarte,4 as the recipient of more community-accessible, advertised cult. The tree was not native to the region, requiring extra care, and thus served to overemphasize origins and foreignness, and potentially the power of the king. The oak would also have extended much higher than the precinct walls, standing as a visible monument to the community’s identity as much as the foreign architectural styles of the temples around it. The location of the altar and tree pit, almost directly in-line with the axis of Temple III, aligns the tree with the sacred interior space just as in Mari. The remains of blue paint from Temple III, as well as the lack of secure godly attribution, and the presence of broad-room temples for female deities at Byblos, Mari, and Tell Ischali, may suggest that the larger Temple III was in fact the temple of the goddess, rather than the shorter-lived bent-axis Temple II.

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CONCLUSION This chapter has sought to demonstrate the merit of a material approach to sacred architecture, as it can draw focus away from the structures themselves to the entire environmental design, including spaces and objects contained within. This holistic design was predicated on a cultural worldview imported by West Asian immigrants, shared values that required specific surfaces of action, such as the axiality of the temples, as well as particular surfaces of perception, which would have included the style of the façade, colored plaster, and the oak itself. Arguably, the materiality of courtyard emplacements, from altars to acorns, had just as much, if not more of an impact on the Avaris community than the temple buildings, but all were both dictated by and regulated the actions of the people who used them. It seems that these courtyards were highly religious spaces reserved for cultic rituals and strong statements of communal religious identity. In the case of Area A/II, the elites of West Asian descent who commissioned this sacred precinct utilized both architectural style and the courtyard space to advertise their origins—the holistic environmental design represented a West Asian vernacular. Furthermore, transplantation of a foreign tree aligned the community with a West Asian tradition of dominion over nature as a display of royal power, while the tree cult itself allowed the immigrant community to continue the practice of their religious traditions, potentially bringing Ishtar to Egypt as a goddess of fertility, kingship, and protection for the immigrants of Tell el DabꜤa.

NOTES Caroline Arbuckle MacLeod, personal communication. 1 2 Though it should be noted that Hathor is referred to as “Mistress of the Sycomore” as early as the Old Kingdom (see Lesko 1999: 83–4). 3 The parallel long-room Late Bronze Age temples at Emar may also represent something similar––Sakal reinterprets the pits on the cult terrace as a garden, arguing that the pits occur in orderly rows (Sakal 2012: 90). My thanks to Manfred Bietak for bringing this parallel to my attention. 4 There is a vast literature discussing the common conflation or amalgamation of these female deities (see, e.g., Keel 1998; Cornelius 2004; Keel and Uehlinger 2010; Ziffer 2010).

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CHAPTER TEN

Evidence for an Urartian Belief System: The Institutionalization of Religion in the Mountainous Eastern Anatolian Highland––The Case of Ayanis MEHMET IŞIKLI

The Southern Caucasus (Transcaucasia), Eastern Anatolian highlands, and Northwest Iran (Iranian Azerbaijan) feature an astonishing wealth of geographical aspects of mountainous and rugged topography, low and flat plains, well-watered plateaus grasslands, and rich river systems. The climate of the region is harsh and wet, preferencing animal husbandry and secondarily an agricultural subsistence strategy since prehistoric times. The Iron Age Urartian kingdom was the first successful political system established here, introducing to primarily tribal political structures concepts such as state, writing, institutionalization, and urbanization. The Urartian state, found mainly around the Van Lake basin, dominated this mountainous belt politically and culturally for roughly three centuries, stretching from the Euphrates River to the shores of Lake Sevan, from the mountains of Northeast Anatolia to the shores of Lake Urmia, and to the Taurus-Zagros range. The archaeological and textual data reveal that the political history of the kingdom developed in three main stages: the Establishment Period (850–786 bce), the Evolution Period (786–685 bce), and the PeakCollapse Period (685–585 bce), which reflect the political, socioeconomic, cultural, and religious developments in the kingdom (Akın Aras 2021) (Figure 10.1). The Urartian elites, whose central political structure held together politically, ethnically, and culturally divided groups in a challenging geography for about two

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FIGURE 10.1  Map showing Urartian geography and sites mentioned in the text and on the Urartian King List (map designed by Buket Beşikçi, courtesy of the Ayanis Excavation).

hundred and eighty years, succeeded in nurturing a new culture based on their own local origins. The Urartian belief system and religious identity is reflected in its complex codes. The aim of this study is to examine the stages of the development and institutionalization of the belief system of the Urartian kingdom within the framework of architectural data.

MATERIALS OF URARTIAN RELIGION Indisputably, the most important archaeological evidence of the Urartian religion is represented by architectural remains, in particular the standardized temples and special places of worship. As in many areas of Urartian culture, temples that developed under state control were standardized in terms of architecture and dominate this area. In addition to architectural data, many artifacts related to religious activities have been found. These elements are discussed in the following sections.

Sacred Rock Monuments: Ḫaldi Gates (šeštili) The D hal-di-na-u-e KA/KA/(GIŠ)KÁ sumerogram and the Urartian word šeštili in Urartian inscriptions were translated as “Ḫaldi Gates,” indicating rock monuments consisting of monumental rock niches (Figure 10.2). The Ḫaldi Gates, long a subject of debate, are mentioned in twenty-eight texts dating from the period of Ishpuini, son of Sarduri, to the period of Rusa, son of Argişti. According to some philologists, this expression refers to the Ḫaldi temples themselves, while others argue it is used only for monumental niches (Salvini 2006: 157–96); these door-like niches are thought to symbolize the door of a temple. The rock monuments form a unique group of Urartian religious materials in specially chosen locations across the Urartian homeland. These monuments had special areas that may have contained

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FIGURE 10.2  Sacred rock monuments (Ḫaldi Gates): 1. Meher Kapı; 2. Hazine Piri Kapısı; 3. Tabriz Kapı; 4. Yeşilalıç (Photographs: photo by Esat Şahin, Vedat Atlı, and Yalçın Yazlık, courtesy of the Ayanis Excavation).

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FIGURE 10.3  Urartian stelae: 1. Altıntepe stelae (Photograph: Mehmet Ali Yılmaz); 2. Aznavurtepe stelae (Photograph: courtesy of the Van Museum); 3. and 4. Kayalıdere stelae (Photographs: Sabahattin Erdoğan).

monumental niches carved into smooth rock surfaces, platforms, benches, steps, canals, altars, and stelae (Grekyan 2019: 437–47, fig.1) (Figures 10.1, 10.3.1). These monuments (Ḫaldi Gates), built in the Ishpuini–Menua joint kingdom period, when standard Urartian temples had not yet emerged, must have been the main venues for religious activities. They are generally of equal size and consist of niches with a threestage frame; these are thought to represent the entrance of a building (temple) with a single- or double-leaf wooden door. There are not many of these rock monuments, termed “blank door” by the modern local people. The most important examples are Hazine Piri Kapısı, Meher Kapı, Yeşil Alıç, Tebriz Kapı, and Hazine Kapısı (Analı Kız), all of which are in the Urartian homeland (Figure 10.1). Chronologically, the earliest is the Hazine Piri Kapısı, located on the slopes of Zivistan Castle, which was built by King Ispuini (Belli and Dinçol 1982: 173–89) (Figure 10.2.2). Another example, contemporary with the Hazine Piri Kapısı but with more elaborate workmanship, is the “Yeşilalıç Rock Monument” near Pagan Village (Figure 10.2.4). This monument is larger (exterior: 5.10 × 2.40 m, interior: 4.60 × 1.20 m); cavities, canals, and foundation beds in its vicinity suggest that this area may have hosted stelae and perhaps some kind of structure (a kind of temple/susi). An inscription in the niche mentions a temple (É)susi for the first time (Genç 2016: 67–76, Tab. XLIV). At the Tebriz Kapı monument, where the Capital Tuşpa citadel is located (Figure 10.2.3), an inscription also mentions an (É)susi. Tebriz Kapı, similar to the “Hazine Piri Kapısı” in terms of its technical features, dates to the İnişpua period, when the son of Menua served as ruler. A short-term excavation at the Tuşpa citadel revealed a space with a double-room with a gate and stepped frame; this was interpreted as the “temple” possibly mentioned in the inscription (Tarhan 2021: 503–507, fig. 14). Located on the northeastern slopes of the Tuşpa citadel cliffs rests the “Analı Kız” rock monument, spread over a 450 m2 area, 50 m (east–west) and 13.50 m (north–south),

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within which are two monumental niches carved into the rock surface, stelae, bases, benches, and canals (Figure 10.2.5). Dissimilar to the Ḫaldi Gates in terms of typology and general context, “Analı Kız” surprisingly features royal annals of Sarduri (II), enhancing the royal characteristics. This has called into question the cultic and religious function of the area (Genç and Konyar 2019: 1–23, fig. 2). Most important among the rock monuments (Ḫaldi Gates) is Meher Kapı, the last example of the monumental rock monuments and open-air worship areas, and representing the first stage of institutionalized Urartian religion (Figure 10.2.1). Meher Kapı had the same meaning for Urartians as the “Yazılıkaya rock monument” had for the Hittites. It is generally held that this monument represented the shaping and disclosure of the state religion and pantheon; it features an inscription listing the divine figures of different ethnic groups within the kingdom. Undoubtedly, the institutionalization of religion was not independent on the sociopolitical developments during the establishment of the kingdom. The role of the first stage, especially the Meher Kapı, was critical to the transfer of religion to the temples (Salvini 1994; Çilingiroğlu 2011; Baştürk 2012: 76–177). Meher Kapı rests at the base of Zimzim/Qilibani Mountain where the Toprakkale citadel is located (Figure 10.2.1). It is thought to be another capital of the kingdom and is only 7 km from Tuşpa. The dimensions of the monumental niche, which has a three-stage frame, are 4.10 × 2.60 × 1.30 m. There is a smaller niche nearby and a platform in front of it. The niche has an inscription of ninety-four lines and is the most important document about the Urartian religion yet found. The inscription lists Urartian gods, goddesses (including minor and local), sacred cities, geographic elements, and other sacred motifs; a detailed list of sacrifices informs the holy figures how many sacrifices will be offered. It is a proclamation of the institutionalization of the Urartian religion and a pantheon including the chief god. The inscription does not mention the word “(É)susi,” although it does mention temples/sanctuaries dedicated to deities (not Ḫaldi) in certain cities (Salvini 1994; Çilingiroğlu 2011).

Stelae and Sanctuaries with Stelae In addition to Ḫaldi Gates, a second category of architectural elements is stelae and sanctuaries with stelae, expressed as (NA4)pulusi and teribišuzi in Urartian inscriptions. It is suggested that these relatively uncommon stones may have represented the “image of Ḫaldi” (NU-ni d haldini), and, moreover, his house (Grekyan 2021: 179–180, fig. 3; Baştürk 2012: tabs. 7–8; map 15). Stelae are generally well-made, with heights varying between 2 and 4 m. They consist of monolithic stone blocks with a curved upper part, often with no surface decoration or inscription. They rose above specially made pedestals or sockets carved into the bedrock (Figure 10.3). Stelae and associated areas were contemporary with Ḫaldi Gates and can be considered “the first temples”; they have been associated with an “ancestral cult,” an element in the archaic Urartian belief system and evident in the context of burial and burial traditions since the Early Iron Age (Baştürk 2012: 196–9). Stelae are found at Altıntepe in Erzincan, and Kayalıdere, in Varto, Muş, which are far from the Urartian homeland and defined as “provincial centers.” Another example was found at Aznavurtepe Castle in Ağrı Patnos, which was a royal city in the homeland (Baştürk 2012: 190–9) (Figure 10.1). The only examples whose excavated context is well understood are those in Altıntepe Castle, a provincial center located on the main road connecting Anatolia with the Caucasus

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FIGURE 10.4  1. Drawing showing worship at the Altıntepe Stelae (drawing by Mehmet Ali Yılmaz); 2. Drawing suggesting the function of the Teişeba relief at Kef Castle (Seidl 1993, 2012).

at the western border of the kingdom, in the Euphrates headwater region (Figures 10.1, 10.3.1, and 10.4.1). Since it features no inscription, attribution to a particular king is not possible. The context of tombs and stelae on the outer southeastern terrace of the citadel was unique to Urartu, where three chamber tombs and four stelae were found surrounded by a stone wall. Although this terrace is defined as an open-air sanctuary, it also may have been an indoor space, given the surrounding wall. The four monolithic stelae are 2.30 m high and 0.50 m wide, rising on a pedestal. A well-worked stone, 0.50 m in diameter, and a channel, were found in front of the stelae. This context has been interpreted as a liquid libation altar or tree of life pedestal, based on seal impressions. Due to the noble tombs located near the stelae on the terrace, this area has been also associated with

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the “Cult of the Dead/Cult of Ancestors” (Karaosmanoğlu 2021) (Figures 10.3.1 and 10.4.1). The stelae in Aznavurtepe in Patnos and Kayalıdere in Muş were discovered during illegal excavations, and therefore contextual information is lost. Three stelae and a pedestal, excavated on the southern outskirts of Aznavurtepe, are exhibited in the Van Museum (Uysal 2007: 5–8) (Figure 10.3.2). C. Burney’s 1965 excavation at Kayalıdere Castle in Varto, Muş, revealed a rectangular base (2 × 1.35 m) of the same width as the temple door, though there was no trace of any stelae. Salvage excavations at the site in 2018–19 uncovered small and large fragments of seven stelae on the outskirts of the citadel; three of these are in good condition. Two pedestals were recovered in situ. The short-term excavations, concentrated in a narrow area, prevent identification of the exact plan, context, and function of the stelae area (Burney 1966: 55–111, pl. VIII; Erdoğan et al. 2020) (Figures 10.3.3–4).

The Temples: (É)susi “Temples,” which represent the last and most important stage of the institutionalization process of the Urartian religion, were located in the most central and highest position on the city citadels and featured a fairly standard plan (Figures 10.5 and 10.6). They were generally freestanding, and a square planned inner room (cella), separated from the other buildings in the citadel by the courtyard walls, and located in a courtyard with surrounding structures. The interior dimensions of cella are generally 5 × 5 m; upper walls, which had several rows of stone foundations, were built of mudbrick and rather thick. The four corners of the cella had projections called rizalit, which had two or three levels, resulting in Urartian temples being defined as “square planned temples with rizalit.” Except for the foundations at Ḫaldi Temple in Ayanis, there is no data on temple mudbrick superstructures and roofs; there are suggestions that they may have flat or triangular roofs with towers (Çilingiroğlu 2012) (Figures 10.5 and 10.6). In general, temple doors faced no typical direction but were symmetrically placed at the front. After passing through the door, corridors of varying lengths led to the cella. Information about the interior decorations of the cella is extremely limited since most, except for a few examples (see the discussion of the Ḫaldi Temple later), have been damaged (Figures 10.5 and 10.6), though it is assumed that interiors were richly decorated or painted. The cella floors were usually made of compacted earth or paved with slabs of stone. Few examples have podiums or platforms inside the cella. In a single example––at Ayanis––the inner surfaces of the foundation blocks were decorated with mythological figures, similar to orthostats of the Hittite period. The earliest Urartian temples appeared during the joint kingdom period of the founding kings Ishpuini–Menua (Figure 10.6). Questions therefore arise regarding the nature of the earliest Urartian temple and whether there was a precursor, archaic temple model. Important in this regard are the political developments of the Ishpuini– Menua periods, including the relations of these two powerful founding kings with Northern Iraq (Muşaşir) and Northwest Iran (Hasanlu). The general opinion is that the influence from these regional cultures and gods was significant in the emergence and development of the Ḫaldi Cult, Urartian temple architecture, and monuments such as the Ḫaldi Gate and stelae (Stronach 1967; Kleiss 1989; Çilingiroğlu 1998, 2012; Baştürk 2012: 238–46).

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FIGURE 10.5  Plate showing Urartian temple plans: 1. Aznavurtepe; 2. Anzaf; 3. Körzüt; 4. Arinberd (Ḫaldi); 5. Arinberd (Iubşa); 6. Armavir-Blur; 7. Kayalıdere; 8. Çavuştepe (Ḫaldi); 9. Çavuştepe (İrmuşini); 10. Altıntepe; 11. Karmir-Blur; 12. Bastam; 13. Toprakkale (redrawn by İlhan Özgör).

Could the legendary Ḫaldi Temple in Muşaşir be a pioneer in this regard? The city of Muşaşir and the Ḫaldi Temple are known only from inscriptions and a well-known drawing (Figure 10.7). In this famous drawing, the Ḫaldi Temple, which was looted by Assyrian soldiers, is depicted from the front. The temple, which has a low and wide profile, rises on a podium with steps at the entrance. In front of the temple are six pillars displaying lion-headed shields and a three-legged cauldron. There is a spear-shaped object on the triangular roof. Although this temple contains Urartian elements, the architectural design, podium, and spear/leaf roof akroteria are not typically Urartian (Figure 10.7). It would, therefore, be incorrect to consider the temple in Muşaşir as the prototype of the standard Urartian temples; rather, it was instrumental in shaping the Urartian belief system and in the transfer of the chief god Ḫaldi to Urartu (Baştürk 2012: 76; Çilingiroğlu 2012). A controversial example of the earliest Urartian temple is a structure unearthed during T. Tarhan’s short-term excavations in the center of the capital Tuşpa’s citadel. Here, a double-roomed structure with a stepped frame entrance was identified as a temple dating to the Sarduri I period. It has been suggested that this structure is the susi structure mentioned in the inscription of the Tebrizkapı monument on the Tuşpa citadel (Baştürk 2012: fig. 45; Tarhan 2021: 497–592, fig. 8). Another structure proposed as one of the earliest temples is related to the Yeşilalıç monumental niche. The foundation traces in the bedrock around the monument suggested that there may be a temple here. The existence

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FIGURE 10.6  Urartu temples unearthed by excavations: 1. Altıntepe (Photograph: Mehmet Ali Yılmaz); 2. Körzüt (Photograph: Erol Uslu); 3. Arinberd; 4. Çavuştepe (İrmuşini); 5. Kayalıdere; 6. Armavir-Blur (Photographs: M. Işıklı).

FIGURE 10.7  Drawing of relief showing the plundering of Musashir Temple (redrawn by B. Beşikçi, courtesy of the Ayanis Excavation).

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of a “susi which was built in the name of the Ḫaldi” mentioned in the monument’s inscription may support this view (Genç, 2016: 67–76, fig. 1). Contemporary with the institutionalization of the Urartian religion, and the formation of the pantheon and clergy, the ten temples of the Ishpuini and Menua periods must be the earliest temples. Six of these are dated to the Menua period of which archaeological excavations have partially revealed three: Anzaf (Van), Körzüt (Van), and Aznavurtepe (Ağrı) (Figure 10.5.1 and 10.5.3). The most systematically excavated is the Ḫaldi Temple at Anzaf Fortress and is currently considered to be the earliest known temple. The square planned temple, resting on a platform built on bedrock, measures 13.40 × 13.40 m. Its foundation walls were built of shapeless, roughly worked stone blocks. The short inscription in the northeast corner of the temple entrance mentions that this temple (susi) was dedicated to Ḫaldi by King Menua. Rooms around the temple containing bronze weapons dedicated to Ḫaldi suggest that the temple was not a free-standing structure but rather a complex with surrounding buildings (Belli 1998) (Figure 10.5.1). The temples at Aznavurtepe and Körzüt Castle were revealed through systematic excavations. The Aznavurtepe temple has a square plan (5.03 × 5.03 m) located in a courtyard measuring 14.20 × 14 m (Stronach 1967: 279). Three rows of the foundation’s worked stone blocks are preserved. The temple inscription is a kind of royal annul and mentions that King Menua had built not a susi but a “Ḫaldi Gate” to Ḫaldi (Balkan 1960: 99) (Figure 10.5.2). Körzüt Castle, the third excavated temple dating to the Menua period, was originally known only from inscriptions. It was partially uncovered through illegal excavations from which a plan was drawn (Balkan 1960; Kleiss 1989: Abb. 1). Additional excavations by the Van Museum between 2016 and 2017 further clarified the temple plan that features a main room measuring 8 × 7 m and part of the forecourt. The floor of the sacred room, which has three rows of stones, was covered with flat stones. The building, whose stonework is more elaborate, has a door with a two-stage frame (Uslu 2021: 125–35; Res. 8, 11) (Figures 10.5.3 and 10.6.2). The Ishpuni and Menua periods experienced political and religious transformation, with the creation of huge castles, water canals, vineyard and garden investments, and large religious constructions, including rock monuments, stela areas, and temples. Menua in particular made great religious investments, especially on the eastern shores of Lake Van. This dynamic period was followed by the militarily powerful I. Argişti period when this king sponsored religious construction, for the first time, in the basin of Aras-Sevan Lake, far from the homeland (Çilingiroğlu 1997: 71–2). Argişti, who gave special importance to this region, built two temples in his royal city (Arinberd/Erebuni) (Figure 10.5.4–6). Though partially destroyed by later construction, it is clear that these were not the standard square-planned temples known from the Menua period. The rectangular-planned temple (5.05 × 8.08 m interior, 10 × 13.10 m exterior), located west of the city citadel, was dedicated to a local god named “Iubsha,” likely brought from Northern Mesopotamia via a mass population transfer initiated by Argişti (Figure 10.5.4). Given that another temple was soon built in a nearby settlement, it is highly likely that Iubsha was a popular local god in the region (Stronach et al. 2010: 99–133, fig. 13; Areshyan and Stronach 2021). The city’s second temple is part of a complex structure that differs in plan and has a columned courtyard. The 2008–9 excavations provided a little more clarity on the temple plan. The stepped rizalits at the corners of the larger structure are quite unique, but the main difference is in the temple’s façade. The entrance is not in the middle (symmetrical)

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as is usual in Urartian architecture. Rather, next to the entrance is a niche with a stepped frame, which is anathema to the basic symmetrical features of Urartian architecture. The niche, the interior of which was painted bright red, is a singular example in Urartian temple architecture, in its imitation of monumental rock monuments; it is interpreted as a representative of the transition from rock monuments to temples (Stronach et al. 2010 99–133, fig. 6; Areshyan and Stronach 2021) (Figure 10.5.5). The period of Sarduri II, who ruled Urartu after Argişti, politically and militarily expanded the kingdom into Northwest Iran, the upper Euphrates, and the Aras basin. The institutionalization of the religion continued with the construction of new temples. Sarduri built two temples in his homeland region of Sarduruihinili (in Çavuştepe), and a temple in Armavir, which he designated a holy city in the middle Araxes basin (Figure 10.5.6). The Armavir temple consisted of three structures that are completely different from the standard Urartian temples in terms of plan, size, and contents, leading some to identify it as a noble residence (Forbes 1983: 74; Smith 1999: 65). Recent excavations revealed traces of a standard Urartian temple founded on a square podium within the bedrock (13.80 × 13.80 m) (Karapetyan 2010). Undoubtedly, Sarduri’s most important contribution was the magnificent Sarduruihinili Castle (in Çavuştepe), built to control the Iranian road and Gürpınar plain. There are two temples in the large two-part citadel (Erzen 1992: 6). The first temple is well-preserved, located in the Lower Castle, and is dedicated to the god Irmusini. After the Iubsha temple in Arinberd, it is the second example of a temple dedicated to a god other than Ḫaldi. In the Upper Castle, however, there was a more standard temple dedicated to Ḫaldi (É. BÁRA). The interior of this square planned temple with rizalit measures 4.50 × 4.50 m. Therefore, there may have been two worship areas in the citadel, leading some to assign a “cult center” function to the settlement (Tarhan 2021) (Figures 10.5.8–9 and 10.6.4). The temple in the provincial center of Kayalıdere is of the standard square plan Urartian style, resting on a poorly worked stone block foundation, with an exterior measuring 12.50 × 12.50 m and an interior 5 × 5 m. Fronting the temple is a partially excavated stone paved courtyard with pillars and a stele base and traces of a pedestal belonging to a three-legged cauldron. Considering the seven stelae mentioned above and unearthed in recent illegal excavations, it is not surprising to discover stelae in the courtyard (Burney 1966; Erdoğan et al. 2020) (Figures 10.5.7 and 10.6.5). Undoubtedly, the most extensive construction outside the Urartian homeland was the castle, open-air worship area, and well-preserved temple in the westernmost provincial center at Altıntepe. The square-planned temple with rizalits is located in the middle of a pillared courtyard, featuring twenty stone column bases, and measures 27.20 × 30 m; the dimensions of the accompanying cella are 13.80 × 13.80 m on the exterior with an interior of 5.20 × 5.20 m. Since there is no inscription, it is not clear to which god the temple was dedicated. Similar to Toprakkale, undecorated bronze tiles, used as “construction inscriptions,” were found between the blocks at the four corners of the building. Two bases suitable for a spear or tree of life rest on both sides of the temple entrance, and traces of an altar or hearth were found at the entrance and at the back of the building (Özgüç 1966; Karaosmanoğlu 2011) (Figures 10.5.10 and 10.6.1). Rusa, son of Argişti, represented the last phase of Urartian history known as the “Peak and Collapse” or “Urartian Renaissance” period. Most of the excavated cities date to Rusa’s forty-year reign, and thus the majority of our knowledge about Urartu is related to this king and period. During his reign, Urartu experienced significant transformations in

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socioeconomic, cultural, artistic, and even bureaucratic areas. Changes occurred in terms of religion, in many areas, including religious architecture dedicated to the presence of goddesses in the pantheon. The huge cities and royal religious structures founded by the king were quite magnificent (Çilingiroğlu 2002; Zimansky 2005). The most impressive of these cities is Ayanis, the royal family’s last major construction. Textual and archaeological data indicate that Rusa founded a total of five cities—three in the mainland, and two in the territory of the “Sevan/Gökçe Lake” and “Araxes River” basins. In each of these cities, Rusa had temples and special religious structures. So far, the religious architecture of only two of them (Toprakkale and Ayanis) have been extensively excavated (Figure 10.5.11 and 10.5.13). The other known temple of the Rusa period is the Ḫaldi temple in Toprakkale. The dating and status (whether a capital or not) is debated, and the excavations at the site detail the development of Urartian archaeology (Genç 2018). Excavations at different periods in the Toprakkale Castle revealed a temple with standard features on a platform within the bedrock. Around the temple, which measured 13.60 × 13.80 m externally and 5.20 × 5.20 m internally, various rooms were placed on the bedrock (Van Loon 1966: 50) (Figure 10.5.13). At Karmir-Blur in Armenia, which was one of the largest citadels built by King Rusa, no temple has yet been found during the long-term excavations. An inscription, similar to the one in the Ayanis temple, suggests there were two temples in the city (Dan 2010: 46–7; Grekyan 2021). Other inscriptions indicate that temples were built in Bastam Castle in Northwest Iran and Kef Castle on the west coast of Lake Van––two other important cities of the king. At Bastam, a platform in the middle of the citadel, and recovered inscriptions here, suggest that there might have been a susi in this area (Salvini 2005) (Figure 10.5.11– 12). At Kef Castle, reliefs bearing divine figures of extraordinary craftsmanship indicate that there must have been a temple here; recent work suggests the reliefs depict the god Teisheba adorning the door façade to a temple or a holy place (Seidl 1993, 2012) (Figure 10.4.2).

CASE STUDY: AYANIS/RUSAHINILI A Sacred City Rising across the Lake from the God Eiduru Many Urartian centers are known only through short-term excavations, most of which were carried out on citadels with a focus on artifacts. Perhaps the most important longterm project has been the thirty-five years of continuous excavation at the site of Ayanis. The site is located on the eastern shore of Lake Van, within a day’s walking distance from the kingdom’s capital, Tuşpa (Van Castle) (Figure 10.1). The citadel and outer city, built on a natural rock overlooking the shores of Lake Van, are in a sheltered and isolated location. Majestic Mount Süphan, on the opposite lake shore, completes the breathtaking landscape (Işıklı and Ocak 2020: 43–54) (Figure 10.8). Argişti’s son Rusa must have considered many criteria when choosing this location, including standard elements such as transportation, control of natural resources, and strategic placement. However, the primary criterion was most likely the city’s extraordinarily beautiful landscape, which featured Mount Süphan, a main element of the religious landscape. This deified mountain was the “God Eiduru,” known from the temple inscription; this is a mountain god, whose name we have not seen in any previous Urartian inscription. Indeed, Rusa included The City of Rusa in front of the Eiduru

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FIGURE 10.8  Aerial photograph showing Ayanis City and its surroundings (Photograph: M. Işıklı, courtesy of the Ayanis Excavation Archive).

FIGURE 10.9  Aerial photograph of the temple area at the Ayanis Citadel and plan of the temple area (Photograph: M. Işıklı).

Mountain/Eiduru-kai from Rusahinili in the construction inscription when describing this city (Çilingiroğlu and Salvini 2001; Işıklı and Ocak 2020 43–54) (Figure 10.8). Excavations have revealed about a quarter of the 6-hectare citadel (Figure 10.9), including mostly royal religious structures and storage areas, as well as the fortification walls. Ayanis is also very rich in terms of textual data, and this is probably why its founder, Rusa, is known to us as the “Architect of the Urartian Renaissance.” Our excavations at

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Ayanis demonstrate that Urartian concepts such as castle, city, royal city, religious center, or cult center require reassessment. Many innovations in religious figures, worship and ritual details, the design of religious places, and interior decorations are found at Ayanis, which was more than a castle and was established for a special purpose (Çilingiroğlu and Salvini 2001; Işıklı and Aras 2020) (Figure 10.8, and see Figure 10.15).

The Temple Area Archaeological excavations at Ayanis, continuous since 1989, have revealed that the Ḫaldi Temple area contains perhaps the most important collection of data about Urartian religion after Meher Kapı. This 12 m2 area, located at an elevated position in the center of the citadel, consists of four basic parts: (1) the “Pillared Courtyard,” (2) “Cella,” (3) “The Hall with Podium,” and (4) the “Northern Spaces.” Although excavations of the courtyard, cella, and hall have largely been completed, the “Northern Spaces” have not yet been excavated (Çilingiroğlu 2001; Aras and Köse 2021) (Figure 10.9).

The Pillared Courtyard The Pillared Courtyard, which includes the cella, measures 33 × 33 × 37 m; a 2-m thick mudbrick wall that surrounds the temple courtyard is preserved up to 3 m in height in some areas. It is likely that the walls of the courtyard were painted, up to a height of about 1 m, with a blue synthetic dye called Egyptian or Urartian blue. Archaeological investigation suggests the pillared section was a covered portico, with the rest of the courtyard open. Part of the courtyard floor was paved with mudbrick blocks (Çilingiroğlu 2001; Aras and Köse 2021) (Figures 10.9–10.10). Recent excavations revealed a 1.5-m wide doorway paved with alabaster slabs in the southeast corner of the courtyard. Apart from this main entrance, other gates connect the courtyard to the surrounding spaces. One, in the courtyard’s northeast corner, leads to the newly uncovered “Podium Hall.” This gate, previously thought to be the main door to the temple area, was also paved with alabaster tiles. Inscribed bronze discs and an alabaster pedestal were found on the courtyard side of the gate. These entrances were all built at an equal distance (7 m) from the core temple (susi), demonstrating the importance of symmetry in the Urartian architecture (Çilingiroğlu 2001; Aras and Köse 2021) (Figures 10.9 and 10.11). In the courtyard, twelve symmetrically arranged pillars, 5.5 m from one another, are arranged on the three sides of the temple. Two of them are adjacent to the cella (Figure 10.9). The rectangular pillars are mudbrick, resting on basalt stone foundations, and have projections in the form of rizalits on their corners. Numerous bronze, gold, and iron artifacts found in front of the pillars were dedicated to Ḫaldi and may have been hung on pillars during religious ceremonies held in the temple courtyard. Most of the weapons were dedicated with the phrase “It was attributed to God Ḫaldi,” due to his “warrior” and “victorious” identity. The king, who attributed military victory to the power of Ḫaldi, would have shown his gratitude through the weapons he presented to the temples on his return to his city. These gifts, consisting of shields, helmets, quivers, swords, spears, and arrowheads, would have been displayed on the temple walls and pillars (Çilingiroğlu 2007: 41–6) (Figure 10.9, and see Figure 10.15). The hearth, located west of the pillar and adjacent to the northern wall of the cella, provided important data on the fire cult in Urartu. The inscription on a lion-headed shield, which is a unique find in this area, reads, “Rusa says: whoever takes this shield, whoever

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FIGURE 10.10  Reconstruction drawings of the Ayanis temple area (drawings by Mete Özgör, courtesy of the Ayanis Excavation).

throws it, whoever … whoever throws earth on the fire, whoever erases my name and puts his own name, the god Haldi, let him destroy his seed, the seed of his seed under the sun” (Salvini 2001: 270). The inscription likely stated that the fire burning in the hearth symbolized the sovereignty of the kingdom and that it should never be extinguished while the kingdom remained strong (Çilingiroğlu 2005; Aras and Köse 2021) (Figure 10.10.3). The weapons, votive items filled with maize seeds, bronze quivers, and jars found at the hearth demonstrate that the trinity of fire, weapons, played an important role in rituals. At Meher Gate evidence suggests that animal-based offerings were made in the Urartian religion. At Ayanis, it is clear that agricultural products were also important in these religious rituals. Grain, symbolizing fertility, and weapons, representing victory, were presented to Ḫaldi, accompanied by the fire of eternal life (Çilingiroğlu 2004). An oval structure, 4 m in diameter, rests in the center of the courtyard across from the cella; on top of it is a 0.50 m mudbrick wall with a stone foundation. Based on the wall paintings recovered inside it, the interior of the building would have been decorated with

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FIGURE 10.11  Important finds from the Ayanis temple area (Photographs: Ayanis Excavation Archive).

frescoes. Although its function cannot be fully understood, it may have been a private area used by the person who conducted the ceremonies performed in the temple courtyard (Çilingiroğlu 2001; Aras and Köse 2021) (Figure 10.9). Seven temple storage rooms were skillfully built approximately 6 m below the courtyard floor (Figures 10.9 and 10.10.1). The rooms, c. 10–12 m2 in size, lined up in an east–west direction and were connected by passages (0.90 × 1.50 m) through 2-m wide walls. After the ceremony that was performed in the temple courtyard, these rooms would have been the final destination of the metal weapons described earlier (Çilingiroğlu 2005) (Figure 10.10.1). Among the thousands of weapons recovered from the temple storage rooms are special examples of Urartian art, including a large number of shields that were likely used in ceremonies. One of these shields weighs 9 kg with a diameter of 78 cm and depicts a lion

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and a bull. Another item of interest is a bronze helmet showing a king other than Rusa making an offering to the god. An inscription on the helmet states that it was dedicated to Ḫaldi by Argişti, the son of Rusa, demonstrating the importance given to ancestors. Helmets with lightning and snake motifs, as well as a votive plaque with an image of the god Teiseba standing on a bull, are among the discoveries in the temple storage rooms at Ayanis (Çilingiroğlu 2005) (Figure 10.11). A long inscription adorning the front of the Ḫaldi Temple reads: “Whoever makes the shield, the weapons, the wooden objects, the horns? they must build the uncultivated land. Let them put in adunusini building whatever is perfect (pure) there. Rusa says: Whatever entered Rusa’s house … the sword … again holy …” (Salvini 2001). Was the adunusini, where the purified and consecrated weapons were kept, the “temple storage rooms”? Regardless of the name, these structures, where the weapons dedicated to the temple were kept, would have been at least as sacred as the temple.

The Temple (Susi) The typical square-planned temple with rizalit corners, built adjacent to the eastern wall of the temple courtyard, is the best preserved in Urartu (Figures 10.9–10.10). The building has exterior dimensions of 13 × 13 m and a 4.60 × 4.60 m interior. The basalt block foundation was constructed with extraordinary craftsmanship and is preserved up to three rows. The upper wall, built of adobe blocks and wooden beams, is preserved up to 2 m. The entrance of the cella is centered in the western section; two-stage rizalits on a single block are on both sides of the entrance (Figure 10.12). An inscription 16-m long adorns the front walls and corridor of the temple; it is the third longest in Urartu (Çilingiroğlu 2001; Salvini 2001; Aras and Köse 2021) (Figure 10.12). After passing through a double-winged wooden door, the cella was likely reached by a corridor decorated with inscriptions on both sides in an artistic style whose pioneer is thought to be Argişti’s son Rusa. The interior of the cella’s basalt stone block foundations are adorned with a stone carving-inlay (intaglio) technique (Figures 10.12–10.13). This practice, similar to the orthostates in Hittite architecture, is unique for Urartian art. The artisans who created this art may have been among the peoples that Rusa, whom we know from the temple inscription, brought to Ayanis from countries such as Hatti, Muski, and Tabal (Zimansky 2005). The Urartian mythological figures and motifs carved into the stones were filled with gypsum on which details were drawn and then painted. The mythological creatures–– the eagle-headed winged lion, the human-headed lion, and winged people––reflect the mystical world in the Urartian belief system. The spears between the leaves of the stylized tree of life surrounding the figures reflect the unity of war and life (Çilingiroğlu 2011: 188–201) (Figures 10.12–10.13). Numerous metal finds in the cella indicate that the upper mudbrick and plastered walls may have been differently decorated. The floors of most Urartian cellas have consisted of compacted soil or smoothed bedrock. In contrast, the Ayanis cella floor is covered by approximately ninety large tiles of onyx (Figures 10.12–10.13). Another feature unique to the Ayanis Ḫaldi temple is a podium built against the eastern wall of the cella, measuring 170 cm long, 145 cm wide, and 70 cm high and is built of huge onyx blocks with marvelous rich decorations (Figures 10.12–10.13). Like the walls, the top of the podium is decorated with various mythological creatures consisting of sphinx, griffin, winged lion, and tree-of-life motifs. The latter is the central motif among the figures in a repeating pattern that covers the entire podium. The design was produced using the intaglio technique and was probably

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FIGURE 10.12  Ayanis Ḫaldi Temple: 1. entrance; 2. inside (Photographs: Ayanis Excavation Archive).

painted. The sides of this podium are decorated with stone mosaic rings and flowers using an inlay technique, along with bull and lion figures decorated with gold leaf (Çilingiroğlu 2001: 37–65; Aras and Köse 2021) (Figures 10.13 and 10.14.5). The function of this extraordinary podium remains a matter of conjecture. The podium’s decorative face cannot be seen by someone standing at its front (such as a priest or king), and may have rather been for an object standing upon it, perhaps a cult statue or a throne, though neither have yet been discovered.

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FIGURE 10.13  Carved inlaid (intaglio) decorations inside the Ayanis Ḫaldi Temple: 1. north wall and drawing; 2. eastern wall 3. detail from the tree of life (source: Ayanis Excavation Archive).

The many rich finds unearthed inside the cella, which constitute one of the richest collections in Urartian archaeology, are proof of both how dazzling the building was, and that it was robbed in antiquity, likely shortly after the citadel was destroyed by fire or invasion. The destruction must have been so sudden that it was impossible to completely evacuate the temple area (Aras 2021: 49–66).

The Hall with Podium After passing through the blue-painted onyx gate into the temple courtyard, a unique example of Urartian architecture can be found. The space beyond the door consists of a large rectangular-planned main room/hall (22 × 8 m) and a smaller back room (4.5 × 8 m). The 2- to 3-m high mudbrick walls were plastered and decorated with an Urartian blue paint like the walls of the temple courtyard (Işıklı et al. 2019; Işıklı and Aras 2020) (Figures 10.11 and 10.14). A 15-m2 area in the southwest corner of the structure was paved with 49 × 50 × 50 cm onyx blocks, placed in a 5 × 10 m arrangement, while the rest of the floor was paved with flat mudbrick blocks (Işıklı et al. 2019; Işıklı and Aras 2020) (Figures 10.11 and 10.14). The most striking architectural element in this special building is the podium, also made of onyx blocks. This podium, located next to the hall’s south wall, is larger (2.50 × 2.60 m and 76 cm tall) and in better condition than the cella podium. The hall podium consists of fifteen onyx blocks, seven on their side and eight blocks in the upper part in the order of 2–2–4, and like the cella podium, the top was decorated with elegant motifs in the intaglio technique. These decorations consist of ten bands, 2.60 m long and 30 cm wide, with antithetical winged creatures on both sides of a tree of life repeating after every three bands. In the first band is a stylized winged lion; in the second are eagleheaded, lion-bodied, and winged griffins; sphinxes wearing different types of headgear are featured in the third band. Depicted in the last band on the front of the podium is a

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FIGURE 10.14  Ayanis temple area and “The Hall” with Podium: 1. plan; 2. general view of the Hall; 3. reconstruction drawing; 4. Podium top view; 5. Podium decoration drawing; 6. back room floor; 7. back room reconstruction drawing (source: Ayanis Excavation Archive).

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winged genie, whose feet and part of its wing are visible, possibly fertilizing a tree of life (Işıklı et al. 2019; Aras and Köse 2021) (Figures 10.14.2 and 10.14.5). Mosaics with a diameter of 35 mm, and attached to the marble floor with a bronze nail, were found along the sides of the podium. A total of forty-one mosaics were found in situ, suggesting that the podium was originally decorated with at least 350 mosaics. The partially destroyed sides of the platform had been decorated with flower motifs in the inlay technique, demonstrated by the in situ recovery of stone fragments from the decorations. In addition to these, many gold plate fragments were found on and around the podium demonstrating that some parts of the podium were decorated with gold plate (Işıklı et al. 2019) (Figures 10.14.4–5). Also notable are the four circular tracks on the podium; three of these are 7 cm in diameter, but the fourth is not clear. These tracks suggest a rectangular object (maybe furniture or a pedestal) 60 cm wide and 30 cm long rested on the podium. Though one can imagine a throne or cult statue on this magnificent podium, the function of this area and podium is still not clearly understood (Seidl 1994; Çilingiroğlu 2008) (Figure 10.14.4). The great hall is divided by a 2-m wide east–west wall on which the podium rests. In the eastern part of the wall is a door with a two-stage frame (with rizalit), while there is a semicircular, niche-like opening on the western side. This destroyed opening, 1 m in diameter, must have been related to an activity or ritual in the space, although its function is not clearly understood (Işıklı et al. 2019) (Figures 10.12.2 and 10.14). The 1.2-m wide door with rizalit that opens to the back room is paved with onyx blocks. The central area of the back room is also paved with onyx blocks; the perimeter, absent paving and accompanied by marks on the walls, may have had a wooden bench or platform installation, a unique arrangement in Urartian architecture. Artifacts recovered from this area suggested that the furniture may have been decorated with valuable gold plate (Figure 10.14). The Podium Hall is extraordinary not only in its architectural features but also in its provision of diverse items to the Urartian cultural inventory. More than 200 pieces of gold plate recovered from this area indicate the visual richness of the hall. Goldplated bronze rosettes must have been used as architectural ornaments. The gold-plated bronze sphinx statuette is also a singular example for Urartian art. Other special artifacts include limestone statuettes: a lion’s head bearing the influence of Assyrian art and closely resembling a bronze lion head that was applied to the bronze shield found in the temple courtyard (Işıklı and Aras 2016), a tree-of-life motif, a ram head, a stylized human head, griffin and sphinx heads, bronze spearheads, an iron sword, and clay tablet fragments (Işıklı and Özdemir 2019; Işıklı and Ocak 2020) (Figure 10.11). In addition to these artifacts, a total of eight bulla/bulla fragments, two of which are inscribed, were recovered from the Podium Hall. The names of women and goddesses on these are remarkable. One features a ceremony scene with centaurs on both sides of the tree of life, as well as a priest and a woman playing the tambourine. In other narrative scenes, only the fertilization of the tree of life is depicted. No weapons were found here, but stone beads of various forms, colors, and types are noteworthy as is a significant amount of burnt fabric, gold, and beads found on the onyx podium. A context with so many feminine elements supports the association of the building with a goddess (Işıklı and Işık 2021) (Figure 10.11). If this sacred area was dedicated to a goddess then the question becomes: which one? Current data point to the goddess Arubani, an important figure of the Urartian pantheon, and wife of Ḫaldi. During the Urartian renaissance and the reign of Rusa, son of Argişti,

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FIGURE 10.15  Cult/ceremonial corridor in the Ayanis citadel: 1. plan; 2. general view of the platform; 3. reconstruction drawing (source: drawn by M. Özgör, courtesy of Ayanis Excavations); 4. important finds from the corridor (source: Ayanis Excavation Archive).

references to goddesses, queens, and women increased substantially. Unfortunately, this hall is in no way comparable with other temples whose plans are known, and thus it cannot be identified as a typical Arubani temple. Clearly, this hall was a special place where religious and royal activities were carried out, it is very possible that worshipping the goddess Arubani was among these activities. During the Rusa period this innovative structure combined royal and religious activities in the temple and sanctuary (Işıklı and Işık 2021).

The Ceremonial Corridor During the excavations at the Ayanis citadel, a building group was discovered just to the west of, but separate from, the temple area (Figure 10.15). These structures are square or rectangular in plan and have mudbrick walls on stone or earthen foundations. The walls and floors of the rooms were plastered and painted in white, brown, or blue. Ten rooms excavated in this area, identified as “domestic,” perhaps belonged to Urartian elites and

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royal family members. These rooms provide striking information about the daily life of such individuals living in the Urartian citadel (Erdem and Çilingiroğlu 2010; Beşikçi 2021) (Figure 10.15). These ten rooms, built on an east–west axis, are located in the southern portion of the domestic area and differ from other domestic structures. Room 10, for instance is in the form of a long corridor measuring 9.30 × 3.15 m, with plastered walls painted in blue and brown, and two entrances, one in the south and the other in the west. The extraordinarily rich finds recovered from the entrances demonstrate the elite aspect of the building, including two highly important objects: a richly patterned golden fan handle inscribed with the name of an Urartian queen Kakuli (which we see for the first time), and an agate bead/pendant bearing a Babylonian inscription (Erdem and Çilingiroğlu 2010; Beşikçi 2021). Room 10 has been defined as a “cult/ceremonial corridor” due to its rich finds (Figure 10.15). Artifacts recovered suggest the corridor may have been decorated with a gold rosette border. The religious aspect of the corridor is demonstrated by a rectangular architectural element plastered with chalk stone, with a 5-cm diameter hole in the center, the base of which was clay-plastered. Drop-shaped stone mosaics excavated nearby indicate that a wooden tree of life may have stood on this pedestal, possibly symbolizing a tree of life altar. Three clover-rimmed and red-polished jugs found near the altar suggest a ritual involving liquid libation (Figure 10.15). A similar altar was found in the Open Air Sanctuary at Altıntepe. Though this corridor was clearly dedicated to sacred/religious purposes, it is difficult to understand their nature. The “cult corridor” does demonstrate that religious activities were carried out beyond standard places such as temples and worship areas in the Rusa period (Batmaz 2013; Beşikçi 2021).

CONCLUSION During the Iron Age, the Urartian state brought many traditions to this mountainous landscape. The belief systems developed and changed over time, independent of both the political developments of the period. Overall, three phases of architectural remains, which are the most important material culture of the Urartian religion, demonstrate the transformation and institutionalization of the belief system:

1. The first phase, which includes the first hundred years of the kingdom, was also the foundation period. Along with imperial expansion, the establishment of the state’s religion took place, with the creation of rock monuments, stelae, sanctuaries with stele and early temples, as well as the creation of the state pantheon. 2. The second stage, which includes the second century of the kingdom, politically and culturally developed the state as well as a state-backed religious system. The standard Urartian temple plan emerged and began to spread. Archaic rock monuments and stelae traditions were abandoned. A state religious institution was established in an organized manner all over the regions controlled by Urartu. 3. The third and last stage was the climax and collapse period in the final century of the kingdom, which included the period of Rusa, son of Argişti. In his reign, Urartu experienced innovations in all fields including the belief system. In addition to the elegant workmanship in the temples, innovations in the architectural designs of sacred places were made, exemplified by the podium hall and the ceremonial

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corridor in Ayanis, within which royal and religious affairs entered into a more complex relationship. In addition, the visibility of the goddesses was increased. New cult centers may have been added to citadels and settlements (Ayanis and Kef are notable examples), equipped with religious and royal palaces. The structures at Ayanis were the last built in Urartu, after which the Urartu religious system and empire met their end.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank colleagues and friends who aided the preparation of this chapter. First, I would like to thank Jan Bailey, who edited the English text of my article and shared her valuable ideas with me. I would also like to thank my dear students İlhan Özgör, Buket Akdoğan, Hazal Ocak, and Alper Aslan, who devoted time to the technical work in this chapter, Erol Uslu, Mehmet Ali Yılmaz Sabahattin Erdoğan, Esat Şahin, Vedat Atlı and Yalçın Yazlık, my dear colleagues and friends who shared with me some of the images used in this study.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Price of Devotion: Costly Signals in Neolithic and Chalcolithic Architecture on the Anatolian Plateau SHARON R. STEADMAN

The world-famous Pre-Pottery Neolithic (PPN) site of Göbekli Tepe has commanded a mountain of research on the ritual significance of its spectacular stone architecture, while barely a whisper treats the ritual expression of Chalcolithic Anatolian architecture (Figure 11.1). Offered here is the suggestion that the target audience of ritual activity and religious belief, materialized architecturally, shifts from a more community-wide focus in the Neolithic to the supernatural world in the Chalcolithic. The most critical intended audience for the very visible architecturally based messages of religious belief at sites such as Göbekli Tepe resided in the earthly realm, while the far more modest and private signals expressed in Chalcolithic domestic architecture may have been primarily aimed at the supernatural domain. The application of Costly Signaling Theory (CST) sheds light on the dramatic shift in the manifestation of religious belief systems within the architectural material culture of prehistoric Anatolia.

COSTLY SIGNALING THEORY CST derives from studies rooted in evolutionary biology focused on how animals demonstrate reproductive fitness to potential mates (Zahavi 1975; Grafen 1990); the male peacock’s tail is a textbook example (Laidre and Johnstone 2013). CST also explains unusual animal behavior, such as a prey animal’s alarm call, which simultaneously draws attention to itself and also alerts its community of danger. The signaler must project an “honest” signal that decreases its position of safety but actually increases the benefits to both signaler and recipients (John and Harper 1995; Bergstrom and Lachmann 2001). CST was soon employed in anthropological settings to explain human behaviors conveying a

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FIGURE 11.1  Map of sites discussed in the text (map by A. J. Lauricella).

variety of social messages, including wasteful expenditures of energy (Hawkes and Bliege Bird 2002; Bliege Bird and Smith 2005), performing dangerous activities to demonstrate suitability as a mate (Hawkes 1990; Sosis 2000a; Smith, Bliege Bird, and Bird 2003), and altruistic behavior to signal cooperativeness while simultaneously acquiring status (Boone 1998). The application of CST to religion also has a deep history in the anthropological discipline (Sosis 2000a; Sosis and Alcorta 2003; Henrich 2009), arguing that participation in religious ritual yields prosocial bonds of solidarity and intracommunity cooperation (Cronk 1994; Irons 1996; Sosis and Bressler 2003; Fischer et al. 2013). Religious costly signals are often highly visible and quite varied, including self-mutilation, pilgrimage, and the acquisition or creation of costly items and structures (Sosis and Alcorta 2003; Henrich 2009; Power 2017). There is a distinction in ritualized costly signals between those who belong (insiders) and those who don’t (outsiders) based on participation (as sender or receiver). Given that participation in religious activities is often “hard to fake” (Irons 2001; Brusse 2020), signalers who project false signals become untrustworthy and are relegated to “outsider” status. The benefit to CST participants is the stability and longevity of the community through religious commitment, adherence of believers, honest signaling, and bonds of trust (Sosis 2000b; Power 2017). From anthropology it was a short leap to the application of CST in archaeological contexts (see Conolly 2017 and Quinn 2019 for excellent overviews). One of the earliest uses of CST in archaeology argued that the seemingly inexplicable creation of monuments during the Maya collapse period was due to CST and political competition between leaders

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(Neiman 1997). The interplay between monumentality, political competition, and CST was also explored by Glatz and Plourde (2011) who argue that Late Bronze Age Hittite stone monuments found across the Anatolian plateau testify to political competition, territoriality, and fitness to rule, a theory also explored by Wandsnider (2013) for Roman period Rough Cilicia. A recent theme issue in World Archaeology featured several studies linking monumentality and CST (Čučković 2017; O’Driscoll 2017; Wright 2017). Based on the foregoing, and particularly on studies by specific scholars (Conolly 2017; Wright 2017; Quinn 2019), the CST theoretical approach employed here is based on the following premises: • Individuals/groups engage in signaling with the goal of broadcasting indicators of their status as friendly/cooperative, competitive/threatening, or as suitable mates. • Signals require costs beyond subsistence and reproduction needs; the best results cost the most. • Successful signals (and responses) should honestly indicate the signaler’s qualities; fake signals falsify the signaler’s intended message of fitness/ability/cooperation; hard-to-fake and expensive signals are the most honest and reliable (Neiman 1997; Gintis, Smith, and Bowles 2001; Barker et al. 2019). • Successful signals elicit a response and commensurate interaction from receivers who may engage in collaborative, reciprocitous, or competitive signaling. Successful signalers and recipients should derive a benefit from the process. • Successful signaling strategies between signaler and receiver (based on honesty underlying the signals) promote long-term cohesion between those involved in the system. • Participants in a successful signaling system will see those involved as insiders and those who do not/cannot read the signals as outsiders.

• Signals may change over time while still transmitting the same indicators; as signals become ineffective, they will decrease or cease.

Archaeologists saw the utility of CST for understanding the evolution of religion and its role in creating social cooperation (Rossano 2007, 2015). It has been employed to explain unusual or seemingly over-the-top religious behavior in the past such as blood-letting, difficult journeys, and the artistic creation of ritualized objects and structures (Plourde 2008; Kantner and Vaughn 2012; Munson et al. 2014). An advantage of using CST to explain ancient religious practices is that ritual behavior often requires highly visible material culture possibly preserved in the archaeological record. An added benefit is that frequently these represent “hard-to-fake” activities such as human burial, the creation of specialized objects, and the construction of monuments. The applicability of the premises outlined above to ritual behavior is immediately evident. While it isn’t always necessary to determine the meaning of the rituals, the CST model demands that the researcher demonstrate that the actions were indeed “costly,” attempt to ascertain what was being signaled and why it was necessary to do so, and identify potential intended recipients. Brusse argues that Religious Signaling Theory (RST) is primarily aimed at fellow humans as “signals of cooperative assurance which (as long as they are more honest than not) allow cooperative societies to stabilize and grow” (2020: 187–8). RST promotes group dedication through the practice and observance of unfakable signals, which leads to strong social institutions, prosocial cooperativeness, and, for Brusse,

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fosters cultural evolution. Also addressing religion and cultural evolution, Henrich’s CRED (credibility-enhancing display) hypothesis argues that when acts are costly, they signal the participants’ commitment to both the belief system and the community (Henrich 2009: 247, 253). Costly ritual CREDs strengthen group solidarity and promote cultural evolution because signalers demonstrate their trustworthiness and commitment, and recipients are assured that signalers believe (in both the human and supernatural realm). Norenzayan (Norenzayan et al. 2016) argues that the cultural evolution of large-group cooperation and adherence to religious belief systems is focused more specifically on nonhuman elements, or “supernatural watchers” (Norenzayan 2013: 8). Costly behaviors show that signalers are completely trustworthy through their utter religious commitment, promoting prosociality between believers (Norenzayan and Shariff 2008; Norenzayan, Henrich, and Slingerland 2013). Norenzayan argues that the Big Gods (Norenzayan’s shorthand for deities of all types) demanded: Displays of devotion and hard-to-fake commitments such as fasts, food taboos, and extravagant rituals [which] further transmitted believers’ sincere faith in these gods to others. In this way religious hypocrites were prevented from invading and undermining these groups. Through these and other solidarity-promoting mechanisms, religions of Big Gods forged anonymous strangers into large, cohesive moral communities tied together through the sacred bonds of a common supernatural jurisdiction (Naranzayan 2013: 8–9). Such behaviors led to intense community-building, the creation of insiders and outsiders, competition, and the eventual cultural evolution of sophisticated religious institutions. Participants engaged in religiously based costly signaling in the archaeological past may have had two important recipients in mind: (potential) community members who would join together in solidarity, cooperativeness, and belief, and the supernatural world that was critical for the attainment of earthly endeavors such as sustenance, health, and procreation. To achieve these goals among both intended audiences, costly and unfakable actions were necessary. Also critical was the visibility of the signaler’s actions; this was particularly important for the human contingent since the supernatural world could more easily divine fakers from devotees.

PRE-POTTERY NEOLITHIC SOUTHEASTERN ANATOLIA Göbekli Tepe, in the Harran Plain of Southeastern Turkey, currently features three layers of PPN structures (c. tenth to eighth millennia bce) (Schmidt 2010, 2011). The oldest layer features the majority of monumental and remarkable structures (Figures 11.2– 11.3): circular enclosures ranging between 10 and 20 m in diameter, consisting of T-shaped monolithic pillars standing over 3 m in height (Schmidt 2010). The T-shaped pillars bear numerous images, depicting anthropomorphic figures as well as a wide array of animals (Peters and Schmidt 2004; Schmidt 2011; Notroff, Dietrich, and Schmidt 2014; Schmidt and Köksal-Schmidt 2014). Although Göbekli Tepe is the most widely known, many other contemporary (PPN) sites also feature monumental structures and T-shaped pillars considered to represent ritual structures. These include Nevalı Çori (Hauptmann 1988, 1993) and Karahan Tepe (Çelik 2011; Karul 2021), both of which featured large stone structures containing T-shaped pillars and anthropomorphic statues. Survey has revealed many other sites

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FIGURE 11.2  Overview of Göbekli Tepe site showing structures and T-shaped pillars (source: Thankful Photography/IStock Photos).

demonstrating monumental architecture and/or T-shaped pillars (Güler, Çelik, and Güler 2013), including at Harbetsuvan Tepesi (Çelik 2016), Ayanlar Höyük (Gre Hut), Taşlı Tepe, and Hamzan Tepe (Çelik 2017; Çelik, Güler and Güler 2011), and at sites in the Upper Tigris Basin (Karul 2020; Çiftçi, Özkan, and Kodaş 2021; Kodaş 2021). It is not the intention here to attempt interpretation of the Göbekli Tepe structures and their carved images, which has been far more ably done by others (e.g., Dietrich et al. 2012; Dietrich and Notroff 2015; Fagan 2017; Sweatman and Tsikritsis 2017). Rather, it is suggested here that these monumental structures represent costly signaling in the PPN, as has already been argued by others (Hodgson 2017; Sterelny 2020). The architectural and artistic structures at these Southeastern Anatolian sites offer readable indicators that were broadcast through their construction, featuring completely “unfakable” efforts that far outweighed subsistence or reproductive needs. What CRED did signalers (builders) display with their efforts? Sterelny (2020, focusing mainly on Göbekli Tepe) argues that building these PPN monumental structures was both competitive and cooperative, allowing participants to gain prestige from those signaled and to establish insiders and outsiders. Others offer similar arguments, advocating that PPN Southeastern Anatolia was home to complex hunter-gatherer cultures who built these structures at a time of waning egalitarianism and growing social hierarchy (Wengrow and Graeber 2015); participation allowed builders to signal their status as well as to promote group cohesion (Hodgson 2017). In large part, the intended recipients of the monument-building costly signals dwelled in the earthly world; humans could easily observe who was putting in the work. Participants’ dedication to the belief system was clearly on display in both construction and decorative efforts. In addition to the community, supernatural agents, likely represented in some

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FIGURE 11.3  Example of images carved on stone pillar at Göbekli Tepe (source: Uchar/IStock Photos).

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fashion in images on the stones (Watkins 2015), could continuously observe the work of their dedicants.

THE ACERAMIC NEOLITHIC ON THE ANATOLIAN PLATEAU The Aceramic Neolithic on the Anatolian plateau lacks Göbekli-style monumental structures; instead, there was a slow but steady movement of ritual activity away from public space to the household interior (Anspach 2018). In the early Neolithic, however, large nondomestic buildings were constructed at sites such as Aşıklı Höyük and Musular (Erdoğu 2009). At Aşıklı Höyük (Figure 11.4), a large nondomestic complex consists of two structures: HV and T; the very large HV structure contained a finely made mudbrick floor, a portico, a row of small rooms along one wall, and a large domed oven nearby (Özbaşaran 2011, 2012). The adjacent and somewhat smaller T structure was paved with lime plaster, the lowest having been painted yellow and the upper painted red with post holes for substantial (wooden?) pillars; a hearth with a canal allowed the drainage of liquids outside the structure (Esin and Harmankaya 1999). Burials associated with this complex contained a young woman and elderly man buried in one grave, and a young woman with an infant, the woman having undergone trepanation (from which she likely perished), rested in the second (Esin and Harmankaya 1999: 124). A structure known as Building A was excavated at the nearby site of Musular, which is apparently a special activities satellite site of Aşıklı; Building A also had redpainted plastered floors and well-built channels allowing liquids to flow outside the structure (Duru and Özbaşaran 2005; Özbaşaran et al. 2012). While not as monumental, these structures may have served many of the same purposes as the open-air T-pillar Southeastern Anatolian buildings. The cooperation of neighbors and community members would have likely been needed to construct the Aşıklı and Musular structures (Düring 2006: 112), offering visible and largely unfakable (CRED) signals of their devotion, both to community and to divine observers, not only through building but also maintaining the structure. However, how devout is someone who simply attends an event? Simple ritual participation could be an easy-to-fake signal to community members, but might the divine constituency see though such behavior? Such questions raise an interesting relationship between easily visible costly signaling, architecture, and meaningful ritual behavior.

THE CERAMIC NEOLITHIC ON THE ANATOLIAN PLATEAU The Ceramic Neolithic (CN) period on the plateau sees the establishment of largely sedentary farming communities (e.g., Düring and Marciniak 2005; Özdoğan 2011; Baird 2012). It is at the site of Çatalhöyük where ritual behavior is most clearly on display. Mellaart’s 1960s assertion of “shrines” (Mellaart 1967) has been refuted by more recent excavations that identify the structures as domestic in nature (Düring 2006; Hodder and Pels 2010). Most CN structures on the Anatolian plateau are largely domestic, suggesting that Aceramic Neolithic ritual behaviors moved from more public and visible arenas to activities within the home in this period (Erdoğu 2009; Atakuman 2014; Yıldırım and Steadman 2021).

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FIGURE 11.4  Plan of Aceramic Asikli Höyük settlement showing nondomestic complex, with structure HV and T, juxtaposed to domestic structures north of the street (source: drawing by S. R. Steadman, based on Düring 2006: 74, fig. 4.1).

Over 250 architectural paintings have been recovered at Çatalhöyük (Hodder and Gürlek 2020), ranging from monochrome-painted wall panels to geometric figures, designs termed “kilim motifs” (Mellaart 1967: 152), images of hands, and the famous scenes featuring vultures, bulls, humans, and landscape vistas (Figure 11.5).

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FIGURE 11.5  Examples of wall art found on house walls at Çatahöyük: a. reconstruction of a bull’s head installation and “village scene” wall painting at the Çatalhöyük Visitor Centre (photo by S. R. Steadman); b. example of wall art in house VI.B.65 painted in red (rendered as black on drawing) and white (rendered as white) possibly showing a ladder (source: drawing by S. R. Steadman, based on Mellaart 1967: Pl. 5–7); c. example of wall art in house A.III.8 in red (rendered as black on drawing), gray, and white paint, displaying a “kilim” design (source: drawing by S. R. Steadman, based on Mellaart 1967: Pl. 31).

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FIGURE 11.6  Example of typical Çatalhöyük house that might have displayed wall art (photo by S. R. Steadman).

Also present are paintings and moldings of other animals, and installations of horns from various creatures, including bulls (Mellaart 1967; Last 1998; Hodder 2006). Though it is difficult to estimate the regularity of painted architecture across households, it appears that some houses featured no decoration, many featured a small amount, and some offered quite elaborate displays (Last 2006; Busacca 2020). In general, decorations are found in the main room of houses (Figure 11.6) and are thereby visible to visitors or possibly passersby on the rooftops. Innumerable other studies have attempted to identify the role household decorations played in the ritual life of the inhabitants; the question here involves interpreting the presence of costly signaling at Neolithic Çatalhöyük. There are two aspects relevant to CST here: first is the variation of symbols displayed in painted, molded, and installed art; second is the impermanence of the wall paintings, bucrania/horns, and moldings that were sometimes plastered over, abandoned at the same time as the building, or removed, with the exception of the rather spectacular leopard reliefs, which were repeatedly renewed (Last 1998; Russell and Meece 2006). The variation and change/renewal of decorations have led to speculation that the ritual installation of architectural art may have been witnessed by as many as forty to fifty attendees, well beyond the number of people inhabiting the house, but far fewer than the entire community or even neighborhood (Russell and Meece 2006: 229). Attendees may have included extended kin group members or others such as adherents to a secret

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society dedicated to the recognition or confirmation of a special personage or religious ideal (Hodder 2006; van Huyssteen 2010). The relative impermanence and range in complexity of the architectural decorations suggests a possible hierarchy embedded within the art, and by association, of those who installed it. CST is a useful interpretive tool here, identifying modes of status-building and the amassing of social capital by various individuals or household occupants. The molded leopards, renewed over time, perhaps represented a (member within the) household at the pinnacle of social or ritual hierarchy, while those who installed monochrome painted panels had ascended to a lower level of status. Quite possibly embedded within these activities was the establishment of a public “identity” within the community (Duru 2018). While the ritual installation of the decoration might not seem particularly “costly,” it may have been accompanied by other duties that required an extensive show of effort and, therefore, devotion. The ritual required the acquisition and preparation of raw materials for the plaster and paint (Keane 2010). Excavations have suggested that many installations may have coincided with feasts as well as burials, the latter sometimes following excarnation and removal of the skull (Russell and Meece 2006; Whitehouse and Hodder 2010; Busacca 2020). Ritual performances possibly required other material culture, such as costuming (Russell and McGowan 2003), adding to the list of “costs” associated with a successful ritual event. The more elaborate the ritual installation and associated activities, and the more frequent the ritual performances, the greater the visibility of signals to the target audience, and the creation of the signaler’s desired identity. Ritually based costly signaling at sites such as Göbekli Tepe and Aşıklı Höyük suggest a more community-wide target audience. Moving rituals to within the household represents a substantial change in social structure coinciding with greater sedentism and growing reliance on agricultural strategies; other factors at Çatalhöyük have also signaled a transition from a community/neighborhood-wide identity and socioeconomy to one based more within the individual household (Baird 2012; Hodder 2014; Marciniak et al. 2015). The location of ritual behavior within the home, accompanied by burial activity, costuming, and feasting, is also suggestive of the growing importance of social identity in the CN as well as the competition for status and positioning within the larger community (Hodder and Gürlek 2020). This more private and individualized approach to religious belief seen at Çatalhöyük is not at all anathema to CST. The rituals associated with household architectural art, largely hard to fake, could have signaled the performer’s religious fitness and trustworthiness, established CRED, and promoted social cohesion. Ritual performance served the purpose of elevating both the religious and social position of the individual or household within the community. The presence of ritual paraphernalia within the home rather than in a public area suggests consideration of another target audience, the “supernatural watchers.” The responsibility of “housing” the architectural art, and possibly performing frequent nonpublic devotional activities, would have been impossible to fake for the “Big Gods” watching, including those buried beneath the home (Fagan 2020; (re)modeled human skulls at sites such as Köşk Höyük [Bonogofsky 2006; Croucher 2018] suggest the importance of postdeath family/social cohesion within the household and community). Once the costly signals moved from the public to the more private arena in the CN, the identity of the target audience may have shifted from “mostly human” to more of a balance between the human community and the supernatural world.

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THE CHALCOLITHIC ON THE ANATOLIAN PLATEAU By the Anatolian Chalcolithic period, and perhaps in the late Neolithic, communal socioeconomic activities shifted to much more household-based production and consumption (Steadman 2004; Marciniak and Czerniak 2007; Sagona and Zimansky 2009; Düring 2011; Stroud 2016). Further, evidence for easily visible ritual activity, such as the architectural decorations at Neolithic Çatalhöyük, is largely absent; Chalcolithic ritual activity had significantly transformed to one focused on portable objects (Last 1998; Hodder 2006; Erdoğu 2009; Yıldırım and Steadman 2021). That most structures were largely undecorated and domestic in nature supports the observation that householdbased Chalcolithic ritual behavior had moved fundamentally into the private realm on the Anatolian plateau. The most commonly noted architecturally based ritual behavior associated with Chalcolithic architecture is the installation of infant and child (sometimes jar) burials under floors and within walls, often accompanied by grave goods (Figures 11.7–11.8). Though more common at some sites and less so at others, this practice is a widespread Chalcolithic phenomenon. For instance, a combined total of over 100 infant and child burials within domestic architectural contexts were found at the Late Chalcolithic sites of Çadır Höyük, Kuruçay, and Çamlıbel Tarlası (Duru 1996; Schoop 2015; Yıldırım, Hackley, and Steadman 2018).

FIGURE 11.7  Example of infant jar burial (F164 at Çadır Höyük) placed within the architectural fabric of a domestic structure (photo by S. R. Steadman).

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FIGURE 11.8  Example of infant jar burial (F169 at Çadır Höyük) placed within the architectural fabric of a domestic structure; a copper hair slide was discovered (see arrow) near the base of the skull (photo by S. R. Steadman).

The insertion of these burials frequently occurred when a new structure was built or substantially modified (Hackley, Selover, and Steadman 2018, Hackley, Yıldırım, and Steadman 2021; Yıldırım, Hackley, and Steadman 2018). Many, including the author of this chapter, have endeavored to interpret the symbolic meanings embedded in such burials (e.g., Baird, Fairbairn, and Martin 2017; Thomas 2017; Yıldırım, Hackley, and Steadman 2018; Pilloud et al. 2020; Hackley, Yıldırım, and Steadman 2021). Here, the focus is on whether an application of CST is viable, and if so, to identify what was being signaled, and to whom. If costly signals include activities beyond basic subsistence and reproduction needs, then infant/child burials within the architecture of one’s home satisfies this definition and would fall into the “unfakable” category depending on who attended the burial and architectural construction. At a private event with only household members or some extended kin present (Figure 11.9), who then were the intended signal recipients meant to receive CRED demonstrations of quality, trustworthiness, and devotion to the religious belief system? Beyond the small number of living humans involved in the burial ritual were “supernatural watchers” who could also observe any (in)frequent additional ritual activities performed within the home, postburial. Household human signalers could then be assured that they had established a cohesive relationship between the living and the supernatural realm, and that the receivers, the “Big Gods,” would respond appropriately to ensure household success. The nature of ritual performance through architectural display in the Anatolian Chalcolithic is indicative of a target audience that resided mainly in the supernatural world.

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FIGURE 11.9  Reconstruction of infant burial within architecture of Çadır Höyük Chalcolithic house; note small number of attendees who would receive the “signals” (drawing by K. Kressner).

CONCLUSION In the PPN, intra(even inter-)community dependence was essential for societal fitness and survival. Costly signals would surely have targeted the supernatural realm, but equally important were human participants in the collaborative tasks ensuring prosociality and community cohesion. Highly visible costly signals were necessary to achieve such goals. By the CN, agro-pastoral subsistence strategies were becoming well established; production and consumption activities were less communal, located more firmly within cooperative households. The public nature of ritual activity became less pronounced but was still visible to those beyond the individual household. Societal fitness, trustworthiness, and religio-social positioning could be disseminated to smaller but critical audiences attending ritual installations of architectural art within the signaler’s household. By the Chalcolithic, subsistence strategies were far more rooted in household-based operations, creating a critical reliance on individual members within the home to achieve and maintain socioeconomic independence. Religious activity moved firmly into the private household realm, with little engagement in community-wide visibility of ritual performance. Foregoing discussions addressed the majority of premises outlined in the CST theoretical approach presented at the outset of this chapter with the exception of the last one: signals may change over time while still transmitting the same indicators. It is this last that is quite relevant to religious expression in the Anatolian Chalcolithic. Rather than assuming that a lack of monumentality or visible ritual action marks a cessation of architectural signaling, it is rather the target objective that shifted. The transmission of CRED (i.e., devotion, quality, trustworthiness) remained consistent over the millennia, but in the Chalcolithic, the primary signal recipients seem not to have inhabited the earthly world. Supernatural watchers could easily receive signaled messages in the small, private, and personally costly acts of piety. Throughout Anatolian prehistory, the manner of signals may have changed, but the high price of devotion remained.

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CHAPTER TWELVE

Building Temples in the Northern Levant STEFANIA MAZZONI

TEMPLES IN THE NORTHERN LEVANT: UNITY AND DIVERSITY The northwestern part of the Fertile Crescent was blessedly fertile, populated by different groups speaking various languages and worshipping many deities. This was also the land where a distinct sacred architecture originated and developed for at least three thousand years (i.e., from the third to the first millennia bce). It is known as the temple in antis, a name borrowed from classical architecture for defining a plan where the lateral walls of the main cultic room (cella) protrude into the front as subsidiary projecting walls (antae); these enclose the façade and the gate providing an axial access to the cult room and the divinity. The temple in antis was a freestanding isolated structure, often with a longitudinal cella, and occasionally a vestibule (bipartite plan) or antichamber (tripartite plan). The entrance might contain a portico with one or two columns, a short staircase, or be framed by towers. Mudbrick walls were usually very high, resting on massive stone foundations and orthostats, often elevated on high stone or brick platforms. When we explore the continuity of this distinct building type across the many political and cultural landscapes that transformed the area, we can only speculate as to whether it resulted from political centralization, or from a process of ethnogenesis embedded into a territory with traditional cult places and tutelary gods. Chrono-regional variations are documented and need quite special consideration: every temple constituted a place for worshipping and housing specific deities in a specific place. We know, in fact, of many polyadic deities, protecting single towns, or connected to specific mountains or rivers; temples were built in the countryside, or in towns close to the palaces or tombs. Archaeologically documented dimensions, appearance, decoration, installations, and their location in the outer and inner spaces are consistent (Mazzoni 2010: 359–61). The tendency to categorize temple types, especially in Classical temple architecture, without any doubt, influenced archaeological trends in this region; this is mostly based on the fact that the first “archaeologists” able to correctly excavate mudbrick walls were architects working on Classical sites. Near Eastern temples were, therefore, classified as broad or long-room types, with axial or bent-axis access (Heinrich 1982; Margueron 1982, 1984, 2003: 114–17; Werner 1994: 14–17), or with direct access face-to-face with the deity (Wightman 2007: 144–97; Burke 2021: 302–19). A further element of distinction of the

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temple in antis is the limited functional enclosed space and the large open-air external spaces, suggesting that most of the rituals were performed outside, and activities of food storage and processing were housed in separate annexes or in nearby residential units. This feature may document a distinct social context of community interplay with religious behavior in the Northwestern Levant (Otto 2013), marked by the administrative primacy of the political sphere over the temples, unlike in Mesopotamia where temples, with their multiroomed complexes, enjoyed economic autonomy. Furthermore, the long-lasting tradition of the Levantine temple in antis has been variously addressed vis-à-vis the Temple of Jerusalem, described in the Bible in great detail and easily comparable with Northern Levantine structures archaeologically documented (Busink 1970: 520–65). Similarities with the sparsely documented Phoenician sacred architecture have been clearly outlined (Mazar 1992: 183–4) as the text refers to a Tyrian craftsman in the temple; however, the better-known second millennium bce temples excavated in the Northern Levant have provided reliable parallels (Mazar 1992: 162–9, fig. on p. 163), as the probable origin of a Southern Levantine tradition of sacred architecture (D’Andrea 2014).

FROM MATERIALITY TO IMMATERIALITY: THE TIMES OF SACRED ARCHITECTURE A first methodological question, when approaching sacred architecture, concerns the material nature of the archaeological evidence and whether it helps with the investigation of immaterial processes, rituals, cult, religious belief, and identifying the gods housed in physical spaces. Without texts, the archaeological data alone provide limited information on activities performed in the spaces over short periods of time or precisely when the spaces and materials were abandoned, left behind, or destroyed. Here we face two problems. First is the difficulty of linking various data; architecture provides information on factors such as separation or integration, distance or vicinity, circulation in and outside the built spaces, and direction of approach. Objects, furniture, and containers constitute the cultic paraphernalia of rituals and actions carried out in the sacred areas. Combined, both of these can illustrate the socioeconomic and cultural backgrounds of any single temple. Use of the cognitive approach in the archaeology of cult successfully defines the importance of material evidence in interpreting cult and rituals (Renfrew and Zubrow 1994; Renfrew and Bahn 2005: 46), while analysis of the sacred spaces helps to understand the material dimensions of the immaterial hierophany (Margueron 1984: 23–5, quoting Mircéa Eliade). A further caveat concerns the time span of the building process, which is often of long duration. Archaeologically we can easily detect different superimposed layers of different floors and remodeling of plans and structures over centuries, as in the exemplary case of the Early and Middle Bronze Age sequence of the Temples on the Rock and the Red and Ishtar temples at Ebla, rebuilt continuously from around 2400 to 1700 bce. It is far more difficult to identify the lengthy construction and decoration process, especially in monumental structures. Archaeological and architectural phases may both be recognizable, in the case of the temples of Ain Dara and Aleppo. Long-lasting structural changes and various embellishments are exemplified by Saint Peter’s in Rome: Raphael began to rebuild it in 1514 with a longitudinal axis; Michelangelo continued the building from 1547 until his death in 1564; his pupil Giacomo Della Porta completed it in 1594 with the central cupola, while the façade was created by Carlo Maderno in 1614, and the

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outer portico by Lorenzo Bernini in 1656–67. Though perhaps provocative, this example demonstrates that any single temple in its final layout known was the result of long-term building processes beyond various political circumstances and patronages.

Origins and Development in the Early Bronze Age (Third Millennium bce) At the start of third millennium bce, after the demise of the centralized Uruk colonial organization and the Late Chalcolithic regional centers, various communities emerged or recovered in the more fertile rural areas, sharing distinct cultural traits (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 231–2). The Northern Levant and Upper Mesopotamia underwent a process of social complexity culminating around the middle of the millennium with the empowerment of various groups, the rise of dynasties, states, and urban centers for housing the elites, the storage of food and goods, and ceremonial civic and religious activities. In the initial phase farmers were not concerned with building spaces for their protective gods; domestic cults continued to be performed inside their homes. It was the Uruk society that invested resources and labor in building monumental temples to celebrate their gods. In Syria and Upper Mesopotamia, when territorial kingdoms appeared (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 233–87), sacred spaces became an element of the urban landscape, and rituals a conspicuous aspect of religious identity and sociopolitical cohesion. The temple form, approach to the deity, and integration or separation within the residential units assumed distinct characteristics that mirrored the sociopolitical structure of the communities. The temple in antis emerged as a canonical type in the Northern Levant and was possibly associated with specific groups, as the regional diffusion of the first examples apparently indicates (Figure 12.1). An initial phase can be traced back to the first quarter of the third millennium bce (Early Bronze [EB] I-II) along the Euphrates and in the Western Jezirah (Lüth 1989; Orthmann

FIGURE 12.1  Map of Northern Levant and Syria with the sites mentioned in the text (source: S. Martelli).

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FIGURE 12.2  Temples of the Upper Euphrates: 1. Tell Halawa, Building II, Mound B; 2. Tell Qara Quzaq, L.247, Level V; 3. Tell Halawa, Mond A; 4. Tell Qara Quzaq, L. 10, Level III-2 (source: S. Mazzoni and S. Martelli, 1 and 3 after Meyer and Hempelmann 2013: fig. 64a-b; Novák 2015: fig. 20; Lüth 1989: Plan 13; 2 and 4 after Novák 2015: fig. 19).

and Meyer 1989; Cooper 2006: 143–63; Novák 2015: 61–7). The first evidence is provided by Building II at Halawa, Mound B, and Tell Qara Quzaq, both on the eastern left bank (Figure 12.2.1 and 12.2.2). Building II (Bauschicht 2: Lüth 1989: 91–7, fig. 59, Plan 13) was erected inside a temenos (sacred enclosure) on a 1-m high mudbrick terrace; a large room (12 × 10 m) with the main entrance on the eastern long wall was enclosed by a sort of antechamber, while a secondary door opened into a small in antis building with entrance in axis facing a large niche on the opposite short wall. It is interesting that Building II had a bent-axis approach and that the external long walls were decorated by regular buttresses, in the Mesopotamian style. The contemporary smaller temple of Qara Quzaq L.247 (Level V) had a bent-axis access to the three rooms; to the west, outside the temenos, was a two-chambered semisubterranean structure containing two partially cremated individuals and rich funerary goods, while an infant burial in a cist grave was buried under the foundations of one of the walls (Cooper 2006: 149; Porter 2012: 179–80). No less significant is that the later Building I at Halawa (Bauschicht 1c, b, a: Lüth 1989: 97–109, fig. 63, Plans 14–16), had a single large room with entrance in axis protected by buttresses; external walls were also buttressed. Two features in this sequence are relevant; first, the platform of Building II

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covered the remains of three small single rooms (Lüth 1989: 87–91, Plan 12), one (312) featured black and red wall paintings of human figures and a large human face (Lüth 1989: 101–4, fig. 66; Cooper 2006: 91–3, fig. 5.2; Porter 2012: 181–3, fig. 26; Felli 2015: 212, Pl. 4.1). These and fragments from room 314 and a fragmented limestone stele painted with a human face seem to represent divine images. Whether these were simple houses with spaces for domestic cult (Cooper 2006: 94; Novák 2015: 61) or small shrines is difficult to say. A similar case is offered by Tell Shuyuk Fawqani, on the same river bank, where Building 3, one of a series of single rooms has inner buttresses framing a semicircular niche (Morandi Bonacossi 2000: 1108–9, fig. 3; Cooper 2006: 90–1, fig. 5.1, 97–8, fig. 5.6; Porter 2012: 184–5), and was probably a multifunctional public space for cult and communal ceremonies. A second relevant factor concerns Building I at Halawa B, defined as a turning point in sacred architecture (Novák 2015: 64). A definitive change to the temple in antis type occurs during a later phase (EB III–IV) in Temple L.23 at Qara Quzaq, the large temple at Halawa A (20 × 10 m), with 3-m thick stone walls containing fragments of two celebrative carved stele (Orthmann and Meyer 1989: 74–9, figs. 44–50; Cooper 2006: 152–4, fig. 7.5; Felli 2015: 228–9, Pl. 16), Temples L.10 at Qara Quzaq (Level IV: 7 × 5 m and subsequent Level III-2: 16 × 7 m) (Figure 12.2.3 and 12.2.4), Building One at Tell Kabir (Porter 1995) and the first phase of the temple at Tell Bazi (Einwag and Otto 2012: 91–3, fig. 1a). These temples consisted of single rooms, entrance in axis between the antae, and stone foundations and wall footings. Archaeological data attest to a process of transformation in the first half of third millennium bce. An EB I–II phase seems to be represented by single-roomed shrines, bent-axis access, and mudbrick structures, probably adopting the Upper Mesopotamian tradition (Matthews 2002; Porter 2012: 178–9, fig. 23). At the end of EB II and early in EB III, the more standardized temples in antis replaced the older types. It has been argued (Porter 2012: 178–96) that a process of transformation from house to tomb to temple is discernible in these periods and may reflect the perpetuation of ancestral links in settling a territory. The data, however, do connect the origin of the temple in antis to the floruit of “Second Urbanization,” of developed urbanism and the formation of state entities. In Northern and Central Syria, we can appreciate the innovative character of the extraordinary number of temples in antis, with monumental appearance, erected in a single town. At Tell Khuera (a large Kranzhügel or “wreath-mound”) in the western dry zone of the Jezirah, several in antis structures (Antentempel and Steinbau) were brought to light. In the eastern zone near the Khabur River, perhaps due to the political influence of Tell Brak (ancient Nagar) urban settlements feature temples in the Mesopotamian bentaxis style (decorated by buttresses); at Tell Khuera temples in antis attest to a different regional orientation (Orthmann 1990a, b: 15–24; Pfälzner 2011: 183–7; Meyer and Orthmann 2013: 156–7). A processional route is marked by a double row of high flat stones (Stelenstrasse) southeast of the town; to the west two temples in antis (Aussentempel) parallel at 45 m on a side and oriented to the west, were visible (Figure 12.3.1). The foundation and socle of the larger northern temple (13 × 6 m visible) were built on a platform of plastered mudbricks. Three more buildings in antis were located on the higher town north of the ancient southeastern gate. Temple I (15 × 10 m) was built on a 7-m high platform (26 × 14 m); Steinbau II constituted the monumental entrance or propylon, leading to the stone-paved stepped ramp accessing the platform and temple. Midway between these buildings was a grave (probably a cremation) containing the skulls and bones of two individuals, animal bones, weapons, a few vessels, and parts of a

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FIGURE 12.3  Early Bronze Age temples of western Jezirah and inner Syria: 1. Aussentempel North; 2. Steinbau I (top left) and Steinbau 2 (bottom right); 3. Steinbau North (I after Meyer, Orthmann 2013,Fig. 60.1); 4. Al Rawda, the temple, last phase (source: S. Mazzoni and S. Martelli, 1 and 3 after Meyer and Orthmann 2013: figs. 60.2; 60.1, 13 × 6 m visible; 2 after Krasnik and Meyer 2001: fig. 9; 4. after Castel 2010: fig. 5).

composite life-size human face (or funerary mask?) made of bronze, steatite, mother-ofpearl, and soapstone, that was interpreted as the face of a statue of the weather god, that once stood in Steinbau I (Krasnik and Meyer 2001: 386–90, figs. 9–13) (Figure 12.3.2). Walled on the south, the northern area featured rooms and a bakery. Steinbau II, a propylon in antis, was built on a 4-m high terrace accessible by a 21-m long stone staircase, probably leading to another sacred area in the eastern area of the acropolis. Steinbau VI was also a temple in antis (17.5 × 11.5) built on a 2-m high stone platform accessible by

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a stone staircase. Temple North, again in antis (15 × 9 m), had stone foundations built on a mudbrick terrace (Figure 12.3.3). The Kleiner Antentempel in the domestic quarter was probably a small shrine for an ancestor cult; five levels reveal the addition of a stepped entrance, a niche, and a dais where fragmented small Mesopotamian style votive statues and figurines were found. It is certainly legitimate to question the variety of size and function of in antis temples, including identifying who the deities worshipped there were. The position of the Stelenstrasse, the two Aussentempel, and, in the same direction, Steinbau II, III, and massive Steinbau I on the summit, may suggest a processional route into the sacred core of the town; ascending stairways and monumental passages from the lower town to the temples and palaces of the acropolis are well documented in the towns of Northern Syria and reveals ideological implications (Mazzoni 2019b). Evidence for a cult of ancestors, as mentioned above, is also significant for investigating the social identity of this community (Porter 2012: 192–3). A suggestive proposal has connected the circular Kranzhügel with pastoral groups (Lyonnet 1998) settling down in the first half of the third millennium. This process is recently documented to the subsequent EB IV (second half of the millennium), with the discovery of circular towns on the margins of the central Syrian steppe that include defensive enclosures, dense dwelling quarters, and radial streets (Castel, Meyer, and Quenet 2020). At this time the Kranzhügel were abandoned (possibly due to climatic deterioration and a population transferred to the south). Exploration at Al-Rawda revealed a three-phased in antis temple enclosure (15 × 12.80 m; First, Second, and Third Temples), and an adjoining small shrine (Small Temple) (Castel 2010) (Figure 12.3.4). Among the many installations, vessels, and furnishings, an in situ stone monolith 3.20 m high offers evidence of erecting aniconic stones, possibly indicating a divine presence, a practice known from Mari (Butterlin 2011; Castel 2011). Whether building temples in antis was connected with a process of religious identity, or associated with the political empowerment of distinct segments of the population (tribal groups?), is no doubt a matter of speculation. In any case, the variety of buildings reflecting the plurality of gods can be considered the result of the greater economic investment made by local elites and rulers; they dedicated solid and visible cult spaces for religious performances granting them legitimate power and providing protection to the community.

Across the Third and Second Millennium: The Temples of Ebla Ebla provides an exemplary record of temples known from excavations and local archives describing cults and gods. The spatially more prominent temple was the massive building erected in the EB on the western edge of the acropolis (Area D) (Matthiae 2020: 79–81, fig. 5.8–10, 301–3, fig. 14.8). Resting under the Middle Bronze Age monumental temple, this temple was revealed in part by the reddish mudbrick walls (and designated the Red Temple) (Figure 12.4.2). It was a distinct type of in antis (24.20 × 17 m) with a large vestibule and a cella slightly longer than it was wide. Buttresses reinforced it, and four columns supported the cella’s roof: two were found on their limestone cylindrical bases (1.20 m high × 1.05/1.15 m in diameter), originally sunk into the floor, and two were in the portico, accessed from the south via three limestone slab steps. The building was probably constructed in the final phase of the Ebla kingdom, over the northern court of the western Unit of Palace G, north of the older underground two-chamber hypogeum (G4). Another contemporary sacred building was Shrine FF2 in the southwestern zone of

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the Southern Quarter of the Royal Palace (Matthiae 2020: 62–3, fig. 4.16) with its Hall of the Painted Plaster, a rectangular room with a column on the west side and a triple niche with wall paintings. The Temple of the Rock (Area HH) was erected on bedrock in the southeastern area of the lower town, set over a natural ellipsoid cavity with three wells used for rituals (Matthiae 2020: 74–9, fig. 5.5–7, 297–9, fig. 14.6, Pl. IV) (Figure 12.4.1). This was a massive building in antis (28 × 21.50) with perimeter walls 6 m thick over stone foundations, a broad cella oriented to the west, a large vestibule, and the entrance facing east. The Red Temple and Temple of the Rock both had a mudbrick structure in antis but with varying orientations and dimensions of the entrances and cella, possibly following earlier models from the Southern Levant (Matthiae 2020: 82). Texts describe the deities venerated and receiving food offerings, as well as the precious materials used to decorate their statues (Archi 2019, 2020): the temple of the chief god Kura, and his consort Barama, was in the palace (saza), hence identifiable as the Red Temple. The “Ritual of Kingship” was performed by the king and the queen in the Kura temple near the Gate of Kura; the Temple of the Rock, close to the southeastern town gate, may have also housed the cult of Kura. Many other deities, known from texts were worshipped in Ebla and its

FIGURE 12.4  Early and Middle Bronze Age temples of Ebla: 1. Temple of the Rock, HH; 2. Red Temple, D2; 3. Temple D3; 4. Temples HH4; 5. Temple of Ishtar, D; 6. Temple G3 (source: S. Mazzoni and S. Martelli, 1–5 after Matthiae 2020: figs. 14.6; 5.10; 14.9; 14.7; 144.23; 6 after Matthiae 2006: 221–5, fig. 1).

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vicinity: Ishkhara, goddess of fertility, Hadda, Weather God (the main god of Aleppo), Adabal, Ashtar, and Gamish (Archi 2010, 2019). Finally, the data from Ebla demonstrate that building temples was a state affair. After the violent destruction of Ebla and the demise of its dynasty (c. 2300 bce), the town recovered under new rulers. A new temple (D3) was built over the Red Temple (13.50 × 10.50 m: Matthiae 2020: 303–4, fig. 14.9), probably tripartite with a vestibule, ante chamber, and broad-room cella (Figure 12.4.3). The Temple of the Rock was the first of a long sequence of temples rebuilt one over the other, maintaining the location, orientation, and the plan in antis, but each smaller than the predecessors (Matthiae 2020: 299–300, fig. 14.7). To effect transition, the cella of the first renovated temple was filled with fifteen rows of mudbricks and the south and west façades and antae were concealed by mudbrick. Over the vestibule, in the last quarter of the millennium, a smaller temple (HH4: 17.30 × 10.90) was built, with its plan in antis and longitudinal cella and perimeter walls 2.30/2.10 m thick over small stone foundations (Figure 12.4.4). A second smaller temple with a slightly varied plan in antis (HH5: 10.50 × 5.50 m) was then added to the north. Both temples are a significant document of a nodal historical phase, bridging the early second millennium and introducing the new cultural phase of the Middle Bronze Age (MB). The adoption of the longitudinal cella replacing the broad type in HH4 has been interpreted as a relevant innovation (Matthiae 2020: 202). In the first two centuries of the second millennium bce (MB I) Ebla enjoyed an important political role, ruled by king Eb-Damu mekim Ebla (Matthiae 2020: 158–9, 224–9, figs. 1.9, 9.2, 11.16; Pl. XXII.1, fig. 11.16), who was known from his images wearing a peaked cap in seals and reliefs. When Yamkhad became the ruling state of Northern Syria (Aleppo being its capital), Ebla remained a sacred town, renowned for the city goddess Ishtar Eblaitu cult, who granted, as patron of the dynasty, love and war, lineage and power. Ebla was remodeled; new and renewed temples and cult places adjoined palaces, tombs, and underground ritual spaces offering a vivid picture of the intensity of the state cult for gods and ancestors. Temple D, attributed to the cult of Ishtar (Matthiae 2020: 191–2, 199– 200, figs. 10.22, 25; 322, fig. 14.23) was completely replanned on a monumental scale with a tripartite scheme in antis, massive stone foundations, footings, and doorjambs (Figure 12.4.5). It was furnished with a double sculpted basin in the cella (Matthiae 2020: 224, fig. 11.12), a basalt base for offerings and a betyl on the short northern wall. A route ascended over the now high slope of the citadel, skirted a small temple in antis, documented by three phases (Chapel G3: Matthiae 2006: 221–5, figs. 1–3), with a broad room and entrance to the east; an annex to its south was used for rites of hepatoscopy attested by clay liver models found on benches along the walls (Meyer 1987: 34–5, 246– 7) (Figure 12.4.6). The “Ishtar obelisk” (Matthiae 2020: 239–43, fig. 11.25, 26, Pls. XXIII–XXIV), which features mythological scenes and the image of Ishtar, was found at the entrance of this shrine, while a schematic head of a “stone spirit” (as known in the literature), perhaps representing an ancestor, was buried in a corner under the floor. From the citadel Temple D dominated the main sacred quarters of the city. To the northwest rose the largest temple (P2: 33.50 × 20 m; Matthiae 2020: 325–31, fig. 14.24, 25), attributed to the cult of Ishtar based on a basalt head considered an image of the goddess, which was recovered in the vestibule (Matthiae 2020: 222, Pl. XXV). The temple had megalithic stone foundations, a longitudinal cella with a 6-m large niche at its end, probably two wings of columns, not preserved, and wall footings covered by orthostats. A sculpted lion in the vestibule stood at the entrance opening into Cistern Square where underground spaces and three favissae (ritual pits) were found filled with votive offerings

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(Pinnock 2008). Damaged royal statues were buried in a large cache at the front of the temple (Matthiae 2020: 216–22, Pl. XX–XXI, fig. 11.1, 4–6, 10; 328). To the west a slightly stepped massive stone terrace (52.50 × 42 m: Pinnock 2008: 328, fig. 14.26) enclosed a large rectangular hall (23.20 × 12.40 m) for rituals (P3: Cult Terrace of the Lions: Pinnock 2008: 203–8, fig. 10.28–30; 328–31, fig. 14.26) (Figure 12.5.1). To the east, the partially preserved Temple of Shamash (Area N: Matthiae 2020: 201, fig. 10.27, 331, figs. 14.27–28), a single-chambered building oriented east–west revealed in situ stone offering tables and a double basin sculpted with images of goddesses and figures embracing each other (Matthiae 2020: 249–50: fig. 11.32–33) (Figure 12.5.2). A large sacred zone in the southwestern area included the single-chambered Temple of Rashap (14.40 × 10.50 m: Matthiae 2020: 201, fig. 10.27, 331, figs. 14.27–8, 331–3, fig. 14.29) (Figure 12.5.3), and the Sanctuary of the Deified Royal Ancestors (Temple B2: Matthiae 2020: 192–3, 207, fig. 10.22, 30, 336–8, fig. 14.31–2) (Figure 12.5.4), facing west to the sunset, planned as a house with a central courtyard surrounded by rooms furnished with stone altars. Temples HH3–2 were finally replanned over the ruins of the earlier temples but are reduced in scale; HH2 was a tripartite in antis building attributed to the cult of Hadad (Matthiae 2020: 201–3, fig. 10.26, 333–5, fig. 14.30) (Figure 12.5.5). Other “minor cult places” are known in the lower town: Shrines BB2 and 7113 in the Western Fortress (Matthiae 2006: 225–32, figs. 5–8) with a simple broad-room plan and niches; both are part of the large northeast city gate and western fortification complexes. No other towns of this period present such a wealth of data concerning sacred architecture and related monumental art, even though the identification of focal deities is often speculative. Similar examples of monumental sacred urbanism have not been located in the main capitals of the Northern Levant; only in Byblos have similar cases been found, including open-air cult spaces connected to the Egyptian cultural and religious sphere. Aleppo as the oldest center of worship of the Weather God (Archi 2010) may have matched the sacred urbanism of Ebla. Portions of stone walls and remains of orthostats on the high citadel incorporated the EB foundations built over the natural bedrock and a related ritual foundation deposit of bronze tools and weapons (Kohlmeyer 2020: 15–18, figs. 10–15). The MB temple was in antis and presented a broad cella (26.75 × 17.10 m), a massive 10-m thick northern wall preserved to a height of 4.5 m with 1.50-m high limestone orthostats as footings, and a deep and wide (4.4 × 7–8 m) niche. Three round stone bases suggest the presence of columns; also discovered were a reused block with a relief showing personages in a greeting gesture and a basalt orthostat with an erased relief of a probable seated figure (Kohlmeyer 2020: 19–24, figs. 16–25, Pl. 26). The impressive dimensions of the north wall and the remains of architectural decoration speak to a lost magnificence of this temple and other cult places in Aleppo. The Euphrates region enjoyed a substantial urban revival in the MB; at Tell Qara Quzak a large granary with circular silos was located close to a new temple in antis (Valdés Pereiro 1999). Temples were founded at Tell Munbaqat and Tell Bi‘a was built over an EB predecessor (Miglus and Strommenger 2002: 102–10, Pl. 124). The long Middle to final Late Bronze Age (Levels XVI–I) temples at Tell Atchana, ancient Alalakh, capital of the kingdom of Mukish, have long been considered canonical buildings in antis. In the older phases (Levels XVI–VII), the temple in Level VII is the best-preserved; like its predecessors it is close to the palace and nearly square in plan (19.20 × 20 m), the vestibule is wider than the square cella and has direct access, a model apparently introduced in Level XI (Werner 1994: 133–4; Woolley 1955: 33–90; Burke

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FIGURE 12.5  Middle Bronze Age temples of Ebla: 1. Temple P2 and the sacred Terrace; 2. Temple N; 3. Temple B1; 4. Temple B2; 5. Temple HH 2 (source: S. Mazzoni and S. Martelli, after Matthiae 2020: fig. 14.24, 27, 29–31).

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2021: 312–14). The Hurrian sanctuary at Ras Shamra, ancient Ugarit (Werner 1994: 134) was also a broad room structure (10.80 × 8 m) with vestibule and cella of the same sizes. Building temples and large sanctuaries was therefore, as in third millennium, carried out by the state, which could invest in monumental constructions and continuous remodeling, a practice well known in the whole Near East. Continuity in the location of city god temples was still characteristic, but the variety of plans and orientations reflected different ritual protocols. Finally, the main innovative element in this period may have been the axial entrance introduced in the Amorite urban sphere and spread into Central Anatolia at Kültepe, ancient Kanesh, and at Avaris in the Egyptian Delta (Burke 2021: 302–17, figs. 5.11–13). However, it must be remembered that the axial entrance was an earlier trait in the sacred architecture of the Northern Levant; the Assyrian and Babylonian temples eventually adopting the axial entrance (Burke 2021: 309–10, fig. 5.9; Novák 2001) were complex structures including annexes for housing the priests and activities associated with the administration of temple properties.

From the International to the Intercultural Period: The Late Bronze and Iron Ages After the Hittite incursions and the fall of local political powers, the Northern Levant gradually recovered socioeconomic stability despite the competition launched by the kingdoms of Mittani, Assyrian kingdoms, Khatti, and Egypt, for control of the fertile coastal and inland regions in the Northern Levant. It was a period of intense cultural exchange and urbanization. Temples give a vivid image of this process demonstrating strong continuity and as well innovative trends derived from various cultural foci. The Euphrates area became a fluid frontier between regional powers. Tell Bazi is representative of this scenario: Temple 1 (37.6 × 15.8 m) was built over the earlier MB temple in antis. It is a massive structure with bent axis access, a cella (Room B), an antechamber (Room A), and walls 0.75 m thick with high stone footings (Einwag and Otto 2012: 91–6; Otto 2013: 273–4). A large buttress reinforces the rear of the cella, while the entrance was protected by a pair of stone portal lions (Figure 12.6.2). The rich assemblage of vessels and the bone residuals found in and outside the building suggest rituals and abundant communal consumption of food (Otto 2012: 188–9). A similar plan is found at Tell Fray, down the river on the same bank (Matthiae 1980), dating to a later period of Hittite predominance. Temple North had an entrance in the long wall and two small rooms on the opposite side (Figure 12.6.3), while Temple South (Werner 1994: 109–10; Mazzoni 2015: 125–6, fig. 10) was in antis with a long cella; the rear was buttressed, protecting the wall of the altar (Figure 12.6.4). A long sequence of temples was built south of the urban gate at Tell Munbaqa, ancient Ekalte (Werner 1994: 102–6; Blocher et al. 2007); Temple IV had the traditional in antis plan but included annexes for meals and ritual activities (Figure 12.6.1). Two betyls, one in front of the outer staircase and one found outside the outer enclosure, indicate that open-air spaces were used for ritual performance, such as the festival (known by textual sources at Emar) for the enthronement of the Entu, including a rite of anointment at the betyl (Otto 2013: 369–71). On the opposite bank of the river, at Al-Qitar, Building10 (10.50 × 14 m) had a broad antechamber and cella (Werner 1994: 137). Down river, Emar was the main town of the Hittite-controlled Ashtata province; four temples were excavated that archives indicate had served a mixed community of Hurrian, West Semitic, and Hittite peoples. Textual evidence indicates twin in antis temples on the high citadel (Area E: Margueron 1975, 1984: 26–9, fig. 1; Werner 1994: 106–7; Sakal 2012) were dedicated to Astarte

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FIGURE 12.6  Late Bronze Age temples of the Upper Euphrates: 1. Tell Munbaqa, Steinbau 4; 2. Temple of Tell Bazi; 3–4. Tell Fray, Temples North and South; 5–6: Emar, Temples of Ba‘al and Astarte; Temple M2, the terrace and the Temple du Devin (source: S. Mazzoni and S. Martelli, 1 after Blocher et al. 2007, Plan 1; 2 after Otto 2013, Fig. 9; 3 after Matthiae 1980: fig. 3; 4 after Matthiae 1980: fig.4; 5 after Margueron 1980: fig. 11; 6 after Margueron 1984: fig. 2).

(northern temple) and Ba‘al (southern temple); two bronze figurines representing a god and a bull (sacred to the Weather God) were also found (Figure 12.6.5). In the lower town the Temple in Area M was in antis (Margueron 1984: 28–9, fig. 2; Werner 1994: 108), outer walls decorated with clay nails (Margueron 1980: 304–8, figs 9–10, 1982: 32–4, figs. 9–10; Werner 1994: 162–4), similar to glazed specimens from Tchoga Zanbil in Southwest Iran and Nuzi in Mesopotamia; here they decorated the inner rooms of the temple and the palace chapel (Mazzoni 2015: 120–1). The Temple du Devin in Area M (identified by the texts found there) was in antis but furnished with three lateral rooms (Werner 1994: 108–9). A cultic platform (“terrasse cultuelle”) (Margueron 1984: 28–9, fig. 2) could serve both temples (Figure 12.6.6). West of the Euphrates, a similar process of renewal under Hittite patronage is manifest in the temple of the Weather God of Aleppo, a major deity for the Hittites.

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The building was remodeled and decorated on an unprecedented monumental scale (Kohlmeyer 2020: 25–34, figs. 26–55); a bent-axis entrance in the western wall was flanked by large lion and sphinx sculptures and by a singular Mesopotamian style apkallu with a fish-shaped mantel, possibly an adaptation from Kassite imagery (Kohlmeyer 2020: 33, fig. 44), or added later under the Assyrian patronage. The gate faced the eastern wall decorated with orthostats bearing a relief of the Weather God flanked by two bull men and false windows in the Hittite style. A platform approximately 1.7 m deep and 13.8 m thick adjoined the northern wall, adjacent to the earlier 10-m thick MB wall, consequently narrowing the cella. Orthostats featuring images of a mountain god, a sphinx, and a griffin, partially recut later in the Iron Age, adorn the platform. Decorating the walls by sculptures, the imagery, and the bent-axis approach (Kohlmeyer 2020: 26–7) was a Hittite practice, though the grandeur of the building is evocative of the earlier local tradition. More evident is the continuity in the Alalakh VI–I (Fink 2010) temples; the tripartite broad-room structure of Level IV (Woolley 1955: 65–73, fig. 30) was replaced in Level III by two buildings (A–B) with bent-axis access, attributed to the Hittite influence (Woolley 1955: 73–7, figs. 31–2; Kohlmeyer 2020: 27, 62, n. 18). Temple A has thickened walls on a 2-m platform of bricks and a portico with two square wood-encased brick pillars, while Shrine B had a portico with one column. Debris from the southeast open area provided a small “Stone Spirit” statuette (Woolley 1955: 77, Pl. XLIVf) possibly related to an ancestor cult. Temples II–I (Woolley 1955: 78–90, figs. 33–4) were rebuilt with an in antis plan; twin cult rooms, an annex, and a large buttressed northern wall were added and seem to reflect external influences. However, the Level I Temple A–B subphases was remodeled as a two broad-chambered structure in axis with a column at the entrance, and a large niche flanked by two small lateral spaces (Phase A); these were closed in Phase B, while the vestibule was flanked by two lateral rooms (Figure 12.7.1). Access was by a stair flanked by two jambs in the shape of two lions; a basalt orthostat with the relief of a Tudhaliya (known by the inscription) and his consort, was reused in one of the steps, documenting a change in the political control of the town. The large court to the south was accessible via a columned entrance, and had a small room to the southwest and a rectangular annex adjoining the eastern wall, which contained a female statue, a block shaped as a table, a base for a statue with two lions and, in a cache, the fragmented statue of Idrimi, an earlier king celebrated in his long inscription. A notably distinct tradition is found in Ras Shamra, ancient Ugarit, where the northern skyscape was dominated by the Jebel el ‘Aqra, sacred to Weather God Ba‘al. Two temples to Ba‘al and Dagan were erected on the citadel. The Ba‘al temple (Callot 2011: 39–54, figs. 2, 15, 28–31) has four architectural levels documented by the well-preserved stone work, and a broad-room cella divided into two by pillars, and a long narrower vestibule with an axial approach and a staircase leading to the terrace (Figure 12.7.2). The smaller Temple of Dagan, also with four levels, was similar and was reconstructed as a taller twostoried structure with windows, a sort of temple tower (Callot 2011: 69–79, figs. 45–6, 52–6) (Figure 12.7.3). Among the many finds indicative of the social context at Ugarit, was a group of votive stone anchors (similar to specimens found in the sacred areas of Byblos), and two stelae representing Ba‘al. On the Levantine coast, we find the Late Bronze to the Iron Age transition in the sequence of temples of Area IV at Tell Kazel, ancient Simira, continuously rebuilt from Levels 6 to 3 as long-room structures with an in antis scheme (Badre and Gubel 1999– 2000: L 136–9, 170–1, figs. 8, 30, 185, 192, fig. 45) (Figure 12.7.4).

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FIGURE 12.7  Late Bronze Age temples in Northern Levant: 1. Alalakh, Temple, Level I, Phase B; 2–3. Ugarit, Temples of Ba‘al and Dagan; 4. Tell Kazel, temple ofArea IV, Level 5 (source: S. Mazzoni and S. Martelli, 1 after Woolley 1955: fig. 34; 2–3 after Werner 1994, 135–6; 4 after Badre and Gubel 1999–2000: fig. 30).

The tradition of monumental temple architecture was vividly renovated in the period bridging the second and first millennium bce (Iron Age I), when Sea Peoples and Aramaean groups emerged in competition with Hittite and Assyrian powers. Various remodels of the Weather God temple in Aleppo (Kohlmeyer 2020: 35–53, fig. 56) represent the most exemplary case. The older axial scheme was resumed and, in the eleventh century, Taita, ruler of the new political entity of Palistin/Walistin (with its capital at Kunalua/Tell Tainat in the suburb of Alalakh), decorated anew the cella adjoining a relief with his image and a Luwian hieroglyphic inscription to the older Weather God relief; in adopting the Hittite imagery and sculpted orthostats, he could rival the rulers of Karkemish and Melid, descendants of Hittite kings, who were also renovating their citadels at an unprecedented scale (Figures 12.8.1 and 12.9). The old platform was enriched by new orthostats with reliefs of gods and genii in a style comparable to those in other towns, despite the presence of local regional traits. The most monumental temple of this period surviving today is an imposing structure on the citadel of ‘Ain Dara in Northwestern Syria (Abu ‘Assaf 1990) (Figure 12.8.2). Excavations document three building phases paralleling the Late Bronze/Hittite and postHittite phases of the Aleppo temple (Kohlmeyer 2008; Novák 2012); this sequence is reconstructed by the sculptures and friezes on reliefs decorating the temple: the gigantic

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FIGURE 12.8  Iron Age temples of Northern Syria: 1. The Weather Godod Temple of Aleppo; 2. The Temple. Ain Dara, Phase 2; 3–4: Karkemish, Area A, Temple of the Weather God; Area B, thee Temple/Hilani; 5–6. Tell Halaf, Tempel-Palast; Kultraum (source: S. Mazzoni and S. Martelli, 1 after Kohlmeyer 2020: fig. 8: 2 after Abu ‘Assaf 1990: fig. 18; 3–4 after Marchetti 2016: fig. 2, 13; 5 after Orthmann 2002: fig. 11; 6 after Langenegger et al. 1950, Plan 5).

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FIGURE 12.9  View of the eastern wall of the Temple of Aleppo (photo: S. Mazzoni, courtesy of K. Kohlmeyer).

sphinxes at the doorjambs of the entrance, the gigantic lion probably standing at the gate of the enclosure, the rows of gods on the rear side, the reliefs with composite figures on the inner platforms, the “false windows” in the cella, and the friezes of guilloches (representing water) that were obliterated in the last phase by rows of sphinxes and lions on the outer façades (Figure 12.10). The structure was erected following the scheme in antis with a portico, a large vestibule, and a broad cella; the thresholds of the two passages were engraved with large footprints entering first with both feet and then the left first and after the right one. This may represent the entrance of the Weather God (Alexander 2002) and Ishtar Shaushga (her Hurrian version), shown armed and partially unveiled in a relief alluding to her powers (Orthmann 1993). Remodeling added a long lateral corridor on the right and a row of four rooms on the left, creating new spaces for cult activities (signaling Hittite practices: Alexander 2002: 18–19, or Assyrian inspiration: Werner 1994: 76–81). Even though the grandeur of the Aleppo and ‘Ain Dara temples remained unsurpassed, the temples of Karkemish, capital of the downsized kingdom of Khatti, manifest the same process of renovation. The temple of the Weather God and its enclosure in Area A (Marchetti 2016: 374–8, figs. 1–2) were built at the base of the high citadel, presenting a single room facing a court containing a base for the lost statue of the god decorated with two bulls, an orthostat with a sphinx, a stele dedicated by a priest of Kubaba (patron goddess of the town) son of King Suhi I (tenth century), and a later eight century stele with an image of the Weather God; a small bronze statuette of the god was found in the cella (Figure 12.8.3). It is significant that the outer wall of the temple’s platform was decorated with large orthostats bearing reliefs representing a group of deities as ascending on the left side of the Great Staircase to the upper citadel, a winged nude goddess, the

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FIGURE 12.10  View of the Temple of Ain Dara (source: S. Mazzoni).

image of the probably dead queen Wati seated on the throne, and King Suhi leading his triumphant army. A second temple has been identified in the large Area B building (Marchetti 2016: 378–83, figs 13.14) which Woolley defined as a Hilani, the canonical type of Syrian palace with columned portico. It was almost twice the size of, and built at a higher level than, the Weather God temple, and was a massive structure in antis, tentatively attributed to a goddess Nikarawa based on a bronze dog figurine associated with this deity (Figure 12.8.4). Discovered south of the temple was a stone statue of a seated bearded royal (?) figure dated by its inscription and style to the MB (Marchetti 2016: 379–80); it may refer to an ancestor cult as in Ebla in earlier times. Another important monumental building of Hilani style is the “Tempel-Palast,” so denominated by von Oppenheim due to this unique architectural decoration; it was built on the acropolis of Guzana (Tell Halaf), on the Upper Western Khabur by the Aramaean rulers of the Bit Bahiani, vassals of the Assyrians in the final tenth-ninth centuries bce (Novák 2001; Orthmann 2002; Pucci 2008: 94–7; Novák and Schmidt 2019: building phases) (Figure 12.8.5). It was lavishly decorated with external sculpted orthostats and a frontal portico consisting of three caryatids in the form of a goddess and two gods standing on their tutelary bull, lion, and lioness. This monumental façade opened onto a large square furnished with installations for rituals and underground graves. The inscription on the goddess states it was “made” by Kapara, son of Hadianu, and created by the artisan-scribe Abdi-ilimmu. That cuneiform scripts on some of the 178 small orthostats decorating the rear and lateral walls refer alternatively to the “Weather God,” “Palace of Kapara,” and “Palace of Kapara son of Hadianu,” has suggested—given that their style is somewhat cruder than that of the portico reliefs—a provenance from an earlier temple of this god. Recent research, however, confirmed the architectural unity of this singular building of Hilani style, set in an urban landscape dominated by the memory of ancestors, with a small temple and three-room annex containing the statues of a god and a seated couple, and by other rich graves at the citadel gate, under chapel containing the statues of two seated personages (Orthmann 2002: 50–5, figs. 28–32) (Figure 12.8.6). When

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the Assyrians seized control of Guzana, a large sanctuary was built (Stadttempel: Werner 1994: Pl. 11.1; Orthmann 2002: 44–7, figs. 24–5) with a direct access temple with vestibule, long room, and raised broad cella, surrounded by a perybolos in the Assyrian style (Figure 12.11.1). We do not possess any other similar expressions of the material embodiment of deities in the form of caryatids; the ancestors buried and celebrated by rites at their statues granted the legitimate succession on the Bit Bahiani. That the Aramaean rulers, despite their mobile origins, adopted the local tradition of massive stone-work style for building temples is evident in the temple on the acropolis of Tell Afis, controlled by the Hittites in the Late Bronze Age. Here a small Iron I mudbrick building in antis (tenth century bce: Temples AIII.1–2: Mazzoni 2019a) was replaced by Temples AII (ninth century bce) with an adjacent cult terrace with ritual offerings, and AI (eighth–seventh century bce) (Figure 12.11.2), when the Aramaeans took control of the state of Hamath and Lu’ash, and the usurper Zakkur, according to his stele, rejected a siege and reconstructed Hazrek (Tell Afis). The temple has a massive stone foundation, towers framing the entrance, a large vestibule, and a long room at a higher level with a large niche or secluded cult space at its north end. Lateral rooms on both sides are reminiscent of the latest ‘Ain Dara temple, or were inspired by seventh-century Assyrian models when the town became Hatarikka, an Assyrian provincial seat (Alvaro in press). Pottery funnels glazed on the rim in bluish/whitish color may have decorated the external façades, probably reflecting a foreign practice seen in Emar (Mazzoni 2012, 2015; Soldi 2012). A small temple at Tell Mastuma (west of Afis) might reproduce the late scheme of temple AI with its lateral rooms (Nishiyama 2012) (Figure 12.11.3). The Neo-Assyrian phase was characterized not only by the adoption of the Assyrian multiroomed temple included in enclosures with functional annexes (Novák 2001) as at Tell Halaf, but also by the last variations of the temple in antis documented at Tell Tainat (ancient Kunalua) where the probably ninth–eighth century bce Temple II (Haines 1971: 53–5, Pl. 103; Pucci 2008: 151–253) was duplicated by the similar Building XVI (Harrison 2012; Harrison and Osborne 2012), to the rear of the Hilani palaces (Buildings I, VI, facing Building IV) (Figure 12.11.3–4). The citadel gate reliefs were in the local tradition but showed an Assyrian provincial style. The two temples were smaller than the palaces with a tripartite structure including one- and two-columned porticos, a long room, and a smaller broad raised cella with a large podium, as in Assyrian temples. A cuneiform tablet with the text of the succession treaty of King Asarhaddon (681–669 bce) in Temple XVI testifies to the transformation of ritual protocols and functions under the Assyrians. The temple of Tell Tweni seems to follow the development of the older temple of Tell Kazel, south of it (Bretschneider and Van Lerberghe 2008) (Figure 12.11.6). The new sociopolitical landscape of the late Iron Age (seventh–fifth century bce), which includes the Assyrian–Babylonian and Achaemenid empires, was marked by notable developments and intercultural interaction (Mazzoni 2001). The temple of Tell Sukas, south of Ugarit, had a traditional plan in antis but was roofed with terracotta tiles in the Greek style (Riis 1970; Bonatz 1993: 131–2) (Figure 12.11.7). A complex stratification of old and new traditions is found in the temples dedicated to the healing gods, which attracted a wider array of believers as indicated by the offerings (Mazzoni 2001). The temple of Amrith was built outside the town (Dunand and Saliby 1985: 9–37, Pls. LXI– LXIII) and was dedicated to the savior god Eshmun. It included pillared porticos, a spring, and sacred lake, and, in the middle, the Phoenician Egyptianized-style chapel (naòs). Texts, stelae, and small idols indicate other temples to savior and weather gods were built in the mountains in the Northern Levant (Bunnens 2006). A small Roman temple at

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FIGURE 12.11  Late Iron Age temples of Northern Syria and Northern Levant: 1. Tell Halaf, StadtTempel; 2. Tell Afis, Temple AI; 3. Tell Mastuma, the temple in House b4-1; 4–5. Tell Tainat. Building II, Building XVI; 6. Tell Tweini, The A Building, Level 6D; 7. Tell Sukas, the temple (source: S. Mazzoni and S. Martelli, 1 after Jangenegger et al. 1950: fig. 165; 2 drawing by S. Mazzoni; 3 after Nishiyama 2012: figs. 3–4; 4–5 after Harrisom and Ossborne 2012: fig.3; 6 after Breitschneider and Van Lerberghe 2008: fig.III.55; 7 after Riis 1970: fig. 18).

Qadbun, in the mountains east of Tartous, reusing an Iron Age stone structure, had a stele at the entrance bearing the image of the Weather God (Bounni 1997: 777–89). A stele of Amrith dedicated to the savior god Shadrafa may have come from Hosn es-Soleiman, ancient Baitokikai (the “place of the castor-oil plant,” Cecchini 1997: 95–8), at the spring

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of the Nahr el-Ghamq at which a monumental temple dedicated to Zeus was erected in the Roman period.

CONCLUSIVE REMARKS In the early third millennium bce rural communities and mobile groups in the Northern Levant gained political power, exploited fertile territories, centralized the administration of resources, and promoted urbanism with built spaces for housing elites and gods, and civic and religious purposes. The massive foundations and terraces were structural elements meant to exhibit temples on the urban skyline and embed them into the ground. The freestanding isolated temple in antis with all its chrono-regional variations was a basic and flexible structure that, like a tent, could be modified; rather than restrictive it was an accessible space granting direct communication with the divine sphere, while most of the rituals were conducted outside. The international context of the late second and early first millennia bce promoted reciprocal interplay and integration among the elites who effected consistent urban renovation in their citadels. The monumental character of the temples was emphasized by the diffusion of sculpted wall friezes with images of gods and patrons as a physical presence that reinforced the level of their communication. Though the deities worshipped were many, the Weather Gods and Ishtar in their various local incarnations, prevailed while Savior Gods, in places of healing properties, in later times, attract a great social context. There is no doubt that Greek peoples, merchants, artisans and mercenaries arriving to the Northern Levant must have been greatly impressed by the local monumental temples, that offered, by their reliefs, sculptures and columned porticos, and attractive models for their sacred spaces.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sacred Architecture in Iron II Southern Levant IDO KOCH

Sacred architecture stands prominently at the center of the study of religion in the ancient Southern Levant. Over the course of decades of scholarship, a variety of terminologies and conceptual frameworks have been developed in order to encompass the full range of shapes, sizes, and placement these structures exhibit (Kamlah 2012; Mierse 2012; Hundley 2013; Kaniuth et al. 2013; Faust 2019; Koch 2020; Halbertsma and Routledge 2021). Still, the general presumption is that they all were similarly distinguished by their prominence as well-defined sacred spaces with agentive capacity (Droogan 2012: 166). For indeed, the impact of rituals that take place in sacred spaces, in contrast to those that occur as a matter of daily routine in domestic contexts or elsewhere, is greater— not because they are separated from daily life but because they concentrate attention, becoming a focal point within their surroundings, and can thus alter the minds and perceptions of the participants (Swenson 2015a: 484–5 with literature therein). This essay provides an overview of sacred architecture in the Southern Levant during the Iron Age II, c. 950–700 bce (Figure 13.1). Historically, this period was characterized by the reign of local polities (with little or no authority exerted from abroad; one of the few noncolonial interludes over the course of the history of the region) known from the Hebrew Bible, Assyrian, and Babylonian sources, as well as alphabetical inscriptions found across the region: the kingdoms of Israel, Judah, Amon, Moab, and Edom, as well as the Philistine city-states (Porter 2016). These polities reached their zenith in the eighth century bce lasting until the conquest of the Levant by the Neo-Assyrian Empire during the 730s and 720s, at the close of the period, which culminated in the destruction of the major local polities and the significant reconfiguration of those which remained (Bagg 2017; Frahm 2017; Faust 2021). During these two and half centuries, each of these polities developed its own set of conventions projected from its political center, including religious practices, namely, the worship of a patron deity and the use of a distinct iconographic repertoire. However, scholarly attempts to distinguish well-defined religious systems based on assumed sociopolitical borders overlook the material record that reflects gradients of shared practices, technologies, and social norms (Uehlinger 2015; Koch 2020; Halbertsma and Routledge 2021). In what follows, several facets of sacred architecture from the Iron II Southern Levant are presented: (1) the diversity of sacred architecture, (2) the agentive power of their spatial configurations and human–architecture interaction, (3) the absence of textures

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and colors in the archaeological record, and (4) ritualized place making and termination. This is followed by a short conclusory note regarding the afterlife of sacred spaces in the modern-day Southern Levant.

DIVERSE SACRED ARCHITECTURE IN THE IRON II SOUTHERN LEVANT Scholars engaging with the wealth of data from the Southern Levant have been inclined to categorize different sacred spaces into types or groups (e.g., Schmitt 2014). Predominately based upon distinctions of size, spatial location within or beyond a settlement, and ground plan, several hierarchized typological systems have been devised. These typologies are of great assistance in imposing order upon the ever-growing material record, yet they should not distract scholarly attention from the diversity of sacred architecture that seems to transcend any fixed categorization of past human behavior. Within these systems, temples—whole sacred structures—are conspicuously the most discussed element. For indeed, the study of religion in the Iron II Southern Levant has developed since its very beginning under the ever-imposing figure of the Temple in Jerusalem. In this context, a major portion of the scholarly discourse relied on literary analysis of the biblical texts in comparison to Akkadian, Ugaritic, and Egyptian sources. It is therefore easy to understand the surprise of the scholarly community in the 1960s when a temple was exposed within the assumed limits of the Kingdom of Judah, which subsequently added a material dimension to the discourse. Y. Aharoni and his team unearthed a relatively small temple within an eighth century bce fortress at Tel Arad (Aharoni 1968; Herzog 2002), located on the desert fringe of modern-day Israel, only 80 km south of Jerusalem and its temple. This temple was soon joined by another temple at Tel Dan that, unlike the Arad temple, is arguably mentioned in the Hebrew Bible—being one of the royal sanctuaries of the Kingdom of Israel (Biran 1994, 1998; Greer 2013).1 Since then, additional sacred structures have been identified across the Southern Levant, at such places as Late Iron IIA (ninth century bce) Pella/Ṭabaqat Faḥil (Bourke 2012), Kh. Atarus, east of the Dead Sea (Ji 2012; Ji and Bates 2014; Bean et al. 2018), and Tell es-Safi/Gath (Dagan, Eniukhina, and Maeir 2018). Considerable scholarly attention has been given in recent years to a monumental structure at Tel Moza, situated just a few kilometers west of Jerusalem (Kisilevitz 2015; Kisilevitz and Lipschits 2020). The ongoing excavations unearthed a structure that developed in several phases during the tenth to the eighth centuries bce, featuring a ground plan reminiscent of the Temple of Jerusalem as described in the book of Kings. At the same time, the Iron II record features ritual activity within larger complexes, understood as having served an administrative function. Fine examples have been unearthed at Iron II Tel Megiddo, where altars, stands, and other vessels were found in two structures considered administrative due to their size and floor plan (Kleiman et al. 2017): the first is located in the courtyard of a large structure close to the gate of the ninth century bce town, and the second in a designated room within a large structure located in the eastern portion of the eighth century bce town. With no temple having thus far been identified in these strata, the current excavators of the site interpreted this trend as political in character, reflecting “an attempt by the central government to strengthen its grip over the countryside of the kingdom” (Kleiman et al. 2017: 46). Yet recognition of a further category may be in order based on finds from Tel Rehov. There, in the ninth century bce town, a structure with a conspicuous floor plan was found

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(Mazar 2020a: 108–9; Panitz-Cohen and Mazar 2020: 157–79). The building contains two parallel series of rooms, each with its own external entrance, which lead back to an inner chamber with two separate entrances, each flanked by a pottery altar. Designated as Building CP, it yielded “the largest number of cult objects from a single structure at Tel Rehov” (Mazar 2020a: 108), as well as cooking installations and many serving vessels that might have been used for communal feasts. Above all lies one missing item: the sacred focal point. The excavators (Mazar 2020a: 109) suggested that the structure served the needs of a holy person. The final category of sacred structures includes built extramural spaces, isolated structures located outside of settlements that are usually termed “wayside shrines” (see Halbertsma and Routledge 2021: 8–12 for a critical analysis of the term). A fine example of such a structure was discovered on the desert fringe of Jordan, where a temple, labeled WT-13 (Wadi ath-Thamad site no. 13), was located a few kilometers from the neighboring settlement (Daviau and Steiner 2017). The temple had two phases—the earlier of which included several cooking installations that were superimposed during the second phase by a single-room structure that yielded hundreds of artifacts, including a large coroplastic collection and thousands of vessels. Chemical analysis of the assemblage indicates that it included both artifacts from the immediate vicinity as well as from other parts of Jordan, suggesting that the temple may have been of some interregional importance. No similar structure is yet known to have existed on the other side of Jordan River during the Iron II, in contrast to the preceding and subsequent periods (see overview in Koch 2020: 334–6); it may simply be a product of chance that no extramural sacred space has been discovered to date, or it may indicate that the focus of worship was within settlements. Yet the temple at Tel Moza could be considered as such, as thus far no domestic remains have been unearthed at the site, which overlooks lush springs and a fertile valley. Last are open sacred spaces, including cultic installations within gates and courtyards. The former is best illustrated at et-Tell, close to the northeastern shore of the Sea of Galilee, where a platform with an offering trough was located in front of large basalt stones engraved with the image of a bull-headed deity (Bernett and Keel 1998; and see parallels in Wimmer and Janaydeh 2011). Another fine example was discovered at Tel Dan, where a row of five small standing stones along with a bench were found next to the city gate (Biran 1994: 245, 1998). A third site is positioned at the gate of Khirbet al-Mudayna in the Wadi ath-Thamad (henceforth, Mudayna Thamad), a fortified town strategically located in the desert periphery of central Jordan that prospered during the Iron IIB–IIC (Daviau 2006). There, a small space with standing stones was situated outside of the gate. These all2 would have been connected to the liminality of gates, designating the interface of the settlement with the outside world, and hence held a significant liminal capacity (Frese 2020; Lorenzon 2021). The second category of open spaces are courtyards with cultic installations, as represented by the sacred open space at ninth century bce Tel Reḥov (Mazar 2020a: 107–8; 2020b: 268–301): a large open courtyard (approximately 200 sq m) facing a platform, on top of which two or three standing stones were found. Benches and cooking installations located within the courtyard have been associated by the excavators with communal feasts, alongside additional activities such as metal working and flint knapping. It was bounded by several structures that might have served the needs of the cult. Before moving forward, a final remark is in order concerning rituals performed outside of designated sacred spaces. First, there is ample evidence for ritual activity conducted in domestic contexts, identified almost exclusively based on the finding of artifacts considered

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instrumental in rituals (such as stands, chalices, shrine models, figurative vessels, and figurines) (Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 57–219). Their very general association with domestic practices suggests their presence in everyday life (Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 227; and see Ingold 2000). Second, archaeologists have become increasingly interested in rituals conducted in production areas, such as at the extraordinary famous apiary at Tel Rehov (Mazar 2020a: 108). These are sometimes interpreted as a means of guaranteeing the success of crafts (Schmitt 2014: 270), but unlike the modern European-oriented dichotomies of sacred versus profane and symbolic versus utilitarian, other ontologies commonly interrelate systems of belief with technology, economy, and craft (Insoll 2004; Fowles 2013; Swenson 2015b; Weedman Arthur 2018). Accordingly, since any activity is practiced according to the perception of the surrounding (Ingold 2000), rituals and crafts comprise both the reflection and the materialization of a particular understanding of the surrounding (the interconnectedness between humans and nonhumans) that constitutes the ways of doing. It is the agency of the artifacts, and the rituals that employ them, that might have imparted some degree of sacredness upon these spaces as well, but this topic cannot be treated within the limits of this essay.

THE AGENTIVE CAPACITY OF SACRED ARCHITECTURE Studies of ancient temples in the Southern Levant usually focus upon their layout and construction as typological features indicative of interregional connectivity (or “influence,” as frequently termed). This well-discussed matter is further reinforced considering the layout of the temple at Tel Moza, parallels of which have been found in the Northern Levant (Figure 13.2): the precinct is made of a large structure facing a courtyard. The courtyard included a stone altar placed in front of stairs leading to the entrance of the structure that is flanked by two pillar bases. The oblong structure’s inner space was stone-paved with benches along its walls and was divided into two main chambers (of which the inner one is, arguably, the holy of holies). An additional chamber was located north of the inner space. This layout of the temple at Tel Moza is shared by temples in the Northern Levant (and, as already mentioned, the Temple of Jerusalem), including Ain Dara and Tall Ta’yinat, and represents a design that dates back to the second millennium bce (Kamlah 2012). It therefore reflects the movement and localization of sacred monumental architectural traditions—a phenomenon well-attested to this day. Smaller temples—such as at Tel Arad, Pela, and Kh. Atarus—feature a diverse spatial repertoire with no dominant plan (Figure 13.2) and hardly any parallels, suggesting peculiarities of local sacred architecture and its performance. A well-discussed plan is that of the temple at Tel Arad, which included a courtyard with a large altar framed by a partition wall from the rest of the fortress, leading to the main structure and to two side chambers; the main structure was entered through a doorway centered within its widest wall; directly in front of the entrance was an inner chamber, with stairs leading to a raised platform with a couple of small altars, behind which were two standing stones. The temples at Tel Moza and Tel Arad share several features with most temples, both monumental and otherwise: a preference for an oblong and symmetric ground plan, a courtyard, an entrance through the center of the wall, and the inclusion of auxiliary rooms (Kamlah 2012: 516–20). As in any other structure, both the temple and its surroundings, predominantly the courtyard, dictate human behavior, in this case the rituals, as their spatial organization affected movement and focal points. Yet the floor plan only represents the perceived ideal in the mind of the planners and its materialization

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Main Building

Refuse pit Courtyard

Main Building

Fortress wall

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FIGURE 13.2  Ground plans of the temples of Moza (above; courtesy of S. Kisilevitz, adapted by the author) and Arad (adapted by the author based on plans by Z. Herzog).

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(which is, by definition, different than the ideal). It is human interaction with the architecture that creates the peculiarities of the lived, the daily experiences that are made by the combination of the place, the time, and the specific behavior of the participants (Swenson 2015a: 482–4). Any reconstruction of the lived religion must be based on both the floor plan and additional elements (such as altars), as exemplified in the following by two sacred places: the temples at Tel Moza and Tel Arad. Courtyards were the arena for rituals conducted outside the temple—each a welldefined space that includes or excludes participants and observers that is nevertheless distinctly separated from indoor activities (Swenson 2015a: 480–1 with literature). A common outdoor activity was sacrifices, the sacred killing utilizing large stone altars (Hesse, Wapnish, and Greer 2012; Schwartz 2017; Recht 2018). Associated faunal assemblages are similar across the Southern Levantine sacred spaces and a point of reference for livestock (sheep, goats, and cattle) (Sapir-Hen 2019). A less common, yet quite illuminating, practice conducted in temple courtyards (though undetected at the Tel Arad temple) was the deposition of used vessels, perhaps due to their sacredness that would preclude subsequent usage (Kisilevitz 2015). Such deposits are illuminating since they, like assemblages of burials, consist of complete vessels that allow detailed reconstruction of the range of rituals hosted in the court. Some examples are chalices for burning of plants, serving dishes for food consumption, elaborate containers for libation, as well as shrine models and stands for dedication (Kletter 2010). The oblong structure shared by most temples seemingly dictated a linear axis with a focal point located opposite the entrance. Clearly, nonlinear movement was possible as well, but no temple has yet provided remains indicating it. The benches placed along the walls were probably used for the deposition of offerings, such as figurines, adornments, and vessels, that were either integral from the temple’s beginning or brought by visitors as votives (Frevel 2008). Accumulated over the years (unless buried in repository pits, see above), they would have functioned within the syntax of the structure—used, interpreted, and reinterpreted by the ritual participants in a mechanism that constantly reshapes cult (Van Andringa 2015). No sacred focal point was found at Tel Moza, due to the erosion of the slope in ancient times; yet the findings from Tel Arad and other contemporaneous sacred structures suggest that the focal points commonly consisted of a raised platform allowing direct view of the sacred objects: most frequently small altars and standing stones. Regarding the former, recent analysis of such altars has shed light on their function: layers of dark material found on the top of the altars of Arad were identified as the remains of cannabinoids, cannabis, boswellic acid, and norursatriene (Arie, Rosen, and Namdar 2020). This joins a growing body of evidence from the Southern Levant attesting to the extensive use of hallucinogenic substances in rituals and role of altered states of consciousness (Namdar, Neumann, and Weiner 2010; Gadot et al. 2014) as is likewise known from a variety of places around the globe (Collard 2016; Ferrara 2021; Stein et al. 2021). The small, single-room chamber of the temple at Tel Arad must have impacted the dispersal of the smoke rising from the altars, allowing the few who participated in this excluded ritual to inhale and go into an ecstatic state. This no doubt emphasized the experience of facing the sacred objects of the temple—the standing stone placed against the inner wall. The worship of stones, being blank3 or engraved with the image of the worshiped deity as in the case of et-Tell (discussed earlier), has taken place in many sacred spaces in the Southern Levant since time immemorial (Scheyhing 2018). This practice exists within a wider context of human–stone interaction (Harmanşah 2007), a universal

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phenomenon of rituals that promote a specific mountain or rock due to its size, shape, or stories associated with it.4 In some cases, the whole rock is embedded within the structure, such as in the Dome of the Rock and the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, or the Kaaba in Mecca. In other cases, pieces of the rock can be taken and be placed within the sacred space, such as might have been the case with the standing stones.

MISSING SHAPES AND COLORS Attempts, such as those discussed herein, to explore the agentive capacity of the architecture alongside the human–architecture sensory interaction, mainly the visual and olfactory—as well as the psychoactive impact of the portable architectural elements— should not distract scholars from the awareness that the material evidence in hand is incomplete. Remains of sacred spaces across most of the Southern Levant are, similar to any other assemblage, lacking significant elements, in particular their walls (beyond a few courses above the foundation level) and their ceilings, as well as elements made of perishable materials such as wooden frames, doors and pillars or garments veiling sections of what is now bare space. Moreover, none of these sacred spaces have been described in any extent text, unlike their contemporaneous counterparts in Assyria (Neumann 2018), and hence scholars have very little with which to fill in the gaps. There are, nevertheless, pieces of evidence that allow a more vibrant reconstruction of the architectural experience of Iron II Southern Levantine temples. Indeed, all Southern Levantine sacred structures discussed within the academic literature lack their ceilings while most are without standing walls beyond several courses. As such, mural ornaments rarely play any role in scholarly discourse. But the fact is that Southern Levantine sacred spaces were fashioned with walls decorated with painted plaster for millennia, a proximate example of such is a temple located at the top of Tel Lachish dating to the Late Bronze III (c. twelfth century bce), whose plastered walls were painted in black, blue, red, and white, creating linear patterns (Ussishkin 2004: 245–7). Painted plastered walls are known from two sites dating to the Iron II as well: the first is a structure at Dayr ‘Alla (central Jordan), which contained a plastered wall inscribed with a long inscription detailing the visions of Bal’am the seer dating to the late ninth century bce (Hoftijzer and van der Kooij 1991; Blum 2016). The second is Kuntilet Ajrud, an early eighth century bce way station on an isolated hill in northeastern Sinai, whose plastered walls were inscribed with good luck formulae naming “Yhwh of Samaria/Teiman and his Ashera” (Ahituv, Eshel, and Meshel 2012) and images such as a royal figure and lotus buds (Beck 2012; Ornan 2016).5 The inscribing and painting of the walls in these two structures suggest that this practice was not unknown. Indeed, another curious case of decorated plaster comes from a ninth century structure at Tel Rehov, whose outer corner served as the platform of the sacred open space previously mentioned: the plastered wall of its inner-most room was impressed by a large stamp seal engraved with a vegetal composition of lotus flowers and volutes (Mazar 2020c). The stamping of wet plaster (which might have had a ritualistic meaning by itself) created a texture able to trigger a tactile experience when running one’s hand along it, and it may have been that the mere action of stamping had an agentive power. Similarly, we lack information regarding the use of wood in the construction of sacred spaces, although charcoal remains indicate its presence. Wood might have also been used for the manufacture of cultic objects that if known to archaeologists would likely alter present reconstructions of the rituals. Along a more productive line of inquiry, the usage

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of wood as architectural elements may be considered, as it would have served as frames, doors, and pillars that most probably stood on the two bases flanking the entrance to the Tel Moza temple—continuing traditions known since the second millennium bce. While absent from the record, such pillars may be reconstructed as decorated, based on contemporaneous examples of the stone pillars of Egyptian temples, which are adorned with inscriptions embedded within floral patterns of lotus buds and papyrus plants. More closely related are shrine models from the Iron II Southern Levant that feature clay modified structures with volute pillars decorated as palm trees (and other vegetal motifs) (Ziffer 2010: 79–81), a tradition that ultimately led to the development of the volute decorated stone capitals in the Kingdom of Israel (Schmitt 2009; Lipschits 2011). The vegetal modification of pillars as trees recalls connotations of strength, growth, and prosperity attested in contemporaneous depictions on other media, such as stamp seals, including the one used for decorating the aforementioned structure at Tel Rehov.

SACRED SPACE-MAKING AND UNMAKING Sacred places are built and consecrated in a sequence of rituals that differentiate them from their surroundings. Such ritualized place-making may include the integration of sacred objects into foundations, floors, and walls, purifying rites, and the introduction of a sacred focal point to its new residence. Often, these sacred places were established as a facet of human interaction with the environment (Haaland and Haaland 2011). The worldwide existence of sacred mountains (discussed earlier), forests (or individual sacred trees), and rivers, illustrate this universal experiencing of the landscape. Today, the sacred landscape of the Southern Levant features dozens of trees (Lissovsky 2004), several holy mountains, and one river. The sacredness of the Jordan River—a major element in the Christian tradition—is attested as early as the Iron II, with the establishment of a temple at Tel Dan, next to one of the river’s major sources. Its continued veneration is indicated by the reinstatement of cult during the Roman period alongside the construction of new sacred spaces in the region, such as Paneas (modern Banias) that flourished at the mouth of another source of the Jordan River for 700 years (Berlin 1999). The enduring sacredness of the space at Tel Dan, despite settlement gaps, is part of a wider Southern Levantine constant—the enduring sacredness of particular locales (Mierse 2012), attested at Tel Hazor (Zuckerman 2011, 2012), Shechem/Tel Balatah (Stager 2003), Tel Beth-Shean (Mazar 2006: 34; 2009: 27–8; Mullins 2012: 144–51), Tel Megiddo (Kleiman et al. 2017: 40–2 with earlier literature), and Pella/Ṭabaqat Faḥil (northern Jordan) (Bourke 2012) during the second millennium bce, as well as at the latter two during the Iron IIA (ninth century bce), and to this very day at Mount Gerizim6 and the Temple Mount/Haram al-Sharif of Jerusalem. The enduring sacredness of locales suggests their importance to the host communities, being sites of memory, places where communities expressed their perception of the past and used it in the formation of their collective identity (Cosmopoulos 2014). Temples that enjoy long life feature architectural modifications. The common sequence includes the deposition of the used cult vessels in repository pits (discussed earlier), the dismantling of walls to floor level, the burial of the structure, and the construction of the new modified structure. Such long-lived temples feature the addition of auxiliary rooms, expansion of the built area and the adjacent courtyard, and the elaboration of the surrounding complex. At the same time, the sacredness is maintained by the replication of the location of the focal point (even if its delineation is enlarged), by the integration

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of elements from the previous structure into the new one, or both. A fine example of the latter is represented by a large stone slab incorporated into the temple at Tel Moza; engraved with the legs of an anthropomorphic figure that once might have belonged to a relief decorating the façade of the temple’s previous phase, it was integrated within the walls of the rebuilt temple—thus transferring its capacity to the new building (Kisilevitz et al. forthcoming). However, sacred places may also be terminated. Much ink has been spilt over this well-debated subject in the archaeological study of religion in the Southern Levant during the Iron II, due to its direct relation to the Hebrew Bible and the biblical references to “cult reforms” led by the kings of Israel and Judah. The case of the temple of Tel Arad is probably the most prominent in this scholarly discourse, as the excavators have argued that its function was terminated, apparently as a matter of policy (Aharoni 1968: 66; Herzog 2002). No signs of destruction by fire were traced, and no valuable objects were found; the standing stone, the sacred focal point, was laid down on its flat side next to the raised podium while the altars were buried in a pit; the top-most parts of the walls were removed, and the temple structure and courtyard were filled with earth in a layer nearly one meter thick; last, stones were placed on the layer of earth, apparently to mark the burial place of the sacred focal point. Ever since its first publication, this dismantling of the temple has been associated with the centralization of cult credited to the kings of Judah (Herzog 2010), but others oposed this interpretation (Edelman 2008). Indeed, the historicity of the religious reforms conducted by the kings of Judah is a matter of great debate among scholars dealing with the textual and literary critic of the biblical text, and it is beyond the scope of this essay. Sufficient to say that archaeologically speaking, sacred spaces have been desecrated since time immemorial across the world due to various factors, such as changes in political, ideological, or religious practices.

EPILOGUE: THE AFTERLIVES OF ANCIENT SACRED SPACES IN THE CONTEMPORARY SOUTHERN LEVANT Sacred spaces of the Iron Age unearthed by archaeologists across the Southern Levant are, for the most part, now matters confined to the realm of scholarship. For outsiders, these might look unimpressive, especially when compared to the stone-built structures of the Roman period and thereafter. Yet these places may at the same time have a transformative capacity upon today’s believers, who desire to resurrect the exposed sacred space. It has been two decades since a group of believers gathered around their leader who sees the remains of the temple of Tel Arad as the true Zion that was not forgotten by the real Jews who migrated to Africa. They pray within the temple and conduct their rituals— the Passover sacrifice included—in proximity to the site (they are not allowed to within the limits of the national park). While indeed tiny in total membership and eclectic in practice, this group illustrates the powerful potential effect of ancient sacred places upon contemporary society, as attested at other Southern Levantine sites from other periods.7

NOTES 1 For a debate regarding the relative chronology of Tel Dan during the Iron II, see Arie (2008); Sergi and Kleiman (2018); Thareani (2019).

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2 Sacred spaces have been found at the inner gate of Tel Lachish Level III, dated to the Iron IIB (Ganor and Kreimerman 2019), although disagreement exists regarding their components and function (Kleiman 2020). 3 Blank standing stones are often understood as representing an iconic sacred focal point or, in a more nuanced sense, an elusive representation of the divine as compared to any other representations (Doak 2015: 78–101; see also Uehlinger 2019: 122–3). At the same time, the now blank stones might have been decorated with pigments (as indeed traces of red paint were found on the stone from Tel Arad; Herzog 2002: 63) or accompanied with garments or adornments that were not preserved during the millennia that passed or (in the case of the latter) were removed in antiquity. 4 Think of the story of Jacob at Bethel (Gen. 28:10-22): Was it the tradition that gave the stone its sacredness, or the sacred stone that allows Jacob to dream, and thus access the divine? 5 The function of Kuntilet Ajrud is still a matter of debate, yet there is a growing notion that there is no evidence of rituals at the site (Smoak and Schniedewind 2019). 6 As early as the Persian Period (fifth century bce), but an earlier date has recently been suggested (Arie 2021). 7 A marked example comes from the megalithic site of Rujum al-Hiri in the Golan Heights, which was built in the Chalcolithic, reused over millennia (Freikman and Porat 2017), and since its excavation in the 1980s, has become a center of “New Age” rituals, especially during the winter and summer solstices.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Scribes in the Temple: Materializing Missing Monuments in Mesopotamia JENNIFER C. ROSS

The “material turn” in archaeology, here exemplified by a volume on material religion, has recently been met by a new philological interest in the materiality of text, in which philologists, traditionally concerned with the written word and its meaning, have recognized the significance of a variety of other factors—including context, carrier, and the social relations that produced an inscription—to the understanding and reconstruction of meaning (see especially Meier, Ott, and Sauer 2015; for Near Eastern sources, see Delnero and Lauinger 2015). This contribution hopes to interweave themes of materiality and textuality, to “entangle” them, to explore the multiple social actors occupying Mesopotamian temples and their agency therein. Specifically, I will examine a set of textual witnesses to monuments that stood in a pair of Mesopotamian temple precincts, teasing out the nested systems and practices that created and documented those items over a span of several hundred years. The biographies of these monuments, which (mostly) do not survive to the present day, suggest that Mesopotamian temples hosted a continually evolving array of interrelationships among gods, rulers, and more common folk, archaeologically approachable through their changing ties to texts and monuments. The main texts that record and describe the monuments considered here are a group of Sammeltafeln—cuneiform tablets that “collect” (German sammeln) or compile multiple unique, though related, inscriptions onto a single document. At the Mesopotamian sites of Nippur and Ur, Old Babylonian period (c. 2000–1600 bce) scribes created several Sammeltafeln that collected inscriptions from Old Akkadian period (c. 2350–2150 bce) royal dedications within the principal temple precincts of those two cities. The original dedications testify to religious, political, and artistic practices relating to monuments that have not survived to today. But the Sammeltafeln offer insights also into overlapping networks of knowledge and action within and outside the temple institutions, networks that extended the reach of these objects and their dedicators in time, space, and context. In tracing the stages leading to the creation of the final text witnesses, I hope to illuminate some of these characters and their motivations.1

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THE ORIGINAL MONUMENTS The objects whose inscriptions were transcribed by contemporary and later scribes were statues and relief representations of rulers of the Old Akkadian empire. Most commemorated royal military successes, while others celebrated interactions with the gods, or the dedication of royal or divine statues. For the Old Akkadian kings, these wars included internal struggles against rebellious cities, especially in the Sumerian south, as well as conquests to the north, west, and east that added territory to the Akkadian empire. These kings were not the first to celebrate martial prowess in the temples, but the surviving victory stelai of Sargon (Figure 14.1) and Naram-Sin, both found at Susa, departed in style and format from Early Dynastic predecessors like the Stele of the Vultures in their emphasis on royal might, rather than divine favor, as the key to victory (Winter 1985, 1996; Eppihimer 2019). Still, the dedications were placed in temple precincts, where not only people but also gods would encounter them. Royal dedications also included booty captured from conquered lands, which also were inscribed with a dedication. A good example is the inscription Rimush 11 (RIME 2.1.2.11), an Akkadian inscription on more than forty stone vessels (but fully preserved on only three) found at Nippur. Excavation records

FIGURE 14.1  Victory stele from Sargon, king of Akkad, showing prisoners marching and armed warriors, c. 2300 BCE (source: Musée du Louvre/Paris/France; Photo Credit: Erich Lessing/Art Resource, NY).

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indicate that most were found southeast of the ziggurat, presumably in one of the open courtyards of the temple precinct (Frayne 1993: 61). ana Enlil Rimuš LUGAL KIŠ inu Elam ù Parahšum SAG.GIŠ.RA.NI in NAM.RA.AK Elam A MU.RU To Enlil, Rimush king of the world, when Elam and Parahšum he conquered, from the booty of Elam he dedicated (this). The dedicatory objects described in the later texts consisted of ruler statues (ALAN in Sumerian) and stelai (NA.RU.A; at Mari only, using the Akkadian narû, RIME 2.1.4.46). Both object types were set onto socles (KI.GAL), which could have additional carved figures and inscriptions. Each inscription might be in Sumerian, Akkadian, or both; the ruler could be identified using a traditional inscription on the shoulder (an example is RIME 2.1.2,2, Rimush 2). Seldom is the material of the statue or stele indicated, unless it was of particular rarity or interest; Rimush 18 (RIME 2.1.2.18) indicates that the king specifically chose to have his statue carved in meteoric iron. Buccellati (1993) attempted to reconstruct the appearance of just one monument at Nippur dedicated by Rimush, the second king of the dynasty, combining five separate inscriptions (Rimush 1–5) describing the defeat of several Sumerian cities, with numerous colophons in Sumerian indicating the locations of additional images and inscriptions on the socle, and Sumerian captions

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identifying captive individuals and the defeated kings. Because of the terseness of the colophons, Buccellati struggled to reconstruct the sequence of viewing and copying the various parts of the monument, but believed that to see and read the entire thing one had to walk all the way around it, suggesting its placement in an open space away from walls and other intervening features. Although this was the most complex of the transcribed monuments in terms of the number of colophons and captions, others had even longer inscriptions. We must imagine a series of figural monuments, perhaps in various sizes but most on the scale of the victory stelai of Sargon and Naram-Sin (2 m tall), and the lifesized statue of Manishtushu, all discovered in Susa after their removal from the temple precinct of the sun god in Sippar. In a few cases, the original inscription was on some other type of object; an example is Rimush 7 (RIME 2.1.2.7), which the scribe copied from a basin or cauldron (ŠEN za-hum). The number of surviving Old Akkadian royal inscriptions (whether extant or present on the later copies) indicates the active practice on the part of these kings to follow significant military victories, and other major achievements, with dedications to major gods. It is certain that these monuments stood in temple precincts at Ur, Sippar, and Nippur, at the very least; those at Sippar were later taken as booty, together with the Law Code stele of Hammurabi and other Old Babylonian period monuments, to Susa by the Elamite king Shutruk-Nahhunte, who added his own inscription to Naram-Sin’s victory stele (RIME 2.1.4.3). Such a rededication was typical practice, indicating the superior status and power of the new royal owner and his god. Mesopotamian texts on the production of divine statues (Walker and Dick 2001; Bahrani 2003) speak to the reverence required of artists and scribes in the production of an image that would soon be animated and occupied by a god. While the royal statues and stelai may not have earned quite so high a degree of regard, it is clear that artists and scribes in multiple settlements contributed to a constant flow of finished monuments into the temples, using materials that themselves may have come into the possession of the royal administrations through warfare. Curse formulas protected the statue or stele from removal or reinscription. We do not know the processes by which monuments were designed and inscriptions composed, but Old Akkadian artists and scribes seem to have often worked from earlier models available to them, likely already present in the temples themselves. That they were also capable of revolutionary change is evidenced by NaramSin’s victory stele (Winter 1996). The monuments that stood in the major temples of Mesopotamia, perhaps overwhelming in numbers, were visual and written reminders to gods and humans of the offensive might of the Akkadian rulers and their armies; those in the Ekur in Nippur, especially, served to legitimize royal power (Evans 2016: 165). The monuments also served significant religious functions. Judging from the abundant inscriptions on statues of Gudea, the ruler of Lagash, just a few decades after the Old Akkadian kings, statues and stelai could be created after the construction of a new temple (or restoration of an older one). Their installation was accompanied by significant ceremony, and each one could receive daily or regular offerings of beer, bread, and flour (see Gudea Statue B, RIME 3/1.1.7). Once installed, the statues could speak to the god on behalf of the king (Winter 1992). There is little evidence to allow the reconstruction of the precise location of these monuments when they were first installed. The excavations at Nippur during the late nineteenth century suffered from problems typical of the period: insufficient understanding of stratigraphy or other methods for assigning dates, insufficient oversight of huge staffs of laborers, and the employment of tunnels and other rapid digging methods to obtain

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tablets. By 1900, it was apparent that the temple precinct dedicated to Enlil, the Ekur, included an inner and outer courtyard, with both a temple and the ziggurat built in the Ur III period (Hilprecht 1904). Many of the earlier problems were rectified by the later Oriental Institute (Chicago) and University of Pennsylvania excavations that began in the 1940s, but little contextual information about the earlier materials survived. These later excavations began by clearing the Ur III period Ekur, the temple precinct dedicated to Enlil, as well as the Old Babylonian period scribal quarter (Areas TA and TB). McCown and Haines (1967: 4, 26) concluded that the earlier Old Akkadian temple was likely underneath the later ziggurat; contemporary floors and surfaces adjacent to it may have held the monuments. The situation is clearer at Ur, which appears to have held fewer monuments (or at least fewer objects of interest to later scribes). No trace of architecture survives from the Old Akkadian period at Ur, despite the city’s status as a major religious center where an Akkadian princess, Enheduanna, was stationed as priestess to the moon god (Woolley 1955: 50). Significant numbers of dedications by the Old Akkadian period kings ended up within the Ur III temple precinct, however (Gadd et al. 1928: nos. 8–10, 22–4).

THE MONUMENTS TRANSCRIBED AND DESCRIBED Within a century of the Old Akkadian dynasty’s end, beginning with the Ur III kings (2112–2004 bce), many of the major Mesopotamian temples were remodeled. In the process, a significant number of the Old Akkadian monuments described above were salvaged and resituated in the new temple precincts. These Ur III sanctuaries are better known and better preserved than their predecessors, especially at Ur and Nippur, the traditional seats of divine power. At these sites and others, a major new feature of the temple precincts was a ziggurat, but that solid temple tower was typically accompanied by a low temple enclosure. And both were set within systems of enclosure walls and large open courtyards, accommodating groups of celebrants of varying sizes (Hilprecht 1904; Woolley 1939; Crawford 1958; McCown and Haines 1967). It was the open courtyards that likely housed the reinstalled monuments. At Nippur, the Sammeltafeln, with their individual inscription copies, suggest at least twenty-five distinct monuments stood within the Ekur precinct. At Ur, at least some of these relocated monuments survived an Elamite attack at the end of the Ur III period. Among the reinstated monuments were a few objects of Early Dynastic date, but these were mostly small, including vessel dedications and inscribed cones. Both Ur III and Old Babylonian period scribes copied the inscriptions on individual monuments. It is clear that the Old Akkadian monuments attracted the attention of both the builders and scribes in ways that are not attested for the Early Dynastic period, or even most Ur III dedications. This is attested even on a surviving granite vessel dedicated at Ur by Naram-Sin; a second inscription adjacent to the first, but considerably longer, was created on behalf of the daughter of Shulgi, the second Ur III king (RIME 2.1.4.41 and RIME 3/2.1.2.98; CDLI P216646). Several tablets with a single copied inscription come from both Ur and Nippur (Gelb and Kienast 1990: 129), suggesting a concentrated, perhaps somewhat antiquarian, interest in the Old Akkadian kings, their deeds, and their representations. We must presume that the scribes who copied the monumental inscriptions onto their handheld tablets were not the only viewers of these objects; the temple courtyards may have had a museum-like ambience, offering access to figures who, by the Old Babylonian period, had taken on a legendary status.

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By the Old Babylonian period, the Sumerian of the original monuments was no longer spoken but was maintained in scribal schools; the Akkadian of the inscriptions was more familiar, but not the same dialect or writing system as spoken or written Babylonian. Scribes who copied bilingual inscriptions were likely trained in both languages and sign systems. Old Akkadian paleography was detailed and painstaking, especially when carved into stone; it has been described as “calligraphic” (Sommerfeld 2021: 565). The scribes copied the inscriptions in Old Babylonian paleography, onto tablets with one or two columns on obverse and reverse, a typical format for letters and administrative texts of the period, and one used in scribal education (Tinney 2011: 581). A couple of the transcribed inscriptions were on larger tablets—one from Ur and one from Nippur, each with three columns preserved on each side. This format would have been more commonly used for copies of literary and lexical texts typical of the schools (Veldhuis 1997: 28–37). For each monument, the scribe who copied the tablet was concerned with the text but not much with the image(s) it accompanied. It is only from their use of ALAN (“statue”) or ZAG (“shoulder”) to indicate the placement of a text that we can reconstruct a threedimensional figural representation. For captions that accompanied figures in relief, the copyist indicated “left” and “right” or “in front of ” positioning, but otherwise simply transcribed the text. Unlike modern scholars, they had no reason to be interested in specific qualities of the rendering; their focus was strictly textual. In a couple of instances, there are extremely late transcriptions, which offer a different perspective on Old Akkadian monuments. Specifically, two inscriptions of Shar-kalisharri were copied by Neo-Babylonian (626–539 bce) scribes—one from an object found at Zabalam, which the colophon, written in a smaller script than the rest, claims to have been copied “quickly” from a stele. On the other, the scribe explains, on the reverse, that it was an impression from a brick that the scribe had “found” in Naram-Sin’s palace at Agade. This brick inscription is similar but not identical to other extant Shar-kali-sharri dedications. Scholars have long cited the antiquarian interests of Neo-Babylonian kings (Winter 2000; Beaulieu 2003, 2013; Eppihimer 2019); here we see scribes conducting their own investigations of ancient monuments. At least two additional Neo-Babylonian tablets copied Ur III period monuments, purportedly found at Sippar (RIME 3/2.1.2.2043) and at Kutha (RIME 3/2.1.2.64). With the exception of these first millennium examples, which were the products of significantly changed political circumstances, the Old Akkadian monuments likely embodied religious and political (especially imperial) strategies familiar to the Old Babylonian scribes who witnessed and copied them. Royal stelai and votive statues continued to be produced in the second millennium, and dedicatory inscriptions had changed very little in form and content in the intervening time. The Old Akkadian monuments likely stood in the open air alongside similar monuments of the Ur III kings. While complete stelai and statues were not recovered in situ in excavations at Nippur and Ur, sculpted fragments with inscriptions were found at both sites, as well as smaller votive objects like mace-heads and vessels. Long dedicatory inscriptions of Old Akkadian kings also survived on stone door sockets—objects too heavy to be taken as booty, and too solid to easily fracture. The excavated remains speak to an array of dedications by kings anxious to display their gratitude and generosity to the gods, and their martial prowess to temple visitors. Scribes who entered these spaces would be familiar with the objects and representational strategies they witnessed, and may even have been producing similar inscriptions for Old Babylonian royal donors. At the same time, the scribes were

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themselves making strategic choices, copying and describing Old Akkadian monuments almost exclusively. Very few of the copied texts provide any indication of where the copyist discovered the monument. At least two monuments of Naram-Sin stood in open spaces: RIME 2.1.4.26 describes a statue at Ur as having inscriptions located facing “the temple of the new courtyard” and a statue of Sin-iribam, a king of Larsa. Another Naram-Sin statue (RIME 2.1.4.48), this one in Nippur, stood “next to the date palm” (although the GEŠIMMAR sign is only partly preserved). Finally, a Neo-Babylonian scribe reports that he discovered Shar-kali-sharri’s brick stamp “in the asarru palace of Naram-Sin” in Agade (RIME 2.1.5.10). The Old Babylonian period copying of the monument texts was the culmination of a process of remembering and recontextualizing that began in Ur III, as the monuments were removed from their original locations and reinstalled in the newly built temple precincts. Already in the Ur III period, scribes had begun to adapt the stories of two of the Akkadian kings, Sargon and Naram-Sin, into literary form, creating the first versions of the “Curse of Agade” (Cooper 1983). This literary text, a precursor to later “city laments,” describes both the rise and fall of the Old Akkadian dynasty and blames the destruction of their capital on Naram-Sin’s defiance of Enlil and destruction of his temple in Nippur. The Ur III manuscripts of the composition all come from Nippur, as do the majority of the Old Babylonian copies (Cooper 1983: 41–5). From this beginning, a number of additional literary texts that either celebrated or condemned Sargon and Naram-Sin were created, especially during the Old Babylonian period, but others composed far later in time (Westenholz 1997). While the scribes making copies of the monument inscriptions might appear to have been preserving historical information, their work certainly reflected and contributed to a fascination with these earlier kings.

FROM SINGLE COPY TO SAMMELTAFEL The final stage in the compilation and transformation of the Old Akkadian royal inscriptions from monuments was their collection in Sammeltafeln. This took place at the same time as (or directly after, in practical terms) their copying within the temple precinct, as described in the previous section. But the creation of Sammeltafeln took place in a different space, and different institutional setting, from the “simpler” process of copying. At this stage, the creation of Sammeltafeln reveals a great deal more about the scribes and scholars of major cities than about their connection to and activities within the religious sector. The Old Babylonian period Sammeltafeln are large tablets, with anywhere from two to twenty-two distinct inscription copies (Figure 14.2). The best-preserved examples, from Nippur, have up to fourteen columns of writing to a side. At least nine were excavated at Nippur, three from Ur, and two from unknown locations. A final example, said to come from Zabalam, was made in the Old Akkadian period, with two inscriptions from objects dedicated by an official of Sargon. This last object is a helpful indication that the idea of collecting inscriptions was not invented by the Old Babylonian scribes. Nor were the Old Akkadian texts the only ones collected by these scribes. Old Babylonian period Sammeltafeln containing Ur III text copies come from Nippur, but not from Ur. Nippur’s Old Babylonian scribes also produced at least one Sammeltafel of contemporary Nippur inscriptions. And a few of the tablets with Old Akkadian inscriptions from both Nippur and Ur include Ur III

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FIGURE 14.2  Old Babylonian Sammeltafel CBS 13972 (source: diagram by J. Ross, based on Gelb and Kienast [1990: 142 Abb. 13 and 146 Abb. 15]. Text numbers from RIME 2).

examples as well. While the Old Akkadian kings and monuments garnered the most attention from the Old Babylonian scribes, their allure was not exclusive. The Sammeltafeln are too large and unwieldy to have been inscribed inside the temple precinct by a scribe moving from monument to monument. Instead, they were compilations from the tablets described in the previous section, each containing a copy of a single inscription. Some overlap but not complete correspondence exists between the single inscription tablets and the inscriptions on the Sammeltafeln; no inscriptions of Sargon or Manishtushu are known from the small tablets. No surviving Sammeltafel contains all of the inscriptions of the monuments of an Old Akkadian king; rather, each represents a “selection” of these inscriptions. There may be some meaningful patterns: the largest surviving tablet, CBS 13972 (CDLI P227509), with fourteen columns to a side, has inscriptions of Sargon, Rimush, and Manishtushu (in that order, reflecting proper chronological sequence) but none belonging to Naram-Sin. Others, like AO 5474 (CDLI P216557) and BT 1 (CDLI P227520), have only Naram-Sin inscriptions. Whether these choices reflect the positions of the monuments within the temple, historical preferences, or some other factor specific to the scribes is unknown. The Sammeltafeln from Ur are briefer and more eclectic than Nippur’s: one comprises copies of one Naram-Sin and one Manishtushu inscription (in that order); the other has two inscriptions of the Ur III king Ibbi-Sin, followed by a short one belonging to Sargon. At Ur, then, something other than chronology governed the sequence of texts on the Sammeltafeln. The Sammeltafeln represent a distinct institutional context, largely separate from the temple institutions of the Old Babylonian period. They belong to the setting of scribal education and scholarship, with schools probably present in most major cities of Old Babylonian Mesopotamia. Significant progress has been made on reconstructing the curriculum of Old Babylonian scribal schools, which served as the training ground for individuals who would serve in government or temple administration (Veldhuis 1997; Tinney 1999; Delnero 2012). Archaeological evidence suggests that they were privately

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run, small-scale enterprises, with instruction taking place in the houses of professional scribes (Robson 2001). Scholars have reconstructed the curriculum of schools, in which students first learned the writing system and then proceeded on to Sumerian grammar and literature. The principal “textbooks” of the scribal school were lexical texts (sign and vocabulary lists) and an established set of royal hymns. This curriculum has been established on the basis of the numbers of tablets belonging to different text genres found in school settings and the specific texts copied onto tablets of formats determined to have been used in schooling (Veldhuis 1997). Unlike the lexical and literary texts, royal inscriptions do not appear to have been part of the standard curriculum of Old Babylonian scribal schools. They share epithets and tropes related to royal praise poems that were learned, however. Beyond literature, students copied model letters and model contracts, and learned a variety of mathematical skills—all practical skills that would serve them in administrative posts, whether they worked for secular or temple institutions, or in “free-lance” positions. Veldhuis (2004) and Delnero (2016) also make the case that the school was a place where, in learning Sumerian literature, students were also learning history, and becoming members of the administrative elite of the Old Babylonian state. Among the literary and lexical texts found in Nippur and Ur were full compositions written in a professional hand, taken by scholars to be both example texts and scholarly works from which teachers dictated to students, marking the highest achievement of professional scholar-scribes. Later scholarly libraries would include standard literary works like the Epic of Gilgamesh and Enuma elish as well as compendia of divinatory and medical texts (Robson 2011, 2019). The Sammeltafeln of the Old Babylonian period that contained Old Akkadian royal inscriptions were scholarly works of similar type, reflecting the academic interest of a few scribes in the period, but, unlike some of the other genres, holding relatively little practical interest for later scribes. Compiled by scribes, for scribes, they had an existence that referred little to the original monuments they described, but reflected strongly the prestige and pretentions of their copyist-owners.

CONCLUSIONS Studying the inscriptions carved on royal dedications of the Old Akkadian period with attention to their materiality highlights their biographical transformations from production to salvage and reuse, to study (including the work of the present day). Beginning life as objects of veneration and propaganda, over four millennia ago, monuments were reinstalled and rediscovered as objects of curiosity, and ultimately of scholarship. Along the way, at least some of those who encountered them lost interest in their visual properties, though their representational refinement was emulated and adapted by other rulers and later craftspeople (Eppihimer 2019). At the most important seats of Mesopotamian religious power, the original items were re-created in words only, and in this form survived far longer than the objects they adorned. Tracing the changes in their materiality reveals surprising ruptures in place and perception, as well as revivals in modified form. Most importantly, it focuses our attention on the evolving agency of creators and viewers of the monuments, with concurrent shifts in meaning and significance from the affirmation of rulers before their gods, to the identity construction of scribal scholars within their own privileged contexts.

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NOTE 1 The following abbreviations are used in the article in referring to tablets and inscriptions: CDLI (the Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative, http://cdli.ucla.edu), which assigns unique CDLI numbers (beginning with a P) to each tablet cataloged in its database; RIME (The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia, Early Periods), which collects royal inscriptions (each unique text, whether represented by multiple copies or not) in chronological sequence. RIME volume 2 (Frayne 1993) is the publication of inscriptions from the Old Akkadian period; RIME volume 3/1 (Edzard 1997) published inscriptions of the subsequent dynasty of Gudea at Lagash; RIME volume 3/2 (Frayne 1997) comprises the royal inscriptions of the Ur III period.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Heraldry of Early Iranian Religion JACOB L. DAHL

Writing has served to support both the economic and social structures underpinning religion and to express religious ideas, in most cases of its early use. This is particularly well documented in ancient Egypt and Mesoamerica, but less so in early Mesopotamia, notwithstanding the substantial architectural remains of what have been interpreted as temples, from ancient Mesopotamia. Evidence of religion is extremely illusive in the earliest texts from Iran, the so-called proto-Elamite texts, and the site most closely associated with the proto-Elamite texts, Susa, produced no architectural remains that can be recognized as religious buildings dating to this period. This might well be a feature of the archaeological practice of the lead excavator of Susa, Jacques de Morgan, rather than an actual reflection of the original situation at Susa.1 Due to the dependency of protoElamite on proto-cuneiform, I will first discuss the evidence of religion in the protocuneiform texts, before surveying the proto-Elamite corpus. Due to the nature of early writing and its limited information on social and religious systems, I will also briefly discuss the glyptic evidence (in particular seals) for religion in both Late Uruk (Uruk V–III, c. 3500–3000 bce) and the proto-Elamite period (c. 3100–2900 bce).

INVENTION OF WRITING IN WESTERN ASIA Writing in Western Asia was invented primarily in a response to a growing complexity in society and administration, and most early texts respond directly to the needs of an increasingly complex administration. The same has not been shown for the world’s other pristine inventions of writing, where display of power and cult played a central role in the invention of writing (e.g., Baines 1989). Of course, the cult(s) of ancient Mesopotamia and Iran, at the time of the invention of writing, used symbols to broadcast their ideas and schemas, even though these are poorly understood and/or have not been identified; and of course the people of ancient Mesopotamia and Iran worshiped anthropomorphic deities, even though no certain images of these have been recovered in either Mesopotamia2 or ancient Iran, and even though no depiction of humans have been recovered from the proto-Elamite period in ancient Iran (discussed later). In a response to growing economic complexity in Southern Mesopotamia in the middle of the fourth millennium bce, administrators began to encapsulate counters (called

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tokens by specialists), that had existed for millennia, presumably to facilitate arithmetic operations, into clay envelopes to make the transactions permanent. These clay balls with counters (bullae with tokens) were usually impressed with the tokens kept inside, and seals on the outside. Shortly thereafter, administrators discarded the enclosed counters, producing flat clay tablets with impressions of the counters only, or representations of these with a stylus, and seal impressions. These objects, generally called numerical tablets, were in turn replaced by tablets with one or a few nonnumerical signs, the numero-ideographic tablets, which were then superseded by proper proto-cuneiform tablets with a complex structure and longer strings of nonnumerical signs coding complex information (Englund 1998a).3 Examples of all these text artifacts, except the developed proto-cuneiform texts of Level IVa–III,4 are found both in Southern Iraq and in Western Iran. By the time writing developed into a complex system, usually termed proto-cuneiform (Uruk IVa–III), scribes in Iran developed their own writing system, based on principles and signs loaned from Mesopotamia: most of the numerical signs and systems, as well as a number of core signs, in addition to the form, material, and tools of writing.5 This writing system is conventionally called proto-Elamite. The corpus of proto-Elamite texts is large with more than 2,000 texts and fragments (primarily housed in the National Museum of Iran, Tehran, and the Louvre Museum, Paris), of which around 1,775 are published to date. The entire corpus has been transliterated in well-structured digital transliterations, using an unpublished sign list (Dahl n.d.) based loosely on Meriggi’s 1974 sign list, forming a corpus of more than 10,000 lines of text. Contrary to the proto-cuneiform tablets, which are organized in what Peter Damerow called visual hierarchies (Damerow 2006), proto-Elamite tablets are written in a linear structure, with entries flowing across the line breaks, from right to left (top to bottom in the orientation of the tablets in modern publications). Totals are, when present, found on the reverse. The early texts have a simple structure, whereas later texts have a more complex structure; yet only a few texts have a multilevel structure with main entries and subentries comparable to the often more complex Late Uruk texts.6 The proto-Elamite signary is often described as having a large number of abstract sign forms, and it has been suggested that it contained a nested syllabary (Dahl 2019: 82–5).

LOANS AND BREAKS BETWEEN URUK AND SUSA Given the proximity of Susa to Uruk, the fluctuations, even in historical periods, of where any border between Southern Mesopotamia and Khuzestan may have been (Potts 2021), the strong influence of Late Uruk culture on Susa, prior to Susa Acropolis Level 17 (but see Pittman 2013: 319–22), and the type and nature of the textual evidence, my starting point for this investigation is that the textual evidence for religion from Susa and Uruk in late fourth and early third millennia bce is likely to be similar. However, the clear break between the two centers, following Susa Acropolis Level 17, and the introduction of new modes of artistic representation at Susa suggests that we may find evidence for religion in Susa not found in Uruk. Finally, the abrupt end to the use of writing at Susa, and in Iran as a whole, following Susa Acropolis Level 14, means that any identification of signs and symbols with divine beings remains very speculative. This is magnified by the fact that the signs of the proto-Elamite writing system were relatively abstract, making any identification based solely on graphical referent difficult.7

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EVIDENCE OF RELIGION IN THE LATE URUK TEXTS Lists of Offerings Some Late Uruk texts8 may record offerings of foodstuff and textiles to, or in connection to, religious festivals.9 Englund (1998a: 143 fn. 329) suggested, with reference to Englund (2001, then forthcoming) that certain texts, for example, MSVO 1, 95 (IM 55578), recorded sacrificial offerings. In the concluding remarks of the published article, Englund (2001: 28) highlighted the similarities, both structural and relating to content, between such texts and much later documents detailing regular offerings, the so-called sa2-du11 texts.10 However, as pointed out by Englund (2001: 28), the recipient of the goods in these texts remains unknown, despite the inclusion of the sign combination often associated with the god Enlil, ENa KIDa, in the text cited earlier (and Figure 15.1).11

Lexical Lists Although the lexical texts that make up a majority of the approximately 15 percent of proto-cuneiform texts that cannot be classified as administrative texts, and includes several compositions that survive into later periods, lexical lists enumerating divine names known from the slightly later Fara period (c. 2600–2500 bce, see, e.g., the famous SF 1 [and SF 2–7, 23–24]), are unknown from the Late Uruk period (see Englund 1998a: fig. 24). The only possible lexical evidence for lists of divine names is the small fragment W 20713,1 preserving four entries of which two are entirely illegible apart from the initial numerical sign.12 The two well-preserved entries of W 20713,1 list what appears, at first sight, to be two versions of the goddess Inanna (note, of course, that there is no hard evidence to read the sign combination AN MUŠ3 as dinanna, see also the next section). The fragment remains identified as a witness of an unidentified archaic lexical list. None of the two extant entries can be found in later god lists.

Names of Deities? Given the many unanswered questions about the proto-cuneiform writing system, identifying names of deities in the proto-cuneiform texts remains difficult. The sign later used as a determinative for divine beings (then traditionally referred to as “dingir”) is attested in the Late Uruk texts (transliterated AN), and occasionally before one sign, at least, that later designated a deity (MUŠ3, later used for the goddess Inanna), but since it is more frequently found in combinations that are harder to associate with the names of deities (such as in the lexical list “Archaic Metal,” for example [see https://cdli.ucla. edu/Q000​026]), and in numerous unclear contexts, no clear conclusions as to its use can be reached. Together with “Inanna,” Enlil is the other god often claimed attested in late fourth early third millennia textual sources. However, given the uncertainty of the reading of signs claimed by Wang (2011: 41) and others (most notably Steinkeller 2010, but see Englund 2011) to represent Enlil in the Uruk IV and III periods, the unclear paleographical evolution of the sign used to write the second half of this name (see Englund 2011), the sign combination ENa KIDa(?) is best reserved as a designation of the city Nippur (see also Englund 1998a: 74–6). It may be worth noticing that the presumed Uruk III period Enlil (ENa KIDa) is never found written with the sign AN (“dingir”).13

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Obv.

Rev.

MSVO 1, 95

BRM 3, 23

FIGURE 15.1  On the left, Late Uruk offering list (MSVO 1, 95 [IM 055578], copy R.K. Englund) and on the right Ur III period sa2-du11 offering text (BRM 3, 23 [MLC 2312], copy by Keiser [publication in the public domain]).

EVIDENCE OF RELIGION IN THE PROTO-ELAMITE TEXTS Signs for Deities? Compared to the limited evidence of religion that can be gleaned from the proto-cuneiform texts from southern Mesopotamia, the situation in early Iran is even more unclear, and we are unable to identify even a sign for deity in proto-Elamite. Whereas the sign AN may be associated already in the proto-cuneiform texts with divine or heavenly beings or objects,

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M4

M370+M046+M370

M370b+M046

FIGURE 15.2  M46 in proto-Elamite texts.

although this is by no means certain, and relies primarily on inferences from later texts, no proto-Elamite sign can be shown to represent a god (note the hard-to-follow musings on NAB and AN in Finkel 2010: 22–3). The graphical cognate of proto-cuneiform AN in proto-Elamite, M46, can be shown, conclusively, to represent a category of workers (Dahl, Hawkins, and Kelley 2018: 27–8), and not a divine being, a heavenly body, or a household. Apart from a few unclear examples, M46 (Figure 15.2) is found exclusively in texts recording workers, and together with signs such as M388 (proto-Elamite equivalent of Late Uruk KURa), M72 (proto-Elamite equivalent of Late Uruk SAL), as well as inscribed in M370b or between two M370 (both likely to represent proto-Elamite equivalents of Late Uruk TUR, for these comparisons see also Englund 2004, fig. 5.14). No other sign has been proposed as representing a divine being, and no obvious candidates can be identified, given the higher number of abstract signs in the proto-Elamite sign repertoire than in proto-cuneiform.

Lexical Lists? Since the proto-Elamite corpus lacks the lexical lists that make up at least 15 percent of the proto-cuneiform corpus, except for two possible metro-mathematical texts,14 and one possible lexical list,15 no lists of gods have been found.

Offering Lists? Although many proto-Elamite texts appear to record the distribution of foodstuff, none include a mixture of objects, or have a complex structure comparable to that of the Late Uruk texts, discussed earlier, as possible evidence for offering lists in proto-cuneiform or the later Mesopotamian sa2-du11 texts. In fact, all proto-Elamite records of foodstuff being distributed list only cereal products (including presumably bread and beer), most likely to named individuals or offices, and not to festivals or deities (see also Lamberg-Karlovsky 1986: 208–10). One such text is MDP 17, 81+347 (Sb 22273 + Sb 22502) (Figure 15.3) recording, perhaps, rations of relatively small amounts of refined or special cereal products to high-ranking staff. All of the recipients in this, and in similar texts,16 are recorded with titles that may be interpreted as supervisory or military titles due to their dual use as numerical and nonnumerical signs.17

HERALDRY OF EARLY IRANIAN WRITING None of the so-called household signs, used often as headers indicating the destination or origin of the content of the subsequent texts, can be shown to represent divine beings or their households. It is of course possible that the most famous of these, M136, commonly named the “hairy triangle” (Englund 1998b: 326), represented divine rather

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FIGURE 15.3  MDP 17, 81+347, proto-Elamite texts recording distribution of food-stuff.

than secular households. The appearance of that particular household sign in the glyptic art from the period lends only limited support to that suggestion. On the seal found impressed on Sb 2801 (MDP 16, 330, see also copy by K. Kelley 2018: 249, seal drawn by Eva Miller, and cdli.ucla.edu/P272825_l, see also Pittman 1992: 75–6), sometimes

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referred to as the “Seal of the Ruler of Susa,” we find an alternating sequence of bullmen and lion-men holding up a common variant of M136(c). However, semantically, M136 functions similar to other household signs for which such a context cannot always be shown. Furthermore, M136 appears to be associated with elites rather than divine households, and the inscribed object in M136c, the variant found on the seal from Sb 2801 [MDP 16 330], is most likely a depiction of a weapon. Similar inscribed objects in other variants of M136 appear to be power symbols similar to that (see also Dahl 2019: 80–2 and fig. 11). Other proto-Elamite household signs appear to depict symbols referencing the production of the particular household. M157 is a case in point. As noted by Kelley (2018: 290), A symbol resembling M157 is found on a few seals and sealings (see, e.g., the broken seal MDP 16, 195 and Pittman et al. 1977: 63). On all these seals the shape resembling M157 appears to represent a sheepfold. This observation is particularly potent as M157 is one of the signs often associated with a cuneiform sign based purely on graphical similarity.18 Other household signs such as M383–5 and M393 depicting mountains(?), and likely identical to symbols on some proto-Elamite seals including some where it is depicted with animals acting like humans (MDP 16, 336), may, or may not, have represented divine households: unless remains of indisputably religious architecture with associated tablets with these or other signs, or artifacts with similar symbols are discovered, this remains idle speculation, and the suggestion by Lamberg-Karlovsky (1986: 210) that these signs represent actors at various levels in a tribal organization (tribe—kin) remains more plausible.19 Finally, it may be worth pointing out that none of the proto-Elamite household signs appear with symbols representing structures or buildings, as can be speculated for the equivalent Late Uruk period household signs that appear to incorporate or appear with graphic representations of built structures such as KIDa, or AB, perhaps representing a temple platform (Figure 15.4).

EVIDENCE OF RELIGION IN THE ART OF THE PERIOD Although the lines between writing and art are less blurred in early Mesopotamia, compared to, for example, ancient Egypt, some signs in the writing system appear to resemble or be identical to symbols in the glyptic art of the period.20 A particular set of these signs/symbols have attracted some interest, as they are precursors to signs that later can be used to write either the names of divine beings, cities, or in some cases, titles. In his discussion of these signs, Englund suggested that these signs should be interpreted less like signs in a writing system coding, phonetically, the names of deities, but rather representing households with associated totems, similar to the totem poles carved by the Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest Coast, often placed in front of the entrance to the clan house (Englund 1998a: 102 and fig. 31). Englund, basing himself also on Matthews (1993), explored the relationship between these symbols and the early signs for various Mesopotamian cities, on seals, in lists, and in administrative texts (Englund 1998a: 92–94). As already mentioned, the household signs in the proto-Elamite texts are unlikely to represent divine beings, with some (M136 and variants) being perhaps graphical depictions of a standard with inscribed signs representing various groupings, such as clans, tribes, or families.

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Signs for owners: M136c

M136+M365

not attested independently

M365

M157

M157+M136

M384d

Emblem involved:

Graphical referent: inscribed sign:

“Hairy triangle” (possibly a standard?) spear?

M136

(possibly a sheepfold?)

?

(possibly a mountain?)

standard?

Proto-Elamite signs representing owners or households (all signs have been rotated 90° clockwise to demonstrate their original pictographic position).

Signs for temple households: TUR3a

ZATU 648

NUNa

URI3a

ZATU 649

Emblem involved: (MUÇ3a / INANNA ?)

Related signs:

NUNc

NANNAa

URI5

LAGAR

Late Uruk signs representing probable temple households in texts from archaic Uruk (all signs have been rotated 90° clockwise to demonstrate their original pictographic position; From Englund 1998a figure 31). FIGURE 15.4  Proto-Elamite and Late Uruk household.

ANIMALS AS HUMANS IN THE PROTO-ELAMITE TEXTS Some studies discuss the appearance of animals as agents in the art of the proto-Elamite period, replacing humans (Pittman 1992: 75; Álvarez-Mon 2020: 62–71). This is, in particular, evident in the seals of the period and to a lesser extent in the scarce examples of other art objects from the period (discussed later). However, few scholars have recognized the total exclusion of humans from the art of the proto-Elamite period (Dahl 2014, 2019: 67, 90–1), including from the writing system.21 Pittman dates some objects and seals with depictions of humans—either from Iran or provenienced to Iran—to the proto-Elamite period, for example, Pittman (2003: 46) (two statuettes of horned demons with no provenience) and Pittman (1992: 75) (suggesting that five proto-Elamite seals

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have depictions of human figures); Álvarez-Mon records as the one, and likely, exception to the absence of humans from proto-Elamite seals, the seal rolled on Sb 6385, 6386, and 6387 (pl 29e in 2020: 68).22 Seals and artifacts can, in the opinion of the current author, only be securely dated to the proto-Elamite period if: (1) they have a secure archaeological provenience to layers and contexts with clear examples of other protoElamite material, in particular tablets; and if (2) they have cognate seal impressions on actual proto-Elamite tablets (not Late Uruk style tablets from Iran, see also Dahl, Petrie, and Potts 2013: 354, 371). Three interpretative models deciphering proto-Elamite art have been proposed (Álvarez-Mon 2020: 67–9).23 I have speculated (Dahl 2005: 94, 119, 2014) that certain animals represented certain offices (the practical-emblematic model, according to ÁlvarezMon 2020: 69). This seems clearest in the so-called Ruler of Susa’s Seal (discussed earlier), where rows of lion-men and bull-men hold a symbol commonly associated with the ruler of Susa, and functioning as an owner sign in high-level texts.24 Should that seal indeed

FIGURE 15.5  Proto-Elamite seals with animals acting as agents (MDP 16, nos. 331, 265, and 336).

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represent the ruler of Susa, we may speculate that the two animals represented either two different stakeholders in the rulership of Susa (two clans?), or different aspects of the rulership. Extending such suggestions to other seals, we may suggest that seals featuring animals and objects (foodstuff), such as MDP 16, pl. XII fig. 198 (see Dahl 2014), may represent offerings or gifts to or from the ruler. Similarly, the Kneeling Bull holding a Vessel (Hansen 1970; Pittman 2003: 43), should it be genuine, may represent a ruler making sacrifices, but this remains speculation. The content of the text sealed with those seals here interpreted as officials making sacrifices does not seem to record the same. This is not necessarily surprising as the link between seal iconography and the texts they were used to seal is only partial.25 Many proto-Elamite seals allow for a closer, yet speculative, interpretation following such schema as suggested here. MDP 16, 331, for example, a black calcite(?) seal (see Pézard 1911: 113 and fig. 108) depicting a lioness, a quadruped(?) and a bull-man with what could be jars of foodstuff, might represent gifts from one group represented by the lioness and the quadruped (the family of the wife of the governor?) to another powerful entity, represented by the bull-man (note that Pézard 1911: 113 suggests that the bull-man is a deity). No texts have been found sealed with this seal. MDP 16, no. 336 depicting a row of lion-men(?) interspersed with “mountain” signs and another symbols,26 impressed on MDP 6, 235, a text listing a total of twenty workers of the categories M32 and M321, and with a long complex subscript, might also suggest offerings or associations with households, divine or not (Figure 15.5). Finally, MDP 16, 265 depicts two animals (lionesses?) facing each other and separated by a row of what could be foodstuff, perhaps representing offerings or gifts. The seal is impressed on MDP 6, 240 a text listing small amounts of cereal products possibly to or from named individuals. Although these suggestions remain very speculative, they may provide a powerful avenue for future research into the heraldry of ancient Iranian religion.

NOTES 1 See Álvarez-Mon (2020: 34–5 and 59–60) for a discussion of the High Terrace at Susa and its decoration with clay cones (nails) reminiscent of religious buildings from early Mesopotamia. 2 See Suter (2014) for possible depictions of deities in early Mesopotamian art. 3 This brief account does not, of course, discuss the overlap that almost certainly happened between these different technologies, producing an archaeological record with objects from two stages found in the same archaeological levels. Scholars using this overlap of objects in the archaeological record to claim an altogether different course for the evolution of writing would be well served examining the speed of technological invention in relation to the chronological time span covered by single floor levels in excavations from the ancient Near East. Note also Glassner (2003) (review by Englund 2005) and more recently Ross (e.g., 2013) for attempts at finding the origins to writing in divination (Glassner) or art (Ross). 4 Almost all Uruk proto-cuneiform tablets are assigned stratigraphical levels based on internal evidence from the texts rather than actual find-spots, but see Englund (1998a: 38, fn. 71) for a group of texts possibly assigned to IVb based on find-spot. 5 Ample evidence exists that points to proto-Elamite being a derived system, including the oftoverlooked comment in Damerow and Englund’s German language study of the numerical systems of the Late Uruk texts (Damerow and Englund 1987: 136), relaying an observation from Friberg’s desktop publication the Early Roots of Babylonian Mathematics (Friberg

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1978–79), that the subdivisions of the numerical sign N39b in proto-Elamite represented, in Friberg’s opinion, a “slight improvement” on the more archaic Late Uruk system; since the sign forms of the subdivisions of N39b are near-identical in the two systems, this strongly suggests that proto-Elamite is a derived system of proto-cuneiform. 6 For example, MDP 17, 17 (Sb 22215); MDP 17, 112 (Sb 19517, see also Hawkins 2015); or RA 50, 202 7 (Sb 15449). 7 Recent suggestions regurgitating century-old ideas that the odd writing system traditionally termed linear-Elamite (c. 2100 bce) was descended from proto-Elamite are harmless at best, but appear to rely on an uncanny trio of spurious artifacts, methodologically unsound work, and ideologically driven claims of seniority or parity of Iranian writing systems vis-à-vis Mesopotamia; see, for example, Desset et al. (2022: 52–4 and fig. 11). 8 For a positivistic interpretation of much of the same data considered here see Szarzynska (1993). 9 Four tablets found in Uqair, in association with a structure identified as a chapel by its excavators, contain nothing that relates them in particular to the cult (Englund 1998a: 28–9, fn. 30, fig. 4). Given the uncertain find spots of all tablets from Uruk, mostly found in secondary deposits, no direct association can be made between tablets and cultic buildings. 10 Originally a suggestion made by J. Friberg, see in particular the triangular tags from Ur III Umma, for example, OrSP 47–49, 344 (VAT 07073); BRM 3, 23 (MLC 2312); CUSAS 39, 6 (MS 2077). 11 See already Englund (1998a: 74–6) warning against interpreting this sign string as the name of the god Enlil, but see Steinkeller (2010) for a positivistic account. 12 The entries of almost all early lexical lists are preceded by a numerical sign indicating “one,” including some of the God Lists from Fara, but not SF 1. 13 See Wang (2011: 41, fn. 130) suggesting that determinatives may have been used in Uruk III in an inconsistent way. 14 MDP 17, 328, and 362, discussed by Scheil (1935 [MDP 26]: vii–viii), Damerow and Englund (1989: 18–19, n. 51 and n. 53). 15 MDP 26, 71 [NMI BK 03621], Kelley (2018: 408). 16 MDP 17, 77+212+226; MDP 17, 76; MDP 17, 73; and so on. 17 Variants of the “100 sign,” N23, from the indigenous proto-Elamite decimal system, interpreted as a title when used as a nonnumerical sign, and given the name M387 [and variants], akin to Semitic titles such as rab mē, captain of hundred, similar to the Roman title centurion. 18 In the “comparative table” accompanying the sign lists to MDP 31 (Mecquenem 1949: pl. LXVIII–LXX), M157 is equated with cuneiform DUB (pl. LXIII, 1037); such comparisons between signs in two writing systems based purely on graphical similarity is frequent even in contemporary studies (Desset et al. 2022: fig. 7a and b) but remains unproductive—a better cognate for “scribe,” if that is what the author of MDP 31 meant, would in fact have been the proto-cuneiform sign SANGA (ZATU 444); note in this regard also Kelley (2018: 290, fig. 7.11) using a graphotactical analysis to compare M157 and ZATU 737. 19 In fact, the wall frescos found in an elite residence in area ABC of Anshan, see Álvarez-Mon (2020: 72 and pl. 31), and Dahl (2012: 9–10) supports this interpretation. 20 Primarily cylinder seals, but see also the so-called Uruk Vase (Lindemeyer and Martin 1993: 80, pls. 19–25; Stromenger 2008), and cf., for example, Suter (2014) on the identity of the figures, and Englund (2011) for an identification of the stack of beveled rim bowls with an artistic rendering of the “EN” sign.

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21 The two exceptions—M72 and perhaps M388, loans from Mesopotamian SAL and KURa— suggests that the loans happened prior to this change, and that they had lost their graphical referent by the time of the proto-Elamite writing system. 22 High-resolution images are available from https://coll​ecti​ons.lou​vre.fr/en/, but note the author’s comments on using single light-source images for the study of seals in Dahl (2014). 23 The occurrence of animals acting as agents in art from slightly later periods of Mesopotamian history, and the constant search for origins, has led scholars to see a potential link between the animals acting like humans in the art of the proto-Elamite period and, for example, the scenes on the panels of the lyres from the Royal Graves at Ur. See Cheng (2009: fig. 1)— note the even less plausible link between the evil demon Lamashtu and proto-Elamite art suggested by van Dijk (1982: 104–7), following Porada (1950: 223–6), based on the lion-like appearance of Lamashtu in Mesopotamian texts, the occurrence of the so-called boat motive (e.g., MDP 16, 333 and 334), and the frequent appearance of lions in proto-Elamite art, but see Wiggermann (2000: 218 and fn. 7) for a rejection of this link; but note however Pittman’s description of the Guennol Lioness as a “demonic female feline” (Pittman 2003: 45). 24 As a header in MDP 17, 47 (Sb 22240); TCL 32, 98 (Sb 24485), and as an owner sign in, for example, MDP 6, 343 (Sb 15172); MDP 6, 360 (Sb 06393); MDP 26S, 4836 (Sb 15311), and so on. 25 Seals depicting sheep and goat seem to appear on texts dealing with the production from shepherds, but of course also on other types of texts, see Dahl (2005). 26 A cruciform, perhaps related to the sign M5 found as header for most sowing/harvest texts (see, e.g., TCL 32, 39).

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Materials of Hittite Magic and Religion GREGORY MCMAHON

Any discussion of Hittite culture and the religion which is an inextricable part thereof must begin with an attempt to identify who the Hittites are. The term Hittite itself derives from a translation of two different words in the Hebrew Bible (McMahon 1992) which predate the discovery of the language, culture, and state, which we now call Hittite. Now a century or more after the decipherment of the Hittite language and initial excavations at Ḫattuša the Hittite capital, that culture is visible to us both through official documents in state archives and material evidence. Crucial to understanding this culture is recognizing that it is a syncretistic blending of several cultures over time. The majority of texts are written in the Indo-European language of Hittite, suggesting that such speakers were a dominant component in the population of Late Bronze central Anatolia. Evidence for Indo-Europeans in Middle Bronze Age Anatolia is found in names appearing in the Old Assyrian tablets from the kārum Kaneš archives; inhabitants at the Early Bronze Age central Anatolian settlement at Alaca Höyük are known as Hattians (derived from the earliest recorded toponym we have for this area, ḪATTI). Hittite culture, therefore, was ethnically and socially a mixture of at least Indo-European and Hattian elements. This is traceable for example in the use of Hattic liturgy in early Hittite cultic texts, where some festival descriptions specify that the officiant speaks in Hattic (ḫattili). Hittite state archives also include Akkadian texts, demonstrating early Mesopotamian influence on Hititte writing, culture, and religion. In the later Empire period, Hurrian texts appear. The Hurrians were a Late Bronze Age northern Syrian ethnic group using a rather unique agglutinative language completely different from Semitic Akkadian or Indo-European Hittite. Hurrian influence can be seen in the Hurrian names for some of the deities of the Hittite Empire period pantheon. The textual evidence for the material aspect of Hittite religion is therefore quite varied, in terms of language, cultural background, and genre. The following discussion of materiality in Hittite religion is based on selected examples from two categories of Hittite religious texts, categories which the Hittite themselves identified: SISKUR, magic rituals, and EZEN4, Hittite religious ceremonies/cult festivals. In addition to demonstrating the inextricable link between what we would consider politics and religion, this examination of even this nonexhaustive selection of textual evidence will reveal Hittite religion to be completely dependent on material resources

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of every conceivable kind, utilizing not only locally available material but also materials imported from outside the Hittite homeland.

DISCUSSION OF THE TEXTUAL EVIDENCE The textual basis for our understanding of Hittite religion comes primarily from the cuneiform tablet archives discovered at Ḫattuša. A large proportion of these texts manifest in several genres of religious or magic texts. Most common is the genre the Hittites identified using the Sumerian word EZEN4, usually translated in English as (religious) festival, or in Hittite as ḫazziwi- “ceremony.”1 These are descriptions, really scripts, for celebrating an incredible range of festivals, at various times and places, differentiated by the deities to whom the festivals were dedicated (Güterbock 1970; Schwemer 2016; Shelestin 2021). Other religious texts include prayers (Houwink ten Cate 1969; Singer 2002; Schwemer 2015) and the quite unusual genre of cult inventories (Cammarosano 2012, 2013), which recorded cultic resources in provincial cities throughout the empire in the later years of the Hittite state. The Ḫattuša archives also include mythological narratives, hymns, and descriptions of divination, represented by omens, which were extraordinary events or phenomena considered by the Hittites to be communications from the divine, and oracles, which were ritualized protocols for asking questions of the gods by examining the exta of sacrificial animals, or observing the flights of birds. A second genre especially germane for understanding the materiality of Hittite state religion are the numerous SISKUR, (magical) ritual texts (McMahon 2002). These outline, step by step, ritual procedures for lifting curses, promoting some desired effect, or enticing wandering deities back to the Hittite homeland (evocatio). These protocols differ from the religious festivals (EZEN4), as they are performed on demand to meet specific desiderata rather than as ceremonies prescribed by a cult calendar. They also differ in being performed typically by a single magical practitioner, often the author/ creator of the magical procedure being described. This study is based on a prescribed number of SISKUR, translated in this chapter as (magical) ritual, and EZEN4, (cult) festival, textual descriptions.2 The following discussion, organized by categories of materials, demonstrates how every element of the Hittite physical world played a material role in their rituals and festivals.

NON-ANIMAL FOOD Foodstuffs are used in at least five ways in rituals: as analogous material, as provision for a god (or his horses), as magically analogous objects, in one case to be used as a lubricant, and as offerings. Bread is quite commonly employed, and the number of types of bread specified in rituals and festivals is bewildering (see Hoffner 1974). It is offered by being broken or crumbled, and then usually placed on an altar. In the SISKUR Ritual Against a Curse (Haroutunian 2003), the practitioner makes offerings using balls of dough, unground grain, and at least five kinds of bread, including oil-cake, as well as honey and stew in this ritual. In the ritual to Counteract Sorcery (ANET 347) a broken loaf is offered to the demons of the clay pit. Balls of dough and sacrificial loaves are placed on a wooden altar in the Purification Ritual Engaging the Help of Protective Demons (ANET 348–349). In the Ritual Against Impotence (ANET 349–350), Piššuwattiš, a woman from the foreign land of Arzawa, provides provisions/rations for the

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male client for the three days of the ritual, including loaves, fruit, something called “the god’s meal,” and “a little of everything.” Other foods are used in the Ritual Against Domestic Quarrel in which the female practitioner molds salt and “tissue” into tongues, and bread dough is formed into hands, and a figure given to each client, all of which are then cast into the hearth. In addition, a loaf, honey, and olive oil are offered to a sacrificial hole. Later dough and black cumin are used not as food but as analogous objects: “as this cumin does not turn white, … so let the evil tongue not get to the body of the two sacrificers” (ANET 351a). An onion also serves as a magical analogy in the Ritual for the Purification of God and Man (ANET 346): “As the onion skins can be picked apart, so also can the curse.” In the same ritual fine oil and honey are poured onto the ground to repel a possible return of an evil word. A small loaf and cheese accompany a hymn, as an offering to the gods. In the Ritual Against Pestilence (ANET 347) mutton tallow is called for to lubricate the Stormgod’s chariot axles, literally greasing the wheels, to facilitate his return to the Hittite homeland. The practitioner also organizes provisions for the god’s homeward journey, including a cooked sheep, cheese, curd, bread, and fruit, as well as an amphora each of wine and beer. Bread from a variety of grains, and sometimes meal, are also a major part of cult festivals (EZEN4). Another oven product often presented as an offering is something translated from its Sumerian name as sweet oil cake. Stew-breads and warmed breads are specified in the Festivals of Karaḫna (McMahon 1991: 53–83); the warmed breads in the festival also provide a waršula- “aroma,” which is “drunk in” by all the officiants. This huge variety of offerings from the oven explains why bakers are essential cultic personnel.

ANIMALS AND ANIMAL PARTS As noted above, magical rituals, in addition to utilizing various materials for purposes of analogous magic, often also provide sacrificial offerings, commonly animals (Burkert 1972/1986), to deities who are understood to be facilitating the desired result, or who are themselves the object of the ritual. The descriptions of cult festivals are full of specified animal sacrifice; the Hittite verb šipant- typically denotes this sacrifice, although in some cases slaughtering the animal (Hittite ḫuek-) is specified. Typically sacrificed are sheep, sometimes specified as to gender, goats, predominantly male, and cattle. Much less often a piglet or pig is specified (Collins 2006). Less expected is the gapar[ta] animal, probably a small rodent (Haroutunian 2003: 166), or the buck which is sacrificed in the Purification Ritual Engaging the Help of Protective Demons (ANET 348–349); its blood is poured into pots on either side of a ritual gate preparatory to the client passing between the pots. Animal parts, both edible and inedible, are also sometimes offered in rituals. Cooked heart and kidney are offered to several gods in The Ritual against a Curse (Haroutunian 2003). Various organs are offered in the Purification Ritual Engaging the Help of Protective Demons (ANET 348–349). A sheep fleece is used in the Ritual Against Impotence (ANET 349–350), and in the Evocatio (ANET 350–351), which also employs an eagle’s wing. In the Soldiers’ Oath, mutton fat is thrown into the fire to melt away, symbolizing what will happen to oath-breakers; in this ritual the fragmentation of animal sinew in the fire also portrays the fate of those who break the oath. Another inedible animal part, an ox horn,

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is used as a vessel to capture water poured over the clients’ heads, hands, and eyes in the Ritual Against Domestic Quarrel (ANET 350–351). Animals may also carry off undesirable elements. In the Ritual Against Pestilence, the practitioner weaves a crown of five colors of wool, places it on a ram and then drives it “toward the enemy” (ANET 347). In the Purification Ritual Engaging the Help of Protective Demons (ANET 348–349), the practitioner wraps a piece of tin in a bowstring and attaches it to the client’s hands and feet; it is then removed and tied to a mouse to be carried away. Animals also constitute a large proportion of the offerings in cult festivals, including bulls, cows, sheep, lambs, and goats. Meat is offered raw or cooked, as exemplified in the Festival of the Warrior-God (ANET 358–361), in which special cuts of meat are offered to the sacred loci within a temple: throne, hearth, window, and door bolt. One passage in the Festivals of Karaḫna describes a grand total of forty small livestock in one phase of the festival (McMahon 1991: 65). Animal parts are featured in the same Karaḫna festival: livers are placed in a storage vessel for unclear reasons, perhaps to be retrieved later. In the Festival for all the Tutelary Deities, a complex set of instructions specify animal body parts as offerings: a right double bone of an ox, an ox rib, the front thigh of a sheep, and so on (McMahon 1991: 83–141; Goetze 1963: 63); animal hides, including red and white oxhides, a sheepskin, and a billy goat skin are also offered. Most significant for some cult activity is the KUŠkurša-, a hunting bag made from an animal skin, which is utilized in the Festival for All the Tutelary Deities and the Festival for Renewing the kurša- (Güterbock 1989; McMahon 1991: 83–141, 143–88, 1995).

LIQUIDS The most common liquids utilized in religious contexts are alcoholic beverages offered to deities: wine, beer (Ünal 2005), and three other beverages: marnuwan, tawal, and walḫi. The latter is derived from the verb walḫ- “to strike,” providing a clue to the alcohol content of this potation. Alcoholic beverages are consumed or poured out in offering, while water is used for cleansing, primarily in cult festivals. It can also be used analogously; in the Ritual for the Purification of God and Man (ANET 346) water is poured over a piece of silver and allowed to drain into the ground, as the earth swallows the evil word being eradicated. As noted above, beverages also serve as ritual provisions: an amphora of beer and wine for a deity in the Ritual Against Pestilence (ANET 347); for clients, a pitcher of wine accompanies their trip to the country in the Ritual Against Impotence (ANET 349–350). In EZEN4 cult festivals, liquids are the third (after cereal and animal) main type of offering, and again alcoholic beverages, wine, beer, marnuwan, tawal, and walḫi are considered worthy offerings to the gods. These are offered to deities in two distinct ways: “drinking” (eku-) a god (Güterbock 1998; Heffron 2014), with the god as the clear direct object of eku-, and libating (šipant-) (Goetze 1970). The distinction between these two kinds of beverage offerings can be observed in the Festival for All the Tutelary Deities: a seated officiant drinks, and then libates to sacred loci in the temple (stela, hearth, kurša-, throne, window, wood of door bolt, and hearth) (McMahon 1991: 191–3). Oil, the other valuable liquid, is also ubiquitous in various offerings, including in the Evocatio, where the official sprinkles the trail for the deity with fine oil (ANET 352; Güterbock 1968). In the Removal of the Threat Implied in an Evil Omen (ANET

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355–356), fine oil is again used to anoint a prisoner as a substitute king to avoid an ill omen. The Hittite cult is, like rituals, dependent on and careful about cleanliness and purity; water is therefore the other essential liquid material resource. Water for repeatedly washing the hands of the king and queen, chief celebrants of many state cult festivals, is specified in many of the festival descriptions, including the Festival for the Warrior-God (ANET 358–361), once specified as contained in a silver basin, and in the Festival for All the Tutelary Deities (McMahon 1991: 83–141).

LANDSCAPE AND LOCI Hittite magic and religion are deeply embedded in the landscape (Guterbock 1975b; Ökse 2011; Archi 2015; D’Agostino, Orsi, and Torri 2015; Bahar, Turgut, and Küçük 2018). Outside the scope of this chapter are temples and other structures (Güterbock 1975a, Zimmer-Vorhaus 2011); in this section use of landscape and less permanent installations or loci will be discussed. An example of a constructed locus is the migh[ty? ped]estal? described in the Ritual Against a Curse; a mar[iyani] field as a locus to take and bury the ev[il] tongues provides one of many examples of using the landscape to dispose of impurities collected in the course of removing curses (Haroutunian 2003: 158–9). For the Hittites the earth is the safest place to dispose of polluted ritual material, but as noted above, offerings can also be made to the earth, by means of a pit dug for that purpose (Hoffner 1967). The earth itself may be ritualized; in the Ritual to Counteract Sorcery (ANET 347), the practitioner ties “clay from the pit” to the client and then disposes of it in a hole (different from the pit from which the clay came). Mud also, produced from a spring, is used to absorb a client’s pollution. Thus, natural features like springs encompass materials for the practice of magic. Built structures/installations may also be required, such as the wooden altar constructed by the practitioner to facilitate animal and beverage offerings in the Purification Ritual Engaging the Help of Protective Demons (ANET 348–349). The Ritual Against Impotence (ANET 349–350) requires a table for the client to partake of food used during the ritual, thereafter becoming the property of the god, and a bed for the client for the three nights of the ritual. In addition, a gate of reeds is constructed to create a portal through which the client will pass. Further embedding this ritual in the landscape, the client must, after the ritual is completed, erect “sacrificial vessels,” or a stone pillar or statue, as a permanent marker in the landscape. In the Ritual Against Domestic Quarrel (ANET 350–351), seven stone pillars are set up between two fires and then after articulating the analogy of their instability, they are knocked over, symbolizing the transitory nature of curses or quarrels. In this ritual as well, holes are dug to receive offerings of a cut-up sheep and a pig. Thus, the landscape is an essential material, as holes are used both to receive and cover up pollution, and to receive offerings (Hoffner 1967). In the Evocatio (ANET 351–353), the landscape again provides the context for a trail, created with a piece of cloth, to entice an absent god back to the Hittite homeland. Also there, both a wicker table and a fireplace provide the setting for the offerings and path meant to encourage the god’s return. Another use for a hole, in the Ritual for the Erection of a House (temple) (ANET 356–357), is to receive a sizable (1 mina) piece of copper as a foundation deposit, which is then nailed to the earth with bronze pegs, providing an analogy of security and stability of the new structure.

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Concern with landscape and constructed sacred loci on a larger scale is also visible in the Ritual Before Battle (ANET 354–355), in which the Hittites demonstrate concern over the loss of important sanctuaries: They speak as follows: “See! Zithariyas is appealing to all the gods. The offerings which had long been assigned to Zityhariyas’ worship, the countries which have fallen into turmoil—in all of them they would celebrate great festivals for him. But now the Kashkeans have taken them. … In fact they (the sanctuaries) have been taken away by these people not from Zithariyas alone, they have been taken away from all you gods, all of you.” This very serious worry is also revealed in the Prayer of Arnuwandaš and Ašmu-Nikkal (ANET 399–400), which also provides an excellent list of material essential to proper worship of certain deities in the provinces. The Kaška are once again castigated for destroying all the material impedimenta of the Hittite state religion: The territories which were under obligation to present to you, the gods of heaven, sacrificial loaves, libations (and) tribute—in some the priests, the mothers-of-god, the holy priests, the anointed, the musicians (and) the singers had to leave, in others the gods’ tributes and treasures were carried off; in others there were carried off the Sun-goddess’ of Arinna sun discs and lunulae made of silver (and) gold, bronze (and) copper, the fine cloth, the adupli garments, the tunics (and) the gowns, the sacrificial loaves (and) the libation bowls; In others they drove away the herds, the fattened oxen (and) the fattened cows, the fattened sheep (and) the fattened goats. Sacred places both throughout the empire and also within a given festival’s locus are absolutely central to the Hittite cultic calendar as well. At least four kinds of space can be identified as material to the celebration of Hittite cult festivals: 1. Structures for cultic ceremonies and their preparations: Temples dedicated to gods are central in the festival descriptions. Other structures include the ḫalentuwa- house (Taracha 2017), apparently a place of preparation, where the king and queen put on their ceremonial garments in the Festival of the Warrior-God (ANET 358–361). Also attested are a washing house, the tarnu- house (AN.TAḪ.ŠUM festival), the taršanzipa of the inner chamber, a karimmi-building (Festival for All the Tutelary Deities, McMahon 1991: 151), and a House of the Dead. 2. Places/installations facilitating cultic activity: Tables, altars, a roof to which something is brought, and pegs for hanging the kurša- image of the deity. 3. Places receiving libations or other offerings: Very common in festival descriptions are libations to locations within the sacred space, temple, or other sanctuary; with minor variations, these are the hearth, throne, (wood of) the door bolt, window, and sometimes also the stela. One example also includes a statue of Ḫattušili, probably Ḫattušili I (Festival of the Warrior-God, ANET 358–361). 4. Outdoor locations/natural features of the landscape: Because the Hittites perceived natural features such as groves, springs, rivers, and mountains as deities, cult festivals recognize the landscape as material for religion as strongly as the rituals discussed above. In the Festival of Karaḫna a grove, an outdoor stela, a pillar, springs, mountains, rivers, a lookout tower, and a stand of boxwood trees all receive offerings.

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The landscape itself can also serve as religious material, as evidenced in the AN.TAH.ŠUM festival, in which an officiant brings earth from the House of the Dead on the eighth day of the festival. More elaborately, the landscape is employed when a boat lined with silver and gold is sent from a basin dug into the earth, via a ditch, into the river so that it can carry away the boat laden with the impurities addressed in the ritual.

MATERIALS USED AS ANALOGOUS OBJECTS IN RITUAL In the Ritual for the Purification of God and Man (ANET 346), in addition to the peeling of an onion mentioned above, a cord by similar analogy is twisted to the left and then untwisted to the right to symbolize the unwinding of the supposed curse being expunged. Similarly, the Ritual to Counteract Sorcery (ANET 347) also utilized the cord untwisting analogy; in this case the ritual specifies that it be untwisted to the left and then to the right, since the practitioner does not know which way the “sorcerer” twisted it, providing an insight into how the “good” magical practitioners believed the “bad” ones bound their curses. Cord can also be used to tie around a client to absorb a curse and then be removed, or a bowstring can be used to bind some other material agent first to a client and then to a mouse to carry away the polluted material (Purification Ritual Engaging the Help of Protective Demons, ANET 348–349). The Ritual Against Impotence (ANET 349–350) relies extensively on analogous materials. Discussed in the Landscape and Loci section is the reed gate which provides the constructed setting for the ritual, symbolizing the liminal space where the transformation of the client will take place. This is facilitated by material objects: before the client passes through the gate the practitioner places a mirror and distaff, symbolizing femininity, in his hands; after he passes through she takes them from him and hands him a bow and arrows (Hoffner 1966). As noted above in the Ritual Against Domestic Quarrel (ANET 350–351), the practitioner Maštiggaš uses wax along with salt, “tissue,” and fat to mold tongues, which she waves over the clients to absorb their evil/angry thoughts and words, and then throws them into the fire to be consumed. In the Evocatio (ANET 351–353), the practitioner picks up pebbles from the prepared trail of the god and places them on the wickerwork table, modifying the landscape to make the god’s path homeward as smooth as possible.

VESSELS Hittite ritual vessels were made of ceramic, metal, reeds, and, in rare examples, bitumen and animal horn. Reed baskets or trays are mostly nonexistent archaeologically, as is bitumen in part because at least some ritual descriptions specify burning it up as part of the ritual. All of these materials remain in the textual evidence and comprise essential materials in Hittite religion. In the Ritual against a Curse (Haroutunian 2003), the practitioner uses a basket to receive evil words/tongues being removed from the body of the client, a prince. When this part of the ritual is complete, it is called the bas[k]‌et of ang[er]. A tray of reeds utilized in the Purification Ritual Engaging the Help of Protective Demons (ANET 348–349) also receives polluted material, in this case the cord which was strung around the client. In the Evocatio (ANET 351–353), a basket is used to prepare, transport, and present offerings; when the wicker table noted above is prepared, the basket with offerings is placed thereon.

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Bitumen vessels are used only occasionally, presumably because of scarcity; a bitumen cup is used in the Evocatio (351–353) to soak wool in oil; the wool is later used to sprinkle oil on the prepared trail for the god. Ceramics are utilized in several ways. In the Ritual Against Pestilence (ANET 347), the practitioner prepares provisions for the god’s journey back to Ḫatti, including a pulla vessel, contents unspecified, and an amphora each of beer and wine. In the Purification Ritual Engaging the Help of Protective Demons (ANET 348–349), the blood of a consecrated buck is drained into a bronze cup and poured into pots arranged on either side of a gate through which the client passes. Ceramic vessels can also apparently memorialize a ritual; in the Ritual Against Impotence (ANET 349–350), the client must to set up “sacrificial vessels” after the ritual. In the Ritual Against Domestic Quarrel (ANET 350–351), Maštiggaš uses a ḫupuwai vessel first to mix offering material (wine, oil, honey, fruit, and salt), then as a libating vessel, pouring the contents onto the hearth, and then as analogous material, breaking the vessel and thus breaking evil words which have been spoken. She also creates a “kneadingtray” to mix two analogous materials, and then also uses the tray itself as analogy, not by breaking it, but by articulating that “just as this clay does not return to the clay pit,” so the evil words shall not enter the clients’ bodies. Later in the ritual a ceramic vessel is waved over the clients’ heads to absorb evil words, after which the clients break the pot with their feet: “Let them break all the words [of mouth and tongue in the same way!]” (ANET 351b). A cup or amphora is then used by the clients to pour salt water over their heads, hands, and eyes; the water is poured into yet another vessel, an ox horn, which is sealed up. Vessels are an essential material component of Hittite cult festivals. Ceramic vessels are used for libating, “drinking” the god, and storage. In many cases a specific vessel is described for libation, as, for example, the išgaruḫ vessel in the Festival of the WarriorGod (ANET 360). In the Festivals of Karaḫna, some material (lost in the break) is retrieved from a wheat storage vessel (McMahon 1991: 57), and livers are placed in a storage vessel. In the AN.TAḪ.ŠUM festival (Güterbock 1960), they open grain storage vessels to celebrate having grain left over from the previous year’s harvest. A few vessels are described as made of precious metals; a silver basin is used for the king and queen to wash their hands in the Festival of the Warrior-God (ANET 358–361), and a silver cup is used for wine in the same festival. In the Festival for All the Tutelary Deities, a silver cup and pitcher are utilized (McMahon 1991: 93). Rhyta, either ceramic or metal, and designated by the Akkadian word BIBRU, are specified for some drink offerings, for example, in the Festivals of Karaḫna (McMahon 1991: 63). Textual evidence for zoomorphic rhyta made of precious metal occurs in the Festival of the Warrior-God (ANET 358–361), in which two silver heads of bulls, held by the horns, are used to pour out a libation to the hearth (see also Güterbock 1981/1983). Like rituals, some cultic procedures utilize baskets as vessels. In the Festival of the Warrior-God (ANET 358–361), bread and cooked meat are prepared and kept in baskets, and in the Festival for All the Tutelary Deities (McMahon 1991: 241), a basket is used to clean or sift meal.

FIRE As expected, fire is an essential material component of Hittite religion and is used for two main purposes: (1) for cooking parts of sacrificial animals and occasionally for

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roasting grain, or (2) for burning and thereby safely disposing of polluted ritual materials. Contexts include unspecified “fire,” the hearth (presumably with fire kindled therein), and in at least one example (Haroutunian 2003: 101), coals laid out on the ground to burn up fat, wheat, and honey. Coals may have provided greater visibility of offering consumption than casting materials into an open flame. In the Ritual to Counteract Sorcery (ANET 347), the Old Woman (an oft-occurring ritual officiant) makes a fire into which she places three pieces of bitumen, apparently as an aromatic offering material. As described above, fire is used to safely consume items associated with curses, and polluted materials such as in the Ritual Against Domestic Quarrel (ANET 350–351). Fire is also used to provide analogies of destruction, such as the materials thrown into the fire in the Soldiers’ Oath (ANET 353–354). Later in the ritual, the fire itself become analogous material as a torch is lit and then extinguished by trampling on it, another demonstration of the fate of oath-breakers. Fire is also used to mark boundaries or define ritual space, as in the Ritual Against Domestic Quarrel (ANET 350–351), where two fires create the locus for stone pillars to be erected and knocked over as discussed above.

FABRIC AND FIBER A wide variety of fabrics or fibers serve material functions in Hittite religion. In the Ritual against a Curse, a black band is separated from a cloth, analogy for separating the curse from the client. Soon after in the ritual sequence a dirty linen thread is cleaned with soap, becomes white, and provides a cleansing analogy for the client. Less clear is the use of a linen thread to mark out space; the thread is then placed into the “good” basket (Haroutunian 2003). In the Purification Ritual Engaging the Help of Protective Demons (ANET 348–349), a piece of fur provides the analogy of scraping fur off hide/cloth for scraping pollution from the client. The Ritual Against Impotence (ANET 349–350) requires a shirt or headcloth of the client who spreads this fabric out in front of the table each of the three nights he spends at the ritual. In the Ritual Against Domestic Quarrel (ANET 350–351), in addition to the other materials burned up in the hearth, wool is also thrown in. Central to the Evocatio (ANET 351–353), meant to lure an absent deity back to the Hittite homeland, is making a path which is attractive and can be followed. A length of cloth is draped from a table onto the ground, forming a “path.” Offerings are placed on the table, and the cloth serves as the transition from the path on the ground to the end of the trail where the god may enjoy the offerings provided. Fabric is also an essential religious material in Hittite cult festivals. Ubiquitous is the use of linen cloth for the king and queen and other religious officiants to wipe their hands after washing with water. In the Festival of the Warrior-God (ANET 358–361), the king wipes his hands on the pennant of a golden lance after purifying them with the unknown object tuḫḫueššar. In the Festivals of Karaḫna (McMahon 1991: 57), a cloth is used to cover the kurtali-vessel after they pour wheat into it from a storage vessel. Festival descriptions make it clear that special fabric garments are essential for distinguishing cultic ceremonies as sacred (Goetze 1947), such as when the king and queen don ritual garments in the Festival of the Warrior-God (ANET 358–361) (Taracha 2017). In a restored passage at the beginning of the Festival for All the Tutelary Deities [The king takes his festival attire], and the AN.TAḪ.ŠUM festival description lists garments (Güterbock 1960). Fabric can also divide or define sacred space; near the beginning of the

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Festivals of Karaḫna the curtain which covers the inner chamber of the god is removed so that the king may enter (McMahon 1991: 53).

PLANTS Plants are discussed above as components in food and vessels. They may also provide a ritual locus, as in the Ritual against a Curse (Haroutunian 2003), in which “foliage” is spread out on the ground upon which embers may burn offerings. In the Ritual for the Purification of God and Man, a soda-plant Salsola provides an analogy for the growth, absorption, and subsequent destruction of blasphemy and uncleanliness; it is then burned (ANET 346). In the same context, unspecified “herbs” are used to protect the client against a curse. In the Ritual Engaging the Help of Protective Demons (ANET 348–349), pine cones are roasted along with grain and then extinguished with water: “Just as I have quenched these, even so let evil also be quenched for the sacrificers” (ANET 348). Fir trees are set up on either side of a gate in this ritual; their bristly nature is understood to scrape off impurities as clients pass between them. Plants are essential in building temporary ritual gates through which the client will pass, such as the gate of reeds built by Piššuwattiš in the Ritual Against Impotence (ANET 349–350). In the Ritual Against Domestic Quarrel (ANET 350–351), the Old Woman takes “the Sun’s hay” (the word is uncertain) and uses it as an abrasive to scrub evil words off of the client couple. In the Evocatio red wool is tied to cedar wood and then soaked in oil in a bitumen cup. The wool and cedar are later used as a kind of aspergill to sprinkle oil on the prepared trail to entice the absent deity home.

METAL Though less commonly employed as a ritual material, metal’s relative scarcity gives it value and meaning in certain ritual and cult festival contexts. In the Ritual for the Purification of God and Man (ANET 346), the “boat” sent to the river (see Landscape and Loci above) is lined with silver and gold, substantially increasing its value and the commitment of the client, since the river is meant to carry away the boat and its analogous curses. Later in the ritual, water is enhanced by pouring it over a three-shekel piece of silver into the earth. As described above in the Ritual Engaging the Help of Protective Demons (ANET 348–349), tin absorbs pollution from a client, which a mouse then carries safely away. Since metals are not absorbent, this is a somewhat unexpected choice for this ritual task. In the same ritual, silver, gold, iron, tin, copper, and bronze, almost all the metals (and alloys) known to the Hittites are “offered” to various gods, along with various stones (discussed below), apparently to ensure the gods’ attention before reciting a prayer. After removing the fir trees employed in this ritual (see “Plants” section), seven copper pegs are driven into the ground where they stood. In the Removal of Threat Implied in an Evil Omen, a large quantity and variety of metal is removed from a substitute king: “The one shekel of silver, the one shekel of gold, the one mina of copper, the one mina of tin, the one mina of lead, all this is removed from his [body]” (ANET 355b). Predictably because of its value, metal is used in foundation rituals; in the Ritual for the Erection of a House (temple) (ANET 356–357), a foundation deposit of one mina of refined copper is nailed to the bottom of a hole (a foundation trench?) with four bronze pegs, using an iron hammer. The large investment of metal continues with “foundation stones” of silver, gold, iron, copper, and bronze. Even the origin of the metals is specified; the

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copper and bronze come from Alašiya (Cyprus), for example. Many more metal deposits are specified for other parts of the temple, including props, a gold lion and pair of iron oxen with a silver yoke, and metal deposits under the cult stand, hearth, door, and gate. More of each of these metals is deposited beneath the four kurakki, columns (Ünal 1988). Metal rhyta used in cult festival ceremonies were discussed above. Gold could also be used to make special objects specifically for use in religious procedures, such as the gold lances in the Festival of the Warrior-God (ANET 358–361) and silver earrings in the festival for All the Tutelary Deities (McMahon 1991: 87). Iron, due to its scarcity, was a valuable metal. Besides appearing in foundation deposits, it was used to create special objects such as spears carried by the palace bodyguards in the tutelary deity’s temple during the Festival for All the Tutelary Deities.

STONE A few rituals specify special stones as offering material. The Purification Ritual Engaging the Help of Protective Demons (ANET 348–349), besides metals, describes offering lapis and four other special stones, some imported, before a prayer to the deity; this is repeated later, with a slightly different list of stones, before praying to a different deity. In the Ritual for the Erection of a House (temple) (ANET 356–357), valuable stones such as lapis, jasper, marble, and diorite accompany the elaborate metal foundation deposits, including beneath the cult stand, hearth, and door. As with the metal, the place of origin of most of the stones is specified, denoting their great value based on the effort required to bring them from faraway places.

VEHICLES Vehicles constitute an essential material resource for Hittite religion (Güterbock 1960). In the Soldiers’ Oath, three vehicles/farm implements are utilized for analogy; a plow, cart, and chariot are brought before the assembled troops taking the oath and then broken up: “Whoever breaks these oaths, let the Stormgod break his plow!” (ANET 354a). Vehicles in the cult festivals as well are an essential religious material resource, moving images of deities (such as in the Festival for All the Tutelary Deities [McMahon 1991: 171]), and festival celebrants, especially the king, in the Kultreise (cultic journey). In the outline of the two-month-long AN.TAḪ.ŠUM festival, the classic example of a Kultreise, a wagon or chariot (GIŠḫuluganni-) is essential for the king’s travels as he moves through a bewildering range of cult centers across central Anatolia.

MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS Musical instruments play a large role in religious ceremony, as do singers, and are depicted on Hittite relief carvings and on pottery such as the vases from Bitik (Özgüç 1957), İnandık (Özgüc 1988), and Hüseyindede (Yıldırım 2002); they are attested in religious contexts in the text corpus as well. In the Evocatio, the music of lyres is cited in a prayer to induce the absent god to return to Ḫatti. Musical instruments figure much more in cult festivals than in rituals. At least six musical instruments are attested in the textual evidence: the small and large INANNAinstruments, arkammi, ḫuḫupal, and galgalturi, and a tambourine.

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PEOPLE This section discusses people other than religious personnel, magical practitioners, priests, and singers, who were utilized in ritual for various purposes, and therefore construed here as religious material. The Ritual Against Impotence (ANET 349–350) text clearly specifies that a virgin takes the rations required for the three days of the ritual “out to the open country,” where the ritual is performed. Also part of that ritual is a eunuch who is presented as a counterexample of the desired result of the ritual. In the Soldiers’ Oath (ANET 353–354), a blind woman and a deaf man are brought before the troops taking the oath, to exemplify what those who break the oath will become. In the Removal of the Threat Implied in an Evil Omen (ANET 355–356), intended to keep the king safe from a perceived impending disaster, people as religious material play a central role. Initially the king takes substitutes to the sanctuary of the Moon god, from whom the omen came: “I have given thee straightaway [these substitu]tes. These take, [but let me go fr]ee!” (ANET 355). Later a prisoner is brought in, anointed with the fine oil of kingship, and declared king; he is then released and returned to his own country, carrying away the threat implied in the “evil omen.”

CONCLUDING REMARKS Any religion based on sacrifices and offerings, in the context of specified ceremonial actions, taking place in sacred loci, must necessarily depend on material resources, and Hittite religion is certainly no exception. The foregoing also reveals that in magical ritual (SISKUR), perhaps even more than in cult ceremony, a quite remarkable range of materials were brought into play to attempt to achieve the desired outcomes. Some of this diversity may be attributable to the foreign origins of some of the magical practitioners, and unquestionably the range of materials used in both Hittite magical ritual and religious ceremony reflect the actively syncretistic nature of the Hittite state religion as we know it from textual sources. Hittite religion is therefore a deeply useful comparandum in our attempt to refine our understanding of the relationship between Weltanschauung and material culture in religion.

NOTES 1 The word išḫiul-, which indicates a binding agreement, can also be used to indicate the prescribed nature of the cult calendar with its regularly scheduled religious ceremonies (Schwemer 2016). 2 This chapter is based primarily on examples of SISKUR and EZEN4 translated in Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament by Goetze (1969; abbreviated here as ANET), as well as by several other major examples translated by other scholars noted throughout the chapter. Text titles and quotations follow those of the translator. For discussion of prayers, cult inventories, mythological texts, hymns, and divinations, which are outside the scope of this article, see Güterbock (1950, 1964, 1983), Gurney (1977), and Haas (1994).

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Experiencing the Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead: A Funerary Text Corpus as a Material Object CHRISTINA GEISEN

When discussing material1 religion and the written word in ancient Egypt, the “Spells for going forth by day,” better known under their modern name Book of the Dead (BD from now on), come directly to mind. This funerary text corpus is a prime example for the reciprocal dependency of a text and the tangible object on which it is written or with which it is used. In fact, the material of the artifact dictates its use in a ritual performance. Aspects of the text carrier’s physicality such as color, malleability, form, dimension, and durability play an important part in the usage and thus agency of the artifact. The respective information is often found in a BD spell’s instruction on how to produce and employ the object to gain its maximum efficacy. It is in this ritual environment that the ancient Egyptians were able to enter into a social relationship with the artifact and experience the BD. Moreover, the text corpus’ production, which is directly related to the agency of scribes and indirectly connected with economic and social facets of the BD, provides an excellent medium for material philology.

THE BOOK OF THE DEAD Originating in Thebes, the BD is attested from the end of the thirteenth dynasty (c. 1700 bce) to the end of the Ptolemaic period (c. 50 bce). The composition is a spell collection that focuses on the preservation of the body, nourishment, freedom of movement, transfiguration, and final judgment to guarantee the deceased’s transformation into an effective Akh (transfigured spirit) that can enjoy an eternal life and can easily travel between this and the next world. A spell is often accompanied by a vignette, an image that usually visualizes the utterance’s essential message. A typical BD consists of a papyrus roll on which a sequence of spells, a choice of around 190 attested utterances, is written and placed in the coffin of the deceased. Other text carriers include linen bandages, coffins, stelae, other objects of the funerary assemblage, as well as tomb and temple walls. A single

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spell can be featured on a specific artifact that is often a materialized version of the image in the respective spell’s vignette. The Sitz im Leben of the composition is predominantly the funerary sphere, where the spells were performed in the framework of a burial and thereby made effective perpetually through the agency of the artifact.

THE INFLUENCE OF THE ARTIFACT’S PHYSICALITY ON THE BD’S EFFICACY Instructions often written in red (rubrics) are occasionally added at the end of BD spells and explicitly state how the utterance should be recited during the ritual performance and in combination with which tactile object. Additionally, the rubric provides information on the manufacture of the artifact, which can, but does not need to, include the spell on its surface. Important for the production are the artifact’s properties, including color, luminosity, form, and material. For instance, the “Spell for a Djed-pillar of gold” (BD 155) shall be spoken over a golden Djed-pillar that is strung around the neck on a string made of fibers of the sycamore and given to the Akh on the burial day (Quirke 2013: 385). This instruction clarifies that the artifact (Figure 17.1; Carter no. 256.KK2) can only be effective when it has a special color (yellow), is made of a specific material (gold), has a particular form (pillar), is located at a precise position on the deceased’s body (neck), and the placement takes place on a certain day (burial).

FIGURE 17.1  Amulets from Tutankhamun’s burial assemblage (source: Burton Photograph P0835; © Griffith Institute, University of Oxford).

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A particular environment is implied (embalming hall). Yet, another necessity for the artifact’s agency is the recitation of the spell, when the Djed-pillar amulet is affixed to the mummy. The text can be seen as an object with its own agency (Eyre 2018: 2, 13) and the interaction of both the physicality of the object and the recitation of the spell materialize the ritual performance, which lasts eternally through the presence of the object on the corpse. By placing the amulet on the deceased’s mummy, the renewing power activated through the spell’s recitation could directly transfer from the amulet to the body and revivify it (cf. Dieleman 2015: 28). Symbolism and embodiment are other aspects that are vital for understanding the choice of the artifact’s properties in relation to its function, namely, the deceased’s eternal protection and endurance. The Djed-pillar is a hieroglyphic sign with the phonetic value djed symbolizing the backbone of the god Osiris, with whom every deceased person is identified; not surprisingly, djed is a noun that means “endurance, stability.” The Djed-pillar amulet is not only a three-dimensional (3D) version of the hieroglyph that symbolically ensures the eternal perpetuation of the deceased’s life through its iconic function, but it is also an embodiment of Osiris’, that is, the deceased’s, backbone, which is necessary for a resurrected life. According to ancient Egyptian beliefs, life force can be transferred to an inanimate image via magic (Taylor 2010: 33). Magic, agreeing with ancient Egyptian thought, can affect positive (and negative) transformation, for which the knowledge of proper words, gestures, and materials is necessary (Assmann 2010: 33). Inevitably, the amulet is placed at the mummy’s neck, fulfilling a double function of being the deceased’s backbone and protecting one of the most vulnerable spots of the body. The color gold stands for the skin color of deities and, in connection to the yellow sun, resurrection and eternal life. Consequently, the choice of gold as the material and its color yellow materialize and symbolize, respectively, the concept underlying the Djed-pillar. The same is true for the content of the spell, which urges Osiris to raise himself, a synonym for being resurrected. The time refers to the day on which the transformation of the deceased into an Akh was finalized and his or her eternal life starts, the day of the burial. The environment of the embalming hall and/or the burial chamber is essential (Albert 2012: 79; Barbash 2017: 76–81). Magical acts as part of a ritual performance have to take place in a secluded, purified, and sanctified area, since their power can affect the maintenance of the world (Assmann 2010: 33). In the following, two examples are provided that specifically exemplify the importance of a particular property of an object for the artifact’s efficacy.

Color and Luminosity A significant example for the agency of color is BD spell 100 as it is illustrated on the single sheet papyrus from the burial of Henutmehyt (Papyrus Reading; Taylor 2010: 47). The medium features the text and vignette of the spell and was found wrapped around the deceased’s mummy. The utterance was first written in red and then traced in white ink. The image, over which the spell should be recited, shows the solar boat whose crew the deceased wants to join, according to the spell’s title. The solar boat is the vehicle with which the sun god Ra travels during the twelve hours of the night to resurrect the deceased and to rejuvenate himself before he appears revivified in the morning at sunrise. The journey includes the deity’s triumph over his archenemy Apophis, who is trying to hinder Ra’s travel and thus his resurrection (sunrise) in the morning. In fact, the name Apophis appears in this spell written only in red ink, the color materializing and alluding

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to his dangerous nature3; to avoid harm, all other words are traced with white ink. According to the instructions at the end of the spell, preserved on other text witnesses, the papyrus should be placed on the breast of the deceased but without directly touching the body––as it was, indeed, found on the mummy wrappings of Henutmehyt. The reason for not touching the body might be the very presence of the word Apophis, specifically the danger radiating from the malicious deity’s mention and the color red. Another reason could be the power emanating from the divine boat crew (Régen 2017: 100). The rubric also states that the utterance should be written on a new, blank piece of papyrus with green glaze powder. The latter’s brightness might have been associated with the sun, thus providing a connection to Ra in the solar boat (Régen 2017: 100). At the same time, the color green stands for growth and resurrection because of its association with vegetation and the linked annual agricultural cycle.

Form, Dimension, and Material BD spell 6 is often written on the front of shabtis (Figure 17.2; Carter no. 110), miniature representations of the deceased that were part of the burial assemblage. They are supposed to take over the tomb owner’s work duties in the afterlife, as the spell’s title and text imply. The figurines were made in different sizes and from various materials, such as wood, faience, stone, clay, glass, or bronze. Typically visualized in mummiform, they could be adorned with agricultural tools alluding to their task of providing provisions for the deceased, a supplementary duty. Royal shabtis are adorned with kingly regalia, as can be seen in Figure 17.2. The number of shabtis placed in a tomb increased over time; after the New Kingdom, providing the deceased with 401 shabtis is common. The Middle Kingdom Coffin Text spell 472, in the tradition in which BD spell 6 stands, instructs the ritualist to recite the spell over an image of the owner, made from tamarisk or ziziphus wood (Christ’s thorn). Wood was cheaper and easier to process in comparison to stones or metals. Yet, the fact that a tree is a living and growing being and thus shares fundamental characteristics with humans might have made wood the best-suited material for the shabtis. Faience was a very common material used for the figurines as well, endowing the object with a glimmering surface that was associated with the divine sphere (Howley 2019: 128) in which the deceased lived eternally. The form and dimension of the artifact group are noteworthy aspects regarding the figurine’s agency. The rubric of the Coffin Text spell identifies the shabti as an image of its owner; that is, ontologically, it is the substitution of the deceased (Nyord 2017: 341–9) that is imbued with life and made operational via the recitation of the utterance. Accordingly, the text of BD spell 6 ends with the command that the shabti shall say that it is, indeed, fulfilling its duties (Quirke 2013: 21). That the ancient Egyptians saw shabtis as human beings is affirmed by their human-sized depictions in Egyptian art (Howley 2019: 133). In her article, Howley offers a fascinating new aspect of shabtis by analyzing the effect these miniature figurines have on humans; this explains why the object group is so appealing to us today. Miniatures are reduced to the essential elements, a notion that stimulates the imagination of the viewer. They are mysterious, inviting inspection and thus an intimate relationship by taking the object in one’s hand. Reducing the size of miniatures intensifies this power over the viewer. Reducing the size of the shabtis creates an opportunity to place more figurines in one’s grave, thereby magnifying the visual effect, and, set up in the tomb, the shabtis indeed look like a working crew for the deceased.

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FIGURE 17.2  Wooden shabti of Tutankhamun with BD 6 (source: Burton Photograph P1678; © Griffith Institute, University of Oxford).

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ITEMS OF BURIAL EQUIPMENT AS SUBSTITUTES OF BD SPELLS As we have seen, specific items of a burial assemblage build symbioses with particular BD spells and their recitation; this connection is intensified by writing the text on the object and by adding instructions in the spells outlining with which object an utterance should be recited. These artifacts are also often visualized in the vignette of the spell or have at least a very close connection to the spell’s content. If an artifact does not feature the respective spell, the object can be seen as a substitution for the spell. In this case, the object’s relationship to the BD is not necessarily immediately obvious when looking at the various pieces of a funerary assemblage. The custom of adding a spell or even several spells on an artifact or including an object as a substitution for an utterance in the burial assemblage is important for understanding the original use of the text corpus and its main writing surface(s). Beinlich (1988) has convincingly argued that the presence of a sequence of BD spells on a papyrus roll––today the most attested version of the BD because of preservation conditions–– is only the secondary use of the text corpus, whereas the occurrence of BD spells on objects of the funerary equipment is the primary one. The basis for this suggestion is Tutankhamun’s assemblage from the eighteenth dynasty of the New Kingdom, which includes several such pieces. Yet, the king did not own a BD papyrus roll. Interesting in this regard is Scalf ’s (2015: 208) proposal that these spells were originally created for an object and only secondarily integrated into BD copies. He especially refers to BD 6, 30b, and 151. Moreover, Beinlich proposes that the papyrus roll is originally de facto a substitute for an entire burial assemblage and the addition of a papyrus roll to it only became a custom during the later eighteenth dynasty. The coffin of queen Mentuhotep from the end of the thirteenth dynasty (Geisen 2004) is the first witness for a longer sequence of BD spells and confirms Beinlich’s theory. These BD spells appear on an item of the queen’s burial assemblage. In addition, the selection of spells featured on the object’s inner walls is a representation of the various themes found in the text corpus. Yet, BD spells that often appear by themselves on an item of the funerary assemblage are not included (except for BD 30a, b). Apart from a canopic box, no further items of the queen’s funerary equipment are preserved, but maybe it originally contained pieces that featured a BD spell or were substitutes for one,4 as is the case regarding Tutankhamun’s assemblage. In the following a few examples from the king’s equipment illustrate the notion of substitution.

BD 81a—Royal Head on a Lotus Spell 81a “Spell for taking on the form of a lotus” belongs to the so-called transformation spells, in which the deceased takes on different forms that help him or her to move freely in the hereafter and to achieve eternal life. The lotus is a symbol for regeneration and rebirth in ancient Egypt due to the observation that its blossom opens every morning when touched by sunlight. The vignette of the spell features a lotus flower from which a human head rises. The utterance does not include an instruction, so no information relating to the spell’s recitation method is provided. Yet, looking at Tutankhamun’s burial equipment, we find a piece that visualizes the image of the spell in 3D (Figure 17.3; Carter no. 008). There is no proof that BD 81a was recited over this item when it was placed in the king’s burial chamber to make it functional so that it would perpetuate

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FIGURE 17.3  Royal head on a lotus from Tutankhamun’s burial assemblage (source: Burton Photograph P0479a; © Griffith Institute, University of Oxford).

Tutankhamun’s regeneration, but it is very likely when we take into account the many items in the sovereign’s assemblage that have direct or indirect relationships with BD spells (e.g., the four shrines, golden coffin, mummy mask, canopic coffin, magical bricks; cf. Beinlich 1988: 12).

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Amulets and Jewelry With BD 155 (Djed-pillar) and BD 100 (papyrus sheet), we came across two pieces that were placed on the deceased’s body. Not surprisingly, Tutankhamun was covered with amulets, pieces of jewelry, and other items (Figures 17.4–17.6; Carter nos. 256 and 256a)

FIGURE 17.4  Upper body of Tutankhamun’s mummy with embellishments as found at discovery (source: Burton Photograph P0750a; © Griffith Institute, University of Oxford).

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FIGURE 17.5  Upper body of Tutankhamun’s mummy with falcon collar and other items as found at discovery (source: Burton Photograph P0774; © Griffith Institute, University of Oxford).

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FIGURE 17.6  Upper body of Tutankhamun’s mummy with amulets as found at discovery (source: Burton Photograph P0774a; © Griffith Institute, University of Oxford).

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placed in between the various linen layers and on top of the mummy (for a list and exact locations, see Reeves 1995: 112–13). Several of these items are connected to BD spells; some feature a BD utterance, but many do not and thus function as substitutes for the respective spell. Nevertheless, these can be brought in connection with an utterance; several are pictured in a spell’s vignette and/or their physicality coincides with the material, color, and/or form mentioned in the rubric of the specific text. In some cases, the location where the item has to be placed on the body is also mentioned. These artifacts concern, for instance, a Tit-amulet of red jaspar (BD 156), a papyrus-amulet of green feldspar (BD 159), a golden collar in the form of the vulture goddess Nekhbet (BD 157), and a golden Ba bird-amulet inlaid with semiprecious stones (BD 89). The floral wreath on top of the mummy (BD 19) and the many collars (BD 158) could be other examples (cf. Žabkar 1985; Beinlich 1988). If we take a look at the objects, we see that the spells’ instructions have been followed: the Tit-amulet should be made of red jasper and the papyrus amulet of green feldspar; both shall be placed at the neck. The vulture-collar and other collar(s) have to be out of gold and likewise situated at the neck. The Ba-bird’s material should also be gold, adorned with semiprecious stones and located on the breast of the deceased.5 BD 19 does not include any information on the wreath’s physicality or where it should be placed. The only connection to the BD is the title “Spell of the wreath of triumph,” assuring the deceased’s victory over all evil forces and thus guaranteeing eternal life. All of these items are activated via the recitations of the diverse spells. The magical force set free through these ritual performances allows the diverse objects to interact with each other and the other elements positioned on the mummy, materializing an ever so powerful invisible shield around the body that ensures the protection and eternal life of the deceased.

IMPORTANCE OF THE RECITATIONS’ ENVIRONMENT In the previous example, we have seen that the materiality of space was also essential for the agency of an artifact. Unsurprisingly, the object and the specific location where it is placed coalesce, and the content of the utterance intensifies the impact of the spell as well. The following examples demonstrate this significant synergy.

BD 151a—The Mummy Mask BD 151 is visualized on BD rolls as the embalming chamber. The central image is the jackal god Anubis, who is shown embalming the deceased. Other elements of the composition are accompanied by short texts outlining their duty during the embalmment and burial rites. These concern the protective deities Isis and Nephthys, the four sons of Horus embodying the canopics, a shabti, a jackal figure, and Ba-birds. A jackal, Djed-pillar, torch, and human figure are also illustrated; they are part of the magical bricks that were placed in each wall of the burial chamber. On some of these elements we find selections of BD 151, namely, on the four magical bricks, the canopics, and the mummy mask. We will focus here on the mask. BD 151a contains the speech of the embalmer Anubis, who addresses the face of the deceased. The statement that the face is in front of the deceased, who can see through it, explicitly identifies the face with the mummy mask, that is, the mask is an embodiment of the face. Consequentially, BD 151a is featured on the back

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FIGURE 17.7  Golden mask of Tutankhamun with BD 151a (source: Burton Photograph P0760; © Griffith Institute, University of Oxford).

of Tutankhamun’s mask (Figure 17.7; Carter no. 256a).6 In the text, different parts of the object are identified with various deities (Quirke 2013: 373), which effectuates the deification of the dead king. This transformation is simultaneously accomplished through the color symbolism of the mask; gold is the skin color and lapis lazuli the hair color of deities.

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FIGURE 17.8  Tutankhamun’s heart scarabs (source: Burton Photograph P0761; © Griffith Institute, University of Oxford).

BD 30b—The Heart Scarab Spell 30b shall be recited over a scarab made out of Nemehef-stone and bordered by white gold (Figure 17.8; Carter no. 256a). The spell, often found on the back of the object, is essential for the justification of the deceased, which is needed to reach eternal life. This

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justification takes place during the weighing of the heart ceremony in the divine sphere on the day of the burial, when the deceased’s heart is weighed against the feather of Maat (universal justice). The deceased summons his heart in the spell to not act against him or her during the final judgment (Quirke 2013: 99–100)––the organ is the seat of emotion and thought in ancient Egypt. Correspondingly, the heart scarab should be placed on the deceased’s heart, according to the spell; this is also the position where Tutankhamun’s heart scarab was situated when the necklace was put around his neck (Figure 17.4). Tutankhamun owned a second heart scarab (Figure 17.8; Carter no. 256q) that, in contrast, features a phoenix on the front and BD 29b on the back side. The utterance identifies the king with a phoenix who himself is the Ba of the sun god Ra (Quirke 2013: 96). Thus, Tutankhamun has entered into a union with Ra.

SOCIOCULTURAL ASPECTS OF THE BOOK OF THE DEAD The religious significance of the BD has been extensively illustrated in the previous part of the chapter. Another aspect of the composition’s materiality is its production as a papyrus roll that provides insight into the composers’ agency and the text corpus’ economic value. This is a topic that deserves its own article and can only be touched upon here.

Agency of the Scribes and Draftsmen For a time span of almost two thousand years, BD papyri were produced in workshops related to temple scriptoria in the centers of Thebes, Memphis, and Akhmim, where scribes and draftsmen worked hand in hand, the former copying the texts and the latter creating the vignettes. Yet, the scribes did not simply copy the various spells from a template onto a papyrus roll. They chose the spells for an exemplar and collated, linguistically updated, interpretated, and supplemented the texts. Their work becomes visible for us today, for instance, through the addition of other interpretations of a text passage introduced by the phrase “other saying.” Missed words were added above a line or at the top or bottom of a page. In the latter two cases, the text passage into which the words had to be integrated was marked by a sign. The interaction of scribes and draftsmen is materialized by notes in spaces where a vignette had to be drawn; here, the scribe informs the draftsman which image had to be sketched. Different handwritings and peculiarities in the vignettes’ execution can shed light on a specific workshop or even a particular scribe/draftsman and give insight into how many of them worked together on a manuscript (cf. Kockelmann 2017: 70–4; cf. Scalf 2015: 206–12).

Economic Aspect of the Book of the Dead The production of BD papyri was certainly an important factor in ancient Egypt’s funerary economy. Exemplars were supplied in stock or by order. In the first case, the scribe selected the spell sequence and left the space for the name of the future owner empty. In the second case, the buyer could choose the quantity of spells and the method of the vignettes’ execution. Ostracon Ashmolean Museum HO 133, from the nineteenth dynasty, informs us that “a decorated Book of the Dead papyrus” cost “1 deben” of silver; this was approximately the wage that a workman would earn in half a year (Kockelmann

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2017: 73). Although the ostracon does not mention the length of the manuscript, it shows that a papyrus with vignettes was not a cheap burial item. Looking at the length of a BD roll, the quality of the vignettes’ execution, the handwriting, and the use of color pigments or even gold leaf for drawing the vignettes can provide insights into the sociocultural status of the owner.7

CONCLUSION This essay has shown how essential material properties were for the enduring effectiveness of an object’s function. It is the synergy of the artifacts’ physicality, the text’s authority through the power of the spoken word, as well as the time and space of the recitation that materialize a ritual performance and provide the utmost efficiency. This agency is experienced by the deceased ancient Egyptian as his or her resurrection leading to eternal life, as far as the BD is concerned. The lector priest who recites the composition’s spells during the ritual and the embalmer who prepares the mummy are also subjected to the magical energy that is set free, since they are an integral part of the performance as well. Scribes and draftsmen who produced BD compositions experienced the BD in a different way, at least during their lifetime. They materialize the spells and their respective images, often leaving their own touch on the manuscript (handwriting, execution style, additions to the text, etc.). At the same time, they engage with different materials (papyrus, ink, different color pigments, etc.) whose properties shape the scribes’ and draftsmen’ selections. These choices then influence the buyer of a BD manuscript, taking into account affordability and taste before he or she experiences the agency of the BD on his or her journey to eternal life.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank Sharon Steadman and Nicola Laneri for inviting me to participate in this fantastic project and Salima Ikram for suggesting me as a contributor. I am grateful to the Griffith Institute of the University of Oxford for granting me permission to use Burton’s photographs and to Shana Zaia for editing.

NOTES 1 My understanding of material and materiality follows the works of Boivin (2011: 25–6) and Jones (2004: 333–6). Material designates everything tangible, not only objects including architecture but also landscapes and environments, while materiality concerns the physicality of these things (color, form, dimension, plasticity, malleability, resistance, production) that enable human agency. 2 The Carter number refers to the number that Howard Carter assigned to each individual piece of Tutankhamun’s burial assemblage during the excavation of the tomb. The items can be searched by this number in The Griffith Institute. Tutankhamun: Anatomy of an Excavation. The Howard Carter Archives (http://www.griff​ith.ox.ac.uk/gri/car​ter/). 3 Red is an ambivalent color in ancient Egypt. It is also associated with life and resurrection based on its association with the sinking sun. The connection to danger, anger, and destruction possibly derives from the ancient Egyptians’ experience with blood (cf. Boivin 2011: 47).

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4 The canopic box features Coffin Text spells. Yet, this does not necessarily contradict the suggestion, since the queen’s coffin dates to the transition period between the use of Coffin Text and Book of the Dead spells. In fact, her coffin includes spells from both text corpora (Geisen 2004: 9–10). 5 In general, however, the instructions are not always followed, possibly because of economic or practical reasons (e.g., unavailability of a specific material) or because a different practice has been rated as better suited in the course of time (cf. Régen 2017). 6 The text would, of course, be even better suited for the front side of the object, but this is impossible for aesthetic reasons as the text would be written over the face of the mask. 7 Certainly, one has to be very careful making such an assumption, since a person could spend all his or her property on buying a quality papyrus, whereas someone else may have preferred to buy a cheap version but other burial goods in addition. Therefore, one should take into account the entire funerary equipment and the tomb architecture as well as possible local and personal preferences before making an assumption of someone’s social status.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Pottery and Magic: A Glimpse into Late-Antique Mesopotamian Religious Tradition and Its Materiality MARCO MORIGGI

The increasing interest raised on and around the subject of “materiality” has touched the field concerning studies of magic in recent years. Magic is certainly a topic with ill-defined borders and consequently the approach to “materiality in magic” has been differentiated according to the various sub-fields the subject “magic” comprises. In this chapter, the areas of studies taken into consideration are that of “Ancient Magic” in general and “Ancient Magic in Late-Antique Mesopotamia” in particular.1 In this framework, “magic” is meant as a “heuristic tool” that “may be understood in terms of ‘relationship’, that is, as a process, a factual sequence of actions for which we find only sparse hints or references in the texts we study” (Moriggi and Bhayro 2022: 6).2 “Magic” is thus here meant as a relationship, as such it clearly does not possess an existence of its own. Rather, it relies on those relationships that obtain among performers and actors of magical practices. Thus it emerges in an interstitial space where the magician is the protagonist: the magic circle, the magician’s sole preserve. (Veltri 2011: 233) We are thus fortunate when, from the “interstitial space” described by Veltri, something slips through into the world of materiality: the “magical object,” which comes in various forms, but is most usually labelled as an “amulet.” As in the case of “magic,” the present discussion will have the most useful outcomes if “amulet” can be generally intended as a small protective device usually worn on the body to guard against unwanted supernatural influences, such as demonic attacks and ghostly visitations, or to provide protection and healing from specific diseases and illnesses thought to have a nonmedical cause. (Kotansky 2019: 507)

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Within the context of the ancient Near East in particular, amulets seem to be entangled with the practice of writing—and thus inscribing—texts on their surface(s). As Kotansky (2019: 508) has it, from the earliest written records, it becomes clear that the spoken incantations and spells that began to be recorded onto non-perishable media, such as clay cuneiform tablets and ancient papyrus sheets, formed an integral part of the literary repertoire of the earliest Bronze Age societies whose temple scribes were required to preserve in written form its epics, myths, hymns, and healing rituals—both for the present life of its community and for subsequent generations. As far as this contribution is concerned, we will deal with inscriptional evidence on a specific category of amulet or magical object: Aramaic incantation bowls. The latter fulfill perfectly the requirements to be included in the typology of “lettered” amulets, that is, “talismans whose magical efficacy is mainly recognized in the very written words preserved on them, whether in the form of invocation, petition, incantation, or exorcism” (Kotansky 2019: 509). The magical object or amulet tends to be the fulcrum around which the preparation, ritual, or act of magic and its recording for memory or future possible reuse rotate. In this sense, the “materiality of magic” seems to be tightly bound to the “materiality of religion,” that is, not … simply a renamed archaeology of religion but rather a broader, comparative perspective that focuses on material media as (a) primary contexts for (rather than peripheral artifacts of) religious and ritual experience, and (b) as possessing and directing agency in the world—or at least in particular historical, social, or ritual contexts. (Frankfurter 2019b: 660–1; italics of the quoted author) In this perspective, A magical object can thus refer to any material thing that acts in the world as a subject— that carries agency—whether a mass-produced amulet, a material “blessing” from a holy man, an assemblage created as part of a binding ritual, a compound prepared by a local healer, or some other material transformed through ritual, exchange, or selection. (Frankfurter 2019b: 676) After having outlined the methodological approach here, in order to address the materiality of Aramaic incantation bowls, it is important to stress that in the discussion here it will be vital to avoid a quite frequent mistake in studies similar to the present one, that is, the careless projection into the ancient past of conditions investigated in “primitive societies” by modern anthropologists. These conditions have been often considered as typical of mankind from time immemorial, but, in fact, they cannot be assumed as extant in the past, the latter to remain—albeit our strongest scientific efforts—remote and largely inaccessible.

ARAMAIC INCANTATION BOWLS: PHYSICAL FEATURES AND ARCHAEOLOGICAL CONTEXTS Aramaic incantation bowls are round clay bowls of common pottery typology, inscribed on the inside—and sometimes also on the outside—surfaces with spells. These spells are for the most part concerned with defense and/or repelling of demons, diseases, misfortunes, evil influences, evil eye, and so on, from the client and his or her family,

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possessions, cattle, livestock, and all other items pertaining to his or her life and health (Bohak 2019: 394–400). The Aramaic texts featured on the bowls are displayed spirally starting from the bottom and running up to the rim—this is the common arrangement—or, alternatively, they are arranged in three or four squares facing each other at 90°. A minor percentage of the bowl texts are written in a sun-ray arrangement of the lines from the inner bottom to the rim.3 The languages represented in the bowl texts are mainly Aramaic varieties of the eastern Mesopotamian section of the Late-Antique Aramaic continuum: Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, Mandaic, and Syriac. A few bowls have Pahlavi (Middle Persian) or Arabic texts (Moriggi 2012). Most of the bowls have reached Western museums and collections through antiquities markets. Nevertheless, a good deal of specimens have been duly excavated and—beyond their texts—we are thus able to investigate their original contexts of use, as well. According to the data yielded by archaeological reports, most of these magical objects were discovered in the territory of present-day Iraq, in an area extending approximately from Assur in the north to the confluence of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers in the south. Some bowls were also unearthed in Khuzestan, in Southwestern Iran (Müller-Kessler 2017: 70).4 As far as dating is concerned, it is well established that incantation bowls were mainly produced during the sixth and seventh centuries ce, with possible extension of the time span from the fifth to the eighth centuries ce. This period corresponds to the epoch of Sasanian domination of Mesopotamia and the first centuries of the Islamic caliphates (Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro 2013: 1).5 There are only a handful of studies that treat the incantation bowls properly from an archaeological point of view, that is, their discovery and their pottery typology. As Frankfurter (2015: 3, n. 8) has it, the “classical documentation of bowls in situ” is provided in Hilprecht (1903: 447–8).6 A more detailed analysis, with thorough indication of the loci where bowls were found, was provided by Venco Ricciardi for the site of Choche (present-day Tell Baruda, Iraq). While describing the stratigraphy displayed in a series of trial trenches made at the site, she singled out in area 21 (Level XI—pertaining to the Sasanian period) two doors with thresholds made, respectively, of “baked bricks laid on edge,” and of “an old millstone and three rows of baked bricks” (Venco Ricciardi 1973–74: 19). Under those two thresholds, four incantation bowls were found, buried upside down.7 The domestic environment as a find-place is not surprising from the point of view of the bowl texts. As already pointed out, the largest percentage of spells are aimed at protecting and/or casting away demons and pests from the client’s family and house. Further confirmation of this datum comes from other archaeological contexts. At the site of al-Ḥīrah (present-day ʾUmm Ḫešam, Iraq), the Iraqi archaeologist al-Ḥadīṯī excavated some houses and private buildings. In that context some bowls were … discovered inside a small building which has been completely destroyed. They lay on a plastered floor. Two bowls similar to the preceding ones were found near an oven; they were buried upside-down and put one on the other. (Badino 2001: 118– 21 [Arabic text], 139–42 [Italian translation]) Another group of bowls—in this case the site concerned is Nippur—was found in an area (WG in the archaeological report), at a seventh century ce level, buried upside-down “in a courtyard which also featured an oven” (Hunter 1995: 333).

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As to the archaeological context, incantation bowls thus emerge not only in domestic environments, that is, houses, but also in functional spaces connected with everyday life’s needs: cooking areas, storerooms, and so on. The pottery typology of incantation bowls has been thoroughly addressed in a contribution by Cordera (2001). Unfortunately, this article has gone overlooked by almost all scholars involved in the study of incantation bowls in general, both from the textual and physical perspectives. All scholars continuously quote the work of Hunter (2000) as the reference study for physical features of incantation bowls. Hunter had at her disposal a larger collection of bowls than Cordera, that is, the collection in the British Museum versus the collection of the Museo Nazionale d’Arte Orientale (Rome). Nevertheless, both Hunter’s methodology and the overall approach to the evidence at her disposal are lacking and imprecise and the consequent results are thus rather poor and lacunose (Bhayro 2004). On the basis of the analysis of the specimens housed in the Museo Nazionale d’Arte Orientale (Rome), Cordera was able to establish that incantation bowls—whose diameter oscillates between 12 and 25 cm and 6 to 15 cm tall—represent “a type of vessels widespread in Mesopotamia from Sasanian to early Islamic period” similar “to the Sasanian plain ware” and frequent, from the point of view of pottery typology, among the shapes “for daily use, not made for ritual purposes but typical of local production” (Cordera 2001: 229). From the technological point of view, “this pottery shows no traces of particular care” (Cordera 2001: 230).8 The data context where incantation bowls were found provides some evidence that is quite useful regarding careful attention to their materiality (Davoli 2020: 11, 14). First, incantation bowls are included in ordinary pottery typology. Their physical features do not point to special care in their production. They do not seem to have been prepared to provide space for a specific text, but rather, it seems that the text must be somehow “adapted” to the space on the bowl’s surface. Second, the bowls were buried in domestic spaces. In these spaces they were quite “at home” as they belonged to everyday-use vessels and thus they were not specifically distinguished from the patterns used for eating, drinking, and storing goods, in the daily life of clients and practitioners. In spite of their ordinary character, their anonymous appearance and the fact that nothing separated them to the usual home pottery, these bowls were adopted as a medium for our most significant and reliable source of Babylonian magical traditions in Late Antiquity. It thus comes to the fore that, if an explanation for this phenomenon might be found, it will be in the relationship between texts and the bowls’ materiality.

MAGIC AND MATERIALITY: WHY THE BOWLS? If we consider the history of the civilizations that occupied the territory of Mesopotamia from the beginnings of the fourth millennium bce to the Islamic era, it seems quite easy to single out a permanent, fruitful, tight relationship between clay and script. Clay carried on its surface the oldest testimonies of script, and from that moment it became the medium of the Mesopotamian scribal tradition. The incantation bowls are thus not a newcomer in the field of Mesopotamian writing history, but their peculiarity of being at the same time—at least potentially—common vessels for everyday use as well as writing supports for texts related to an ultra-mundane world, sets them apart as unusual. The obvious answer to the issue as to why bowls were chosen to serve as supports for incantation texts of common use could be that they are made with clay. Clay is

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omnipresent throughout Mesopotamia, is cost-effective, can be used in large amounts, and, if baked, becomes a durable storage device for texts. For a series of equally rational and obvious reasons one may ask why the clay was—in this case—in the shape of bowls, on which writing and properly arranging a text is by no means an easy task. Incantation bowls are magical objects, and magic is a process, a relationship we must investigate for an answer. In this “interstitial space” (Veltri 2011: 233) between the bowls and their texts we must thus search for a possible explanation for this issue. In the position between the bowls and their texts one should put what is generally labeled as “ritual,” that is, the act of attributing sacred meaning that accompanies the production, activation, and positioning of the amulet in its designed context. Unfortunately, nothing has been found in the textual archive that allows for the precise reconstruction of the ritual involving bowls. Nevertheless, at least two hypotheses have been set forth. In 2015, Frankfurter, while recognizing that—according to the contents of the texts— bowls seemed to serve simply as their “graphic and ritual medium,” he also stated that the bowl itself is, in one sense, incidental to the magical inscription—functioning merely as tablet and vehicle—while in another sense the bowl expresses a quite particular expression of apotropaic and exorcistic power. (Frankfurter 2015: 5) In his analysis, Frankfurter, on one hand, focused on the bowls being buried upsidedown, and on the other, the practice of covering scorpions with a bowl in domestic environments as documented in the Mishnah (second to third century ce).9 The “simple domestic method” of trapping scorpions in Jewish houses might have been known to other members of the society in which the Mishnah was compiled. Following the diffusion of rabbinical literature in both Palestine and Babylonia, Frankfurter argues that the practice evolved in the subsequent period and reemerged as an exorcistic ritual in which the material aspect was still represented by a bowl. In this new form one no longer (only) placed bowls over scorpions in domestic spaces but now also placed bowls, powerfully inscribed with adjurations and images, on the floors of rooms one sought to exorcise or protect from other evils. (Frankfurter 2015: 6) The hypothesis suggested by Frankfurter finds some material support in the description of scorpions in incantation bowls, even though he admits that such mentions are “very few.” More important, for the present author, is the fact that the bowl texts employ the Aramaic term kbšʾ (“press”) and the root it comes from: kbš (“to press”), respectively, as a “term for the bowl” and a “technical phrase for the bowl magic” (Montgomery 1913: 291). In his foundational and extensive research on incantation bowls in the twentieth century, Montgomery described the evidence of texts quoting “the press” or the corresponding verb as follows: “In a word we have to do with a species of sympathetic magic, the inverted bowls symbolizing and effecting the repression and suppression of the evil spirits” (Montgomery 1913: 42). The act of pressing is often evoked at the beginning of the spell, see, for instance, Syriac bowl no. 2: 1 (Moriggi 2014: 28), where it reads: “prepared is this amulet, press, …,” or no. 12: 1–2 (Moriggi 2014: 71), that begins with: “prepared is this amulet for the pressing and for the binding of all evil sorcery and of hateful magical acts and of the men or women who performed them.” We cannot ascertain if the word “press” in the texts corresponded to an actual act in the ritual, resulting in the upsidedown positioning of the bowls as documented in excavations. Following in the steps of Frankfurter, Walker recently found another reference to a bowl buried upside down. In the Gemarah, which is the Aramaic section of the Talmud

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that reports discussion on Mishnah passages, including that described above, regarding Shabbath (115a), the text tells us that—following the example of his grandfather—a rabbi orders the burial of an Aramaic translation of the book of Job in order to rescue it from fire. In carrying this out, a bowl is overturned and buried on the book itself (Walker 2020). This practice could well give useful insights as to the possible origin of the bowls’ usage, as it gives a coherent explanation for both the use of the bowls and the sacred nature of the texts inscribed upon them. The bowl “incorporates” the materiality of the book and becomes itself the support of the sacred text. The latter, buried in the house, works as a permanent prophylactic device. Walker’s hypothesis has the advantage of excluding the necessity of a ritual to “activate” the bowl. The text is “active” in itself, as it contains performative statements, divine names, and historiolae. The second case study addressing the issue of the ritual connected with incantation bowls—and thus dealing with the relationship between texts and materiality—involves one of “qyblʾ-texts.” While studying the bowls housed in the Vorderasiatisches Museum in Berlin, Levene singled out six bowls with Jewish Babylonian Aramaic texts “written by the same scribe for the same client and against the same antagonist(s)” (Levene 2013: 10).10 The spells featured on these bowls are introduced by the formula: “This is a charm to make void the sorcery and a curse and a vow and an aversion of Imi daughter of Rebecca and Mar and Lili the sons of Imi who have cursed him and vowed [concerning] him” (Levene 2013: 37, bowl no. VA.2423). In the quoted passage the Aramaic word qyblʾ is translated “charm” and is meant as a “counter-charm,” a counterattack against evil practices performed against the client. Levene remarked that the root qbl in Jewish Babylonian Aramaic may also indicate “darkness” and—in the prepositional construct lqbl—“opposite” (Levene 2013: 10–11). While analyzing the physical features of the bowls bearing the “qyblʾ-formula,” Levene noticed that “all but one of the bowls … with the qyblʾ formula under discussion have bitumen markings on them” (Levene 2011: 224), and that “the bitumen markings on the verso of VA 2484 … reveal that this bowl was once lashed to another that is now missing,” thus concluding that the bowls with the qyblʾ-formula under discussion “were bound together with some sort of cord wrapped twice around … forming a cross shape when viewed from above” (Levene 2011: 225). Levene’s observation matches perfectly with the archaeological evidence, as Hilprecht reported that “sometimes two bowls facing one another had been cemented together with bitumen” (Hilprecht 1903: 447). Levene is among the few scholars that tried to connect the texts of incantation bowls with their materiality, and in this case he tentatively suggested that “the pair of bowls that were a qyblʾ in purpose—‘charm’ or ‘counter-charm’—were also a qyblʾ in the physical sense—being ‘opposite’ each other, their rims ‘meeting’ and a ‘darkness’ formed between them” (Levene 2011: 225). Moreover, Levene observed that within this group of bowls there is a correlation between the type of formula, the qyblʾ formula, and the physical arrangement of these bowls in that they were made in pairs that were set together, rim to rim, lashed with a cord in some cases and bitumened together prior to interment. (Levene 2011: 227) Thus, Levene concluded that “the qyblʾ form has a special relation to the qyblʾ formula” (Levene 2011: 243). As a matter of fact, the connection between texts and materiality seems to be quite evident in the case of the qyblʾ bowls. Furthermore, this relationship is reconstructable by means of textual and archaeological elements—a mutatis mutandis

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“Wörter-und-Sachen” approach—without references to the totally lost dimension of the ritual. Unfortunately, no other likely case studies have been conducted in the past decade. Nevertheless, some further hints for the investigation regarding the materiality of incantation bowls have emerged quite recently in scholarly discussion. The study of “pseudo-script” bowls by Waller offers a tentative comprehensive description of the role of materiality in the magical tradition in which the bowls are relics. “Pseudo-script” bowls are characterized by inscriptions made up of “pseudo-letters,” that is, signs that are “a clear attempt to mimic a known alphabet (for whatever reason)” or “wholesale invention of scripts, some of which appear to represent a thorough-going attempt to instantiate a sign-system free from all communicative conventions” (Waller 2019: 125). They evidently do not contain any human-recognizable message or text in general. This characteristic neutralizes the possible distortion the contents of the texts may cast onto the materiality of the bowls, if not overshadow it completely. Apart from the quite obvious—perhaps ingenuous—possibility that the pseudo-script “attempts to remedy the (potential) failures of human languages and scripts to correspond to the realities of transmundane communication,” the practice of inscribing pseudo-texts seems to further strengthen the “centrality of writing to bowl praxis as a whole” (Waller 2019: 122, 124).11 According to Waller, the bowls—sit “somewhere on the spectrum between orality and textuality” (Waller 2019: 134)—and may provide texts with “permanence” and “materiality,” essential for both the activation and the effectiveness of ritual elements. As Waller puts it: “It is the bowls’ writtenness, and their subsequent permanency, that guarantees a promise of continued communication with the transmundane realm” (Waller 2019: 124–5, italics by Waller). In this framework, script—which in any case implies a materiality in terms of support, inks, pens, and spatial arrangement—and bowls, become conjugated, material elements of a process (= magic, see above), where “the efficacy and performative power of the bowls” is “centered in the written word, sign, or script, and activated during the processes of writing, overturning, and burying the bowl” (Waller 2019: 136). According to this approach, scripts (and thus both legible and pseudo-scripts) and bowls are both fundamental constituents of the materiality of a magic practice in which ritual—if it existed—remains almost impossible for us to reconstruct.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The author would like to thank Nicola Laneri (Università di Catania) and Sharon Steadman (SUNY Cortland) for kindly inviting him to participate in this volume. The final version of the article greatly benefited from the observations of Joseph Sanzo (Università di Venezia “Ca’ Foscari”), Siam Bhayro (University of Exeter), and Hatty Walker (Universities of Exeter and Southampton).

NOTES 1 The reference volume for ancient magic is now Frankfurter (2019a). See also Geller (2020). 2 Other approaches to the subject of “magic,” for example, those featured in Lehrich (2012), Sørensen (2012), and Nikki and Valkama (2021), are useful for the present discussion as they—albeit with different nuances—address the problem of the definition of “magic” from

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the point of view of “relationship,” “process,” and “human cognition.” See also Sanzo (2020) and Martín Hernández (2022). 3 See Müller-Kessler (2017: table 4, nos. A–B), for bowls with texts arranged spirally and in the sun-ray patterns, respectively. For the squares arrangement, see Cordera (2001: 237, fig. 11). 4 The political situation of Iraq in the past twenty years unfortunately did not “bode well for the bowls” (Bohak 2019: 395). In fact, they often surface in the very first strata of archaeological sites, and this makes them easily the target of illegal excavators. 5 The historical framework of incantation bowls, mainly considered in a social and cultural perspective, is described by Morony (2003, 2007). 6 Other likely reports are featured in Langdon and Harden (1934) and Gawlikowski (1990: 137–8). 7 The strata were dated to the seventh century ce based on the pottery and glass finds. Notably, the threshold is often listed in the bowl texts as a specific element of the house to be protected or cleared from evil entities. See, for example, Syriac texts nos. 29: 9; 47: 1; 18: 5; 9: 2;48: 1, 4, 6; and 13: 9 in Moriggi (2014: 61, 75, 97, 144, 200–1, 206). 8 The bowls housed in the Museo Nazionale d’Arte Orientale were at that time property of the Is.I.A.O. (Istituto Italiano per l’Africa e l’Oriente). 9 The passage is encountered in the treaty Shabbath (Order Moʿed), where activities allowed during the sabbatical rest are listed. For further references, see Frankfurter (2015: 5). German translation is visible at “Blatt 121a” at https://www.tal​mud.de/tlmd/tal​mud-ueber​ setz​ung/schab​bat/schab​bat-kapi​tel-16/#blatt-121a. 10 The other three bowls in the British Museum have very similar texts. 11 As a matter of fact, one may ask why, as the human languages and scripts fail in the scope of communication with the transmundane world, the scribes did not produce only “pseudoscripts” bowls, instead of bowls with human-legible texts (that are the large majority of the extant bowls).

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Biblical Priestly Tradition as Material Religion: A Comparative Ancient Mediterranean Approach SETH SANDERS

THE SANCTUARY OF SILENCE The corpus of ritual within the Hebrew Bible exemplifies how the study of ancient “religions of the book” may be hampered by an antimaterialist bias—but also can be used to lead beyond it. Whether in Judaism, Christianity, or Buddhism, when a religious culture produces canonical scriptures, scholarship often amplifies the scripture’s own ideological self-presentation, behaving as if the heart of the religion lies in the espoused beliefs and narratives of its texts. In this view the study of material culture serves as a “handmaiden,” providing background to the teachings of the texts by either confirming or undermining them.1 Yet in fact, the most central element of the Hebrew Bible’s scriptural corpus itself constitutes a sweeping program for a material religion, one that nearly excludes speech and elevates nonverbal behavior to its most ritually significant element. This literary building block, called the Priestly source or work (P), lays out a set of clearly demarcated traditions about ritual behavior that constitute the single most extended ritual document preserved from the ancient Near East.2 This set of texts is so much more coherent than the rest of the Pentateuch that it was originally termed the Grundschrift (“founding document”) of the Torah by nineteenth-century scholarship. And the content of its rituals is almost exclusively focused on physical actions on objects and bodies, up to and including that of God himself (the kavod).3 This chapter will lay out how the Priestly corpus represents a distinctive form of material religion within the ancient Near East. Both its ideology and practice, on the one hand, and its physical shape as a composition, on the other, are distinctive and have had distinctive impacts on the history of religion. While the acts that the Priestly corpus

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prescribes, including the sanctification of ritual sites, offerings of animal and vegetable sacrifice, and the purification of bodies and objects are common across the ancient Mediterranean, its attitude toward language and action is not. In contrast to its bestdocumented neighbors from Syria and Mesopotamia, it represents a largely different attitude toward the possibilities of human ritual activity and its relationship to the divine. Indeed, P is itself a distinctive embodiment of language about action, one that as a result has acted differently in comparison to comparable works from the ancient Mediterranean and throws them into an illuminating contrast. Scholars have long noted that the Priestly source of the Torah alone among major biblical texts contains no prayer. This led Yehezkel Kaufmann (1960) to name the temple that is envisioned in Priestly literature the “Sanctuary of Silence.”4 Because P is an extensive and carefully edited literary document that deliberately coordinates narrative with ritual, its choice to never represent regular ritual speech in any of its thousands of lines of ritual description is striking. How can we investigate P’s theory of language? Here we can apply substantial though rarely explored data to this problem. We first examine internal data, exploring P’s attitude toward ritual language in the extensive Priestly narratives that talk explicitly about right and wrong ways to use language, typifying successful and failed speech. The second section applies a largely unused treasure trove of ancient archival data on ritual. Neither Kaufmann nor his successors drew on more than a smattering of ancient Near Eastern material, and no study of this topic has applied the full range of carefully analyzed and historically contextualized texts in Ugaritic and Babylonian. Remarkably, these archives suggest that no other temple rituals were silent. Comparing the patterns found in Priestly literature and Near Eastern temple archives reveals the very different ways ancient ritual experts created cultures out of religious practices and text-building techniques. What genres of ritual are standardized: edited, copied, and studied versus unstandardized, merely used as “to-do lists”? The privileged, standardized ritual texts in the Mesopotamian “stream of tradition” are speech based, mainly consisting of words to say. By contrast, P’s ritual texts are almost entirely action based. The Priestly corpus is distinctive because it presents physical ritual actions as the main content of divine speech, turning them into a newly transmittable form of reified culture.

WHAT DID THE PRIESTLY TRADITION WANT OF RITUAL LANGUAGE? A long-recognized pattern in Priestly biblical texts is the idea that you should not pray to God, or even address him at all, and that the Jerusalem Temple is therefore ideally a sanctuary of silence. We start with three things we know about the Priestly corpus: It is (1) a literary work that (2) coordinates narrative with ritual, and (3) this is part of the work’s goal—to draw deliberate connections between speech and action. The first—obvious but crucial—point is that in its current form, the Priestly thread is not a ritual archive but an extensive literary work based on ritual archives. That is, while its sacrificial and other ritual elements are in some ways closely related to everyday practice from the Iron Age (Greer 2019; Smoak 2016), it is an elaborately composed set of writings. This may seem obvious, but it sets P apart from all other known ancient Near Eastern ritual documents. At least in Sumerian, Babylonian, Ugaritic, and Phoenician, there are no other extended works that frame such a wide variety of ritual documents within a set of stories thousands of lines long.

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Second, P integrates ritual into a special kind of ritually oriented narrative (Damrosch 1987; Watts 1999; Feldman 2020). So, for example, the Priestly creation story, Gen. 1–2:4a, is organized by divine speeches. Each day begins with a verbal command by God that separates the world into the binary pairs of day and night, land and sea, male and female. And this creative separation happens over the course of seven days, with the seventh, the sabbath, being the capstone of creation, sanctified by God himself.

Example 1: God’s Use of Language in the Priestly Creation Myth, Gen. 1–2:4 Jussive of “to Be” 1:1 When God began to create heaven and earth—2 the earth being unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep and a wind from God sweeping over the water—3 God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light (‫ֱֹלהים יְ ִ ֣הי ֑אֹור ַו�ֽיְ הִ י־‬ ֖ ִ ‫ו ַּ֥יֹ אמֶ ר א‬ ‫)אֹור‬ ֽ …. Verb of Naming 5 God called the light Day (‫ֱֹלהים ָלאֹו֙ר י֔ ֹום וְ לַחֹ֖ שֶ ְׁך ָ ֣ק ָרא לָ ֑יְ לָה‬ ֤ ִ ‫ )וַיִ ּקְ ָ ֨רא א‬and the darkness He called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, a first day … . Jussive of Action 9 God said, “Let the water below the sky be gathered (…‫ֱֹלהים יִ קָ ּו֨ ּו הַ ֜מַ ּיִ ם‬ ִ֗ ‫ )ו ַּ֣יֹ אמֶ ר א‬into one area, that the dry land may appear.” And it was so. … Imperative; Verb of Ritual Action: “Bless” 22 God blessed them, saying, “Be fertile and increase (‫ּומלְ ֤אּו‬ ִ ‫ֱֹלהים לֵאמֹ֑ ר פְ ּ֣רּו ְּור ֗בּו‬ ֖ ִ ‫וַיְ ָב ֶ֧רְך אֹ ָ ֛תם א‬ ֙‫)אֶ ת־הַ ּ֙מַ יִ ם‬, fill the waters in the seas, and let the birds increase on the earth.” … . Cohortative 26 And God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. (‫ֱֹלהים ַ ֽנע ֲ֥שֶ ׂה‬ ִ֔ ‫ו ַּ֣יֹ אמֶ ר א‬ ‫מּותנּו‬ ֑ ֵ ‫ … )אָ ָ ֛דם בְ ּצַ לְ ֵ ֖מנּו כִ ְּד‬. Performative (“I Hereby Give”) 29 God said, “I hereby give you every seed-bearing plant (‫ֱֹלהים הִ ֵ ּנ ֩ה נ ֨ ַָת ִתּי ָל ֶ֜כם אֶ ת־ ׇכּל־‬ ִ֗ ‫ו ַּ֣יֹ אמֶ ר א‬ ‫ )עֵ ֣שֶ ׂב‬that is upon all the earth, and every tree that has seed-bearing fruit; they shall be yours for food. … . Verbs of Ritual Action: “Bless,” “Declare Holy” 2:3 And God blessed the seventh day and declared it holy (‫יעי וַיְ קַ ֖דֵ ּׁש‬ ִ ֔ ִ‫שׁב‬ ּ ְ ַ‫וַיְ ָב ֶ֤רְך אֱֹלהִ ים֙ אֶ ת־י֣ ֹום ה‬ ‫)אֹ ֑תֹו‬, because on it God ceased from all the work of creation that He had done. The grammar of Priestly creation in Gen. 1–2:4a is a comprehensive presentation of pragmatically marked Hebrew verb forms. Specifically, God is shown as using all the pragmatic forms that come from a superior power position. The only forms missing are the ones that involve dialogue or the possibility of opposition (i.e., polite requests, vetitives, or prohibitives).

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We then find that in Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers, God gives verbal commands to the Priests to separate the world as well. As scholars have noted, these divine commands order humans, especially priests, to divide certain classes of things into pure and impure, and he commands the Israelites to observe the Sabbath just as he did. So, there is a parallel structure between the Priestly narratives and the Priestly laws. The pattern of both is depicted as being organized by divine verbal command, and the events of each are triggered by divine words. Third and finally, P deliberately correlates ritual and narrative. This is a corollary of the first two points, but it has long been recognized as reflecting a profound aspect of the Priestly tradition. So, the narrative of Genesis 1 provides a charter with extensive verbal parallels for both the dietary laws, for example, of Leviticus 11, and the Sabbath laws in Exodus 20 and Leviticus 23. These points about Priestly narrative are widely agreed on by scholars and directly relevant to Priestly ritual, in particular the fact that P has no prayer. That is, in none of the regular rituals is there any praise of or direct address to God. When a sacrifice has a definite function such as to atone for a transgression or to help make a leper clean, no words to that effect are given, nor is God requested to do it. By contrast, the only time we get direct discourse, quoted speeches is in irregular or nonsacrificial situations.5

The Need for Further Explanation of P’s Pragmatics and Impact But there is a continuing tension that suggests the need for another approach to explaining P’s use of ritual. This idea of a sanctuary of silence has been debated back and forth since Yehezkel Kaufmann proposed it—some scholars such as Menahem Haran (1996) and Israel Knohl (1995, 1996) have accepted it, while others such as Michael Fishbane (1974), Jacob Milgrom (1991: 19, 60–1), and Ed Greenstein (2011: 513 and n112) have criticized it. But absent a theological dissertation by P, how can we decide? Knohl argued that the absence of prayer is part of a Priestly conceptualization of humans as radically separate from God that “leaves no room for petitional prayer, in which humans request fulfillment of their needs from God; nor does it allow a role for songs of praise in which humans thank God and recount God’s wonders and mercies. The structural model of prayer, a direct address by humans to their God … is at odds with P’s aim in emphasizing God’s loftiness” (1995: 148). His characterization of a lack of second-person address is an important key, though we should not exaggerate this impersonal dimension. After all the Priestly texts depict God who loves the smell of roasting meat and leaves His dwelling if it becomes dirty. Indeed, Baruch Schwartz describes P’s “unique anthropomorphism” as one that “attributes to God the sensual, carnal pleasure derived from inhaling the fragrant odor of roasting meat while at the same time denying that He actually consumes it as food” (Schwartz 2004:208).

PRIESTLY “SPEECH ABOUT SPEECH IN SPEECH ABOUT ACTION” We can gain a fresh view of the bigger picture by looking at Priestly narratives through the lens of attitudes toward language: myths and rituals that exemplify what words are for, what human speech should and should not do in contrast with divine speech. These are what anthropologists refer to as language ideologies (Urban 1984; Sanders 2004). A particularly valuable insight into these ideals, which are not universal but vary

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significantly by time and place, can be found in a culture’s prestigious stories about the consequences of language use, what Urban (1984) refers to as “speech about speech in speech about action.” P ritual is rarely considered alongside Priestly depictions of language use in narrative, apart from Knohl’s crucial point that Moses does not address God directly. In fact, the Priestly corpus contains three strikingly paradigmatic stories of language use. From the clear and certain example with which we began, in Genesis 1, we now move to two more complex examples—Numbers 20, and P’s version of the Sinai revelation.

Example 2: Moses’s Failed Language Use in the “Water in the Wilderness” Story, Num. 20:1-13 In the fateful story that foreshadows the death of the Priestly Torah’s main human speaker, Moses, the Israelites migrating from the wilderness of Zin encounter a waterless place.6 The people rebel against Moses and his brother Aaron, saying “Why have you brought the assembly of the Lord into this wilderness for us and our livestock to die here?” (20:4). God instructs Moses and Aaron to take a staff, gather the congregation and speak (dibbartem, in the second-person plural) to the rock, in the sight of the entire congregation, to yield water. Moses’s and Aaron’s actions are then narrated, repeating the same verbal roots as in God’s commandment. But here a fateful ritual failure occurs. They gather the congregation; Moses speaks (using the root ˀmr rather than dbr, and in the singular––Moses alone) to them, rather than the rock. His speech, rod in hand, is not a command but a rhetorical question: “Listen, you rebels, is it from this rock that we shall bring forth water for you?” He then strikes the rock twice. Water comes forth and the people, not to mention their cattle, drink. Suddenly, God pronounces a verdict: “Because you did not trust me enough to affirm my sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them.” What went wrong? Moses was commanded to speak (dbr). And when God instructs Moses to dbr, it is typically an exercise of direct authority: Moses was commanded to command the rock. Linguistically, when God instructs Moses to dbr, it is always elsewhere an exercise of direct authority, using high-profile pragmatics. There is no explanation in the text of why Moses refused a command and asked a question instead. Was it mockery of the Israelites’ own doubt, or, as the Lord’s speech suggests, proof of Moses’s own doubt about his, and God’s, ability to perform the miracle? Regardless, the failure is clear on a linguistic level: Moses cannot speak as God commanded him to. By contrast with Moses, the only P character who has performed miracles by speaking before is God himself. Recall that all of the language used in God’s speeches in Genesis 1 is grammatically marked as pragmatic, and successful. By contrast, in the one line of narrative framing Moses’s speech, we see every major type of pragmatic failure: while the Lord’s command implies authoritative speech, Moses asks a question; while Moses is commanded to speak to the rock, he speaks to Israel, and instead of speaking to the rock he hits it. In one stroke, the speaker, audience, type of discourse, and physical actions have gone wrong. Prior to this, every one of Moses’s ritual performances has succeeded perfectly.7 But this time Moses is supposed to speak alone with divine authority. Asked to not merely transmit a command on God’s behalf but perform a miracle by his own word, Moses fails and is humiliated.8

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As speech about speech, what separates this fateful instance is that God has asked Moses to do the one thing he has never done: a verbal miracle. Famously Moses is depicted as having a problem speaking in P because he is ‫שפ ָ ָֽתיִ ם‬ ׂ ְ ‫“( ע ַ ֲ֥רל‬of impeded speech” Exod. 6:12, again in 6:29) as well as other sources (Exod. 4:10). All of Moses’s other miracles are enacted silently, with physical actions not speech. In P myth, divine language is perfect and innately effective when spoken by God, as it succeeds in the Genesis creation account, but ambivalent from human lips, when transmitted by his proxies. And if Moses is either literally or metaphorically of impeded speech, then the power of the words he speaks must be entirely God’s. Here P narrates the limits of the human use of ritual language.

Example 3: The Priestly Revelation at Sinai Finally, the Priestly Mount Sinai revelation contains no commands for regular worship or sacrifice, let alone prayer. In the widely agreed-on Priestly Sinai passages spanning Exodus 25–319, the only contents are building instructions for the Tabernacle and costume design to consecrate the Priests. Baruch Schwartz emphasizes Moses’s passivity: In P Moses merely receives the divine commands and conveys them to the people. No initiative, no prophetic intercession, and no impulsiveness are attributed to him. He is the spokesman for the strict letter of the law in Leviticus 10, and when, later on in the Priestly narrative (Num 20:1–13) he strays (slightly, momentarily, and only once) from his instructions, he is severely punished. (Schwartz 1996: 123) At Sinai, Moses sees a heavenly visual model (tabnît, from the B-N-Y root for “build”). It is only after the Israelites build a concrete physical version of that tabnît that they receive the main verbal revelation of God. Indeed, Schwartz even argues that at the mountaintop, the mythical pinnacle of revelation, no voice of law is heard. In the P account of the Sinai event, “no Decalogue or other such sample of divine law is proclaimed. Further, nature does not participate: no thunder, lightning, horns, fire, or smoke are present” (Schwartz 1996:125). Instead, God’s fiery body (kābōd) descends from the heavens to the mountaintop and, in turn, descends into the Tabernacle after it is built. For the Priestly tradition, the most essential communion with God happens in silence, and its narrative is one of how God’s material presence comes to dwell on earth (Sommer 2015: 53–7).

ANCIENT NEAR EASTERN PRIESTLY APPROACHES Is the religion of the P more material than that of other Near Eastern ritual texts? It has never been tested against the rich spectrum of well-documented ancient Near Eastern temple rituals. There has been relatively little work done on the nature of language use in Babylonian or Ugaritic ritual. Did Babylonian priests of the first millennium, or Ugaritic priests of the late second, actually serve their gods in silence? How was language used to talk to gods and mediate between heaven and earth? The advantage of the ancient cuneiform ritual corpus is that it provides enough evidence to let us compare ideology and practice on the ground. Babylonian temple rituals can often be squared with administrative and prescriptive documents to gain a credible picture of ritual practice, as in Linssen’s study of “Temple Ritual Texts as Evidence for Hellenistic Cult Practice” in Uruk and Babylon (2004). And as Pardee (2002: 221) notes, the prescriptive sacrificial ritual texts from Late Bronze Age Ugarit are important because

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“their quasi-administrative nature” indicates “that the sacrifices and offerings named were in fact presented as prescribed.”

Ritual Language at Ugarit Most scribal production at Ugarit seems to have taken place over the course of about a century, so we are well informed about a specific time and place. Moreover, this time and place represents an early instance of a West Semitic cultural stream that later emerges in the Priestly corpus. For example, in addition to a set of cognate ritual terms such as ˁlh (“burnt offering” in Ugaritic and Hebrew; see Pardee 2002), there is a shared emphasis on the ritual use of blood and the burning of offerings, neither of which played any meaningful role in Mesopotamian offerings (Lambert 1993). While the precise proportion of verbal and silent ritual at Ugarit is disputed, there is a consensus that language accompanied most cases of ritual action. The two poles are represented by Pardee and Del Olmo Lete, who in a reliably energetic polemic lay out contesting positions—though they end up not terribly far apart. Olmo Lete claims, in his survey of Ugaritic ritual texts, that “ritual was never movement without speech” (del Olmo Lete 1999: 352), to which Pardee retorts that “the author would have to have been there to know that” (Pardee 2000: 72). But he agrees that prayer was often an important part of sacrificial ritual––including in the most popular and widely copied rituals. In his study of ritual at Ugarit, Pardee concludes that the ritual texts preserved to us were not records of past events but scripts for performance. It is important to note here that speech is especially prominent in the only ritual texts that we know to have been repeatedly reused. Here is the end of RS 1.002, which takes the form of a speech that the ritual expert gives alongside the physical actions of sacrificing. A set of formal features make clear that this is ritual speech. These include second-person address, the narration of the actions (perhaps with performative force as in the below line 40’–41’, “the sacrifice, it is sacrificed!” (ndbḥ, a verb in the N stem suffix form, standard for explicit primary performatives in Ugaritic as shown in Sanders 2004), and the deictics (line 42’ “here is the donkey”). (39’) whether (!) your “beauty” be altered: be it in yo[ur] anger, [be it in] your [impa]tience, be it in some turpitude (40’) that you should commit; whether [your] “beauty” be altered: [as concerns regular sacrifices] or as concerns the t˓-sacrifice. The sacrifice, (41’) it is sacrificed, the t˓-sacrifice, it is [offered, the slaughtering] is done. (42’) May it be borne to the father of the sons of ‘Ilu … here is the donkey. A striking ritual for the month of the first wine (RS 1.003 with parallel in RS 18.056) involves the king not only reciting a scripted liturgy but also making an improvised speech in ritual context. This incorporation of “whatever is in his mind (lit. heart)” suggests that this ritual gave a prominent role to impromptu verbal performance (with stipulated speeches in italics):

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45. On the sixth day (of the festival of the full moon): two [rams] for Šamnu; in the upper room, a cow. [The king], still pure, will repeat the recitation. On the seventh day, when the sun rises, the day will be free (of cultic obligations); when the sun sets, the king will [be free (of cultic obligation)] And on the day of the new moon (of the following month): two rams … . 50. At that time, the king [will offer a sac]rifice to DN on the roof … A bull and a ram as a peace-offering, to be repeated seven times. According to what is in his heart the king will sp[eak] (k lbh yr[gm] mlk). When the sun rises, the king will be free (of cultic obligations). [broken line] You will take him back to [the palace]. And when he is there he will [raise] his hands to the heavens. A clear majority of preserved Ugaritic rituals either stipulate a ritual use of language or clearly entail it. In the first category, a range of Ugaritic rituals either contain such designated speech sections or consist entirely of verbal scripts. Among many others there are the royal funeral ritual RS 34.126, the incantations RS 92.2014 (against snakes): RIH 78/20 (against impotence), RS 22.225 (against the evil eye), the historiolae RS 24.258 (Ilu’s drunkenness and a hangover cure), RS 24.272 (the visit to Ditanu) and the snake incantations RS 24.244 (Horanu and the Mare), and RS 24.251 (Horanu and the sun goddess). But more broadly, it is clear that most known Ugaritic rituals, even ones that do not designate prayer, entail ritual speech. This is because sacrifices are typically designated for multiple divine beings or dead kings, and there is no evidence of any mechanism for marking a sacrifice as for one god or another other than speech. Hence even Pardee, representing the more conservative approach to the use of language in Ugaritic ritual, designates the frequent textual heading dbḥ (cognate with Hebrew zbḥ “to slaughter for sacrifice”) as “sacrificial liturgy,” rather than sacrificial ritual, protocol, and so on in texts like RS 34.126.10 The designation of each sacrifice to a specific god must have been accomplished verbally since there is no reason to believe there were dozens of individually designated divine altars or other nonverbal markers.

Ritual Language in Mesopotamia While the Ugaritic ritual corpus illuminates a single time and place, the Mesopotamian corpus provides remarkable breadth, depicting over 2,000 years of ritual practice across a wide range of places and scribal traditions. There are two very different types of ritual texts in the Mesopotamian Sumero-Akkadian written tradition. As we shall see, they concur in providing a picture parallel to that of Ugarit: most preserved ritual entailed speech. On the one hand, there was the wide-ranging corpus of classical texts that were standardized and transmitted over a long time period. This corpus, once termed “the stream of tradition,” was used in the training of scribes and helped form various forms of official written culture. They were intensively edited and reedited, copied and modified across time and space and used in the training of scribes. This category is more shifting and uneven than formerly thought, since new traditions developed, old ones died, and many “canonical” texts are not actually attested across all known major Mesopotamian libraries and collections at any given time period (Robson 2013). As varied as cuneiform classics could be, they still stand in clear contrast to a second pole. These are the disparate set of more ad hoc ritual documents that were not

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standardized or taught to younger scribes. These texts, whether ritual or administrative, were never edited into any sort of “canonical” form and did not form part of any curriculum; their lives were sometimes only as long as the life of the individual tablet on which they were written. As rituals, they sometimes belonged to a single temple and so did not usually travel far, thus not requiring titles that would help scribes identify them outside of their home contexts. As an analogy from later bibliography, their textual content often did not outlast the individual manuscript on which they were written. However, sometimes the nonclassical texts were still seen as interesting and important by later scribes, who proudly report on how they rescued them from wax tablets. By contrast with the cuneiform classics, these nonstandardized texts were used as records of temple activities or performance notes. Mesopotamian ritual texts from the “Stream of tradition” consist mostly of verbal scripts. They constitute hymns, prayers, incantations, and—most prominently—extended exorcistic rituals such as the extended multitablet works Utukkū Lemnūtu (“Evil Demons”), Maqlû (“Incineration [of a witch]”), Šurpu (“Burning [also of a witch]”), and Namburbû (“Dispelling” [of bad omens]). While texts like Maqlû contain some brief rubrics—tersely worded sections marked off from the main text with horizontal lines—and sometimes include a tablet focused on physical ritual instructions, they are overwhelmingly instructions for what words to speak. Typical is Utukkū Lemnūtu, the longest-running ritual tradition in cuneiform, documented from the Old Babylonian through the Hellenistic periods. Our first Mesopotamian example is from an early, Old Babylonian stage of the Utukkū Lemnūtu/Evil Demons tradition when it existed only in Sumerian (under the equivalent title udug.hul). Here the whole text is an incantation to be ritually recited. The spell itself takes the form of a story, a form known as a historiola: (The Sumerian god of exorcism, Asalluhi, later connected to the Babylonian Marduk, speaks to his mentor Enki, the god of magic, secret knowledge, and subterranean water:) 710. [The evil demon] followed behind as the man approached his house, and then destroyed his limbs. Though his eyes are open, the man cannot see anybody, and though his ears are open he hears no one. That man suffers horribly from fate, the Asag-demon overwhelms him. Asalluhi spoke a second time: “I do not know what I should do about it; what [can relieve him]?” Enki answers his son Asalluhi: “My [son], what do you not know and what could I add to it?” … 721. Asalluhi took note. “Whatever I know, you also know. Go, my son, Asalluhi, fill a vessel, bring the holy water of Enki, and recite the Eridu incantation. As for the man, son of his god, sprinkle water on his bed. And as for the copper drum, the ‘hero of heaven,’ with the manu-wood, the powerful instrument, may you increase its fearsome noise.” (UHF VII 710–722) Here the ritual instructions themselves occur as a quotation to be spoken, within the divine dialogue itself. Note especially the equation between the giver of secret knowledge Enki and his son or student Asalluhi, a transfer of power via speech that forms the model for the exorcist’s claim that they too are speaking the words of the divine master of magic, verbatim.

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Within the Evil Demons tradition, the human use of divine language we already see in the Old Babylonian period is extensively developed in later bilingual texts. Rather than the Biblical Priestly tradition’s separation between creative divine language and limited human language, this tradition works by bringing the two together and equating them. In this first-millennium Sumerian-Akkadian bilingual text, the incantation priest says that his spell is that of Ea, the god of magic and secret knowledge: From the later Sumerian-Akkadian bilingual version of udug-hul (Tablet III, NeoAssyrian to Hellenistic periods): 147. I belong to Ea, I belong to Damkina, and I am Marduk’s messenger. My incantation is actually Ea’s, my spell is actually Marduk’s, with Ea’s master-plans in my possession. I am holding Anu’s exalted e’ru-wood scepter in my hand; I am holding the date-palm frond of the major rituals in my hand. Presentation of ritual language in the ad hoc, nonclassical corpus of temple records is far more limited and circumspect. As texts that never entered the stream of any tradition, they typically do not persist from site to site. As texts that were not explicitly designed to be taught and copied, they almost never appear in duplicate. In contrast to the classical texts that are sometimes said to come from gods or sages, these texts are at most traced back to “an old(er) writing-tablet.”11 From the Daily Offering Ritual for the Anu-temple at Uruk TU 6, 38: 44. The miller, during the grinding at the mill-stone, says the blessing “Plough-star, they have hitched up the seeder plough in the open country,” and the cook, during the kneading of the lump (of dough) and the presenting of the hot loaves, says the blessing “Nisaba, abundant plenty, pure food” …. r’ 8–10. During the slaughtering of the cattle and sheep the butcher says the blessing: “The son of Šamaš, the lord of livestock, has created pasture for me in the open country.” It appears that in the first millennium all preserved rituals include a verbal component. As at Ugarit, these nonclassical practical instructions are valuable because of their everyday character, which can be taken as an index of normal activity. As Marc Linssen’s study of Babylonian temple ritual concludes, “every divine meal included recitations along with the feeding of the god” (Linssen 2004:130). When it comes to ancient Syrian and Mesopotamian ritual practice, the current evidence supports a simple conclusion: Kaufmann was right to claim that ancient Near Eastern rituals normally included prayer. While our survey has covered a wide range of times and places and noted some strongly divergent patterns in textual genres, we have found no evidence of any site where nonverbal ritual dominated. This includes practical genres that served as performance notes, as well as the more classical genres by which the scribes and ritualists trained. Kaufmann, despite his xenophobic dismissal of ancient Near Eastern ritual as “mythic” and “pagan,” was correct to describe it as pervasively verbal. In neither official ideology nor everyday practice do we find any cases where worship is represented as predominantly silent. In representing regular temple practice as entirely silent, the Priestly source diverges from other known Syrian and Near Eastern ritual traditions. On the one hand, in terms

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of the social rules of speech, it implies distinctively asymmetrical power relations: human speakers cannot directly address God in these rituals, implying a distance and level of superiority so great as to prevent any verbal interaction at all. Yet at the same time the pervasiveness of nonverbal ritual actions including offerings of food creates a level of regular exchange, a form of physical closeness, or even intimacy with him.

CONCLUSION: SEEING THE PRIESTLY CORPUS AS A RITUAL ARTIFACT In terms of the well-documented circumstances of ritual text production and transmission known from cuneiform, the Priestly corpus shows contrasting features that help explain its distinctiveness as a document of material religion. The content of the Mesopotamian “classics” that were standardized, reproduced, and taught was mainly verbal. They consist either of referential statements such as diagnoses or predictions, or direct discourse in the form of the words of hymns or incantations. Classic Mesopotamian written ritual consists mostly of things to say. By contrast, the Priestly writers working in Judah standardized and transmitted a corpus of mainly nonverbal actions in writing. P’s rituals have essentially no verbal content: in all regular cases there is nothing for humans to say. Their extensive verbal content is not a part of the ritual, but instead works to elaborately frame the ritual itself, serving as a model of that ritual’s transmission. Thus, P created and transmitted a model that turns scribal ritual inside out. Alone among ancient Near Eastern ritual corpora, P turned nonverbal ritual acts into the core of a set of standardized texts, placing them at the center of a religious tradition. In doing this P created a new type of written cultural artifact, one that embodies behavior. The anchoring of the ritual texts in mythic narrative and the removal of references to any present temple, time, or place shapes them into a format specially suited for replication.12 Asking about our evidence as material religion can return us to the data with useful new questions, to a new dialogue with ancient evidence and cultural history. In the context of ancient Near Eastern writing, the Torah’s founding document (Grundschrift) attributed to the Priestly tradition serves as a striking example. In the concrete perspective of textual production during the Neo-Babylonian and Persian periods, it is most distinctive in how it encoded the actions of ritual law as culture, while contemporary and earlier ancient Near Eastern scribal cultures instead encoded the mainly verbal texts of divination or incantation or prayer. It was this new foundational process that permitted turning religious directives—Torah or ritual “law”—into the tradition that generates Judaism through its transmission. In terms of how ancient Near Eastern religions represented materiality—the relationship between signs and things—Priestly literature has an interesting role. It is focused on simple and powerful metaphors for the performative: having the content of its words be physical action. As narrative, it diagrams the possibilities and nature of ritual and language. It begins by arguing that only God’s language can be enacted; proceeds to present a language composed mainly of instructions to act on physical objects rather than instructions to speak, framed in imperatives and jussives; and concludes the career of its human speaker, Moses, by arguing that in contrast to God a human speaker’s own language to the extent that it has a human source cannot be enacted. Thus, the P as a linguistic artifact is designed as a container for a material religion, a realm of physical

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action designed to be constantly unpacked from its text in new contexts.13 As the Rabbinic saying goes, “since the day the Temple was destroyed, the Holy One blessed be he has nothing in his world but the four cubits of halacha (ritual law)” (Babylonian Talmud, Berachot 8a).

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I thank Simeon Chavel, Jeffrey Stackert, Benjamin Sommer, Ed Greenstein, and my mother Jacquelyn Seevak Sanders ‫ ז׳׳ל‬for insightful comments on earlier versions, and I am grateful to the editors of this volume for the invitation to revive and develop them.

NOTES 1 This antinomy between lofty words and lowly things in Western European-based scholarly traditions is intertwined with intellectualist approaches to culture on the one hand, and the specific theological legacy of Christianity on the other. Both the intellectual, idea-oriented approach and classic Christian theology tend to elevate the word, as a supposedly lofty and true spiritual thing, over the material, as a supposedly debased and false, or at least mute, bodily thing. For this critique see Schopen (1997), for theoretical background in Near Eastern archaeology Smith (2007), and for its specific role in the study of ancient Near Eastern religions Sanders (2019). 2 The outlines and contents of the Priestly corpus are among the most consistently and widely agreed-on results of biblical scholarship. Compare the detailed picture of the Sinai revelation shared between Nöldeke (1869), Carpenter and Harford-Battersby (1900), Blum (1990), Schwartz (1996), and Sommer (2015), where the maximal version (Schwartz) contains about forty-nine chapters’ worth of material, the minimal (Blum) forty-seven, and from earlier to more recent treatments—Nöldeke and Carpenter and Harford-Battersby on the one hand and Sommer on the other—forty-eight. The main disagreements today are not about the basic outlines of the Priestly corpus per se but over the nature of its internal layers and whether any of them affected non-Priestly material. Contrast Knohl (1995) with Feldman (2020). This excludes the less plausible hypothesis of a narrative or poetic Priestly source, for example, Pola (1995), Gaines (2015), effectively critiqued by Feldman (2020). 3 I have created the first annotated English edition of the most widely agreed on elements of this corpus at pentateuch.digital, which will be expanded by the end of 2024 to Hebrew and English versions of all the main compositional elements of the Pentateuch. A full critical Hebrew edition of the Priestly work is planned by Liane Feldman for 2024. 4 While Kaufmann interpreted the Priestly literature as a historical description of practice, I join most later scholars in taking it as an ideal rather than a historical claim: because we have no direct documentary data on ritual activities in the pre-exilic Jerusalem temple, we are exclusively talking about why P’s sanctuary is represented as silent in the Pentateuch. For archaeolzoological evidence in the case of herd and flock animals (sheep, goats, cattle) on how the Priestly texts systematized competing pictures based on Iron Age practice, see Greer (2019). 5 Kaufmann was aware that there are a few passages within the widely agreed-on parameters of the Priestly tradition that do stipulate ritual language use. But he noted that they were framed as exceptions—nontemple or special occasion rituals, writing that “Priestly speech is found only outside the temple or apart from the essential cultic act.” A resurvey of

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the evidence suggests he was correct. The few generally recognized instances of ritually effective language use within P seem to be incorporated into it because of their distinctive and exceptional nature. They are for special occasions or crises outside of regular daily or weekly worship, and formally and ideologically glaringly different from the rest of the Priestly corpus. These three rituals are (1) the Day of Atonement ritual, Lev. 16:22 (for its divergences and references to the scholarship see Sanders 2009: 62–63 with n. 111–117; 2), (2) the Priestly curse on the woman accused of adultery in Num. 5:19-22 (for its magical operations with writing otherwise unattested in the Priestly corpus see Frymer-Kensky 1984), and (3) Num. 6:23-27, the “Priestly blessing.” As Smoak (2016) shows, it shares its main patterns with a wide spectrum of Northwest Semitic amulets and not coincidentally represents the only piece of language in the Hebrew Bible documented in an Iron Age ritual artifact, the Ketef Hinnom amulets. In the other places that the Priestly tradition stipulates the use of language, it is purely communicative rather than ritually effective, not affecting the ritual status of the object in question since it can turn out to be false (contrast Lev. 13:6 with 13:7). 6 A parallel non-Priestly version of the “rebellion in the wilderness” story appears in the canonical version of the Pentateuch at Exodus 17. 7 According to Psalm 106 these pragmatic failings constitute the act of baṭṭe’, a misuse of words or pragmatic failure, but even in the Psalm’s account, the motivation is still lacking. 8 It is also significant that in a number of P scenes God has made a point of speaking with Moses in the sight of all Israel; it is only here that Moses’s own linguistic performance is commanded and judged. 9 For the strong scholarly agreement here see the sources in n. 2, and for a convenient English presentation of the entire episode see our pentateuch.digital presentation, s.v. “At Sinai.” 10 For example, “And as a peace-offering: (5) two bulls and two (6) rams for lu’ibi (7) for ‘I!lu a ram; (8) for Ba’lu a ram; (9) for Dagan a ram; (10) for Yarihu a ram; (11) for Yammu a ram.” 11 For example, our text TU 6 38 has an original colophon dating its original writing on a wax tablet for an Uruk temple archive that was plundered during the Neo-Babylonian period, then narrates its recovery for the Uruk archives: Wax-table (containing) the rites for the Anu-worship, … the ritual regulations of kingship … the purification rites of the Rēš-temple [and other temples of Uruk … which Nabopolassar, king of the Sealand, carried off from Uruk. [Later,] Kidin-Anu from Uruk, Kidin-Anu from Uruk … the high priest of the Rēš-temp1e, saw these tablets in the land of Elam and during the reign of Seleucus and Antiochus, the kings, he copied and brought (them) to Uruk. (r 44–50; Linssen 2004:179) 12 On the phenomenology of texts that make for “better” (more easily replicated and more effectively controllable or ownable) culture, see Greg Urban, “Entextualization, Replication, and Power” (1996). 13 This issue is connected to the fact, pointed out by Mira Balberg (2017), that without any interest in or knowledge of modern scholarly theories of Pentateuchal composition the Rabbis so frequently gravitate toward Priestly passages and ritual. For further comment on this pattern see Sanders (2019).

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PART FIVE

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CHAPTER TWENTY

Man, Animal, and Gods: Animal Remains as Indicators of Beliefs in the Ancient Near East JWANA CHAHOUD AND EMMANUELLE VILA

The elements that allow us to approach the question of religion in archaeology are often extremely limited. Artistic expressions, sculptures, paintings, and engravings, as illustrations of mental images, are the main material for prehistorians to study the emergence of symbolic systems (Cauvin 2000). Even in regions where the early appearance of writing makes it possible to call upon sources, textual sources that represent knowledge of the religious and sacred sphere sometimes remain very incomplete, particularly with regard to rituals and cultic activities. Nevertheless, “a religious activity is inscribed in a world of practices that unfold within a material environment” (Cohen and Mottier 2016: 350). Belief—or rather “doing religion”—is a social dynamic construction where practices make a sacred entity, deity, or spirit, present through features and rituals (Cohen and Mottier 2016). Studies devoted to material cultures, that is, the tangible forms linked to religious activities, can give an account of the latter and stimulate research perspectives. Taking into account the place of animals when discussing the material aspects of the remains of ritual and cultic activities, religious practices seems essential because animals are integrated into the sphere of the sacred and participate in the religious phenomenon in all societies: “There is no religion without animals” (Poplin 1989: 13). Skeletal elements are the mineral, tangible parts that remain of animals. While not comparable to other material objects that are considered material culture, faunal remains are part of the world of practices that take place within a material environment. In fact, they are clearly part of the material expressions of human activities, particularly religious ones in relation to beliefs. We present here the study of animal remains found in temple contexts in the Near East (Syria and Lebanon) dated to the Bronze Age that raise major questions: What information can archaeozoological studies of sanctuary contexts provide? How can animal remains be identified in relation to rituals and religion? Can we characterize them in relation to

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other archaeological remains linked to secular butchery and food activities? What is an intentional ritual deposit?

RELIGIOUS RITUALS IN NEAR EASTERN ARCHAEOLOGY AND ARCHAEOZOOLOGY In the Near East, the archaeozoological approach to religious activities and the recognition of cultic practices is very complex. Indeed, it is the interpretation of the archaeological contexts and of the material setting that will induce or exclude the religious activities. The latter includes, in a nonexhaustive way, cults to divinities, funerary practices as well as ritual practices related to beliefs (ritual or cultic deposits, for example). During the excavation, the context will be interpreted according to the presence of certain installations and artifacts as a religious place (“Temenos,” sanctuary, temple, cultic pit “favissa,” cultic platform, cemetery, burial ground). This interpretation then influences the analysis of all the cultural material that will be considered as linked to cults (artifacts used during rituals, offerings, sacrifices, votive deposits). The difficulty is to distinguish between activities that would be related to religious rituals and others that would be of secular practices (Morris 2011; Pluskowski 2011; Sykes 2014). Bone remains and in particular Associated Bone Groups (i.e., ABGs) often interpreted in terms of ritual and sacrificial practices and animal offerings in burials can have nonreligious causes. This is the case of animal burials for hygiene reasons (Broderick 2011). It is also the case, for example, for the sacrifice of the donkey foal attested in cuneiform texts for alliance pacts between sovereigns in the Near East (Limet 1976; Lafont 2000). Thus, it is first advisable to question the validity of the faunal assemblage (in relation to food consumption/waste or not, to food consumption/waste in a secular context or not) according to the stratigraphical context, avoiding as much as possible a priori on the surrounding archaeological conditions and preconceived models (Gardeisen 2013). Among the two main categories of cultic contexts more easily identifiable in archaeology, funerary contexts and sanctuaries, we will deal here with sanctuary cases. Indeed, in the Near East, studies of animals and animal sacrifices in funerary practices have developed over the past few decades and some excavations of funerary contexts have generated detailed studies (Zarins 1986; Vila 2005, 2011; Schwartz et al. 2006; Marinova et al. 2012; Schwartz 2012; Minniti 2014; Chahoud 2016; Léon and Cordy 2018; Chahoud and Vila 2019; Wygnańska 2019). These studies have shed light on the place of animals, animal sacrifice, burying of animals, and meat offerings, which are little mentioned in the texts and in the funerary cultural system. On the other hand, while archaeozoological studies of the remains of sanctuary faunas are numerous for the Classical periods, particularly from Greece, and in the Mediterranean (Ekroth 2013), few have been conducted in the Near East for the Bronze Age (mainly third and second millennia bce). The main reason for this is that early excavations in the Near East did not always give importance to possible animal remains found in the excavations of buildings identified as sanctuaries and their surroundings. According to Mesopotamian texts, from the first city-states of the third millennium bce to the empires of the first millennium bce, the king, as an intermediary between people and the gods, had to guarantee the supplying of the gods. Thus, the textual sources show that the diet of the gods was not different from the diet of humans: they mention copious meals served to the gods daily (morning and evening), which consisted of selected pieces of

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cooked, roasted, and grilled meat of different animals (Maul 1994). There is no difference in the Sumerian-Akkadian vocabulary between the offerings intended as supplies to the gods and those attributed as supplies to people (Lafont 1999). The feeding of the gods was thus a ritualized activity, evidence of which can be found in the artifacts and ecofacts collected in the sanctuaries. Faunal remains shed light on the place of animals and meaty foods in the cultic sphere. They have the characteristic of being witnesses in their own right, conveying several categories of zoological, sociological, and cultural information, on very concrete aspects (the species selected, their age, their sex, the selected body parts, the pieces of butchery consumed or deposited) as well as on ritualized aspects (the type of deposits).

RELIGIOUS CONTEXTS AND ANIMAL DEPOSITS Abundant literature discusses the case of the ritual of feasting in ancient deposits as evidence of communal and cultic activities (Bray 2003; Grigson 2006; Lev-Tov and McGeough 2007; Killebrew and Lev-Tov 2008; Twiss 2008; Hamilakis and Harris 2011; Doumet-Serhal and Chahoud 2013). Most scholars follow the work of M. Dietler in identifying feasts as “public ritual activity centred around the communal consumption of food and drink” (Dietler 2001: 67). Furthermore, K. Twiss defines feasts as “occasions consciously distinguished from everyday meals” including large numbers of participants, large amounts of food and drink, and the consumption of special foods that requires distinct methods of preparation and discard, taking place at specific times or places (Twiss 2008). Twiss also states that “feasts are dialectically linked to everyday meals, both in form and in meaning, and are not isolated from quotidian social realities” (Twiss 2008: 419). Nevertheless, feasting represents one aspect of cultic practices. It is well defined in archaeozoology of cultic and palace contexts as it is identified mainly due to the large quantity of discarded animal remains. Meanwhile, animal deposits characterized as cultic offerings are less obvious. The main criteria for identifying the animal offering associated with ritual activities were discussed by L. Horwitz (2000) where the author lists the following: 1. Spatial association to other archaeological features 2. A narrow range of species 3. A selection of particular age/sex category of animals that is related to the special activity 4. The selective body parts 5. Bone modifications These criteria were, for example, identified in the discussion of Late Bronze Age cultic and feasting activities at Hazor and Emar in the Southern Levant (Lev-Tov and McGeough 2007). On the other hand, Hamilakis and Harris, in their studies of Cretan and Mycenaean cultic animal deposits, argue that defining animal remains in ritual activities does not simply follow a checklist of criteria. For these authors, the selective parts and the large amount of food are not exclusively indicative of cultic activities and the preparation of the meal should not differ significantly from patterns attested in secular activities (Hamilakis and Harris 2011). In our study, animal remains assemblages that are evidence of ritual deposits of animals are considered to combine several criteria. The structured skeletal remains (complete animals, associated bone group, selective parts) should reflect a less speculative and more

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repetitive distribution than usual food remains attested in secular contexts. The deposits should be discussed in close association to a special context or area. It is in relation to the archaeological features and artifacts associated with them, that it is possible to determine that their position is intentional and not accidental. Special treatment or modification of the animal deposit as burnt parts, and/or deposit of large quantities of selected parts or species, is very important. The identification of sacred activities from animal remains requires the identification of a pattern that differs from secular activities in association with the archaeological context, but it should not imply the use of exotic species or uncommon types of meal preparation that are not known or practiced by the society (roasting, stewing, burning, etc.). The criteria defined by Horwitz (2000) are quite adequate and should be considered together to identify repetitive activity that denote a sacred use of animals in cultic practices. In Table 20.1, we present several examples and comparisons of animal deposits that could be material indicators of religious beliefs from our archaeozoological studies.

ANIMAL REMAINS IN RITUAL FEASTS The presence, in a sanctuary context, of courtyards and pits rich in food waste and incinerated sacrificial deposits with deliberately broken ceramic vessels is attested at the Middle Bronze Age temple of Sidon. These deposits reflect an offering activity (sacrifice) and/or the waste products of ritual meals (feasting) that took place in the vicinity or around the temple. Discarded remains of feasting are not clearly attested in other cultic sites. A pit in the palace of Ebla presents similar activities. Among the faunal remains, sheep/goats are the most abundant, while cattle and equids are slightly less numerous. All skeletal parts are present with a slight predominance of limb bones (Mazzoni and Minniti 2000; Peyronel 2008). The remains found at Sidon also have similarities with Aegean, Cypriot, and Cretan sites. For example, the ritual deposit at Nopigeia-Drapanias in the Aegean (1700–1500 bce (Hamilakis and Harris 2011) consists of the filling of a longitudinal pit with the waste of festive meals, including animal bones and vessels. The remains are mainly of sheep/goats and pigs, and the extremities of cattle though these are less frequent; there is no preference for one age class. The Kalavasos finds from the Bronze Age in Cyprus also suggest a banqueting ritual; sheep/goats dominate the assemblage. Cattle and pigs are rare, while bird and fish remains are common (South 2008). Fleshy parts are the most abundant, although extremity bones are not absent. Anklebones are also noted in the assemblage. The ceramic vessels are probably deliberately broken on the spot before being thrown away (South 2008). These sites show banquet waste that is buried with the ceramic vessels that were intentionally broken during the ceremony. The activities practiced in Sidon show similarities with the rituals observed in the eastern Mediterranean. In the Southern Levant, evidence of banquets in general is attested in the Late Bronze Age levels of Tell Miqne Ekron, Hazor, Emar, and Tell Dan (Lev-Tov and McGeough 2007; Killebrew and Lev-Tov 2008; Davis 2013). These are faunal remains, especially of sheep and goats, found in open spaces (courtyards). All these remains show similarities with Sidon courtyard deposits, for the practices of the ritual, with a preference for sheep/ goats and to a lesser extent cattle, though probably with regional and cultural variations for the spectrum: a selection of equids in Ebla, of pigs in the Aegean, of fish in Cyprus, to accompany goats and sheep on the banquet table. However, in the temple rooms of Sidon, associated groups of bones are burnt, and each quarter of the limbs, trunk, and

Al Rawda (Syria)

Early Bronze Age III and IVA (2550– 2200 bce)

Tell Chuera (Northern Syria)

Early Bronze Age IVB

Early Bronze Age III (c. 2500 bce)

Chronology

Site

Mainly sheep and to a lesser extent goats (less than two months old), pigs and gazelle are scarce.

Mostly fore and hind limbs

Mainly sheep: all class ages, few goats and cattle : juveniles of a few months old, and one gazelle

Right forelimb extremities (metacarpals, phalanges I, II and III)

Rectangular enclosure (2,000 m2)

Bulls and rams

Horns

Juvenile sheep and goats (less than one year old)

Bulls

Bucrania

Two temples in antis

Steinbau VI = temple in antis with two altars, cobbled floor and a hearth (upper town, sector C)

Male aurochs

Northern and southern Bucrania and parts of Temple Steinbau I horns

Species Male aurochs

Animal deposit Bucrania and horns

Passageway between the entrance building (Steinbau II) and the temple Steinbau I

Feature

TABLE 20.1  Examples of animal remains associated with cultic structures

Burnt and unburnt

Modification

13

31

302

9

1

2

4

MNI

Castel 2010; Vila and Albesso in press

Meyer 2021; Vila in press

Meyer 2007; Vila 1993, 1995

Reference

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Middle Bronze Age

Sidon (Lebanon)

Cella of temple: foundation deposit with ceramic pots

Adult sheep Young and adults cattle Adult boar

Skull and Feet Mainly Hindlimbs, ribs and one feet Skull

Burnt

Burnt

Burnt

Young sheep/goats Burnt

Forelimbs, ribs

Marine local fish and Nile perch

All body parts

52

46

12

12

Wild boars, gazelle, fallow deer

Young pigs Mainly skulls and feet

33

Cattle (subadults and adults)

Mainly skulls

118

13

23

8

MNI

Sheep and goats (subadults and adults)

Polished

Burnt, ABG, cutmarks

Modification

Mainly feet

Sheep/goats and deer

Anklebone

Courtyard of the temple

Young sheep (70%), cattle (26%), deer (1%)

Limb bones

Temple (3 rooms: pits with intentionally fragmented pottery vessels (plate, cups, bones …) in pits)

Species Four sheep, four goats

Animal deposit

Temple (entrance, in a jar) Anklebone (6 left, 2 right)

Feature

Chahoud 2015; Doumet-Serhal 2013

Chahoud 2013, 2014; DoumetSerhal and Chahoud 2013

Reference

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Late Bronze Age

Chronology

Site

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Chronology

Late Bronze Age

Site

Kazel (Syria)

Young and subadult sheep/goats Fallow deer Boar Bear

Limbs, ribs

Antler Skull Phalange

Cella of temple: floor with ceramic plates

Four sheep, two goats, and three unidentified caprines

Young and subadult sheep/goats

Limbs, ribs

Cella of temple: hearth with altar

Forelimbs

Nile Perch

Vertebrae

Annexes of Temple: Treasure room R6a (level 6)

Species

Animal deposit

Feature

Less than two months old

Highly fragmented and burnt remains

Highly fragmented and burnt remains

Burnt

Modification

12

MNI

Badre 2006; Chahoud 2015

Reference

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extremities is laid separately. The extremities are discarded in anatomical articulation and probably not eaten. There are no traces of cremation in situ, the portions were probably roasted judging by the marks on the extremity of the bones. The meat was then removed and consumed. At the end of the meal, all the remains were collected and thrown away together with the ceramic vessels and the polished caprine ankle bones. Meanwhile, burnt animal sacrifice characterizes the rituals in Mycenaean sanctuaries where articulated sheep, goat, and cattle quarters were offered at the altar (Hamilakis and Konsolaki 2004; Stocker and Davis 2008). The characteristic of a ritual deposit linked to a banquet or a sacrifice is well attested in the temple of Sidon. All the above-described criteria seem to fit with the attribution of cultic animal use.

ANIMAL REMAINS AS SYMBOLIC DEPOSITS The Talus The talus (also known as a knuckle bone) is a small rectangular bone of the foot joint, equivalent to the ankle, which separates the hind limb and the posterior extremities. It is a bone that is sometimes found in large quantities in singular contexts. It may be pierced or polished. Depending on the case, various interpretations have been attributed to the presence of talus on the sites. The most common one is that of a divination element, but other interpretations, depending on the context, such as game tokens, coins, or even potter’s accessories, have also been proposed (Gilmour 1997; Holmgren 2004). In the Middle Bronze Age at Sidon, deposits of knuckle bones are attested in the temple rooms and in a jar placed vertically to the west of the temple entrance. Knuckle bones are also attested in what are considered ritual contexts considered in the Late Bronze Age, temple or altar, at Megiddo, Lachish, Beth Shean, Taanach, Tell el-Ajjul, and Tell Abu Hawam (Minniti and Peyronel 2005; Affani 2008). For example, at Megiddo in the Late Bronze Age, knuckle bones were recorded in a ceramic vessel near other votive objects in the residence of a high official (Loud 1948). These astragals are certainly symbolic objects linked to practices that are difficult to interpret, either magical-religious or sociocultural. One may wonder about the mode of acquisition of these pieces and the market and symbolic value attributed to them (representative of a sacrifice, offering, or a ritual meal). Other finds of these bones are considered as foundation deposits. At Tell Mishrifé/ Qatna, some caprine astragals associated with objects of a votive nature were found under a reinforcing wall of the Royal Palace. This deposit seems to be linked to a foundation rite preceding the construction of the wall (Barro 2003). At Tell Afis, Syria, a very similar foundation deposit was located under the twelfth century bce wall, but this time of a domestic building (Affani 2008). Due to the presence of polished surfaces and the large number of finds, some authors interpret this bone as an object of exchange or currency (Holmgren 2004). For other authors, the talus takes on a magical or religious meaning: it is the key to the soul, the point of departure and entry of the knife inside the animal during the first gesture of skin removal (Gilmour 1997). As the only remnant of a sacrificed animal, the talus can be considered as evidence of an offering in funerary or religious contexts. Some authors interpret perforated astragal as talismans or amulets, symbols of fertility and divination, which could be hung and worn as pendants (Poplin 1991; Gilmour 1997). Ancient sources such as Ugaritic texts mention the astragal in incantation statements. The bone is seen as an object of prediction or omen (Del Olmo Lete 1999). At Sidon, the loads of caprine astragals could have several possible

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uses depending on the context. In one of the rooms of the temple, a dice artifact made of deer antler was found together with a set of six polished astragals. These objects could have been used as game pieces or for divination. On the other hand, the eight astragals carefully placed in the shape of a bow in a jar at the entrance of the temple could rather be linked to the religious or even magical-ritual sphere. Thus, several interpretations can be offered for the astragals deposits, but their use in rituals, as a symbol of sacrifice as well as in magic to decipher the future, does not seem inappropriate.

The Horns Horns are body parts that carry a strong symbolic potential. Most often, deposits in the temples are the horns of domestic animals, sheep, goats, and cattle. The deposits can also be of wild animal horns such as the aurochs in Steinbau I at Tell Chuera. This is a very unusual find, as postcranial aurochs bone remains are very rare on the site (Vila 1995). According to the in situ position of one of these horns, they must have been hung on the wall of the temple. Similarly, other wild horn cases (gazelle) are attested for the Early Bronze Age ante-cella temple at Tell Brak (Clutton-Brock and Davies 1993). The horns not only have a symbolic function but could also have an ideological significance. The decoration of temple walls at Tell Chuera with bucrania or aurochs horns of very large size creates a striking image, serving to impress the visitors or to inspire a fear of the deity to whom the temple was dedicated. This decoration is illustrated on a cylinder seal from Susa, which shows a prestigious building decorated with horns (Amiet 1961: fig. 659). The horns found in Tell Chuera’s Steinbau fit well into the cultural context of the third millennium when the significance of the wild bull is complex. In Mesopotamia, it is associated with multiple deities and used as an epithet for gods, kings, and even cities (Orthmann 1975: fig. 39e; Heimpel 1968; Van Dijk-Coombes 2018). The exceptional hunting of the aurochs seems to have been primarily directed toward the acquisition of horns as symbolic representations and divine attributes: the meat of the aurochs was in fact also exceptional, and therefore its consumption may have carried a symbolic connotation. Meanwhile from the Levant, it is worth noting that a bull’s skull was found on the top of a platform in a Late Bronze Age temple at Hazor (Yadin 1972).

SELECTIVE ELEMENTS AND CATEGORIES Selective Body Parts and Special Treatment (Ritual of Burning) It is clear that the right foot concentrations from a Tell Chuera temple (Steinbau IV) reflect animal selection, butchering, and processing in a religious context of the third millennium bce; the homogeneity of these layers indicates that there was no subsequent disturbance, and it is likely that these deposits were formed in a limited time period (a few years to a few decades). The impressive quantity of individuals and the coherence of the remains show that this was an intentional act: for each animal sacrificed, the right front leg would be set aside and then burned. The cremation of the remains was done on the spot, as the presence of hearths suggests. It should be noted that it is the less prestigious bones of the lower leg that are offered to the sacred fire. The bone assemblages from Steinbau VI are clearly material evidence of cultic activities in relation to ritual animal sacrifice and bear witness to two moments in the ritual. The first is the removal of the right foot of the animal during the butchery, that is, a nonfleshy, nonmeaty part that is disarticulated during the removal of the skin; the

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second is the burning of this selected part of the body in the temple. Although there is no trace of communal meals in the temple area so far, it is likely that the ritual slaughter and butchering of carcasses, accompanied by the deposition of the foot, was associated with a feasting banquet. Remains of burnt bones, metapodials, and phalanges of caprines identified according to a published photograph (Moortgat 1967: fig. 20) have also been mentioned in another temple in antis at Tell Chuera dated to 2300 bce. The finds from Steinbau IV would be the oldest evidence of a “canonical” practice of cremation directly in the temple, following the sacrifice, of an anatomically selected part of the animal: consecration and propitiatory deposit, which is intended to make the deity favorable or commemorate or to mark the memory of the sacrifice(?). This raises the question of the symbolic value of the feet of sacrificial animals. This practice, clearly identified in the third millennium in north of Syria and the middle valley of the Syrian Euphrates, seems to have existed in Jordan as well, and was found in the Levant in the second millennium. In the temple of Late Bronze Age of Sidon, the animal remains are very fragmentary and burnt, making it difficult to differentiate between those that may have been burnt by accident, in the fire that caused the destruction of the temple, and those that may have been burnt intentionally during “ritual” practices. Moreover, it is difficult to know whether these remains represent offerings or meals that were consumed within the cella, or animal deposits as sacrifices or offerings. Among the highly fragmented and burnt remains are meat-rich limb bones and cranial bones of goats, sheep, and cattle. The remains of the limbs of cattle are mostly worked and modified as objects or tools. Wildlife remains consist of skeletal parts that are not or only marginally used for food. The fauna from the fill of the room were treated separately as they probably correspond to the waste from the building above the cella. These fauna reflect the same domestic species identified on the floor of the cella (Chahoud 2015). In addition, burnt foot bones from the same period are found in the temple of Halawa in the Euphrates Valley (Boessneck and Driesch 1989). The high frequency of caprine feet or burnt caprine remains has also been noted in Levantine cult contexts. At Early Bronze Age III Khirbet es Zeraqon, on the round stone platform interpreted as an altar, “the majority of the burnt bones consist of the lower leg bones of sheep and goat” (Genz 2010: 48); at Haror, in Middle Bronze Age, the assemblages from the enclosed area show high proportions of burnt remains (60% of the faunal remains from area V) and the faunal assemblage from the courtyard contained the highest proportion of cattle and caprine foot bones (Klenck 2002). The burnt bone remains mentioned in the temples are not always accompanied by an anatomical and specific identification, as is the case for the remains found at Tell Kittan in the courtyard of a Middle Bronze temple: “Ash piles containing bones” (Eisenberg 1977: 79). At Lachish in the temple structures dated to the Late Bronze Age (c. 1475–1220 bce), the remains relate to very young animals and “practically all the identifiable bones are metacarpals of the right foreleg” (Tufnell, Inge, and Harding 1940: 93). It is noted that most of the bones in Structure 3 are burnt, but this certainly occurred during the fire that ravaged the temple. At Tel Dan in the Iron Age, toes and cranial fragments of sheep and goats are also found in the rooms of T-West and a jar in the altar room contained burnt sheep and goat bones (Wapnish and Hesse 1991; Davis 2013). At Hazor a large amount of burnt bone remains (69.3%) were found in a Late Bronze monumental building (7,050), however it is likely that most of it came from the fire destruction of the building (Lev-Tov 2017). Furthermore, burnt animal sacrifice, defined as the ritual burning of whole or parts of animals or of animal bones

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as an offering to the gods, which is well known in the Greek world and also appears in temples in the Mycenaean period (Cosmopoulos and Ruscillo 2014), is also attested in the Near East.

Selection of Young Animals The remains of young and perinatal animals found in temples, such as in Al Rawda, Sidon, and Tell Kazel, suggest the preferential sacrifice and offering of juvenile animals from birth to a few months and the consumption of tender meat. This is a characteristic that is observed in various Levantine cultic contexts (Avner and Horwitz 2017). In the Al Rawda temple, the presence of very young sheep/goats and the selection of fleshy parts is specific to these assemblages and marks their singularity compared to the faunal assemblages of the domestic dwellings. This singularity is related to sacrificial practices in which lambs often occupy a place of choice and a clear preference of meat parts for meals that took place in the sacred enclosure. In the Late Bronze Age of Tell Kazel, the fauna of the residences considered as annexes of the temples reflects the life of their occupants. These activities may be related to daily life as well as to special events that took place in these religious buildings. The animal remains in the treasure room show a clear preference for parts rich in tender meat. These concentrations of remains could suggest an activity of storing meat for daily consumption for the temple’s occupants or for sacrifices as food offerings for the deity of the temple (Chahoud 2015). This importance of young sheep is not usual in other buildings in Tell Kazel, as the exploitation of animals in general is based on the breeding of adult caprines and cattle for their meat and secondary products as wool and milk (mainly subadult and adult).

Whole Carcass Deposits Animal remains found in temples are not always evidence of cultic or collective meals, nor of symbolic objects, but may also be whole skeletons and remains of carcass deposits, such as the dog and donkeys found in a temple at Tell Brak, dated to 2200 bce (Clutton-Brock and Davies 1993), and the deposit of a probable wild sheep and two unidentified caprines specifically in the vicinity of a late third millennium bce temple at Tell Beydar (Van Neer and De Cupere 2000). The significance of such deposits remains unsolved.

CONCLUSION Archaeozoological studies provide new information on the use of animals in cultural contexts. Indeed, animals are an integral part of official and collective ritual practices in the Bronze Age in relation to the social, political, and economic complexification that characterizes this period in the Near East. These practices, for some (as at Tell Chuera), appear to be controlled by the powerful institutions, among which are those with religious power, which are set up and organized in the course of urbanization and the development of cities. A certain number of faunal assemblages from the excavations of the temples and their surroundings are clearly material witnesses of practices that took place in sacred places with their own characteristics, different from those of the assemblages collected in the habitats. The combination of several characteristics that singularize these deposits entail their identification as indicators of material religion. These practices are most likely part of different categories of rites involving a considerable number of participants such as rites of exchange and communion, rites of feasting, fasting and festivals, rites

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of affliction, political rites, and other examples (Bell 2009). They involve the killing of domestic and wild animals, some of which are not part of everyday consumption. They are accompanied by various actions: manipulation of bodies with the selection of notable parts, the roasting of quarters as rites of offering by fire, the creation of votive deposits, and the consumption of large amounts of meat at feasts. They are also perceived through indices of repetition and invariance, referring to an idea of formalism and rigorous organization patterns (Bell 2009). All of this makes it possible to interpret them as being out of reach of the common participants and belonging to rituals organized by higher authorities.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Resting on Strong Shoulders: The Power of Animal Scapulae in the Near Eastern Neolithic NERISSA RUSSELL

Much of Neolithic religion was enacted through embodied practices, empowered objects, and bodily remains (Hodder 2011). The Near Eastern Neolithic is a pivotal time of change, with religion playing a key role. This is the time of the origins of agriculture—the earliest such transition in the world. Plant and animal domestication rendered land and animals into property, changed perspectives on time, reorganized labor and settlement locations, redefined kinship systems, and brought other profound changes that led Childe (1951) to term this phenomenon the Neolithic Revolution. Religion also changed; animals are central participants in Neolithic Near Eastern religions. After briefly reviewing the role of animals in Neolithic religion, I will focus on one materialization of the power of animals: the scapula, particularly cattle scapulae.

DEFINITIONS AND SCOPE I here define the Near East as including the following six regions: (1) Zagros (Eastern Fertile Crescent: Eastern Iran and Western Iraq); (2) Upper Mesopotamia (Northern Fertile Crescent: the middle and upper Tigris and Euphrates valleys in Eastern Turkey, Northern Syria, and Northern Iraq); (3) Levant (Western Fertile Crescent: Eastern Mediterranean and Jordan Valley area in Jordan, Israel, Palestine, Lebanon, and Western Syria); (4) Cyprus; (5) Central Anatolia; and (6) West Anatolia (Figure 21.1). For simplicity’s sake, I will apply major periods developed in the Levant throughout the area, although the dates differ. This produces three periods: Pre-Pottery Neolithic A (PPNA), Pre-Pottery Neolithic B (PPNB), and Pottery Neolithic (PN). In the PPNA (c. 9500–8500 cal bce in the Levant) most people were sedentary cultivators, with round houses and, obviously, no pottery. During the subsequent PPNB (c. 8500–6500 cal bce in the Levant), morphologically domesticated plants appeared and livestock herding started. Sites tend to be somewhat larger and houses were usually rectangular. The PN is marked by the adoption of pottery and runs until c. 5000 cal bce or later; by this time mixed farming was well established.

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FIGURE 21.1  Map of the eastern Mediterranean, showing regions and sites mentioned in the text (source: prepared by Alex Symons).

NEOLITHIC RELIGION Conceptions of Near Eastern Neolithic religion have varied. Inspired by the figurines found at most sites, many cast it as goddess worship, sometimes with a bull god representing the male principle (Gimbutas 1982; Mellaart 1984; Cauvin 1994). Most now see this notion as anachronistic (Conkey and Tringham 1995; Hutton 1997), but the question of whether Neolithic people worshipped anthropomorphic deities or whether they practiced a form of animism remains open (Schmidt 2010; Watkins 2019). The role of totemism, in the sense of either Lévi-Strauss (1963) or Descola (2005), is also debated (Peters and Schmidt 2004; Borić 2013). In any case, animals play a large role, demonstrated by frequent depictions and special treatment of selected animal remains. Most scholars now emphasize an ontology with fluid boundaries between living and dead, humans and other animals (Benz and Bauer 2015; Busacca 2017; Dönmez 2018). Moreover, many now argue that religion played a leading role in the origins of agriculture (Cauvin 1994; Hodder 2011; Verhoeven 2015). In some regions, especially Upper Mesopotamia, many sites had public buildings with apparent ritual functions, often called temples. Local traditions varied but shared some motifs and traits. Near modern Urfa, PPNA public buildings were round and sunken below ground level, with massive T-shaped pillars shown to be anthropomorphic by the occasional presence of carved arms or belts, on which animals and other motifs are carved (e.g., Göbekli Tepe; Schmidt 2012). In the PPNB of this area, similar pillars occur in rectangular, above-ground buildings (e.g., Nevalı Çori; Hauptmann 2011). In the middle Euphrates valley, public buildings were also round and sunken, but lacked T-shaped pillars. Instead, large curved benches ran along the wall, often decorated (e.g., Jerf el Ahmar; Stordeur 2015). Other sites lack public buildings but have evidence of ritual activities in the houses (e.g., Çatalhöyük; Hodder 2006).

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Portable artifacts provide another line of evidence. As well as human and animal figurines, larger sculptures and carved plaques appear in some areas. Some houses have paintings, geometric or figurative. Additional information comes from burial practices and from special deposits of animal remains, ritual paraphernalia, and feasting remains.

Key Aspects of Near Eastern Neolithic Religion and Thought A full discussion of current thinking on religion in the Near Eastern Neolithic is beyond the scope of this chapter. Instead, I will briefly highlight a few themes from the voluminous literature on the topic. Hiding and Revelation Themes of public and private, hidden and open play out in many ways in the Near Eastern Neolithic. Solid houses, generally without windows and sometimes without doors, create a strong distinction between indoors and outdoors, the world of the family and the world of the community (Wilson 1988; Verhoeven 2015; Hastorf 2017: 296–9; Duru 2018). Powerful objects, especially human and animal body parts, may be displayed or hidden within the walls and floors of buildings, and hidden items may be retrieved for display (Keane 2010; Nakamura and Pels 2014). This trope is also apparent in art, particularly at Göbekli Tepe, with scenes such as what appear to be waves or zigzags on the broad side of a T-shaped pillar, but on the narrow side are revealed as the bodies of snakes (Schmidt 2012: 174–9). Such phenomena have led some to suggest that religious sodalities (secret societies) formed an important part of Neolithic religious practice, guarding exclusive objects and intellectual property that create identities crosscutting kinship (Wright 2000; Mills 2014). In any case, the dramatic revelation of secret knowledge was a key part of religious experience. House and Ancestors  The extra labor invested in houses marks them as carrying special value beyond shelter (Bradley 2005; Baird, Fairbairn, and Martin 2017). Houses have life cycles, often marked with ceremonies and the incorporation of powerful objects (Tringham 1995). Frequent rebuilding of houses in place shows that they were a major locus of identity (Hodder and Pels 2010; Duru 2018). This continuity of the household is also enacted by the creation of ancestors who exerted continuing influence in the lives of their descendants. Most burials were in or near houses, further cementing ties to the house rather than the community. Graves were often reopened and bones mixed or removed for use in display or to be hidden again elsewhere. Heads and Headlessness  Often glossed as “skull cult,” the removal and manipulation of human and animal heads is a recurring feature of the Near Eastern Neolithic (Bienert 1991; Bonogofsky 2006; Croucher 2012; Bocquentin, Kodas, and Ortiz 2016). While some interpret this as headhunting (e.g., Testart 2008), most see it as the selective creation of ancestors and the harnessing of their power. Either way, the practice indicates a belief in a power residing in the head and remaining after death. Sometimes plastered to restore faces, skulls were displayed in houses or elsewhere and buried in groups or with intact bodies, presumably at different points in their use life. Some skeletons were thus left headless, and headless humans were depicted in various media, suggesting a shared body of myth.

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RELIGION AND ANIMALS Animals are prominent in Near Eastern Neolithic art and ritual, often more so than humans. Especially in the PPN, these are primarily wild animals. The bestiary is extensive, and some species are favored in local areas. Leopards, cattle, foxes, and vultures are widely distributed in depictions or special deposits, although sheep, boar, cranes, snakes, tortoises, scorpions, and others also appear (Helmer, Gourichon, and Stordeur 2004; Peters and Schmidt 2004; Russell and Meece 2006). Snakes, scorpions, spiders, and insects are largely limited to depictions in Upper Mesopotamia (Benz and Bauer 2015), while fox remains stand out in the Levant (Hughes 2015). Several lines of evidence indicate a permeable human–animal boundary. These include depictions of human–animal hybrids (Dönmez 2018). The “totem poles” from Göbekli Tepe and Nevalı Çori (Hauptmann 2011; Schmidt 2011), stone sculptures that stack humans and animals, grasping and intermingling with each other, are a particularly dramatic instance of a broader set of depictions of intimate interactions among humans and various animals across the area. Animal parts appearing to be costume elements suggest mimetic rituals and dances where humans may not only have imitated but become other species (Solecki 1977; Russell and McGowan 2003; Gourichon, Helmer and Peters 2006; Willerslev 2007; Zeder and Spitzer 2016; Russell 2019). Most strikingly, the attention to heads, including curation, display, and careful deposition of severed heads, sometimes refleshed with clay, extends to animals (Helmer, Gourichon, and Stordeur 2004; Hodder and Meskell 2011; Russell 2022). All of this suggests an animist ontology where souls are stable and bodies are changed like clothing (Descola 2005) and where animals were full participants in humans’ spirit world.

Aurochsen Although their prominence and probably their role varied, the aurochs (Bos primigenius), the wild ancestor of domestic cattle and the largest animal in the landscape, participated in religious practice throughout the area (Cauvin 1994; Russell 2022). Aurochsen appear as figurines and in reliefs, paintings, architectural installations, and special deposits (Helmer, Gourichon, and Stordeur 2004), and as a major component of feasts (e.g., Horwitz and Goring-Morris 2004; Twiss 2008). Aurochs heads, horns, and frontlets rightly receive the most attention (Helmer, Gourichon, and Stordeur 2004; Twiss and Russell 2009; Hodder and Meskell 2011). These body parts seem to hold the greatest power and occur both as visible displays and in concealed deposits. Here, I point to another significant body part: the scapula.

SCAPULAE IN SPECIAL DEPOSITS The head and horns seem the most obvious body parts to represent cattle, particularly since the horns carry sex, age, and domestication status information as well as identifying the species. However, the scapula is also consistently selected for special treatment in the Near Eastern Neolithic and beyond. In this study, I discuss the treatment of the scapula in special deposits. While scapulae of other species also appear in these contexts, it is primarily cattle scapulae that are selected. Unlike heads, special treatment of scapulae is limited to nonhuman animals. Although there is often some ambiguity, I am only including cases where the scapula was specifically selected, as opposed to forming part of special depositions of what are

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probably feasting remains with a range of body parts. I focus on Çatalhöyük, where information is most complete and where aurochsen held stronger spiritual significance compared to other regions. I also survey other Near Eastern Neolithic sites to assess variability in time and space. These data are less complete. I have surely missed some occurrences, and such deposits are not always reported in publications and often lack key information (such as species) when they are.

Çatalhöyük Çatalhöyük is a large Neolithic settlement in Central Anatolia, with occupation on the Neolithic East Mound from 7100–6000 cal bce. Tightly packed mudbrick houses with roof entrances were rebuilt on top of each other to form a large tell (13.5 ha). There are no public buildings but abundant evidence of ritual activities in the houses. It was excavated in the 1960s by James Mellaart (1967), from 1993 to 2017 by Ian Hodder (2006), and since then by a Turkish project currently directed by Ali Umut Türkcan. My discussion is based on material from the Hodder project excavated through 2008, using broad periods (Early, Middle, Late, Final) given by Hodder (2020: table 1.1). The Çatalhöyük animal remains consist mainly of domestic sheep and goats, especially in the Late and Final periods. Domestic dogs were also present throughout. Cattle were wild in the beginning, with some domestic cattle appearing in the Middle levels after initial resistance to their herding in Central Anatolia (Russell et al. 2013; Arbuckle et al. 2014; Russell 2022). The symbolic role of aurochsen at Çatalhöyük is manifest in paintings, figurines, visible architectural installations of skulls and horns, concealed deposits of horns and other body parts in walls and below floors, and differential use in feasting (Russell 2022). The partial equivalence and permeability between cattle and humans are shown by subfloor deposits of cattle parts that mirror human burials (Russell, Martin, and Twiss 2009; Russell 2022), and by a remarkable Late period pot with alternating cattle and human faces, with the wild-type horns forming the human eyebrows (Figure 21.2). I have argued that cattle were materialized as ancestors at Çatalhöyük in the same way as humans (Russell 2022). Several types of “special deposits” occur at Çatalhöyük: items or collections that appear deliberately placed. The distinctions between types are not always clear and perhaps not meaningful to the inhabitants, but categorization helps to relate them to the house cycle. Foundation deposits were placed below houses during construction (Carter et al. 2015). During occupation, deposits were made in subfloor pits or in the construction of new floors, platforms, and benches (Russell, Martin, and Twiss 2009). Special deposits were also placed in the spaces between the external walls of two houses, which range from a few centimeters to a meter wide. At the end of occupation, closing deposits were often placed in houses (Russell et al. 2014). Since some houses were rebuilt immediately, starting with partial demolition and filling, and others were left open for some time, the distinction between closing deposits of one house and foundation deposits of the next is not always clear. These deposits contained remains of feasts and ceremonies, including ritual paraphernalia, and selected personal items. Closing deposits often also included dismantled installations (e.g., plastered bucrania, horns on pillars) and dumps of items that had been kept in the house. Animal parts, especially of cattle, are a frequent component. During occupation, the distinction between items displayed in the house and those concealed in its fabric was clear. This distinction was blurred in the closing deposits, where previously displayed items were placed and rapidly buried. These deposits, as well

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FIGURE 21.2  Two views of Çatalhöyük human/cattle face pot, Space 279 (source: photos by Jason Quinlan, courtesy of the Çatalhöyük Research Project).

as the subfloor human burials, accumulated spiritual power in the houses that were rebuilt through generations (Hodder and Pels 2010). After heads and horns, scapulae are the most frequent mammalian body part in Çatalhöyük special deposits. Table 21.1 shows scapula deposits by period. The majority

Closing deposits

Foundation deposits

4325, B. 17: large pieces of large animals in 1 part of the fill, later used for burials from building above; near-complete equid innominate, quasicomplete wild-size cattle scapula, large mammal ribs and vertebrae

Early

1187, B. 1: nearly complete cattle scapula (domestic?) on floor near hearth

2542, B. 1: quasi-complete cattle scapula in leveling layer below house 10078, B. 45: complete unburnt equid scapula placed on top of demolished and burned bins

14522, B. 65: 5 scapulae arranged below platform surface—4 cattle (different individuals) and 1 red deer; right-side cattle paired back-to-back with left-side red deer scapula; other two cattle scapulae are plaster tools

3119, Sp. 105: cattle scapula and horn core segment between 2 phases of a wall

3109, Sp. 106: nearly complete cattle scapula placed below wall buttressing B. 40

14072, B. 68: Cattle scapula and 2 mandibles (different individuals), all nearly complete, placed on top of feasting deposit between foundation fill and first floor

Late

1561, B. 40: complete equid scapula under corner of wall

Middle

TABLE 21.1  Scapulae in special deposits at Çatalhöyük

15261, B. 72: 2 quasi-complete left cattle scapulae on house floor, along with 5 near-complete cattle mandibles, a cattle frontlet, most of a cattle rib, and ram horn

Final

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Early 10326, B. 55: slightly fragmented cattle scapula plaster tool and most of a cattle horn in room fill; possible foundation deposit for next house 13352, B. 65: large piece of red deer antler, goat horn core, nearly complete cattle horn core, most of cattle scapula placed on floor 13937, B. 63: 2 quasi-complete right cattle scapulae (1 young, 1 mature) placed in shallow basin with complete pot holding unknown residue

1264, B. 1: cattle scapula (wild-size) plaster tool on top of small hearth

1278, B. 1: complete sheep scapula, large fragment of equid scapula on floor 1291.B. 1: burnt young cattle scapula on floor near oven

Sp. 88, associated with B. 3: placed items include 3 cattle scapulae, 2 placed facing each other

6233, B. 3: 2 large pieces of cattle scapulae, 1 left, 1 right, on floor below floor with Scapularium deposit

Cluster 1 (“Scapularium”), B. 3: 13 cattle, 1 red deer, 2 sheep scapulae on floor and leaning against wall

1332, B. 1: complete(?) burnt young caprine scapula with wild goat horns in burnt bin

Final

296

1314, B. 1: cattle scapula plaster tool, unburnt, next to burnt bin

Late

Middle

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Early

16490, B. 77: quasi-complete scapula on platform with stone axe

10286, B. 52: quasi-complete cattle scapula in burnt fill of room that also contained group of cattle horns

10316, B. 51: quasi-complete cattle and fox scapulae (both right side) near hearth

3819, B. 5: 2 cattle scapula plaster tools in stack on floor

3248, B. 5: nearly complete young cattle scapula, placed in bin with antler hammer

3242, B. 5: complete cattle scapula (domestic?) leaning against wall

3587/6147/8408, Sp. 89, associated with B. 3: quasi-complete equid scapula in fill, 1 cattle and 1 large mammal scapula closer to the floor, both roughly shaped with blows (cattle scapula into rectangle); another slightly shaped large fragment of cattle scapula associated with redeposited hearth in fill

Middle

Late

Final

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13932, B. 63: complete equid scapula in subfloor pit with large piece of fallow deer antler and pot

16584, B.75: subfloor pit near oven contains large piece of cattle scapula blade and some stones

4993, B. 23: 2 complete cattle scapulae laid directly on top of each other with large piece of large mammal rib in ashy deposit in pit next to oven

Late

4183, B. 6: selected items in platform makeup —infantile boar scapula, rodshaped plaster tool on cattle scapula, large piece of red deer antler, goat horn, several large pieces of large mammal ribs

4225, outside B. 8: deliberate deposit of selected animal remains, mostly cattle (5 distal humeri, 1 complete horn core and part of another, 2 nearly complete scapulae from different individuals)

Middle

Final

298

Between-wall deposits

Concealed in building

Early

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1507, Sp.115: cluster of likely feasting remains within midden deposit, arranged around and over a complete infantile cattle scapula

1323, Sp. 73: complete sheep scapula, with crane wing deposit

10845, outside B. 50: 2 quasicomplete cattle scapulae jammed together face-to-face in 10-cm wide between-wall space, perhaps trimmed to fit; different sides and different animals, size suggests one male and one female

Middle

Key: Initial number is excavation unit; Sp. = Space; B. = Building

External concealed deposits

Early

Pit 14824 (quarry for building material): final layer of pit fill contains 2 nearly complete cattle scapulae (1 left, 1 right, different individuals) in otherwise relatively clean rubble fill; large fragment of third cattle scapula found in the earliest layer of pit fill

Late

Final

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are cattle scapulae, while the far more common sheep are underrepresented. The number of deposits per period is partly dependent on the number of houses excavated fully in those levels, but the Middle period is a time of intensified ritual activity, with more and larger cattle horn and scapulae deposits. Closing deposits are the only type containing scapulae in all periods, and the most common overall.

Elsewhere in the Neolithic Near East Table 21.2 summarizes scapula deposits at other Neolithic sites. I could find none in the Zagros (which has had less archaeological attention), but they are present in all other regions, and throughout the Neolithic. I use “placed in building” here rather than “closing deposit” because it is not always clear that these were placed at closing as opposed to left in place. (At Çatalhöyük, floors were routinely scoured in the closing process, so material in the house was removed and then sometimes returned afterward.) At some sites, scapulae also serve as grave goods. Some regional and temporal patterning is apparent. Upper Mesopotamia lacks scapulae in graves. Sites in PPNA Upper Mesopotamia are the only places other than Çatalhöyük with records of scapulae concealed in buildings: in benches along the walls of public buildings or in the wall plaster. Later, they are found here only placed in buildings, perhaps as closing deposits. The PPNB Levant has one instance as grave goods, one placed in a building. This pattern is precisely echoed on Cyprus, both from the same site. A further instance of cattle scapulae perhaps placed in a building occurs in the PN Levant. In Central Anatolia one worked cattle scapula was placed on a house floor, and scapulae of other animals appear as grave goods. West Anatolia in the PN again has only grave goods and a closing deposit. Overall, these patterns show the enduring significance of scapulae and suggest that there was always a limited array of contexts where it was appropriate to place them, although these varied.

DISCUSSION Since special deposits of animal remains tend to fall through the cracks between excavation reports and zooarchaeological studies, the data are imperfect. Nevertheless, scapulae are singled out for special treatment throughout the Neolithic and, except for the Zagros, across the region and indeed beyond. Where the taxon is reported, these are primarily, but not exclusively, cattle. Most of the animal remains in these deposits were probably selected from feasting remains; they can thus be seen as trophies or vouchers of ceremonies. But why scapulae? They are identifiable by experts, but not as taxonomically distinctive as skulls and horns. One advantage is that all mammals have them, whereas not all have horns. But given the predominance of cattle scapulae, this is less of a concern. The scapula protects the heart of quadrupeds from projectile weapons; this and its unusual shape may have made it a good metonym for wild animals, especially. This may be the reason that scapulae were sometimes used as grave goods, and that there is more variation in taxa among scapulae in this context. The ethnographically widespread practice of scapulimancy would give scapulae special value (Andree 1906). However, mature cattle scapulae are poorly suited to divination based on patterns of light passing through thin parts of the blade, and there is no sign of patterned burning on the blade resulting from the more common method of heating the scapula to cause cracks.

Beidha (PPNB): series of scapulae and horned skulls in room with likely feasting remains of multiple taxa (Kirkbride 1966)

Placed in building

Cafer Höyük (PPNB): 2 cattle scapulae placed on floor with 2 stone balls (Molist and Cauvin 1991)

Ba’ja (PPNB): animal scapula and horn core in collective grave (Gebel et al. 2019)

Levant

Grave goods

Upper Mesopotamia

Central Anatolia

Khirokitia (PPNB): scapula on floor near hearth (Dikaios 1953); closing deposit in another building in 2 groups, fallow deer antler, 3 fallow deer scapulae, 1 caprine scapula (Le Brun 2003)

Aşıklı Höyük (PPNB): worked cattle scapula on floor, also mat with obsidian cluster under overturned grindstone, couple of cobbles (Özbaşaran, Duru, and Uzdurum 2018)

Aşıklı Höyük (PPNB): red deer scapula at shoulder of skeleton (Özbek 1998)

Khirokitia (PPNB): fallow Boncuklu (PPNA): boar deer scapula over head of scapula in grave (Baird, perinatal infant (Le Mort Fairbairn, and Martin 2017) 2008)

Cyprus

TABLE 21.2  Scapulae in special deposits in the Neolithic Near East

Çukuriçi Höyük (PN): closing deposit on floor with many complete bones, especially scapulae (Brami, Horejs, and Ostmann 2016)

Menteşe (PN): sheep horn and scapula with adult female; sheep horn and scapula with young child (Roodenberg et al. 2003)

Ilıpınar (PN): cattle scapula with neonate; caprine scapula at foot of adult male (Alpaslan Roodenberg 2008)

West Anatolia

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Concealed in building

Byblos (PN): 2 cattle scapulae in rubble just outside building; originally inside? (Dunand 1973)

Çayönü (PPNB): complete aurochs scapula on floor of room in cell plan building U9 (Redman 1983)

Jerf el-Ahmar (transitional PPNAPPNB): 2 young aurochs scapulae lying flat, built into bench running along wall of public building EA 53 (Stordeur et al. 2000)

Cyprus

Central Anatolia

West Anatolia

302

Tell ’Abr 3 (PPNA): 2 sets of gazelle horns and aurochs scapula plastered into outer wall of communal building M1a (Yartah 2005)

Mureybet (PPNA): cattle skull surrounded by 2 cattle and 1 wild ass scapulae inside bench (Cauvin 1977)

Levant

Upper Mesopotamia

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FIGURE 21.3  Two views of Çatalhöyük rod-shaped plaster tool made on an aurochs scapula, 4183.F19 (source: image by Nerissa Russell, courtesy of the Çatalhöyük Research Project).

Some Çatalhöyük scapulae, both in special deposits and not, show other modifications that may be relevant. Almost all the scapula artifacts are plaster tools. In most cases this means that the neck area served as a handhold, and one side of the blade was sharpened to a beveled edge. Experiments and microwear indicate that these were used to smooth wall plaster and shape clay features (Russell and Griffitts 2013), similar to mason’s trowels. Two can only be attributed to large mammals, but most, probably all, are made on cattle scapulae. A visually similar artifact was found on the floor of Building 18 at Aşıklı Höyük (Özbaşaran, Duru, and Uzdurum 2018). Hence unworked scapulae in closing deposits may have been stores of raw material kept with the house, as seen with metapodials (Bogaard et al. 2009). This does not explain their use in foundation or other concealed deposits, however. Here the strong association of worked cattle scapulae with house shaping may be important. Most of the plaster tools at Çatalhöyük have beveled edges, but one (4183.F19) has the same kind of microwear but was shaped into a large crude rod (Figure 21.3). The scapula is a flat bone; it would be much easier to use a long bone that is already rod-shaped, so it must have been necessary to use a scapula for this purpose.

CONCLUSION Contextual analysis of animal scapulae in special deposits in the Near Eastern Neolithic indicates that there were multiple strands of meaning contributing to the choice of this postcranial body part to represent the animal, most often cattle. The occurrence of worked scapulae in some deposits shows that practical utility was not divorced from spiritual power. Placement of cattle scapulae, many of them wild, is most prolific at

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Çatalhöyük, in line with other evidence of the strong spiritual connection between aurochsen and humans at the site. Indeed, the treatment of worked and unworked cattle scapulae at Çatalhöyük suggests that shaping house interiors and perhaps mudbricks was itself a sacred act. Meanwhile, hidden scapulae provided strong foundations for the houses.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Animals and Ideology in the Pre-Pottery Neolithic B of the Southern Levant MAX PRICE AND JACQUELINE MEIER

In human societies, animals are more than simply sources of meat, calories, and raw materials. They possess a social significance that materializes ideology to the extent that it often eclipses their functional value for subsistence or other resources. Even when used as sources of food, animals help humans to define the boundaries of self and social identity through taboos, cuisines, and feasts (Fiddes 1991). On a more symbolic level, humans’ interactions with animals stimulate reflections on personhood and animality, which themselves inform views of social realities. Positively, this manifests in philosophical reflections on human and animal nature. More negatively, personhood and animality are used to legitimize class relations and other forms of inequality, and even to justify the most brutal forms of human exploitation (e.g., Jacoby 1994; Richardson 2021). In religious contexts, animal bodies serve as sacrifices, substitutes for humans, beings into which humans may transform, and potent symbols that translate spiritual concepts into real-world experience, thus making the numinous graspable—for example, metaphors of lambs and shepherds in the New Testament. Indeed, across cultures, perhaps no other class of thing or being figures as prominently in rituals, mythology, folklore, object lessons, and idioms as animals. In this way, animals are central figures in the materialization of religion and ideology. This unique ideological power of animals derives from the universal recognition of their ontological similarity to humans (e.g., Lévi-Strauss 1963: 57)—a tenet that even modern evolutionary theory has retained, recasting it as genealogical proximity (the Kingdom Animalia in Linnaean taxonomy). Outside of the epistemological realm of science, this perception of ontological similarity, and often fluidity, between humans and animals finds expression in common understandings that animals and humans both possess spiritual essence, even if humans and animals are kept ontologically separated or unequal, as in modern Euro-American and Middle Eastern traditions. Hence the word for “animal” in English derives from the Latin animus, “spirit,” and in Hebrew/Arabic [chaya/haywan] means “living thing.” Their ontological similarity makes stories of people transforming into animals compelling (e.g., Ovid’s Metamorphoses) and makes it possible for parables about animals to encode moral lessons (Aesop’s Fables or “The Three Little Pigs”). Indeed, the

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TABLE 22.1  Periods and approximate dates used in this chapter (after Goring-Morris

and Belfer-Cohen 2020) Period

Dates cal BCE

Kebaran

21000–12500

Natufian

12500–9700

PPNA

9700–8500

EPPNB

8500–8150

MPPNB

8150–7500

LPPNB

7500–7000

FPPNB/PPNC

7000–6400

Note: PPNA = Pre-Pottery Neolithic A; PPNB = Pre-Pottery Neolithic B; EPPNB = Early PPNB; MPPNB = Middle PPNB; LPPNB = Late PPNB; FPPNB = Final PPNB; PPNC = Pre-Pottery Neolithic C.

ideological power of animals, their significance as metaphors and symbols, deriving from their ontological proximity to humans, extends well beyond religion, strictly speaking. It also figures into politics and society. Animal metaphors abound in everyday speech and even trenchant social and political commentary. The hard-to-forget depiction of Donald Trump as a pig on the cover of New York magazine in April 2018 is perhaps as good a demonstration as any that animals are indeed “good to think” (Lévi-Strauss 1963: 89). Within any culture, the significance of animals as symbols, metaphors, and potent beings varies from animal to animal. We argue that animal meanings derive in large part from human–animal interactions—how we interact with, observe, or hear about how others interact with animals. These interactions, in a very material way, afford (cf. Gibson 1979) perceptions of animals and thus inform their meaning. For example, in EuroAmerican culture, observed suid feeding behaviors inform pig symbolism of greed and gluttony. A wolf symbolizes danger and malicious cunning—an idea no doubt derived from the long and fraught relationship between herders and wolves. Although not everyone who employs this symbolism may have encountered these animals, associations between animals and moral behavior are spread and reinforced through enculturation and acculturation processes. Highlighting human–animal relations as generative of animal meanings grounds ideology in the material world of animal and human bodies, landscapes, and constructed environments. We explore past ideologies with this approach, mainly investigating animals in ritual deposits in the Southern Levant during the Pre-Pottery Neolithic B (PPNB) (Table 22.1). The period is defined by population growth, changing social conditions, and the adoption of domestic livestock. We focus on how the roles played by four key mammalian taxa (aurochs, foxes, gazelle, and caprines) may have emerged from human–animal interactions, within a religious framework that can broadly be defined as animistic across several subphases of the PPNB period.

THE PPNB IN THE SOUTHERN LEVANT The PPNB (Table 22.1) period stretches from around 8500 to 6400 cal bce. Following the growth of sedentary societies practicing cereal cultivation in the PPNA, the PPNB saw the proliferation of villages, the cultivation of fully domesticated cereals and legumes, and

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the gradual adoption of animal husbandry. By the middle PPNB (MPPNB), people began herding domestic goats, the first livestock in the region, which supplemented an animal economy based primarily on gazelle hunting. Domestic sheep (late PPNB [LPPNB]), cattle (LPPNB or PPNC), and pigs (PPNC or PN) followed suit. For these animals, increasing abundances and evidence of hunting pressure in some ecological zones of the Southern Levant suggests local processes of domestication may have occurred alongside the introduction of controlled livestock progenitors from the north (Munro et al. 2018). Significant sociocultural changes occurred in conjunction with economic ones. Domestic caprines and cereals facilitated population growth and settlement expansion over the course of the PPNB. Houses grew in size and architectural complexity (Byrd 1994; Kuijt and Goring-Morris 2002; Kuijt 2008). Ritual also significantly changed. While the large communal buildings (in the PPNA–MPPNB) and secondary burials of human skulls (PPNA–LPPNB) are probably the features that come first to mind when thinking of Neolithic Levantine rituals (Kuijt 1996; Makarewicz and Finlayson 2018), animals also played outsized roles (Verhoeven 2002; Horwitz and Goring-Morris 2004; Rollefson 2008). Feasting (often connected to social cohesion and status), for example, has received much scholarly attention (e.g., Twiss 2008). But there were other ways that animals helped to materialize PPNB ritual and religious thought. In particular, the accumulated zooarchaeological data also strongly suggest animistic ritual practice was a pervasive tradition over the PPNB.

ANIMISM BEFORE AGRICULTURE Animistic belief systems place animals, plants, and features of the environment in relationships of reciprocity, communication, and kinship with humans (Bird-David 1999; Harvey 2006: xvii; Alberti and Bray 2009). In the past few decades, anthropologists have framed animism as a relational epistemology—one that assumes ontological interconnectedness, rather than separateness, of humans, animals, plants, and things (Bird-David 1999: S78; Ingold 2006). Some anthropologists (Bird-David 1999; Ingold 2006) have argued that animism finds intellectual kinship in the phenomenology of Merleau-Ponty and others, as well as the ecological psychology of Gibson (1979), which considered how things and living beings within environments afford certain types of interactions with each other. Recognizing broad ontological interconnectedness, animism does not restrict personhood to the exclusive domain of humans. Instead, it treats “being” as emerging from the dynamic relations between people, plants, and animals; being is therefore in a state of “continuous birth” (Ingold 2006: 11). Animistic traditions in the Southern Levant predate the PPNB. Kebaran and Natufian mortuary rituals include interments of animals alongside the dead and often positioned within graves in ways that suggest connection between humans and animals (Tchernov and Valla 1997; Maher et al. 2011; e.g., Grosman, Munro, and Belfer-Cohen 2008). For example, a female “shaman” burial at Late Natufian Hilazon Tachtit was accompanied by the carefully placed body parts of an eagle, aurochs, wild boar, martens, and tortoises (Grosman, Munro, and Belfer-Cohen 2008). Animals body parts probably helped to materialize a fluidity between human and animal forms of being. Animal-themed “enclosures” at late PPNA Göbekli Tepe in Anatolia might indicate “totemism”—that is, not only metonymic deployment of, but also kinship, with animals (Goring-Morris and Belfer-Cohen 2002: 70; Peters and Schmidt 2004). Again, the emphasis is on human– animal relatedness, rather than ontological distinctiveness.

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We will now briefly review evidence for animistic traditions materialized through the bodies of four common PPNB taxa. We start with brief descriptions of these animals and their behaviors as they would have related/appeared to PPNB peoples. These relations afforded symbolic meanings of animals, and thereby fashioned the shape of animistic rituals. We then survey evidence for ritual use, highlighting features that are most connected with animistic traditions: (1) the depiction of “hybrids,” (2) the importance of the hunt as a profound moment of communication and reciprocity between humans and animals, and (3) treatments of animal remains that mirror those of humans, including burials, caching, and curation. Together, these data suggest a fluidity in personhood between human and animal forms.

ANIMALS IN PPNB ANIMISTIC RITUALS Aurochs The aurochs (Bos primigenius), the extinct progenitor of domesticated cattle, was a large grazer. With their massive horns, aurochs were formidable prey—and hunted prey they would remain throughout much of the PPNB. The earliest evidence for cattle domestication comes from a range of MPPNB and LPPNB sites in the north (Arbuckle and Kassebaum 2021). Full-fledged cattle management only appeared in the Southern Levant by the PPNC (Marom and Bar-Oz 2013). To early PPNB (EPPNB) peoples, cattle would have appeared as a powerful/dangerous animal, but one that by perhaps the LPPNB had come under increasing control by humans. In the Southern Levant, aurochs deposits mainly consist of bone concentrations, mortuary deposits, and architectural inclusions. Concentrations of aurochs remains in discrete deposits were found at the Natufian sites of Hilazon Tachtit and Hayonim Terrace (Munro and Grosman 2010) (Figure 22.1). At PPNA Hatoula, a bucrania was found buried with a human female (Goring-Morris and Belfer Cohen 2011). EPPNB aurochs concentrations, indicative of feasting and often involving human remains and plaster, were recovered from Kfar HaHoresh (Horwitz and Goring-Morris 2004; Meier, Goring-Morris, and Munro 2017) and Motza (Sapir-Hen n.d.). Aurochs hunts, which required no small amount of courage, were likely symbolically charged encounters. Hunting symbolism is present in numerous depictions of wild cattle at Anatolia sites as diverse in time and space as late PPNA Göbekli Tepe in the Upper Euphrates region and LPPNB–PN Çatalhöyük on the Konya Plain (Peters and Schmidt 2004). In the Southern Levant, the practice of magic rites surrounding aurochsen hunts is most obviously indicated by a deposit of cattle figurines “killed” by flint blades that preserved impressions of twisted fiber lead ropes around the clay necks at MPPNB ‘Ain Ghazal (Rollefson 1989). Additionally, the special treatment of Bos feasting remains suggests that they were ceremonial trash, the deposition of which may have extended the ritual symbolism of the event and granted prestige to the hunters or hosts (Twiss 2015). It has long been speculated that cattle held a particular significance in PPN belief systems of the so-called cattle cult (Cauvin 2000). Clearly, there is more nuance and variation in beliefs surrounding cattle. For example, the significance of cattle appears to have shifted in the MPPNB, a time coinciding with early management of goats and perhaps shifting perceptions of the symbolic value of certain animals (Meier, GoringMorris, and Munro 2016, 2017). MPPNB and later aurochs deposits are smaller, with limited caches of parts (e.g., Yiftah’el, see Khalaily et al. 2008), fewer human remains,

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FIGURE 22.1  Map of sites and taxa parts mentioned in the text with some examples corresponding to locations near human remains (source: M. Price; skeleton modified by M. Price, based on https://www.archeo​zoo.org/).

and more idiosyncratic forms, including the burial of an articulated adult and calf near a human burial and midden at LPPNB Basta (Becker 2002). It is probably no coincidence that cattle, while still symbolically significant, developed altered meanings in the LPPNB and PPNC as they transitioned from prey to property.

Foxes The red fox (Vulpes vulpes) is a small carnivore that travels in solitary or small family groups. Although timid and frequently hunted for fur, foxes regularly coinhabit anthropogenic spaces, including villages and abandoned buildings. In the Southern Levant, the red fox is the predominant carnivore represented in faunal assemblages from Epipaleolithic–PPNB sites, where they probably created a niche as commensals (Yeshurun, Bar-Oz, and Weinstein-Evron 2009). It is their liminal existence, the ability to slip swiftly in and out of human-made environments (sometimes with small livestock in their jaws) and tendency to make dens in abandoned buildings, that has made foxes embodiments of

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cunning—sometimes for destructive purposes and sometimes acting as helpers—in literary traditions across Eurasia (Uther 2006). These associations with liminality, craftiness, and abandoned spaces may have existed in PPNB thought, too. Foxes held unique ritual significance in incipient farming communities of Southwest Asia. To the north, at late PPNA Göbekli Tepe and Jerf el Ahmar, (totemic?) stone carvings and other images frequently depict foxes, possibly reflecting spiritual encounters in shamanic rituals (Stordeur and Abbés 2002; Peters and Schmidt 2004). At Çatalhöyük, skulls of foxes and other animals were encased in clay breasts, possibly indicating female– scavenger symbolic associations (Gifford-Gonzalez 2007). Within the Southern Levant, several pre-Natufian and Natufian burials contained fox body part inclusions, such as ‘Uyun al-Hammam and ‘Ain Mallaha (Tchernov and Valla 1997; Maher et al. 2011). Fox body parts may also have wielded ritual or contagious magical power; drilled fox teeth are common decorative items from the Natufian–PPNB (e.g., Belfer-Cohen 1991). Human burials with fox remains are attested at several PPNB sites. At Kfar HaHoresh, partly articulated fox bones were excavated from two child burials (Horwitz and GoringMorris 2004). At MPPNB Shkārat Msaied, a fox mandible was found in a stone box with bones of humans and other animals (Kinzel et al. 2016). At EPPNB Motza, a fox mandible was placed on an adolescent human’s skull, while an articulated lower hind limb was beneath an adult human femur (Reshef et al. 2019). While the articulated limb might represent a pelt or bag with fox feet attached, the placement of fox remains near homologous features of the human corpses might suggest a human–fox fluidity or interconnectedness.

Gazelle The mountain gazelle (Gazella gazelle) is a small bovid, with distinctive black horns. At home in hilly grasslands and parklands of the Mediterranean region of the Levant, their long slender legs give them a graceful, almost balletic stride. Timid of humans, gazelles would have largely avoided settlements but would have been seen at the ends of fields and in open grasslands. It is perhaps also significant that gazelle are social animals that live in small herds. It is possible that, to PPNB people, this social world of gazelle offered a sort of mirror to that of the human world. Indeed, the story of Enkidu living as a wild man among gazelle in the first tablet of the standard version of the Gilgamesh story seems to suggest such a connection: to the third and second millennium bce Mesopotamians, when stripped of “civilization,” humans were very much like gazelle. In the periods leading up to the PPNB, gazelles were the most commonly hunted mammal in the Southern Levant. They remained a major subsistence resource into the MPPNB and were only eclipsed by caprines in some parts of the region by the LPPNB. The ritual uses of gazelle have a long history. Gazelle elements (especially horn cores) were placed in human burials as far back as the Kebaran, sometimes cached with the body or arranged near the head as if in death the person had been transformed into a gazelle (Valla 1988: 295 fn. 12; Maher, Richter, and Stock 2012). PPNB Levantines continued to include horn cores in burials—for example, at EPPNB Motza (Khalaily et al. 2007: 27). Horn cores were also deposited in other locations, such as under the floor of a house, perhaps as a foundation offering, at LPPNB ‘Ain Ghazal, where excavators also found burnt gazelle feet in a burial (Rollefson 1998). At LPPNB ‘Ain Jammam, excavators found a gazelle skull placed in a wall niche (Rollefson 1998), although it is unclear if this was an intentional and meaningful PPNB inclusion or a something inserted after abandonment.

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One of the most prominent ritual displays involving gazelle parts is a spectacular burial at Kfar Hahoresh. In a lime-plastered pit (L1004), excavators recovered a limeplastered human skull of an adult male. Near the skull was a lithic point, while 15 to 20 cm beneath was laid a headless but otherwise intact and articulated gazelle skeleton. The pit was then sealed over with lime plaster (Goring-Morris and Horwitz 2007: 905– 6). This deposit appears to have been carefully arranged and sealed with intention in the burial process. The intent appears to have been the creation, in death, of a gazelle–human hybrid, perhaps one felled by a projectile weapon. At the wider temporal scale, it is interesting that gazelles continued to be the dominant taxon at this ceremonial center over time, despite the increasing dominance of caprines at nearby settlements (Meier, Goring-Morris, and Munro 2016).

Caprines Goats (Capra aegagrus/hircus) and sheep (Ovis orientalis/aries) are gregarious herd animals. Like gazelles, males grow large horns and compete for dominance. Yet unlike gazelles, caprines were very much a part of the world of human settlements and were crucial in the development of agropastoral economies in the Southern Levant starting in the MPPNB. For that reason, unlike the other animals considered here, the symbolic significance of goats and, by the LPPNB, sheep, was far more conditioned by their tight integration into human social networks. More than just “walking larders,” controlled caprines were also property and formed crucial components of wealth. Animal wealth disparities likely formed one basis of inequality by the LPPNB (Rollefson 2004: 149). It is perhaps for these reasons that caprines are relatively underrepresented in the identified PPNB ritual evidence, and in particular that most identifiable with animism. Thus, caprine remains do not appear as intentional inclusions alongside humans in burials. Caprine remains found in or near human burials are usually interpreted as unintentional inclusions or, at most, the remains of small funerary feasts (e.g., Horwitz and GoringMorris 2004). A rare documented example comprises four goat skulls (and one cattle skull) on a plastered floor of a seemingly special-function room at Ghwair I, a site that architecturally belongs to the LPPNB but radiocarbon results date to the MPPNB (Simmons and Najjar 2006: 83). Other, not necessarily animistic, ritual uses of caprines do occur, however. Some animal figurines, such as those at MPPNB Munhatta and MPPNB–PPNC ‘Ain Ghazal appear to depict goats (Rollefson 2008: 398). Moreover, as the dominant source of animal protein at many sites, caprines probably played a significant role in feasting. That role, however, is difficult to determine. Depending on the depositional patterns and methods of excavation, it can be almost impossible to differentiate feasts from “mundane” meals (Twiss 2008).

DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION The examples of animal bodies or body part uses in the PPNB are consistent with the hypothesis that animals helped materialize religious ideology and specifically an animistic worldview. The particular ways in which animals were mobilized in rituals, we argue, likely derived from human–animal interactions. Thus, while the symbolic significance of animals in prehistoric periods may seem impossible to reconstruct, in fact reasonable inferences can be drawn based on an understanding of species’ innate behavioral characteristics.

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The type of ritual animal use most characteristic of animistic practice is the intentional positioning of animal parts in human graves. For example, the placement of gazelle horns next to human crania, a tradition dating back to the Natufian period, suggests a fluidity between human and gazelle forms. Interestingly, recent Late Natufian–PPNA finds at the site of Shubaywa 6 (about 150 km northeast of Amman) of anthropomorphized gazelle and caprine lower limbs and feet, possibly of bone dolls, may reflect human–ungulate fluidity in the opposite direction—humanizing gazelle remains rather than gazelle-ifying human bodies (Yeomans et al. 2021). This constructed fluidity between species appears to continue into the PPNB with the striking example of the potential gazelle–human hybrid at Kfar Hahoresh. The homologous placement of fox and human parts at Motza (Reshef et al. 2019) is also potentially reflective of hybridization. Other ritual practices were less clearly animistic, but nevertheless may have effectively materialized the human–animal ideology. Aurochs feasting, for example, likely materialized a greater sense of community through the act of provisioning and sharing a meal of large, dangerous, and symbolically potent animals (Goring-Morris and Horwitz 2007). Indeed, one could argue that feasting and the subsequent ceremonial trash disposal, which appears in contexts dating to the Epipaleolithic through EPPNB, materialized community connections over time through ritual and remembrance (Meier, Goring-Morris, and Munro 2017). Additionally, in some mortuary rituals, inclusions of animal parts and bodies probably served as offerings, thus materializing relations and reciprocity between the living and the dead. Animism may also be indicated by other practices. The “ritually killed” cattle figurines from MPPNB ‘Ain Ghazal are consistent with animistic beliefs that recognize the interconnectedness and reciprocity between humans and other animals, especially in imitative ritualized hunting encounters. Animistic traditions often include prayers of forgiveness, thanks, or expressions of kinship to animals prior to a hunt (e.g., Hamayon 2013: 287). The ritual killing of cattle prior to the hunt may have been part of the ritual process that served to navigate the social and psychological tension surrounding the hunting and killing of aurochs. Another potential indication of animistic practice is body part curation, such as the goat and cattle crania at Ghwair I. While these are often treated as “trophy bones” or iconographic decoration (e.g., Twiss 2008), their treatment bears resemblance to the well-documented PPN practice of curating and caching of human skulls and other bones (Kuijt and Goring-Morris 2002). If so, the curated animal bones might have helped materialize the social memory of (nonhuman) spiritual kin (Kuijt 2001). Deciphering animal symbolism in prehistory is complex—and at best educated guesswork with limited analogies. Our contention is that human–animal interactions, and how animals appear to humans as a function of their behavioral and physiological attributes, played a large role in determining meaning. For example, one could perhaps see the transformation of humans into gazelles (and vice versa) as emerging from a perception of gazelles inhabiting a social world reflective of that among humans. The gracefulness and speed of this animal were also likely qualities of the human–gazelle hybrids. The hybridization of humans and foxes, meanwhile can perhaps be understood in relation to the perception of foxes as sly scavengers and inhabitants of liminal spaces. The significance of aurochsen likely drew upon this animals’ ferociousness and size, which perhaps helped materialize (male?) status within a community. Masculinity was perhaps also materialized through the ritual deployment of the larger horn cores of male cattle, gazelle, and caprines. Such animal parts would likely be evocative, especially in a “phallocentric” culture (see Hodder and Meskell 2011), but perhaps, were more important as physical embodiments

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of male–male aggression in humans and other animals—something societies and herders expend considerable effort to control. Interestingly, the animistic aspects of PPNB ideology apply mostly to wild animals (Verhoeven 2002: 251; Hodder and Meskell 2011). Why were domestic animals, and in particular caprines, largely left out? One answer may be that herding focusses more attention on the individual animal. Herders know their animals by appearance, give them names, and care for them (Ingold 1974; Tani 2017). Herders relate to each animal as an intimate familiar and as property. Hunters, meanwhile, do not usually develop these connections; they neither own nor cultivate relationships with individual animals, but rather seek out a particular type of animal. As a result, hunters and prey might need to formalize reciprocity through ritual, whereas reciprocity is already a regularized and mundane feature of interaction between livestock and herders. Although seemingly paradoxical, it is the daily intimacy of the herder–livestock relationship that removes the need to ritually materialize the ideological interconnectedness of humans and animals. Additionally, as property, livestock afford new meanings in ritual and ideology. Livestock are embodiments of wealth rather than representations of the environment. As living wealth, they are more likely to be mobilized in rituals that serve to forge relations between people (e.g., feasts, bridewealth) than to reflect on the place of humans in nature. These reasons perhaps explain why animism tends to play a more limited role in agropastoral societies. Verhoeven (2002: 252) argued that the “human-animal linkage” stressed in many PPNB rituals was “a sort of counteraction to the domestication of society, plants, and animals.” That may be. Similarly, the socioeconomic conditions of the Neolithic produced many ideological structures that contradicted animism. Still, it is important to recognize that while domestic animals may no longer have served to materialize animism, they did play an important role in materializing a new ideology, the legacy of which is quite apparent today. For even in our so-called modern world, where humans and animals are positioned as ontologically separate, animals remain critical elements in the materialization (and indeed naturalization) of religious, social, and political ideology.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Sharing Animals: Animal Imagery as Late Antique Intercultural Dialogue MARICA CASSIS, SYDNEY BURTON, AND SANAZ SAFARI

In the bottom center of Register C of the Great Palace mosaics in Istanbul is one of the most striking images. Here a creature––alternately named a winged tiger and griffin–– feeds on a lizard (Figure 23.1) (Jobst, Erdal, and Gurtner 1997). The image combines a mythological creature with a real one and is placed among a variety of animal and hunting images in a Late Roman ceremonial context, resulting in what Matthew Canepa has termed a message of “sublimated violence” (2009: 137). Canepa has argued that such images marked a koine of power in the Late Antique world, that they were understandable to both the Late Roman and Sasanian Persian elite viewers, and that they provided subtle and symbolic declarations of power and dominance. Indeed, images involving animals–– either alone or interacting with humans––were often used as symbols of power, control, and dominance (including religious supremacy) (2009, 2010a); each culture utilized them to claim their superiority through a symbolism of subjugation, much as the unnamed creature noted above destroys the lizard. The very accessibility of these images meant that they could move back and forth across borders, adjusted for new populations while maintaining meanings of dominance and strength. Art historians have traced the images of animals and hunting, for example, in mosaics from North Africa to England (Hachlili 2009), and the co-option of elite hunting imagery from Iran into the Late Roman world has long been accepted. Yet, beyond the simple transference of these images, they became a shared language, one that suggests a far more interconnected Late Antique world than we generally consider. As well, these images had both local and global meanings, and need thus to be considered not just in terms of the creator, but also the audience and context (Maguire and Maguire 2007:58-96). This can be seen in both animal imagery from Sasanian Persia and the Late Roman world, which borrowed heavily from the former context, incorporating Persian images into the traditional Roman stable of images. In doing so, animal imagery from the Sasanian world appears in surprising places. While several scholars have traced this imagery into central Asia and China (Marshak and Raspopova 1990; Canepa 2010b), in this study we argue for the multiplicity of meanings in animal and hunting images in the West as well, as seen through evidence

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FIGURE 23.1  Griffin eating a lizard; Great Palace mosaic (source: Schmuel Magal / ARTstor).

in the Arian Ostrogothic court at Ravenna, where the imagery took on both the local Roman meanings and the wider internationalized ones of dominance and power in both secular and religious contexts, reinforcing the significance of these images in the symbolic vocabulary of the Late Antique world. Our approach in this chapter is based on the articulation of cross-cultural interaction, as defined in the work of Canepa (2010a, b). In part influenced by anthropological theories such as global theory and world systems theory, Canepa argues for intense communication, interaction, and, critically, understanding between competing power structures (Canepa 2010a). In his book, The Two Eyes of the Earth, Canepa argues specifically for the transference and co-option of images of power between the Roman and Sasanian court, resulting in images that were understandable to both populations (2009). Hillenbrand (2009) talks about overlapping symbolisms of the hunt motif between the Sasanian and Roman worlds, arguing that the imagery continued into the Islamic period, although with an eventual loss of meaning that resulted in it simply becoming a kind of short hand for images of power. We argue that this construction of symbols of power can be found throughout the Late Antique world. Indeed, it is necessary to see the ancient world as far more interconnected than we traditionally have (Pitts and Versluys 2014). We also have to consider that borders were fluid, and trade routes became the loci of transference––not only between Central Asia and China, but also between Constantinople and Europe. Trade routes ran between Asia Minor and places like Ravenna and Aquileia, as did similar ones from Syria, Palestine, and North Africa (Decker 2018). That there was an evolution in material culture should come as no surprise. Borders were fluid, and religious and cultural concepts moved over them with ease. There was a visual culture that was widely understood, but it too was fluid

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and could be connected to different meanings as the situation required. What remained constant was that such animal and hunt images continued to hold meaning for all viewers, even if the interpretations differed, and these meanings transcended both religious and secular contexts. Indeed, animal images were ubiquitous in the Late Antique world (particularly in mosaics) and have been discussed at length by a number of scholars, most notable among them Trilling (1989), Hachlili (2009), Maguire and Maguire (2007), and Gilhus (2014). The presence of animals in a variety of media invites discussion of audience and meaning, and there are a variety of meanings associated with the images of the hunt and animal violence. The images were located in pastoral villa settings, church floors, and palaces, and some came with their own local connotations. As shown by Maguire and Maguire (2007), there was original meaning to these animal images that depended entirely on the viewer and the context. For example, rural and villa imagery was found throughout the Late Roman world but was predominant in North Africa (Trilling 1989). Animal subjugation in a church took on biblical overtones, as in the case study of the eagle as representative of God’s dominance (Maguire 2000:22), while in a villa it symbolized man’s dominance over the natural environment and a celebration of the pastoral life. In a palace, however, it could mean both of those––as well as a statement of power and authority. The viewer was the one who was responsible for the interpretation, and more than one explanation was always possible. This very flexibility, however, meant that it was a vocabulary that could be easily adapted from other places providing either reassurance or an implied threat (including the threat of heresy), depending on the viewer and the context.

SASANIAN ANIMALS It has long been accepted that some images of the hunt that flourished in the Late Roman world had their origins in iconography from the Persian world, which in turn owes a debt to Mesopotamian imagery. Early depictions of the wild hunt speak to the subjugation of nature at the hands of man. Hunt images go back to the prehistoric period, as witnessed in several examples in Lorestan province in Iran, and include some of the most ancient images of hunting scenes (Sarbisheh, Nazari, and Sha’rbaf 2020). The hunt can thus be traced through Iranian history where it took on increased meaning as society became more sedentary and centralized. With the growth of empires, images of animal violence and dominance, along with hunting motifs, illustrated power and legitimacy through dominance over external forces. In imperial contexts, it also gave divine legitimization of the king over both the human world and the natural one. As far back as the Elamite period, hunting scenes appeared on small-scale objects such as seals, imagery that was then adopted by the Achaemenids. Xenophon in the Cyropaedia wrote about the significance of hunting education among young Achaemenid princes (e.g., Book VIII 11–12; Phillips and Willcock 1999). While Xenophon was writing an idealized portrayal of the Persian court, early Achaemenid relics such as stamp and cylinder seals with hunting scenes prove the importance of this imagery in Achaemenid society. For the king himself, hunting was considered physical exercise that prepared him for war (Briant 2002: 230-232). as well as a symbol of his power over both man and nature. Such hunting scenes are also paralleled with animal imagery that shows power and dominance, such as striding lions and guardian bulls.

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During the subsequent Arsacid dynasty, due to the constant battles on almost every front, as well as their coexistence with the Scythians, the Parthians developed their riding skills and became experts in horsemanship (Tajbaskhsh and Jamali 1995). Although hunting scenes in Parthian art may have retained imperial connections, the intercultural connections of this period meant that variations on animal and hunting themes began to appear in a number of places. Most prominent among these images were mounted hunters and depictions of the famous Parthian shot. For example, the Roman built Mithraeum at Dura Europos has Mehr/Mithra depicted as a hunter. The imagery was less restricted to the imperial but became much more widespread and more fluid in interpretation. Indeed, the advent of the Parthians helped with the resurrection of Iranian art. However, the Parthians also took advantage of Achaemenid, Greek, and Mesopotamian art and created their own variation of this artistic tradition; it was the combined artistic tradition that moved into the Sasanian period. In the Sasanian period, hunting imagery often reverted to an imperial ideology, and examples can be found in fabric, seals, plaster, relief, and especially metal artwork; hunting once again belonged almost exclusively to the king. The new Sasanian empire needed to prove its legitimacy; hence, the acceptance of the Achaemenid principles, whether in art or rule, allowed them to introduce themselves as Achaemenid legal successors, possibly without a full understanding of everything they were adopting (Daryaee 2006; Ahmadi Payam 2009: 102–7). One of the key places for this was in the adoption of hunting imagery both in art and inscriptions. For example, in his third-century ce inscription at Hajjiābād, Shapur I mentions his archery skill in front of the elders (https://sites.uci.edu/ sasan​ika/sapur-is-insc​ript​ion-hajjia​bad-sh/). The king’s glory and his performance are considered the main story of many of the extant hunting scenes; they display a victorious king by emphasizing his courage and immense power. At times the animal hunting scene is also a symbol of the attendance of the king on the battlefield (Pope 1945). Besides stressing the king’s bravery, hunting scenes also provide valuable knowledge about Sasanian court culture, both in how figures are portrayed and the use of symbolic animals in court and religious life (Taheri 2013). Around the large cities, the gardens or hunting fields created by Sasanian kings were known as Paradaisa. The details of the Sasanian hunting fields are displayed in several places, most notably in the sixth-century ce reliefs at Ṭāq-e Bostān, which include images of the deer and boar hunting of Khusrau II (Figure 23.2). The king’s position as the most important person in the scene is discernible through his larger size, which differentiates him from the rest of the figures (Javadi 2006). In the deer hunting scene, elephant riders push the deer toward the hunting ground where the king awaits him in the middle of the garden. The scene includes three different parts: at the top, the king is ready to hunt with a sword; the center shows him attacking the deer; at the bottom, the king leaves the hunting field with an axe in his hand. On the left side of the relief, the hunted deer are carried by several camel riders out of the field. In the boar hunting scene, elephant riders push the boars toward the hunting field, and this time the king is hunting on a boat with a bow and arrow (Compareti 2016). Here, too, the hunted boars are flushed out by the elephant. Ṭāq-e Bostān’s hunting reliefs thus include the elements of life, movement, war, and escape between man and animal. He is, in these images, both superior and majestic. Similar themes are encountered on the numerous “hunting” plates that were prevalent throughout the Sasanian period, such as this fifth-century ce example of Hormizd III (Figure 23.3).

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FIGURE 23.2  Ṭāq-e Bostān; Larger Grotto, left wall; boar hunt (source: Sheila S. Blair and Jonathan M. Bloom / ARTstor).

These again provide images of not only courtly veneration of the king, but his majesty. To this end, the target community at home was the elite and noble class; in diplomatic terms, it was other kings (Canepa 2009: 156–8). Although the artist might have created an exaggerated scene in honor of the king, these plates were nonetheless meant to provide a depiction of the king’s glory to his audiences. There is a uniformity to them that suggests a common narrative. Made primarily of gold and silver, these circular plates represent the royal figures in positions of conquest and dominance, often drawing a bow or shooting an arrow, although sometimes using a sword or dagger. The compositions are generally done in a compact frame with the king always in the center, moving to the right, with the other elements such as animals filling out the rest of the space (Taheri and Sepidnam 2020). In most of the scenes, the king, who is usually riding a horse, has attacked and killed an animal with a bow, and is riding to kill a second one. He has vanquished, and continues to do so, in an image that Canepa has equated with the “sublimated violence” of the diplomatic exchange (Canepa 2009), depictions that provide a statement of power and authority. The various animals in the hunting scenes, including the deer, ram, lion, boar, antelope, each contain their own symbolism. In a silver-gilt plate possibly connected with the fourthcentury CE Bahram Kushanshah, the king, who is riding a horse and wearing a hat with a ram’s horns, boldly strikes a male boar with his sword (Harper 1981: plate xiv). The boar played an important role in Sasanian art scenes and was considered a symbol of victory due the difficulty of hunting them (Porada 1965:216). It was, however, also well-known for its religious significance. In one of the religious hymns of the period, the Bahram Yasht, Bahram is portrayed as a young warrior god who shows himself to Zoroaster in various

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FIGURE 23.3  Plate of King Hormizd II or Hormizd III hunting lions (source: Cleveland Museum of Art / ARTstor).

forms (Kanga 2014: Yasht 14). In one of these different forms, Bahram became a boar and went to Zoroaster (Avesta: Yasht 14.1515). Also, in the Avesta, Bahram transformed into a boar and accompanied Mithra (Yasht, 10.70). Deer represent royal dignity in Iranian symbolism. In scenes such as Ṭāq-e Bostān, the deer is depicted to verify the Sasanian king’s courage and strength, and at times they are a sign of the king’s legitimacy (Ahmadi Payam 2010). For example, on a fourth-century ce plate of Shapur II (Figure 23.4) located in the British museum, the Sasanian king puts his dagger in the neck of the deer from behind while holding the deer antler with his other hand, which indicates his complete victory over the animal. This scene deliberately reminds the viewer of the tauroctony, which is interesting given that depictions and discussions of this act were only found in the Roman world (“Mithra” in Grenet 2016). According to the stories, after his birth, Mithra attacked a bull by grabbing it and sitting on its back (Kuiper 1961:57). The antelope, too, has a very old presence in Iran, as it appears on pottery from Susa, and was considered a significant and respected animal (Dadvar and Mansouri 2006). Two of the most common animals that represent majesty are the horse and the lion. In most Sasanian art, the king is portrayed while he is riding a horse. The horse was a symbol

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FIGURE 23.4  Plate of Shapur II (source: Courtesy of the British Museum).

of freedom, strength, and victory. In his Yasht, the god Bahram becomes a beautiful white horse in his third manifestation to Zoroaster (14.9). As well, fighting on horseback was a way that young princes could display their wealth and power (Faridnejhad 2005); the role of the horse in the Sasanian world is well known in the ancient sources (Shahbazi 1996–7). Lions also appear throughout Persian imagery, dating back to the Achaemenid period. Their symbolism can be used both as animals to be defeated, and as figures of strength. For example, in ancient Iranian symbolism, all battle scenes between lion and bull convey the concept of the end of winter, most notably on the Apadana at Persepolis. The sun god was considered a hunter, and since the king was the sun god’s representative on the earth, he fought the lion. Also, due to the lion’s majestic and powerful features, people believed that the king had superior power over others, mimicking the power of the lion (Vosough and Mehrafarin 2015). Based on this evidence, then, Sasanian hunting scenes were influenced by Parthian motifs and symbols (De Waele 2004) as well as the Achaemenid past. As it evolved in Sasanian imagery, hunting imagery surpassed its literal meaning to become a symbol of

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the defeat of worldly and spiritual enemies who were depicted in the form of a variety of animals, all of whom had symbolic meanings in their own right (Canepa 2009). For the Sasanians, the king was often depicted in a way that called to mind Mehr/Mithra, which added a spiritual dimension, since the imagery often recalled one of the oldest gods in Iran, one who was a fighter against evil in the form of various devils. This then wedded the characteristics of the god with the characteristics of the king, since the Sasanian king was seen as the warrior king looking for spiritual unity. For instance, the boar is always seen in fighting scenes with soldiers or kings in Persian art. Its connection with Bahram, the god of war, gave it supernatural power. Thus, hunting the boar not only validated the king’s strength, but also, from a religious perspective, by killing the boar, its power was transferred to the king (Javidnia, Hozhabri, and Afkhami 2021). Such propaganda was useful both at home, as in the wall carvings at Ṭāq-e Bostān, as well as in portable objects, such as the hunting plates, that could be sent to neighboring countries to validate the legitimacy of the Sasanian kings.

LATE ROMAN ANIMALS The traditions of presenting animals in Roman art, particularly mosaics, has a long history independent of the images borrowed from Sasanian Persia. While it is beyond the scope of this chapter to discuss this evolution at length, by the Late Antique period, there were several types of imagery that were found throughout the Roman world. Trilling (1989), for example, draws our attention to two major areas concerning hunts that were depicted in Roman mosaics: rural hunts, often depicted in relation to larger narratives of rustic villa life, and circus hunts, those connected to the amphitheater. Although these are vastly different subjects, both portrayed Romans in control of their surroundings, dominating the external world. While the amphitheater imagery represented a certain cultural motif in the Late Roman world, the rural imagery––with images of pastoral, villa life–– represented a way of being that had become part of the koine of the Late Roman world. In the years following Constantine, there was a growth in rural villas all over the empire. Many of the surviving images of rural life come from these, with examples originating in Syria (Apamea and Antioch), North Africa (Carthage), and Italy, such as the hunting scene from the fourth century ce palace of the Piazza Armerina (Figure 23.5). As Gonosová (2007) points out, there were new additions to the corpus of animal images that could be used to decorate different structures beginning in the fifth century ce, and these originated in the Sasanian world. The complex borrowings between the two empires can be traced in a variety of media, and it should be noted that there were important Roman elements that made their way into the Sasanian world, notable in examples like the mosaics in the palace at Bishapur. There can be no doubt, however, that one of the most significant places we see Sasanian influence is in the new animal and hunting motifs that begin to make their way into the artistic world of the Romans. Gonosová (2007:40) draws attention to the striding lion mosaic in Antioch, which is depicted in Sasanian style, and she argues that such imagery increased throughout the fifth century ce, primarily in portable items and textiles. Nowhere is the influence of Sasanian motifs clearer than on the mosaics of the Great Palace in Constantinople, located in the northeastern hall of the fragmentary peristyle. Indeed, Canepa has drawn particular attention to these mosaics as part of his argument that the sublimated violence depicted could be seen as deliberately used to send a message to the Sasanian envoys (2009). He is undoubtedly correct in this assessment, but what

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FIGURE 23.5  Hunting scene, Villa Armerina pavement (source: Dietrich Hartill / ARTstor).

is also significant here is the very presence of images that were clearly understood by both sides, but which also had clear connections to the Sasanian world and were the culmination of the longstanding interaction between the two groups. The dates for these mosaics have been a point of contention for many scholars, although they are now widely accepted to have originated in the sixth century ce, possibly under Justinian I based on the stratigraphical evidence below the mosaic (Jobst, Erdal, and Gurtner 1997; Dark 2007). This is far from certain, and Bardill (1999) contends that they date to the late sixth century ce, while Trilling (1989) argues for a seventh-century date under Heraklios. For our purposes, the date is not particularly significant, as regardless of when these mosaics were created, there was already an acceptance of several Sasanian motifs that had made their way into this mosaic by the sixth century. Following Maguire and Maguire (2007), we can consider the reasons for the inclusion of Sasanian images that include both the creators and the ultimate viewers of the motifs. To the Roman viewer, then, images of “sublimated violence” were images of Roman dominance over the known world that included the Persians. To a Sasanian diplomatic visitor, they showed the Romans presenting themselves as superior and more powerful, capable of controlling even the Sasanian world (Canepa 2009:133-134). However, on a more general level, such images had also made their way into the artistic vocabulary of imperial dominance. Three elements of the Great Palace mosaic suggest this: the overall composition of the mosaic, individual images of fantastic animals, and some distinctive figures. In the first instance, one of the things that is most notable about the imagery is that it integrates all of the imagery discussed earlier without distinction. That is, the circus, the villa, and the great hunt all share space with a collection of real and mythical beasts. In Register A of the

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FIGURE 23.6  Two men hunting a tiger, bottom corner. Register A, Great Palace (source: CemSelvi/ IStock Photos).

mosaic, for example, we have three images in close proximity that speak to very different worlds: in the top left corner is a sadly fragmentary hunter looking over his shoulder (more on this later); in the top right corner, a griffin attacks a deer; and in the bottom right corner, two men hunt a tiger in an image that would not be out of place in a circusthemed mosaic (Figure 23.6). What remains of Register B shows several animal encounters—lions waiting to attack a deer; a hunter sneaking up on the deer; a griffin looking behind him; and several instances of animal violence, such as an eagle and a snake battling for supremacy. This image is difficult to interpret, as the snake is wrapped around the eagle. However, the eagle is ultimately succeeding, as blood is being drawn from the snake. Here is an image of imperial majesty over images of darkness. To a diplomatic viewer, this is an image of imperial supremacy; at the same time, a religious viewer could see this as strength over heresy. Registers C, D, and E include similar scenes, but now also include more pastoral scenes, images of the conquest of nature that was so much part of the Roman mindset in this period. The sense of dominance is clear, whether over an enemy, the natural world, or the land. Here, though, we would like to return to the other two subjects: the fantastic figures and the singular image of the hunter looking over his shoulder. These images come from the Sasanian world and mark the movement of Sasanian motifs into the common artistic vocabulary of the period. First is the hunter in Register A looking over his shoulder (see Figure 23.7). As Canepa (2009: 159) has noted, this is almost certainly an image of the so-called Parthian rider. It is not an image that has received much discussion, largely because it is so fragmentary. Able to shoot an arrow while looking backward, this figure is associated with the mounted warriors of the Parthian period. The image became somewhat ubiquitous subsequently and is found in a variety of Sasanian and Roman

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FIGURE 23.7  Parthian Shot Mosaic from Register A of the Great Palace (source: Walker trust)

contexts, often to depict a warrior of some strength. It also became a popular artistic motif in the borderlands of these empires, as noted by Takeuchi (2004). Nevertheless, it remains distinctly connected with the Persian world, and its presence here can be read as the deliberate adoption of a Persian hunting motif. Several of the fantastical beasts in this mosaic also have parallels in the Sasanian world. This does not, of course, suggest there are no examples of things like griffins in Roman imagery. However, they are a distinctive part of the Sasanian world, and the inclusion of these images alongside real animals and a very few traditional GrecoRoman beasts (like the winged lion in Register E) speaks to another borrowing of motifs. Thus, the unidentifiable animal in Figure 23.1 has potential parallels in the Persian world, such as an unprovenanced Kushan or Parthian statuette in the British Museum (#123267). Griffins, too, were a popular image in the Sasanian world, and there are two in the Great Palace mosaics, one striding along, and the one mentioned earlier, attacking a deer (Figure 23.8). Griffins appear in a variety of imagery and are often interchangeable with the Persian semurgh, another mythological winged figure who parallels the griffin. Examples appear in the stucco decorations at Ṭāq-e Bostān, as well as in plates, such as a late Sasanian/Early Islamic plate in the British Museum (#124095). In all, such images profess a vocabulary that was understandable to both visitors and local populations. This is not a novel idea, as we know the Romans borrowed from a variety of contexts. The meanings were understandable, and thus meant something to everyone who viewed them. Canepa’s depiction of this as a type of imagery of violence and dominance is surely correct––but we can take this one step further to see it as further evidence that there was much more widespread interconnection in this period than we have considered.

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FIGURE 23.8  Griffin attacking a deer, Great Palace Mosaics (source: Schmuel Magal / ARTstor).

OSTROGOTHIC ANIMALS In order to further illustrate how animal imagery was both co-opted and shared by multiple intertwining cultures to create displays of power, we now turn to imagery from the Ostrogothic world. Until recently, historians regarded the “Goths” as partially responsible for the decline and eventual disappearance of the Roman Empire in the West. The Germanic peoples were thus seen as the antithesis of Roman culture, values, politics, and beliefs. The truth however, is much more complex, as the Goths, as they established themselves in Europe in the fifth and sixth centuries CE, absorbed Late Roman culture. This can be seen particularly through the production, reception, and usage of Late Roman and Persian animal motifs as symbols of power and authority, both religious and secular. One of the problems in understanding Ostrogothic imagery is the fact that little is really known about norms of Ostrogothic art until they (and other Eastern European groups) settled in Western Europe (Johnson 2016). Indeed, the majority of our understanding of material culture from the nomadic groups in Eastern Europe comes from archaeological contexts and takes the form of ceramics and fibulae (Curta 2001, 2019). While there are some images of animals from this period, they are mostly in the form of fibulae and come from other “gothic” contexts, such as Visigothic Spain and the early Frankish kingdoms. Thus, what we understand of Ostrogothic art is largely filtered through their encounters with other cultures, and their subsequent borrowing of images of power and authority. Yet, the example of Ravenna provides us with a different context, as it was here that the most recognizable leader, Theodoric I (454–526 ce), set up his kingdom, and where the majority of what is termed Ostrogothic art is located (Johnson 2016:350). Born in what we would today call Hungary, Theodoric was exposed to alternating periods of war and

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peace with the Roman Empire as the Ostrogoths attempted to demonstrate their value as allies in politics, war, and trade to the politicians in Constantinople. In 461 ce, this goal seemed to come to fruition as Theodoric’s uncle Valamir arranged a truce with these imperial forces, resulting in a young Theodoric being sent to Constantinople as a hostage at the court of Leo I (457–574 ce) (Herrin 2020: 89). Despite having to occasionally attend official events as visual proof of the Emperor’s power, Theodoric and his peers were also educated in Greek and Latin, as well as undergoing rigorous military training (Herrin 2020: 90). It is from this time as a hostage that we can assume Theodoric was exposed to Roman education, politics, law, art, and warfare, all important for a future ruler to learn in order to implement, maintain, and display his power to his population (Herrin 2020: 90). There he encountered various images of power from across the Roman and Persian Empires and subsequently integrated them into his own displays of religious power (as an Arian) and political power (as an Ostrogoth) (Johnson 2016: 352). In 493 ce, Theodoric arrived in Ravenna, making this Italian city his new hub of power. Here, he established an administration based on Roman models, a center for cultural exchange and political musings, and was responsible for several great building projects, the celebration of Arian beliefs, and an ambitious artistic program (Herrin 2020: 95–6). Theodoric began to solidify his power through building projects, the implementation of laws for Roman and Ostrogothic citizens alike, and through carefully devised imagery spread throughout the city. There is no doubt among scholars that Theodoric modeled his rule on an imperial Roman system of administration. He allowed the Roman aristocrats to continue under Roman law, and he referred to himself as princeps and rex (a display of Roman power that is further exemplified on the coins that were minted during his reign that bear his face alongside of these titles) just to name a few of his more Roman inclinations (Scholl 2017; Herrin 2020). However, he also intermingled these Roman displays of power with Ostrogothic examples. Theodoric intended for Gothic warriors to defend his kingdom, and his inner administration was run not just by chancery officials and diplomats but by Ostrogothic warriors; he included Ostrogothic intellectuals alongside the Roman scholars to educate his court and to push forward the city’s culture, and he allowed for different laws to be applied to the Ostrogoths than to the Romans. Not only did Theodoric seem to hold Roman ideologies above Ostrogothic forms of knowledge, but he also manipulated Roman displays of power more frequently than Ostrogothic ones. This was evident through the building projects he commissioned, the statues that appear around Ravenna and within his palace, coinage that clearly imitated that of the Roman emperors (both East and West), and his request for imperial regalia that simultaneously showed recognition of him as leader and maintained his subordination to the Roman Emperor in Constantinople (Herrin 2020: 98). However, while Theodoric was continuing a Roman legacy in Ravenna, he was also manipulating various systems of power for his own gain. These systems of power are most evident in the artistic works that were commissioned throughout his kingdom, most notably the mosaic works that adorned both the pavements and the buildings themselves. Thus, although his own court hosted foreign dignitaries, it is most likely that Theodoric was exposed to such imagery in Constantinople as a boy, and through his exposure, helped bring many of the universal images that were known in both Roman and Sasanian art to Ravenna (Burns 1982: 104). Several artistic traditions are reflected in Ravenna, and the material culture reflects both Ostrogothic traditions and the adoption of Roman (and Sasanian) elements, particularly in places where animals are used to show power. Material culture and art are particularly important when discussing the power systems implemented by the

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Ostrogoths as they wrote relatively little about their own conquests, politics, ideologies, and religion leaving us to extract knowledge from these visual sources or from secondhand accounts. Theodoric’s particular brand of religious affiliation helped shape the art and the visual power displays that Theodoric commissioned around his city to help solidify his position as Ravenna’s ruler to local populations and foreign envoys alike. However, these images were also integrated into the wider trends of Ostrogothic Ravenna, serving several communities – particularly in the competing communities of Orthodoxy and Arianism. There are several examples in Ravenna of places where Gothic and Roman styles intersect, bringing with them images of power that have links to the Sasanian world. For example, within the mosaics of Sant’Apollinare Nuovo bright colors and the integration of birds and vegetation among the depictions of saints and of Christ and the patterned designs (Deliyannis 2010: 152), give a subtle nod to both Sasanian motifs carried into Roman art and elements of metallic Gothic art (Johnson 2016: 350). Polychrome decoration, for example, was inherent to the Gothic jewelry of the period (Burns 1982: 104) and characterized many of the mosaics in Ravenna. As noted earlier, Sasanian Persian art tends to include animal motifs across its many different artistic mediums. Whether printed on silks, woven into carpets, integrated onto metal works, or carved in stone, a variety of animals and hunt scenes are used to emphasize power, and many of these appear in Ravenna throughout the Late Antique and medieval periods (Volbach 1942: 172–3). Three examples illustrate that the imagery and artistic styles integrated both Roman and Sasanian motifs into Ostrogothic art, either via the Romans or through their earlier encounters in central Asia (Burns 1982:104). The first piece of artwork is the narthex mosaic of the Capella Arcivescovile (Oratory of Sant’ Andrea, Archepiscopal Chapel) (Figure 23.9) located as part of the episcopal complex; the second is on the porphyry sarcophagus located in the Mausoleum of Theodoric; and lastly are some examples from the pavements from Theodoric’s palace. The mosaic within the fifth/sixth-century Capella Arcivescovile is in the narthex and faces northwest. Importantly, this is a reflection of Orthodox theology, although created in an Ostrogothic environment. We see here an image of a warrior Christ trampling two beasts, a lion, and a serpent. Deliyannis points out that the image of Christ trampling snakes was already popular in Ravenna by the fifth century and is perhaps an imitation of Constantine and his sons trampling on serpents as it appears on the Chalke Gate in Constantinople (Deliyannis 2010: 163). However, what is more interesting is that Christ appears in the narthex with one foot on a serpent but another on a lion and is overshadowed by a golden ceiling covered with lilies, discs, and birds (Deliyannis 2010: 192–3). This depiction integrates elements of the polychrome style discussed above in its golden ceilings (whose golden color may have been a nod to Ostrogothic metalwork where such geometric patterns were often displayed) as well as through the integration of the complex designs with images of lilies and discs portrayed in repeating patterns. This design also integrates Sasanian imagery with both the fluttering birds overhead and the lion cowering under Christ’s feet. This image therefore demonstrates the power of Rome, with Christ dressed in Roman warrior garb, trampling on a serpent, with Ostrogothic art in the ceiling decoration and Sasanian imagery in the depictions of the lion and birds (Gonosová 2007: 40–1). These various symbols of power integrated into this one image would not have been lost on Ostrogoths, Persians, or Romans. While the image is Orthodox and reflects an anti-Arian stance, it still reflects the use of the symbols and artistic styles in religious art to claim religious superiority. Here, then,

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FIGURE 23.9  Oratory of Sant’ Andrea, Archepiscopal Chapel (source: Courtesy Art Images for College Teaching).

the Orthodox church uses imagery borrowed from the Roman and Sasanian worlds to proclaim its prominence. Theodoric was not, however, to be outdone in this regard, and we see this through his use of particular images. Lion imagery also appears on the side of the porphyry

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sarcophagus located within the stark Mausoleum of Theodoric. The Mausoleum itself is thought to have been built by eastern craftsmen and architects from Syria and Asia Minor because of its unique shape and brickwork (Deliyannis 2010: 126). Though assumed to have been the tomb of Theodoric, there is little evidence that he was ever buried there. It is an unusual structure. There are no complex mosaics, but rather just relief ornamentation (Zangenfries) around the base of the capstone that harkens back to Ostrogothic ornamentation with distinctive geometric patterns (Deliyannis 2010: 133). However, the porphyry sarcophagus of Theodoric does have slight ornamentation— namely, the head of a lion protruding from one side (Deliyannis 2010: 132). As we have seen, such imagery has distinctive association with the Sasanian world via the Roman one and further points to the deep -rooted integration of animal imagery from one powerful ruler to another. As the sole decoration in this monument, it marks an important declaration of power. Finally, there are the pavement fragments that depict an extensive mosaic program in the refurbishment of the imperial palace under Theodoric (Augenti 2007; Johnson 2016). Among the images present in these pavements are bright scenes of the circus and of hunting on horseback, as well as mythological imagery (Berti 1976; Johnson 2016: 368). Though this artwork survives only in pieces today, and the dates have been contested, there is now general agreement that the mosaics date to the Ostrogothic period (Johnson 2016: 368), largely based on the same bright colours seen elsewhere. As we have seen, hunt imagery had long been integrated into both Sasanian and Roman iconography and images of power, and it is tempting to see these images of hunting as reflective of the power of Theodoric himself. While the hunt mosaic is not complete enough to assess fully (Berti 1976: pl. XIX), it does speak to the co-option of this motif in an Ostrogothic context. The manner of presentation owes much to the Sasanian world, and the hunting motif provides a very careful declaration of power on the part of a new type of king, one that was paralleled in other (now lost) deliberate depictions of Theodoric as hunter in other places in Ravenna (Johnson 2016: 375–6). Though there is no way of knowing what the figure is hunting within these depictions, it is possible that it is a winged figure, which may connect this image further to the mythological images we have seen elsewhere. Whether that be griffin, winged lion, or other, the image is a distinct symbol of power, one with parallels in both the Sasanian and Roman worlds. This too is mirrored in the depiction of Bellerophon and the Chimera in the same palace, an image that parallels both Roman depictions of the story (as in the Great Palace) and Sasanian winged animals. (Berti 1976: pl. XLVIII) Despite Theodoric’s love for Roman tradition and art, he seems to have incorporated multiple facets and images of power in art installations across Ravenna. Though historians have long written about Theodoric’s longing to be king of a Roman Empire, there is evidence to suggest that he was not solely using Rome and their traditions to symbolize his position of power and authority among his people. Rather, Theodoric’s Ravenna appears to be much more international in design, with his depictions of power straddling images from Persia, Rome, and the Goths, to impress upon his citizens and visitors alike that his authority was all encompassing. His integration of multiple power symbols in conjunction with Arian iconography allowed Theodoric to proclaim himself the king of Italy, ruler of a center for international trade, politics, and education in the West, and indeed to prioritize Arianism. The fact that such imagery was, again, understood by all who witnessed it, and could be manipulated by the viewer, speaks to the universality of such imagery in this period.

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CONCLUSION Animal and hunt imagery was ubiquitous in the Late Antique world. Its origins were multivalent, as such images were universally seen as those of power and dominance. For the Sasanian Persians, hunt imagery was often connected to the superiority of the king, and his dominance over the earthly realm. Further, animals had divine connections in the mythology of Zoroastrianism, and their presence in these hunting images connected the king to the divine. For the Romans, the conceptual framework of power and domination is evident through hunting scenes, circus scenes, and rural agricultural scenes, all of which can be worked into the narrative of imperial dominance. However, parallel images of animals were used in liturgical contexts to show the superiority of Christianity and Orthodoxy and could thus be used as well to connect the emperor to his role as defender of the faith. Further, crossover imagery occurs with the presence of Sasanian elements in the Roman world, including the so-called Parthian shot or hunter and the presence of mythical beasts that had their origins in the Sasanian world. While we tend to restrict our interpretation to the major empires, the reality of the period was much more complex. In the art of the Ostrogothic kingdom of Ravenna, arguably the first place where we can see a distinctively Ostrogothic art, we see similar motifs and images, ones that were connected to standard ideas of power and control. However, in seeing them in a relatively minor kingdom, with an arguably heretical religious stance (Arianism), we see a co-option of standard imagery to new meaning. Here, the Ostrogothic king is presenting himself as ruler of his domain and as protector of his faith. It is both in line with the Roman and Sasanian meanings while also providing a subtle challenge to them. The language of power and dominance, however, was understandable to all, and thus speaks to the overall global connectivity of the Late Antique world.

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The Theriomorphic Images of the Hittite Gods STEFANO DE MARTINO

Animals played an important role in several aspects of Hittite life and society (Erskine 2021), including not only herding and farming but also religion and cult practices (Collins 1989, 2002). As is well known, Hittite gods were rendered visible to humans in the form of cult images that could be either anthropomorphic or theriomorphic; they could also be represented by aniconic idols.1 The Hittite words ešri- (HW2 II 9–10: 124–127) and šīna(CHD Š.3: 370–373) and the logogram ALAM refer to anthropomorphic images of any kind independent of the function of the image, either in the official cult or in magical practices (Collins 2005: 20) The word šiuniyatar (CHD Š.3: 507–508), however, which derives from the Hittite term for god (šiu-, CHD Š.3: 461–486), refers exclusively to images of gods and occurs in the so-called Cult Inventories in passages that describe the aspects of the listed idols (Güterbock 1983: 122–3). Animals were often imagined and represented in connection with gods, and each god had his own animal, for example, the bull of the Storm-god, the stag of the Stag-god Kuruntiya, the horse of Pirwa, the lion of the War God Zababa, and the sphinx of Ištar (Haas 1994: 490–503). The god was often depicted standing on the back of his own animal (von der OstenSacken 1988). For instance, the statuette of the War God Zababa is described in KUB 38.2 ii 17′–21′ thus: “The War God: a silver statuette (ALAM) of a man [standing]. He holds a mace in his right hand and a shield in his left hand], a lion stands beneath him, (and) beneath the lion (there is) a base2 plated with silver” (Cammarosano 2018: 296–8). Another detailed description of a statuette representing a god comes from KUB 38.2 ii 24′-iii 1 and refers to the image of the Stag-god: “Stag-god: a statuette of a man, standing, his eyes are inlaid with gold. In his right hand he holds a silver spear, in his left hand he holds a shield. He stands on a stag. Beneath him there is a base plated with silver” (Cammarosano 2018: 296–7). A nice example of a votive image of the Stag-god that fits this description is the small silver statuette (6.2 cm) that was found at Kalavassos-Hagios Dhimitrios (Cyprus) in a thirteenth-century bce tomb (Eriksson 1993: 152). The statuette, which is currently preserved in Nicosia, not only stands on a flat base, but may also be hung from a hook attached to the deity’s back. The god wears Hittite dress, and his hat is decorated with horns; he does not, however, hold a spear and shield as in the cited text, but a lituus

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(Kozal 2002: 657). The statuette may have been produced in Anatolia and kept as an amulet by the Cypriots who put it into the grave (Figure 24.1a). A stone block relief from the Turkish site of Altınyayala represents a personage, perhaps the Hittite king (Hawkins 2010: 171), offering a libation to the Stag-god. The deity is depicted standing on a stag (Ehringhaus 2005: 80–1). The same iconography is documented in the frieze that decorates the wonderful stag-vessel currently preserved at the Metropolitan Museum in New York as part of the Schimmel collection (van den Hout 2018; see also below). Otherwise, the god might be symbolized by either the image of an animal, or an animalshaped vessel. As for theriomorphic idols, large-scale statues of gods in the form of an animal have not been found, but we can form an idea of what they would have looked like from the friezes that decorate the İnandık vase.3 The Storm-god is represented here as a statue of a bull placed on a pedestal (Özgüç 1988; Figure 24.1b). A clay lion head, which was part of a life-size statue, was found in the Upper City of Ḫattuša in 2006, but unfortunately without contextual connection to any building. The animal is represented in the act of roaring, with its mouth wide open (Schachner 2007: 69–70, 2011: 220–1); we are unable to identify the original function of this lion statue. Perhaps it decorated the gate of a building––as did the two stone lions of the Lion’s Gate on the southwestern side of the city walls of Ḫattuša, for example––or it was an image of the War God that had originally been worshipped in a temple. The animal-shaped vessels are frequently mentioned in festival texts and were used in the “drinking ceremony,” when the Hittite king drank a beverage in honor of a deity (Burgin 2019: 113–14 with previous references). The vessel usually had the shape of the animal sacred to the deity in whose honor the rite was celebrated. Hittite texts refer to these drinking vessels with the Akkadian word BIBRU (Weeden 2011: 178–9; Heffron 2014), which is generally translated as rhyton.4 These vessels frequently appear in Hittite texts, and as an example we mention a passage documented in a tablet of the AN.DAḪ.ŠUMSAR spring festival (KBo 19.128+ iv 47′–49′, Alp 1983: 174–5). The text states that the king and the queen drank to the god Kuruntiya from a vessel (in the shape) of a stag (DÀRA.MAŠ).5 Another example comes from the text KUB 10.89 i 20′–21′: the king and the queen drank to the god Zababa from a vessel in the shape of a lion (that leans) on (its) four standing (legs) (Klinger 1996: 506–7). The tablet KBo 48.262a preserves an inventory of objects, including several animalshaped vessels (Otten 1989). Lines 9–22 mention the following items: four ox-shaped vessels (BIBRU) made from gold and precious stones, one of which stands on its four legs, while another one is represented kneeling, and the remaining two stand on their front legs (IGI-zi/ḫantezzi GUB-za); four stag-shaped vessels (BIBRU) made from gold and precious stones, and in this case too, the position of the legs on each vessel is specified; and four eagle vessels (BIBRU) made from gold and lapis lazuli. Three lion-shaped vessels (BIBRU) are also recorded: one of the lion vessels stands on four paws, and its head and body are made from gold and black iron; the second is a lion cup (GÚ) that is made from gold, lapis lazuli, and mušnuwant-stone and is decorated with a stone lion on its ḫešḫa-;6 and the third lion vessel (SAG.DU) is made from gold, but its rim is damaged.7 Finally, three golden leopard8 vessels and two leopard cups (GÚ), made from gold and lapis lazuli, are listed in the inventory. Other detailed descriptions of artifacts made in the form of animals are documented in the Hittite inventory texts, which list precious goods such as gold and silver objects,

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FIGURE 24.1  a. Stag-god on a stag, discovered at Kalavasos-Hagios Dimitrios, Cyprus Museum Nicosia (drawing by C. Fossati, based on author’s photograph). b. Storm-god as a bull. İnandık Vase from İnandıktepe, Museum of Anatolian Civilisations, Ankara (drawing by C. Fossati, based on Özgüç 1988: fig. 64). c. Pair of terracotta bull-shaped vessels like those from Ḫattuša and Sarissa (drawing by C. Fossati, based on A. Müller-Karpe 2017: 98).

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jewels, and textiles. These inventories may list luxury goods that had belonged to rich people or had been confiscated by the Hittite administration (Giorgieri and Mora 2012). The so-called Inventory of Mannini is an interesting example of this kind of document (KUB 1.12 +, Siegelová 1986: 441–51). A passage in this text (iv 16′-23′) mentions some human-shaped statuettes, two reclining sphinxes, six lion heads (SAG.DU), and six golden BIBRU-vessels. Four of the BIBRU-vessels are shaped like an ox standing on its four legs, and three of them are made from gold and precious stones; another one is made of gold, but its lip is damaged. Furthermore, the inventory also mentions one lion cup (GÚ) made of gold and precious stones, and one gold šaiu-animal (iv 20′–23′, CHD P.3: 386; Š.1: 21). The animal-shaped vessels mentioned in these texts differ from each other. Some of them reproduce the entire body of the animal, while others, which are designed as GÚ “neck,” only feature the animal’s head and neck (Güterbock 1983: 121; Weeden 2018: 237). Furthermore, these documents also mention animal heads (SAG.DU), and we wonder what they looked like. This term might refer to artificial animal heads made from different materials, or to cups shaped as an animal head without the neck. The Kastamonu ox vessels and the Alalaḫ lion cup, which we will describe later, might belong to this typology of vases. In addition, a fragment of a metal vessel found at Ḫattuša depicts a personage carrying an animal head that may be a ritual vessel (Boehmer 1983: fig. 35; Mielke 2017: 127). To be sure, the inventory of Mannini lists not only vessels, but also luxury goods of different kinds; hence, we cannot exclude the possibility that the six lion heads are sculptures that served as decorative elements for furniture or swords. For example, A. Süel argued that the beautiful stone lion head discovered at Šapinuwa might have been the handle of a sword (2017: 69).9 The hollowed-out eyes were presumably inlaid with another material, and the recess that surrounds the face of the lion could support the assumption that metal foil was originally applied to the stone surface. Animal heads also occur in some religious texts, but in this case, it is not always clear whether they allude to the real head of a dead animal or to animal-head vessels. For example, a fragmentary tablet that belongs to the Hattian religious tradition (KUB 28.87+ i 4′–8′, Klinger 1996: 682; Haas 2003: 464) mentions several items that were employed as materia magica during the performance of a ritual, and among them are three animal heads: one of a lion, one of a leopard, and one of a pig of the canebrake (ŠAḪ GIŠ.GI).10 To return to the animal-shaped vessels, several rhyta of this kind are documented from the Anatolian site of Kültepe (Koehl 2018: 59–65). This production continued in the Hittite age; in fact, animal vessels have been found at many sites of the kingdom of Ḫatti, and the most common among them are bull-shaped vessels, often manufactured as a pair (Figure 24.1c). They have been discovered at sites such as Ḫattuša, İnandiktepe, Šarišša/ Kuşaklı, Šamuḫa/Kayalıpınar, and Nerik/Oymaağaç. The bull stands on its legs, and an opening on the back allows the pouring of beverages (Mühlenbruch 2014: 117–20; Mielke 2017: 128; Müller-Karpe 2017: 98–9). In addition, two ceramic horse-shaped vessels were found at Šamuḫa/Kayalıpınar, and one of them wears blinders on its head (Müller-Karpe 2006: 224–6). These ceramic vessels might have imitated similar vases made of metal. An example of the production of the same typology of rhyton in ceramic as well as in metal is provided by the well-known silver fist vessels (Güterbock and Kendall 1995)—currently on loan to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston—and the ceramic fist vessel recently discovered at Ḫattuša (Schachner 2018: 9).

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The oldest exemplar of an Anatolian metal vessel in the shape of a stag standing on its legs may be the silver stag rhyton that was found in Shaft Grave IV at Mycenae; it is currently preserved at the National Archaeological Museum in Athens. The lead isotopic analysis supports the assumption that it was produced from Anatolian silver (Stos-Gale 2014: 199–204), although this hypothesis is not unanimously shared (Laffineur 2005: 56). This piece is generally dated to the Late Helladic I, but Graziadio and Pezzi (2006: 128, n. 92) argued that it might have been produced in the third millennium bce and preserved for centuries as an “heirloom” (Figure 24.2a). The silver stag vessel and the ox vessel of the Schimmel collection (Metropolitan Museum, New York) introduced before are among the most beautiful metal rhyta of the type that the Hittite texts call GÚ. They were purchased on the antiquities market and their findspot is unknown, but they are surely Hittite artifacts that could have been part of the inventory of a temple. The stag vessel was produced by hammering several pieces of silver alloy, and the upper neck of the vessel was decorated with a frieze that represents two deities and three worshippers (Fitton 2009a: 180–1; van den Hout 2018). Both the stag and the ox vessels witness the original multimaterial character of these artifacts. Thus, the recesses in the eyes and eyebrows of the ox head might have been filled with precious stones (Fitton 2009b: 184), and the hieroglyphic signs on the neck of the stag vessel are embossed inside ovals plated in gold (van den Hout 2018: 116; Figure 24.2b). Three other important but unprovenanced artifacts are the three ox-headed cups that are preserved in the Museum of Kastamonu. Their findspot is unknown, though it might have been close to the village of Kınık, and they could have originally belonged to a temple or to the household of a wealthy person. They were produced from an alloy with a high proportion of silver. Unlike the eyes of the stag and ox vessels of the Metropolitan Museum, the eyes of the Kastamonu oxen are hammered in relief and hence not inlaid with precious stones (Emre and Çinaroğlu 1993; Figure 24.2c). Cups in the shape of an animal head also come from sites that were outside the core territory of Ḫatti, as for example, the lion’s head clay cup discovered at Tell Atchana/ Alalaḫ already in 1953, but only recently published by Yener (2007). As this researcher argued, the artifact might have been sent as a gift by the Hittite royal court, or by a Hittite dignitary, with the aim “to symbolically include rather than exclude neighbours such as Alalaḫ” (Yener 2007: 223). This cup might be an example of the vessels that Hittite texts define as “head” (SAG.DU), as we have argued previously. Finally, a presentation of the theriomorphic images of the Hittite gods cannot omit the animal idols documented in tablets of the KI.LAM festival. Its name -EZEN KI.LAM “festival of the gate”11–presumably refers to the fact that during this three-day ceremony, the Hittite king toured several temples and buildings in Ḫattuša and some rites were performed at their gates (Singer 1975). The KI.LAM festival dates to the Old Kingdom, but it was transmitted in different recensions, and some of these were written in a later period.12 Tablet KBo 20.33+ documents one of the oldest recensions of the festival (Burgin 2019: 31–48). The rites connected to the parade of the animals are very synthetically described here (obv. i 9–16): The table attendant brings bread offerings, and the smiths bring two ox heads (SAG.DU GUD). The silver animals (ḫuitar) are carried out of the temple of Inar. One bowl of wine is poured into13 the leopard-vessel (UG.TUR), and another bowl of wine into the boar-vessel (ŠAḪ.NÍTA). They cause the animals to pass by. They cause the pēriobject14 to pass by. They cause the performers (LÚ.MEŠALAN.ZU915) to pass by. The gods come from the temple of the “Hunting Bag” (Burgin 2019: 32–3).

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FIGURE 24.2  a. Silver stag-vessel from Shaft Grave IV at Mycene, National Archaeological Museum, Athens (drawing by C. Fossati, based on Koehl 2018: 63, fig. 2.22). b. Silver stag-vessel. Schimmel Collection, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (drawing by C. Fossati, after Weeden 2018: 68, fig. 1). c. Ox-headed cup. Kastamonu Museum (drawing by C. Fossati, based on Emre and Çinaroğlu 1983: 379, fig. 3a). d. Relief nr. 1 on the left side of the Sphinx Gate at Alaca Höyük (drawing by C. Fossati, based on Schachner 2011: 206, fig. 97).

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A more detailed description of the parade of the animals is documented in the more recent recension of the KI.LAM festival preserved in the manuscript KBo 10.23+. After the dance of the performers, whose steps imitate the gait of a leopard, the king takes his place and reviews the procession of the animals of the gods as well as of the masters of the words, who may have been incantation priests (obv. iii 7′′–11′′, Singer 1984: 12). Then the swords, the hunting bags, and the animal idols are carried in procession (iv 11′–25′, Singer 1984: 14).16 This time the text explicitly mentions what animal idols pass by, namely, a silver leopard (UG.TUR), a silver wolf, a golden lion, a silver pig of the canebrake (ŠAḪ GIŠ.GI), a lapis lazuli pig of the canebrake, a silver bear (AZ), and another silver pig of the canebrake. The ceremony continues with the performance of a song in the Hattian language. Afterward, four different groups of people, either functionaries or representatives of local communities, pull models of stags. The palace attendants17 pull a golden stag (DÀRA.MAŠ); a silver stag with antlers is pulled by the people from the house of the shepherd; a silver stag with golden antlers is pulled by the people of the town of Ḫariyaša; and a silver stag without antlers is pulled by the people of the town of Zizzimara (Singer 1984: 14–15).18 A little more information on the parade of animals is supplied by the tablet KUB 20.180, which indirectly joins KUB 25.176. It belongs to a series of KI.LAM texts that I. Singer (1984: 88–98) labeled the “Outline Tablets,” but this series is just a different recension of the festival (Burgin 2019: 16–18). This text mentions, albeit in a fragmentary context, a silver statuette of a lion and a statuette of a pig of the canebrake. As we can see from this brief presentation, the oldest recension of the KI.LAM festival (KBo 20.33+) documents that the silver animals were carried out of the temple of Inar, a tutelary deity that was connected to the wild natural world (Taracha 2009: 42) and whose characteristics were similar to those of the Stag-god (Steitler 2017: 169–70). As argued above the mention of a leopard and a boar might refer to two animal-shaped vessels. The leopard, which is a symbol of strength and well documented in the imagery of the Anatolian civilizations from the time of Çatalhöyük (Gunter 2002), is not connected to any Hittite deity, and only a passage in the fragmentary prayer KBo 31.82 suggests a connection between this animal and the goddess Ḫebat (Collins 1989: 68–78; Steitler 2017: 322). In any case, the dance, which imitates the gait of the leopard and is performed by the LÚ.MEŠALAM.ZU9 in KBo 10.23+, supports the assumption that this feline played a symbolic role in the KI.LAM festival. Similarly, neither is the boar related to any Hittite god (Collins 1989: 187), nevertheless, boar-shaped vessels are well documented in the Kültepe ceramic production, and the Mesopotamian deity Ushmu/Izimud is represented standing on a boar on some seals from this site (Collins 1989: 184). We also wonder what the cult symbols mentioned in KBo 10.23+ looked like. As stated earlier, they are a silver leopard, a silver wolf, a golden lion, a silver pig of the canebrake, a lapis lazuli pig of the canebrake, a silver bear, and another pig of the canebrake. We assume that they were either statuettes that were fastened to the top of poles and might have been similar to the “standards” of Alaca Höyük (Singer 1983: 94; Ünal 2016: 395–6), or animal-shaped vessels. Instead, the four stag-models that are “pulled” (šallanai-) by, respectively, the palace attendants, the shepherds, and the citizens of two towns, might have been life-size idols on wheels. These stags differ from each other in material and appearance, and hence they could have been cult idols as well as the ensigns of the communities and groups of people who took part in the festival (Rutherford 2005: 628–9). The assumption that the passage from the KI.LAM festival indeed refers to wheeled statues of stags is supported by the

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visual evidence of the reliefs that decorate the Sphinx Gate at Alaca Höyük (Schachner 2011: 206–7). An unfinished relief, the last one on the left side of the Gate, depicts a huge model of an ox-shaped vessel on wheels (Easton 2010). It is pulled in a procession in which musicians, acrobats, and cult attendants also take part (Ünal 1994; Tarcaha 2011; Figure 24.2d). In conclusion, the wild and domestic animals, which lived in the forests and in the countryside of Anatolia, also populated Hittite settlements, temples, and palaces, in the form of either monumental statues, such as those at the “Lion Gate” at Ḫattuša, idols made from different materials, or else rytha; gods, men, and animals were all members of one and the same community.

NOTES 1 There is a rich literature on this topic. See, for example, Güterbock (1983); Collins (2005); Cammarosano (2018: 51–86). 2 The Hittite word for “base” is palzaḫ(ḫ)a-, see CHD P.1: 86–87. 3 This magnificent vase dates to the end of the sixteenth century bce and might have belonged to a “nobleman” who had kept it in his residence (Mielke 2006, 2017). 4 On this Akkadian word, see Tuchelt (1962); Carruba (1967); Güterbock (1983); Soysal (2010). 5 On this logogram, see Collins (2003). 6 The meaning of the word ḫešḫa- is unknown; see HW2 III.2: 572. 7 For the meaning of the verb tittalitai-, see Tischler (1994: 384). 8 On the meaning of the logogram PÌRIG.TUR, see Collins (2016: 85). 9 Concerning the function of this object, Süel (2017: 69) suggested that it could be a dagger handle, but it could also be part of a standard. 10 On this logogram, see Weeden (2011: 610). 11 See Singer (1983: 33–6); Waal (2015: 433–44). 12 Singer’s typological classification of these recensions (Singer 1983) has recently been challenged by Burgin (2019), who argued for a functional differentiation of texts that transmit the festival. 13 The sentence 1 ḫupar GEŠTIN ANA UG.TUR 1 ḫupar GEŠTIN ANA ŠAḪ.NÍTA laḫuwanzi can be translated as: “They pour one ḫupar wine into a leopard (vessel), one ḫupar wine into a boar (vessel).” We argue that the logograms UG.TUR and ŠAḪ.NÍTA refer to animal-shaped vessels, although the term BIBRU does not occur here. In support of our interpretation, we cite a passage in a Hittite text where the verb laḫuwa- occurs with the Akkadian preposition ANA: GEŠTIN … ANA GAL LUGAL lāḫuwai, “he pours wine into the king’s cup.” 14 We are unable to determine the meaning of this term. See Burgin (2019: 40). 15 For the deviant writing of the logogram ALAN.ZU9 in this passage, see Klinger (2012: 90–1, n. 40). On the cult attendants involved in theatrical performances, see Weeden (2011: 141–4). 16 Text KBo 10 23+ can be integrated by comparing it with KBo 10.25+ vi 3′–8′, which refers to the sixth tablet of the festival. See Singer (1984: 52). 17 The LÚMEŠ É.GAL mostly occur in religious texts and carry out functions similar to those performed by the DUMUMEŠ É.GAL. See Marizza (2006: 159). 18 These two towns are only rarely named in the Hittite texts, and we are unable to locate them. In any case, Hariyasa was the seat of an administrative structure, namely a palace, as documented in the tablet KBo 12.53+ obv. 22′ (Cammarosano 2018: 278–9).

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The Landscape

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Material Religion and the Perception of the Sacred Landscape in Ancient Mesopotamia ANNA PERDIBON

The Mesopotamian core region consists of the alluvial plain between the rivers Tigris and Euphrates, with the watery environment of the southern marshes alternating with the dry steppe far from the course of the rivers. Mountains enfold the Mesopotamian plain, from east through north to west: the Zagros, the Taurus with its southwestern extremity in the Amanus mountains, and the Lebanon mountain ranges are a crown encompassing the plain. Jebel Bishri, Jebel Abd el Aziz, and Jebel Sinjar comprise the arid Palmyrides mountains of Syria. Together with mountains, rivers, canals, springs, and underground waters are prominent topographic features in the Mesopotamian landscape. The Tigris and the Euphrates, with their myriad of tributaries and irrigation channels, wind through the plain until the Persian Gulf. Plenty of botanical beings to populate the alluvial plain, the marshes, and the mountains. This landscape represented entangled meanings in the religious life of the ancient Mesopotamians. What roles did trees, plants, mountains, water, and rivers play in their religious life? How were they represented, addressed, and engaged with in the mythical narratives and in the rituals? What does this evidence tell us about the perception of the sacred landscape and the different human–environmental relationships in the religious experience? Drawing upon the current discussion about how religion happens materially, this essay seeks to offer a brief outline on the ritual roles of mountains, rivers, and botanical beings in order to underscore some insights into the perception of the sacred cosmos and relational landscape of the ancient Mesopotamians and to further explore the connections between nature, divinity, sacredness, and the materiality of an ancient religion. In this vein, a particular emphasis will be placed on uncovering how natural elements informed the religious and healing experiences, and to the ways in which they are inextricably connected and entangled with bodies, places, and practices.

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BETWEEN MYTH AND RITUAL According to the studies delving into how religion happens materially, religion is understood as inseparable from a matrix or network of components that consists of people, divine beings or forces, institutions, things, places, and communities (Meyer et al. 2010: 209). Along this line, any religious belief is a reticulation of relationships among actors, where each aspect of this network of actors enjoys an element of agency (Latour 2005), while practices are defined as “ways of activating bodies, things, and places, recognizing in their interrelations a presence or voice or power that engages humans and their institutions and communities” (Meyer et al. 2010: 209). The Mesopotamian ritual texts are to be considered a precious repository for embodied beliefs and practices. Indeed, the ritual material comprises a rich interplay of mythical, ritual, and material insights: the performative aspects of the healing and cleansing rituals are generally complemented by mythical and symbolic references that set each element and object within a broader network of beliefs that formed the ancient polytheisms understood as fluid and daily experiences. Those narratives are thus to be understood as intrinsic and essential aspects of the practices, without which no ritual could be effective. Moreover, they offer glimpses into the religious roles of natural elements participating in the physical and mythical landscape. Based on the written evidence of cuneiform clay tablets, this chapter aims at highlighting notions on how the landscape and its other-than-human inhabitants acted in the ancient Mesopotamian material religion. It focuses on the textual genres of ritual texts with their embedded and complementary mythical narratives mainly dated to the first millennium bce. Throughout the ritual sources, mountains, rivers, and trees evince a synergic and entangled relationship. These natural elements are often recorded together in a dense network of symbolic and religious meanings: they are not only closely connected with one another but also with the great gods of the pantheons, and with the divine and cosmic realms. In mythology, the mountain is portrayed as an organism inhabited by different entities: watercourses, trees, and plants are the most prominent inhabitants of the mountainous landscape, together with stones, animals, legendary creatures, and the gods. In the incantations, these natural elements are invoked together: their agency and healing properties are called upon in the performance of ritual, displaying a complex religious connection between one another, and their embodied, sensorial dimensions.

AGENTIC MOUNTAINS AND RIVERS IN THE RITUAL LANDSCAPE An intriguing ritual text dated to the first millennium bce records several specifically named mountains and rivers of the Mesopotamian geographic and cosmic landscape. The so-called Lipšur Litanies comprises a list of mountains and watercourses, which are all called upon to release and purify the body of an afflicted patient (Reiner 1956). The text refers to these natural entities as animated agents, capable of protecting and acting against evil forces. While mountains are addressed together with their connected deities, trees, stones, and ethnic groups, the names of the watercourses are accompanied by epithets whose motifs are life, abundance, and order, with a few related to animals and to gods. In the rituals, mountains are often invoked as powerful other-than-human agents and are sometimes conceptualized as deities. Mountains are invoked for their protecting and

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healing powers: the actions typically ascribed to the Mountain-person include that of enshrouding, counteracting, and falling upon any malevolent agent that threatens the supplicant who turns to the mighty mountain. Another recurrent image associated with the mountain is that of a wall: the mountain is a protecting barrier against evil forces, which are to be dispelled beyond it. Its therapeutic attributes derive from the fact that the mountain is the place of pristine purity. Because of that mountains are a recurrent and privileged place of origin not only of pure entities––such as water, plants and trees, honey, incense, stones––but also of dangerous beings (demons, witches, and foreigners) and mythical characters. This is the case of Mount Šaššar, which gave birth to Anzû, the Mesopotamian Thunderbird. Some specific mountains featuring divine traits are attested as active agents in the rituals, as much as being recipients of offerings and worship. This is the case of Mt. Dipar, a sacred mountain (or even mountain god) in the Old Akkadian and Old Assyrian periods, which reappears in the rituals of the pantheon of Aššur as a recipient of offerings, together with Mt. Ebiḫ and the rivers Ulāya and Tigris. The history of Mt. Ebiḫ, a mountain belonging to the Zagros range, spans from Sumerian myths to the Neo-Assyrian rituals. In the former texts, it is described as a half-anthropomorphic and half-topographical deity, a bearded mountain god with a rebellious behavior against Inana’s supremacy. In the rituals of the Neo-Assyrian empire, Ebiḫ is called upon as one of the protecting and healing deities, and thus considered a recipient of offerings. Another major mountain who entered the pantheon of the great gods is Aššur. The mysterious identity of this mountain god should be understood as the result of a process that started from the veneration of a sacred mountain, through achieving fully divine status, and culminating in becoming the chief of the Assyrian pantheon in the first millennium bce. The cults of Ebiḫ, of Aššur, and of the collective mountains attest a lively religious life of the mountains in the Assyrian context. Due to the mountainous topography of the Assyrian landscape, a proper devotion to the mountains, with an organic religious and mythological network of significances, is fully expressed (Perdibon 2019). Sources of both fertility and destruction, of life and death, of healing and polluting, rivers embody the intrinsic ambivalence of existence with their body of flowing waters. In the eyes of the ancient Mesopotamians, rivers were polyvalent and fluid entities featuring the attributes of mothers, healers, and judges, often addressed as deities. In the repertoire of ritual texts, the river appears conceptualized and engaged with as a goddess, the mother of all beings, as a healer and as the divine judge of the River Ordeal. In the River Incantation, a widely attested text, all these intertwined features of the river are expressed: it is referred to as the “creatress of everything,” as the divine judge presiding over the River Ordeal, and as a sacred place connected with the Apsû (the cosmic subterranean water) from which the healing waters pour out (Lambert 2013: 396). The river features an intrinsic and widespread duality, which is reflected in its gender fluidity, as evidenced in the grammar, as well as in the literary and iconographical sources (Woods 2005: 19–20; Lambert 2013: 430). Such fluid gender and intrinsic duality can be ascribed to physical and symbolic attributes: it can be seen as a reference to the terminal points of a watercourse (i.e., source and delta), to an alternation of underground and overground traits, or to its opposing banks, but also to its dynamic connection to life and death, to light and darkness, as much as to self-renewal and regeneration. This evidence would point to the understanding of the river as a hermaphrodite being. In its life-giving and motherly attributes, the river was envisioned as a regenerating and nurturing goddess who took care of all life and provided abundance and fertility

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to all creatures and places. The Tigris, in particular, was conceptualized as a nurturing mother and a merciful and attentive goddess who listened to the prayers of her devotees, yet also demanded proper worship. Moreover, the Tigris was considered the mother of animals (i.e., reptiles) and of the mountains themselves, together with the river Ḫalḫalla (Blaschke 2018). Other specific rivers featuring motherly attributes were the Duran, which was called the “mother of the rivers” itself, and the Araḫtum (Reiner 1956; Groneberg 1980: 274–5). The latter was a main affluent of the Euphrates, addressed as the watercourse bringing life to Babylon, an allusion to its life-bringing agency for human communities and their cities. The powerful healing agency of River1 was fully expressed in the realm of evildispelling and healing incantations and rituals. Both the divine River (Id) and specific rivers were called upon during the purifying rituals, where they were accompanied by epithets specifying their cleansing agency and associated with deities involved in the therapeutic arts. For instance, the Tigris was recorded as part of the entourage of Gula, the healing goddess in the Neo-Assyrian royal rituals (Parpola 2017: 134), while the Me-kalkal was addressed as “healer of (every) living being” in the Lipšur Litanies (Reiner 1956). In virtue of its cleansing agency, River was conceived as one of the great cleansers of humankind. This notion constituted the conceptual basis for the practice of the River Ordeal. As impartial judge, River often accompanied the Sun, the supreme judge of humankind, during the rituals. An eloquent example of River’s agency and the materiality of ancient Mesopotamian religious and healing experiences is offered by an incantation preserved in the antiwitchcraft ritual Maqlû, “Burning” (Abusch 2015). In this context River was invoked with the formula: “May pure River smash her heart. May the pure waters of River release her witchcraft. And may I, like River, become pure in my mountain” (Maqlû III 85–87; Abusch 2015: 307). River was called upon in order to act personally against the kaššāptu (the Mesopotamian witch) by smashing her heart, so that its waters may release the patient from her evil craft. The association of River with the Sun speaks to the conception that saw the Sun emerging from the cosmic mountain in the east, the mythical setting where destinies were established at every daybreak and from which the mythical river flowed (Abusch 2002, 2015; Polonsky 1999, 2006; Woods 2009). In the legal practice of the River Ordeal, River, generally referred to by the name Id and featuring male traits, comprised both the role of the divine judge presiding over the establishment of the verdict, and the physical body of the divine River Ordeal itself. This legal practice was performed mainly along the course of the Euphrates, particularly at Hit, a locality famous for its thermal and sulfurous springs (Heimpel 1996). This thermal spot, rich in gases emitted by the springs, was particularly suitable for practicing the Ordeal. Along the Euphrates, consistent textual and material evidence attests to the cult of Id particularly during the second millennium bce (Woods 2005: 33–4; Sasson 2015): royal letters, records of offerings, and the giving of personal names from the cities of Tuttul, Mari, Hit, and Sippar are evidence of a particular piety and worship of the divine river, praised as lord, god, judge, and protector (Durand 2008: 161–2; Porter 2009: 161–2; Lambert 2013: 430). What can be evinced from the textual and material evidence is that the river ceased to be worshipped as a deity per se after the second millennium, though it remained a powerful divine agent in rituals and incantations throughout the first millennium, especially in the Assyrian context.

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RITUALS IN THE LANDSCAPE: A PLAY OF CORRESPONDENCES BETWEEN THE MICRO- AND THE MACROCOSM Along with natural elements participating in the rituals and in addition to those rites worshipping natural elements, certain rituals were carried out in natural contexts. Rivers, especially, were considered the ideal performative setting. Due to their pure waters being capable of carrying away any defilement, sin, and disease, the purifying rites––such as Maqlû, Šurpu, Bīt rimki, and Mīs pî––took place on the river bank or had some parts of the cultic performance on its banks. During the ritual Mīs pî, before the wooden statue of the god was brought to the river bank, offerings of flour and beer were poured into the river. While presenting the offerings to the river, the āšipu (the cultic performer expert of purifying and evil-dispelling rituals) recited incantations three times each in front of it, addressing the river as the quay of the Apsû, where fates are determined (Walker and Dick 2001: 54). This evidence speaks to the notion that the river bank is considered the quay of the Apsû, while the flowing waters of the river are the Apsû itself, in a dynamic relation between the topographical aspect of the river and the physicality of the fluvial deity. The river was also considered an ideal place for contacting the gods (normally Enki/ Ea). The practice of sleeping by the river and of presenting offerings and prayers to the river in order to contact the gods is well attested in the Flood Story. In Old Babylonian, Neo-Assyrian, and Neo-Babylonian manuscripts an incubation ritual is recorded. In particular, the Babylonian accounts offer more details of such practice. One night, when the stream was calm, Atra-ḫasīs presents incense to the river, while praying that the watercourse would carry his prayers in its waters and bring them to Ea. After having sent his message to the stream, the wise man weeps while sitting beside the river. Meanwhile, the flow has reached the Apsû and delivered his message to Ea. The god did not hesitate to respond, as he sends his sea-monsters, the Laḫmu, in a dream (Lambert and Millard 1969: 76–9; Hecker 2015: 142; Ermidoro 2017: 96–7, 146–8). Despite such an incubation rite being attested only in the Atra-ḫasīs story, it is presumable that it was a widespread practice. The conception of rivers as channels of communication between the human and divine worlds seems, in fact, deeply rooted among the Mesopotamians (Zgoll 2006: 309–51). Springs were also cultic places in which shrines were built and rites performed. Evidence for this is found in the Song of Bazi, which refers to the establishment of a sanctuary for the minor herder god Bazi among the springs of mounts Šaššar and Bašār (modern Jebel Bishri). According to this literary text, Bazi’s dwelling was in a cavity among the rocks of the mountain: its slopes are described as reaching deep into the earth and high into the sky, its walls were made of precious stones, and its gates were protected by dragons and dead gods. Such a reference underlines the association of mountains as thresholds of the netherworld with the liminal and chthonic characterization of the god’s abode. Bazi’s temple is located in an aquatic setting, where the underground waters emerging from the Apsû merged into the divine River, Id, and engaged with Ea. Indeed, Mt. Šaššar (Jebel Bishri) has been noted for its springs since antiquity, some of which still provide water and deep wells (Lönnqvist and Lönnqvist 2011: 200). The specific reference that half the waters are death and half the waters are life, as well as the mentioning of the gods Šamaš, Šakkan, and Id, is an eloquent allusion to the judging and purifying agencies of water expressed in the River Ordeal (George 2009).

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In the description of Bazi’s sanctuary, the dialectic between mountains and temples is highlighted. As sacred places, mountains were the natural mirror of the urban temple (Horowitz 1998). Temples were built to resemble mountains: the shape of the ziggurats clearly manifested this intention with its constitutive architectural parts, which were built and named according to the natural and mythical topography of a mountain. Each temple had a sacred water source (i.e., a fountain, pool, or well) that was symbolic of the Apsû. Even the temple names expressed this correspondence: many temples carried names such as “great mountain” or “temple of the mountain.” Conversely, mountains corresponded to temples in the wildness, beyond the boundaries of civilization. Moreover, this text suggests the presence of temples or shrines in the mountainous context, and likewise of seasonal festivals and/or processions held in loco.

THE MATERIALITY OF HEALING The play of correspondences between the micro- and the macrocosm is eloquently found in the so-called Incantation of Eridu (Geller 2007: 245, 2016: 460–3). This text describes a cosmic tree in the secret forest, while stressing the materiality of the religious practices: In Eridu a black kiškanû-tree grew, created in a pure place, Its appearance is pure lapis lazuli, which extends into the Apsû. Ea’s activities in Eridu are full of abundance, His dwelling is the place of the netherworld, And his sanctuary is Nammu’s bed. In a pure temple, which is like a forest with its stretching shadows, (where) no one shall enter its midst, (there) are Šamaš and Tammuz. Between the mouth of the two rivers, Kahegal and Igihegal, the Lahmu-of-the-Apsû of Eridu, Took that kiškanû-tree, cast the spell of the Apsû, and placed it on the distraught patient’s head. (Utukkū Lemnūtu, Tablet XIII, 95–103) This incantation not only provides perceptions of ancient healing rituals, but also reveals the canopy of symbols and relationships among the healing nonhuman agents and the different cosmic regions of the Mesopotamian landscape. Here the kiškanû-tree appears as a sacred and cosmic tree, whose roots stretch into the Apsû, growing at the “mouth of the two rivers.” This expression refers to the cosmic springs (presumably of the Tigris and of the Euphrates) that poured out from the cosmic mountain on the eastern horizon. This mountain, with its sacred forest, was the mirror of the urban temple in Eridu, where a sacred tree grew, perhaps in association with a holy well or pond within the sanctuary. The darkness that envelops the setting is further expressed by the reference to the shade of the tree, which is equated not only to the shade cast by the shrine, but also to the darkness pervading both the shrine and the forest. This sensorial allusion to nonvisibility should be understood as a double reference to the fact that human eyes were unable to see the innermost interior of the temple, much as they were unable to see the midst of the forest on the cosmic mountain. On display here is a dense network of allusions and a play of correspondences and oppositions between darkness and light, as well as between

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the urban sanctuary of the Apsû in Eridu and the cosmic setting of the tree on the cosmic mountain, where it was nurtured by the pure waters of the Apsû. This place of darkness and mystery, where the roots of the tree grow, ensured the pristine purity and healing agency of the kiškanû-tree. Being included in the rituals for dispelling the evil demons of Mesopotamian lore, this incantation was chanted during the healing performance while a piece of kiškanû-wood was placed on the head of the patient. The tree thus acted as a repository of cosmic forces and divine protections, all invoked through the mythical reenactment, and embodied in the wooden stick or wand that would affect the human body. Furthermore, this incantation suggests that the kiškanû-tree was a sacred tree of Ea, likely planted within his sanctuary in the city of Eridu.2 Besides being materially present in the rituals in the form of wands as repositories of gods and benevolent spirits, botanical beings had other fundamental roles and utilizations in the rituals. Their leaves, barks, and resins were burned in censers or immersed in water to cleanse and purify the patient’s body. An eloquent example is found in the great antiwitchcraft ritual Maqlû, where the three main botanical species of the Mesopotamian plain are called upon to counteract the evil crafts. Tamarisk is invoked to clear, the date palm to release, and the maštakal-soapwort to free the kaššāptu’s victim (Maqlû I 21–23; Abusch 2015: 229). Other trees partook in the rituals thanks to their fragrance. Cedar, ḫasur-tree, and juniper were relevant for their distinctive scent, that, along with their mountainous origin, informed their cosmic and healing agencies. In the ceremony Šurpu (“Burning”), performed to dispel all evil, a spell invokes the cedar, which “grows on the high mountains, whose destiny is established in the mountain, the pure place, which reaches the sky,” whose “fragrance wanders in the fields” and which makes the water in the lustral basin pure (Reiner 1958: 46). Such mythological, ecological, and material references in spells for ritual use, instead of being considered mere formulaic means of activation of the magical matter, constitute precious receptacles of beliefs, symbols, ritual practices, and herbal knowledge of the cuneiform cultures. Between the ritual, cosmic, and mythical references, trees and plants appear as independent agents with the main roles of healers and purifiers of the human body. Vegetal beings appear to be spiritual and material at once: through their presence, fumigation, or soaking, they are connectors between the different dimensions and inhabitants of the cosmos, and great cleansers of the bodies of humans and gods alike. The latter is an allusion to the ritual practices of fumigations through burning their branches in the censers in front of the wooden statues of the gods, but it also points to the strict connection to sacredness and the deities of certain trees.

THE BODY OF THE GODS The arboreal connection with the deities and sacredness is further expressed by the fact that certain trees were considered not only the purifiers of the bodies of the gods themselves, but also the body of the god itself. Trees such as the mēsu-tree and the tamarisk are explicitly called flesh or bones of the gods. The tamarisk in particular is variously addressed as the great purifier of the gods and the bone of the deities. In a spell belonging to the ritual series mīs pî, the ceremony of washing the mouth of the wooden statue of the divinity, the tamarisk is invoked as a pure tree that grows in a clear place, from whose body the deities are given birth, and its branches purify the gods (Walker and Dick 2001: 97–101). In a ritual text for producing protective statuettes, the tamarisk is addressed as the bone of the divinity, consecrated tree, and sacred wood (Wiggermann

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1992: 8–9). By being transformed into the earthly and physical body of the gods, two main aspects of the Mesopotamian concept of divinity are expressed and intertwined: the tree, by being the body of the gods itself, clearly partakes of divinity, while the god becomes a corporal entity. The tree is not only the gods’ abode, but it is the incarnated deity. If the tamarisk was famous for being the preferred wood for sacred statues of the gods, another tree often used to produce apotropaic figurines was the e’ru. This tree, whose identification remains speculative but seems to be oriented toward a certain type of willow or dogwood, was used for the production of small objects, figurines, and sticks, evidence that stresses its elasticity. In a ritual that mentions the tamarisk for the production of apotropaic figurines, the e’ru is also praised and utilized for carving the “statuettes of the Sages” (ūmū-apkallū), which were positioned in different parts of the house of a sick person for protection and healing (Wiggermann 1992: 6–7). Beyond the fact that the wooden figurines and statues embodied divinities or semidivine protective entities, it must be emphasized that both the tree and the wooden object born from its transformation were considered active nonhuman agents with essential roles in the ritual and daily life of humans.

MESOPOTAMIAN LANDSCAPE IN THE MATERIAL RELIGION: TOWARD A CONCLUSION Protective mountains, healing and judging rivers, trees that are the body of the gods, and plants that are called upon for healing through their presence, and smoke, all speak of a deeply relational landscape that takes part in the ritual and shapes the religious experience in multifaceted ways. The lively picture of rituals, incantations, and offerings offers a glimpse into a world where gods and humans were part of a much more complex and multilayered system, with every being closely connected with the others in a dense network of symbolic, spiritual, ritual, and material relationships. Mountains, rivers, trees, and plants were understood and engaged with as cosmic entities, as other-thanhuman agents, and sometimes as deities. Considering how these beings engaged with the ritual sheds new light onto ancient human–environmental relationships expressed in the materiality of an ancient religion.

NOTES 1 The capitalized River is utilized in those cases where the river is referred to and engaged with as an agent, often with divine attributes, and as a more-than-topographical entity. 2 The kiškanû-tree has variously been identified as a reed stalk, a date palm, or even a cedar, but also as an artificial tree connected to temples and/or used in a cultic role, or as part of a sacred grove (Giovino 2007: 197). Since there is no clear evidence for establishing the identity of this tree, every interpretation remains speculative.

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Imagining the Supernatural: The Landscape of KuraAraxes Sacred Funerary Mounds CHIARA PAPPALARDO AND NICOLA LANERI

The material turn in religion studies has affected the understanding of the relationship between humans and the divine. Moreover, based on a relational ontology of the landscape, the following chapter will investigate how humans “imagine” the supernatural through their perception of the world. Drawing on a phenomenological-cognitive approach that focuses on ancient mobility and the visual properties of funerary structures and fire, we will use the case of Early Bronze Age (Kura-Araxes I, i.e., 3600–2900 bce) kurgans of the Southern Caucasus to demonstrate the importance of creating artificial funerary mounds (i.e., kurgans) for the purpose of constructing ancestral landscapes for pastoral communities. In fact, as in the case of the necropolis of Şadılı-Uzun Rama, in Western Azerbaijan, the corpses of the deceased were laid in communal, long reused tombs that were visible from a distance and were spectacularly given to fire at the end of their usage. The systematic visits to these places by the community of the livings, related to seasonal movements of these pastoral groups, enacted a cyclic ritual of physical reunification with the ancestors, whose presence was tangible in their sacred mounds.

TOWARD AN UNDERSTANDING OF THE INTERACTION WITH OTHER-THAN-HUMAN BEINGS IN KURA-ARAXES COMMUNITIES In his seminal search for “the historical roots of our ecologic crisis,” Lynn White points out that “what people do about their ecology depends on what they think about themselves in relation to things around them” (White 1967: 1205) and rightfully argues that “human ecology is deeply conditioned by beliefs about our nature and destiny—that is, by religion.” In the epistemological enterprise that is the framing of religiosity in ancient societies, the new emphasis on materiality as a medium for social and cultural meaning should thus complement a broader effort to reconstruct the whole network of material

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engagements with a world of human and other-than-human agents (e.g., animals, celestial phenomena, natural or built elements in the landscape). In this chapter, a theoretical perspective grounded in a relational ontology of the landscape will form the basis for a methodological workflow aimed at a reconstruction of Kura-Araxes modes of religiosity as expressed, in particular, in the interaction with the landscape of the lowlands of the Southern Caucasus through the praxis of constructing large tumuli that cover funerary chambers for multiple inhumations, that is, kurgans. As stressed by recent approaches to ecological perception that ultimately result from the overcoming of the Cartesian dualism by the phenomenology of Husserl and especially Merleau-Ponty, the relationship with the world is necessarily mediated by the sensory experience, because it is through the senses that such relationship exerts its agency. Tilley and Cameron-Daum (2017: 7) have furnished a brilliant description of landscape as “an existential ground for our embodied being: we are both in it and of it, we act in relation to it, it acts in us. … The agency of landscape is embodied because it acts on us through the mediation of our bodies.” In relational ontologies, landscapes are thus shaped through the ongoing interrelations of human and other-than-human actors. According to the British anthropologist Tim Ingold, who sought to reunite holistically the world and the subject, and thus the dichotomy between perception and imagination, they can be understood as processes that are continuously remade by perception and imagination. He does so by reconsidering the very meaning of imagination, that, in his words, is not the work of mind as an abstract and disembodied entity, but of one’s entire being. To imagine, in his words, is to participate from within, through perception and action, in the very becoming of things (Ingold 2012: 3–10). The recent attention of both anthropology and archaeology to the cognitive dimension of relating with nature requires overcoming and integrating the focus on the sole domestic aspect of Kura-Araxes religiosity in the Southern Caucasus between the fourth and third millennia bce (Sagona 1998; Sagona and Sagona 2009, 2011; Smith 2015). In fact, archaeological research has highlighted a possible shamanistic religious behavior among the Kura-Araxes communities centered on the hearth as focal point of the home and on the suggested use of hallucinogens during rituals that connected the oikos to wild nature as stylized in clay figurines and decorative patterns (Sagona 1998; Sagona and Sagona 2009, 2011). On the other hand, archaeological data from the middle and lower Kura basin suggest the persistence of a phase, at the turn from the Chalcolithic to the Bronze Age, of high mobility with a settlement pattern of ephemeral campsites that left almost no trace in the archaeological record, and the employment of considerable effort to build permanent and highly visible houses for the dead (Laneri, Palumbi and Müller Celka 2019). In order to approach the meaning of the places selected to embed the ancestral memory of the ancient mobile communities in the landscape of the Southern Caucasus, we propose to adopt a phenomenological-cognitive perspective aiming at the reconstruction of ancient patterns of movements and the visibility properties of the kurgan sites, together with a broad definition of animism and ancestor. In recent years, in fact, Marshall Sahlins (2014) proposed a revision of Descola’s ontological schema that sees totemism and analogism as distinct variants of animism, while a strong distinction is established between animism in the broad sense and the naturalism of modern Western societies. This inclusive definition of animism provides a better theoretical framework to the understanding of prehistoric societies, where the lack of written sources goes often with a fragmentary documentation of living habits. The second term is used here according to the relational model proposed by Tim Ingold (2000) and opposite to the genealogical one, referring to former inhabitants

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as spirits who have contributed to shape the landscape. It is argued that, according to the aforementioned relational ontology, while nomadic groups shape their scape of praxis (Tilley 1994: 22) through repeated movements in the land, landscapes exert their agency in framing the imagined world of the cosmological-religious dimension.

KURA-ARAXES KURGANS: THE DATA The Turkic word kurgan (Museibli 2014) refers to monumental burials of varying typology and size, which have in common a tumulus-shaped heap of earth and stones as visible landmark for the presence of a burial beneath it. Their earliest archaeological record in the Caucasus seems to traced back to the late fifth millennium bce, when the first barrows of a limited scale were built above the graves of single individuals by Chalcolithic groups of the Northern Caucasus that may have been in contact with the communities of the steppe further north and of the Pontic area (Reinhold 2019). Kurgans, in fact, have long been assumed as a key archaeological correlate of a pastoral culture that, according to the classic “Kurgan Hypothesis” by the archaeologist and linguist Marija Gimbutas, starting from the mid-fifth millennium bce spread by means of domesticated horses, wheeled transport, and a hierarchic organization from Southern Russia to Europe, exporting the Proto-Indo-European language and patriarchy (Gimbutas 1997). A different view on the origin of this funerary tradition has gained support in the last years from salvage excavations in Western Azerbaijan connected to the construction of the Baku-Tbilisi Ceyhan oil pipeline and the South Caucasus Pipeline. The discovery of Chalcolithic kurgans in the Southern Caucasus, such as the Soyuq Bulaq barrows from the Agstafa region of Western Azerbaijan (Lyonnet et al. 2008; Museibli 2014), would in fact support an origin of this funerary tradition in the south within the Leilatepe culture, that established far flung networks with Northern Mesopotamia, eventually developing in the lavish kurgans of the Maikop culture that flourished in the Northern Caucasus from the mid-fourth millennium bce, roughly simultaneous with the KuraAraxes complex of Transcaucasia. Despite different speculations on the origin and spread of barrows in the area, as noted by Antonio Sagona (2018: 154–5), it is worth noting that a blending of funerary traditions and assemblages that mirrors a wide range of cultural contacts, reached at this early stage as far as Central Asia and Northern Iran. Kurgans, moreover, will be considered here as a way of modeling the landscape through a permanent and visible imprint that can be defined as proper to communities that practice mobility to various degrees, and thus as a concept that can transcend the rigid spatial and chronological boundaries of archaeological facies, although the case study of a specific area and culture, that is, the Kura-Araxes I of Northwestern Azerbaijan, will be covered in greater detail here (Figure 26.1). The beginning of the Bronze Age in Transcaucasia largely corresponds to the development of the Kura-Araxes I complex, which new radiocarbon analyses from the Goranboy region of Azerbaijan seem to place as early as 3600–3500 bce (Laneri et al. 2020). Profound changes involving technological innovations, resources exploitation, and, consequently, settlement patterns, together with new funerary and cultic traditions, spread with astonishing consistency, starting from the mid-fourth millennium bce, from the eponymous interfluve over a large area also including Eastern Anatolia and Northwestern Iran, and reached as far as the Levant by the end of the millennium (Palumbi 2008, 2016; Palumbi and Chataigner 2014; Sagona 2014). Compared to the Late Chalcolithic tradition, the ceramics of this phase in the Southern Caucasus show a great regional

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FIGURE 26.1  Topographic map of Northwestern Azerbaijan with the sites mentioned in the text (source: GaRKAP archive).

homogeneity, characterized by a mostly grit-tempered paste, opposite to the previous Chaff-Faced Ware, with a handmade repertoire of shapes including a prevalence of ovoid bodies, pronounced shoulders and cylindrical necks, and new functional classes on which lugs and lids figure more frequently. A greater investment in terms of time and labor was devoted to the burnishing process in order to obtain polished surfaces, which in this early phase, up to the end of the fourth millennium, are monochromatic (Monochrome Burnished Ware) in shades of brown, gray, and black, hinting at a firing process in reducing atmospheres. Decoration was usually limited, at this stage, to rare incised patterns and isolated relief motifs, such as raised knobs and ribs (Palumbi 2008; Sagona 2014). An aspect of rupture is represented by settlement patterns. In the foothills of the Southern Caucasus, the evidence of settlements with material culture comparable to coeval tombs is sheer and seems to concentrate instead in the highland region with altitudes above 1500 m asl (Palumbi 2008), where modern nomads are found (Cribb 1991). Monocellular wooden and pit-dwellings, usually circular in shape, are documented in the Shida Kartli region (Berikldeebi IV) (Džavakhišvili 1998; Rova 2014), and probably in Southern Georgia (Grmakhevistavi) (Abramishvili et al. 1980), but also in the stratigraphy of sites in the highland that seem to belong to a transitional Kura-Araxes I–II phase (from c. 3300 bce) due to the introduction of the Red-Black Burnished Ware, that implied a more demanding firing technique, such as Khizanaant Gora E, Mokhra Blur XI–IX in the Ararat plain, and Kültepe in proximity of the Araxes valley (Palumbi 2008). Here the monochrome pottery of the Kura-Araxes I horizon appears often in association with a distinctive element of the Kura-Araxes cultural “package” such as andirons with handles. Pit tombs and stone-lined tombs of variable shapes are frequently associated to these settlements (Poulmarc’h, Pecqueur, and Jalilov 2014; Rova 2018).

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FIGURE 26.2  (a) Analysis of elevation through fishnet of 10 × 10 km and zonal statistics, and (b) analysis of kurgan sites proximity to waterways through Euclidean distance (source: GaRKAP archive).

The landscape of the lowlands is dominated by kurgans that reproduce with their distinctive contour, usually between 1 and 2 m high, the ridged horizon. As shown by a site location analysis of the Kura-Araxes I kurgan necropolises of Northwestern Azerbaijan (Figure 26.2), the preferred location is the calcareous piedmont of the Lesser Caucasus (Figure 26.2a), in the close proximity of the Kura affluents that flow in a southwest– northeast trend, and especially at their valley outlets (Figure 26.2b). The data set includes in particular the sites of Osmanbozu (Kesamanli, Jafarov, and Babaev 1980; Sagona 1984; Akhundov 1999; Narimanov 2004), Mentesh Tepe (Lyonnet and Guliyev 2010; Lyonnet et al. 2012: 86–121), Tatarli (Huseynov 2019), Khankendi (Akhundov 1999), Kudurli/Sheki (Akhundov 2001), Borsunlu, Hanlar, Kabala, Dashuz, Ganja (Akhundov 1999, 2001; Narimanov 2004), and Şadılı-Uzun Rama (Laneri et al. 2019, 2020). Despite different construction techniques, testifying to the use of simple excavated or mud brick-lined funerary chambers of varying sizes and shapes (Figure 26.3), from circular to rectangular, a variability that does not appear to have a chronological or regional significance, the archaeological remains seem to testify to a peculiar funerary habit. The kurgans of the early Kura-Araxes period of Northwestern Azerbaijan housed, in fact, multiple burials that may have been practiced through periodic re-openings of a dromos entrance, since, according to recent anthropological analyses of the human remains (Poulmarc’h, Pecqueur, and Jalilov 2014; Erdal et al. 2019), new depositions were accommodated inside the chamber after pushing the previous ones close to the walls. The orientation of the funerary chamber was consistently arranged in a north/northwest– south/southeast position, with the dromos entrance at the eastern side (Huseynov 2019).

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FIGURE 26.3  Plan and pictures of the Kura-Araxes I kurgans from the plateau of Şadılı-Uzun Rama: (a) Kurgan 1; (b) Kurgan 5; (c) Kurgan 6 (source: GaRKAP archive).

The fixed positioning of the dromos in Western Azerbaijan, with the clear purpose of letting in the sunlight, seems thus to indicate that the ritual of the funerary deposition was to take place within the first hours of the morning. At the end of their use, the funerary chambers of these kurgans were intentionally set on fire through an opening that was located, according to a recurrent pattern well documented by recent excavations at the sites of Tatarli and Şadılı-Uzun Rama (Jalilov 2015, 2018; Huseynov 2019; Laneri et al. 2020), on the western side of the chamber. The necropolis of Şadılı-Uzun Rama, in the Goranboy district of Azerbaijan, partially excavated and thoroughly documented between 2012 and 2019, offers a vantage viewpoint on the aforementioned burial practice. The site is located on a plateau that stretches for almost 3 km along the north shore of the Kurekçay creek, an affluent of the Kura River, and near the modern villages of Şadılı and Gharadaghli (Figure 26.4).

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FIGURE 26.4  Distribution on the Şadılı-Uzun Rama plateau of the kurgans identified by the survey (source: GaRKAP archive).

In 2012, the Azerbaijani National Academy of Science began the archaeological investigation of the site (Jalilov 2010, 2011, 2012, 2015, 2018), continued since 2018 by the joint Azerbaijani–Italian Ganja Region Kurgan Archaeological Project (GaRKAP) (Laneri et al. 2019, 2020). A systematic survey of the area, implemented by the remote sensing analysis of historical and contemporary data sets, allowed the identification and mapping of around 205 kurgans, which are found in a higher concentration on the western surface of the plateau, where its slopes are steeper and the visibility of the kurgans from the surrounding fields is enhanced. The funerary structures date to two main archaeological phases: the Kura-Araxes I (c. 3600/3500–2900 bce, Palumbi and Chataigner 2014), with a documented case of reuse of the mound in a “Post Kura-Araxes” or “Early Kurgans” phase of the final Early Bronze Age (c. 2500–2000 bce) (Passerini, Rova and Boaretto 2018: table 9), and the Late Bronze/Early Iron Age (c. fourteenth to tenth century bce) (Laneri et al. 2019, 2020). The eight kurgans excavated between 2012 and 2019 are located on the northeastern part of the plateau, where communal graves dating to the Early Bronze Age (Kurgan 1, Kurgan 5, Kurgan 6, and Kurgan 8) are distributed toward the northern margins of the plateau, while the tumuli for single inhumations of the Late Bronze/Iron Age I (Kurgan 2, Kurgan 3, Kurgan 4, and Kurgan 7) occupy its inner surface, hinting at an exploitation pattern that started at the fringes overlooking the fields north of the plateau and then expanded in an inward progression (Pappalardo in press). Kurgan 8, thoroughly documented between 2018 and 2019, serves as a typical example of KuraAraxes I barrows of Northwestern Azerbaijan (Figures 26.5–26.6) (Laneri et al. 2020). A mound of stones and dirt, probably from the excavation of the pit, covers a large funerary chamber (approximately 5 m wide and 7 m long) excavated in the virgin soil

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FIGURE 26.5  Kurgan 8: (a) photogrammetry showing the first and the second tumulus in relation to the main funerary chamber and the later earthen pit tombs; (b) the collapse of the southern wall and a wooden beam inside the chamber; (c) eastern side of the kurgan with a burnt architrave and the dromos entrance; (d) burnt wooden boards and traces of heavy fire in the southeastern corner of the funerary chamber (source: GaRKAP archive).

in an east–west orientation, and encircled by a row of large stones. The chamber is lined with rectangular mud bricks covered in white plaster, forming 30–5 cm thick walls, a technique that was already adopted by Chalcolithic kurgans and that is well attested in Azerbaijan (Lyonnet et al. 2008; Museibli 2014). In fact, it has been suggested that the Southern Caucasian tradition of constructing mud brick burial chambers would reflect a Mesopotamian trait and, possibly, the intent to reproduce an idealized house to host the dead (Sagona 2018: 153). On the eastern side of the chamber is a narrow dromos entrance with a sloping floor that allowed the deposition within the chamber. Apart from the examples from ŞadılıUzun Rama, rectangular entrance corridors are also found in coeval barrows at Mentesh Tepe, Borsunlu, and Khankendi (Huseynov 2019). Wooden beams placed at an interval of 10 to 20 cm, probably from a type of juniper tree, according to the use attested in Western Azerbaijan (Huseynov 2019), formed the structure of the roof, that was possibly completed with wattle and daub, although the fire did not leave evidence of it. The floor of the burial chamber was most likely set up with fine gravel and white lime from the plateau, though it was not possible to detect a coherent floor in the dromos. A small pit (approximately 60 cm in diameter, 35 cm in depth) lined with heavy burned pebbles was located at the center of the chamber. It was filled with ash from a fire or, perhaps, from a wooden column burned by a vigorous flame. A tumulus of pebbles and limestone with a 12-m diameter stood above, marking the position of the funerary chamber and the dromos. Excavations at the site allowed for the reconstruction of a sequence of events that occurred in Kurgan 8. We will focus briefly on those that can be related to funerary rituals.

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FIGURE 26.6  Section view of a 3D reconstruction of Kurgan 8 showing the architectural features identified during the excavation (source: GaRKAP archive).

The kurgan was opened repeatedly for multiple depositions, with at least two phases of deposition inside the funerary chamber, where human remains were concentrated on the side opposite to the entrance, and one, exceptionally, inside the dromos (Figures 26.7 and 26.8). At least eight individuals were found in primary deposition inside the chamber, two of which were introduced on wooden sledge-stretchers or boxes, such as the one whose clear imprint has been found beneath an adult individual in contracted position (Laneri et al. 2020) (Figure 26.6a). The disarticulated remains of adults and subadults were mixed with pebbles and mud brick pieces, indicating that the bones may have undergone a reintervention after the collapse of the southern wall and part of the roofing inside the chamber (Figure 26.8a). The deceased were accompanied by a poor funerary set of tableware vessels, bone spindle whorls, necklaces of limestone beads (notably associated with subadults), flint arrowheads, and selected animal remains (i.e., horns and bucrania). The lack of metals in such contexts has been attributed, together with the homogeneity

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FIGURE 26.7  Primary depositions from the funerary chamber of Kurgan 8 (source: GaRKAP archive).

and poor quality of the funerary equipment, to a lack of vertical differentiation in the Kura-Araxes communities (Laneri et al. 2020). The ceramic assemblage consists of mostly medium grit tempered Monochrome Burnished Ware with rare traces of chaff, clearly attributing the context to a transregional Kura-Araxes I horizon that, as the wide distribution of peculiar globular jars featuring geometric relieved decorations indicates, spread due to the circulation of people, objects, technical skills, and ideas (Sagona 2014: 213–80) (Figure 26.9). Although complete analyses of the bones are in progress, the relatively low number of depositions inside the chamber compared to coeval kurgans (up to over 100) (Erdal et al. 2019), may be attributed to the premature collapse of the structure (Figure 26.5b), after which the dromos was used as a second funerary chamber, where a deposit of poorly preserved, commingled human remains mixed with animal bones and complete vessels could be the result of successive depositions that pushed the previous ones along the sloping floor (Figure 26.8b). Both the funerary chamber and the dromos were set on fire, at the end of the funerary sequence, as part of a termination ritual. According to the pattern of fire traces, the fire inside the chamber was initiated in the southwestern corner, where the wooden boards of a rectangular structure (around 140 × 130 × 25 cm) were found on top of a layer of limestone and rubble that covered two primary depositions, maybe resulting from the collapse (Figure 26.5d). Similar structures in association with bone remains and pottery have been recovered from other contemporaneous kurgans at Şadılı-Uzun Rama (Jalilov 2015, 2018; Erdal et al. 2019), and comparable fire patterns, with heavier traces of burning on the western side of the chamber, come from more coeval sites, such as Tatarli, Dashuz, Gabala, Khanlar, and Borsunlu (Huseynov 2019). The interpretation of these wooden structures as “pyres” or as structural elements with the possible function of keeping part of

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FIGURE 26.8  Funerary depositions on the western side of the funerary chamber (a) and inside the dromos entrance (b) of Kurgan 8 (source: GaRKAP archive).

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FIGURE 26.9  Assemblage of juglets and deep bowls of Monochrome Burnished Ware from the burial chamber of Kurgan 8 (source: GaRKAP archive).

the roof open in order to initiate and fuel the fire would demonstrate the ritual importance of the termination fire that was planned when the kurgan was first built. According to the aforementioned hypothesis, in Kurgan 8 the starting point of the fire was associated with the corner where the deposition of two adult women, one with a fetus close to the lower limbs indicating postmortem delivery, were placed (Figure 26.7b). A second fire, affecting, especially, the superficial layer of bones, is connected to the termination of the funerary use of the dromos. The destruction layer in the area of the chamber and the dromos was then monumentalized through the construction of the final tumulus. The singular deposition of an adult individual, isolated beneath the final tumulus with an accompanying vessel, is related to this phase. To the ritual activity connected with the phase of abandonment of the kurgan and documented also from other kurgans on the plateau (Jalilov 2018) belongs, in all probability, a small pit that was excavated on its surface, right outside the burial chamber, containing a small handled jar with incised decoration. The 2018 excavation revealed that the monumental tumulus was reused at the end of the third millennium (final Early Bronze Age, c. 2500–2000 bce) to incorporate two intrusive graves for single depositions, and that the whole complex was finally covered by a larger, decentered burial mound (Laneri et al. 2020).

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LANDSCAPES OF MOUNDS AND FIRE: A JOURNEY THROUGH THE SENSES IN THE KURA-ARAXES COMMUNITIES OF NORTHWESTERN AZERBAIJAN Modeling Ancient Routes of Movement As we have seen, despite the intensive funerary function that has been documented from the plateau, no settlement activity is visible in the area of Şadılı-Uzun Rama, with the exception of a concentration of Chalcolithic sherds on a flat area to the southwest of Kurgan 8 (Laneri et al. 2019: 145). Thus, the evidence from the site seems to support the hypothesis of a seasonal exploitation by a fluctuating nomadic component (Cribb 1991: 221) that, spread over wider and more variated ecological zones, transited in the piedmont of the Southern Caucasus to integrate grazing areas in the economy. The spread of light architecture at the turn from the Chalcolithic to the Kura-Araxes I hints at shortlived settlements with a possibly seasonal occupation. Together with the archaeological evidence formed by a frequency of portable hearths or andirons and ceramic shapes equipped with handles, these data indicate that mobility and periodic nomadism was a key component of these first Kura-Araxes communities, and one that needs to be better understood in order to decode the meaning of culturally significant places in the landscapes. In fact, with no data from nearby settlements, nor written information on their cosmologies, one way to unlock the reasons for the deliberate selection of an area as the locale of the ancestral memory of prehistoric communities is to explore the subject– landscape relationship by focusing on perception through a phenomenological-cognitive approach (Hodder 1984; Tilley 1994; Ucko and Layton 1999; Ingold 2000; Häussler and Chiai 2020), and on movements across the land as the repeated activity that shapes the scape of praxis (Tilley 1994: 22) of nomadic communities. In our case study, in particular, the visual impact of kurgans can only be assessed with respect to the reconstruction of potential paths, a method that has proven successful in diverse archaeological contexts (Dederix 2019). Systems of movement through the landscape have recently been analyzed by the anthropologist Tim Ingold (2011), who distinguishes, in the experience of the world, between formal and informal ones. The latter, originating a meshwork from repeated actions that can be unconscious and more or less explicitly regulated, according the definition of habitus by Mauss (1936), are largely atemporal and difficult to frame for archaeology. Conversely, path framework systems consciously designed by a community who recognizes them are materialized by landmarks and are thus a more feasible target for historical sciences (Nuninger et al. 2020). In order to reconstruct the practices of movement of the communities that buried their dead in the communal kurgans of Northwestern Azerbaijan, a process of semantic modeling of the domain literature (Nuninger et al. 2020), coupled with observation-based interpretation using fieldwork and remote sensing data, has been employed to develop a conceptual model, as formalized in the Unified Modeling Language (UML) schema (Figure 26.10). This heuristic exercise enables the disentanglement of implicit concepts into basic constituents (entities and relationships) that allow the reconstruction and analysis of practices of movement from the bottom up. Settlements, work and storage areas, agricultural fields, grazing areas, water streams, and funerary sites have been considered as possible terminals (residential/nonresidential) of potential paths forming the path framework systems of the Kura-Araxes I Southern Caucasus. To reconstruct the potential

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FIGURE 26.10  UML (Unified Modeling Language) schema of the path framework system of the Kura-Araxes communities of the Southern Caucasus (source: GaRKAP archive).

connectivity network of Şadılı-Uzun Rama with the other coeval sites of the region, and the visual impact of the necropolis from hypothetical optimal paths, a geoprocessing workflow has been conducted with ModelBuilder (Figure 26.11a). A cost surface has been calculated to reconstruct the optimal paths for seasonal movements. As shown by ethnographic works, in fact, daily herding does not involve cost-efficient movements, as shepherds move toward high lookout points and in circular paths to check over their herds (Hammer 2014). The absence of campsites in the study area can be related on the one hand to the observation that vertically transhumant pastoral groups tended to be most dispersed during the winter because access to sufficient grazing was often more difficult than in the summer (Hammer 2014: 276). On the other hand, the use of the lowlands for intensive agriculture should be taken into account. The computation of least-cost paths between Şadılı-Uzun Rama and the other sites in the data set considered among “costs” not only slope, but also vegetation cover, the presence of wetlands and water bodies, and, notably, the proximity to water streams, as the site location analysis revealed their significance for kurgan distribution. The resulting communication network follows a main route from southeast (Tatarli) to northwest (Osmanbozu) with southern

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FIGURE 26.11  Workflow with ModelBuilder (a) for the reconstruction of cost surface, least-cost paths connecting the Early Bronze Age kurgan sites in northwestern Azerbaijan to Şadılı-Uzun Rama (b) and the areas of visibility of the necropolis from potential paths (c), where kurgans are visible, from the lowest (0) to the highest number (208) (source: GaRKAP archive).

ramifications along water streams and a main northeastern route that skirts the site of Mingechaur, which was not considered as an input site in the analysis, and thus was probably frequented by the groups transiting through the area (Figure 26.11b).

Modeling Visibility and Fire In order to untangle the symbolic meanings that impregnate a prehistoric funerary area, and consequently adumbrate the factors that have possibly determined its choice as the resting place of the dead, and the subsequent events of reuse and/or abandonment, the site location analysis and the least-cost path are not enough. The evaluation of the available resources, such as the proximity to water and grazing areas that these analyses take into account, could lead in fact to the erroneous understanding that death-related behaviors are dependent on sole economic factors. This would rebound the controversial “Hypothesis 8” proposed by Arthur Saxe, who restrained the ideology expressed by funerary behaviors to the economic subsistence of corporate groups (Saxe 1970: 119). Ancestral necropolises will be considered, according to the relational ontology, as “centered and meaningful places” (Tilley 1994: 10), subjects that have agency in the forming of the cognitive worlds of humans through the senses. In fact, these places involve “specific sets of linkages between the physical space of the non-humanly created world, somatic states of the body, the mental space of cognition and representation and the space of movement, encounter and interaction between persons and between persons and the

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human and non-human environment” (Tilley 1994: 10). Ancestral landscapes, we argue, are places at the intersection of the complex relationships between humans, the human landscape (as both the symbolic landscape creating cognitive worlds and the economic landscape of the search for daily livelihood), and nonhuman landscape. Through the construction of permanent houses for the dead, they are a means for mobile communities to embed ancestral memory within natural visualscapes. The evaluation of their visibility from other proxies in the landscape is thus pivotal to our study. A viewshed analysis of the kurgans of Şadılı-Uzun Rama, calibrated to an offset of 1.60 m, which represent an average height of the human eye, has been added to the model (Figure 26.11b), showing that most of the kurgans were highly visible, considering the irregularity of the piedmont area. The analysis indicates that kurgans were located where both the visibility of the tumuli and the visibility over large parts of the communication paths were enhanced. In fact, given the approximate correspondence between the height of the Şadılı-Uzun Rama kurgans and the average height of the observers, a distinction between areas that are visible from the kurgan’s location (“view from”) and areas in the landscape from which the kurgans are visible (“view to”) seems unnecessary for regional-level analyses (Pappalardo forthcoming). The intersection of a buffer area around the least-cost paths and the visibility fields has been added in ModelBuilder in order to visually verify the correspondence of large portions of the least-cost network with viewsheds, especially along the northern path in the lowlands. Other properties of the kurgans could have impacted their visibility from a distance, such as the contrast with their surroundings for color and brightness (Ogburn 2006). The peculiar white and chalky surface of the plateau of Şadılı-Uzun Rama, employed in the construction of the kurgans, was probably intended to greatly enhance their visibility. The same may be suggested for the use of fire, since both the red of flames and the smoke column that had to be raised by the termination fire had to be perceived at a much greater distance and with a clearer view within the viewshed areas and beyond. The ritual fire that marked the end of the prolonged use of Kura-Araxes I kurgans in Northwestern Azerbaijan had, according to various authors, a purifying role (Jalilov 2018; Huseynov 2019; Laneri et al. 2019), but a dramatic one, with the potential to advertise over the region the final use of the barrow, should it be included in future interpretations.

KURA-ARAXES MODES OF RELIGIOSITY: DOMESTIC VERSUS OUTER SPACES The spatial context of the house has been considered as the primary mode through which religious identity of Kura-Araxes community is expressed (Sagona 1998). Despite different domestic architectures, the hearth, with its portable variety or andiron, has been regarded as the focal point of ritual behavior, thus neglecting, and rightfully so, a rigid distinction between the functional and ritual domain in prehistoric cultures. A symbolic significance of this constant furniture, often occurring in a durable manufacture, with stylized anthropomorphic or zoomorphic elements, is argued especially due to its disposition in or proximal to the center of the house, and also for recurring assemblages of animal figurines associated with it, that would indicate that the deity was not worshipped through a human image, but rather through the hearth and, possibly, horned figurines (Sagona 1998).

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Funerary data, on the other hand, have mostly been considered significative specially to get an insight on the cultural variability and social organization of Kura-Araxes communities (e.g., Poulmarc’h, Pecqueur, and Jalilov 2014; Herrscher et al. 2021). It is our opinion that, not only funerary contexts may as well contribute in framing the religiosity of the Kura-Araxes communities, with special reference to beliefs about death, but also that the spatial relation with particular places in the landscape, expressed through the construction of kurgans, may reveal how the mobile part of Kura-Araxes societies, otherwise mostly invisible in the archaeological evidence, related with the supernatural. The evidence from the kurgans of the Southern Caucasus may in fact be analyzed against that from coeval houses, since a conceptual association with contemporary domestic structures in Transcaucasia has been already mentioned (Sagona 2018: 153). Such an association does not seem to be limited to construction techniques, such as the rectangle room in mud brick or wattle-and-daub with posts (like types from Kvatskhelebi level C in Georgia), but maybe to the presence, as evidenced in our case study, of a central structural element that hosted a fire. No figurines have been encountered in the kurgans examined from Northwestern Azerbaijan, opposite to their presence in the proximity of the hearth, such as at Sos Hoyuk (Sagona 1998), but, as in contemporary settlements, a symbolic significance of the horns, that recur in the physical form of caprine horns associated with the deposition, but also as a relieved motif for ceramic decoration, may be posited. Lastly, as in coeval settlement, no vertical differentiation is discernible in the kurgan depositions. On the contrary, it can be noted that, while the domestic ritual dimension seems private and domestic, with no open spaces or larger building dedicated to common worship activities, collective burials inside the kurgans seem reserved to a selection of people, and maybe kin-based (Herrscher et al. 2021). These elements would be in favor of an interpretation of kurgans as the last resting place for a part of a larger community that contributed to a changing economy with repeated movements through the land in the search for optimal foraging, and in so doing left a permanent and tangible sign in death.

REJOINING NATURE, REJOINING THE ANCESTORS: A CONTINUOUS RITUAL Some key attributes of the ancestral landscape formed by the Kura-Araxes I kurgans of Northwestern Azerbaijan, that relate to each other without causality, can be summarized as follows (Figure 26.12): 1. Proximity of natural resources: the spatial distribution of kurgans for repeated inhumations in the region of Northwestern Azerbaijan seems to indicate that the funerary mounds were deliberately concentrated in the Lesser Caucasus piedmont belt, and especially along valley outlets that were probably used by transhumant groups in their seasonal movements between the lowlands and upland summer pasturelands along a southwest–northeast axis. 2. Harmony with the natural environment (mìmesis): repeated travels along the paths of transhumance sedimented a collective memory (Tilley 1994: 27), and probably founded the progressive building of an imagination, a symbolism and a mythology connected to the nonhuman environment of the Lesser Caucasus. Thus, the human landscape of kurgans does not alter nature, but rather adapts harmonically to it, evocating, in particular, highly visible features of the readily accessible natural environment.

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3. Visibility from a distance: kurgan visibility from afar, and especially from reconstructed communication routes, may indicate as well that kurgans were used by mobile groups to visually mark their subsistence itineraries, and the places that served for the aggregation of kindred groups involved in the funerary rituals. At the same time, the location of the Şadılı-Uzun Rama necropolis on the plateau allowed good visibility over large parts of the reconstructed optimal paths between the contemporary recorded sites in the region. Moreover, the visibility of kurgans was probably emphasized by the fire and smoke produced during the termination rituals that included the combustion of the funerary chamber, which likely illuminated the sites of the piedmont zone during winter pasture. 4. Continuity of use: the centrality for both the subsistence strategy of the community and its imaginative dimension led to a long preservation, reuse, and ritual termination through fire at the kurgans.

FIGURE 26.12  Schematic representation of the key attributes of ancestral landscapes (source: GaRKAP archive).

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5. Symbolic centrality: the long preservation of the memory of ancestral tombs hints at a symbolic meaning that reverberated in the landscape through time, making kurgan necropolises the terminals of seasonal paths that cyclically reunited the living with the dead. In conclusion, the extraordinary diversified landscape of the Southern Caucasus was a source of inspiration for defining spiritual geographies for the fourth and third millennia bce communities of Western Azerbaijan; in fact, it was within such landscapes that they embedded the spirits of the ancestors through the artificial construction of funerary mounds (visible from a distance) and by ritually burning their remains within the funerary chambers.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Cultic Aspects of the Egyptian Desert LAUREL DARCY HACKLEY

The landscape of the ancient Near East was characterized by arid or semiarid plains, cut by green alluvial valleys. Scholarship has mainly focused on these fertile corridors, which yield incredibly rich archaeological material, including texts, architecture, and material culture. We therefore think of ancient Near Eastern civilizations as being primarily confined to these green ribbons, where irrigation and annual floods allow agriculture and the development of dense population centers and “complex” societies. The desert landscapes that surround these zones receive comparatively little attention, to the point of being dismissed as sterile or culturally unproductive. This may be because they are thinly populated and therefore yield fewer spectacular archaeological discoveries, or because the difficulty of agriculture in these areas more efficiently supports “simple” pastoralist societies than “complex” urban ones. This is especially true in the case of Egypt, where, until very recently, archaeological research was confined to the green stripe of the Nile Valley and the necropolises immediately at the desert margin. In the Egyptological context, the deserts have long been canonically associated with the dangerous and negative principle of isfet, or chaos, as opposed to its opposite maat: peace, order, and fertility. This has led to the assumption, implicit throughout the literature, that ancient Egyptians found the desert to be anathema to the abundance and fecundity of the Nilotic landscape. Valuable work on the archaeology and anthropology of arid landscapes has been produced in the past two decades. Much of this focuses primarily on questions surrounding subsistence, especially agricultural strategies, and the transition from huntergatherer lifeways to agriculture (see, e.g., Barker et al. 1996; Barker and Gilbertson 2000; Veth, Smith, and Hiscock 2005). Despite the growing body of anthropological literature on arid landscapes and the considerable work that has been done on the Egyptian desert environment in the past twenty years (Rohl 2000; Darnell 2002a, b, 2009; Kaper and Willems 2002; Morrow and Morrow 2002; Storemyr 2008; Storemyr et al. 2008; Rossi and Ikram 2018), a prevailing assumption about the sterility of the deserts remains embedded in much general Egyptological literature. In only one example, David Silverman (1991) acknowledges that the deserts were a “visible constant” in ancient Egyptian life but states that they were never “elevated to cult status.” This is a resounding dismissal in a field of scholarship obsessed with cultic activity and is also almost certainly untrue (see Derchain 1971; Quirke 2003; Robinson 2003; Tait 2003; Richter 2010; Bremont 2018).

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The cult status of the desert is indicated by numerous references in religious and ritual texts, as well as archaeological evidence for festivals and other observances specifically referring to, or actually occurring in, arid zones. The origin of the ancient Egyptian population in a greener ancient Sahara is now widely accepted, but the study of the ongoing, dynamic cultural relationship with the desert environment as it continued to dry throughout the Dynastic period and later is still incomplete. In these contexts, scholarship views the deserts primarily as a location of resources and not as culturally conceived landscapes in their own right. As a result, research on Egyptian desert landscapes focuses on resource procurement, most often in the context of state-organized expeditions into desert zones. This work yields important information about human activity in the desert but leaves considerations of the conceptual formation of desert space more or less untouched. The omission eclipses questions about emotional, conceptual, and embodied experiences of the arid environment, and therefore also obscures important dimensions of the cultural construction of the Egyptian deserts. This chapter considers some of the evidence for the religious significance of the Egyptian desert as a landscape that was fully imbued with nuanced cultural meaning, as expressed in texts, material culture, and landscape interventions. It considers how the structuring dichotomy of maat versus isfet can be read in more flexible ways and how ideas about the desert landscape can be seen to change over the millennia of Egyptian history in response to practices of memory and memorialization, social and political developments, and environmental change. This includes evidence of cult activity in the desert, as well as the invocation of the desert environment in religious texts and rituals and the use of desert-sourced animals and materials in official and personal cult practice in the Nile Valley.

EARLY ORIGINS Rainfall in the Sahara is controlled by the slow wobble of the earth on its axis, creating a cycle of increasing and decreasing moisture over North Africa that repeats about every 20,000 years (deMenocal and Tierney 2012). The most recent wet phase or Green Sahara, also called the Early Holocene African Humid Period (AHP) or Neolithic Subpluvial, occurred about 11000–5000 BP (deMenocal and Tierney 2012; Tierney, Pausata, and deMenocal 2017). During this period, the Sahara was populated by bands of mobile hunter-gatherers focused on a variety of subsistence activities, including hunting, fishing, gathering, and herding (Sutton 1977; Yellen 1998; Drake et al. 2011). A vast and widely distributed corpus of petroglyphs shows humans engaged in these activities, as well as a variety of animal species including giraffe, ostrich, gazelle, elephant, and fish. When aridification gradually began at about 6100 BP (Manning and Timpson 2014), hunter-foragers became more vulnerable. Regions where dependable, perennially watered refuges could be found supported human populations best, by creating loci around which the population could contract and expand. Data from the deserts around Kharga, Egypt’s southernmost oasis, suggest repeated occupation of the outlying regions during periods of moister weather and abandonment in favor of the oasis proper during drier periods (Bunbury, Ikram, and Roughly 2020). Uncertainty about food sources led to an increasing dependence on cattle (Wendorf and Schild 1998, 2001; Hoelzmann et al. 2000; Kuper and Kröpelin 2006; McDonald 2009; Linseele et al. 2014; Bunbury, Ikram, and Roughly 2020). Continually diminishing

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water sources constricted the annual range of pastoralist groups, confining them to repeating annual itineraries where water and pasture were best assured (Cribb 1991; Wendrich and Barnard 2008). As communities returned to the same locations year after year, they engaged in place-making, investing group labor in the creation of landscape interventions such as those found at Nabta Playa, which include cattle burials covered by monumental tumuli, monoliths, and stone circles with a probable calendrical function (Wendorf and Schild 1998). As drying continued, these processes of place-making moved closer to the dependable water source of the Nile Valley (Fekri 1985; Wengrow 2003; Köhler 2011), and some communities began to adopt agriculture as part of their subsistence toolkit, although there is substantial evidence that they maintained ties to pastoralism (Cribb 1991; Wendorf and Schild 1998; Wengrow 2003; di Lernia 2006; Wendrich and Barnard 2008). The earliest settlement sites known in the Nile Valley are small and widely spaced in the mouths of desert wadis; most are in the style of camps, with hearths and expedient animal pens but little permanent architecture (Bard 1994). This supports the idea that early Nile Valley settlements in Upper Egypt were seasonal habitations for pastoralist groups who were making increasingly constricted annual rounds as the Sahara dried. The idea that the first “settlers” in the Predynastic Nile Valley were not particularly settled at all, and were instead a loose affiliation of part-time herders, has been gaining ground in recent decades (Fowler 2004; Gatto 2011; Wengrow 2014). As these groups cycled annually through the Nile Valley, they buried their dead in the same places year after year and gradually created landscapes of memory and meaning. In this way, they created communities of “living people, the dead, things, and place” and natural nodes to return to annually and when climate deterioration ultimately forced an end to Saharan pasturage (Fowler 2004). The Predynastic cemeteries at the desert’s edge are therefore an integral part of cultural formation in this period. Cemeteries were more permanent than the dwellings of the seminomadic living, and it was these perennial communities of the dead that anchored mobile groups to a place. It is possible that, as suggested for cemeteries at Nabta Playa and the nearby, somewhat later Gebel Ramlah, human remains were brought to the edge of the Nile Valley for seasonal interments, large social events that would have featured communal feasting and ritual activities (di Lernia 2006; Wengrow 2006; Kobusiewicz et al. 2010; Stevenson 2016). Some scholars have suggested that “urbanisation of the dead may have been more important than the urbanisation of the living, the density of social memory more vital than the massing of permanent dwellings” (Wengrow 2006: 83). Certainly, the famous Predynastic cemeteries at the desert margin at Naqada, Hierakonpolis, and Abydos meet the definition of cities as “ ‘forests of artifacts’ in which new densities of human relations are mediated by a density and a diversity of things” (Moltoch 2011: 67; see also Stevenson 2016). These Predynastic cemeteries show differentiation in burials that has been correlated to the rise of social inequality and a ruling class, as well as with the adoption of agriculture and sedentism (Bard 1989). It is widely assumed that desertification, which became profound in the Egyptian Sahara at about 3000 bce, was a major factor in the formation of a protopharaonic Egyptian culture and the rise of the Egyptian state, which is now understood to have occurred very rapidly at the end of the fourth millennium (Kuper and Kröpelin 2006; deMenocal and Tierney 2012; Dee et al. 2014; McGee and De Menocal 2017). The best-appointed tombs at Hierakonpolis and Abydos already display the hallmarks of the Dynastic symbolism of power (also broadly conceived as a cult of rulership), although

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many of these symbols arguably have their origins in the green Sahara: compositions in which interaction with cattle and the hunting and capturing of wild animals predominate. In both the art of the Nile Valley and the contemporary Pre- and Early Dynastic rock art in the desert, these images have been interpreted as antecedents of canonical Egyptian religious themes, particularly illustrating the control of the king over the natural and supernatural worlds (Huyge 2002; Darnell 2009; Hendrickx, Darnell, and Gatto 2012; Lankester 2017). While such a direct relationship may be an oversimplification of the complex processes of meaning-making, the durability of these icons can certainly be ascribed to continuing encounters with prehistoric material in the Sahara and the repeated reinterpretation and rearticulation of its meaning. This can be seen as a cultural process through which memory and lived experience, in dialog with material traces, created a multilayered desert landscape that was rich with meanings, histories, mythologies, and temporalities.

THE DESERT AND SUPERNATURAL GEOGRAPHIES The sun’s journey from the eastern to the western horizon formed the centerpiece of Egyptian cosmological geography, as we understand it (Allen 1988: 5; Pinch 2002). In this abstract and schematic conception, the Nile Valley figured as the center of the world; to either side was the low desert, then the desert mountains, the demon-infested barrier territory between this world and the next, and then the realm of the gods. All of this was surrounded by water, the primordial sea that, when receding at the beginning of time, had exposed the world (Allen 1988). In the cenotaph of Seti I (thirteenth century bce), this is referred to as “the uniform darkness, the southern, northern, western, and eastern limits of which are unknown, these having been fixed in the waters, in inertness” (Allen 1988: 1). The sun was thought to traverse this geography on a circular path: rising in the eastern horizon, arcing through the daytime sky, and setting in the western horizon before traveling back to the east through a watery, underground nighttime world. Seen from the Nile Valley, the horizon is located in the desert hills, which are therefore critical locations of transition, intermediate regions between the daylight surface world and the chthonic realm that is its inverse and opposite. This latter is not precisely located, although it carries a sense of being under the surface world. The horizons, however, are visible and therefore locatable, and, from the perspective of the Nile Valley, they are in the Eastern and Western deserts.

The Desert Geography of the Netherworld As discussed briefly earlier, the desert margins bear an early and lasting association with cemeteries. Cemeteries were located out of the flood plain, in wadi mouths of the low desert. In the earliest burials, bodies were laid on their sides, facing west. The orientation to the west and the proximity to wadis that access the desert doubtless relates to the western horizon, the place where the sun god enters the netherworld in the course of his daily circuit (Hendrickx and Vermeersch 2000: 37). For pastoralists settled in the Nile Valley, who would have still been seasonally active in the desert, an orientation west could also have been associated with the beginning of a journey, or the initiation of a seasonal cycle. The nature of Egyptian necropolises would have reinforced the idea of the dead inhabiting the desert. Through the early Dynastic period, the settlements of the living seem to have been relatively ephemeral. Many of the tombs of the cemeteries, on the

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other hand, were constructed of durable masonry or excavated into living rock, becoming enduring houses for the dead who had entered a timeless state (for notions of linear and cyclical time in ancient Egypt, see Hornung 1982: 64, 1999; Allen 1988; Assmann 1996). These aggregations of tombs, often visible from the settlements of the valley, created parallel “urban” centers that formed stable loci for the more ephemeral centers of the living. As the population gradually became more settled in the Nile Valley and less active in the Sahara, the situation of the necropolises in the desert may have contributed to an understanding of the Western Desert as the location of “ancestral” or cyclical time. As a result of long-term engagements with these cemeteries, early Egyptians would have been aware of the corpse-preserving properties of the desert environment. Some of the very first Egyptian mummies are natural, preserved by the rapid drying effect of the salty desert sand in which they were buried. Taken along with the architecturally enduring nature of the necropolises and the stable environment of the deserts where they are located, the mummification of the dead contributes to the sense that they are now participating in a cyclical, endless kind of time.

Spatial Representation of the Netherworld The first funerary compositions are the Fifth Dynasty (c. 2450–2300 bce) Pyramid Texts, which are at first confined to the burial chambers of kings but are found in burials of queens and court officials by the end of the Sixth Dynasty (Hornung 1999: 1). Like the funerary texts that will follow, the Pyramid Texts are a collection of spells and instructions that allow the deceased to negotiate a passage through the netherworld to join with the god Re in the hereafter (Hornung 1999: 5). A component of this process is the deceased’s entry into cyclical, rather than linear, time, in order to better participate in the repeating journey of Re from horizon to horizon (Hornung 1999: 6). By the Middle Kingdom, the spells of the Pyramid Texts have evolved into a collection referred to as the Coffin Texts. Excerpts from this collection are found inscribed on coffins and other funerary objects of officials throughout Egypt, although the most complete examples were excavated from Deir el Bersha in Middle Egypt (Hornung 1999: 7). Like the Pyramid Texts, the Coffin Texts provide spells and information for moving safely through the netherworld. A novel addition in some Coffin Text collections, however, is the inclusion of a spatial description of the netherworld, giving it shape and an itinerary of sequential topographical features. The surviving examples of these texts are painted on coffins from Deir el Bersha (Hornung 1999: 11; Willems 2018). Referred to as the Book of Two Ways, this iteration of the description of the netherworld includes an annotated diagram which can only be called a map (Robinson 2003: 145). The landscape diagram of the Book of Two Ways shows two alternate paths through the regions of the netherworld (Figure 27.1). The upper path is through the sky, and the lower path is through a dark subterranean realm. Both are full of towns, portals, obstacles, and monsters. These are described in the spells, and their locations are marked out on the map (Robinson 2003: 149). The monsters drawn on the map brandish knives and snakes; they are familiar from other Middle Kingdom depictions of magical beasts like griffins and serpopards who inhabit the desert (Roberson 2009; Liptay 2011), which will be discussed later. The spatial sensibility of the Coffin Texts diagram is significant here because it demonstrates that the netherworld was seen as existing in traversable space and indicates paths along which certain landmarks should be sequentially encountered.

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FIGURE 27.1  Map of the Afterlife from the Book of Two Ways (source: drawing by author, based on de Buck 1961 [Plan 1]).

Dating to roughly 2000 bce (Bonacker 1950: 5), the Book of Two Ways considerably predates the oldest Egyptian map of physical terrain, the Turin Papyrus map of the Wadi Hammamat from about 1150 bce (Harrell and Brown 1992). Although we unfortunately lack other examples for comparison, the two maps use a similar logic to represent space. The Turin map, which marks out locations in a desert wadi, winds in a linear way between rocky hills. The paths in the Book of Two Ways are rendered as serpentine paths with obstacles to either side. As in the Book of Two Ways, the creators of the Turin map do not trust the schematic rendering of the landscape to communicate the meaning fully; both maps are heavily labeled and annotated with explanatory text. Harrell and Brown (1992) have convincingly shown the Turin Papyrus map to represent the landscape of the Wadi Hammamat with reasonable accuracy, even to our modern standards of mapviewing, suggesting that maps were created to be used as actual navigational tools. This lends credence to the idea that the Book of Two Ways diagrams painted on coffins were included as a way-finding technology for the deceased, who were heading out into unknown lands. Where and whether the netherworld represented by the Book of Two Ways was thought to actually exist is open to debate, but the accompanying texts repeatedly emphasize that the goal of the journey lies in the west, the land of the necropolis and the justified dead (Faulkner 1973). Spell 30 is representative of the deceased’s westward journey, and the equation of this direction with the dead, the necropolis, and entry into cyclical, repeating time: Recitation: to cause the west to love a man and to cause the west to rejoice over a man by means of everything that is done for him in all the seasonal festivals of the necropolis, in all the yearly festivals and at all days and times. A cry issues from the mouths of the great ones, the lords of the people, and a shout from the mouths of the sceptred ones, because of the thundering noise of the gods who are in the horizon when they see the terror on their faces, who have never seen the like of it when they see [the deceased] proceeding peacefully on the beautiful paths of the West in his shape of a god-like spirit, having acquired all powers when the great ones who preside over the horizon spoke to him. The young god is born of the beautiful

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West, having come here from the land of the living; he has got rid of his dust, he has filled his body with magic, he has quenched his thirst with it, those who watch for him tremble at it like a bird! So say the gods of the horizon concerning [the deceased] who is in the West. They shall say to him: Go, row to the Field of Rushes within the Islands of the Sky, navigate therein to Him who is on his k3dt-plant! So shall the gods say to [the deceased]. (Faulkner 1973: 32) By the New Kingdom, the corpus of Netherworld literature had expanded considerably. Several different texts, most famously the Book of the Dead (or the Book of Going Forth by Day) offer magical spells and advice for the deceased. The journey from the land of the living to the land of the dead is still a central theme, although the focus is now on the journey of the god Re, with whom the deceased is meant to identify (Hornung 1999). In describing the netherworld and its landmarks, these texts sometimes provide precise distances and other measurements (Quirke 2003). Measuring the physical space of the afterlife provides verisimilitude while, presumably, mimicking the form of actual maps or navigational texts. One of these texts is the Amduat, a collection that details Re’s nocturnal passage through the netherworld hour by hour. Scenes from the twelve hours of the Amduat are painted on the walls of the tombs of several Eighteenth and Nineteenth Dynasty kings. In these scenes, the itinerary of the solar barque of Re through the underworld is described in great detail, beginning with his exit from the western horizon of the Nile Valley at dusk, and concluding with his dawning, rejuvenated, in the eastern horizon. Thomas Schneider (2010) has produced an extensive analysis of the itinerary of the Amduat and argues that the geographical particulars of the first hours of the trip into the Duat, or netherworld, are based on distances and landmarks of the Western Desert between the Nile Valley and the Gilf Kebir, deep in the Sahara on the border between modern Egypt and Chad. In the same way that the western horizon, and by extension the Western Desert, are associated with death and the nighttime journey of the solar barque, the eastern horizon is associated with the sunrise and the rejuvenated Re. In the west we can identify the Libyan oases or perhaps even the Gilf Kebir as the last “real” place on the itinerary before the god’s barque enters wholly imaginary realms; in the east the sun shines first on the shores of Punt or t3-ntr, “god’s land.” The latter epithet is applied to an extensive area of the eastern part of the Egyptian desert, from Sinai in the north to Punt in the south. Where it occurs with other toponyms in mining inscriptions and expedition reports, t3-ntr denotes real places in the Eastern Desert or Red Sea region, but it also appears in cosmological books (Müller-Roth 2008: 161; Cooper 2017: 384). This entire region of the Eastern Desert is related to the horizon and is understood to be the geographical location of Re’s rebirth at dawn (Kuentz 1920: 178–83; Nutz 2010: 281–8; Cooper 2011: 47–66; Cooper 2017).

Landscape Layers: Real and Imagined Places The itinerary of Re’s cyclical journey reinforces the Egyptian cosmology in its most basic form: that the Nile Valley is surrounded by a low desert, desert mountains, and a liminal zone where the desert bleeds into supernatural space. Beyond this, there is darkness and water, the limit of which is “not known by the gods” (Allen 1988: 1). The desert zones of this space create a gradient, radiating outward from the Nile Valley, across which normal human space shades into progressively more supernatural territory. The corpus of funeral texts that deals with the deceased’s journey makes use of known places in order to fix the

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geography of the afterworld to the actual geography of Egypt and its surrounding deserts. The effect of this is to create a landscape layer, where real locations take on cosmological associations and begin to serve as mnemonics for mythological or religious narratives. Knowing that some of the places mentioned in a text are real brings the other, fictional locations into being by association.

THE DESERT AS A REAL AND ABSTRACT BORDERLAND Liminality and Ambiguous Landscape Imaginaries As a liminal zone between the human world of the Nile and the supernatural world of the gods, the desert was an intermediary space where elements of both might intermingle. This permeability to otherworldly influence is what is meant by the term “chaotic” as it is usually used to describe the desert in ancient Egyptian thinking. In the framework of traditional scholarship, “chaos” or isfet is assigned a negative valence, being the direct opposite of maat, or cosmic order, perceived as the force of good. However, it is possible that “chaos” should be thought of not in terms of evil, but in terms of an ambiguity seen in wildness. The challenge of the “chaotic” desert landscape is that it is not wholly within the Egyptian, or the human, paradigm, and so requires a process of negotiation: “socialization” or “domestication.” In the real desert landscape, this was achieved through petroglyphs, inscriptions, cairns, and other interventions that caused the geological surface to communicate with humans in a way that was recognizable and coherent (Darnell 2009; Ikram 2020; in other contexts, see Bender 1993; Chippendale and Nash 2004). Egyptian art and literature make use of this tension between human and nonhuman in order to create spectrums of strangeness and wonder, and to set the stage for successful negotiations between humans and the natural and supernatural worlds. Fantastical Animals and the Mythological Koiné  An example of this can be seen in the depictions of desert fauna that appear starting in the Predynastic period and throughout Dynastic history. Most often, these are scenes of desert hunts and show collections of animals that seem intended to suggest the full variety of species present in the desert: gazelle, Barbary sheep, lions and leopards, hares, and foxes, but also griffins, serpopards, and other fantastical animals (Newberry 1893: II, pl. 13; Kamrin 1999: 85; Wyatt 2009). In his Twelfth Dynasty (c. 1991–1802 bce) desert hunt scene at Beni Hassan, for instance, the nomarch (a kind of regional ruler) Khety I is seen with a griffin collared and tethered among his hunting dogs (Figure 27.2). This is an explicit example of the “domestication” of supernatural desert elements, as it implies the capture of a fantastical desert animal and its transformation into a companion creature that will assist in the hunt of its own kind (Kamrin 1999: 85). The capture and taming of a griffin is a material sign of Khety’s ability to negotiate the desert landscape. It is worth noting that Khety was nomarch of the Oryx nome, which administered much of the Eastern Desert (Grajetzki 2006: 111–13). His pet griffin can be seen as an indication of his ease in and ownership of the Eastern Desert, gained through knowledge and experience. Khety is not the only elite Egyptian to be shown engaged in desert hunts. The scene appears throughout the Predynastic and Old Kingdoms, in the Middle Kingdom tombs at Beni Hassan, and it proliferates in private and royal contexts in the New Kingdom

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FIGURE 27.2  A tamed griffin. Twelfth Dynasty. Tomb of Khety I, Beni Hassan (source: Facsimile Painting, Metropolitan Museum of Art).

(Hendrickx, Darnell, and Gatto 2009; Raffaele 2010; Marshall 2012; Bremont 2018). Due in part to the ritualized tomb and temple contexts in which they are usually seen, which lend a layer of cosmological symbolic significance, hunting scenes are generally interpreted as ciphering for the control of chaos (Hendrickx 2006; Kemp 2006: 92–9; Raffaele 2010). This interpretation is based on parallels to battle scenes in which the king destroys enemies, and the two genres are often discussed as symmetrical or equivalent (e.g., Derchain 1966; Bonhême and Forgeau 1988; Kamrin 1999; Pietri 2014). However, as Bremont (2018) points out, the parallels are not precise. Significantly, throughout the dynastic period it appears that many of the desert animals pursued in hunting scenes were ideally captured rather than killed. They were then held in game preserves, and ultimately presented to temples and other institutions as offerings (Kamrin 2009: 29; see extensive bibliography in Woods 2018: nn. 35–7). This situates desert animals as desirable, rather than anathema, and suggests that the procuring of them (presented as an elite undertaking) was a prestige activity (Hendrickx and Eyckerman 2012; Baines 2013). The composite creatures found among the desert fauna in the hunting scenes are seen not only in Egypt but also in Mesopotamia. Some scholars (Wengrow 2014; Gerke 2014) believe that images of composite beasts were introduced into Egypt on Levantine cylinderseals starting in the early fourth millennium, while others believe that at least the griffin originated in Egypt and then travelled abroad (Wyatt 2009). Regardless of their origin, both of these animals can be found in non-Egyptian fourth millennium contexts. Within Egypt, they were therefore associated not only with the desert, but with the iconography of Bronze Age Mediterranean trade (Wengrow 2014). This suggests that encounters of the Egyptian elite with fantastical animals in their desert hunts is, in fact, a sign of cosmopolitan access to a kind of Mediterranean koiné of mythological entities. As such, griffins and serpopards were associated with the foreign

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and with prestige as well as with the desert territories that formed the border between Egypt and the Levant. In this conception, Khety’s captive griffin is not only a sign of his familiarity and mastery in the desert landscape that he governs, but also a signal of his participation in a suite of cosmopolitan, elite idea exchange. The hunting and capture of real (and fantastic) desert species is a form of domestication or socialization of the wild, but invites a critical appraisal of whether these species have the negative connotation of “chaotic.” Instead, it seems that they are desirable produce of the desert regions and that the importation of live animals into the Nile Valley was an important part of the temple economy. Their acquisition requires elite hunting activity, bringing desert animals into the realm of prestige and display. As depicted in these scenes, the coexistence of real and imagined animals creates a gradient of reality in the desert geography that highlights the supernatural aspects of the landscape.

CULT IN THE DESERT LANDSCAPE People were traversing the deserts on hundreds of well-worn tracks for all of Pharaonic history. The deserts were the source of many important materials: metals and minerals, including gold, gems, and building stones, but also organic materials and live animals found in the deserts or carried across them from sub-Saharan Africa (Germond and Livet 2001; Linseele 2009). Evidence for cult observance accompanies the traces of all these activities and can be found at mining sites, along desert tracks, and in built temple landscapes in the desert (Derchain 1971; Ayedi 2007; Richter 2010; Osypiński and Osypińska 2014). Graffiti along the roads suggests that participation in desert expeditions was a source of personal and public pride, as well as an opportunity to make devotional inscriptions far outside the Nile Valley (Sweeny 2017). These traces demonstrate that Egyptians traveling in the deserts had a sense of being “outside” of Egypt, and of participating in a kind of koiné not unlike that of the composite animals described in the previous section. This can be seen in the natures of the deities to whom travelers dedicated their inscriptions: Hathor, Seth, and Min, who all share aspects of the foreign, or of patronage of foreign lands.

Egyptian Gods in the Desert These three deities are given epithets related to the desert and to foreignness: Hathor as “Lady of the Horizon” and “Mistress of Foreign Lands” (Faulkner 1973: Vol. II, 207–8; Doxey 1998), Seth and Min as “Lord of the Desert” (Lichtheim, 1973: 114– 15; McFarlane, 1995: 319) and “Lord of Foreign Lands” (Strudwick 2005: 84). These gods are some of the oldest in the Egyptian pantheon. Each has associations with the protection of Re, and by extension the royal cult and the protection of the king. They are also associated with the desert trade and the flow of foreign goods and people into Egypt: Hathor and Min are especially associated with desert mining, and Seth with the people who populate the deserts and borderlands (Velde 1967; Goedicke 1987: 89–90). Seth and Hathor become important gods outside of Egypt, reinforcing their foreign aspects: In her role as a celestial goddess, Hathor had a navigational dimension that made her important to mariners and travelers, and her cult spread across the entire Red Sea corridor (Meeks 2018). She became a principal goddess at Byblos, a Mediterranean trading center (Meeks 2018: 113). Seth is conflated outside of Egypt with foreign storm gods like the Hittite Tešub and Canaanite Baal (Gardiner 1920: 195–6; Allon

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2007: 15). These associations mean that both gods are on a spectrum of foreignness and help negotiate Egyptians’ relationships with foreign lands, the deserts, and their produce. Cult Aspects of Mining The mineral deposits of the Eastern Desert were extensively worked in the Pharaonic and Roman periods, but evidence from mining sites and materials excavated in the Nile Valley indicate that the acquisition of minerals through surface collection and open-pit mining was already established by the Predynastic period (Castel and Mathieu 1992; Klemm and Klemm 1994; Klemm et al. 2001). It is probable that the mineral resources of the Eastern Desert, including gold and copper, and gemstones like amethyst, turquoise, and carnelian, were a focus of early trade between the Nile Valley and the herders of the Red Sea mountains. Sources of minerals that began to be exploited in the Predynastic period continued to be worked through the Roman period (Aston 2000; Shaw 2002; Harrell 2004). These mining resources ensured that the Eastern Desert was being explored throughout the Pharaonic period, and its wadis provided conduits for exchange between the Nile Valley and the Levant, the Red Sea, and Nubia. In this way, the produce of the Egyptian mining regions becomes part of the “foreign lands” paradigm, under the protection of the gods mentioned above. Hathor is the most prominent deity at Egyptian mining sites, readily taking on as an epithet whatever material is being extracted. Thus, she is “Mistress of Amethyst” at the mining site of Wadi el Hudi, but “Mistress of Turquoise” at the site of Serabit el-Khadim (Doxey 1998). Aufrere (2001: 59) suggests that Hathor embodies the precious “fluids” or minerals, concealed in the depth of the rocks, and that this is connected to her reproductive potential. Hathor has prominent associations with sex and fertility, and can be personified as a desert mountain landform full of mineral-bearing caverns (Faulkner 1973: Vol. II, 130–1; Aufrere 2001: 59). In this context, it is probably significant that the earliest cult-space of Hathor at Serabit el-Khadim was a shrine cut into the living rock (Petrie and Currelly 1906: 96–8; Bonnet and Valbelle 1997). Miners extracting minerals from the desert mountains were devoted to Hathor, as demonstrated by the density of votive inscriptions dedicated to her at Serabit el-Khadim (Gardiner, Peet, and Cerny 1955; Valbelle and Bonnet 1996; Tallet 2003). Hathor’s temple at Serabit is possibly the oldest rock-cut temple in Egypt, reiterating the theme of cutting into the earth that characterized mining (Pinch 1993). This temple is notable for having apparently been built largely by the miners themselves, in the Twelfth, Eighteenth, and Twentieth Dynasties (Valbelle and Bonnet 1996). This initiative suggests the importance of Hathor and her cult to the miners who were working here. Her worshippers at Serabit were not only Egyptian, but also Canaanite, as attested by the presence of proto-Sinaitic inscriptions at the site (Valbelle and Bonnet 1996; Beit Arieh 1987). Sydney Aufrere notes a New Year’s Day procession dedicated to Hathor that brings together the produce of the mining regions (1991: 731–87). This is the time of year when the rising of Sirius signals the beginning of the inundation. At this festival, the Coffin Texts declare: “The mountain is broken, the stone is split, the caverns of Hathor are broken open; she ascends in turquoise and is covered with her royal wig-cover” (Faulkner 1973: Vol. II, 130–1). From this we might conclude that miners located Hathor inside the earth that they were physically digging into in the course of their work, and that the minerals they sought were, to a certain extent, identified with the body of the goddess. Thus, Hathor is associated not only with the produce of the mines but also with the actual material and location of the earth from which they come. The act of mining, or seeking

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materials within the earth, takes on aspects of fertility cult. This perhaps explains the prominence of a female divinity who oversees an apparently male enterprise. The associations of Hathor with mining and with fertility, sex, and motherhood resonate with more recent anthropological work on mining, in which ores grow inside the earth, as in a womb, and are extracted by miners who consider themselves consorts of the earth (Eliade 1962: 33; Godoy 1985: 208; the concept has been theorized for the Egyptian context by Aufrere 2001: 159). In light of the connection between mining and fertility, it is significant that the only other god specifically associated with mining is Min, the ithyphallic god of fertility and generation (Bloxam 2006: 283). Min is particularly associated with the beken stone sourced from Wadi Hammamat for statuary, and his epithet “Min of Coptos, Lord of the Desert” is probably related to the position of Coptos on the entrance to the Hammamat road (Lichtheim, 1973: 114–15; McFarlane, 1995: 319). In the New Kingdom he is also associated with the lead galena sources in the Eastern Desert (Pinch 1993: 73).

LANDSCAPE CULT AND DESERT FESTIVALS The connection of gods like Min and Hathor with mining and the desert landscape was an important aspect of their personas and cult as it was celebrated within the Nile Valley. The desert epithets and attributes of these gods contributed to their iconography when shown in the Nile Valley and provided frameworks for their mythological narratives and festivals.

Hathor as the Solar Eye of Re: Myth and Festival Reenactment An example of a mythological cycle taking place in the desert involves Hathor in her guise as the Solar Eye of Re. In the story, the Eye of Re, a detachable and autonomous facet of the personality of the god Re-Atum, is a powerful female entity with a volatile temper. The Eye becomes angry with her “father” Re and departs Egypt in high dudgeon. She travels to the southeastern desert, where she rages violently in the form of a lioness, along with the wild creatures—foxes, lions, griffins, and so forth––she finds there. Meanwhile Egypt suffers the lack of her powerful protection, and Re misses his daughter. Several emissaries are sent, but the fearsome anger of the goddess prevents any from being successful in reasoning with her. Finally, through threats and flattery, the Eye is cajoled into returning to Egypt. She travels northward in a procession of joyful people and animals celebrating her return, including desert people and animals that traveled into the Nile Valley with her. Upon reaching the Nile, the goddess is escorted to a temple where she is reunited with her father and becomes pregnant with the young sun-god (Pinch 2002: 130). Direct references to festival celebrations of this myth, which contains important elements of pacification, rejuvenation, and rebirth, are found on the walls of Ptolemaic temples at Philae, Edfu, El Kab, Dendara, and Medamud (Richter 2010: 155–86). There are also indications that the festival enactments are much older, at least as early as the Thirteenth Dynasty (c. 1803–1649 bce) (Darnell 1995: 47). The Hymn to Hathor at Medamud incorporates a detailed description of the procession that accompanies the wandering goddess’s return: There dance ecstatically for you the Mentyew-Libyans in their (peculiar) clothing, and the Nubians with their mace(s); The nomads throw themselves down to you in front of you, and the bearded ones declaim for you.

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Let us take for her feathers of the back(s) of ostriches which the tmḥ.w-Libyans slay for you with their throw sticks, their straps being of leather; and let us make acclamation to you, and let the Libyan dancers dance for you, let us dance and let us cry out for our mistress, … The kyky-simians give praise to you with spn-staffs, and the krỉ.w-apes with ssnḏmsticks; The griffins cover themselves for you with their wings; The foxes raise up their heads for you. The Reret-goddesses praise you, their mouths open, their forearms in adoration before you. (Darnell 1995: 64–5) The people and animals that return to the Nile Valley with the Eye are brought from the desert regions. As in the Middle Kingdom tombs at Beni Hassan, a set of “types” indicates a desert origin: foreigners, produce of hides, staves, and ostrich feathers, and a mixed assortment of real and fantastical animals. The foreign dancers are a component of many Egyptian festival processions, especially Hathoric rites, and are probably intended to demonstrate the wide geographical area in which humans praise and worship Egyptian gods with dominion in foreign places (Giddy 1987; Darnell 1995: 69; Morris 2001: 81). The importation of foreign performers in native costumes creates a noticeable spectacle of strangeness, contributing to the exceptional nature of the festival. This operates in the same way as the importation and dedication of desert animals: noticeable and unusual individuals that can be dedicated to the deity as proof of the cult’s wide power and currency. As living artifacts of the desert regions, the animals and performers both enliven the festival and lend credibility to mythological ideas about the desert’s inhabitants.

Landscape and Experience: The Festival of the Returning Goddess at el Kab Barbara Ricther (2010) has identified the series of chapels in the Wadi Hillal, west of the ancient city of Nekheb (el Kab), as the itinerary of a Solar Eye festival procession. The site of el Kab lies on the eastern bank of the Nile, about 40 km north of Edfu. The site was occupied from at least the Predynastic, as evidenced by a Naqada III cemetery and prehistoric petroglyphs in the adjacent Wadi Hillal (Hendrickx 1994; Richter 2010). The wadi itself connects with the important desert roads from the Nile Valley to the Red Sea. The mouth of the wadi is wide and flat, and extends into the desert almost three and a half kilometers before narrowing into a desert canyon. Standing near the eastern end of the wadi mouth are unusual rock formations in the shape of a vulture, a cobra, and a pyramid (Richter 2010). Petroglyphs of all periods cluster around the bases of these formations, indicating the deep history of human engagement with this place (Richter 2010). In the desert to the east of the temple, in the mouth of the Wadi Hillal, are several small chapels dating to the New Kingdom and Ptolemaic period (Derchain 1971). The chapels are united by scenes from the myth of the Eye of Re. The Eye’s return encourages cosmic balance and heralds the beginning of the inundation, so it is important to celebrate it annually. Based on the scenes and physical arrangement of the buildings, Richter argues that these chapels are way stations for a festival procession that enacts the return of the Solar Eye goddess (Richter 2010). The chapels are situated in the wadi mouth in such a way that seasonal rains would create a kidney-shaped lake reminiscent of the isheru, or lions’ watering hole, a critical landscape feature in rituals of pacification (Goyon 2006). In the myth, the angry Eye of Re takes the form of a fierce lioness and is conflated with Sekhmet, a lioness who must be pacified with a drink of beer or blood (Hornung 1982).

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The decoration of the chapels suggests that the celebration of the Solar Eye festival took the form of a procession that stopped at each one. We can imagine the makeup of the participants being something like that described in the Medamud hymn, quoted earlier, with an additional complement of officiants, musicians, and taggers-along. The situation of the chapels in the desert, at some distance from the city, suggests that the physical experience of a festival procession in the arid desert margin was an important part of the reenactment of the mythological cycle. It is worth noting that the later Ptolemaic temple of Hathor at Dendara, where the celebration of the Wandering Goddess was also an important part of the annual festival cycle, re-creates this landscape in miniature within the temple precinct (Richter 2010). The artificial construction of the wadi landscape inside a temple indicates how important the environmental backdrop was to the maintenance of cult practices. In a recent article, Anna Garnett (2013) discusses the history of the Wadi Hillal, dating back to preshistoric sites. As a desert wadi, and start of an eastward route, directly adjacent to a major population center, the Hillal accrued thick residues (Meskell 2003: 36), in which the creation of monuments was an interpretation and manifestation of a preexisting landscape (Barrett 1999: 255). By creating barque shrines in the Wadi Hillal, the priests of the New Kingdom materialized a ritual landscape that already existed, and that built on millennia of practice, constantly revised and reinterpreted. Each one of these interventions left some perceivable trace that affected the landscape conceptions of the people who came after them. Once the imagined ritual landscape was supplied with monuments, the itinerary of the mythological narrative became embodied and fixed in place. In the case of the Wadi Hillal, the creation of a ritual landscape materialized a distant desert imaginary within reach of a major urban center. This is a landscape domestication par excellence, in which the important ideological functions of a deep desert context, along with its foreign inhabitants, are transported almost into the Nile Valley.

CONCLUSION Throughout the Pharaonic period, engagements with the desert landscape produced a variety of ideas about its cosmological and cultic significance. The desert is clearly a space of memory, in which traces of deep and more recent pasts can be viewed and interacted with. This is reinforced by the understanding of the desert as a parallel landscape to that of the netherworld, where the dead enter into repeating, eternal time. The siting of cemeteries at the desert’s edge materializes a borderland between this world and the next, reminding the living of the desert’s association with the journey of the sun and of the deceased. The association of the physical landscape of the desert with the cosmological landscape of the supernatural world contributes to the desert’s cultic power. Deserts are constructed as fuzzy borderlands that are permeable to entities from supernatural spheres, like deities and mythological animals, as well as to real people, animals, and goods from outside the Nile Valley. Successful engagement with these entities in the desert is a matter of negotiation, domestication, or socialization. This should be understood as distinct from the notion of “control of chaos” so often invoked in Egyptological literature about the desert landscape, because the infiltration of these entities is not uniformly perceived as negative or dangerous. They can aid or protect, as well as being threatening. All of the desert entities discussed in this chapter possess this ambivalent character: the wild animals pursued in the desert hunt are undomesticated and uncontrolled but, when captured alive,

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are important cult offerings. Foreign or desert nomadic people themselves are sometimes presented as a threat to the stability of Egypt, but also play an important role as providers of goods and services as well as performing in cult festivals celebrating desert gods and their maintenance of ritual cycles. These gods themselves are possessed of dual natures, having both violent and protective moods, which are necessary for them to fulfill their roles with power and effectiveness. Together these entities produce a community or koiné that is simultaneously foreign, otherworldly, and Egyptian. This community of people, animals, and gods is understood to reside primarily in the desert, while being able exceptionally able to traverse Egypt and other lands, as well as the cosmological spheres of mythological time. The existence of this koiné in mythological, or cyclical, time, can be seen as the product of compounded residues of cultural memory. These memories are compiled out of lived, conveyed, and represented experiences, which accumulate over time and become sedimented in place, in this case in the desert landscape. The gradually developing precedence of place over time, and the location of landscape narratives in cyclical rather than linear time, made the desert landscapes potent, malleable cultural spaces that were especially important in the constitution of ideas about Egyptian cosmology, myth, and the past.

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Deconstructing the Shrine: An Assay in Understanding Desert Cult STEVEN A ROSEN

CULT SITES IN THE SOUTHERN LEVANTINE DESERTS Avner’s (1984, 2002) pioneering work in the Negev, beginning in the 1980s, documented the existence of desert cult at a scale previously unimagined. Hundreds of ritual sites and features, ranging from small sets of orthostats or stelae (masseboth) to large megalithic shrines and platforms, were documented in this work, and many more since then, across the deserts of Eastern and Southern Jordan, North Arabia, the Negev, and Sinai (Figure 28.1). Although they are now often associated with mortuary structures, cairn fields, tower tombs, nawamis, and so on, many recognized by explorers as early as the nineteenth century (e.g., Palmer 1872: 117–21; Woolley and Lawrence 1915: 25–34), the cult sites themselves were little recognized, and little attention was paid to them. These sites comprise a range of types and features. As above, at the lowest level, simple orthostats or sets of orthostats, are found in great numbers, in different forms; these may date to as early as the Pre-Pottery Neolithic B (PPNB), the eighth millennium bce (Avner et al. 2014, 2019). Avner (1999/2000) has suggested that some are Nabatean, essentially roadside shrines, and they have been documented in Early Islamic pastoral encampments, perhaps precursors to desert mosques, also present on the sites (Rosen and Avni 1997: 16–18, 44, figs. 4.20–21, 4.26–27, 5.10–11). Presumably, these features span the long period between the Neolithic and Early Islamic times. More elaborate features, large squares and rectangles, sometimes covering areas of up to 200 m2, are delineated by carefully placed stones, one course high and one to three rows wide, defining the requisite shape. These structures may be associated with features such as hearths, partitions, or other installations. Megalithic structures are rectangular, with massive western walls, sometimes 20 m long, up to a meter wide, and originally standing up to 1.5 m high (e.g., Rosen et al. 2007). An eastern courtyard, 8–10 m wide, built of smaller stones, was attached to form the rectangular shape. Many of these features, both the orthostats and the structures, show special orientations, either in the cardinal directions or toward the solstice. The chronologies of these phenomena are complex, but,

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FIGURE 28.1  Map of the regions discussed with sites mentioned in text. 1. Sheluhat Qadesh Barnea, 2. Biqat Uvda, 3. Har Tzuriaz, 4. Nahal Tsafit, 5. Ramat Tamar, 6. Makhtesh Ramon/ Ramat Sahatonim, 7. Har Karkom, 8. Hasm el Taref, 9. ‘Awja (source: S. A. Rosen).

for example, the megalithic structures have been dated to the late sixth and early fifth millennia bce (Yogev 1983; Miller 1999; Porat et al. 2006). Geoglyphs, depictions of animals and other phenomena made of small stones set in the ground, are associated with three of the shrine sites (Yogev 1983; Banks et al. 1999; Fujii, Yamafuji, and Nagaya 2012), probably dating to roughly the same period. Rock art is also common (e.g., Anati and Mailland 2009; Eisenberg-Degen and Rosen 2013; Anati 2015; Schwimer and Yekutieli 2021). Although with clear symbolic content, its connection to ritual practice is not clear, and it seems more to represent territorial claims and markers of identity and presence (Eisenberg-Degen 2012: 293–332; EisenbergDegen, Schmidt, and Nash 2018). The petroglyph sequence may begin as early as the

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Late Neolithic (Eisenberg-Degen and Rosen 2013), in desert terms, the early phase of the Timnian culture, per contra Anati (1999), who claims to date some of the petroglyphs to as early as the Upper Palaeolithic. Both the chronologies and the interpretations of the cult phenomena are debated. Rosen (2015, 2017: 143–7) has linked the rise of centralized desert cult, with monumental shrines and mortuary complexes, to the introduction of domestic goats and the evolution of desert pastoral societies in the sixth millennium bce. Fujii (2013) and Abu-Azizeh (2013) have also linked the early shrines to developing pastoral societies. Anati (1986) has suggested that the cluster of cultic sites and rock art around Har Karkom have a deep history, but especially relate to the biblical story of Mt. Sinai and the Israelite exodus from Egypt. Avner (2018) has disputed the connection to the rise of mobile pastoralism, claiming that cult sites as a general phenomenon (including especially stelae) can be traced as far back as the (hunter-gatherer) Natufian culture (citing Henry 1976), and are especially common in the (hunter-gatherer) desert PPNB, in a subculture referred to as the Rodedian (Avner et al. 2014; Avner et al. 2019). In this he has conflated smallscale practice, as reflected, for example, in orthostats, with ritual of a much larger scale, reflecting centralized cult based on larger, more massive, and more elaborate cult sites.

SKETCHING THE ARGUMENT The shrines and shrine complexes in the Southern Levantine deserts appear in the field as integrated wholes, in strong patterns of associated elements that seem to offer rich grist for interpretive mills. For example, Avner (2018) has described structural pairs as god and goddess/sun and moon dyads, and other clusters of features as representing pantheons of gods. If on one hand, these interpretations rest on the strength of the patterns of coincidence, then in fact, the coincidence itself assumes contemporary or near-contemporary construction and use, and the different features functioned together as cohesive wholes, presumably the physical embodiment of some symbolic realm. Adopting a developmental framework, the shrine complexes, as seen today, can be viewed as the final stage in a long evolution consisting of the patterned accumulation of different elements over a long period. In this view, the different components of the various shrines and complexes were not built as integrated wholes but are the result of different elements, from different periods or phases, and with perhaps different meanings, added in fixed patterns to preexisting sites over the course of centuries, or even millennia. Such developmental sequences have been well documented in other megalithic complexes, the most notable of which is Stonehenge (e.g., Bender and Aitken 1998). More nearby, a similar developmental phenomenon is evident at Wadi Khashab, in the Egyptian Eastern Desert (Osypiński, Osypińska, and Zych 2021). In the Negev, a parallel approach can be seen in rock art, where individual panels, at first impression an integrated set of elements, are composed of different elements added in specific periods (Eisenberg-Degen 2012; Eisenberg-Degen and Rosen 2013). In the case of the rock art, panel elements composed in different periods can be parsed out according to differential shades of patina, reflecting different lengths of exposure after etching, and by superposition. These methods have also provided a key to building a general stylistic sequence (Eisenberg-Degen and Rosen 2013). More recently, absolute methods for dating patina have been developed based on accumulated manganese and iron (e.g., Macholdt et al. 2018), but these have yet to be applied systematically to Negev rock art. With respect to the shrines and shrine complexes, evidence for this scenario can be garnered in stratigraphic relationships

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present in some sites, a few hints from radiocarbon dates, stylistic aspects of construction, and the presence of some site components as independent elements in some sites. Although beyond the scope of this chapter, a similar picture can be drawn of burial structures. Surveys and stratigraphic excavations of cairn (tumulus) fields in the Negev (Galili and Rosen 2021) indicate long-term use. Cairns show human remains throughout their stratigraphic columns, apparently spanning millennia. Burial practices also varied, reflected especially in different kinds of burial goods and perhaps in different kinds of interment (primary, secondary, etc.). The cairns themselves also show modifications, apparently a sequence of architectural additions. These conclusions require further study. The implications of such a developmental reconstruction are significant. Instead of viewing shrine complexes as single-episode constructions with relatively short periods of use, they can be placed in a classic framework of sacred space utilized over long periods, of sites maintaining sanctity in spite of changing practice, cosmology, and even people (e.g., for Jordan, Fiema 2012; for Greece, Sussman 2019; for Stonehenge, Bender and Aitken 1998; and farthest, for Easter Island, Hamilton et al. 2016). In the protohistoric periods in the Levant, the shrine complexes to be discussed here as an example can be attached to the Timnian Culture Complex; in establishing a development sequence, they can be compared to the historical sequence of the culture (Rosen 2011, 2017: 131–207).

THE CONSTITUENT PARTS OF A PROTOHISTORIC SHRINE Shrine complexes in the Negev and adjacent regions are composed of four primary components (Figure 28.2):

1. A long, massive double wall, up to 20–22 m long, 0.5–1.0 m wide, two courses high, some of which originally stood up to 1.5 m high, was built of massive limestone blocks weighing as much as 500 kg (Figure 28.2: 1–3). At Ramat Saharonim these blocks were quarried from limestone layers 200–300 m away. Interior fill, between the two exterior walls, was of smaller blocks and cobbles. The total mass of these walls at Ramat Saharonim can be estimated at approximately 30 tons (Rosen et al. 2007). These walls are often, but not always, found on the west side of rectangular courtyards (described next). 2. Courtyards are often found combined with the massive double walls, forming a rectangular structure around 20 × 8 m in dimensions (Figure 28.2: 6–8). Construction of these courtyards contrasted with that of the massive western walls; the courtyard walls were never more than a single course high, and might be single, double, or even triple rowed. Construction materials varied. At Ramat Saharonim, the poorly preserved courtyards seem to have been built of small slabs, placed upright. At Har Tzuriaz and Hasm el Taref, the courtyards were constructed of wadi cobbles. At Biqat Uvda 6, a complex seemingly a precursor to the rectangular structures described here, the courtyard was of small blocks. 3. Squarish structures, 8–10 m on a side, were built of single course, double (or sometimes triple) row, cobble walls (Figure 28.2: 4–5). In many sites, most notably Ramat Saharonim, Har (Mount) Tzuriaz, and Hasm el Taref, these squarish structures combine with other components, the large walls and the courtyards,

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built on the north side, somewhat offset from the courtyard rectangle, but aligning well with the massive double wall, to form dyads. Most of these have some kind of stone feature roughly in the middle. In other places, they can be found in triplets (e.g., Har Tzuriaz), pairs of the same type (e.g., Har Tzuriaz), or as single structures, (e.g., Sites 201, 213, 217, and 242 in the Makhtesh Ramon [Rosen and Golan 2016]). 4. Geoglyphs (Figure 28.2: 9), in the context of this work (also referred to as stone drawings [Avner 2002] or stone mosaics [Banks et al. 1999]), are clusters of depictions of animals or abstract figures, usually on the order of a meter across, constructed of small stone slabs. Depictions of felines dominate, and they may constitute narrative scenes or symbols. They are found in association with three areas or site clusters, Biqat Uvda 6 (Yogev 1983), ‘Ajwa 1 (Fujii 2013), some seven sites at Hasm el Taref (S-19 and S-20, Banks et al. 1999; Avner 2002: 113, fig. 5.149–153, sites I, VII, VIII, XIV, XVII, and two sites on the mountaintop; the correspondence between site numbers from the two sources is not clear), and possibly some at Har Tzuriaz. All are located some meters offset from the shrines themselves.

FIGURE 28.2  Composite plan showing the relationship between different elements in a shrine complex. Scale and north arrow are approximate given the composite nature of the figure. 1. Segment of excavated massive double wall from Ramat Saharonim 4 facing east (S. A. Rosen), 2. Longitudinal view of excavated massive double wall from Ramat Saharonim 4 facing south, 3. Plan before excavation of massive double wall from Ramat Saharonim 4 (Rosen and Rosen 2003), 4. Squarish structure (unexcavated), Ramat Saharonim 1 (S. A. Rosen, photograph facing southwest), 5. Plan of unexcavated squarish structure Feature 1, Site S-19 Hasm et Taref (modified after Banks et al. 1999), 6. Plan of eastern courtyard wall/fence, Feature 1, Site S-19 Hasm et Taref (modified after Banks et al. 1999), 7. Eastern courtyard wall/fence, Har Tzuriaz 9 (courtesy of E. Aladjem), 8. Eastern courtyard wall/fence, Ramat Saharonim 4 (S. A. Rosen, photograph facing south), 9. Geoglyphs, Feature 1, Site S-19 Hasm et Taref (modified after Banks et al. 1999).

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Beyond these rather standardized features, additional elements include cairns, stone blocks in strategic locations, small box-like stone constructions, and clusters of stones. With the exception of cairns built on top of other features, these other elements are virtually impossible to date or to place in chronological context relative to the others. Exceptions include the radiocarbon dates taken from stone-built fire pits at Biqat Uvda 6 (Yogev 1983; Avner 2002: 113, table 1).

ANALYSIS In the developmental framework described earlier, over time these components, at some sites, accumulated to form patterned sets. However, shrine complexes with the complete set of primary components are rare, found only at Hasm el Taref sites S18 Area G (= site XVII, cf. Avner 2002: figs. 5.18, 5.140–141), S18 Area F (Banks et al. 1999), I, VII, VIII, and XIV (Avner 2002: figs. 5.158, 5.134–137). The shrines at Ramat Saharonim and Har Tzuriaz are lacking figurative geoglyphs, although they contain the larger structural elements. Although many other sites show similar or identical elements, sometimes in combination with others, many show only one or two. A set of analytic tools is utilized here for unpacking the different elements of the shrine systems. Basic physical stratigraphy is the strongest of this set but is not applicable to sites where there is no physical overlap between structures and/or associated layers. Four clear instances show how the different elements are independent. At Ramat Saharonim, Shrine 4 was excavated leaving sections intact (Porat et al. 2006; Rosen et al. 2007), allowing definition of the stratigraphic sequence (Figure 28.3), from earliest (lowest) to latest: (1) the original substrate of the landscape, with a structured carbonate nodule layer. (2) the original surface layer on which the massive double wall was constructed, notable for its disturbed structure with carbonate nodules mixed in from the earlier substrate. In fact, the large blocks were placed in a shallow stabilizing trench dug into this surface; (3) an aeolian loess accumulation on either side of the wall and at its southern and northern extremities; and (4) a surface crust. Stone fall from the massive double wall was found embedded in and on top of the loess accumulation. The two radiocarbon dates derive from a small fire pit and scattered charcoal in two different areas in clear association with the original land surface. Cobbles of the square structure, just north of the massive double wall, were found on top of the loess accumulation, and not in association with the original land surface. That is, the square structure is stratigraphically above the original land surface, postdates the large wall by some significant span, given the time needed for the loess talus to accumulate on the northern end of the massive double wall. At Har Tzuriaz Shrine 9 (Figure 28.4), the massive double wall on the west side of the shrine was clearly built on top of the courtyard, especially evident at the north end of the massive double wall where the original corner of the courtyard can be seen beneath the wall (Figure 28.4.2a). The asymmetry of the courtyard relative to the massive wall would also suggest they were not built as an integrated whole. It is also notable that the courtyard can be linked to two other, very similar structures (Figures 28.4.1, 4.3, 4.4), located to its north, forming a triplet, probably representing a different and earlier conception of shrine. The relationships between the massive walls and cairns built on top of them can also be clarified stratigraphically. Excavations conducted by R. Galili and E. Cohen-Sason at Har Tzuriaz Shrine 12 (Figure 28.4), with a cairn located in at the south end of a large,

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FIGURE 28.3  The stratigraphy at Shrine 4, Ramat Saharonim (RS) 4 showing squarish structure resting on loess accumulation above original land surface. 1. Plan of typical section 430–431 (“a” on plan) showing base stratum with carbonate nodules and loess accumulation above it abutting the massive double wall with stone fall on top; 2. Section 415–416 showing original surface with exposed carbonate nodules and loess accumulation above it with embedded stone fall. The massive double wall is on the right; 3. Cobbles from the squarish structure resting on accumulated loess well above original land surface; 4. Trench cut north of massive double wall, looking south, showing two stones in 3.3 (“c”), lying on or near the modern ground surface; 5. Section 425/426 showing basal carbonate nodules reflecting original surface, loess accumulation, and embedded fallen stones, 6. RS4 west side looking south; the cobbles of the squarish structure lie on the slope of the loess accumulation, the modern land surface, 7, Plan of Ramat Saharonim 4 showing location of features (source: S. A Rosen).

massive wall, show a stratigraphic separation between the cairn and the wall, clearly indicating that the cairn postdates the wall (R. Galili, personal communication), probably by some significant span. Similarly, close examination of Har Tzuriaz 9 indicates that the cairn is later than the massive wall (Figure 28.4.2b). Beyond stratigraphy, the existence of various components independently of one another suggests that apparent linkages are not fixed. Massive double walls are found as independent features in a number of sites. These “line shrines,” without courtyards, associated square structures, or geoglyphs, have been documented in some number in the Western Negev Highlands (Haiman 1992; Saidel and Haiman 2014), in the Sheluhat Qadesh Barnea area (Erickson-Gini and Porat 2018), and in the Eastern Negev, for example, at Nahal Tsafit (Knabb 2018) and Ramat Tamar (Galili and Rosen 2021). The general construction of these shrines is similar to that of composite sites, although some variability is evident. For example, the line shrine at Ramat Tamar shows identical construction to

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FIGURE 28.4  Har Tzuriaz Shrine 9 drone photos. 1. The triplet of shrines at Har Tzuriaz 9, with the left shrine showing a combination of massive double wall, courtyard, and cairn. 2. The left shrine shows a triple cobble courtyard wall lying beneath the massive double wall (arrow a) and the cairn lying atop the massive double all (arrow b). The asymmetry of the massive double wall relative to the courtyard wall is clear, 3. Detail of wall from middle shrine, 4. Detail of wall from right shrine. The architecture and technology of the middle and right shrines, and the courtyard of the left shrine, are identical. Scale is approximate (drone photos courtesy of E. Aladjem).

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other massive double walls but is only about 10 m long; the four unexcavated shrines at Nahal Tsafit are identical in their surface features to those of the unexcavated shrines at Ramat Saharonim, although one is about half the length; the line shrines at Sheluhat Qadesh Barnea are the same length and width, with similar construction to those of the composite sites, but it is not clear if they stood to the same original height. On the other hand, variability is also present between the massive double walls of the composite sites. Notably, whereas the massive double walls from the composite sites all show roughly similar solstice orientations (approximately 298°), the line shrines show variability, with some clustering around the solstice alignments, and others clustering around 325°, suggesting a different symbolism. Structures resembling the courtyards and square structures are also found independently of other elements. In fact, when examining these two elements separately from the composite shrines, the distinction between them may not be clear. For example, at Har Tzuriaz 9, the courtyard may be a part of an earlier triplet, the central structure of which might be classified as a square structure. Avner (2002: e.g., 66–7) has noted the presence of such structures in pairs and triplets. Similar single rectangles, sometimes built of only single rows of stones, but including the stone feature in the middle, are also found, independent of other elements, on the plain of the Makhtesh Ramon (Figure 28.5; Rosen and Golan 2016: sites 213, 217, 242). If the two elements, courtyards and square structures, are variants of a single phenomenon, then a possible contradiction arises in that the courtyard at Har Tzuriaz 9 predates the massive double wall, but the square structure at Ramat Saharonim 4 postdates the wall there. The issue is beyond resolution without more and better data. It is possible, for example, that the salient features are raw material and the number of structures; perhaps lone or single square structures operated along a trajectory different from multiple square structures and were essentially different types.

FIGURE 28.5  Makhtesh Ramon shrine, rectangular structure, Map 201, site 217, looking west (Rosen and Golan 2016) (photo by S. A. Rosen).

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The occasional raw material contrasts between courtyards and square structures have already been mentioned. At Ramat Saharonim, Shrine 3 lacks a typical cobble square structure, but small slabs are present, in disturbed contexts, just north of the massive double wall, another indicator of great variability and suggesting complex processes of shrine complex development. Geoglyphs constitute the final primary element in composite sites. Although, as above, they have been discovered in only three sites/areas (discounting the debatable claims from Har Karkom, attributed to the Palaeolithic [Mailland 2009]), Biqat Uvda 6 (Yogev 1983; Avner 2002: figs. 5.149–155), ‘Ajwa 1 (Fujii, Yamafuji, and Nagaya 2012), and sites at Hasm el Taref (Banks et al. 1999; Avner 2002: figs. 5.134–144, 147), these sites differ considerably in their basic features, one from the other. Biqat Uvda 6 has been reconstructed as a diamond-shaped courtyard with a roughly rectangular and tripartite structure where the west point of the wall might be. Small orthostats were found clustered in the middle cell. It has been dated to the mid-sixth millennium bce (Yogev 1983; Avner 2002: table 1). ‘Awja 1 consists of two elongate rectangles built of two rows of small upright slabs with interior partitions and various features, all delineated by small slabs, referred to by the authors as pseudo-houses. It has not been dated. The Hasm el Taref composite shrines are similar to those at Ramat Saharonim, with courtyards, massive double walls, and rectangular structures. Although the specific sites with geoglyphs were not dated, radiocarbon dates from S-18, part of the general complex, suggests two phases of occupation, one mid-sixth millennium bce and one late sixth/early fifth millennium bce (Miller 1999), the early phase contemporary with the Biqat Uvda 6 dates. All three sites show solstice alignments. In each case, the geoglyphs are offset several meters from the main shrines. The geoglyphs crosscut shrine types. Several interpretations are possible. As perhaps suggested by the mid-sixth millennium dates, the geoglyphs may represent an early stage in shrine construction or conception, and other features could have been added successively. Alternatively, the geoglyphs may represent a long-term motif, used repeatedly over a long period. In either case, they seem to operate independently of specific shrine types or features. Finally, spatial aspects of shrine complexes also seem to suggest long-term development. At both Ramat Saharonim (Rosen et al. 2007) and Hasm el Taref (Banks et al. 1999; and for other sites, Avner 2002) the almost linear patterns in shrine location suggest sequences or series of constructions. Of course, without a set of absolute dates from multiple shrines within a site, this suggestion remains hypothesis. On the other hand, stratigraphic excavation of cairns at Ramat Tamar, along with radiocarbon assays (Galili and Rosen 2021; Galili personal communication), indicates use and reuse of these structures over the course of millennia, and the shrines at Har Tzuriaz, Ramat Saharonim, and Hasm el Taref are all associated with such cairn fields.

CONCLUSIONS The argument sketched above deconstructs the protohistoric shrines of the Negev into constituent parts, suggesting that they be viewed as developmental composites, not conceived from the start as integrated wholes. In the scarcity of fine-resolution stratigraphic excavations and absolute dates from well-defined contexts, the argument remains hypothesis, albeit a strong one. Furthermore, a more extensive treatment would address a greater range of cultic phenomena, including earlier shrine sites, the abundant orthostats and stelae in their various contexts, cairns and cairn fields, as well as a large

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set of other features including small cairn lines, long stone lines, small cell features, and so on, other small features incorporated into composite sites (hearths, stone-lined pits, etc.), and perhaps aspects of rock art. Specific trends are difficult to fix, but overall the analysis suggests two features: (1) a trend toward greater complexity, a greater integration of features with time, primarily through aggregation, and (2) a trend toward greater monumentality, greater size, and mass of the structures, either as aggregates or in terms of specific features. This is seen, for example, in the additive sequence of geoglyph to courtyard to massive wall, that is, toward architectural greater complexity and monumentality. This, in turn, matches increasing structure and hierarchy in the desert societies. These trends are functions of demography and economics, fundamental changes in the structures of the respective societies (Rosen 2015). From another perspective, it is difficult to conceive that cult in these protohistoric periods did not evolve in concert with their associated societies. Apart from the tremendous span in and of itself, seven to eight millennia, from the PPNB through the end of the third millennium bce, this long period saw revolutionary changes in desert societies. Cult does not exist independently of culture and society, and cult practices, including their physical manifestations, reflect social structures, and dynamics. Thus, for example, the transition from the small band hunting-gathering societies of the PPNB to larger scale and more hierarchical tribal herding societies is reflected in their respective cult sites, most notably in the increasingly larger scale, and greater labor evident in postPre-Pottery Neolithic cult structures. Avner’s (2018) rejection of such linkages is based on misapprehensions of the small scale of band level cult of hunter-gatherers, as reflected in the archaeology relative to the larger sites of the later herding societies. The cumulative processes in the development of the centralized cult sites described here coincide with the development Timnian herding society, also an evolving system. Other aspects of desert social dynamics, including the intensification of external exchange, the development of economic asymmetries, and incursions by settled zone peoples all must have had their impacts on desert cult practices. To assume otherwise is to attribute to desert peoples a form of cultural stagnation, demonstrably wrong in light of the well-documented dynamics of ancient desert societies.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I am grateful to Nicola Laneri and Sharon Steadman for inviting me to participate in this volume. I profited greatly from discussions with Roy Galili, writing his doctorate on the Ramat Tamar and Har Tzuriaz sites. I benefitted from further discussions with my colleagues, Eli Cohen-Sason, Ofer Marder, and Gunnar Lehmann. This work was supported by Israel Science Foundation grant 2018/264 to S. A Rosen.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Maritime Viewscapes and the Material Religion of Levantine Seafarers AARON BRODY

For those traveling away from the safety of settlements and their surroundings, the experience must have been profoundly liminal. Crossing the physical and mental thresholds from known surrounding landscapes into the unknown entailed religious concepts and rituals to ensure protections and guidance across and through these boundaries (Van Gennep 1909; Turner 2017). Voyaging at sea was a doubly liminal experience; mariners not only left the familiarity and safety of land, but existed in a perpetual state of in-betweenness while out on the waters (Westerdahl 2010; Monroe 2011). To aid the numerous thresholds faced and crossed in maritime expeditions, Levantine seafarers adopted specific deities from their pantheon whose attributes aided maritime voyaging and proper wayfinding. The same deities were worshipped by peoples who never left the land, but often for different reasons or with different ceremonies or ritual objects. The material religion of Levantine sailors included ritual and ritualized artifacts unique to their shipboard life such as votive anchors and anchor parts, offerings of ship parts or equipment, and model ships and boats (Brody 1998; Tito 2018). Maritime religious concepts like the sheet anchor, a holy anchor of last resort, and the sacred steering oar demonstrate the entangled nature of ritualized profane objects with the spiritual wellbeing of seafarers. This specialized religion of ancient Levantine seafarers was a subset of the religious ideas and ritual practices of the varied cultures from which the sailors hailed. Their distinctive profession, mode of transportation, doubly liminal seascape on which they travelled, and unique viewscapes from onboard ship both during the day and at night (Goldfarb 2012; Van Dyke, Smet, and Bocinsky 2021), brought with it distinctive sacral ideas and practices. Their maritime material religion sacralized the ship itself; parts of the ship; aspects of its equipment, like anchors and steering oars or rudders; and unique materialized rituals like the creation and devotion of models or graffiti of ships. This specialized religion adds to, and nuances, our understanding of material religions in the ancient Near East, which has privileged terrestrial religious thought and ritual actions on land.

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THE PATRON DEITIES OF LEVANTINE SEAFARERS Venturing out on the waters, Levantine mariners encountered numerous dangers and challenges not faced by earthbound populations. Because of these practical and spiritual obstacles, Levantine sailors developed relationships with deities that could provide divine aid and support throughout a journey. The greatest hazards emanated from the sea, therefore guardianship from the dangers of the waters and its spirits was critical. Divine benefactors protected mariners from the numinous depths, while the materiality of the vessel’s structure afforded a barrier from treacherous waters. Two kinds of gods and goddesses were vital to Levantine seafarers: deities that had control over storms and winds, and ones whose powers affected wayfinding and the safety and success of the journey itself. The Levantine storm god, Ba‘al, is documented as affecting Phoenician ships in a seventh-century bce treaty between Assyria and Tyre. The text’s section of curses lists three epithets of the Phoenician storm god, Ba‘al Shamayim, Ba‘al Malagê, and Ba‘al Zaphon, stating that they will raise an “evil wind” that will cause the waves of the sea to sink Tyrian ships if the treaty is transgressed (Parpola and Watanabe 1988: 24–7; Lipiński 1995; Niehr 2003). Centuries before this treaty, Ba‘al Zaphon was worshipped in one of the acropolis temples in Ugarit, a prominent city near the North Syrian coast. The temple contained an inscribed stele dedicated to Ba‘al Zaphon (Levy 2014: 293–310) as well as numerous stone anchors, which were in the building’s foundations and left as offerings inside and outside of the sanctuary. The neighboring Dagan temple, the Temple of Rhytons, and the Hurrian Temple at Ugarit all lacked nautical offerings (Yon 2006: 106–10). The temple of Ba‘al Zaphon likely acted as a navigational aid for ships entering the port of Ugarit. The temple has a prominent reconstructed height and a key position on the city’s high point; thus, the building would have been easily visible from the sea (Yon 2006: 110). The nearby mountain of Jebel el-Aqra is known as Mount Zaphon in texts uncovered at Ugarit. These myths detail the deified mountain as the storied location of the storm god’s palace. This prominent natural feature likely also served as a landmark and directional aid for seafarers along the coast near Ugarit. Zeus Kasios, the Hellenized Ba‘al Zaphon, was honored with offerings of model ships, and his name was inscribed on anchors, material evidence of the god’s continued patronage of sailors in later times (Collar 2017: 23–36; Tito 2012: 81–105). Marine deities also had special tutelary relationships with Levantine seafarers. The Greek myth of Cadmus relates how the legendary Phoenician prince prayed to Poseidon for protection during several storms. After his safe arrival in port on Rhodes, Cadmus is portrayed as founding a temple dedicated to Poseidon in fulfillment of his vows to the god made while in distress at sea (Diodorus V.58.2). A classical account of a voyage details Hanno, the leader of a Phoenician colonizing sea voyage in the fifth–fourth century bce, establishing a temple to Poseidon on a seaside promontory (Periplus of Hanno). This depicts a dedicatory act likely undertaken to thank the god and further ensure the safety of Hanno’s fleet. We are not sure of the Phoenician name of the deity that was translated by ancient Greek authors as Poseidon (Brody 1998: 23–6). It is possible that an unnamed maritime god, portrayed on fifth–fourth century bce Phoenician coins as an archer riding over the seas on the back of a mythic, composite sea creature, the hippocamp, is the Phoenician god called Poseidon in Greek (Figure 29.1). Goddesses played a vital role in the protection of Levantine sailors, as well. An Egyptian Middle Kingdom, or Middle Bronze Age, coffin text says that Hathor holds the rudders that guide the voyage of funerary boats (Brody 1998: 28–9). Hathor is equated

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FIGURE 29.1  Coins: warship with horse-headed prow, riding on hippocamp, Byblos; and “Marine God” on his hippocamp, Tyre (source: Brody 1998: figs. 22 and 23).

FIGURE 29.2  Phoenician ships with crescent-and-disk standards at their stern, coins; and details of crescent and crescent-and-disk stern standards, coins (source: Brody 1998; fig. 66).

in the same text with the Lady of Byblos, an epithet of the Levantine mother goddess, Asherah. A port on the Red Sea was called Elath, indicating a dedication to the goddess Asherah under her original name, Elath, or “Goddess” (Deut. 2:8; 2 Kgs. 14:22, 16:6). The inscription “Elath of Tyre” is found minted on a third-century bce coin that depicts the goddess standing in a galley as its protector deity (Brody 1998: 29). The goddess Tanit, a Phoenician deity who is likely a later form of the goddess Asherah, is commonly associated with the emblem of the crescent moon or crescent-and-disk (Brody 1998: 30–3; Lipiński 1995; Martin 2018: 84–85). This lunar symbol is found on standards (Figure 29.2) depicted at the stern of Phoenician ships carved on votive stelae and represented on coins. These symbols of the moon represent the guardianship of the goddess Tanit over these vessels and suggest her protection over proper navigation, since pilots maneuvered steering oars located at the stern of ships. The “sign” of Tanit, which may represent the goddess Tanit or an aspect of her divinity (Martin 2018), is also depicted on standards

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FIGURE 29.3  Examples of signs of Tanit and caduceus on ship’s standards, sacrificial stele, Carthage (source: Brody 1998: fig. 16).

at the prow and stern of a ship carved on a memorial stele from Carthage suggesting her safeguarding of the vessel (Figure 29.3). Recently a bronze pendant of the sign of Tanit was found near several ship graffiti carved on the walls of a Hellenistic period Phoenician tomb at Maresha, in southern Israel (Haddad, Stern, and Artzy 2018: 125). This evidence tentatively suggests another link between the divine symbol and seafarers, materialized in the ritual act of carving representations of ships on the walls of this household burial chamber. The god Melqart’s importance to Phoenician seafarers is verified by numerous data (Bonnet 1988; Brody 1998: 33–7; Lipiński 1995). The reasons why Melqart was a patron god of sailors, however, are not well understood, despite his worship at Phoenician settlements throughout the Mediterranean basin and Atlantic. Melqart, a god of pestilence and possibly an underworld god, may have had sacred powers over granting success, a trait vital for the protection of travelers and merchants. Like his Hellenic counterpart Herakles, Melqart may have been a divine protector of roads and traffic and therefore been a guardian of sea lanes, voyages, and mariners (Kajava 1997: 63; Neilson 2006). Melqart may also have been a tutelary deity of commerce. Classical sources demonstrate that numerous promontories, islands, and harbors were dedicated to Melqart, recorded under his Greek name, Herakles (Daniels 2021). The Phoenician god is further divinely linked to shipbuilding, seafaring, exploratory voyages, and maritime adventure in classical textual traditions (Williams-Reed 2018: 143–9); and to tuna and the tuna run in the Western Mediterranean (Bartoloni and Guirguis 2017; Fernández Camacho 2017). Inscriptions in Phoenician note a “Rosh Melqart,” a headland or promontory dedicated to Melqart (Bonnet 1988: 267–9). One Phoenician ship was also named Melqart, a form of devotion to the deity or indication that the vessel was imbued with the god’s

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spirit (Herakles in Greek; Arian, Annabasis of Alexander II.24.6), and sacrifices were made to ask for the god’s protection before setting sail and in thanksgiving after safe arrival (Heliodoros of Emesa, Aethiopica IV.16.8; Strabo, Geography III.5.5). A Greek inscription from Imperial Roman times, uncovered in Italy in a secondary context, is clearly dedicated to Herakles as a divine savior from a shipwreck incident (Kajava 1997: 59). It is possible that western Phoenician or Punic beliefs influenced Roman period convictions, although the directions of cultural influences by this era are difficult to disentangle.

SEASIDE TEMPLES AND SHRINES Levantine seafarers worshipped these tutelary gods and goddesses while on land in order to ask for protection before setting sail, or to give thanks to a divine patron after a safe arrival on shore. Temples provided sacred space in harbors for mariners to give propitiations to their divine protectors (Brody 1998: 39–54). Some of these material offerings were unique to sailors and their maritime world. Among these votives there were two categories: objects fashioned for nautical rituals, such as model ships, miniature rudders, and nautical graffiti; and mundane artifacts that were ritualized, such as anchors, anchor stocks, and steering oars. Evidence of Levantine maritime votives is found in the dedicatory stone anchors and bronze model ships from the Temple of Obelisks and other sacred areas at Byblos. These offerings date to the beginning phase of the Middle Bronze Age (c. 1950–1750 bce), a period when Byblos was one of the most important international harbor sites in the central Levant. During the Late Bronze Age (c. 1550–1175 bce), ritual offerings of stone anchors are found in the Temple of Ba‘al in Ugarit, as detailed before. This acropolis temple had various types of anchor offerings: ones incorporated in its foundations, others placed near the building’s entrance, and others positioned in its courtyard. These may represent the fulfillment of different types of vows to Ba‘al Zaphon, the patron god of this temple. The tradition of offering anchors and model ships as fulfillment of vows continues in later periods. Votive anchors and anchor parts are found in Phoenician temples at Tell Sukas on the Syrian coast, in its Period G2 tripartite sanctuary dating to the early sixth century bce; Kition-Bamboula on Cyprus, in two phases of its sanctuaries dating to the mid-seventh to sixth century bce; and at Coria del Río, near Seville in Spain (Riis 1970: 64; Neville 2007: 127–8; Romero Recio 2008: 79; Caubet, Fourrier, and Yon 2015). A clay model ship was among the offerings uncovered in an eighth- to sixth-century BCE Phoenician temple dedicated to Ba‘al and Astarte, overlooking the Guadalquivir river in Carambolo, Seville, which in antiquity was on the coast of the Atlantic (Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016: 239–43). A model of a ship’s prow was also found in the excavations of this same sanctuary (Guerrero Ayuso and Escacena Carrasco 2010: 239–48). The sanctuary at Kition-Bamboula, an important Tyrian colony site on Cyprus, gives us the most detailed information. The temple contained stone anchors left as ritual offerings in two of its phases dating to c. 650–500 bce. This sacred structure was located in an area of the city overlooking the harbor, adjacent to ship sheds that were used for dry-docking warships (Caubet, Fourrier, and Yon 2015). The temple was dedicated to several deities; including Melqart, Ba‘al, and Astarte (Bloch-Smith 2014: 173–6); thus it is difficult to attribute the votive anchors to a specific god or goddess.

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Both Melqart and Ba‘al have been detailed above as divine patrons of mariners. There have been recent attempts to link Astarte, goddess of the hunt, war, kingship, and apotropaic magic, to the protection of Phoenician seafarers (Acquaro, Filippi, and Medas 2010; Ruiz Cabrero 2010; Ferrer Albelda, Marín Ceballos, and Pereira Delgada 2012; Christian 2013). This claim is rooted in misconceptions of Astarte’s attributes imbedded in the secondary literature; I cannot find any primary data that detail Astarte as a patron of Phoenician mariners. Yet Astarte’s irrefutable links to the maritime patron goddesses Aphrodite and Isis suggest that we may simply be missing the Phoenician data (Eckert 2011; Brown and Smith 2019; Bricault 2020). Temples in harbor cities may have also served as navigational aids, providing a pragmatic and spiritual sighting used to safely dock in port. This role for the Temple of Ba’al at Ugarit has already been detailed before. The earlier, Early Bronze–Middle Bronze, Tower Temple at Byblos was visible from sea and may have served as a kind of proto-lighthouse (Frost 2002: 62–4). Five stone anchors form the first step of the stairway leading to the Tower Temple, demonstrating its importance to seafarers. Recent studies reconstruct the critical role that three major temples at the Phoenician settlement of Gadir (Cadiz), Spain, played in guiding ships to safe anchorage (Higueras-Milena Castellano and Sáez Romero 2018: 286–305; López-Sánchez and Gómez-González 2019). The famous southern sanctuary at Gadir was dedicated to Melqart, and the two northern temples were consecrated to Astarte and Ba‘al Hammon. While voyaging away from port, shrines constructed on isolated promontories were visible to sailors in their travel. These shrines served sacral and functional purposes: they continued the link between seafarers and their holy patrons while distant from port, served as landmarks for safe navigation, and typically marked the location of freshwater sources (Vella 1998: 374–90; Morton 2001). Classical authors provide us with the details of numerous Phoenician promontory shrines. Excavated examples are more rare, likely because of their isolated locations. Discoveries spanning the second to first millennia at Nahariyah, Ashkelon, Mevorakh, Makmish, Tell Sukas, Kommos, Capo San Marco at Tharros, Kition, and Ras ed-Drek show material remains of these shrines that marked Levantine routes throughout the Mediterranean (Brody 1998: 55–60; Vella 1998; Bartoloni 2018). The island of Malta had at least four promontory temples or shrines, protecting Phoenician seafarers during their approach to the island (Gambin 2002– 3: 21–7). Similarly, natural features that provided important landmarks from the sea were sacralized. Headlands or mountain peaks served as navigational aids from onboard ship and were often dedicated to patron deities. Several sacred caves were important features for Phoenician mariners, who drew dedicatory images of ships, warships, or parts of vessels on the walls of the cave sanctuaries at the Grotta Regina, Sicily, and Laja Alta, Spain (Vella 1998: 164–6; Brody 2005: 179–81; López-Bertran, Garcia-Ventura, and Krueger 2008: 347–8; Christian 2013, 2014). The Grotta Regina also contained depictions of the sign of Tanit. Further Phoenician cave sanctuaries are located near the sea, such as Es Culleram, Ibiza, and Gorham’s Cave, Gibraltar, and may have served as important landmarks from the sea (Vella 1998: 254–63; Brody 2005: 179–81). Constellations were critical to Levantine navigators and proper way finding at night. That the constellations represented Levantine deities seems clear, but detailed data are scant, which hinders linking nighttime navigation with specific movement of stars and sightings off of constellations, and presumed sacral relationships with their representative deities (Goldfarb 2012).

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SACRED SPACE ABOARD SHIP In ancient and modern traditional seafaring cultures, ships are considered imbued with divine spirits that protect mariners from the physical and spiritual dangers of the deep. This belief is manifested in several forms: representations of a deity or protective totems placed at the prow or stern of a vessel; oculi, or eyes, included at the prow to help guide the vessel and ward off harm; ornamental horns that adorn the prows of warships; and ships named after a deity known for traits beneficial to sailors (Brody 1998: 62–73; Woolmer 2012). These vessels’ divine spirits and other divinities were worshipped at sacred spaces on board ship, typically found at the prow or stern of a vessel. Evidence of this concept is found in diverse sources. There are very few extant Levantine maritime texts, yet we know from the Late Bronze Age Ugaritic Kirta epic that the sacred mountain, Mt. Zaphon, was represented as a ship; and a parallel reference from a New Kingdom Egyptian papyrus details that Ba‘al Zaphon was worshipped in the form of a ship (Brody 1998: 15–18). A letter from the king of Tyre to the king of Ugarit details the sinking of a ship in a storm (Bordrieul and Pardee 2009: 238–239). This ship is said to have literally died in a tempest, suggesting an animate spirit perished with the loss of the vessel. Classical authors supply occasional details about Phoenician ships, such as merchant vessels and warships that are named after protective deities; figureheads representing gods, goddesses, or divine creatures at the prow of vessels; and the worship of images of deities at the stern portion of war galleys (Brody 1998: 65–7). Shipwrecks reveal material remains related to the sacred realm and to rituals aboard ship (Abdelhamid 2015: 1–8). A figurine of a Levantine goddess was found in the Late Bronze Age ship excavated at Uluburun, Turkey, evidence of a deity on board the vessel. The location of the female figurine was at the prow of the doomed ship (Wachsman 1998: 206–8), and she likely represents the goddess to whom the vessel was dedicated. A Phoenician ship sank off the southeastern coast of Spain, floundering on a submerged rock outcrop called the Bajo de la Campana. Among a wealth of excavated cargo, a single stone altar was discovered, marking sacred space aboard this fated ship (Polzer 2014: 238–9). A recent find of a bronze ram from a Carthaginian warship in the waters off the west coast of Sicily is inscribed in Phoenician (Biggs 2017: 355; Schmitz 2020). Preliminary readings of this evidence suggest that the warship was dedicated to either Ba‘al or Tanit and Reshep. Maritime iconography provides the richest source of evidence we have for ritual space aboard ships (Brody 1998: 68–72). The Phoenicians were known for their horse-headed ships, which are mentioned by several classical authors and are depicted in Assyrian reliefs (Friedman 2015: 19–34). It is possible that the equine prow figure depicts an abbreviated form of the winged seahorse, or hippocamp, a composite creature with the head of a horse, wings of a bird, and a sea-serpent’s tail. This winged seahorse is shown directly below ships on coins from Byblos and Aradus, representing the protection of the hippocamp’s companion god over these vessels (Figure 29.1). A smiting god is depicted on the prow of a ship from a Phoenician tomb at Kef el-Blida, likely portraying Melqart (Figure 29.4; Bonnet 2007), while another smiting god is found on the prows of ships depicted on coins, representing the storm god, Ba‘al (Basch 1987). Prow figures of goddesses are represented on coins; however, the depictions lack sufficient detail to be able to identify any individual goddesses (Figure 29.5). A war galley with a lion-headed prow is shown on coin from Byblos. The lion is a companion to both

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FIGURE 29.4  Smiting god on prow of Phoenician warship, seventh to sixth centuries bce tomb painting (López-Bertran, Garcia-Ventura, and Krueger 2008), Kef el Blida (source: Brody 1998: fig. 24).

FIGURE 29.5  Phoenician ships with anthropomorphic figures and apotropaic eyes at their prows, coins (source: Brody 1998: fig. 65).

Asherah and Melqart, so it is difficult to interpret which of these deities protected this Byblian warship. Various divine symbols adorned the prows of Phoenician warships (Woolmer 2012: 238–52) and decorated the tops of poles placed both at the prow and stern of various vessels (Figures 29.2, 29.3, 29.5). These decorations included the caduceus, crescent, crescent-and-disk, and the sign of Tanit (Figures 29.2 and 29.3). These emblems represent the major goddess of Carthage Tanit’s protection over ships of all types.

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Oculi, or ships’ eyes, are very common in representations of ships and are depicted on several different kinds of Phoenician vessels; they are also occasionally uncovered in the excavation of shipwrecks or ship sheds (Figures 29.2, 29.4; Galili and Rosen 2015: 51–3, 91). Representations of prows or sterns of vessels; and ships’ equipment, such as rudders and anchors, suggest that specific areas were sacred space or that mundane objects had sacral significance (Figures 29.5, 29.6a, 29.6b).

RELIGIOUS CEREMONIES PERFORMED BY SEAFARERS Levantine sailors performed religious ceremonies in order to please divine patrons, ensure safety during a voyage, and aid in proper navigation. Rituals were often conducted during transitional stages in a voyage: in port before the journey or upon safe arrival; on board ship, while leaving or entering harbor, while passing a landmark or headland; and in times of danger or need. According to classical authors, Phoenician seafarers made sacrifices to Melqart before setting sail and after landing in harbor (Brody 1998: 75; Neilson 2006). Stone anchors, anchor stocks, and model ships placed as offerings in temples in Levantine coastal sites are material evidence that celebrations took place, and sacred vows were fulfilled, in these sanctuaries. While away from the relative safety of harbor, Levantine seafarers continued contact with their divine patrons by dedicating promontories and landmarks to them, and by building shrines on headlands. These sanctified natural features and sacred structures were a focus of mariners’ rituals, conducted while out on the water. They may have also indicated places to moor where ceremonies could be performed or, pragmatically, fresh water could be procured. Evidence for prayers taking place on board vessels after arriving safely in port is found in several different Egyptian representations (Fabre 2004–5: 191–202). Wall reliefs, dating from the Old Kingdom, depict Levantine and Egyptian passengers on Egyptian ships with their hands raised up in prayer as they dock safely in Memphis (Figure 29.7). A painting from the New Kingdom tomb of Kenamun shows a convoy of Levantine ships mooring in Egypt (Figure 29.8a–b). Some members of the crew hold their hands up in prayer, while high-ranking crew and captains burn incense and offer libations celebrating the success of their journey. Incense burners have been discovered on several Phoenician shipwrecks, dating from the eighth century bce down through the Hellenistic period (Brody 2005: 178–9; Polzer 2014: 238). Musical instruments discovered on the much earlier, Late Bronze Age Uluburun shipwreck, may have been used in shipboard ceremonies. While facing perils at sea, whether from tempests or battles, mariners made vows to their divine guardians in order to solicit sacred protection. The fabled Phoenician prince, Cadmus, is portrayed praying for help from Poseidon while his craft was tossed by storms (Diodorus V.58.2). After making landfall safely, Cadmus is said to have built a temple for Poseidon in fulfillment of his storm-driven vows. During a violent storm, the crew of the ship carrying the Israelite prophet Jonah, prayed to their storm gods, desperate to calm the winds (Jonah 1). After the sea is tranquil, the mariners, some of whom were likely Phoenician, make sacrifices and offer vows to Yahweh, to thank Jonah’s god for quieting the storm. In the heat of battle, a Carthaginian marine is portrayed praying to his warship’s deity for divine aid (Silius Italicus, Punica XIV.436–41). When this galley is sinking, its pilot is depicted as sacrificing himself to the ship’s patron god by literally spilling his own blood on the statuette of the deity on board.

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FIGURE 29.6  a. Symbols of anchors on sacrificial stelae, Carthage (source: Brody 1998: fig. 67); b. Ship’s rudder, dolphin, and sign of Tanit; sacrificial stela, Carthage (source: Brody 1998: fig. 20).

Because of the hazards faced at sea, forecasts were essential for the safety of a voyage. A bad omen, read from a sacrifice to Melqart, was enough turn around an expedition from Carthage to Gadir in western Spain (Strabo, Geography III.5.5). A Phoenician navigator is commended for his capacity to predict future winds, and soothsayers accompanied a voyage from Carthage along the Atlantic coast of Africa (Silius Italicus, Punica XIV.455–6; Periplus of Hanno). On board the ship carrying Jonah, the crew cast lots to reveal who was causing the storm threatening their craft (Jonah 1:7). An animal knucklebone, or astragalus, was found on the Late Bronze Age Cape Gelidonya

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shipwreck, which may have been rolled to read omens. This artifact hints at one of many possible methods used to predict future sailing conditions or divine the will of the gods.

MARITIME MORTUARY RITUAL AND BURIAL PRACTICES During a lifetime at sea, particular religious beliefs and practices protected the lives of seafarers; mortuary rites for their dead also show specialized traits. The only details of the mourning rites of Phoenician mariners is found in the book of Ezekiel (27:27-31). The passage indicates that the sailors did not perform mortuary rituals while aboard ship, instead they postponed their grieving until after arriving on dry land. Given ancient and modern traditional parallels, it is probable that mourning the dead at sea was taboo because death rites would pollute a vessel or bring it bad luck.

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FIGURE 29.7  Nautical relief from the mortuary complex of Sahu-Re, Abusir; and nautical relief depicted on a funerary causeway of the Pharaoh Ounas, Sakkara (source: Brody 1998: figs. 73 and 74).

Mortuary rituals may also be interpreted from burials. Some tombs from the Middle and Late Bronze Age harbor sites of Byblos, Ugarit, Ashkelon, and Tel Akko include stone anchors or have stone anchors left as offerings inside the burial chamber (Brody 1998: 89–92). Later Phoenician burials sometimes include model ships among their grave goods, and several Phoenician tombs in North Africa and Maresha, in the Shephelah of modern Israel, include the depiction or graffiti of ships (Basch 1987: 303–7; Haddad, Stern, and Artzy 2018: 121–4). These familiar maritime votives symbolized the profession of the interred and were charged with sacred significance, and thus may have been a final tribute to a mariner’s divine patron.

CONCLUSIONS The evidence presented relate the specialized nature of the religious beliefs and ritual practices of Levantine seafarers, which was a subset of more generalized religion generated by distinctive concerns, fears, hazards, and spiritual needs faced at sea. While aspects of religion are found throughout a society, other characteristics vary based on a group’s or individual’s position within a culture, profession, or constructed perceptions of gender and sexuality. Levantine sailors focused on relationships with divine patrons that controlled winds, storms, and aspects of way finding that aided safe and successful voyages though double liminal space. These tutelary deities included Ba’al, Asherah, Tanit, and Phoenician Poseidon. Melqart also had a special relationship with seafarers, perhaps as a protector of voyaging or maritime commerce. These patron deities were worshipped in harbor temples before setting sail, and upon safe arrival in port, sometimes with maritime

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FIGURE 29.8 a–b.  Levantine ships docking in Egypt, painting from tomb of Kenamun, Thebes (source: Brody 1998: fig. 76).

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material offerings such as stone anchors, anchor stocks, or model ships. While at sea, the vessels themselves protected sailors from the deep while the spirits of deities imbued within the vessels provided divine guardianship. There were sacred spaces aboard ships, and sacred mountains, divine headlands, and promontory shrines allowed for maritime viewscapes that continued communication with the gods and aided in successful navigation. At night, way finding followed the movement of stars and planets, and the guidance of constellations representing divinities. Ceremonies were performed at various liminal stages within a voyage in order to continue divine connection and protection, and when disasters were averted sacred vows were fulfilled in harbor temples and promontory shrines. When ships sank or death occurred at sea, special mortuary rituals took place, and maritime symbols accompanied some sailors to their graves. This focused subset of Levantine religion allows us to connect vital aspects of seafarers’ religious life with what we have long known about the crucial importance of nautical technology and trade in Levantine cultures. These societies pioneered maritime exploration, commerce, and sailing, eventually settling throughout the Mediterranean basin and beyond the Pillars of Herakles to the Iberian and African shores of the Atlantic Ocean.

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CHAPTER 2: MATERIAL RELIGION AND THE BODY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Alexander, M. M., C. M. Gerrard, A. Gutiérrez, and A. R. Millard. (2015), “Diet, Society, and Economy in Late Medieval Spain: Stable Isotope Evidence from Muslims and Christians from Gandía, Valencia,” American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 156 (2): 263–73. Alexandersen, V., N. Lynnerup, and C. S. Larsen. (2017), “Dental Modifications of Anterior Teeth in the Danish Viking Age,” in S. E. Burnett and J. D. Irish (eds.), A World View of Bioculturally Modified Teeth, 79–91, Gainsville: University Press of Florida. Altmann, P., and J. Fu. (2014), Feasting in the Archaeology and Texts of the Bible and the Ancient Near East, State College: Penn State University Press. Artaria, M. D., and C. S. Larsen. (2017). “Tooth Filing in Surabayan Javanese and Balinese: A Change in Tradition,” in S. E. Burnett and J. D. Irish (eds.), A World View of Bioculturally Modified Teeth, 182–92, Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Austin, A., and C. Gobeil. (2017), “Embodying the Divine: A Tattooed Female Mummy from Deir el-Medina,” Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 116: 23–46. Batıhan, M., and İ. Aydoğan. (2019), “A Brief Overview of the Socioeconomic Dynamics of the Upper Tigris BC,” Ege Universitesi Arkeoloji Dergisi, 24: 65–80.

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CHAPTER 17: EXPERIENCING THE ANCIENT EGYPTIAN BOOK OF THE DEAD: A FUNERARY TEXT CORPUS AS A MATERIAL OBJECT Albert, F. (2012), “Amulette und funeräre Handschriften,” in M. Müller-Roth and M. HövelerMüller (eds.), Grenzen des Totenbuchs. Ägyptische Papyri zwischen Grab und Ritual, 71–80, Rahden/Westf.: Verlag Marie Leidorf GmbH. Assmann, J. (2010), “Magie und Ritual im Alten Ägypten,” in J. Assmann and H. Strohm (eds.), Magie und Religion, 23–43, München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag. Barbash, Y. (2017), “The Ritual Context of the Book of the Dead,” in F. Scalf (ed.), Book of the Dead. Becoming God in Ancient Egypt, 75–84, OIMP 39, Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Beinlich, H. (1988), “Das Totenbuch bei Tutanchamun,” Göttinger Miszellen, 102: 7–18. Boivin, N. (2011), Material Cultures, Material Minds: The Impact of Things on Human Thought, Society, and Evolution, second reprint, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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CHAPTER 18: POTTERY AND MAGIC: A GLIMPSE INTO LATE-ANTIQUE MESOPOTAMIAN RELIGIOUS TRADITION AND ITS MATERIALITY Badino, B. (2001), “Gli scavi archeologici nella regione di Ḥīrah. Osservazioni sulla relazione ‘Natāʾiǧ tanqībāt mintaqat al-Ḥīrah’ dell’archeologo iraqeno al-Ḥadīṯī,” MA dissertation (unpublished), Università di Torino. Bhayro, S. (2004), “Review of Segal 2000,” Bibliotheca Orientalis, 61: 390–3. Bohak, G. (2019), “Jewish Amulets, Magic Bowls, and Manuals in Aramaic and Hebrew,” in D. Frankfurter (ed.), Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic, 388–415, Leiden: Brill.

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CHAPTER 19: THE BIBLICAL PRIESTLY TRADITION AS MATERIAL RELIGION: A COMPARATIVE ANCIENT MEDITERRANEAN APPROACH Balberg, M. (2017), Blood for Thought: The Reinvention of Sacrifice in Early Rabbinic Literature, Berkeley: University of California Press. Blum, E. (1990), Studien Zur Komposition Des Pentateuch, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 189, Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Carpenter, J. E., and G. Harford. (1900), The Hexateuch according to the Revised Version: Arranged in Its Constituent Documents by Members of the Society of Historical Theology, Oxford, London: Longmans, Green. Damrosch, D. (1987), The Narrative Covenant: Transformations of Genre in the Growth of Biblical Literature, San Francisco: Harper & Row. del Olmo Lete, G. (1999), “The Offering Lists and the God Lists,” in W. Watson and N. Wyatt (eds.), Handbook of Ugaritic Studies, 305–52, Leiden: Brill. Feldman, L. M. (2020), The Story of Sacrifice: Ritual and Narrative in the Priestly Source, Forschungen zum alten Testament 141, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Feldman, Fishbane, M. (1974). “Accusations of Adultery: A Study of Law and Scribal Practice in Numbers 5:11–31,” Hebrew Union College Annual, 45, 25–45.

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CHAPTER 22: ANIMALS AND IDEOLOGY IN THE PREPOTTERY NEOLITHIC B OF THE SOUTHERN LEVANT Alberti, B., and T. Bray. (2009), “Introduction,” Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 19: 337–43. Arbuckle, B. S., and T. M. Kassebaum. (2021), “Management and Domestication of Cattle (Bos Taurus) in Neolithic Southwest Asia,” Animal Frontiers, 11: 10–19.

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