Death, Power, and Apotheosis in Ancient Egypt: The Old and Middle Kingdoms 9781501760174

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DEATH, POWER, AND APOTHEOSIS IN ANCIENT EGYPT

DEATH, POWER, AND APOTHEOSIS IN ANCIENT EGYPT TH E O LD A ND ­M I DD L E K I N G D O MS

Julia Troche

CORNELL UNIVERSITY PRESS Ithaca and London

 Copyright © 2021 by Julia Troche All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, address Cornell University Press, Sage House, 512 East State Street, Ithaca, New York 14850. Visit our website at cornellpress​.­cornell​.­edu. First published 2021 by Cornell University Press Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Troche, Julia, 1986–­author. Title: Death, power, and apotheosis in ancient Egypt : the Old and M ­ iddle Kingdoms / Julia Troche. Description: Ithaca [New York] : Cornell University Press, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021003015 (print) | LCCN 2021003016 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501760150 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781501760167 (epub) | ISBN 9781501760174 (pdf ) Subjects: LCSH: Power (Social sciences)—­Egypt)—­ History)—­To 1500. | Apotheosis)—­Egypt)—­ History)—­To 1500. | Death)—­Egypt)—­History)—­ To 1500. | Egypt)—­Civilization)—­To 332 B.C. Classification: LCC DT61 .T76 2021 (print) | LCC DT61 (ebook) | DDC 932/.013—­dc23 LC rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2021003015 LC ebook rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​ /­2021003016 Cover image: Nina de Garis Davies, Three Vignettes, Thebes, Tomb of Queen Nefretere, Ramesses II, 1292-1225 B.C., c. 1936. Tempera on paper, 42.54 x 59.69 cm. Photo by Anna R. Ressman. Courtesy of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago.

Co nte nts

Acknowl­edgments  vii List of Abbreviations  ix

Introduction



1

Part One: Death and Power

1. Mortuary Culture

19

2. Akhu—­The Effective Dead

33

3. Power and Egyptian Kingship

47

Part Two: Apotheosis

4. Markers of Distinguished and Deified Status

63

5. Distinguished Dead

78

6. Apotheosis in the Old Kingdom

92

7. Apotheosis in the ­Middle Kingdom

113

Conclusion

142

References  157 Index  175

A c k n o w l­e d g m e nts

I am humbled and grateful for the privilege afforded to me to study ancient Egypt and publish this book. This book originated in research that was supported by numerous Brown University internal funding awards but first and foremost by Jim Allen—my adviser, committee chair, and cheerleader—­and by the Brown University Department of Egyptology and Assyriology community at large, including my other committee members (Laurel Bestock and Liz Frood), innumerable gradu­ate student accomplices, ­every member of the faculty, visiting scholars, and the always generous administrative team, Clare Benson and Catherine Hanni. Even ­after I  graduated from the program, John Steele and Matthew Rutz continued their support by welcoming me back to the department for research visits, including a remote “summer in residence” during the COVID-19 pandemic so that I could finish this book on time. During one of ­these visits, Jen Thum was a daily writing partner whose conversations ­were always stimulating. This work was also supported by the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Cultures at University of California, Los Angeles, where I first learned ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs as an undergraduate student, but where I also taught as a lecturer from 2016 to 2017. At UCLA I received incredible encouragement at all stages of my c­ areer from Jacco Dieleman, Willeke Wendrich, and Kara Cooney, who also gave me critical feedback on my proposal, and from an incredible community of colleagues and doctoral students (who are too numerous to name but who know who they are) with whom our many conversations contributed to the intellectual pro­cessing of the ideas in this book. Missouri State University, and specifically department head Kathleen Kennedy and dean Victor Matthews, supported this proj­ect with encouragement and two summer research fellowships. Glena Admire ensured ­every administrative need was met, and then some. Monthly faculty writing retreats with an awesome interdisciplinary group of colleagues helped keep me on track. My book proposal benefited directly from the generosity of Bart Brinkman,

vii

vi i i

Ac know l­e dgments

Etta Madden, and Leslie Baynes, for which I am eternally appreciative. Hours ­were spent with Michelle Morgan and Jacynda Ammons as writing partners and champions. Bethany Wasik and the editorial team at Cornell University Press guided me through this adventure with compassion, encouragement, and precision. I could not have hoped for a better editor. I am very appreciative of and fortunate to have had critical and thoughtful reviews from the Cornell faculty board, the editorial board, an anonymous reviewer, and Juan Carlos Moreno García, whose feedback went above and beyond what was expected. T ­ hese reviews made my work that much stronger, but any errors or inconsistencies remain my own. My greatest support, though, has always come from my ­family. My mom, Patricia, has been a constant, eternal source of encouragement and love. My big ­brother, Ray, has always inspired me and, along with his wife, Amanda, and their ­daughter, Willow, brought much joy and laughter to my life as I wrote this book. Tito Perez and Susan Campbell always reminded me to not lose sight of the forest for the trees. The Brinkman ­family celebrated ­every step of this journey with me. This book would not have been written without Phoebe’s companionship. Fi­nally, the sine qua non of this proj­ect has been the complete and unwavering support of my husband and partner, Bryan Brinkman, who not only indexed this book for me but whose intellect and scholarship inspires me ­every day.

A b b r e v i at i o n s

BD

Book of the Dead

CT

Coffin Text

Hier. Les.

Hieratische Lesestücke für den Akademischen Gebrauch (Möller 1927)

LÄ

Lexikon der Ägyptologie, multiple volumes (Helck, Otto, and Westendorf 1972–92)

PT

Pyramid Text

Urk.

Urkunden, multiple volumes (e.g., Sethe et al. 1903–61)

Wb

Wörterbuch der ägyptischen Sprache, multiple volumes (Erman and Grapow 1926–61)

Archaeological Site Identification and Museum Accession Numbers CG

Cata­logue Général des antiquités Égyptiennes du Musée du Caire: artifacts in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, Egypt

D

Designation for some monuments at the archaeological site of Saqqara in the Giza Governorate, Egypt

E

Egyptian artifacts in the Louvre Museum in Paris, France

EA

Egyptian antiquities in the British Museum in London, ­England ix

x Ab b re v iat ions

G

Monuments at the archaeological site of the Giza Plateau in the Giza, Egypt

JE

Journal d’Entrée: artifacts in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, Egypt

Leiden Papyrus Papyri at the Leiden Papyrological Institute at University Library of Leiden University in Leiden, Netherlands MFA

Artifacts in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, Mas­sa­chu­ setts

Moscow

Artifacts in the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts in Moscow, Rus­sia

Pitt Rivers

Artifacts in the Pitt Rivers Museum at Oxford University in Oxford, ­England

RC

Artifacts in the Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum in San Jose, California

UC

Artifacts in the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology at University College London in London, ­England

Warsaw

Artifacts in the National Museum in Warsaw, Poland

DEATH, POWER, AND APOTHEOSIS IN ANCIENT EGYPT

Introduction

Standing on the island of Elephantine, ancient Abu, near Egypt’s traditional southern border, is an ancient Egyptian ­temple dedicated to Heqaib (figure 1). One of his followers, a man named Sarenput, commissioned its construction around 1950 BCE. The entire monument is covered in images and texts venerating the divine Heqaib. On the outer face of the back wall, where passersby would see it, Sarenput instructs Heqaib to “See with your own face, that which I have done for you. May a god act for the one who acted for him. May you make my years last upon earth, and cause that my voice be made true in the necropolis.” This prayer is clearly directed at Heqaib, who is described as “a god,” and whose perceived powers enable him to affect someone’s life and afterlife. Heqaib, though, was once just a man. Heqaib was a local official of Elephantine who lived during Egypt’s Old Kingdom, about 2200 BCE, some 250 years before Sarenput erected this shrine. How did this mere mortal man become a god? How did he acquire claims of divinity that w ­ ere normally exclusively held by the ancient Egyptian king? Only the king was supposed to wield power over life and the afterlife, but a close examination of this period illuminates additional men who, upon death, w ­ ere similarly deified. Why, and how, did this deification occur, and what w ­ ere the po­liti­cal, social, and religious impacts of ­these possibly subversive acts? ­These are some of the questions that drive this book. 1

2 I ntroduct ion

Figure 1. Sanctuary of Heqaib on Elephantine. DAI photo archive number D-­DAI-­KAI-­ELE-46-­JS-07774. Photo by J. Sigl. © DAI Cairo.

Broadly, this book explores the perceived agency of the dead in ancient Egyptian social, po­liti­cal, and religious life, during the Old through ­Middle Kingdoms (c. 2700–1650 BCE). In par­tic­ul­ar, it investigates the phenomenon of apotheosis—­the pro­cess through which one becomes deified—­and the articulation of certain dead as elevated in status vis-­à-­vis networks of power. Scholarship on the dead in ancient Egypt has primarily focused on the preparations of death and the super­natural afterlife—­for example, the construction of a tomb, mummification, funerary rituals, and so on—­where engagement with the dead is often confined to ancestor worship. This is so prevalent as a basic assumption within the field, that more productive lenses of analy­sis, such as the social or po­liti­cal impacts of the dead, are often ignored.1 This volume explores and uncovers ancient Egypt’s investment in three distinct, yet interdependent, historical areas during the third millennium BCE: (1) death, and ­imagined life a­ fter death; (2) power, via public displays of social capital for eternity; and (3) apotheosis, specifically the pro­cesses of deification of certain dead.

Death The ancient Egyptian worldview included the lived real­ity of everyday experiences on earth, and the ­imagined, super­natural afterlife (the divine Hereafter)

I n t r o d u c t i o n

3

comprising the gods, dead, and other super­natural entities. Death was only the beginning; it was a transformation of form that did not negate the dead’s ability to interact with the living. In many ways, death freed the individual from the physical constraints of the ­human body. The dead in ancient Egypt remained actors whose social capital—­that is, their worth and influence—­could be effectively exploited within the social, religious, and po­liti­cal networks of the living. Being buried near the king’s pyramid was an expression of an individual’s worth through physical association. A priest commissioning a larger shrine for a local god’s cult would place the priest within a favorable religious and social position. Renovating and keeping tidy the tomb of a once power­ ful ancestor could help to solidify a descendant’s po­liti­cal influence within his town. ­These pre­sen­ta­tions of capital could be orchestrated before death, such as the arrangement of one’s tomb near an impor­tant monument or at a particularly vis­i­ble spot within the local landscape. Other expressions, though, ­were made posthumously, by descendants or other interested parties. In e­ ither case, ­these expressions of the dead’s social, religious, and/or po­liti­cal capital could have profound historical impacts.

Power Arguably, the most power­f ul individual in ancient Egypt was the king. But the king’s power was the result of negotiations that occurred between the king and the other the social actors of Egypt: the Egyptian ­people, the gods, and the dead. The latter two (the gods and the dead), despite lacking corporeal or physical agency, ­were nevertheless perceived to possess real influence in the world of the living. One of the ways in which the king asserted his power was in his role as guarantor of mortuary benefaction—­that is, he helped to ensure ­people’s admittance into the divine Hereafter. In order to enter the divine Hereafter, the recently deceased had to pass judgment before Osiris. Due to the king’s unique relationship with the gods, he was able to put in a “good word” on someone’s behalf. Not only could the king influence this admittance, but it was only through association with him that the dead could enjoy the fullest privileges of the afterlife. The ac­cep­tance by the Egyptian ­people of the king’s knowledge of funerary spells and his exclusive access to the gods allowed him to wield im­mense power. Thus, this power was a direct negotiation with and dependent on the p­ eople of Egypt. Indeed, Leslie Ann Warden has noted that “power cannot be simplified to a top-­down pyramid model. Rather, complex pro­cesses of state and local administration, kinship ties, and patronage created webs of power” (2015, 24–25). What happened, however,

4 I ntroduct ion

when ­these webs of power ­were redefined, and the dead ­were mobilized in an effort to undermine established royal authority?

Apotheosis Near the end of the Old Kingdom, certain types of dead began to receive greater status and perceived influence. I have subdivided the dead into four main groups: 1. The dead who did not pass the judgment before Osiris, and who therefore possess no perceived agency. 2. The “average dead,” who passed this judgment and thus retained perceived social influence. They ­were known as akh (pl. akhu) in ancient Egyptian (lit., “effective ones”). 3. The “distinguished dead,” who are marked as distinct from the average dead and are revered but not deified. 4. The “deified dead,” who are in an exceptional group and underwent apotheosis to become gods. The “esteemed dead” is a term I use to refer to both groups 3 and 4 (the distinguished and deified dead)—as a group of “above-­average dead.” The “distinguished dead” w ­ ere distinct from “average dead” in that they ­were called on by the living to help ensure their admittance to the divine Hereafter—­a duty once exclusively performed by the king. Other dead w ­ ere celebrated so much that they w ­ ere elevated to the status of gods through a pro­cess called apotheosis. T ­ hese deified dead w ­ ere also called on for assistance, an act that was once exclusive to the king and the traditional gods of Egypt, but they did not replace the king as the ideological benefactor of Egypt. Instead, the deified dead provided communities with an alternative means of ensuring access to the gods and to the divine Hereafter. In this way, royal power was essentially subverted by ­these “esteemed dead.”

Egypt in the Third Millennium BCE In the following chapters, I assert that the dead ­were initially mobilized, near the end of the Old Kingdom, as a direct means of subverting royal power in ancient Egypt. Confronting this potential threat to power, the new kings of the ­Middle Kingdom coopted cults to distinguished and deified dead, enveloping

I n t r o d u c t i o n

5

them into official royal building campaigns as a way of appropriating their influence. To appreciate the nuances of this assertion, it is first necessary to be intimately familiar with the historical narratives and historiographical challenges of this transitional period in which the dead ­were first mobilized—­ that is, the end of the Old Kingdom through the beginning of the ­Middle Kingdom, or the third millennium BCE (see ­table 1).2 Publications that consider the mobilization of the dead often focus on l­ ater periods or are concerned with what tombs tell us about the tomb o ­ wners’ lives. For example, Nicola Harrington’s 2013 Living with the Dead: Ancestor Worship and Mortuary Ritual in Ancient Egypt leans significantly ­toward the more robust New Kingdom and l­ ater evidence. Janet Richards’s 2005 Society and Death in Ancient Egypt: Mortuary Landscapes of the ­Middle Kingdom uses funerary evidence as a way to access the predeath lives of Abydene tomb inhabitants. This book does neither. Instead of studying the practices of internment or what ­these practices say about the p­ eople that performed them, this book examines the i­magined, but effective, role of the dead in their form as deceased spirits and gods in Egyptian society. My discussion of the posthumous role of the dead within networks of power begins with the Old Kingdom, as it was during this period that the Egyptian state was conclusively unified, and networks of power well established. The Old Kingdom traditionally includes the Third to Eighth Dynasties. By the

­Table 1.  Chronology of ancient Egypt PERIOD

DYNASTY

APPROXIMATE DATE RANGE

Early Dynastic Period (Naqada I–­II)

0–­II

3200–2650 BCE

Old Kingdom

III–­VI or VIII

2650–2200 or 2150 BCE

First Intermediate Period

VI or VIII–­XI

2200 or 2150–2050 BCE

­Middle Kingdom

XI–­XIII

2050–1650 BCE

Second Intermediate Period

XIV–­XVII

1650–1550 BCE

New Kingdom

XVIII–­XX

1550–1069 BCE

Third Intermediate Period

XXI–­XXIV

1069–750 BCE

Late Period

XXV–­XXXI

750–332 BCE

Alexander and the Ptolemaic Period

N/A

332–31 BCE

Early Roman Empire

N/A

31 BCE–284 CE

Late Roman Empire

N/A

284–394* CE *latest extant hieroglyphic and demotic inscriptions

Note: All dates are approximate and rounded to the nearest fifty years u ­ nless securely known. Dates roughly follow Shaw (2000), with some notable adjustments.

6 I ntroduct ion

Seventh/Eighth Dynasty,3 however, Egypt was no longer successfully ruled by a single king and was po­liti­cally fragmented. For ­these reasons, I refer in the following chapters to the Seventh/Eighth Dynasty as part of the First Intermediate Period.4 The First Intermediate Period is typically described as the Ninth and Tenth Dynasties, and the first half of the Eleventh Dynasty, during which Egypt was decentralized, as no single ruler was able to claim the title of kingship. Greater artistic freedom and variation suggest that the centralized workshops of the Old Kingdom (i.e., royal workshops) ­were no longer able to patrol decorum at the regional level. Thus, while this period lacked strong centralized leadership, it was not a period of reversion nor was it a cultural “dark age.” In the Eleventh Dynasty, a strong Theban dynasty, whose founder was Intef, r­ ose in influence. The sixth of ­these Theban kings, Nebhepetre Montuhotep II, was able to re-­unify Egypt, ushering in the ­Middle Kingdom. The M ­ iddle Kingdom included the latter half of the Eleventh Dynasty and the two subsequent dynasties, Twelfth and Thirteenth. ­After another period of decentralization, known as the Second Intermediate Period, characterized by foreign control of northern Egypt by the Hyksos, another Theban f­ amily re­united Egypt, and the Eigh­teenth Dynasty marks the beginning of the New Kingdom. Fundamental philosophical shifts in Egyptian kingship, display, and expressions of religious piety occurred during the New Kingdom, which makes the end of the M ­ iddle Kingdom a natu­r al research boundary for many Egyptological studies. Therefore, this book is concerned with how the dead w ­ ere mobilized during the Old through M ­ iddle Kingdoms. Cults to esteemed dead did not emerge in isolation and first occurred during a time of major po­liti­cal and cultural transition at the end of the Old Kingdom. During this period, the king’s power (fully discussed in chapter 3) was tied to his funerary function. Indeed, the largest monuments in Egypt ­were the tombs of ­these kings—­pyramids. The first pyramid of Egypt was built at Saqqara by the g­ reat architect Imhotep for King Djoser during the Third Dynasty. Kings of the Fourth Dynasty w ­ ere responsible for the G ­ reat Pyramids of Giza. By the end of the Fifth Dynasty, King Unas was the first to include Pyramid Texts in his pyramid tomb. ­Temples dedicated to the sun god Re also become common in the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties. King Pepi II (Sixth Dynasty) is arguably the last “­g reat” king of the Old Kingdom as he was the last king for almost two hundred years to whom monumental architecture in the form of a pyramid was attributed. ­After his reign, Egyptian kings seemed to lose significant influence and power, which was notably evinced by a decline in royal building programs (which ­were so central to previous kings’ reigns) and

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7

growing regionalism (e.g., officials preferring to build tombs in the provinces versus the capital). The ­causes of this decline, however, are still very much debated, and some of the major hypotheses are explored below. This book shows, though, that a contributing f­ actor was the subversion of royal mortuary power by local esteemed dead.

The Decline of the Old Kingdom Not only is t­ here debate as to the c­ auses of the decline of the Old Kingdom, but ­there is also debate as to when it ended.5 In this book, I ­favor chronologies that end the Old Kingdom with the Sixth Dynasty, thus including the Seventh and Eighth Dynasties in the First Intermediate Period ­because of ­these kings’ inability to effectively rule a unified Egypt (cf. Shaw 2000). Many theories have been put forth to explain the decline of the Old Kingdom: foreign invasion ( Jansen-­Winkeln 2010), climatic stress (Bárta 2009, 52), an overgrown bureaucracy (Müller-­Wollermann 2014, 4), and a failing economy (Kanawati 1980, 131). T ­ hese theories, though, need not be mutually exclusive. If Miroslav Bárta is correct in proposing that droughts and other climatic issues correlate to the end of the Old Kingdom, then it certainly would have accelerated and exacerbated other social, po­liti­cal, and economic prob­lems (2009; F. Hassan 1997; cf. Moreno García 1997). While Juan Carlos Moreno García does not, to my knowledge, deny that t­ here ­were any climatic issues, he clearly refutes the environmental catastrophe theory, describing it as “simply untenable” (2015, 80). He argues that “contrary to traditional interpretations of the end of the Old Kingdom, recent archaeological research shows no trace of climatic or subsistence crisis. . . . ​It appears, then, that the end of the monarchy had fi­nally more to do with internal strug­gles between competing sectors of the ruling elite and with control of wealth flows than with environmental ­causes” (79). While I cannot confirm or assess the status of the climate near the end of the Old Kingdom, I agree with Moreno García’s final point, that competition within the ruling elite contributed to the end of centralized authority. Renate Müller-­Wollermann points out that Karl Jansen-­Winkeln’s theory of foreign invasion has chronological issues, and is, thus, also not the most likely cause (2014, 5). Additionally, citing Römer (2011) and Warden (2014), Müller-­ Wollermann draws attention to evidence that undermines the theory of economic collapse (2014, 5). Of note, archaeology has made some t­hings clear: Near the end of the Sixth Dynasty, foreign interactions, trade, and expeditions decreased noticeably (5). Regionalism also heightened observably, with towns, rather than nomes (large administrative districts), becoming the normative

8 I ntroduct ion

“local” scale (Jansen-­Winkeln 2010, 287–90). Offices became increasingly inheritable, making power more and more localized (Müller-­Wollermann 2014, 4). In the Fourth Dynasty, the title of tjaty, or “vizier” (ṯɜtj6), makes a notable appearance, referencing the king’s second in command. During this period, ­those who held the title of tjaty also regularly carried the titles “king’s son,” or “king’s son of his body.”7 In fact, t­hese titles w ­ ere used by nearly all of the highest-­ranking officials (not just tjaty) in Egypt during the Fourth Dynasty. Of the sixteen Fourth-­Dynasty tjaty identified by Nigel Strudwick, 100  ­percent have a variation of “king’s son” as their principal title (1985, 308).8 Strudwick’s data indicate fifty-­one tjaty are known from the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties, with seven holding a variation of the title “king’s son”—­that is only 14 ­percent (307–8). Bárta, however, asserts that all but one tjaty of the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties drop this title (2013, 270–71; cf. Strudwick 1985, 307–8).9 Unfortunately, Bárta does not point his reader to primary source evidence h ­ ere, nor does he include a list of tjaty whom he is counting. In ­either case, this is po­liti­cally significant, as the men who held the second-­highest po­liti­cal position in Egypt (tjaty) ­were no longer justifying their position through their real or ascribed royal lineage. Moreover, during the reign of Pepi II (the fifth of seven kings of the Sixth Dynasty) t­ here is specific evidence for changing relations between the royal Residence and the more distant districts, or provinces. For example, at this time, officials with the title “Overseer of Upper Egypt” ­were almost exclusively buried outside of the capital, a trend opposite to that is observed with prior kings, which suggests growing regionalism (Müller-­Wollermann 2014, 4). Tomb biographies and decoration (i.e., the “Second Style”) also display greater variation and innovation in the Sixth Dynasty (Russmann 1995; Brovarski 2008). Particularly relevant is the shift from tomb biographies that exclusively extol the tomb own­er’s unique relationship to the king to ones that instead expand upon local identities and focus on the individual’s (albeit formulaic) worth (Stauder-­Porchet 2011). Jørgen Podemann Sørensen nuances this shift by acknowledging that “certain ritual limits are respected, but private autobiography and other non-­ritual parts of the private tomb program absorb themes of divine access which used to mark the royal socio-­religious status” (1989, 114). It was also during the Sixth Dynasty that expanded use of the imakhu kher (jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formula was first observed. I discuss this formula in detail in chapter 3, but briefly it reveals an impor­tant mortuary relationship in which one individual is favored by someone of more elevated status (such as the king), who is able to provide some form of mortuary benefaction to the title owner b­ ecause of this f­ avor. Such benefaction could take the form of a tomb close to the king’s pyramid, for example, or more broadly could be understood as general assistance in the successful admittance into the Here-

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9

after. Traditionally, the person invoked in this formula is the king or a god, but other groups of p­ eople, including esteemed dead, begin to also be invoked in this formula in recognition of their evolving role as mortuary benefactors. This injection of distinguished dead into a formula once exclusive to the king strongly indicates an atrophic shift in the role of the king as po­liti­cal leader and as sole custodian of mortuary access and religious privilege. With the decline of the Old Kingdom, at the end of the Sixth Dynasty, the “ritual limits” of the king also dis­appeared. This is what other scholars have described as “democ­ratization of the afterlife,” and what Egyptian texts have referred to as a sort of “value crisis” (Sørensen 1989, 114). Specifically, the “Lamentations of Ipuwer” (also known as p.Leiden 344) describe this period as contributing to a cheapening of sacred knowledge as a result of this greater access: “Magic spells are divulged, spells are made worthless through being repeated by ­people” (Lichtheim 1975, 155). Some scholars, notably Mark Smith (2009a), have pushed back against this “democ­ratization” narrative. Smith (2009a) and Mathieu (2004) successfully show that Old Kingdom nonroyal Egyptians had access to similar, if not the same, funerary lit­er­a­ture and offering rituals as the king. While I agree that “democ­ratization” is not the right term or concept, I do not agree entirely with Smith’s interpretation. Smith argues that social access to ­these spells did not change at the end of the Old Kingdom, but rather that, within the social group that could always access ­these spells, one’s ability to display and afford more permanent forms increased (Smith 2009a). However, I insist that display/access to funerary lit­er­a­ture was only one part of a complex network of power and access that culminated in one’s admittance into the divine Hereafter. The king’s role in offering formulae, which granted burials and funerary equipment, and his ability to prohibit ­those he had judged from admittance into the afterlife—as evidenced by the decree of Demedjibtawy10—­should not be undermined (Sethe 1933, 305). Smith largely dismisses t­hese pieces of evidence. He acknowledges that the king had some influence (though he does not describe what this influence might have been) but concludes that it must not have been significant ­because “had ­there been any such involvement [of the king in granting the privilege of being glorified], this would hardly have gone unmentioned” (2009a, 7). Using this lack of evidence as evidence that the king was not a proprietor of mortuary privilege is inaccurate, especially when positive evidence exists to support that he was—­such as a funerary text of Nimaatre, who proclaims his rites of glorification ­were ordered by the king (Edel 1944, 75; Smith 2009a, 7). Furthermore, the very presence of monumental social display in Old Kingdom cemeteries indicates that private ­people did believe that they would have some sort of afterlife, but not necessarily one equal to that of the king (cf. Smith

10 I ntroduct ion

2009a, 10). It is clear that t­here is an expectation of the continuation of a social hierarchy in the divine Hereafter, with the king at the fore, providing him and his fellow kings exclusively with greater privilege. For the Old Kingdom, I do not think we should question w ­ hether or not the nonroyal dead had access to the afterlife—­they clearly did; why e­ lse would they bother building tombs or writing letters to their recently deceased ancestors? Instead, the question is how fully the dead could enjoy the privileges of the Hereafter. The king (or the idea of the king, more so than the individual king), who existed at the apex of the social hierarchy alongside the gods, was the sole living benefactor of posthumous privilege, and through relationships with the king one could also partake in the most privileged aspects of the divine Hereafter. The king’s central role in this network had already begun to change by the Sixth Dynasty. Several scholars have asserted, unconvincingly, that the power of the central government, personified by the king, was not weakening during this period vis-­à-­vis the provinces and local elite (e.g., Kanawati 1980; Müller-­Wollermann 2014). In contrast, I argue that during the Sixth Dynasty—­ and specifically by the reign of Pepi II—­the centrality of the king as a mortuary facilitator and benefactor began to abate alongside an observable rise in regionalism. Concurrently in the Sixth Dynasty, we witness an increase in royal interventions at the ­temples in the provinces, arguably as an attempt to reaffirm royal power within institutions, once ­under the primary influence of the Residence (the royal seat of power), which had begun to become more autonomous.11 Power renegotiations between the elite, the king, and the dead allowed for the marked distinction and apotheosis of esteemed dead, which contributed to the waning centrality of the king in mortuary ritual and display. Additionally, a rise in regionalism correlated to the growth of structures of power in local t­ emples. Whereas Early Dynastic royal monuments “give l­ ittle reason to assume that the kings attached much importance to representing themselves with the gods [as] they are not shown in cultic interaction with them as on the ­temple walls in ­later times,” the local ­temple became increasingly impor­ tant during the Old Kingdom, and is a trend that picks up steam into the First Intermediate Period and M ­ iddle Kingdom (Bussmann 2010, xciii). Kings of the Fourth Dynasty onward established royal domains and provided t­ emple foundations for royal state cults (xciii). The t­ emples became local economic hubs, around which local elites flocked and integrated themselves. With royal attention directed elsewhere (foreign invasion, poor Nile floods, ­etc.), ­these regional institutions became increasingly “localized.” The wealth of t­ hese local ­temples was variable, as evinced by the sort of votives being offered (xciii–­xciv). By the Sixth Dynasty, it was becoming more and more common for local

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administrative positions to be inherited rather than assigned by the royal Residence (Müller-­Wollermann 2014, 4). Concurrently, one of the highest of ­these administrative positions, that of nomarch (or district governor), was typically held by the chief priest of the local t­ emple. “This shows,” Richard Bussmann aptly concludes, “that the provincial t­ emples [had] become local elite institutions” (2010, xciv; see also Müller-­Wollermann 2014, 4). Similarly, during the reign of Sixth-­Dynasty kings Pepi I and II, the erection of royal ka-­chapels (ḥwt-­kȝ) near local ­temples became common (Franke 1994, 122). ­These chapels, Detlef Franke asserts, developed into localized, regional centers that ­were directly attached to the Residence in association but actually diverted wealth and power away from the capital at Memphis (1994, 122; Glatz and Plourde 2011). By the Sixth Dynasty, the trend of building royal ka-­chapels in the city separate from the tomb extended to the provincial officials (e.g., Heqaib and the governors of ‘Ain Asil). Additionally, kings of this period intervened in local ­temples by furnishing them with stone architecture, such as lintels and columns (Bussmann 2010, xciii). This intervention could be understood as evidence for growing royal authority within local ­temple contexts. Instead, I view this as an almost desperate attempt to sink the claws of royal authority into local institutions, which ­were for all intents and purposes autonomous by this point.

Power Shifts in the ­Middle Kingdom While the king in the Old Kingdom may have been the primary intercessor between the gods and Egyptians, the gods w ­ ere never entirely inaccessible. Gods in ancient Egypt w ­ ere both transcendent and immanent (Assmann 2001), meaning the ancient Egyptian gods ­were conceived as being beyond the physical realm (transcendent) and yet pervading the lived world (immanent). As ­there ­were hierarchies in life, ­there seem to have also been hierarchies among the gods, with some gods (such as Re or Atum) having primacy as creators. ­These gods ­were perhaps more transcendent than the rest. Immanent gods tended to be more local; they ­were patron gods (e.g., Ptah, the patron god of craftsmen) and city gods (nṯr njwt.j). Claude Traunecker explains that “for city dwellers and villa­gers alike, the most impor­tant deity was the one whose residence was nearest” (2001, 99). He explains, though, that one’s connection to a city god was not dependent on proximity, in that “such deities followed the peregrinations of their faithful” (100). Beginning in the Sixth Dynasty, as more officials elected to bury themselves “at home” in the provinces, instead of by the king’s pyramid at the capital, Sugihiko Uchida proposes that

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t­hese local gods became significant funerary deities as replacements for the king’s mortuary patronage (1991, 135). I show that the esteemed dead, in par­ tic­u­lar, many of whom ­were in their own right local gods, also became effective patrons of mortuary privileges beginning in the Sixth Dynasty. During the First Intermediate Period numerous local leaders, rather than a single king, ruled Egypt. B ­ ecause ­there was no central control over private display, we see greater variation and experimentation in provincial tombs. The traditional roles of the king as judge, protector, divine mediator, and mortuary benefactor w ­ ere supplanted by local men of power, the dead, and local gods, including deified dead. Whereas authority in the Residence emanated from the king, provincial power structures ­were connected to the nomarchs and their t­ emples. This pro­cess was fluid, and the po­liti­cal and social importance of local t­ emples and local leaders grew during the twilight of the Old Kingdom. By the Seventh/Eighth Dynasty, the king ruled Egypt in name alone (Seidlmayer 2000). One of the mechanisms by which local rulers (e.g., nomarchs) achieved greater po­liti­cal power at the end of the Old Kingdom and through the First Intermediate Period was through their integration into local ­temples and ka-­chapels, both of which had grown into regional economic hubs. The high priest of ­these local ­temples was usually also the local nomarch. Thus, religious power and po­liti­cal power at the local level ­were becoming monopolized by a single individual or f­amily, while the royal Residence was in decline. ­ These families would become regional leaders during the First Intermediate Period, and b­ ecause power was gradually being invested in t­ hese local families and institutions, the end of the Old Kingdom was likely not a terribly dramatic affair. The impor­tant point to emphasize h ­ ere is that the power of ­these regional leaders was tied to local ­temples. ­Middle Kingdom kingship grew from the uniquely Theban Eleventh Dynasty and utilized both archaic Old Kingdom and more recent First Intermediate Period mechanisms of power. For example, ­Middle Kingdom rulers took the traditional titles of kingship and displayed themselves in iconographic ways similar to the kings of the Old Kingdom. At the mortuary complex of Nebhepetre Montuhotep II, the king who unified Egypt and ushered in the ­Middle Kingdom, clearly dif­fer­ent preunification and postunification artistic styles are apparent (Robins 2008, 83). Yet, M ­ iddle Kingdom kings’ authority was also embedded in the local Theban ­temples, and so their emphasis on ­temple building and divine display is notably dif­fer­ent from their Old Kingdom counter­parts. ­Middle Kingdom kings also came to power in a dif­fer­ent cultural moment, where cults to local gods and local dead w ­ ere common, and the p­ eople of Egypt had enjoyed a ­century of access to funerary texts and innovative artistic

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expression. Instead of reverting back ­wholesale to Old Kingdom decorum, ­Middle Kingdom kings recentralized elite mortuary benefaction with its artistic productions, but interestingly kept some of the innovations that emerged during the Intermediate Period. Instead of destroying local cults that could potentially challenge royal religious power, ­Middle Kingdom kings coopted local cults into official building campaigns (e.g., the shrine of Heqaib). As a result, ­Middle Kingdom kingship was intimately tied to the t­ emples, and the king emphasized his closeness to the gods as a way of displaying po­liti­cal capital.

Death, Power, and Apotheosis This book is structured in two parts that together explore the perceived agency of esteemed dead in ancient Egyptian social, po­liti­cal, and religious life during the Old through M ­ iddle Kingdoms. Part 1 of this book, “Death and Power,” begins with an introduction to Egyptian mortuary culture (chapter 1), which explores the social role of the dead, lays the foundation for quotidian mortuary practices, and describes components of the ancient Egyptian self. Chapter  2 considers the super­natural, social aspect of the dead—­the akhu. It establishes the “norm” from which esteemed dead diverge. An updated discussion of the akh considers funerary lit­er­at­ ure (Pyramid Texts and Coffin Texts), Appeals to the Living, and Letters to the Dead. I show that quotidian interactions with the dead w ­ ere part of expected social be­hav­ior and that t­ hese interactions ­were fundamentally personal, concerned with issues of fertility or illness, rather than more profound concerns, such as admittance into the afterlife. Chapter 3 tackles “power,” first as a larger concept and then situated within the historical context in which the Egyptian king was the sole ideological benefactor of mortuary access. I emphasize that this role was a primary means through which the king in the Old Kingdom constructed and maintained his power. Part 2, “Apotheosis,” considers esteemed dead—­which are distinguished and deified dead—­with chapter 4 explaining my approach for identifying ­these figures in the textual and archaeological rec­ords. Chapter 5 pre­sents three case studies of distinguished dead: Ptahhotep, Hordjedef, and the governors of ‘Ain Asil. ­These distinguished dead w ­ ere elevated above “average” ancient Egyptian dead but ­were not fully deified. To prove that my identification of ­these dead as “distinguished dead” is accurate, I consider onomastic, literary, and architectural/archaeological evidence. I conclude that t­ hese distinguished dead could be mobilized to undermine royal authority; specifically, the distinguished dead w ­ ere invoked in the imakhu kher ( jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formula that is shown to be

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evidence for the king’s role as mortuary benefactor. This makes evident that the distinguished dead ­were taking on roles once exclusive to the king. Chapters 6 and 7 lay out the evidence for the six confirmed cases of deified dead in the Old and ­Middle Kingdoms (Djedi, Mehu, Kagemni, Isi, Heqaib, and Wahka). The main purpose of t­ hese two chapters is to provide evidence in support of the identification of ­these individuals as deified dead so that diachronic conclusions can be drawn in the conclusion about their roles in changing systems of royal power. First, I argue that evidence for apotheosis in the Old Kingdom was intimately tied to the funerary realm, where display of social capital was determined by ingrained royal networks of power. As ­these power structures shifted at the end of the Old Kingdom, so did access and display. Then, I suggest that the modesty of t­ hese cults could be explained by their proximity to the capital, where decorum was more restrictive. Fi­nally, I show that t­ here is an observable shift away from the mortuary-­based structures of power at the capital ­toward a temple-­based system following the conclusion of the Old Kingdom. Altogether, this allowed for more fully expressed displays of divine status in the First Intermediate Period and the M ­ iddle Kingdom. Kings of the ­Middle Kingdom coopted local cults into national building programs in an attempt to thwart local threats to recently re-­established royal power. Fi­nally, the conclusion analyzes the sociopo­liti­cal and historical impact of ­these esteemed dead. It re-­affirms that the mobilization of ­these esteemed dead undermined royal authority and was one of many catalysts that contributed to the decline of royal authority at the end of the Old Kingdom. It similarly demonstrates how M ­ iddle Kingdom kings reacted to evolving systems of po­liti­cal power, which can be generalized as a shift in emphasis from mortuary access to the ­temple.

Notes 1. I have offered a critique of this l­imited approach, with a review of relevant lit­er­ a­ture, and suggested a more productive lens of analy­sis in Troche (2018b). 2. ­There are many histories of ancient Egypt. The following should be referenced for more complete summaries of the periods ­under consideration ­here: Shaw’s edited volume The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt (2000) and Van de Mieroop’s A History of Ancient Egypt (2011). 3. It is unclear ­whether the Seventh Dynasty was an ­actual dynasty or not. ­Because most Egyptologists now think it is fictional, it is typically included with the Eighth Dynasty. ­There is also debate as to ­whether the Seventh/Eighth Dynasty should be included in the Old Kingdom or First Intermediate Period. For an overview of ­these periods and a discussion of ­these debates, see Malek (2000a) and Seidlmayer (2000). 4. Van de Mieroop’s chronology includes the Seventh/Eighth Dynasty in the Old Kingdom; however, his chapter four groups the “end of the Old Kingdom,” which he

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identifies as the period following Sixth-­Dynasty king Pepi II’s rule, into his discussion of the First Intermediate Period. 5. See competing theories in Shaw (2000) and in Van de Mieroop (2011). While Van de Mieroop’s chronology still lists the Seventh/Eighth Dynasty in the Old Kingdom, his chapter outline clearly shows he sees this dynasty as part of the decentralization that typified the First Intermediate Period. 6. In the Old Kingdom, the title of tjaty was normally written out in an extended form, ṯɜytj zɜb ṯɜtj, which was l­ ater, in the M ­ iddle Kingdom and beyond, abbreviated by the word ṯɜtj by itself (see Strudwick 1985). ­Here I use tjaty simply to refer to any individual who holds a variation of this title ­either in its abbreviated or more elongated form. Tjaty is preferred ­here, as opposed to the more common term “vizier,” due to the latter’s medieval origin and specific use in early Islamic administration, which, when applied to ancient Egypt, has the potential to be anachronistic and misleading. 7. Familiar terms such as “son” and “­brother” are often used to refer to t­ hose who are “close” but not necessarily related. A wife may call her husband “my ­brother,” for example, or the king in the Amarna Letters may refer to foreign rulers as “my ­brother” (Cohen and Westbrook 2000). The title “King’s son” became so widely used by nonbiological sons of the king that princes who wanted to distinguish themselves as the biological sons of the king had to take the title “King’s son of his body” (Schmitz 1976). 8. Bárta recalls seventeen tjaty of the Fourth Dynasty (2013, 270), but does not list them nor provide a citation, so I cannot compare ­these lists. ­Either this is a miscalculation or, more likely, evidence was brought to light between Strudwick’s 1985 publication and Bárta’s 2013 research, which is unfortunately not referenced ­here. 9. Strudwick (1985, 308) indicates that “titles of king’s son” broadly defined can be attributed to Tjaty Ptah-­Shepses (identified by Strudwick as #52), who lived in the mid-­Fifth Dynasty and Seshem-­Nefer (#131), who lived u ­ nder King Djedkare (penultimate king of the Fifth Dynasty). In the Sixth Dynasty, he indicates the following tjaty similarly held this title: Mery-­Teti (#63), Nefer-­Seshem-­Seshat (#89), Neb-­K au-­Her (#82), Teti (#156), and Kai-­Nefer (#148). 10. This decree ( JE 41894) proclaims that the king has the ability to stop one from moving on into the afterlife (i.e., joining the effective dead, known as akhu): “With re­ spect to all ­people of this ­whole land who ­shall do anything bad or evil against any of your statues, offering stones, soul chapels, wooden items, or monuments which are in any ­temple or sanctuary—my majesty does not permit that their property or that of their f­athers remain therein, nor that they ­shall join with the akhs in the necropolis” (Strudwick 2005, 124). 11. This interpretation has not been argued for ancient Egypt, but a similar thesis (costly signaling theory) is put forth in Glatz and Plourde (2011) for Late Bronze Age Anatolia.

Ch a p ter  1

Mortuary Culture You have not gone away dead, but you have gone away alive. —­Pyramid Text 213

Death Is Only the Beginning What happens to us when we die? Ask a thousand ­people and you ­will get a thousand dif­fer­ent answers. Even t­ hose with shared religious views ­will likely possess individually determined, unique ideas about the Hereafter: darkness, nothingness, eternal sleep, decay, Pearly Gates, Sheol, heaven, hell, purgatory, reincarnation, your own planet. What happens to us a­ fter our bodies die has concerned ­humans throughout history. The finality of death and our ignorance of it has been a constant source of anxiety that humanity has tried to overcome with my­thol­ogy, religion, and faith. The ancient Egyptians w ­ ere no dif­fer­ent. They w ­ ere, perhaps famously, preoccupied with life ­after death. The dead in ancient Egypt remained very much “alive” as active members of social systems. To paraphrase Pyramid Text 213, they did not go away dead but went away alive. Despite their corporeal demise, the dead lived on in vari­ ous states and through certain formulaic relationships, such as ba (bȝ), ka (kȝ), akh (ȝḫ), m(w)t, and jmɜḫ.w, and so on, which are described more fully in the following chapters. Mortuary culture in ancient Egypt included practices of real and symbolic offerings to the dead so that they could “live” in the afterlife. Their largest and most impressive monuments ­were tombs, and they put ­great care into the preservation of the body through mummification. The primary locus of mortuary engagement was (seemingly) the tomb, but this may 19

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be a product of surviving evidence. By the New Kingdom, and likely e­ arlier, this practice was also certainly situated within settlements and t­emples (see Demarée 1983; Keith 2011; Stevens 2006). Engagement with the dead did not, in itself, challenge the king’s semi-­divine position as intermediary between the earthly and divine realms. In fact, engagement with the dead was always a fundamental aspect of the Egyptian worldview and was part of expected social be­hav­ior. Indeed, the Instruction of Ani reminds us that one should always “Libate for your ­father and ­mother who are in the necropolis.”1

The Divine Hereafter Despite the thousands of excavated tombs and funerary monuments, many plastered with scenes of the Egyptian afterlife, we do not know, we cannot know, what the ancient Egyptians believed. Belief is nearly impossible to locate in the textual and archaeological rec­ord. Their rituals and practices are traceable, and from ­these it is pos­si­ble to surmise and estimate Egyptian religious ideology. But ­whether the ancient Egyptians bought into this ideology, on an individual level, is impossible to ascertain. A modern example may be useful ­here to explain: A ­house with a Christmas tree is likely to be a ­house of Christians, but not necessarily. Perhaps only one of the members of the ­house­hold is Christian. Perhaps the ­house­hold includes inhabitants who w ­ ere raised Christian but are now atheist—­they simply enjoy the Christmas culture. The possibilities are endless. While it may be impossible to precisely reconstruct each individual’s belief in the Hereafter, the ideology of the Egyptian afterlife is accessible. It is inscribed on funerary monuments, evinced in the architecture and equipment of burial, and related in texts. The term “divine Hereafter” or simply “Hereafter” is used h ­ ere to refer to the ancient Egyptian super­natural realm that included the dead, but also gods, guardians, and gatekeepers (i.e., a range of super­natural actors). Depending on the text, this realm is described as being “below” Egypt (e.g., a “netherworld” or “underworld”), while ­others, such as the Pyramid Texts, speak of ­things happening in the sky, and ­others, such as Letters to the Dead, clearly indicate that this realm overlapped the realm of the living. All of ­these terms are more or less interchangeable with the more familiar concept of “afterlife,” but by definition the term “afterlife” refers to the experience of something that was once alive, in corporeal form within the earthly realm, that has since transitioned to a postliving state. This does not entirely capture the ­imagined real­ity of the Egyptian Hereafter, in which the “dead” ­were perceived of as “alive” and which was populated by not only t­hose who ­were once living but also the gods and super­natural actors in their transient states of “life.” No modern term can perfectly encapsulate

Figure 2. Egypt

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such a dynamic and ancient concept, and I use ­these terms largely interchangeably throughout. Perhaps the best term would be the ancient Egyptian term for this realm, Duat, which hopefully ­will become more widely recognizable. The earliest burials in Egypt predate the Egyptian state and Egyptian “culture.”2 By the Egyptian Predynastic period (i.e., fourth millennium BCE), dozens of cemeteries reflected local cultural systems, with distinct artifacts and burial practices (Stevenson 2009). ­Those of Lower Egypt, in the north, tended to be simpler than t­ hose in Upper Egypt, in the south (see figure 2). What was shared, though, among t­ hese populations was a religious ideology that supposes life ­after death. An increase in posthumous bodily care and the inclusion of artifacts in the burial with the dead evince the existence of such an ideology. Very quickly, tombs became a locus for social and po­liti­cal display. The earliest extant decorated burial chamber—­Hierakonpolis Tomb 100, dating to the Naqada II period—­included images of dominion: man over nature and man over man, in what might be an early smiting scene (Quibell and Green 1898–99, 20–23; pls. 64, 6, 9; 67). Burials w ­ ere, then, politicized from nearly the very beginning; they ­were loci for the display of social, religious, and po­ liti­cal capital. The tomb owner of Hierakonpolis Tomb 100 was likely a local leader, a proto-­k ing. Thus, po­liti­cal authority was already, in the fourth millennium BCE, tacitly associated with the mortuary sphere. Funerary complexes of the First and Second Dynasties (the Egyptian Early Dynastic era) mostly lacked inscription. The Third-­Dynasty pyramid complex of Djoser at Saqqara was inscribed, but the texts did not speak explic­itly of the king’s afterlife, focusing instead on the ritual actions of the king in life. It is pos­si­ble ­these ­were meant to mirror the king’s actions in death, but it is impossible to say for certain. The pyramids of the Fourth Dynasty w ­ ere similarly un-­inscribed; however, the valley t­ emples and other monuments within the kings’ mortuary complexes w ­ ere indeed inscribed. But again, t­ hese inscriptions did not speak explic­itly of the Hereafter. Not u ­ ntil the Fifth-­Dynasty pyramid of Unas did an explicit source speak of how the Egyptians (or at least kings) perceived of their afterlives. The Pyramid Texts found in Unas’s tomb ­were robust and certainly ­were not new compositions for his tomb (Allen 2015). The Pyramid Texts, however, w ­ ere not composed to describe the divine Hereafter but ­were meant to help the deceased in their transition into the afterlife. The Pyramid Texts included offering lists, ritual directions, and spells for protection and transfiguration. Similar spells, called the Coffin Texts, ­were painted on the coffins of elites during the First Intermediate Period and ­Middle Kingdom. Many of ­these same texts ­later evolved into the Book of the Dead. By the New Kingdom, funerary lit­er­a­ture and tomb scenes explic­itly described the divine Hereafter.

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During the New Kingdom, ­there was an increase in written funerary lit­er­ a­ture—­broadly known as “Books of the Netherworld”—­which described and provided instruction about the Hereafter. It is worth noting that t­hese ­were not a­ ctual books but rather scrolls of papyrus or inscriptions on tomb walls and equipment. T ­ hese Netherworld texts included well-­known corpora, such as the Book of the Dead, Book of Gates, and Am Duat. The Am Duat, literally, “that which is in the Duat,” breaks the Hereafter into twelve hours of night (Hornung and Abt 2007). Osiris and the sun travel through ­these hours, each hour being a lifetime to t­ hose upon whom the sun shines. Additionally, tomb scenes may depict the sun’s journey, which is tacitly tied to the royal and nonroyal afterlife: The ceiling of the Abydene cenotaph of Seti I shows the sky goddess Nut swallowing the sun at night and birthing him anew in the morning. The Ramesside tomb of the official Sennedjim shows him and his wife working the fields as part of their idealized afterlife. Upon the wall of Sennedjim’s tomb, Book of the Dead Spell 110 describes his afterlife, which is ­here referred to as the “Fields of Offerings” and the “Field of Reeds”: “­Here begin the spells of the Fields of Offerings and the Spells of G ­ oing Forth by Day . . . ​ being provided for in the Field of Reeds. . . . ​Being power­ful ( jqr) ­there . . . ​harvesting ­there. Eating and drinking ­there. Having sex t­ here. D ­ oing every­thing that is done on earth by Sennedjim.”3 ­Here the afterlife is paralleled to the life of the deceased on earth. The Am Duat, however, depicts an afterlife full of anxiety and super­natural creatures: The sun, and thus humanity and the world itself, is threatened with nonexistence by the snake god, Apopis. The Am Duat papyrus of Panebmonut depicts lion-­headed goddesses burning the dismembered bodies of t­ hose who failed their judgment before Osiris (British Museum EA 79430). In the demotic tale of Setna II, dating to the forty-­sixth year of Emperor Claudius, Setna descends to the Hereafter, much like Dante or the Mesopotamian goddess Inanna, and describes some of the horrors, such as p­ eople being tortured in what is identified as the fourth hall: “Some p­ eople who ­were plaiting ropes, while donkeys w ­ ere gnawing at them, and t­ here w ­ ere o ­ thers whose provisions of ­water and bread was suspended above them, and as they raced to bring them down, some ­others dug pits ­under their feet to prevent them from reaching it” (Simpson 2003, 473–74). In the seventh hall sat the enthroned Osiris with Anubis and Thoth at his sides. The Devourer, who is also known from ­earlier funerary lit­er­a­ture, also sits before Osiris’s throne. The Devourer is part crocodile, part hippopotamus, and part lion—­a creature that consumes the essence of ­those who fail their judgment, bringing onto them total destruction. Unfortunately, much of this evidence postdates our current discussion. We would of course expect conceptions of the Hereafter to change across the

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millennia. Fundamentally, though, some basic ele­ments of the Hereafter seem to have remained consistent if we compare New Kingdom and e­ arlier funerary lit­er­a­ture (e.g., Pyramid Texts, Coffin Texts, and the Book of the Dead): The divine Hereafter was a place through which the sun traveled at night and where the justified dead, who thus became akhu, ­were treated to an idealized afterlife, known by many names, but among them the Field of Offerings. ­Those who did not pass the judgment w ­ ere in darkness, burnt, tortured, devoured, and worse, forgotten by the living. Indeed, being forgotten was the ultimate death for the ancient Egyptians. Unintentionally, rapper Macklemore sums this up rather well in his 2017 song “Glorious”: “I heard you die twice: once when they bury you in the grave, and the second time is the last time somebody mentions your name.” When the ancient Egyptians buried their dead in well-­stocked tombs, it was not ­because the Egyptians ­were morbid, “beyond religious,” or obsessed with death. They, like so many ­others, had g­ reat anxiety as to the fate of their bodies and souls. They prepared for this transition in life as best they could—­building for themselves a tomb, equipping it with artifacts, establishing a funerary cult so that they could eat and drink in the Hereafter. The cost of failing the judgment before Osiris was grave (pun intended). It meant eternal death, destruction, and torture. They would be forgotten by their descendants and would, in essence, cease to exist. The desire to ensure a favorable outcome, then, is understandable. As previously mentioned in the introduction, one of the king’s duties was that of judge. Hence, in death, the king became Osiris. His benefaction, that is, his insurance that you would reach the Hereafter (or at least that he would help), would be the ultimate goal for an ancient Egyptian. In fact, during the Old Kingdom one of the king’s primary modes of wielding and displaying po­liti­cal power was through this mortuary benefaction.

Socializing with the Dead Once the dead passed Osiris’s judgment, they became akhu, effective dead. In this state, the dead could be called upon to affect the living. Mortuary culture was reciprocal and benefited both the living and the dead. The nonroyal dead ­were given offerings to sustain them in the afterlife but ­were also called upon by the living for aid and protection in earthly and super­natural m ­ atters. A malady, for example, could be understood as a vengeful ghost infecting the inflicted. Offerings accompanied by a letter written to a recently deceased ­family member or recently deceased local man of importance, known as a Letter to the Dead, w ­ ere sometimes deposited at tombs (Donnat Beauquier 2014; Troche 2018a). In ­these letters, the dead would be reminded that the living are

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giving them offerings needed for their continued existence. With that subtle threat in mind, it was hoped that the dead, as akh, would be persuaded to act on behalf of the letter writer. T ­ hese requested interventions all seem to have been about personal m ­ atters—­family issues, fertility issues, illness, and the like. For bigger issues of cosmological significance, such as admittance into the afterlife or the right to build a tomb in a prominent position, the king was ideologically the only divine intermediary of the Old Kingdom. Near the end of the Old Kingdom, beginning in the Sixth Dynasty, this began to change, with esteemed dead taking on roles that looked like t­ hose once unique to the king. During the Old Kingdom, the king, while alive, was a semidivine intermediary whose cosmic job was to uphold maat, or “world order.” Upon death, the king joined the gods, becoming divine. Pyramid Text Spell 477, dating to the reign of Sixth-­Dynasty king Pepi I, summarizes this pro­cess of the king becoming a god upon his arrival in the Hereafter: dj=f sw m-­m nṯr.w nṯr.w He puts him (the king) among the gods who have become divine.4 Posthumous cults to deified kings w ­ ere common due to the semidivine status Egyptian kings held during life and their apotheosis, that is, their transfiguration into a god upon corporeal death. Cults dedicated to deified dead kings have been the topic of a number of studies (see Černý 1927; Hollender 2009; von Lieven 2007). Notably, one of the three chapters of Dietrich Wildung’s (1977) Egyptian Saints: Deification in Pharaonic Egypt is, in fact, dedicated to deified kings. ­Because of ­these kings’ close association with the gods in life, the divinized royal cult should be considered separately from the cults of nonroyal dead (including ­those nonroyal dead who similarly underwent apotheosis). The king and his death cult are more fully explored in chapter 3, leaving this chapter to focus on the nonroyal dead. The nonroyal dead, as akhu, varied greatly in their efficacy and could be venerated by their living descendants as ancestors, by local communities as power­ful dead (what I refer to as “distinguished” dead), and some—­those who underwent apotheosis—­even worshipped as gods (what I refer to as “deified dead”). Thus, it is pos­si­ble to speak about a “spectrum of distinction” among the dead, ranging from “average” deceased (akh) on one end to “god” (netjer, or nṯr) on the other. It is impor­tant to note that this was not a continuum—­one status did not necessarily lead to the other. Despite etic notions of agency (e.g., most historians do not believe that the dead, as ghosts, can actually affect the living), the super­natural dead ­were perceived to have the ability to affect real change in the vis­i­ble, lived world of the ancient Egyptians, and thus must be treated as efficacious actors within Egyptian history.

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Fortunately, recent studies have already outlined well the primary average modes of interactions between living and dead, notably: Nicola Harrington’s Living with the Dead: Ancestor Worship and Mortuary Ritual in Ancient Egypt (2013) and Clare Plater’s 2001 dissertation, “Aspects of Interactions between the Living and the Dead in Ancient Egypt.” While Harrington’s 2013 monograph provides a comprehensive outline of the major modes of interactions between living and dead, it largely focuses on the New Kingdom. This chapter, alternatively, focuses on nonroyal evidence from the Old through ­Middle Kingdoms and includes novel discussions of particulars not treated elsewhere.

Aspects of ­Humans in Life and Death The dead ­were not singular entities, and neither ­were the living. In the ancient Egyptian worldview, the individual—­living or dead—­was composed of unique aspects that had dif­fer­ent roles and abilities. Living persons in ancient Egypt possessed at least five discrete components: body (ḏt), shadow (šwt), name (rn), and two super­natural aspects called ka and ba (Frankfort 1948, 61; Allen 2001, 277). Other aspects such as fate (šȝw) and magic (ḥkȝw) ­were also considered part of the self (see Riggs 2010). In death, ­these ele­ments ­were ideally retained to allow for eternal life. The pro­cess of death, though, irreversibly transfigured the dead, altering the forms and abilities of ­these components, while introducing a number of new potential states of existence ­free from earthly constraints. The body, for example, became the corpse (ẖȝt), or ­mummy (sʿḥ), and a new super­natural aspect, unique to the transfigured individual, was formed, called the akh. The body was integral to the Egyptian self in life and death. Christina Riggs explains that “the centrality of the h ­ uman body in the Egyptian world-­view is exemplified by the fact that almost all Egyptian gods take h ­ uman forms, in ­whole or in part” (2010, 3). The body was the central physical aspect that connected the other abstract and super­natural ele­ments that together composed the ancient Egyptian self. In death, the body’s preservation was of paramount importance, evinced by the ancient Egyptians’ investment in developing advanced mummification techniques. The body, djet, became the corpse, or ­mummy, in death. Additionally, inscribed images of the deceased would, ideally, be included in their tombs, which would also be filled with multiple statues and, in the Old Kingdom, “reserve heads” (Mendoza 2017). All of t­hese two-­ dimensional and three-­dimensional repre­sen­ta­tions of the deceased would help anchor the components of the self to the ­mummy in the tomb. And in case the ­mummy was disturbed, ­these images and statues could be used in its absence.

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Intimately related to the body was the shadow (šwt). Comparatively ­little research has focused on this aspect of the ancient Egyptian self. Notably, however, Teodor Lekov has emphasized the connection, as evinced by Coffin Text Spells 493 and 495, between the shadow, magic, akh, and ba (2010, 46–47). The shadow is often believed to be the solid black figure depicted accompanying the ba-­bird in vignettes of Book of the Dead Spell 92. The shadow, in texts, was associated with power and protection. James P. Allen points out that this makes sense when considering the protection shadow must have given ancient Egyptians from the heat of the sun (2001). Speaking of the power of the shadow, he mentions that an image of a god upon ­temple walls was sometimes described as the “shadow” of the god. In this context, “shadow” perhaps is closer in meaning to silhouette or cameo, which would render in profile someone’s quin­tes­ sen­tial visual facial characteristics—in essence their recognizable identity. The term rn can be translated literally as “name,” but also as “identity.” Names w ­ ere culturally and socially significant. Günter Vittmann aptly notes, “an impor­tant function of the name was as a means of integrating the b­ earer fully into Egyptian society” (2013a, 4). Ancient Egyptian names carried literal meaning—­they w ­ ere Egyptian words or phrases that described a person’s office, relationship to a god, and so on. Usually names w ­ ere short endophoric (lacking any mention of a king or god), descriptive, or apotropaic (protecting against harm) phrases, words, or sentences. Sometimes, though, names would invoke the majesty of the king (a basilophoric name) or the divine power of the gods (a theophoric name). Names could also change during one’s life and it was common to have more than one name. Kings, for example, would take on dif­fer­ent throne names when they ascended the throne. Nonroyal Egyptians could also be known by multiple names. In the Old Kingdom, it was common for nonroyals to have two names (and, more rarely, three names): the rn ʿȝ, “the big name,” was the name used in official capacities and was often ­either a basilophoric or theophoric name; the rn nḏs, “the ­little name,” (also referred to as the rn nfr, “the good name”) was a person’s common name or final name (Fecht 1974, 191). During the ­Middle Kingdom, many individuals similarly possessed two names, but they ­were presented differently than their Old Kingdom counter­parts. Instead of the phrase rn nfr introducing the second name, the formula ḏd.w n=f (who is called) would introduce a second name, though the types of names and name constructions remained consistent throughout both kingdoms (Vittmann 2013a, 3). The Egyptians believed ­humans ­were also composed of two super­natural aspects, both often translated as “spirit” or “soul”: the ka and ba. I give t­hese aspects fuller consideration below, but, as ­these are widely debated terms, I ­will first summarize ­here. I understand the ka as being anchored to the body during

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life, and in death to a ka-­statue, ­mummy, or images of the deceased within the tomb. The ka was a super­natural life force possessed by all living t­hings. For ­humans, this life force could also be shared among families and by p­ eople who held a par­tic­u­lar office; the king, for example, was endowed with a royal, divine ka when he ascended the throne. The ba aspect, depicted as a bird with a ­human head, was not restrained by the body and could roam the sky among the gods. This aspect was unique to the individual and could be possessed by animate and inanimate t­ hings. Jan Assmann aptly acknowledges the complexity of the notion of ka when he writes, “A ­g reat deal, much of it contradictory, has been written about the ka” (2005, 96). The ka as a concept remains enigmatic in large part due to the nature of Egyptian religion, which Assmann describes as “implicit,” meaning, for the period before the New Kingdom, t­ here are no known explicit theological treatises (2001). The ka is often translated as “life force,” or Lebenseele. Contrary to my suggestion above that the ka is anchored to the body, Assmann instead sees the ba as intimately tied to the body, and argues that the “ka had nothing to do with the corpse; it was not part of the ‘physical sphere’ of the individual” (2005, 96). I disagree with this interpretation, as evinced by Pyramid Text Spell 37c: “As every­thing belongs to your body [Unas], may every­ thing belong to the ka of Unas.” ­Here the body and ka are linked through the parallel construction in the spell. Evidence from tombs also suggests that the ka could animate images or funerary statues; thus, it would make sense for the ka to similarly animate the body. This is best exemplified by the Sixth-­ Dynasty protruding bust of Idu, carved into his false door at his tomb in Giza (G 7102), whose extended arms produce the hieroglyph kȝ (Simpson 1976). The extended arms mark the bust explic­itly as a ka-­activated carving, similar to the Thirteenth-­Dynasty wood statue of Hor with ka-­arms fixed atop the statue’s head, which marks it as a “ka-­statue” (Morgan et al. 1895, 91–92). Though Assmann disagrees with the argument that the ka was dependent upon a body or image (2005), this dependence would actually align well with his evaluation of divine presence (2001). He suggests t­ here are three realms of divine presence in ancient Egypt: the cultic, or local; the cosmic; and the mythic, or verbal (2001, 8). If the three dimensions of divine presence are applied to the realm of the dead, I suggest t­here is a one-­to-­one correlation between t­ hese dimensions of presence and the super­natural aspects of the dead. Assmann describes the local, or cultic, dimension as one in which the gods are resident upon earth—­typically within a cult statue or image within the ­temple. The gods also, though, reside in the sky in their cosmic presence. Fi­nally, the gods, Assmann argues, possess a verbal, or mythic, dimension of presence; this dimension emphasizes the gods’ power made efficacious through names, sa-

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cred words, and sacred knowledge—­particularly the sȝḫw spells. If this framework is applied to the components of the dead, the ka, then, is the manifestation (dimension) of the dead’s local or cultic presence, resident in a funerary statue, image, or corpse; the ba (depicted with the body of a bird) represents the dead’s cosmic presence; and the akh is the dead’s mythic presence as possessor of knowledge and spells (more on this below). ­Whether or not the ka is anchored to a bodily form, scholars agree that it indubitably exists as part of the living self and was possessed only by ­humans, gods, and certain animated statues (which, in the Egyptian worldview, ­were living). ­There are no extant texts in which an animal or inanimate object is described as having a ka (unlike the ba). This suggests that the ka may not only mean “life force,” but also, perhaps, something akin to self-­consciousness (Allen, personal correspondence 2013). Mark Smith further suggests that the ka was inherently familial and connected individuals to their ancestors and descendants (2009b, 6). The concept of ka is also related to nourishment, illustrated by the use of the abstract term kau to mean food, or sustenance. Henri Frankfort connects the Egyptian ka to the Roman concept of genius, though the Egyptian ka is more impersonal than its Classical counterpart (1948, 65). Assmann, though, sees the ka as “the vehicle of vindication that restored the individual’s status as a social person” (2005, 97). While Assmann associates the ba with the physical self, he associates the ka with the social self (89). I find this interpretation less convincing, though, vis-­à-­vis the evidence for the akh as the primary social agent of the dead (vide infra)—­though they are not necessarily mutually exclusive suggestions. In Egyptian texts, the ka is described as being gifted by e­ ither the gods or the king, and from ­fathers to their sons through an embrace. This image of a ka-­embrace is made explicit in Pyramid Text Spell 600: “Oh, Atum . . . ​you sneezed Shu and spat Tefnut, you put your arms around them as ka-­arms so that your ka might be in them.” Unfortunately, our understanding of the ka of nonroyals is ­limited by the complete lack of explicit depiction of a ka other than the royal ka (Frankfort 1948, 69).5 The ba aspect, on the other hand, could be possessed by h ­ umans but also animals and objects, such as doors and threshing floors. Despite this, scholarship has largely focused on the ba concept as it relates to h ­ umans only. The most extensive study of the ba is still Louis V. Žabkar’s 1968 monograph, A Study of the Ba Concept in Ancient Egyptian Texts. Žabkar rejects the common hypothesis that the ba is one of many spiritual aspects of the self in death—­ instead he argues that the ba is the self in its entirety, rather than a component of it, an assertion echoed by Smith (1968, 116–18; 2009b, 4). Žabkar also argues that the ba exists only upon death (cf. Otto 1942; Allen 2011) and is not part of the living individual but rather is the “alter ego of the deceased” (Žabkar

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1968, 117). Allen’s recent translation, though, of A Debate between a Man and His Ba has unequivocally shown that the ba, by the ­Middle Kingdom, was conceptualized as part of the self during life, residing in the belly (2011, 137–41; cf. Mathieu 2000).6 Frankfort similarly suggests that the ba is “entirely personal,” as it “represents man as animated notwithstanding the death of the body; [the ba] preserves man’s identity through its lasting relationship with ­mummy or statue but is ­free from the limitations of ­either” (1948, 64). The ba does, indeed, seem particularly personal. I suggest it is the nonphysical personal, individual quality of the self both in life and in death. The plural of ba, bau, can be translated as “impressiveness.” Both ba and bau can refer to a god’s impression or personality, manifest upon earth e­ ither as a tangible object, in a cult statue, as another god, or the dead. The “bau of Re,” for example, is understood to refer to religious texts, or sacred writings. The bau of Heliopolis are Re, Shu, and Tefnut, though Re is also referred to as the ba of Nun, just as Amun-­Re is the august ba of Osiris (Žabkar 1968, 10–12). Similarly, in the Coffin Texts, we see the dead being identified as the ba of Shu.7 By the New Kingdom, the ba is typically depicted as a bird with a ­human head. Despite the imagery of a free-­flying bird, Assmann sees the ba as intrinsically tied to the physical self—­the body in life and the corpse in death (2005, 89). He notes the focus in funerary lit­er­a­ture on the ba’s interdependence with the physical body, first in its separation from the corpse upon death and then with its eventual return to the body ­after mummification and internment (2005, 95; Žabkar 1968, 108–9). An Eighteenth-­Dynasty statuette (CG 48483) of a m ­ ummy whose ba, in the form of a human-­headed bird, rests his arms upon a sarcophagus, similarly invokes this notion. I suggest that the ba was indeed anchored to the body or corpse but was not restrained by it in the same way the ka was. The ba’s mobility, Smith rightfully suggests, “was one of the most salient characteristics of this aspect of an individual” (Smith 2009b, 5). In death, ideally all five of t­ hese components—­the body, shadow, name, ka, and ba—­would be preserved. Additionally, the particularly effective and knowledgeable dead, I suggest, could become akh if they ­were able to successfully pass the sȝḫ.w, or rites of transfiguration (Bonnet [1952] 1971; Kees 1977; Otto 1942). The akh is best understood as the effective dead in their social capacity—­a sort of “ghost” that could interact with the living on earth and with the gods in the divine Hereafter. The akh receives a thorough treatment in chapter 2. The dead ­were additionally referred to by a number of other terms worth mentioning: m(w)t (the dead), ḫftj (an opponent), and jmɜḫ (a venerated one). Unlike the previously discussed terms ba, ka, and akh, which can be described as states or aspects of the dead and are similarly translated as “soul,” ­these new terms are not unique to the individual but refer to the dead more generally. The

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term mt, or more fully mwt, is the most general term for the dead, translated simply as “the dead” or, when used as a verb, “to be dead” or “to die.” Some, notably Kaplony and H. te Velde, have suggested that m(w)t refers to the “harmful dead,” as opposed to the “beneficial dead,” or akhu, ȝḫ.w (Kaplony “Totengeist,” in LÄ, 6:648–56; H. te Velde “Dämonen,” in LÄ, 1:980–84). This categorization is not accurate, however. I show in chapter 2 that the akh possessed an explicit capacity for harm. Instead, Sylvie Donnat’s suggestion that the mwt refer to three aspects of the dead is rather convincing: (1) the general dead who exist in contrast to the living; (2) ordinary dead less revered than dead who became akh; (3) the dead who w ­ ere unsuccessful in their attempts to become akh, for example, the “damned dead” (2007, 4). The ḫftj.w, or “opponents,” may refer to the dead in some instances, but not universally. Coffin Text Spell 37, for instance, refers specifically to a ḫftj who exists dually among men and in the necropolis, suggesting t­ hese “opponents” can affect the living and the dead. The term jmɜḫ refers to a state of being or quality of the dead as an “honored one,” “revered one,” or “favored one” (Garnot 1941, 10). This term is not exclusive to the mortuary realm, and can be used to describe living ­people who are “favored” as well. The dead can be jmɜḫ, be jmɜḫ for or by (ḫr) someone, or are described as being among the netherworld collective, the jmɜḫ.w. To be jmɜḫ in death, in essence, means the dead partake in a relationship—­typically with the king or a god—­which is founded upon the dead’s social worth to a higher power (be it terrestrial or super­natural). A common phrase inscribed on funerary monuments of elites buried by the king’s pyramid identify the tomb owner as jmɜḫ.w ḫr the king, meaning they are favored by the king, who gifted them a tomb plot near his pyramid. In a funerary context, this worth is meant to justify one’s admittance into the afterlife. A full discussion of this term and its associated jmɜḫ.w ḫr formula can be found in chapter 3, with par­tic­u­lar reference to how this formula can be used to identify distinguished dead. In ancient Egyptian thought, the living self comprised vari­ous physical and super­natural aspects: notably, the body, shadow, name, ba and ka. In death, the deceased could become akh, one transfigured and effective in death. In the Egyptian mortuary cult, the aspect of the dead primarily invoked would be the akh, which is discussed in chapter 2. The continued social existence of the dead as akhu was dependent on real and symbolic offerings presented to the dead by the living. In return, ­these dead could be called upon to aid the living with personal m ­ atters, usually related to fertility, illness, or inheritance. ­These quotidian interactions between the living and the dead ­were integral to Egypt’s larger socioreligious system in the Old through ­Middle Kingdoms, and did not contradict the power of the king. For issues of more paramount importance, such as admittance into the afterlife, the king was ideologically the sole benefactor

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within Egypt. His semidivine status in life enabled a fully divinized cult in death. Near the end of the Old Kingdom, cults to local dead, distinct from typical mortuary cults to akhu, emerged as an alternative means of accessing what was once a uniquely royal benefaction. This challenge to royal authority contributed to fundamental shifts in the Egyptian po­liti­cal system.

Notes ­Unless other­wise stated, all Pyramid Texts (PT) and Coffin Texts (CT) referenced in this book are my own translations, with Pyramid Text translations based on transcriptions in Sethe (1908) and Coffin Text translations based on transcriptions in de Buck (1935–61). 1. Hieroglyphic transcription in Suys (1935, 135–45). 2. At least one burial of a “modern ­human” in Egypt is known from the Paleolithic at Taramsa Hill. The Taramsa Hill burial dates to the ­Middle Paleolithic/Late Pleistocene, c. 55,000 years ago, based on optically stimulated luminescence (OSL) dating (Vermeersch et al. 1998). 3. BD Spell 110 is an oft-­used Book of the Dead spell (found in other private tombs and on papyri), but ­here specifically I am citing the example found on the eastern wall of the vaulted room in the tomb of Sennedjim and his wife, Iineferti (Theban Tomb 1); much has been written about this tomb, but a start is Bruyère (1959). 4. All Pyramid Texts referenced in this book are my own translations, ­unless other­ wise stated, based on Sethe (1908). 5. This is likely a f­ actor of decorum. Though this explanation feels unsatisfactory, I have no other. 6. From Allen (2011, lines 8–9): nn dj.t ẖȝ=f wj ḏr ntt.f m ẖt=j m šnw nwḥ “[My ba] ­will not be allowed to resist me, since he is in my belly in a rope mesh.” 7. For example, CT 80: “I am the ba of Shu at the front of the g­ reat flood, who goes up to the sky as he desires, who goes down to the earth as his ­will decides.”

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Akhu—­The Effective Dead Oh, living ones who are upon earth . . . ​may they say “1,000 bread and beer” for the owner of this tomb. Then I ­will watch over them in the necropolis. I am an effective and equipped akh [ȝḫ jqr ʿpr], and a lector priest who knows his spells. —­From the Biography of Harkhuf

Effective Dead The akh (ȝḫ), which is commonly mistranslated as “soul” or “spirit,” is one of the three super­natural aspects that the ancient Egyptians possessed in death, along with the ba and the ka. Importantly the akh was the social aspect of the dead, and perhaps a super­natural entity akin to a ghost in the modern conception—­ that is, a super­natural actor who, in lore, can influence the realm of the living and can be “good” or “bad.” When an ancient Egyptian died, their goal would be to become an akh so that they could remain socially “alive.” When scholars speak about how the Egyptians left offerings for the dead, or when myths speak about the “curse of the m ­ ummy,” they are actually speaking about the akh (pl. akhu). This is not universally accepted among scholars, but it is clear from the following analy­sis of funerary lit­er­a­ture, a corpus known as Letters to the Dead, and tomb inscriptions, that the active agents of the dead ­were primarily the akhu. This is significant ­because the akh then occupies one end of the spectrum being laid out in this book—­with deified dead occupying the furthest, opposite end. Engagement with the akh did not challenge royal authority, but was part of ancient Egyptian religious order. Engagement with the akh was quotidian and common. It was part of the system. But it is only by understanding what this “normal” be­hav­ior looked like that it is pos­si­ble to identify “abnormal” cases in which engagement with the dead pushed beyond t­hese expected practices. In 33

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t­hese instances, in which certain dead w ­ ere “distinguished” or “deified,” the King’s mono­poly on religious benefaction was disturbed. Despite numerous studies—­for example, Englund (1978), Friedman (1981, 1984), Jansen-­Winkeln (1996), and Janák (2013)—­scholars have been unable to arrive at a consensus on the exact definition of the verb akh, or the precise socioreligious role of the noun akh. ­There are two definitions of the verb akh, “to be effective” or “to be luminous,” but which of ­these is the root definition remains debated. Most scholars now lean ­toward the former definition, and that is how it is understood in this book (see Friedman 1984). Jíří Janák, though, has aptly pointed out that any single definition is too ­limited in scope to fully translate the emic meaning of this complex term, for which no equivalent exists in En­glish (2013, 1). What, then, does it mean if a dead person is called an akh? I prefer to translate this as an “effective dead one,” based on the root understanding of the verb “to be effective.” To complicate this, the term is used in two dif­fer­ent textual categories: administrative and mortuary. Gertie Englund (1978) argues that the administrative definition of akh, which clearly relates to effectiveness, should not be applied to the meaning of akh in mortuary texts. Alternatively, Florence Friedman convincingly suggests that the fundamental meaning of akh in mortuary texts—­notably the Pyramid Texts, Coffin Texts, and Book of ­Going Forth by Day—is, indeed, “effectiveness.” She proposes that the association of akh with luminosity is an evolution of its base meaning of effectiveness (1981, 1984). Similarly, Karl Jansen-­Winkeln (1996) sees a connection between the akh and the invisible efficacy of the sun in the akhet. The akhet, literally the “place of becoming akh,” is the Egyptian term for any liminal place through which something travels and is transformed (e.g., the horizon, a ­temple gateway, part of a tomb where the dead is transfigured, ­etc.). He suggests that the sun’s passing through the akhet parallels the dead’s journey, in that the akhet is, similarly, the place in the tomb where the dead becomes effective, or akh. The term akh can also be associated with heka (magic). Nominally, the word ȝḫ.w can be translated as “effective t­ hings” or “spells,” in that this term means words and acts that possess efficacy. In this way, akh ­really refers to the state of being able to effect change, to make t­ hings happen (cf. heka, which is the nonphysical force that produces the change; in essence, this could be understood as the difference between potential and kinetic energy). It is through the creator god’s effectiveness (ȝḫ.w), for example, that creation is pos­si­ble. Coffin Text Spell 714 tells us that it is through the god Atum’s own effectiveness that he made himself as an act of self-­creation. The akh, then, as a spiritual incarnation, is an effective super­natural entity.



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Nicola Harrington sees the akh primarily in a social capacity: “The akh was not so much an ele­ment of the deceased as the transfigured deceased in his entirety who had attained the status of an ancestor, was able to communicate with the living, and appeared before them in corporeal form” (2013, 7). Supporting this assertion is Book of the Dead Spell 64, which states “I have come forth as ȝḫ jqr; I am seen in my ­human form” (9). Janák similarly stresses the relational status of the akh—­the akh is only effective in its reciprocal relationships with the living, or in its role as mediator, termed by Janák, “akhtaché” (2013, 4). I completely agree with Harrington’s and Janák’s interpretations of the akh as both social and inherently relational and further suggest that this was tied to the ancient Egyptian concept of maat, or world order. B ­ ecause this interpretation is central to an understanding of the spectrum of efficacy possessed by the dead, I elucidate evidence in support of this interpretation below.

The Akh in Pyramid Texts and Coffin Texts In order to assess the role of the effective dead, the akhu, during the third millennium BCE, I consider a variety of sources: funerary lit­er­a­ture (including the Pyramid Texts and Coffin Texts), tomb inscriptions (specifically a corpus called Appeals to the Living), and a corpus known as Letters to the Dead. While I agree with Harrington’s suggestion that “the only aspect of the deceased able to communicate directly with the living was the akh” (2013, 7), I wish to explain how exactly we know this. Funerary lit­er­a­ture provides the earliest insight. B ­ ecause we know the akh is associated with the dead, it makes sense that it would be discussed in funerary texts. For the Old through M ­ iddle Kingdoms, the most prominent funerary texts are the Pyramid Texts and the Coffin Texts. The Pyramid Texts are found exclusively in pyramids, the unique burial place of kings of Egypt during the Old through M ­ iddle Kingdoms. The earliest extant Pyramid Text is found in the Saqqara pyramid of King Unas, the last king of the Fifth Dynasty. While no Pyramid Texts w ­ ere discovered written in nonroyal tombs, it is probable that nonroyals had access to some version of ­these ritual texts (Smith 2009a). Nonroyal elite ancient Egyptians w ­ ere buried in rectangular, bench-­shaped tombs called mastabas. By the First Intermediate Period, Coffin Texts ­were included in nonroyal burials as spells inscribed or painted on coffins. While Pyramid Texts and Coffin Texts are often discussed as two unique, though related, corpora, Bernard Mathieu and Mark Smith have decisively shown that the Pyramid Texts and Coffin Texts ­were part of the same literary tradition (Mathieu 2004; Smith 2009a, 5). James P. Allen

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has also suggested, based on textual parallels between royal and nonroyal mortuary texts, which place private individuals alongside the “celestial regions” of the king, that at least by the end of the Old Kingdom the distinctions between royal and nonroyal afterlives begin to dis­appear (2006, 9). Additionally, recent scholarship into private iconographic inscriptions of the Old Kingdom suggests that t­ here may have existed a private oral tradition in which the Pyramid Texts (or similar spells) w ­ ere performed (Smith 2009a, 10). Allen similarly suggests that, at least by the Fifth Dynasty, we see parallels in funerary texts that confirm private participation in an afterlife comparable to the king’s (2006, 9). This would suggest that the Pyramid Texts could, in fact, be a complementary source aiding in the reconstruction of private funerary traditions of the Old Kingdom. This shift in funerary tradition occurred during the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties, near the end of the Old Kingdom. It was in the Sixth Dynasty that a fundamental shift in the king’s centrality and exclusive control, over both access to the full benefits of the divine Hereafter and one’s ability to display this access, is observed. Allen explains that, by the end of the Old Kingdom, “the distinction in ­these two views of the afterlife was prob­ably one of focus rather than privilege. The king’s destiny reflects the higher plane of existence he occupied during life: by its very nature, it presupposes daily communion with the gods. In the same manner, the non-­royal afterlife reflects the more “down-­ to-­earth” existence of the king’s subjects: they belong more to the world of ­people than to that of the gods” (2006, 9). Allen ­here is speaking of what I have termed the “average” dead, who belong more to the world of p­ eople. As discussed in more detail in Part II, though, not all dead ­were created equal. Some dead ­were able to transcend t­ hese spheres with greater ease and w ­ ere able to attain a higher status among the gods—in some instances becoming divine actors themselves. The earliest explicit extant attestations of the word akh are known from the Pyramid Texts. ­There are ­earlier images on First-­Dynasty cylinder seals and Second-­Dynasty funerary stelae that likely depict the akh in h ­ uman form seated before offering ­tables, but this is still debated (Friedman 1985, 86). The akh is described in the Pyramid Texts as existing among the dead, the gods, and the living. The akh’s agency in the divine Hereafter is illustrated in Pyramid Text 135: “How content is your situation, as you become akh, Unas, among your ­brothers—­the gods.” Similarly, Pyramid Text 210 declares, “akh to the sky, corpse to the earth,” with the implication, ­here, being that the “sky” is the place of the gods. As a corollary, the akh is seen as effective on earth in Pyramid Text Spell 170: “Now that Unas has emerged ­today in the true form of a living akh, Unas may break up fighting and restrain commotion.” Upon death, it is only



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a­ fter evolving into a “living akh” that Unas is able to possess efficacy in the earthly realm—­“breaking up” and “restraining.” The adjective “living” is prob­ ably meant to communicate his continued efficacy.1 The Pyramid Texts thus pre­sent the akh as an eternal supplement to the living h ­ uman. While the body expires, the dead lives on as an active member of social interactions, existing within a liminal zone and engaging with the gods, the dead, and the living. According to the Coffin Text Word Index, the akh is mentioned at least once in 374 dif­fer­ent spells (Borghouts and Van der Plas 1998, 3–4). Additionally, the akh is invoked in approximately 40 ­Middle Kingdom copies of Pyramid Texts (Allen 2006). In ­these 40 instances, akh is used ­either as a verb or as a noun, typically without an adjective, but if one is pre­sent, it is always the adjectival phrase “imperishable [jḫm sk] akh.” Of the 374 Coffin Text spells invoking the akh, ­there are 51 instances in which the term akh is modified by an adjective, and of t­ hose 51 instances, 44 spells utilize the phrase akh-­aper, “equipped akh” (ȝḫ ʿpr), expressing a clear favoring of the terms akh and akh-­aper. Since the purpose of the Coffin Texts is to protect and guide the dead in their transition into the divine Hereafter, the deceased pre­sents himself primarily as one equipped (akh-­aper) with proper funerary equipment and the necessary knowledge to transcend realms.

The Akh in False-­Door Stelae In addition to being described as aper (ʿpr), “equipped,” the akh is also described as being iqer ( jqr), “excellent,” in other funerary inscriptions—­notably, upon false-­door stelae and in Appeals to the Living. A false-­door stela is an architectural ele­ment often included in Old Kingdom tomb chapels. The tomb chapel was one of the primary loci for the pre­sen­ta­tion of offerings to the dead. Within ­these chapels t­ here is usually a carved false door of stone that does not open and acts as a liminal zone or a doorway between the realm of the living and the divine Hereafter. Above t­ hese false doors are stelae depicting scenes of the deceased sitting before an overflowing offering t­able, sometimes with ­family members joining them. Friedman has presented suggestive evidence arguing that it is the akh who is depicted seated before the ­table of offerings upon false-­door stelae, and that, in fact, offerings ­were received by the ka of the akh (1985). Friedman explains that depictions of the dead before a ­table of offerings date as early as the First Dynasty in cylinder seals (1985, 86). By the Second Dynasty, similar images appear on funerary stelae, which eventually became canonically situated above false doors in the Old Kingdom. In all of ­these

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images, the offering t­able is flanked by an image of the deceased on one side (who Friedman argues is supposed to be the akh), and on the other by e­ ither a plumed ibis (also presumably the akh, due to the fact that the hieroglyph for akh is a plumed ibis bird), a wife, or a repeated image of the deceased. For example, a stela of a ­woman from Saqqara shows her seated across from an image of herself, joined by an inscription: ink ȝḫ jqr ʿpr I am an able and equipped akh (Aldred et al. 1977, 172, fig. 12). Although the crested ibis may not always be pre­sent, Friedman suggests, “it is pos­si­ble that . . . ​the notion of the deceased as an effective and able 3ḫ before the offering ­table was still operative” (1985, 86). Other stelae explic­itly identify the seated deceased as akh by inscriptions identifying the ritual feasting as snmt-3ḫ, “feeding of the akh” (86–87). Friedman’s final piece of evidence identifying the seated deceased recipient of funerary offerings as akh is Coffin Text 334e-­g, which describes the scene being depicted in ­these false-­door stelae: “Your bread and your (morning) meal are laid on the ground to the front of your offering slab. Your akh is seated” (90). Altogether, ­there are convincing rationales that identify the akh as the seated deceased before the offering t­ able. Typically, Egyptologists have assumed that it was the ka that received offerings, ­because the word kau means “sustenance” or “food.” Friedman reconciles ­these two theories by suggesting that “the Egyptians believed that the offerings ­were directed to the k3 of the 3ḫ” (91). This would mean that the akh represented the entirety of a person in death (Harrington 2013, 7).

The Akh in Appeals to the Living The corpus known as Appeals to the Living (“Appeals” for short) was found along the facades of tombs beginning in the Old Kingdom. The oldest extant examples of t­hese Appeals come from tombs of the Fifth Dynasty. Appeals to the Living performed two major functions: they requested invocation offerings and gave warnings or threats. While it is generally accepted that ­these inscriptions invoke the living on behalf of the dead, the specific aspect of the dead making ­these requests or threats is, I suggest, the akh. I have identified only six Fifth-­Dynasty examples of Appeals, all of which are from elite tombs at Saqqara and Deshasheh, though ­there likely ­were more historically (Shubert 2007, 16).2 ­There is a notable increase in extant examples of Appeals from the Sixth Dynasty, but they also tend to be clustered in cemeteries near the capital. It is also in the Sixth Dynasty that the earliest example of an Appeal from outside a



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tomb is known: two stelae from Abydos with Appeals are dated to this period, along with a rock inscription at the Wadi Hammamat. In the First Intermediate Period and ­Middle Kingdom, Appeals become more widespread in the provinces and become associated with specific contexts, such as elite monuments at Naga ed-­Deir and Abydos. T ­ here are a few hundred known Appeals inscribed ­either upon tombs or stelae from the entirety of Egyptian history. Through an analy­sis of the attestations of the akh in ­these Appeals, not only does the social role of the akh become clearer, especially in ­those of the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties, but the capabilities and efficacy of the akh become apparent. I have identified twenty-­eight complete examples of inscriptions that include an Appeal and definitively date to the Fifth through Sixth Dynasties.3 Of ­these twenty-­eight Appeals only six date to the Fifth Dynasty (as mentioned above), while twenty-­two date to the Sixth Dynasty.4 Of the Sixth Dynasty examples two Appeals discuss rites of akhification, or becoming akh.5 One Appeal identifies the tomb owner as akh, but does not use an adjective.6 Eleven Appeals refer to the akh with some sort of adjective: four use the adjective aper (ʿpr) and ten use the adjective iqer ( jqr), with three using both.7 ­There is only one instance, though, of an adjective being used to describe akh in which aper is used and iqer is not.8 We also see for the first time the use of the phrase ink ȝḫ jqr ʿpr (I am an effective and equipped akh-­spirit), which becomes a common phrase in ­later texts. I suggest, then, that in ­those instances in which the deceased tomb owner is identified as akh, the phrase ȝḫ jqr or ȝḫ jqr ʿpr is preferred over ȝḫ ʿpr. When both adjectives are used, jqr is always listed first, mirroring this favoritism. The Appeals to the Living call upon passers-by and encourage them to pre­ sent voice offerings (e.g., invocation offerings) to the deceased ­because of the deceased’s good deeds during life. Often this Appeal ­will also pre­sent the passers-by with a promise of aid or protection—­typically within the necropolis. From ­these Appeals, it is apparent that the akh is indeed effective among the dead and has influence in the divine tribunal and in the realm of the necropolis. The Cairo Text ( JE 44608) of Ankhmeryremeryptah, called Nekhebu from Giza, dating from the reign of Sixth-­Dynasty king Pepi I (Urk., 1:218, lines 1–5), clearly shows that the akh is the one making ­these requests: You ­shall make invocation offerings like that which I did for your f­ athers [. . .], since you have wished that I interceded for you in the necropolis. You ­shall demonstrate for your ­children, on the day of passing ­there, the words of the invocation offering for me. I am an ȝḫ jqr. The efficacious role of the akh is further emphasized in the Tomb of Hezi at Saqqara, dating from the early Sixth Dynasty (Strudwick 2005, 275):9

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Anyone who s­hall enter this tomb . . . ​I am a more effective (jqr) akh than any other. I am a more prepared (ʿpr) akh than any other. I know all that which is jqr; for an akh is jqr, and what is potent for an akh which is in the necropolis is jqr . . . ​so that invocation offerings may be made in [the tomb]. The social contract that existed between the living and the dead to provide offerings in return for protection or aid is best illustrated by the tomb inscription of Harkhuf at Qubbet el-­Hawa, also dating to the Sixth Dynasty (Urk., 1:122, 9–13): Oh, living ones who are upon earth . . . ​may they say “1,000 bread and beer” for the owner of this tomb. Then I ­will watch over them in the necropolis. I am an ȝḫ jqr ʿpr, a lector priest who knows his spells. This Appeal to the Living, expressed by the akh of Harkhuf, suggests that an expectation existed wherein offerings w ­ ere supplied in exchange for super­ natural aid. The akh’s efficacy was not ­limited to the necropolis, however, as is shown in an inscription from the tomb of Akhetmehu at Giza (G 2375), dating to the Sixth Dynasty, which proclaims (Edel 1953, 333): The one who ­will make invocation offerings for me in a pure state . . . ​I ­will be his support in the tribunal of the noble ancestors. The tribunal of the noble ancestors resided both in the earthly necropolis and also in the divine Hereafter. More generally, Pepyankhheryib’s tomb at Meir illustrates that this social expectation was broader than invocation offerings; indeed, in an Appeal to the Living, he writes (Urk., 1:224, 4–8): Concerning ­those who act in accordance with that which I have said—­It ­shall be done as that which they desire, for I am an akh who is more equipped (ʿpr) than ­others who have evolved before. What is perhaps most intriguing h ­ ere is that ­these Appeals are not directed at familial descendants, but rather any living person on earth who passes by the tomb and does what the tomb owner has requested may benefit from the akh’s efficacy among the dead and within the divine Hereafter. As a corollary, anyone who does not act in accordance with the tomb own­ er’s requests may be victim to the wrath of his akh. This is the Appeals’ second function; they may be a warning or threat against t­hose who enter the tomb to disturb it (Morschauser 1991). The actor of the dead, the aspect that is to intervene and cause harm among the living, in ­these Appeals is clearly



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the akh. An Appeal from the tomb of Ibi from Deir el-Gabrawi proclaims (Urk., 1:142, 15–145, 2): Concerning anyone who ­will enter this tomb being [impure]—­I ­shall seize [his neck] like a bird’s, I am an ȝḫ jqr ʿpr. I know all of the secret magic of the Residence. Additionally, an Appeal found upon the tomb of Ankhmahor at Saqqara suggests that the akh, in addition to seizing necks, could inspire fear and be seen (Urk., 1:202, 6): [I s­ hall seize him] like a bird and place fear in him so that the ȝḫ.w and ­those on earth ­will see and they ­will fear an ȝḫ jqr. The Appeals to the Living illustrate that the akh was the active agent of the dead and that social expectations continued to exist for the average dead in ancient Egypt. ­These interactions can broadly be described as social contracts in which the living provided offerings in return for aid, and if the living disturbed the tomb-­house of the dead, they would seek vengeance through neck seizing and the installation of fear in the living. The deceased in Appeals are most often described as jqr, emphasizing the akh’s usefulness in performing ­these social expectations.

The Akh in Letters to the Dead The corpus of texts known as Letters to the Dead also makes explicit this social contract that existed between the living and the dead. In many ways, the Letters to the Dead are in conversation with the Appeals to the Living. In one (the Appeals), the dead threaten and request help of the living; in the other (Letters to the Dead), the living threaten and request help of the dead, as part of a larger socioreligious network based on expected reciprocal action (Troche 2018a). Janák aptly comments on this mutual efficacy and suggests that it is modeled on the Horus-­Osiris myth. Janák writes, “Osiris is said to have become akh through the deeds of his son Horus; in the same way, Horus was believed to have become akh-­effective and was legitimized by his ­father Osiris” (2013, 4). The Letters to the Dead—­first identified and defined by Alan H. Gardiner and Kurt Sethe (1928)—­are characterized by their address to the dead, their letter format, and their topics of request. Common among all t­ hese letters is the invocation of a recently deceased person, where the terms used to describe the relationships between petitioner and recipient indicate that they

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­ ere often siblings, spouses, ­children, parents, or other close companions. w ­These letters, therefore, are not attempts to address elder ancestors, nor are they likely a manifestation of ancestor worship. Instead they seem to invoke the able, active agent of the dead—­specifically the akh, as a pragmatic means of obtaining protection or justice for the living petitioner (Troche 2018a). ­There are about two dozen extant Letters to the Dead, with the most recent, comprehensive study being Sylvie Donnat Beauquier’s 2014 Ecrire à ses morts: Enquête sur un usage rituel de l’écrit dans l’Egypte pharaonique. This number was likely significantly larger in antiquity, with few surviving to us t­ oday.10 One of the reasons we do not have a rec­ord of what was likely a fairly common practice may be due to the oral nature of the letters. The Late Period Letter to the Dead, known as Papyrus Brooklyn 37.1799, makes this explicit: “Hersaiset, son of Tenhem, son of Nakhttamut [. . . ?] recite it before him at the tomb of Tenhem” ( Jasnow and Vittmann 1992–93, 27). This rec­ords the recitation of the letter at the tomb of the intended recipient, and suggests that more letters may have been recited at the tombs but w ­ ere perhaps never written down or are now lost (Hsieh 2019). Letters to the Dead are known from the Old Kingdom through the Late Period, being most numerous during the First Intermediate Period, following the trend we see elsewhere in this book, in which the dead are called upon for assistance more often in times of weak royal power. Just as the esteemed dead ­were invoked as a nonroyal means of accessing the divine Hereafter and ensuring admittance into the afterlife, in times of anxiety ancient Egyptians of the First Intermediate Period sought the assistance and advice of their recently deceased friends and ancestors. The recipients of the letters would have been agents of the dead capable of interacting, and responding to the living—as I have argued, the akh. The letters themselves, though, do not always make this apparent, as only four extant letters explic­itly invoke the akh: 1. The Leiden Papyrus 371 (dating to the New Kingdom) begins, “To the able ( jqr) akh Ankhere,” explic­itly identifying the recipient as akh. 2. Similarly, upon the First Intermediate Period, Chicago Jarstand, the living petitioner, writes, “you are an akh jqr” (ntk ȝḫ jqr). ­There is thus no question that the intended recipient is the akh. 3. The Hu bowl, also dating to the First Intermediate Period, makes explicit the reciprocal relationship between the akh and the living: jrr.t(w) prt-­ḫrw n ȝḫ ḥr sbt ḥr tp tȝ “Voice offerings are made for the akh ­because of the watching over of the one who is upon Earth.”



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4. The final example is a stela once known as Wente’s “Misplaced” stela, which now resides in the Michael C. Carlos Museum (2014.033.001). The letter, which dates to the First Intermediate Period, Eleventh Dynasty, requested of the deceased, “Remove the infirmity of my body. Become akh before me, that I may see you fighting on my behalf in a dream. I w ­ ill (then) deposit offerings for you.” This text confirms the existence of a social contract—­the author of the letter hopes to witness the akh fighting on his behalf, and in return the author promises the provisioning of offerings.

Socioreligious Significance of the Terms ȝḫ jqr and ȝḫ ʿpr In all of the above sources—­Pyramid and Coffin Texts, false-­door stelae, Appeals to the Living, and Letters to the Dead—­the akh is often modified by one of two adjectives, being described as ­either “effective” ( jqr) or “equipped” (ʿpr). The term iqer ( jqr) has been translated, among other ways, as “excellent,” “able,” “effective,” and “power­ful.” The fact remains, though, that a proper study of this term has yet to be performed—­although Robert Demarée does briefly analyze the term, preferring the translations “able,” “capable,” or “skillful” (1983, 197). ­Because of what I see as the inherent relational nature of this adjective, I think the best translations are “able” or “effective,” with the implication of being able or effective for someone/thing. The online Thesaurus Linguae Aegyptiae gives a similar translation, providing the definition nützlich, meaning “useful,” which similarly carries an implication of being useful at something or for someone/thing. Since iqer is a common adjective used to describe the dead as akh, it can be proposed that one of the primary roles of the akh was to be effective, or able; when called upon by the living, the dead ­were to be useful for the living. The term aper (ʿpr) has a clearer definition, being almost always translated as “equipped” and sometimes as “prepared.” But what is the akh equipped with? Someone can be equipped with physical equipment or, more abstractly, with knowledge. Indeed, the phrase akh-­aper is often followed by something relating to knowledge of spells or magic: phrases such as, “I know every­thing which is jqr,” “I know all the secret magic,” and “a lector priest who knows his spells.”11 Use of this adjective in describing the state of the dead is one of the pieces of evidence that has been used to support the assertion that the dead

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had access to “secret magic” and “spells” like t­ hose presented to the king in the Pyramid Texts (Smith 2009a). As mentioned above, the term akh is found in 374 Coffin Text spells. Of ­these spells, the phrase akh-­iqer (ȝḫ jqr) is found in seven spells and the phrase akh-­aper (ȝḫ ʿpr) is found in forty-­four spells, accounting for 86 ­percent of the adjectival phrases. Both terms are found together in only one Coffin Text spell (CT 11b). ­There is, thus, a clear favoring of the term akh-­aper (equipped akh) in the Coffin Texts. The phrase also accounts for 12 ­percent of all the references to akh in the Coffin Texts. Since the Coffin Texts are spells that help protect and guide the dead’s transition into the divine Hereafter, it is logical that a deceased would desire to emphasize his status as one equipped both with the proper funerary equipment and necessary knowledge. The socioreligious function of the tomb and its associated inscriptions is illuminating h ­ ere. The tomb was meant not only to ­house the dead for eternity but also to be the primarily locus of the funerary cult—­a cult dependent upon the living. As previously stated, the term iqer means not only “able” but specifically describes a state in which someone is able or effective for someone. The dead partook in social relations with the living: it is well established that the funerary cult was not unidirectional. The dead ­were useful to the living just as the living w ­ ere useful to the dead. In exchange for funerary offerings, the dead would protect or help the living. In this social role, the dead would desire to display themselves as effective and able—as akh-­iqer. Being equipped with knowledge was additionally beneficial, contributing to the dead’s efficacy. In their social capacity, the dead ­were, thus, typically invoked as akh or akh-­iqer. As akh-­aper the dead w ­ ere imbued with embedded religious knowledge enabling navigation of the netherworld and equipping them with the material requirements of the earthly realm. Thus, this term is more commonly used in religious funerary lit­er­a­ture.

The Akhu as Part of Maat, World Order The dead and the living w ­ ere clearly participating within intersecting social networks of interaction. The deceased in his social capacity was akh, but more specifically, akh-­iqer (ȝḫ jqr). He was a spirit who was effective for the living petitioner. He was effective b­ ecause he was aper (ʿpr), equipped with the knowledge needed to successfully navigate the divine Hereafter. Indeed, Egyptian didactic lit­er­a­ture (e.g., Instructions of Ptahhotep) makes clear that maat referred not only to large-­scale po­liti­cal order but to social order as well. According to maat, every­one had a place within social networks, and ­these social



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roles came with social expectations and customs. In death, ­these roles and networks continued to exist—­and the dead ­were expected to partake in their form as akh. Their lived social experiences provided them with a habitus through which, in death, they could continue to be efficacious. ­These quotidian interactions with the dead w ­ ere part of expected social be­hav­ior, but they ­were fundamentally personal, concerned with issues of fertility or illness. When the dead ­were called upon for issues more profound—­such as help reaching the divine Hereafter—­that ­were traditionally exclusive to the king, royal power was subverted.

Notes 1. See also my discussion of the epithet nṯr ʿnḫ,“living god,” as it relates to the cult of Isi in chapter 7. 2. ­These Fifth-­Dynasty appeals are found upon the tomb facade ­unless other­wise noted: Kehersetef (Urk., 1:10), Ti (Urk., 1:173–74), Inti (Urk., 1:70–71), False Door of Sekhentyuka (Schlick-­Nolte 1993, 21–31), Tjetu (Simpson 1980, 8–10, figs. 12, 15–16), False Door of Pehenwikai (Urk., 1:48–49). 3. Note that ­there are more known Appeals than ­these twenty-­eight, but some cannot be definitively dated or the texts are broken. Texts in which the Appeal is legible but the rest of the text—­the part that may have invoked the akh—­remains broken are not included since they would potentially create false statistics. See specific references that follow. 4. ­These Sixth-­Dynasty appeals are found upon the tomb facade ­unless other­wise noted: Lintel of Nedjimib (CG 1732), Stela of Djasu (Urk., 1:119), Stela of Nypepi (Urk., 1:112), Wadi Hammamat Rock Inscription of Shemay (Urk., 1:149–50), Nykauizezi (Kanawati and Abder-­Raziq 2000, 33–34, 41, pls. 43–44, 50), Inscription of Reherytep Iti (Urk., 1:197), Meru called Bebi (Urk., 1:255–56), Offering ­Table Ishetmaa ( James 1953, 68–69, pl. 41; Edel 1981, 67–71), Nyhetepptah (Urk., 1:187–88), Burial Chamber of Kaikherptah (Urk., 1:186), Ankhmahor, known as Sesy (Urk., 1:201–3), Henku (Urk., 1:76–79), Nyankhpepi (Urk., 1:73), Harkhuf (Urk., 1:120–31), Ankhi, called Inti (Goyon 1959), Ankhwedja Itji ( Junker 1947, 133–35), Lintel of Herymeru (S. Hassan 1975, 3:76–78, fig. 39), Khui (Lloyd et al. 1990, 37–38, pl. 22), Khuit (Fischer 1992, 67–70), Architrave of Mehi (Edel 1994), Ty and Mereruka (Edel 1944, 56–68), Lintel of Nenki, Leipzig 359, now lost (Urk., 1:260). 5. Nyhetepptah (Urk., 1:187–88) and the burial chamber of Kaikherptah (Urk., 1:186). 6. Lintel of Nenki (Urk., 1:260). 7. Aper: Ankhi, called Inti (Goyon 1959). Iqer: Nyankhpepi (Urk., 1:73), Ankhwedja Itji ( Junker 1947, 133–35), Lintel of Herymeru (Hassan 1975, 3:76–78, fig. 39), Khui (Lloyd et al. 1990, 37–38, pl. 22), Khuit (Fischer 1992, 67–70), Architrave of Mehi (Edel 1994), and Ty and Mereruka (Edel 1944, 56–68). Both: Ankhmahor, known as Sesy (Urk., 1:201–3), Henku (Urk., 1:76–79), Harkhuf (Urk., 1:120–31). 8. Ankhi, called Inti (Goyon 1959). 9. Based on Kanawati and Abder-­Raziq (1999, 22–23, 37–38, pls. 52, 59).

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10. Gardiner and Sethe (1928) include references to the following letters: Cairo Linen (JE 25975), Hu Bowl (UC 16244), Qau Bowl (UC 16163), Berlin Bowl (22573), Cairo Bowl (CG 25375), Oxford Bowl (Pitt Rivers 1887.27.1), Moscow Bowl (Moscow 3917b), and Leiden Papyrus (p.Leiden 371). Published elsewhere since Gardiner and Sethe’s publication are a number of additional letters: p.Naga ed-­Deir N. 3500 (Simpson 1970; Goedicke 1972); p.Meru Naga ed-­Deir N. 3737, MFA Boston 38.2121 (Simpson 1966); Chicago Jarstand, Hashell Oriental Museum #13945 (Gardiner 1930); Wente’s Stela (Wente 1975), Louvre Bowl, E 61634 (Piankoff and Clère 1934); Ostracon Louvre, O.Louvre 698 (Frandsen 1992; Goldwasser 1995); and p.Brooklyn 37.1799 E ( Jasnow and Vittmann 1992–93). 11. Respectively, from the tomb of Hezi (Strudwick 2005, 275); from the tomb of Ibi (Urk., 1:145, 2); and from the tomb of Harkhuf (Urk., 1:122, 13).

Ch a p ter  3

Power and Egyptian Kingship I made this tomb in the shade of my association with [imakhu kher] the king, who got a sarcophagus for me. —­Tomb of Akhethetepher

Power The dead, in their social capacity, could be mobilized to subvert royal power in Egypt’s Old through ­Middle Kingdoms, during which time “power” could take many forms. Most Egyptological lit­er­a­ture does not engage with this growing field of study, so I rely ­here on discourses born from sociology, philosophy, and religious studies. Sociologist Max Weber, for example, sees power as “the probability that one actor within a social relationship w ­ ill be in a position to carry out his ­will despite re­sis­tance,” and he emphasizes that this is “regardless of the basis on which this probability rests” (1978, 53). Power, he emphasizes, is fundamentally social—­based on a social relationship—­and works only when the actions of someone (or society as a w ­ hole) are consistent enough to allow for probable and predictable outcomes. It is impor­tant to remember that power is not a zero-­sum game. Mark Haugaard explains that power is not “simply ‘out ­there’ but has to be created” (2002, 67). Power is created in society through social interactions and institutions. For Weber this could be the smallest social relationships—­a parent and child, a boss and worker. Hannah Arendt, in a still controversial essay, asserts that power is not something possessed by an individual but only by a united group (1970, 44).1 In Marxism, the only driving source of power is the economy. For ­others, such as Michael Mann (1986), social actors have agency and can make choices that 47

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are “enabled and constrained by the par­tic­ul­ar power sources available at a moment in time” (Haugaard 2002, 166). In summarizing Mann’s stance, Haugaard explains that, for Mann, “historical agents are active beings situated within complex overlapping networks of power which are continually negotiated in novel ways and, in the pro­cess, transformed” (Haugaard 2002, 166).2 ­These networks of power are drawn from four sources, which Mann refers to as his IEMP model of or­ga­nized power: ideology, economy, military, and politics (Mann 1986, 2). For ancient Egypt, it is difficult to discern ­these sources with precision (notably, teasing out one ideology from the ­others is impossible). Other­wise, Mann’s pre­sen­ta­tion of power aligns well with this investigation into ancient Egyptian power and is one productive basis for this book. Po­liti­cal power is one source, then, of potential power in antiquity. When images of the “power­ful” ancient Egyptian king are conjured, the motif of the smiting king is prominent among them. Scholars have proposed that power can be read from scenes of Egyptian royal displays of vio­lence (see Bestock 2017). Indeed, when most p­ eople think of “power,” especially po­liti­cal power, they think of vio­lence—­C. Wright Mills, writing in the 1950s, asserts that “all politics is a strug­gle for power; the ultimate power is vio­lence” (1956, 171). This assumes that “power is understood to be power over” (Bern­stein 2011, 6). This is, in fact, the traditional way that power has been understood in Egyptological academic lit­er­a­ture (see Bestock 2017). This is not, however, how most modern theorists have defined it (see Arendt 1970; Haugaard 2002; Bern­ stein 2011). Arendt asserts that “po­liti­cally speaking, it is insufficient to say that power and vio­lence are not the same. Power and vio­lence are opposites; where the one rules absolutely, the other is absent” (1970, 56). In this book, I emphasize two points: (1) Po­liti­cal power and vio­lence are, intrinsically, in opposition. (2) Power does not belong to an individual; strength, rather than power, can be individually possessed. In this chapter I use ­these claims to describe the negotiation of power between the Egyptian elite, the dead, the gods, and the king. Egyptian po­liti­cal power was not unilateral. Politics was a negotiation between parties. And power exists only when the group exists. For example, Egyptian elites and the king negotiated power on a daily basis. The king did not simply possess absolute power. Scenes of the Egyptian king smiting his enemies showed his strength, not his power. The king’s persuasion and authority, rather than power, enabled his pyramid to be built. This persuasion (Arendt’s term), however, supposes equal actors. But rarely, I assert, are social actors equal; social actors come to negotiations with dif­fer­ ent privileges, access, and knowledge. Po­liti­cal power is, indeed, a negotiation, but not necessarily a negotiation between actors of equal influence, nor are they guaranteed public freedom.3 Michel Foucault, in his own way, has described



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power as a negotiation between deductive power, which he sees as negative, and biopower, which he sees as a positive force ([1976] 1998, 10). Power is not horizontal or vertical, but both, and in three dimensions. For Weber (1978) and Robert Dahl (1968), power is defined by the ability to make someone e­ lse act, to do something. This emphasis on action, however, does not fully take into consideration the power of inaction. Weber acknowledges that ­there may be re­sis­tance, but for him power is being able to make something happen, despite potential re­sis­tance, which could include inaction. But inaction is an equally potent source of power that is underdiscussed in the lit­er­a­ture. This is relevant for ancient Egypt where, for example, the first extant strike occurred (Vernus 2003, 50–69). Power in Egypt did not exist ontologically, to be divided up in a zero-­sum capacity. Power was created through negotiations between social actors, which included the inhabitants of Egypt, the king, the gods, and the dead. Power, and in par­tic­u­lar po­liti­cal power, was not power “over” someone, nor was vio­ lence an instrument of power, but rather a reflection of a loss of power. In contrast, persuasion was a tool of power. Power in ancient Egypt, for example, was manifest in the king’s ability to persuade ­people to build him a monumental pyramid. The Egyptian word for this was heka (ḥkȝ), often translated as “magic,” and was the intangible force that affected (or was believed to have affected) the Egyptian world, through special speech and gestures. For the mostly illiterate ancient Egyptian population, knowledge (i.e., being equipped, ʿpr, with knowledge) was a source often tapped for power. The king had knowledge of the gods and had access to the spells of transfiguration (i.e., the Pyramid Texts), which aided in admittance into the divine Hereafter. His role, then, as mortuary benefactor, gave him power—­that is, as long as the elites recognized him in this role. Power is, ­after all, a negotiation between parties and was not vertical in Egypt. Though the power of the inhabitants of Egypt existed only as long as they acted as a group (or as subgroups, e.g., local elites), they had agency in the negotiation of royal power, which Leslie Anne Warden notes is largely overlooked (2015, 24). Thus, in some instances, when the inhabitants of Egypt mobilized the dead to act as divine mediators and mortuary benefactors in place of the king, they ­were in essence renegotiating and redefining royal power.

The King’s Centrality ­ ere I argue that one of the ways in which the king expressed and maintained H po­liti­cal power was through his unique position as mortuary benefactor.

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However, this power was undermined by the growth of “distinguished” and “deified” dead. T ­ hese dead w ­ ere marked as distinct from the “average” effective Egyptian dead, the akh (covered in chapter 2). In order to appreciate how ­these dead could subvert royal power, it is necessary to first understand what Egyptian royal power looked like in the third millennium BCE. Kingship took many forms in ancient Egypt. An inscription from Luxor ­Temple makes apparent the king’s main responsibilities: Re has placed King NN in the land of the living for eternity (neheh) and all time (djet) for judging men, for making the gods content, for creating Order (maat), for destroying evil (“Text 4,” in Parkinson 1991, 38–40).4 This communicates a number of impor­tant points. First, the god Re “has placed” the king in his position; thus, it is by the grace of the gods that the king rules. Depending on the context and time period, the god who gives the king his power might be Re, Horus, Osiris, Amun, Atum, or o ­ thers. Second, the king rules across both concepts of time—­neheh and djet. Neheh can be generalized as cyclical time associated with Re. Djet time is mythical and is associated with Osiris. Djet represents the Egyptian cosmic ideal—­the way ­things ­ought to be: for example, a king on the throne, the yearly rising of the Nile. Neheh, then, represents minor fluctuations in this idea—­the dif­fer­ent kings who sat upon the throne of Egypt, and the varying strength of the inundation (Assmann 2005). Fi­nally, this text communicates that the king had four notable responsibilities: 1. To act as judge (“for judging men”); 2. To appease the gods as High Priest (“for making the gods content”); 3. To uphold maat, cosmic order (“for creating Order”); 4. To protect Egypt (including securing and expanding its borders) and the p­ eople of Egypt (“for destroying evil”). Though Bárta, following Baines (1995a), articulates the king’s duties with greater detail, all of the king’s responsibilities can fall into one of ­these four categories (2013, 259). Of par­tic­ul­ar importance for the pre­sent discussion is the king’s role as judge. This certainly applied to earthly, court judgments, but it also applied to the king’s role as mortuary intermediary and benefactor. To access the divine Hereafter, the nonroyal dead had to pass the “judgment before Osiris.” The king, who in death united with Osiris, was integral in aiding in this transition. During the Old Kingdom, decorum ­limited the types of aides a non-



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royal elite could bury with him to help ensure his transition into the Hereafter. By the First Intermediate Period, Coffin Texts ­were the primary resources for the dead in their travel into the divine Hereafter. As described in the introduction, by the New Kingdom, the Book of the Dead and Am Duat, among o ­ thers, gave the dead more explicit resources to aid in this journey. At the onset of the Old Kingdom, however, the only resource available to the nonroyal dead was seemingly the king. The king was the central figure in Egyptian mortuary culture for much of Egyptian history. John Baines comments that it is difficult to look at “nonroyal” material exclusively, b­ ecause “for millennia the Egyptians made [the king] the focus of how they or­ga­nized and presented the world” (1995b, 146). Indeed, in order to investigate the nonroyal mortuary culture of the Old through ­Middle Kingdoms, the king remains integral. Some of the Abydene tombs of First-­Dynasty kings are surrounded by subsidiary graves housing ­human sacrificial burials (Dreyer et al. 1990, 67, 81–86). Presumably, the king’s servants volunteered to be sacrificed, or ­were even honored to be chosen, ­because their inclusion in the royal burial would facilitate their access to the afterlife. For the king, not only ­were ­these servants useful in the Hereafter, but their burial represented “the submission of ­people to royal authority” (Baines 1995b, 136). Thus, beginning in the First Dynasty, and presumably beginning with the onset of Egyptian dynastic history in Dynasty Zero, po­liti­cal power (or at the very least the display of this power) was intrinsically linked to the king’s mortuary complex and his role as mortuary judge and benefactor. In the Old Kingdom, po­liti­cal power and one’s continued life in the Hereafter w ­ ere both anchored to the king. Indeed, the king’s pivotal role in the mortuary culture of the Old Kingdom is made abundantly clear by archaeological and textual sources: the clustering of tombs near the royal pyramids (der Manuelian 2006), the my­thol­ogy espoused in the Pyramid Texts, and biographies of officials all point to the essential role of the king dually in life and within the divine Hereafter (Stauder-­Porchet 2011; Bárta 2013). Through the king’s grace and f­ avor, through his jmɜḫ, one could share in the ultimate splendor of the Hereafter (Bárta 2013, 259). That is not to say that the dead did not have an afterlife without the king; clearly, the abilities of the akh indicate other­wise. But rather it was through this relationship with the king that one could most fully benefit from all of the privileges available in the Hereafter. Arguably, ­because of the king’s dual existence—as man and god—­and his dominion in both realms he was able, along with other funerary gods (e.g., Anubis, Osiris), to provide this assistance.

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The King: God or Godly? The divine nature of the ancient Egyptian king has been the focus of numerous monographs and articles. Of note are chapters in Nicole Maria Brisch’s 2008 Religion and Power: Divine Kingship in the Ancient World, David O’Connor and David Silverman’s Ancient Egyptian Kingship (1995), Henri Frankfort’s Kingship and the Gods (1948), and Jonathan Winnerman’s 2018 dissertation, “Rethinking the Royal Ka.” Lanny Bell’s hallmark 1985 article on the cult of the royal ka has long been cited as the expert explanation for royal divinity (at least for kings of the New Kingdom). Bell asserts that the king was both divine and mortal—­a mortal man who, upon his admittance into the office of king, was endowed with the divine ka of kingship (1985). Winnerman’s dissertation research, however, pushes back against this longstanding interpretation. Winnerman warns that we should be suspicious of the overt influence that Ernst Kantorowicz’s The King’s Two Bodies: A Study on Medieval Po­liti­cal Theology (1957) may have had on the scholarship of Bell (who in fact acknowledges explic­itly this influence: 1985, 293) and the many that have followed him. Therefore, this interpretation of the Egyptian king similarly possessing “two bodies”—­one divine, expressed by the royal ka, and one mortal—­may be a case of Egyptologists simplifying ancient Egyptian notions of kingship into con­ ve­nient etic definitions (Winnerman 2018, 18–26). Instead, Winnerman proposes that the king expressed his divinity in multifaceted ways that could be at times ephemeral, and certainly inconsistent. The king’s divinity, Winnerman cautiously suggests, was fluid, and was perhaps the same divinity that made the gods divine or the dead divine (2018, 329–42). In essence, the king’s divinity was no dif­fer­ent than that of the gods or deified dead and rather a manifestation expressed to a greater extreme along a shared spectrum of divine efficacy (340). Indeed, this is similar to what I have argued h ­ ere—­that the deified dead are not unique among the gods, they simply are gods. A spectrum of distinction existed for all nonroyal dead, I have suggested, but perhaps, following Winnerman, this could be expanded to all ancient Egyptians—­living or dead, royal or nonroyal, the gods included. ­Whether resulting from an endowment of a royal-­divine ka or not, the king in Egypt was, certainly, associated with the gods (had access to them, was born of them, was an image of them, ­etc.) in ways that average ancient Egyptians simply w ­ ere not. Jaromir Malek warns that “being the god’s manifestation does not make the king himself a god” (2000b, 242). Speaking about kingship in the Old Kingdom, Baines explains that the “king manifested on earth aspects of the gods, but he was himself a god only insofar as t­ here was no term for being intermediate between h ­ uman and god” (1995a, 9). The Pyramid Texts



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make explicit (e.g., in Spell 423) the fact that the king in death becomes a god, which implies he was not a god before this transfiguration. This same corpus, however, makes explicit that the ruling king was also Horus.5 I, thus, prefer to understand kingship as the social role of a man (or rarely a ­woman), which meant that he performed the duties of Horus, and in d­ oing so was gifted greater access to the gods and the divine realm more generally. The king was not a god, but, in his office as King of the Two Lands, he was perhaps godly. Two terms used to speak about the king or kingship confirm an emic Egyptian duality: hem (ḥm) and nesut (nswt). When speaking about the divine office of kingship in general terms, Egyptian texts use the term nesut. A parallel can be drawn to how in the United States they say “The White House does not negotiate with terrorists.” The implication ­here is that it does not ­matter who is the sitting US president, but that this is a policy of the institution of the presidency. Hem, on the other hand, seems to invoke the specific king, and is often translated as “Majesty” or “Incarnation.” ­These two terms seem to express an Egyptian emic viewpoint in which ­there is an acknowl­edgment of the divine office of kingship (nesut) unique from the mortal king who sits on the throne (hem). This perception of the king changes across Egyptian history, with certain New Kingdom kings arguably being accepted as full-­fledged gods during life.6 The king was associated with vari­ous deities depending on the context and historical period. For all of Egyptian history, the earthly realm was the realm of the king as Horus, exemplified elegantly by Fourth-­Dynasty king Khafre’s diorite statue, which shows him in a unifying embrace with the Horus falcon ( JE 10062).7 First attested during the reign of Fifth-­Dynasty king Unas, though not normalized u ­ ntil the M ­ iddle Kingdom, the royal titulary included a name that identified the king as the son of the sun god, Re. Royal sun t­ emples, dedicated to Re, of the Fifth Dynasty further cement the king’s association with the sun and specifically with Re (Nuzzolo 2007). The divine Hereafter was the realm of the dead king, who went away “alive” as Osiris, evinced by the numerous statues of kings wrapped as the mummiform Osiris. This was perpetuated by the mythic cycles of Osiris and evinced by the Pyramid Texts that make this explicit. In Pepi’s pyramid, for example, he is called upon as “Osiris-­Pepi” (see Pyramid Text Spell 423). The precise mechanism at play ­here is unclear—­Pepi is perhaps divinized and then syncretized with Osiris, Pepi may become part of the god Osiris (with all dead becoming part of some universal Osiris), or Pepi may become his own version of Osiris (so ­every dead is a unique aspect, or ba, perhaps, of Osiris). In death, the king’s divinity is made very clear. In the same spell, Pepi is described as having become divine: “Accept your natron-­water, that you may become divine. Your ­mother Nut has made you be a god to your opponent, in your

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identity of god” (Allen 2015, 106). Notably, it is only in death that Pepi “becomes divine,” which implies that he was not divine before. In this transfigured, divine form, the king received cult at his mortuary t­emple, similar to the cult offered to other gods.

Royal Po­liti­cal Ideology: The King as Mortuary Benefactor ­ hether the king was divine or not, his role was unique: to be a godly leader W who was the sole benefactor of Egypt and ideologically the only mediator between the gods and the Egyptian ­people. Indeed, a hymn to ­Middle Kingdom king Senwosret III makes this explicit: “How ­g reat is the lord of his city. He is unique” (Hier. Les., 1:5c). This was a power­f ul position. More than this, it was a position that gave the king exclusive authority over his subjects’ full enjoyment of the divine Hereafter. To reiterate a claim proposed above, the dead had access to the Hereafter, presumably without the king’s intercession or benefaction, but only through such benefaction could the full benefit of the Hereafter be realized. However, it seems as though ­there was an expectation, at least among the Egyptian elite, to be buried in a tomb in a prominent position (a gift often granted by the king) and to receive the king’s mortuary “­favor” ( jmɜḫ). This f­ avor enabled the dead to participate more fully in the Hereafter. The king’s assistance and facilitation in crossing over into the divine Hereafter is revealed by the imakhu kher ( jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formula. The imakhu kher formula reveals an impor­tant mortuary relationship in which an individual (position A) is “favored” by a king or god (position B). When the person in the “B position” is dead, I argue this is a marker of “distinguished status.” For the king, or rather whoever is invoked in this formula, it communicates their role as mortuary benefactor. The formula is strictly textual and thus limits the types of sources that can be consulted to better understand this enigmatic relationship. Additionally, the concept of jmɜḫ (grammatically written as jmɜḫ.w in the formula, denoting a verb in its passive participle form) certainly predated its earliest recorded usage in text, which was in the tomb of Rahotep at Meidum, dating to the end of the Third or beginning of the Fourth Dynasty (Garnot 1941, 6, no. 5). This term is often found in funerary contexts with the preposition ḫr, together being translated as “venerable to,” “favored by,” or “honored by” someone (see below for a discussion of this translation). The “someone” in this construction is almost always the king (often referred to as “his lord,” nb=f) or a deity, including deified dead (Djedi, Kagemni, Heqaib), which emphasized their role



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as funerary gods. The formula only rarely invoked a husband, parent, or local man of power (Gaber 2003, 26). ­There are fewer than a dozen examples from the Old through M ­ iddle Kingdoms in which this formula invokes an “ordinary” person (not the king or a god) for whom t­ here is no extant evidence of apotheosis or distinction other­wise. In ­these instances, the invoked “ordinary” person is always an abstract designator and is never a specific person’s name. The examples of “ordinary” ­people being invoked through this formula fall into three categories: 1. ­Woman to her husband: jmɜḫ.wt ḫr hj=s (Abu-­Bakr 1953, 69–70); jmɜḫ.wt ḫr hj=s rʿ nb (S. Hassan 1941, 82–83)8 2. Man to a parent: jmɜḫ.w ḫr jt=f (S. Hassan 1943, 103); jmɜḫ.w ḫr mwt=f (Lapp 1986, 212) 3. Man to “the p­ eople”: jmɜḫ.w ḫr rmṯ (S. Hassan 1941, 88; Inscription of Pepinakhheryib at Meir, Urk., 1:222, 5) The rarity of ­these examples makes them challenging to interpret. Importantly, t­ hese examples are distinct from the examples discussed elsewhere in this book, b­ ecause they invoke abstract figures, such as “husband” or “­mother,” rather than specific individuals. Furthermore, in the example above, in which a man proclaims himself as imakh (favored) before his ­father, it is probable that “his ­father” is meant to indicate the king. This interpretation is based on the fact that this line is followed by a similar construction, jmɜḫ.w ḫr jt=f nswt, “favored by his f­ather, the king,” which clearly identifies “his f­ather” as “the king” through apposition (S. Hassan 1943, 103). Additionally, I have only been able to identify two examples that predate the Third Intermediate Period (i.e., the period being considered by this book) of a ­woman being imakh by her husband, and they both date to the Sixth Dynasty, which is significant.9 This could be evidence to support the main argument that in order to subvert the king’s authority, distinguished and deified dead ­were mobilized in roles traditionally belonging to the king. ­Here, the ­woman’s husband may or may not be dead, but is occupying the same role, demonstrating society’s attempt to find alternative means of mortuary benefaction, which emerged in the Sixth Dynasty. Similarly, the example of a man being imakh before “the ­people,” from the tomb of Pepyankhheryib at Meir, also dates to the Sixth Dynasty, specifically the reign of Pepi II. Although not all of ­these examples date to the Sixth Dynasty, they become more common at this time. The Sixth Dynasty witnessed numerous cultural and po­liti­cal shifts, and it is during this time that we begin to see innovative engagement with the dead in their distinguished and deified forms. It seems likely that ­these examples could be indicative of

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larger socioreligious changes that affected networks of access to the afterlife. Thus, what was once originally an exclusive privilege provided by the king or the gods could have grown to include “ordinary” ­people, particularly distinguished and deified dead. To understand this relationship, the formula must be unpacked. James P. Allen has convincingly suggested that the term jmɜḫ.w could be a passive participle (“bundled,” “grouped”) of the unattested verb mɜḫj, “to bundle” (2006, 16). Additionally, the context in which the term is used clearly shows that the primary meaning of the term is inherently relational—it intends to communicate something about the relationship between two individuals, a recipient and an agent. The recipient of the formula (the one who is imakh) always possesses the lesser status of the two involved parties. The agent, as previously mentioned, is typically the king or a god. The term, then, also carries a second connotation of worth, defined by this expressed relationship. Thus, Allen suggests we can translate this formula, roughly, as “worthy of association with.” Person NN is worthy of an association with the king/great god, and, thus, he is favored, honored, and so on. This relationship is what Allen calls the “ultimate association between the deceased and the king” (2006, 16). When the king’s role in this “ultimate association,” then, begins to be usurped by local dead, the significance is clear: the king’s mortuary power is being subverted by t­ hese figures. In the funerary context, this notion of “worth” is articulated in a related expression, which explains how or why the deceased was able to build his tomb. Jean Sainte Fare Garnot suggests the term jmɜḫ is best understood as a reward provided by the king in the form of a good burial, funerary rations, and admittance into the afterlife (1941, 31).10 This tracks in Egyptian literary tradition; for example, in the Story of Sinuhe, Sinuhe in his old age desires to return to Egypt for a proper burial. He writes to the king, who grants him the benefaction of a proper burial, coffins, statues, tomb, and the like ­because, as the last line of the narrative explains, Sinuhe was imakh by the king. The imakh relationship was explic­itly tied to the benefactor’s ability to provide access to the Hereafter, at least as used within funerary contexts. Allen (2006, 16) draws attention to an Old Kingdom example that explains: jr.n=j js pw m šw jmɜḫ=j ḫr nswt jn n=j qrs I made this tomb in the shade of my association with the king, who got a sarcophagus for me.11 I follow Allen’s postulation that imakh relates a relationship that is both physical (the tomb is literally in the shade of the king’s pyramid ­because of its close proximity) and temporal (the shade of association is not fleeting, but eternal).



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The Egyptian elites ­were imakh by the gods, or the king in his divine role, ­because only through their grace and ­favor could the elites fully access the afterlife. This is not to say that they could not access the afterlife other­wise, but that the full privileges of the afterlife ­were only attained through the king’s or the god’s grace and ­favor. When private persons, such as Hordjedef and Ptahhotep, w ­ ere invoked in this formula, they took on the role of a god, acting as a facilitator aiding (or even enabling) the deceased’s journey to the Hereafter. A distinguished individual’s grace and f­ avor enabled the deceased to access a privileged afterlife, and in light of this association, a tomb and funerary equipment w ­ ere provided.

Death, Power, and the King Throughout Egyptian history, the king occupied a unique position among the inhabitants of Egypt and the gods. His godly role and his position as the High Priest of Egypt, enabled him to be the primary mediator between the Egyptians and their gods. In the Old Kingdom, the king’s role as mortuary benefactor was evinced by the clustering of tombs around his pyramid and his invocation in the imakhu kher formula. However, during the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties, the king’s position began to change. Whereas previously the only monumental stone buildings in Egypt ­were the king’s funerary complex, large stone t­ emples dedicated to the sun god Re w ­ ere being built at Abusir. Si­mul­ ta­neously, royal names emphasized more than ever their connection to the sun cult. Of the nine kings of the Fifth Dynasty, six explic­itly evoke Re: Sahu-re, Neferirka-re, Shepseska-re, Re-­neferef, Niuser-re, and Djedka-re. On a superficial level, the monuments of Egypt show that late Old Kingdom (Fifth through Sixth Dynasties) kings w ­ ere, visually, sharing celebrity with the gods. Pyramids grew smaller in size as resources ­were redirected to build monumental ­temples to Re. Whereas the pyramid of Khufu, who ruled for approximately twenty-­three years, mea­sures 440 cubits along the side and 280 cubits in height, the pyramid of Unas, who ruled for approximately thirty-­three years, mea­sured only 150 cubits along the side and 100 cubits in height (Lehner 2008, 122–33, 153–54). Unas’s long reign and the fact that his pyramid is the first to include Pyramid Texts shows that his modestly sized pyramid was not a result of an inability to innovate or amass resources. Instead, it communicates an intentional choice by kings of the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties to display royal power and socioreligious capital in ways fundamentally dif­fer­ent from their Fourth-­Dynasty pre­de­ces­sors.

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In an effort to subvert Old Kingdom royal power, the dead ­were mobilized to absorb the king’s role as mortuary benefactor. In the First Intermediate Period and ­Middle Kingdom, the dead took on roles that looked more like ­those of traditional gods than the king, as the kings themselves tapped into sacred structures of authority to define their own positions. The Theban kings, as local nomarchs themselves of the late First Intermediate Period and ­Middle Kingdom, displayed a g­ reat connectivity to their local t­ emples. They ­were described as beloved of their local gods, who w ­ ere identified as their ­fathers and ­mothers (Bussmann 2010, xciv). Where the kings of the Sixth Dynasty failed, however, ­later kings succeeded. Instead of furnishing local ­temples with votives to the gods, royal temple-­building campaigns of the ­Middle Kingdom emphasized the kings and their divine status in the Egyptian pantheon, thus transforming divine spaces into royal-­divine spaces (xciv). As the deified dead of the Old Kingdom fit into already proscribed structures of power, so did t­ hose who w ­ ere deified in the M ­ iddle Kingdom. However, this time the structure of power was not the mortuary cult, but the local t­ emple.

Notes 1. Arendt’s essay was controversial not so much ­because of her discussion of power and vio­lence but b­ ecause of her racially charged criticisms, especially of Black university students. 2. What Mann refers to as “sociospatial networks of power” (1986, 1). 3. Bern­stein defines public freedom as “a positive po­liti­cal achievement that arises when individuals act together and treat each other as po­liti­cal equals” (2011, 9). 4. NN is an abbreviation that basically means “whoever’s name ­here” or “anonymous person’s name.” It comes from the Latin Nomen Nescio, which translates to “I do not know the name.” It is often used when a statement is formulaic, and any name, in this case a king’s name, could be placed into a certain spot in the formula. Though this text dates to the reign of Amenhotep III (Eigh­teenth Dynasty, New Kingdom), Richard Parkinson suggests it has ­earlier antecedents. He asserts it possibly originated “before the end of the M ­ iddle Kingdom,” but he cautions “­these features may be l­ater archaisms” (1991, 38). Despite the questions surrounding the date of this text, I include it ­here ­because of its succinct pre­sen­ta­tion of kingship, while acknowledging the potential for anachronism. Parkinson cites his source for this work as Assmann (1970). 5. Speaking to the dead king, Unas, Pyramid Text Spell 215 makes explicit that his son, the ruling king on earth, is Horus, “for you have given birth to Horus in his identity at which the earth shakes and the sky ­trembles” (Allen 2015, 35). 6. On the divinity of Ramesses II, see Goelet and Levine (1997, 273–74). 7. For images, mea­sure­ments, and more, see the Egyptian Museum, http://­www​ .­globalegyptianmuseum​.­org​/­record​.­aspx​?­id​=­14878. 8. Note also that the t following jmɜḫ.w ­here in this formula is the feminine ending, since this example is speaking about a ­woman.



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9. The first example, jmɜḫ.w ḫr hj=s, comes from the Giza mastaba of Abdu (Abu-­Bakr 1953, 69–82); the second example, jmɜḫ.wt ḫr hj=s rʿ nb, comes from the Giza mastaba of Seshemu (G 8656). 10. Compare to Franke (1994). Detlef Franke sees the jmɜḫ relationship as expressing a continuation of the relationship between patron and follower from life into the Hereafter (133). This jmɜḫ relationship, though, is clearly more than a s­ imple continuation of a patronage relationship, as evinced by the analy­sis presented in this chapter. 11. From the Tomb of Akhethetepher, Urk., 1:51, 2.

Ch a p ter  4

Markers of Distinguished and Deified Status He has put [Pepi] at the head of his akhs who have become divine. —­Pyramid Text Spell 477

A Spectrum of Distinction The dead in ancient Egypt w ­ ere not all equal; hierarchies existed in death as they did in life. In life, certain ­people w ­ ere believed to be more effective or better at completing par­tic­u­lar tasks than ­others. In death, certain dead ­were similarly remembered as being more useful than ­others. I suggest that this was not a system of designated posthumous positions but rather a spectrum of distinction. The spectrum of distinction among which the dead resided ranged from an average effective dead person (akh) on one end to god (netjer) on the other.1 The average dead (akhu) ­were invoked by the living at moments of anxiety and uncertainty or when earthly recourses seemingly lack efficacy. The esteemed dead, which are the above-­average distinguished and deified dead, ­were called upon during moments of graver consequences—to aid in the successful transition into the divine Hereafter, for example. During the height of the Old Kingdom the king held an exclusive position as divine intermediary and mortuary benefactor. So, the increase in engagement with the dead, in which the dead are invoked as mortuary benefactors, suggests a subversion of royal power. This mirrors the other sociopo­liti­cal changes occurring at the same time (around the Sixth Dynasty) that similarly reflect the waning authority of the king: growing regionalism, inherited local offices, growing influence of local t­emples, and so on, as discussed in the 63

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introduction. This is visually apparent in the artistic decorum shifts during the Sixth Dynasty, which became known as the “Second Style” (Russmann 1995; Brovarski 2008). ­These observable changes are reflections of larger, more ephemeral, changes in the conception of Egyptian kingship, religion, power, and access. Notably, beginning in the Fifth Dynasty, divine t­emples, distinct from the king’s mortuary complex, began to populate the landscape around the capital and in the provinces. Contemporaneously, the first evidence for the divinization, or apotheosis, of a few extraordinary dead emerged. Whereas the king was once the sole mediator (at least ideologically) between the gods and the inhabitants of Egypt, now ­these deified dead became accessible local gods, who had personal connections to the ­people who worshipped them and sought their f­ avor. This intimacy and their accessibility may be why some scholars have called t­hese dead “saints” (see Quaegebeur 1977; Wildung 1977). But saints, while super­natural, are not gods. While chapter 5 discusses distinguished dead (for whom the title of “saint” is not entirely misleading), the dead analyzed in chapters 6 and 7 ­were not just saintly but w ­ ere bona fide gods.

Apotheosis: A History This phenomenon of apotheosis is by no means unique to ancient Egypt. In fact, in nearly e­ very culture socioreligious pro­cesses exist through which certain ­humans are marked as metaphysically distinct, of elevated status. In some instances, t­ hese ­humans have been associated with super­natural qualities that set them apart as heroes, demigods, and gods. ­These men—­and sometimes ­women, though not nearly as often—­can range in their divine distinctions from simply possessing a few divine attributes to being bona fide gods, and every­ thing in between. In ancient Egypt, this spectrum of distinction included the average effective dead known as akh (pl. akhu), the “distinguished” dead who ­were marked as supernaturally distinct, and the deified dead who underwent full apotheosis. The modes, however, through which this super­natural identity was ­imagined and articulated, and the socioreligious roles t­ hese super­ natural ­humans played, differed across time and space. The phenomenon of apotheosis—­the pro­cess through which one becomes divinized—­has been the topic of few Egyptological studies. Less than a dozen examples have been identified from the Old through M ­ iddle Kingdoms (c. 2700–1650 BCE), though comparable evidence in other civilizations, such as the attestations of deified kings in Mesopotamia, are similar in number (Brisch 2008). This suggests that this relatively modest dataset is a reflex of the restrictiveness of the phenomenon rather than an incomplete archaeological rec­ord. In contrast, apotheo-

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sis has been particularly popu­lar as a research inquiry for studies of the ancient Mediterranean classical world, where examples are more plentiful. ­These better-­studied examples show the range and variety of forms this practice could take. The small Near Eastern dataset of divinized kings has provided scholars with fruitful analytical returns (see Brisch 2008). The study of the Greek practices of the “hero cult” and the more proliferate “tomb cult,” which emerged as early as the tenth c­ entury BCE, has pop­u­lar­ized the utilization of the term “hero” for semidivine figures across disciplines (Baines 1991, 158ff; Antonaccio 1995, 6). Heroes ­were legendary. As a result, their textual and archaeological rec­ords blur the lines between divine myth and personal histories. Further, Alexander the G ­ reat introduced to the emerging Hellenistic world a practice referred to as the “ruler cult,” in which Alexander was divinized during his lifetime. In the Roman Empire, this manifested as an “imperial cult” (Bosworth 1999). Beginning with Augustus, emperors deemed worthy could be awarded divine honors, raising them to the status of a god upon their death, and sometimes evidence for this elevated status (divus) was traceable during their lifetimes. This apotheosis extended not only to rulers but also to their families and loved ones; most famously Antinous, Emperor Hadrian’s lover, was deified ­after his death in Egypt, where a city was built and dedicated to his divinized cult. Indeed, apotheosis became widespread in Egypt during the Hellenistic period—­a trend that continued into the Christian and Islamic eras in a related form of saints and wali (Meinardus 2002; Hoffman 1995, 85–122). Apotheosis was not normative; it was historically exceptional. Therefore, the time, places, and settings of apotheosis bear significant meaning. The intimacy between apotheosis and its historical and cultural contexts enables me to draw conclusions about the phenomenon’s place within ancient Egypt’s socioreligious landscape and its historical utility. Notably, during the Old through M ­ iddle Kingdoms, apotheosis seems to have uniquely occurred posthumously, allowing us to speak only of deified dead (the exception to this may be the king in certain periods). This ­factor complicates investigations of apotheosis in ancient Egypt, b­ ecause, for the entirety of ancient Egyptian history, ­there was an elaborate and productive mortuary cult for the dead. This mortuary cult enabled the dead to remain “alive” ­after corporeal demise as active, super­natural members of social networks. Thus, any inquiry into the pro­cesses of apotheosis must first delineate between evidence of apotheosis, posthumous distinguished status, and quotidian mortuary cult. Additionally, ­there is some evidence to suggest that one could actively construct this posthumous identity while still alive, in which case we would need to consider apotheosis as a product of two agents: (1) the community which

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recognized the posthumous, divine status; and (2) the individuals who intentionally constructed their exalted identities. The earliest known example of an attempt at this extreme form of posthumous identity construction dates to the ­Middle Kingdom, though the desired apotheosis was not realized u ­ ntil the New Kingdom (and thus is not properly included in this volume). In the funerary texts of Djefai-­Hapi, a Twelfth-­Dynasty nomarch of Asyut, he attempts to claim divine pedigree; he describes himself as: sȝ wp-­wȝwt ms.tjw=f ʿȝ “The son of Wepwaut, his greatest offspring.” Additionally, contracts between him and local priesthoods provide evidence for his attempt to arrange for a posthumous cult dedicated to his worship, unique from his mortuary cult (Kahl 2012, 181). New Kingdom graffiti, which refers to a t­ emple (ḥwt-­nṯr) of Djefai-­Hapi, confirms that his apotheosis was eventually recognized (168–69). The social and religious implications of Djefai-­ Hapi’s attempt to prepare for his own apotheosis are that the pro­cesses of divine identity construction had shifted and ­there was a growing awareness of this phenomenon as a social and po­liti­cal tool. However, since no evidence for his deification appears u ­ ntil the New Kingdom, it seems as though it was not yet pos­si­ble during the ­Middle Kingdom for individuals to successfully realize an apotheosis. Beginning with the New Kingdom we find a relative explosion of evidence relating to the practice of apotheosis (von Lieven 2010). Thus, an additional challenge in researching apotheosis in ancient Egypt’s Old through ­Middle Kingdoms is the preponderance of evidence and scholarship focusing on the New Kingdom through Roman periods (Wildung 1977; von Lieven 2010). Apotheosis became a fairly widespread phenomenon, especially in the Late, Ptolemaic, and Roman periods (see Antonaccio 1995; Bosworth 1999; C. Jones 2010). Most famous are the cults dedicated to the divinized forms of Imhotep and Amunhotep, son of Hapu, whose cult worship was observed even within the bounds of state ­temples. Notably, a finely carved offering scene depicting both “heroes” was inscribed on the outer facing east wall of the t­ emple of Ptah at Karnak ­Temple as part of a secondary inscriptional episode—­that is, a graffito (Wildung 1977). Additionally, kings of the New Kingdom, such as Amunhotep III and Ramesses II, displayed themselves in overtly divine ways, such as depicting themselves with the ram’s horns of Amun, claiming divine birth, and so on (Wildung 1973, 1977; Malek 2000b; Bickel 2002). The king, as is discussed in chapter 3, was not a god, but was perhaps godly (cf. Bell 1985; Winnerman 2018). I suggest that the kings and the dead both existed along this same spectrum of distinction, which on one end culminates in divine status.

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For the kings, in life they stood close to the gods and in death all of them became gods. While this near-­divine status was seemingly not achievable for most (non-­k ing) Egyptians during life, in death they ­were similarly placed along this spectrum, with most possessing akh status, and a very few also becoming gods.

Defining Apotheosis in the Old and ­Middle Kingdoms The inherent challenge is to avoid allowing this overwhelming dataset of royal deification in the New Kingdom (and ­later examples of nonroyal apotheosis) to influence interpretations of apotheosis and distinction in the Old through ­Middle Kingdoms. Though many scholars pre­sent Egyptian religion and culture in monolithic terms, t­ here was ­g reat variation in ancient Egyptian conceptions of the divine, the king, and the dead (among other ­things). The cultural context in which Antinous was deified by Hadrian in the second ­century CE was fundamentally dif­fer­ent from the cultural context in which Heqaib was deified, some two thousand years ­earlier. As such, the motivations, pro­cesses, and decorum that regulated apotheosis in Ptolemaic Egypt cannot, and should not, be applied w ­ holesale to e­ arlier periods. Understandably, this is what is seen in the scholarship, since t­ here is comparatively paltry evidence for apotheosis in t­hese ­earlier periods. The lack of scholarship on this topic also suggests, even if unintentionally, that a full consideration of the earliest attestations of apotheosis is less impor­tant, or less meaningful, ­either for the ancient Egyptians or for current research. This book intends to rectify this misconception. Therefore, an investigation of apotheosis needs to overcome the analytical hurdle of distinguishing between evidence of apotheosis, posthumous distinction, and quotidian mortuary cults. Furthermore, a framework is necessary for identifying distinction and deification, unique from the mortuary cult, in the textual and archaeological rec­ords of ancient Egypt. The categorization of dead as ­either average dead, distinguished dead, or deified dead is a useful heuristic for understanding the dynamic phenomenon of posthumous distinction/apotheosis and its po­liti­cal and social impacts, but I do not suggest they reflect an emic Egyptian real­ity. Nevertheless, it is an impor­tant exercise to consider what related emic categories or concepts may have existed in third-­millennium BCE Egypt, to justify analy­sis of this phenomenon as historically meaningful. The earliest recorded internal evidence for an emic concept of apotheosis dates to the Old Kingdom. Pyramid Text Spell 477, dating to the reign of Pepi I, reads

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dj=f sw m-­m nṯr.w nṯr.w He puts him [i.e., the king] among the gods who have become divine.2 This shows that by the Sixth Dynasty t­ here is a recognized divinization pro­ cess through which some ­humans, who may not have been originally divine, could become divine. During the reign of Merenre and Pepi II, the same spell is subtly changed to explic­itly express the ability of certain dead, as akhu, to become divine: dj.n=f [Pepi] dpj ȝḫ.w=f nṯr.w He has put [Pepi] at the head of his akhs who have become divine. The king is distinctly set apart from ­these divinized beings (the akhu), though he is described as being their leader and among them. This spell indicates that the pro­cess of apotheosis, of becoming divine, was presumably reserved for the king and the dead, specifically ­those who ­were already akh. Despite a long academic history focused on the study of ancient Egyptian mortuary culture, t­ here is surprisingly ­little consensus when it comes to conceptions of the dead and the varied statuses of the dead. This remains one of the biggest challenges in current research. ­There is no agreement about what marks someone as a god or as an above-­average distinguished dead, and no one has ever tried to lay out t­ hese markers in a comprehensive way. Even studies on l­ater deified dead have only considered case studies individually and have not dealt with the conceptual aspects of the phenomenon. ­Because of this, numerous articles are often written on the same case studies, with one author claiming someone was deified before being rebutted by another scholar who bases his or her analy­sis on dif­fer­ent variables. For example, Hans Goedicke published two discussions on the deification of Djedi and Hordjedef (1955, 1958a), both of which ­were rejected by Henry George Fischer, who claimed that the reverence afforded to ­these beings “was never carried so far as to put them on the same footing as the gods” (Fischer 1965, 52). “­These words of caution,” Fischer continues, “would hardly be necessary ­were it not for the case which Hans Goedicke has attempted to make” (52). Surprisingly, it is Goedicke who denies that Heqaib was a god, despite him being called “god” in multiple texts and having a divine shrine erected in his honor. Goedicke claims that Heqaib cannot be considered a god b­ ecause ­there was no cult, though I thoroughly refute this claim in chapter 7.3 This banter in the scholarship raises the question: How do we identify apotheosis and distinction in the archaeological and textual rec­ords in a way that is at least partially reflective of emic ancient Egyptian perceptions of humanity and divinity, rather than our own notions of what it means to be a god?

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Marking Status Informed, I suspect, by etic notions of what divinity should look like in antiquity, ­there is reluctance in the scholarship to identify the beings discussed in this book as gods u ­ nless ­there are texts that explic­itly identify them as gods, netjer (nṯr) (and even then, some remain unconvinced—­e.g., Goedicke above).4 But why should our scholarship rely only on explicit textual references when the details of ancient Egyptian religion, as argued by Assmann (2001), w ­ ere expressed only implicitly u ­ ntil the New Kingdom and explicit treatises or theological discourses do not exist? We would not expect the Egyptians of the Old through ­Middle Kingdoms to consistently articulate who is a god and why. Furthermore, Egyptian religion throughout its pharaonic history was fundamentally inclusive, not exclusive (with the obvious exception of the Amarna Period). Thus, the lack of explicit identification of some of ­these dead as gods before the M ­ iddle Kingdom could be due to a lack of surviving evidence or to decorum or to the implicit nature of ancient Egyptian theology. It could also be a result of ­these figures possessing unique positions within the Egyptian pantheon as “local gods,” since their mortal, local identities ­were never denied. In fact, it seems as though their humanity made them more accessible to their regional communities. Therefore, I dismiss the overly conservative schema, which demands the explicit use of the term nṯr for identifying apotheosis. Instead, I have identified eight markers that communicate ­either a “distinguished” status or evidence of apotheosis. To find t­ hese markers, I first determined how the status of an “average” Egyptian akh was constructed, in order to create a normative baseline (see also chapters 2 and 3). I then pinpointed the exclusive ele­ments that marked the kings and gods as divine in the Old through M ­ iddle Kingdoms and looked for t­ hese exclusive markers among the nonroyal dead. In d­ oing so, I discerned two “levels” of status: (1) above-­average distinction, what I refer to as “distinguished” dead, and (2) deified dead who underwent apotheosis. Both levels of status w ­ ere active and mutable over time. Within each level, t­here was a range in the active popu­lar display of status, which ­causes some dead to have seemingly more modest articulations of status. This indicates that conceptually, ­these status levels existed along a spectrum, though it is also pos­si­ble that available evidence only communicates part of the story; notably, we lack the oral traditions that perpetuated the memories and folklore that surrounded ­these beings and reiterated their status. The ancient Egyptians have no single word for “distinguished” dead, b­ ecause they likely saw ­these figures’ statuses as fluid and dynamic. Although it is best to consider the entirety of the evidence holistically, I suggest that ­these markers of exceptionalism do act as a sort of binary detection for distinguished status

X

X

Ptahhotep

X X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

Theophoric names

X

Shrine

X

X

Priesthood

X

Actor in festivals

1. Examples of textual evidence of fame include pseudoepigraphic attribution of authorship of wisdom texts, inclusion in lists of “­g reat writers” known from the New Kingdom, and invocation in nontheophoric names. 2. Examples of archaeological evidence of fame include the maintenance of monuments dedicated to the individual’s cult, and the clustering of burials near the individual’s tomb.

Wahka (II?)

Isi

Heqaib

­M IDDLE KINGDOM

X

X

X

Kagemni

Governors of ‘Ain Asil

X

X

Hordjedef

Mehu

X(?)

X

Djedi

OLD KINGDOM

ḥtp-­dj-­nswt formula

nṯr “god” or divine determinative

Fame: archaeological evidence2

jmɜḫ.w ḫr formula

Fame: textual evidence1

MARKERS OF APOTHEOSIS

MARKERS OF DISTINCTION

­Table 2.  Case studies with markers of distinction and apotheosis

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or apotheosis. Meaning, if ­there is evidence for even one of ­these markers, that individual should be considered of that status (or perhaps better understood as being within said status zone along this spectrum). This is especially true for the more restrictive markers of apotheosis. ­Table 2 shows the distribution of my identified markers of distinction and apotheosis for each case discussed in this book, arranged chronologically by their date of distinction or deification, as can best be ascertained. From this arrangement, it becomes clear that apotheosis is most fully articulated in the ­Middle Kingdom, in the cases of Heqaib and Isi (chapter 7). From the Old Kingdom, only Djedi, Mehu, and Kagemni possessed markers of apotheosis (chapter 6). Ptahhotep, Hordjedef, and the governors of ‘Ain Asil, who all possessed markers qualifying them as above-­average dead, are included as case studies of “distinguished dead” (chapter 5).

Markers of Distinguished Status I have identified two markers that may be used to locate “distinguished status” among the dead. Distinction is primarily marked by (1) the dead’s inclusion in the imakhu kher ( jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formula, as invocation in this formula was restricted and spoke to one’s special status, and (2) the dead’s fame in cultural memory, which can be evinced by texts that extol their fame, or by the upkeep of certain monuments that ­were dedicated to the memory of t­ hese figures. Texts provide clear evidence for one’s inclusion in an imakhu kher formula. Fame, however, is more difficult to locate and may be reconstructed from archaeological, epigraphic, and literary evidence. The imakhu kher formula is the clearest marker for identifying “distinguished” dead. This term has already been discussed in terms of the king’s role as mortuary benefactor (chapter 3). The imakhu kher formula can be used to identify an individual whose role in the necropolis had become assimilated to that of a divine facilitator, one who aided the dead in the crossing between realms. Typically, this was the king, but also sometimes local dead.5 While this alone is not enough to distinguish such an individual as a god, it does indicate that the invoked individual’s status was elevated above that of the “average” dead, whose efficacy did not extend so far as to aid in the passage of other dead. Thus, the agent of the imakhu kher formula can be understood as an individual whose status was greater than the “average” dead, but whose potency was less pervasive than a god’s. To clarify: all gods could be agents of imakh relation­ ere gods. The agents of this ships, but not all agents of imakh relationships w formula ­were the king, the gods, deified dead, or “distinguished” dead. “Distinguished” dead, I assert, took on this once exclusive royal role and similarly acted

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as mortuary benefactors in this elevated status. In this role, the distinguished dead ­were godly, but not gods. At least, ­there is no internal Egyptian evidence to support the characterization of agents of this formula as gods based on this alone. The distinguished dead invoked in the jmɜḫ.w ḫr formulae expressed a super­natural, superhuman attribute that was typical of the gods, but they themselves ­were not conceived of as divinities. With t­ hese distinctions in mind, it is pos­si­ble to begin to sketch a web of access and power between the living, the vari­ous dead, the king, and the gods. Just as power relations during life ­were dynamic and multivalent, the social interactions between the living and the dead w ­ ere similarly diverse. Evidence for “fame” can be found textually and archaeologically. Particularly useful are texts typical of the New Kingdom, such as the Harper’s Song, that make reference to g­ reat Old Kingdom scribes and wise men. ­These texts show how one’s fame could be transmitted through cultural memory for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. While ­these texts postdate the focus of this book, the presumption is that if a person’s fame lasted into the New Kingdom, it can be assumed that their fame was also articulated in e­ arlier periods. Archaeologically, fame can be identified by the upkeep of monuments dedicated to someone’s memory, especially ­those that are kept separate from the tomb and its associated mortuary cult—­for example, settlement ka-­chapels (ḥwt-­kȝ). Tombs can also be the locus of celebrity, but it is often difficult to discern archaeologically where quotidian mortuary engagement ends and cultic veneration begins.

Markers of Apotheosis I have identified six markers that communicate divine status: (1) being identified in texts by the term netjer (nṯr), “god,” or categorized as one by a divine determinative; (2) inclusion in a hetep-­di-­nesut (ḥtp-­dj-­nswt) offering formula; (3) use of one’s name in place of a god’s in theophoric names; (4) the establishment of a shrine dedicated to one’s cult; (5) the establishment of a priesthood charged with the upkeep of the cult, especially one that is locally financed and/or in­de­pen­dent from any mortuary cult donations; (6) being a principal actor in festivals and/or in local mythologies. ­Table 3 shows the prevalence of ­these markers within the dataset used ­here. ­These markers are similar to some of the prerequisites and attributes of deification noted by Jochem Kahl, which included being a member of the elite during life, receiving a mortuary cult, occasionally receiving special names, being invoked in theophoric name constructions (names that invoke gods), being

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­Table 3.  Markers of apotheosis known for each case study MARKER OF APOTHEOSIS

nṯr “god,” or divine determinative

DJEDI

MEHU

KAGEMNI

X

ḥtp-­dj-­nswt formula X

Theophoric names

Actor in festivals

ISI

WAHKA

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

Shrine Priesthood

X

HEQAIB

X

X X

invoked in imakhu kher and hetep-­di-­nesut formulae, being called a god, and being described as sah (sʿḥ), “dignitary” (2012, 171). Some of the attributes presented by Kahl are also included ­here as markers of deification, but ­others (such as being identified as sah) are not exclusively attributes of the gods and therefore should not be considered diagnostic markers of apotheosis. It is also worth noting that three of the markers of my framework (2, 3, and 5) are used by Malek to identify cults of deified Old Kingdom rulers in the M ­ iddle Kingdom (2000b, 243). But kings held unique statuses, even among the elite, and therefore t­hese markers are not appropriate in assessing the nature of royal cults. For example, kings w ­ ere always referred to as gods upon death (marker 1), had mortuary ­temples built to honor their posthumous cults (marker 4), and possessed divine pedigrees (marker 6). Thus, ­these markers would not be helpful in identifying unique posthumous royal cults. Most of the markers I have listed are rather apparent as to how they communicate divine status and are discussed briefly in relevant chapters, but I think it is necessary to elaborate ­here on two markers that could be considered contentious. Specifically, I discuss how category 2, the hetep-­di-­nesut offering formula, and category 3, onomastics (the study of proper names), can be used to identify cases of apotheosis. The hetep-­di-­nesut (ḥtp-­dj-­nswt) formula is an offering formula that can be translated as “an offering that the king has given.”6 The offering being given is generally understood to be the tomb or the right to be buried in a certain necropolis.7 This explains, James P. Allen suggests, why the gods mentioned in this formula are often e­ ither funerary gods or local gods who had jurisdiction over certain necropolises (2006, 15). Allen has convincingly argued that the formula acted as “a statement of official sanction for the object or actions referenced in it” (14–15). Usually following this formula is the name of a god (or set of gods), followed by the preposition “n” or “ḫr,” which marks a named

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recipient of the offering. Some scholars have suggested that this reading of the formula changed in the ­Middle Kingdom, with the gods becoming recipients of the offerings as well (see Gardiner 1957; Lapp 1986; Satzinger 1997). However, more recent scholarship has convincingly repudiated this claim, showing that the gods, even in the ­Middle Kingdom formulae, w ­ ere conclusively “not recipients of the ‘offering’ but granters of it” (Franke 2003; Allen 2006, 15). Thus, when Heqaib’s, Isi’s, or Wahka’s name is observed as part of this offering formula, they are clearly taking on a role other­wise regulated to gods—­ supporting the interpretation that they successfully underwent apotheosis and ­were conceptualized as local gods by their communities. Unlike the imakhu kher ( jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formula, which only indicates a person’s “distinguished” status, the offering formula exclusively invokes the king and gods. The inclusion of private person’s names in this formula, then, is a clear identifying marker of apotheosis. The name (rn) was considered a constituent ele­ment of the self, of one’s identity, in ancient Egypt (see chapter 1). Names in ancient Egypt w ­ ere usually short phrases that could reference a person’s relationship to a king (a basilophoric name) or a god (a theophoric name). Names that made no reference to kings or gods but instead referred to the name b­ earers or their families, such as names that spoke instead to a person’s office or a quality, are known as endophoric names. Names can provide evidence for distinction and apotheosis mainly in two ways: First, the reiteration of ancestral or local names could suggest the endurance of one’s fame within local social memory, or, perhaps more likely, it could indicate veneration or re­spect for elders, as papponymy (naming a child a­ fter a paternal f­amily member, traditionally a grand­father) was common already in the Old Kingdom. Second, numerous theophoric names—­that is, names that invoke the gods—­from all periods of Egyptian history are known, including names that call upon deified dead. John Baines looks to ­these examples as evidence of “early piety” (1987, 94–97). I agree with Baines that ­these theophoric names are productive communicators of divine commemoration and worship. B ­ ecause the structures of t­ hese names w ­ ere formulaic and unique from endophoric name patterns throughout the Old and ­Middle Kingdoms, when private names are discovered in ­these constructions, in the place reserved for the god’s name, it indicates a perceived divine attribution (Vittmann 2013b, 7). This discussion of onomastics is not meant to be exhaustive but instead intends to establish some of general trends in the construction of t­ hese name types and the implications therein for this book. Vittmann (2013b, 3–4) identifies eight of the most common theophoric name patterns (with NN being a personal name and DN being a divine name):8

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1. NN belongs to DN, n(j)-­DN, ex. n(j)-­ptḥ 2. Servant [originally ḥm, but l­ater also bȝk] of DN, ḥm-­DN, ex. ḥm-­Rʿ 3. Beloved or Praised by DN, mrj/ḥz-­DN, ex. ḥzj-­Rʿ 4. Protected or saved by DN, nḥm/ḫwj/ḥkȝ/šd-­s/sw/n-­DN, ex. nḥm-­s(w)-­ ȝst 5. Gifted/Given by DN, ddw/ddt-­DN, ex. ddt-­mwt 6. Son/Daughter of DN, zȝ/zȝt-­DN, ex. zȝ-­sbk or zȝt-­gmn(j) 7. Made by DN, jr.n-­DN, ex. jr.n-­ Rʿ 8. One kept alive by DN, sʿnḫ-­wj-­DN, ex. sʿnḫ-­wj-­ptḥ Additionally, during the ­Middle Kingdom t­ here is clear evidence of the use of divine names as personal names; for example, personal, nonroyal names could even include ­those of nonlocal gods, such as Isis, Re, or Horus (Vittmann 2013b, 4). Thus, instances from the M ­ iddle Kingdom in which nonrelatives use the name of the beings discussed in this book could, unlike their Old Kingdom counter­parts, also be included as potential evidence for a deified status (versus simply being evidence of “fame” or name popularity). Vittmann also includes a discussion of vari­ous other theophoric name constructions that express an attitude or action of a god, for example, DN “comes” (DN-­jw), or DN “is content” (DN-­ḥtp). The common name DN-­m-­ḥȝt could also be included in this group (e.g., Amunemhat, jmn-­m-­ḥȝt). Prior to the New Kingdom, the first ele­ment in this name pattern is exclusively, except in a single instance, reserved for a divine name (Ranke 1935, 1:430). The only instance in which this first ele­ment is not a god’s name is noted by Ranke as being an outlier: kȝ-­m-­ḥȝt (Ranke 1935, 1:430n1). The name kȝ-­m-­ḥȝt dates to the Old Kingdom and was discovered at Giza; although a god does not take this first position, notably a super­natural entity, the ka-­spirit, does (S. Hassan 1936). Despite this single outlier, the name construction is incredibly common, and consistently invokes a god in this first position; thus, it provides persuasive evidence for apotheosis. The specific attestations of theophoric names that can be used as evidence of the apotheosis of Mehu, Kagemni, Isi, and Wahka are supplied in the following chapters. In order to understand the emergence of apotheosis and the role of ­these deified dead, it is first helpful to situate the phenomenon within the socioreligious landscape of ancient Egypt, which allowed for varied engagement with a multitude of super­natural entities (netjer, akh, ­etc.). It is necessary also to view esteemed dead (i.e., the distinguished and deified dead) as existing within a larger network that connected the earthly realm with the divine Hereafter through vari­ous agents: the living, the dead, and the gods. Despite our notions of agency, each of ­these groups was perceived to have the ability to affect real change in the vis­i­ble, lived world. The jmɜḫ.w ḫr formula, as introduced ­here,

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is one way in which we can begin to understand the perceived nuance in t­ hese agents’ abilities—­their effectiveness and their ubiquity.

A Spectrum of Posthumous Distinction, from Akh to Netjer The esteemed dead who are the focus of this book w ­ ere discovered by finding exceptional cases that diverged from expected mortuary be­hav­ior. By establishing a baseline that encapsulates quotidian mortuary roles, I sketched a ceiling defined by the ways in which the gods ­were described. T ­ hese attributes, that seemingly make the gods exceptional in their divinity, w ­ ere observed and became my markers of apotheosis. The examples of mortuary engagement that populate the space between this baseline and ceiling became the dead at the focus of this volume. Not all of the examples in this space possessed markers of divinization though; I, thus, categorized the rest as “distinguished,” as they ­were above-­average in their distinction, but I could not definitively identify them as gods e­ ither. ­These categories of “average,” “distinguished,” and “deified” dead are useful heuristics in trying to better understand this ancient Egyptian phenomenon and its sociopo­liti­cal effects but are not necessarily reflective of emic Egyptian categories. Nevertheless, internal Egyptian evidences does point to the existence of a spectrum of distinction, a sort of hierarchy, along which the dead ­were placed based on their perceived agency and potency. This ranged from akh (effective dead) to netjer (god). When evidence for this spectrum of distinction is historicized, two trends emerge: (1) a distinct shift in how the dead are engaged becomes vis­i­ble near the end of the Old Kingdom, especially during the Sixth Dynasty, and (2) the display of the dead’s social capital within local landscapes is informed by their proximity to the Residence and the date of their apotheosis. Esteemed dead in the provinces ­were more fully recognized as gods, but this realization occurred over many generations. Contrarily, the dead near the capital ­were more expeditiously raised in status, but their status was l­ imited by decorum, as their invocation existed, in some instances literally, in the shade of the king’s influence, symbolized by his pyramid. The rapid display of divine status was likely due to the fact that de­pen­dency on the king was most pronounced near the Residence, and the elites at the capital w ­ ere more reliant on t­ hese structures of power relations. In an attempt to subvert royal authority, the dead w ­ ere mobilized as an alternative means to access the privileged afterlife. B ­ ecause of this mobilization, the king’s role changed dramatically in the Sixth Dynasty and First Intermediate Period. Rulers of the ­Middle Kingdom, whose power

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was intertwined with local ­temple networks more so than with mortuary access, coopted cults to local dead using state building programs and managed them as they did any other local cults. This analy­sis is based, first and foremost, on the accurate identification of individuals with distinguished or deified status in the archaeological and textual rec­ords of ancient Egypt. The next three chapters, then, pre­sent evidence in support of ­these identifications.

Notes 1. Presumably t­ here ­were dead who ­were not considered effective, or who did not successfully reach the Hereafter for vari­ous reasons. T ­ hese dead are not discussed ­here, as this is a “spectrum of distinction.” A lack of distinction would, then, arguably keep ­these dead off of this spectrum all together. Nevertheless, it could be suggested that this spectrum ranged from “noneffective” on one end to “divine” on the other, with “effective dead” somewhere in between. However this spectrum is ­imagined, the conclusions ­here remain the same, and the impor­tant point I am trying to make is that this was a spectrum, rather than punctuated positions. 2. All Pyramid Texts referenced in this study are my own translations, ­unless other­ wise stated, based on Sethe 1908. 3. Goedicke writes, “Heqaib kann nicht von einer Vergöttlichung gesprochen werden, da kein Kult bestand,” which translates to “Heqaib cannot be said to have been deified ­because t­ here was no cult” (LÄ, 6:991, no. 14). 4. I suspect the narrative of a ­human ­dying, being resurrected or revivified in death, and then being worshipped as a god may make some, especially prac­ti­tion­ers of Abrahamic religious traditions, uncomfortable, ­whether consciously or subconsciously. Some of the reluctance seen in the scholarship may be related to this reaction. 5. For a more complete discussion of this formula and the ­people who ­were invoked in t­ hese formulae, see chapter 3. 6. Many scholars translate the formula in pre­sent tense, “an offering which the king gives.” Helmut Satzinger (1997), though, has argued that the formula should usually be translated in the ­simple past. 7. To prove that the offering in many cases was the tomb itself, Allen provides a number of examples, see Allen (2006, 14). 8. Note that the formulae and examples provided ­here are only ­those that are relevant to the Old through ­Middle Kingdoms. Subtle variations existed in ­later periods. See Vittmann (2013b) for a full discussion.

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Distinguished Dead A man is dead and his corpse is in the ground. . . . ​It is writing that ­causes him to be remembered in the mouth of the one who speaks the utterance. . . . ​They are gone; their names ­were forgotten, though the writing lets them be remembered. —­Chester Beatty IV

Identifying Distinguished Dead The ancient Egyptian dead existed along a hierarchical scale, with some dead possessing greater perceived potency and efficacy than o ­ thers. For the vast majority, this efficacy meant they ­were akhu, or “effective dead.” ­These dead could be called upon by the living for help with earthly and intimate m ­ atters, such as inheritance, illness, or fertility. They w ­ ere invoked at their tombs, in festivals, and in Letters to the Dead (Troche 2018a). The potency of other dead was so ­great that they w ­ ere eventually worshipped as gods (see chapters 6 and 7). As this was a scale of distinction, not all dead fit into one of two extreme categories; a number of case studies identified in the textual and archaeological remnants of ancient Egypt suggest that ­there was a place within this spectrum for what I have termed “distinguished” dead. ­These dead ­were marked as above average (that is, more potent and knowledgeable than an akh) but not necessarily divine. They possessed unique attributes, including (1) their inclusion in imakhu kher ( jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formulae and (2) textual or archaeological evidence of their posthumous fame. It is pos­si­ble some of the individuals included in this category may have actually under­gone apotheosis, but evidence for this extraordinary status no longer remains. It is equally pos­si­ble that the ancient Egyptian conception of posthumous power and agency was fluid and dynamic; just as in life, society was complex and consisted of more groups than 78

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t­ hose who could be considered “average” and “elites” (and in fact t­ here was ­g reat diversity within t­ hese groups). In death t­ here was similarly a wide range of potential manifestations of social capital, efficacy, and usefulness. When private dead persons, such as Hordjedef or Ptahhotep, w ­ ere invoked in the imakhu kher formula, they took on the role of facilitator, aiding (or even enabling) the deceased’s journey to the Hereafter—­a role traditionally held by the king. It was, then, through this distinguished individual’s grace and ­favor—­instead of through the grace of the king or a god—­that the deceased was able to access a privileged afterlife, and it was through this association that a tomb and funerary equipment was provided. The significance of this cannot be overstated. The resources invested in ensuring the Egyptian afterlife speak to the incredible social and po­liti­cal significance of the person in control of this access. For the king, to lose his exclusivity as sole benefactor meant his po­liti­cal and religious power ­were undergoing fundamental alterations during this period. A chicken-­egg scenario emerges in which it is nearly impossible to say for certain ­whether the king first began to lose his power and this created a power vacuum of which the local dead took advantage, or if the local dead ­were mobilized first in ways that caused (or contributed to) the king’s authority to be undermined. While it is impossible to say for certain, the latter scenario makes the most sense b­ ecause it aligns well with the larger sociopo­liti­cal changes occurring around the king during this period. What­ever occurred initially, once the dead ­were mobilized, they indubitably contributed to the subversion of royal power. It is relatively easy to identify distinguished dead who ­were invoked in the jmɜḫ.w ḫr formula or who ­were venerated as wise sages in literary tales, but ­these identifications rely on ­there being detailed excavation reports and museum publications for t­hese inscriptions to even be found. It is furthermore even more difficult to identify distinguished dead based on the upkeep of their tombs or local chapels. This requires precise archaeological excavation and, again, the production of detailed and widely available publications. While I am confident that the exceptionalism of apotheosis in ancient Egypt during the third millennium BCE means that we are not likely missing huge datasets when it comes to defied dead, it is certain that t­ here ­were many more esteemed dead historically than t­hose I have identified h ­ ere, as Janet Richards’s recent publications on the cult of Idy at Abydos indicate.1 The distinguished dead included ­here act as case studies and are not meant to be exhaustive, but show the range of evidence that can be drawn on to identify t­ hese figures and how their cults w ­ ere mobilized in unique ways. The distinguished dead that are the focus of this chapter are Ptahhotep, Hordjedef (also known as Djedef hor), and the governors of ‘Ain Asil. Ptahhotep

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was buried at Saqqara during the Fifth Dynasty, reign of Isesi, and the earliest evidence for his distinction dates to the Late Old Kingdom or First Intermediate Period. Hordjedef was buried at Giza during the Fourth Dynasty, and the earliest evidence of his distinction dates to the Sixth Dynasty, the reign of Pepi I. The governors of ‘Ain Asil w ­ ere buried at the Dakhla Oasis during the Sixth Dynasty, reign of Pepi II, and the earliest evidence for their distinction also dates to Pepi II. ­Because t­ here are a number of Old Kingdom officials named Ptahhotep, it is difficult to say with complete certainty (fully discussed below) w ­ hether Ptahhotep I (Tomb D 62) or Ptahhotep II (Tomb D 64) was the object of local veneration. It is likely, though, that the Ptahhotep being venerated as a distinguished dead is the same Ptahhotep to whom authorship of a didactic text, known as the Instructions of Ptahhotep, was also attributed (S. Hassan 1975). Hordjedef and Ptahhotep both received attribution as authors of wisdom texts, which ­were part of the ancient Egyptian didactic literary tradition. They w ­ ere also both included in New Kingdom lists of “­great writers” of the past (p.Chester Beatty IV; p.Harris 500), and Hordjedef was additionally invoked in another list known from Papyrus Athens (National Library, Athens, P. Nr 1826; Fischer-­Elfert 2002, 2003, 129). This indicates that they ­were venerated in popu­ lar memory, which has led some scholars to suggest that they ­were in fact deified ( Junker 1944; Wildung 1977; Baines 1987; Franke 1994). It is pos­si­ble that they w ­ ere, but t­ here is not enough evidence currently, according to my framework, to support this interpretation. Hordjedef was, additionally, included in an imakhu kher formula, which, as discussed in chapters 3 and 4, was an honor reserved for gods, kings, and distinguished dead, but not proof of deification on its own. Ptahhotep may have been deified, but unfortunately evidence in support of this assertion, which was originally made by Selim Hassan, is not published in its entirety. Evidence in support of the unique statuses of the governors at the Dakhla Oasis is predominantly architectural. Large ḥwt-­kȝ chapels ­were erected in their honor as a gift of the king and w ­ ere conserved and rebuilt over numerous generations. ­These chapels have been compared to Heqaib’s sanctuary, which was also a ḥwt-­kȝ. The evidence provided in this chapter illustrates that posthumous status was dynamic and likely existed along a spectrum of distinction that ranged from akh to netjer, with distinguished dead existing somewhere in between ­these two extremes. As more evidence potentially emerges, my interpretation of ­these individuals could change. I cannot say that ­these individuals ­were not deified, as an absence of evidence does not equate to evidence of absence. What I can say with certainty is that ­these dead w ­ ere distinguished from the quotidian mortuary cult and w ­ ere distinct from other dead.

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The Case of Hordjedef Hordjedef (also read as Djedef hor) was a Fourth-­Dynasty prince, the son of King Khufu, and was buried at Giza (Tomb G 7210/7220) in the eastern cemetery near his ­father’s g­ reat pyramid ( Junker 1944, 1947).2 When considered in its entirety, the evidence surrounding Hordjedef ’s posthumous status suggests he was distinguished among the dead. He is associated with imakhu kher formulae known from two Sixth-­Dynasty false doors and two additional artifacts that suggest his name may have been popu­lar among Sixth-­Dynasty Memphite locals.3 Fi­nally, epigraphic, onomastic, and literary evidence that indicates Hordjedef was venerated within social memory are fully considered h ­ ere.4

The False Doors Evidence for Hordjedef’s Distinction Two funerary monuments of craftsmen ­were discovered in the Giza cemetery nearby Hordjedef ’s mastaba: the false doors of Kha and Ptahiufni (respectively, Goedicke 1958a, and Strudwick 1988; Junker 1944, 25–28, and Ritter 1999, 44). A false door was a door intended to be used by the super­natural aspects of the deceased. It was typically made from carved stone, which is why the door is “false” (it did not open nor was it pos­si­ble to physically move through it). As discussed in chapter 1, false doors ­were typically inscribed with a scene of the tomb owner and inscriptions memorializing his vari­ous titles and positions. In life, Hordjedef held the position of Overseer of the Works, an esteemed title given to t­ hose who worked on royal building programs, which may point to his role as a patron of craftsmen. The limestone false door of Kha (MFA 25.1514, originally 25-1-319) was discovered reused in a Sixth-­Dynasty shaft (G 7211B) of the Fifth-­Dynasty tomb of Kaemankh (G 7211). The original date of this false door is unknown, but Vanessa Ritter suggests it should be dated to “a l­ittle ­later” than the false door of Ptahiufni, discussed below (1999, 44). Among the list of titles upon his false door, Kha is identified as dwȝ(w) Ḥrḏdf jmɜḫ.w ḫȝ Adorer of Hordjedef, favored one, Kha. This epithet seems to be unique, as I am not aware of another instance in which one is described as being an “adorer” of another private person (versus a god or the king). While Hordjedef h ­ ere is not invoked in the imakhu kher formula, the inscription could be understood as suggesting that it was ­because of Kha’s role as an adorer of Hordjedef that he was imakh, presumably by Hordjedef. In any case, it is clear from this inscription that Hordjedef was revered enough to have a local man proclaim prominently upon his false door his title of adorer.

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The false door of Ptahiufni explic­itly invokes Hordjedef in an imakhu kher formula. This Sixth-­Dynasty (reign of Pepi I) false door was discovered in a Giza mastaba (G 4941), presumed to be Ptahiufni’s, and originally published in Hermann Junker’s Giza VII (1944, 25–28). The false door (Egyptian Museum of Leipzig University 3134) is now unfortunately lost, according to Bertah Porter and Rosalind Moss, but a photo­g raph is included online in the Giza Archives and a line drawing is preserved in Junker’s Giza VII (25, Abb. 8).5 Across the false door’s lintel a hieroglyphic inscription reads: jmɜḫ.w ḫr Ḥrḏdf šps Favored by the august Hordjedef. Junker suggests that Hordjedef was deified (vergöttlicht) or at least enjoyed a religious cult (“oder wenigstens einen religiösen Kult genoss”) as indicated by his inclusion in the formula (1944, 26). However, Hordjedef ’s inclusion in the imakhu kher formula is not enough to definitively assume he underwent apotheosis, but rather it reveals that Hordjedef possessed a unique posthumous status within his community and in the necropolis. Junker rightfully points out, though, that the destruction of the inscriptions, which date to the First Intermediate Period, in his tomb complicates our understanding of his social remembrance (1944, 26). Other evidence—­such as his inclusion in lists of ­g reat writers—­implies, to the contrary, that his memory was preserved in a positive light at least into the Ramesside Period (see below).

Onomastic Evidence for Hordjedef’s Distinction A number of individuals, for whom t­ here is no evidence to suggest that they ­were related to Hordjedef, possessed the name Hordjedef, perhaps as a sign of reverence. ­These names date to the end of the Old Kingdom and are all clustered in the Memphite region, suggesting his fame was initially localized (compare with “Literary Evidence” below). Hans Goedicke first brought attention to this phenomenon when he noted George Reisner’s discovery of a false door of a man named Hordjedef, whose nickname is Iteti, near the tomb of the sons of Khufu (G 7240).6 The date of this false door and the included titles clearly indicate that this is not the distinguished, Fourth-­Dynasty Hordjedef of fame. This false door (MFA 29-2-37) was originally part of an intrusive funerary chapel that dates to the late Old Kingdom (Van de Walle 1977, 18). The false door owner, Hordjedef, holds the titles of: šps-­nswt noble of the king7

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and smr pr colleague of the ­house.8 Upon the left jamb of the false door, the deceased owner is identified as Ḥrḏdf, which is paralleled by the right jamb, reading, rn=f nfr jttj Whose good name is Iteti. This “nickname” allows identification of the Hordjedef of this false door as the pos­si­ble owner of a second artifact, an offering ­table (RC 1684) now ­housed in the Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum of San Jose (Van de Walle 1977, 20). The offering ­table has five lines of text identifying the owner as sḥḏ-­sẖȝ Ḥrḏdf jmɜḫ.w ḫr nṯr ʿȝ jttj Inspector of the scribes, Hordjedef, one favored by the ­great god, Iteti (Van de Walle 1977, 22). The offering ­table is unprovenanced, as it was acquired via the antiquities market and thus it is impossible to securely ascribe it to the Memphite region apart from the evidence provided by the names. Additionally, the titles on Hordjedef ’s false door differ from ­those on the offering ­table of Hordjedef, which could suggest that t­here ­were two distinct individuals with this same name (Van de Walle 1977, 24). Baudouin van de Walle, however, advocates for the identification of the owner of ­these two artifacts as the same Hordjedef Iteti; he explains that the small size of the funerary chapel could have dictated the choice for not duplicating titles, or that the offering t­ able could represent a l­ ater stage of Hordjedef ’s c­ areer (1977, 24). Nevertheless, this illustrates that one, or possibly two, individuals w ­ ere named “Hordjedef ” perhaps to venerate the Hordjedef of the Fourth Dynasty, who was revered locally. Furthermore, the location of the false door suggests that this late Old Kingdom Hordjedef intentionally buried himself near to his venerated namesake.

Literary Evidence for Hordjedef’s Distinction in Social Memory Despite the destruction of Hordjedef ’s tomb during the First Intermediate Period, textual evidence indicates that he was revered into the New Kingdom. Three pieces of evidence are most enlightening: Hordjedef ’s inclusion in both a Wadi Hammamat list of kings, his inclusion in lists of ­g reat writers, and the attribution of a piece of wisdom lit­er­a­ture to him.

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An inscription in the Wadi Hammamat is an example of a sort of king list, with the names of three Fourth-­Dynasty kings—­Khufu, Djedefre, and Khafre—­ and two royal sons—­Hordjedef and Baufre—­all encircled in cartouches (Dodson and Hilton 2004, 54–55). Reisner has argued that this indicates that Hordjedef and his b­ rother Baufre reigned shortly before Menkaure, though this seems poorly supported elsewhere in the archaeological and textual rec­ ords (1931, 243–46). What then could this inscription mean? I suggest that it indicates that Hordjedef was revered in social memory, which—­for an unknown reason—­emphasized his royal lineage. Perhaps his role as the agent in imakhu kher formulae and his status as prince w ­ ere blurred in ­later memories—­ later ­because most scholarship tends to agree that the inscription dates to the ­Middle Kingdom, specifically the Twelfth Dynasty (McKeown 2002, 62). T ­ here does not seem to be, however, any concrete evidence pointing to such a date. Although the age of this inscription remains uncertain, a ­later date would explain the pos­si­ble conflation of Hordjedef ’s status. Although the Wadi Hammamat inscription is difficult to date, Hordjedef ’s fame was celebrated at least into the Ramesside Period, as evinced by the inclusion of his name within three lists of g­ reat writers: Papyrus Chester Beatty IV, the Papyrus Athens, and the Harper’s Song from Papyrus Harris 500. The Ramesside Papyrus Chester Beatty IV (EA 10684), discovered at Deir el-­ Medina, asks, “Is ­there anyone like Hordjedef ? Is ­there anyone like Imhotep?” (Gardiner 1935, papyrus 4, pl. 19). Also likely originally from Deir el-­Medina, the Nineteenth-­or Twentieth-­Dynasty Papyrus Athens identifies Hordjedef as a literary figure, alongside Imhotep and Djadjaemankh, presumably the same Djadjaemankh better known from the Papyrus Westcar (Fischer-­Elfert 2003, 128–29). A similar sentiment is invoked in the Harper’s Song (p.Harris 500, EA 10060, sometimes also referenced as EA 1872,1101.2), which is said to have been located in the funerary chapel of King Intef.9 This Ramesside Period text refers to the “words of Imhotep and Hardedef, whose maxims are repeated intact as proverbs” (Fox 1985, 332). The words and teachings being referred to in t­ hese texts are likely a reference to the Instructions of Hordjedef, a didactic text attributed to Hordjedef. The Instructions of Hordjedef is the earliest preserved example of a corpus now referred to by Egyptologists as “wisdom lit­er­a­ture” or “didactic texts” (Perdue 2008, 17; on this genre more generally, see Parkinson 2002).10 ­These didactic texts are typically written from a f­ ather to his son (or an elder scribe to an apprentice) and profess proper be­hav­iors and morals. The Instructions of Hordjedef is known from nine New Kingdom ostraca and one wood tablet dating to the Late Period (Lichtheim 1975, 58). It was published by Wolfgang Helck (1984), and the most recent studies of the text include Parkinson (2002),

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though he provides only a brief discussion in Poetry and Culture, and Ritter (Helck 1984; Parkinson 1991, 2002; Ritter 1999). Though we only have examples from the New Kingdom and l­ater, the text likely originated e­ arlier; Miriam Lichtheim suggests the text was originally composed in the Fifth Dynasty, but this is dubious (1975, 58). Richard Parkinson has more recently suggested an early M ­ iddle Kingdom date (2002, 314). We cannot trust the text’s internal evidence since it was likely pseudoepigraphical (meaning it was set within the historic past and falsely attributed to a writer). Unfortunately, only the beginning of the text is preserved—­approximately sixteen lines. The significance for this study lies not in the lines of the text but in the attribution of the text to Hordjedef, indicating his fame within Egyptian social memory as a “sage” of the Old Kingdom.

Arguments for Hordjedef’s Distinction Hordjedef ’s attribution as an author of Instructions, which was copied at least into the Late Period (c. 550 BCE), indicates that his fame as a sage endured for millennia a­ fter his death (c. 2500 BCE). He was listed among other g­ reat sages and remembered as a king in the Wadi Hammamat inscription. This epigraphic evidence is telling: it shows that Hordjedef was remembered as a ­g reat sage whose status enabled him to be displayed alongside the kings ­under which he lived. His inclusion in private names at the end of the Old Kingdom and an jmɜḫ.w ḫr formula also shows that this reverence occurred very quickly ­after his death. Unfortunately, this evidence is not substantial enough to prove that any apotheosis occurred; t­ here is simply not enough of it for a clear picture to form. The evidence does indicate that ­there was ­g reat veneration for Hordjedef upon his death, which continued into the Late Period, despite what might have been deliberate destruction of his tomb in the First Intermediate Period. The proliferation of Hordjedef ’s Instructions and his inclusion in ­these lists of writers clearly sets him apart from average dead. His distinction can be explained in two ways: (1) he was deified, but we have lost evidence to time, or (2) Hordjedef was never deified, but he was honored and existed somewhere along a scale of distinction—­greater than the average dead, but not quite a god. Hordjedef ’s posthumous status as a distinguished dead meant that he could be called upon to help negotiate the transition from the earthly realm to the divine Hereafter. In d­ oing so, w ­ hether intentional or not, Hordjedef ’s cult undermined the exclusivity of this royal prerogative. Could this have led to the destruction of his tomb in the First Intermediate Period? It is pos­si­ble, but currently not provable using the extant evidence.

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The Case of Ptahhotep More famous, perhaps, than the Instructions of Hordjedef is the Instructions of Ptahhotep. This didactic text was supposedly originally penned by an Old Kingdom official, who, like Hordjedef, was memorialized in the New Kingdom as a ­g reat sage. Some scholars have suggested that Ptahhotep was in fact deified, but I disagree and thus include him instead as a distinguished dead. Similar to Hordjedef, ­there is evidence that numerous Ptahhoteps existed during the Old Kingdom, making it difficult to accurately assign authorship (­whether real or fictional). Of the many high officials buried at Saqqara, two officials named Ptahhotep could have been the original author of the Instructions of Ptahhotep, despite t­here being no known Old Kingdom copy of the text (Hagen 2012). Both worked ­under King Isesi at the end of the Fifth Dynasty and held high titles. Ptahhotep I, as he is now known, was buried in a mastaba (D 62), and his grand­son, Ptahhotep II, was buried in a dual mastaba (D 64) with his f­ ather (Ptahhotep I’s son), Akhethotep. Archaeologists have debated ­whether Ptahhotep I or II was the attributed author of the Instructions, with most concluding that Ptahhotep I is the more likely “author” (Paget and Pirie 1898; Roth 1988, 213). Inscriptions bearing the name Ptahhotep are known from cemeteries at both Giza and Saqqara, dating mostly to the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties (Baer 1960, 74–75). It is difficult, then, to say with any certainty that ­there was purposeful re-­use of the name Ptahhotep with a single, specific Ptahhotep in mind (though this is arguably pos­si­ble). Thus, I do not think it effective to look to onomastic evidence in this case for his pos­si­ble esteemed status. It seems as if Ptahhotep’s inclusion in references to deified dead in scholarship (e.g., Wildung 1977, 35; Baines 1987, 87;11 Franke 1994, 133) is based primarily on two pieces of evidence: (1) his attribution as an author of the likely pseudoepigraphic text the Instructions of Ptahhotep, and subsequent inclusion in lists of sages, and (2) Klaus Baer’s (1960) reference to Selim Hassan’s at that time unpublished claim to have found evidence of apotheosis near to the tomb of Ptahhotep I, similar to that of Kagemni, who is discussed in chapter 6 (74– 75). A discrepancy lies between Baer’s (1960) reference and the posthumous publication of Hassan’s (1975) excavations in three volumes (it is unclear ­whether Baer had access to the original, unpublished versions of t­ hese reports, or how he other­wise had knowledge of this unpublished claim). Baer lists evidence for a deified Ptahhotep ­under an entry for Ptahhotep I (D 62). The only evidence in Hassan’s reports, however, that could be interpreted as evidence of deification is listed u ­ nder the material found near to the tomb of Ptahhotep II (D 64). Two stone artifacts, one a broken block, the other an offering ­table, invoke Ptahhotep in an imakhu kher ( jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formula (S. Hassan 1975,

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64, 70). The block was found in debris (D 64), and therefore Hassan cannot assign owner­ship to it. The block reads only jmɜḫ.w ḫr ptḥ-­ḥtp Favored by Ptahhotep without any determinative following the name Ptahhotep (S. Hassan 1975, 64). Upon the upper portion of the second object, a limestone offering t­ able, is a horizontal inscription that reads: ḥtp dj nswt jnpw prt-­ḫrw nt jmɜḫ.w ḫr ptḥ-­ḥtp An offering that the King and Anubis have given, an invocation offering of the one favored by Ptahhotep (S. Hassan 1975, 70). Ptahhotep’s name in this instance is followed by a seated šps figure 𓀻 and a standing man smsw determinative (𓀗). It is unclear ­whether this is indeed the evidence being referred to by Baer. If not, then the evidence for Ptahhotep I’s distinction remains unpublished. If this is what Baer was mentioning, then perhaps he made a ­mistake and meant to list this data ­under his entry for Ptahhotep II. In any case, this distinction, though notable, does not conclusively prove that Ptahhotep was conceived as a god in his imakh role as facilitator between realms. As discussed above in the case of Hordjedef, Ptahhotep’s attribution as an author of a piece of wisdom lit­er­at­ ure and his inclusion in a list of g­ reat writers (included alongside Hordjedef and Imphotep on p.Chester Beatty IV) show that he was memorialized within ancient Egyptian cultural memory (EA 10684). Although Ptahhotep was clearly distinguished from other dead through this memorialization, this is not enough evidence to support his deification. Ptahhotep’s popu­lar position as a distinguished dead, however, is apparent via the wisdom text attributed to him. The Instructions of Ptahhotep is a long didactic text with abundant discussion of moral lessons and ideal social be­hav­ior. The earliest extant copy of this text (Papyrus Prisse) dates to the M ­ iddle Kingdom, though the original tale likely predates this manuscript. ­There are at least four partial copies of this text, highlighting forty-­five instructional verses. Copies of the text are known in modified forms into the New Kingdom, indicating that Ptahhotep’s fame endured at least u ­ ntil then (Simpson 2003, 129–30). Instead of the king bestowing knowledge to a prince in the Instructions of Ptahhotep, a tjaty shares his wisdom with his son, who w ­ ill eventually take over his apparently heritable position.12 This not only speaks to the usurpation of office in Egypt as inheritable (versus royal appointment), but also places Ptahhotep, a tjaty (i.e., not the king), as Egypt’s social and moral guide.13 Considering this alongside Ptahhotep’s inclusion in the jmɜḫ.w ḫr formulae, the evidence seems rather scandalous and subversive.

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The Case of the Governors of ‘Ain Asil in the Dakhla Oasis Unlike Hordjedef and Ptahhotep, the governors of ‘Ain Asil ­were not famed for their scholarship but w ­ ere venerated for their status as local leaders. Their memories w ­ ere retained not in lit­er­a­ture but through the endurance of their ka-­chapels (ḥwt-­kȝ), which became a locus for local religious activity. The settlement of ‘Ain Asil was founded in the late Fifth or early Sixth Dynasty near the modern city of Balat. Its associated cemetery is Qila el-­Dabba, where the ­g reat “governors of the Dakhla Oasis” ­were buried, who ­were identified by the title ḥqȝ wḥȝt. ­Under Pepi II a palace was built with associated ka-­chapels and dependencies—­magazines, bakeries, h ­ ouses of personnel, and so on (Soukiassian 1997, 16). In general, ḥwt-­kȝ chapels ­were erected to honor the king, high officials, or members of the royal f­ amily (Legros 2010, 159). Although the governors ­were buried in large mastabas in the necropolis of Qila el-­Dabba, they established settlement chapels similar in concept to Heqaib’s shrine, which was also a ḥwt-­kȝ, at Elephantine (Kemp 2006, 201; cf. Allam 1988, 40). Five chapels, of similar architecture and dimensions, w ­ ere excavated at the southern edge of the village (Franke 1994, 122). Three mains stages of construction are identifiable in the archaeological and textual rec­ords of more than five generations of governors (Ziermann and Eder 2001). The privilege of building ­these chapels in the settlement, near the palace, was given to the governors first by Pepi II, as evinced by a royal decree (Soukiassian 1997, 17). A second fragmentary decree was ­later discovered, suggesting that this practice was, to some degree, dependent upon royal renewal (Pantalacci 1985, 1989, 74; Soukiassian, Wuttmann, and Pantalacci 2002). Indeed, a large fire, which can be dated to the early First Intermediate Period, destroyed much of the palace, chapels, and nearby settlement. The chapels w ­ ere partially rebuilt, and the original, damaged, royal decree of Pepi II was prominently redisplayed (Soukiassian, Wuttmann, and Pantalacci 2002, 521–23). The re-­installation of the decree by the local community of ‘Ain Asil might have been an act intended to legitimize the building renewal. T ­ here is evidence for an extensive building program, which included the upkeep of ­these chapels and associated dependent structures, through at least the First Intermediate Period and possibly into the ­Middle Kingdom (Soukiassian 1997, 17; Soukiassian, Wuttmann, and Pantalacci 2002). The significant amount of offering t­ ables, offering vessels, and votives deposited at ­these chapels demonstrates their unique role within the larger religious landscape of ‘Ain Asil. They w ­ ere clearly locales of abundant ritual activity (Soukiassian, Wuttmann, and Pantalacci 2002).

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Like the other “distinguished” men discussed in this chapter, the governors of ‘Ain Asil clearly possessed an elevated status a­ fter death. The prevalence of cultic activity, which extends beyond the expected mortuary cult, occurring at and nearby their chapels suggests that their chapels became loci for ritual engagement, similar to what we see at Isi’s tomb at Edfu, or Heqaib’s sanctuary at Elephantine (see chapter 7). Fi­nally, the fact that the chapels ­were reconstructed ­after a major destruction episode indicates that their local significance, and the significance of the governors’ posthumous cult, persisted through the po­liti­ cal turmoil of the state, underscoring the locality of the practice. Though the cult of the governors was never fully realized, as we see in the cases of Heqaib and Isi in chapter 7, the form of the cult of the governors of ‘Ain Asil closely resembles the trends typical of apotheosis in the provinces. Thus, I suggest that similar social determinants governed both cults of distinguished dead and cults of deified dead, further supporting the assertion that they belong to a shared spectrum of distinction.

Historical Implications of Distinguished Dead Hordjedef, Ptahhotep, and the governors of ‘Ain Asil ­were all celebrated and distinguished as “above” average dead by their local communities, but none ­were venerated in ways that ­were explic­itly restricted to the gods. Thus, they belong to a group of dead I have termed “distinguished” dead. Hordjedef ’s and Ptahhotep’s memorialization in lit­er­a­ture and the continued upkeep of the ḥwt-­kȝ-­chapels of the governors ­were all indicators that signaled their elevated status, evinced their subversive sociopo­liti­cal roles, and demonstrated that the phenomenon of apotheosis did not exist outside of other modes through which local dead ­were distinguished. The overlap in pro­cesses of distinction between ­these distinguished dead and deified dead speaks to this point. Specifically, Hordjedef ’s and Ptahhotep’s inclusion in imakhu kher ( jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formulae and the veneration of the governors at ḥwt-­kȝ chapels, which w ­ ere central to religious activity at ‘Ain Asil, are distinguishing indicators that w ­ ere also shared by deified dead (see chapters 6 and 7). Thus, the pro­cesses of distinction and deification existed alongside each other, as part of the same spectrum of practice and display. This spectrum of display communicated the special statuses possessed by ­these esteemed dead. The living engaged with t­ hese dead to help ensure admittance into the divine Hereafter, as evinced by their inclusion in the jmɜḫ.w ḫr formula. This role, once held exclusively by the king, undermined royal mortuary benefaction at a time during which the king’s authority was being

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challenged across Egypt. In the case of Hordjedef, he was even included in a list of kings at the Wadi Hammamat, possibly b­ ecause he took on royal duties that conflated his status over time (Dodson and Hilton 2004, 54–55). The ḥwt-­kȝ chapels built for the governors of ‘Ain Asil communicate the esteemed status t­ hese individuals possessed during life, even though t­ hese chapels ­were typically built for the king and members of the royal ­family. For local po­liti­cal leaders to receive this honor could indicate one of two conclusions: (1) the king was power­ful and displayed his power through ­these public gifts or (2) the local influence of t­hese governors was growing and the king attempted to control their influence by building monuments for them that would have been at least vaguely associated with royal power. The latter explanation is the most convincing, considering the Egyptian historical moment. Thus, like kings of the ­Middle Kingdom who recognized the power of local cults and appropriated them by enveloping them into royal building programs (instead of destroying or denying them), I argue that the gift of the ka-­chapels by King Pepi also shows his attempt to control local power—­indicating local power needed to be controlled in the first place. In the case of the governors of ‘Ain Asil, though, we can see the beginnings of the transformation of local power, near the end of the Old Kingdom, moving away from systems of mortuary benefaction and access and ­toward a temple-­based system of power, as manifest in the ka-­chapels.

Notes 1. The identification of Idy at Abydos as a “local saint” by Janet Richards (2016–17) shows that t­ here is room for further pos­si­ble examples of apotheosis to be discovered. The case study of Idy, however, is not included ­here, as my framework would categorize Idy, based on Richards’s publications, as a distinguished rather than a deified dead (as evinced by the clustering of burials around his tomb, and the dedication t­ here of numerous stelae and votives), and I do not intend to be exhaustive in my exploration of distinguished dead. Richards’s excavations at Abydos are ongoing, though, and as new evidence emerges, I may very well change my mind. Indeed, I do not doubt that ­there are more examples of dead who underwent apotheosis in ancient Egypt’s Old and ­Middle Kingdoms, beyond t­ hose I have included h ­ ere. I do not believe, however, based on what we know currently about Egyptian religion, that we are missing major datasets—­two or three examples ­will certainly come to light in the coming de­cades, but if dozens ­were to be identified, then much more than this study must be re-­ considered in terms of our understanding of ancient Egyptian religious practice. 2. George Reisner and Vanessa Ritter, among ­others, have argued that Hordjedef was king for a short period between Khafre and Menkaure (Reisner 1931, 243–46; Ritter 1999). The evidence for this comes from a Wadi Hammamat inscription that lists Hordjedef ’s name in a cartouche followed by the suffix Rʿ. This suffix is known from the Fourth Dynasty but becomes nearly ubiquitous in the Fifth Dynasty. This evi-

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dence, however, could merely indicate Hordjedef ’s revered status within M ­ iddle Kingdom social memory—­just as Osiris and other gods w ­ ere included in king lists as part of a fictional past. In any case, b­ ecause the evidence for Hordjedef ’s kingship is founded upon a single noncontemporaneous source, I am treating Hordjedef as a prince and not as a king (since kings are not included in this study other­wise). 3. False door of Hordjedef Iteti (MFA 29-2-37a) and Offering T ­ able of Hordjedef Iteti (RC 1684), both in Van de Walle 1977. 4. Specifically: (1) Wadi Hammamat “Kings List” Inscription (Dodson and Hilton 2004, 50–61; Drioton 1954); (2) Instructions of Hordjedef (Brunner-­Traut 1940; Assmann 1991); (3) References to ­g reat writers of the past—­Papyrus Chester Beatty IV (Gardiner 1935) and the Harper’s Song from Papyrus Harris 500 (Fox 1977). 5. According to Porter and Moss (1964, vol. 3, part 1, 143): “upper part of false-­door of deceased, found in fragments, in Leipzig Mus. Inv. 3134 (lost).” For the photo in the Giza Archives, see http://­www​.­g izapyramids​.­org​/­view​/­people​/­asitem​/­SiteAncients​ @1162​/­0​?­t:state:flow​=2­ a558375​-­629d–4c0b​-­a8a3​-­efc33b9aeb03. 6. Goedicke (1958a, 47n2). 7. For a discussion of this title, see Edel (1960, 12–15). 8. For a discussion of this title, see Goedicke (1958b, 21, 1961, 69–90). 9. It is unclear which King Intef is meant h ­ ere; many are known from the Eleventh and Seventeenth Dynasties. 10. For more on the Instructions of Hordjedef, see Brunner-­Traut (1940); Brunner (1991, 101–3). The supposed Instructions of Imhotep is not preserved. 11. Note that Baines switched his footnotes for Ptahhotep and Hordjedef. His footnote for Ptahhotep refers the reader to Junker’s Giza VII (1944), Junker (1955) in Studi in memoria di Ippolito Rosellini, and Goedicke (1958a). All of ­these references lead to evidence in support of Hordjedef ’s deification, without any mention of Ptahhotep. The footnote for Hordjedef (referring to Baer’s [1960] Rank and Title in the Old Kingdom, 74–75), however, w ­ ill take the reader to information on Ptahhotep (which is addressed in the main text). 12. See the introduction for an explanation of this office of tjaty. 13. Ptahhotep does beseech the king and asks him to let his son succeed him, but in the context of the Instructions this seems to be lip ser­vice rather than a sincere request.

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Apotheosis in the Old Kingdom Cause that your name goes forth, now that you can silence your mouth, and you ­will be called upon for promotion. . . . ​One does not know what ­will happen, or what god ­will do against his ­enemy. —­Instructions for Kagemni

An Introduction to Old Kingdom Apotheosis The dead in ancient Egypt existed along a spectrum of distinction, which communicated their perceived efficacy. The effective dead, or akhu (see chapter 2), could help with earthly ­matters, such as illness or inheritance disputes. Distinguished dead (see chapter 5) could be called upon to assist in super­natural affairs, such as aid in admittance into the afterlife. Near the end of the Old Kingdom, at a time of social and po­liti­cal uncertainty (see the conclusion), the veneration of certain dead went so far as to mark them as gods. I argue that royal power in the early Old Kingdom was largely tied to the king’s role as mortuary benefactor. The fact that distinguished and deified dead begin to operate in this role during the late Old Kingdom speaks to two points: (1) t­ hese cults ­were mobilized to undermine royal authority and (2) in a time of po­liti­ cal and social uncertainty, t­ hese cults offered local ancient Egyptians elite access and assurances perhaps not being provided by the king. I have identified three individuals (Djedi, Mehu, and Kagemni) who underwent apotheosis during the Old Kingdom, based on the framework established in chapter 4. Other officials—­Hordjedef (at Giza), Ptahhotep (at Saqqara), and the governors of ‘Ain Asil (at the Dakhla Oasis)—­were also distinguished during the Old Kingdom, but they ­were not explic­itly deified, and are, thus, discussed in chapter 5. Though much remains unknown about the setting(s) of 92



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Djedi’s, Mehu’s, and Kagemni’s apotheoses, it is clear that by the end of the Sixth Dynasty t­ hese three individuals w ­ ere distinguished from other average dead and underwent apotheosis. I identified ­these deified dead by scouring a wide range of publications, translated and untranslated texts, museum holdings, and excavation reports in an effort to find evidence of distinction or deification. It is very pos­si­ble that other case studies exist, but the restrictive nature of apotheosis means it is unlikely many other examples are extant. Furthermore, ­these three cases are sufficient to prove that this was not a singular, one-­ off event and that dif­fer­ent markers could be used to communicate one’s divine status. This chapter includes only individuals who w ­ ere deified during 1 the Old Kingdom, as this is a historical study. Djedi was buried prob­ably at Saqqara during the Fourth or Fifth Dynasty, and the earliest evidence for his deification dates to the Fifth Dynasty. Mehu was buried at Saqqara during the Sixth Dynasty, reign of Pepi I, and the earliest evidence for his deification similarly dates to the Sixth Dynasty, prob­ably the reign of Pepi I. Kagemni was also buried at Saqqara during the Sixth Dynasty, the reign of Teti, and the earliest evidence for his deification dates to the Sixth Dynasty. All three examples come from the cemeteries at Saqqara, and all three individuals ­were deified rapidly ­after their deaths, with relatively modest cults (compared to t­ hose known in the M ­ iddle Kingdom). Djedi and Kagemni w ­ ere both distinguished by their inclusion in imakhu kher (jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formulae. Additionally, contemporaneous titles indicate that Djedi had a priesthood dedicated to his divinized form, and a divine determinative was used following his name—­quite literally categorizing him as divine. Mehu’s and Kagemni’s apotheoses w ­ ere demonstrated by the inclusion of their names (or the hypocoristic, that is a diminutive form of a name, Gemni in the case of Kagemni) in the divine position within theophoric names. Furthermore, the characters called Djedi and Kagemni who ­were included in literary texts of the M ­ iddle Kingdom and Second Intermediate Period ­were conceivably meant to be ­these famed historic figures. Although this does not support the hypothesis of apotheosis, it does speak to the probable endurance of Kagemni’s and Djedi’s fame within social memory. Since no single framework for identifying apotheosis has been applied broadly across a potential dataset, the purpose of this chapter is to pre­sent the evidence for t­ hese individuals’ distinction and deification, and to argue in f­ avor of their inclusion in this corpus. First, their identification as deified dead must be proven before I describe the motivations and historical effects of their apotheosis. The implications of their deification are more fully discussed in the conclusion.

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The Case of Djedi In a 1955 article, Hans Goedicke suggested that an Old Kingdom man named Djedi might have been deified in the Sixth Dynasty (Goedicke 1955). Djedi’s deification, though, was in fact already constituted in the Fifth Dynasty. His apotheosis is evinced by a priesthood dedicated to his cult, and a divine determinative following his name in two instances, categorizing him as a god. Unfortunately, we do not have any monuments (no tomb or burial) that can be definitively associated with this Djedi. The closest we get is a Fifth-­Dynasty grave at Giza that invokes a man named Djedi upon its broken, mostly illegible false door. It is impossible to tell, with any certainty, ­whether the Djedi of this tomb is the deified Djedi discussed ­here due to the poor state of the grave’s preservation (S. Hassan 1932, 86–89). What we do have is epigraphic evidence from other tombs that make reference to a distinguished and deified deceased man named Djedi. From this evidence, it is clear that our Djedi lived in ­either the Fourth or Fifth Dynasty and was deified in the Fifth Dynasty (dating is discussed below, alongside specific evidence). A magician named Djedi was also a prominent character in the Tales of Miracle and Won­der known from Papyrus Westcar. It is unclear ­whether ­these two Djedis ­were meant to be the same individual, but it is pos­si­ble that Djedi was deified in the Old Kingdom and memorialized in ­later lit­er­a­ture, similar to what was done for Kagemni and Hordjedef. Some scholars have dismissed the evidence in support of Djedi’s deification (notably Fischer 1965 and Daoud 1998, 32), based primarily on the argument that Djedi refers not to a man, but rather a manifestation of the god Ptah. Below I first pre­sent the evidence in support of the deification of Djedi, with the assumption that Djedi was a historical man. I then explain, and consequently repudiate, the counterargument that the name Djedi refers instead to the god Ptah.

Epigraphic Evidence for Djedi’s Apotheosis Four artifacts speak to Djedi’s distinction and deification: (1) Goedicke’s Stela, (2) Stela of Wsr, (3) the False Door of Ptahshepses, and (4) the Cairo Stela. All of ­these artifacts come from Saqqara, with the exception of Goedicke’s Stela, which is unprovenanced. It is pos­si­ble, then, that Djedi’s deification was localized in the area around Saqqara. Indeed, the potential for locally restricted cults of worship attributed to deified dead has been argued, notably, by Battiscombe Gunn (Firth and Gunn 1926, 130). Two artifacts speak explic­itly to Djedi’s “distinguished” status: the stelae known colloquially as Goedicke’s Stela and the



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Stela of Wsr. In both of ­these artifacts, Djedi is invoked in the imakhu kher ( jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formula, which I have shown in chapter 4 communicates a distinguished status among the dead. In short, the imakhu kher formula can be translated as “favored by,” and it invokes an agent who can help someone get to the Hereafter. In the early Old Kingdom, this was usually the king. B ­ ecause the deceased was “favored by” the king, they w ­ ere gifted preferred access. Eventually, certain dead could also help in this regard, and Djedi was one of ­these men; ­people would describe themselves as “favored by Djedi” as a way of communicating preferred posthumous status. The other two artifacts—­the False Door of Ptahshepses and the Cairo Stela—­speak specifically to Djedi’s divine status. On t­ hese two artifacts, Djedi’s name is written with a divine determinative—an unpronounced textual sign that literally categorizes Djedi as a god. It is not too dissimilar from someone writing their credentials ­after their name: a l­awyer may sign her name as “Jane Smith, J. D.,” though in conversation her name would be pronounced “Jane Smith” or “Ms. Smith.” No one would say “Excuse me, Jane Smith ‘jay-­dee.’ ” The J. D. is a s­ ilent marker of her credentials and status, just as a divine determinative was a s­ ilent textual marker of divinity. Goedicke’s Stela is a Sixth-­Dynasty stela that, according to Goedicke, appeared “some time ago on the New York market” and included the phrase “jmɜḫ.w ḫr Djedi,” which speaks to Djedi’s distinguished status (1955, 31). The significance of the imakhu kher formula and its utility in identifying distinguished status is discussed in chapters 3 and 4. Goedicke dated the stela to the late Sixth Dynasty without any further explanation or justification. Unfortunately, he did not provide a line drawing, image, or any description of its decoration, shape, size, material, or what the rest of the text might have said. Additionally, since it was “from the New York market” it is challenging if not impossible to locate this stela and confirm his dating. Since Goedicke was very familiar with Old Kingdom language and orthography though, I think it is justified to take him on his word on this point. His dating also places the stela in the same general period as the other artifacts presented ­here, which is to be expected. The Stela of Wsr also includes evidence in support of Djedi’s distinction, as evinced by his invocation in the imakhu kher formula (Daoud 1998, 33–35). This stela was discovered in the Teti cemetery at Saqqara and it was published by Cecil Firth and Battiscombe Gunn (1926, 183). Daoud dates the stela to the late Sixth Dynasty or the First Intermediate Herakleopolitan Period, based on its style and some orthographic indicators (1998, 33–34). Specifically, he notes that the “corpulent or the mature portrait of the deceased on the inner jambs”

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is “associated with false doors of the second half of the Sixth Dynasty,” but became common in the Herakleopolitan Period (1998, 33). Additionally, he reasonably asserts, and I concur, that the ideographic writing of Anubis and the use of the abbreviated form of the word jmɜḫ without phonetic complements better indicate a Herakleopolitan First Intermediate Period dating (Daoud 1998, 34). The Fifth-­Dynasty False Door of Ptahshepses and the Cairo Stela both offer evidence of Djedi’s deification in the form of divine determinatives and references to a priesthood of Djedi. Determinatives, which are perhaps better understood as lexical classifiers, communicate the category a word belongs to (Goldwasser 2006).2 Put in generalized terms, for an American speaker, the word “Georgia,” out of context, could equally be a ­woman’s name or a place (a state or country). To clarify this, in writing, an image representing “­woman” or an image representing “place” could be added to the spelling of “Georgia,” specifying to which category this word belongs. For example, Georgia ♀ would indicate the ­woman’s name. Similarly, a divine classifier or determinative, such as the falcon-­standard hieroglyph 𓅆, would categorize someone/ thing as divine. Egyptian spelling, though, was inconsistent and varied; thus, while a determinative may specify the category a word belongs to, the lack of a determinative does not negate one’s inclusion in a category. The Fifth-­Dynasty False Door of Ptahshepses (EA 682) indicates Djedi’s divine status via an inscription that includes the divine determinative 𓅆 ­after Djedi’s name in a phrase that references his priestly title as a hem-­netjer priest (see figures 3A and 3B): ḥm nṯr Ḏd Servant of the god Djedi. Ptahshepses was the High Priest of Ptah, and it was within his tomb at Saqqara (known by the designation C 1) that his massive false door was excavated (Mariette and Maspero 1889, 113).3 Upon his false door, his titles are listed, including the priestly title ḥm-­nṯr Ḏd, with the proper name “Djedi” in honorific transposition, like that of a god, and followed by a divine determinative: 𓊽𓀻 𓅆𓊹 𓍛. Similarly, the Cairo Stela (CG 1565) is a Sixth-­Dynasty stela from Saqqara that also lists Djedi’s name followed by a divine determinative, in the form of a divine standard 𓅆, in a priestly (ḥm-­nṯr) title (Mariette and Maspero 1889, 411–16; Goedicke 1955, 31). Together, t­ hese two attestations of a divine determinative modifying Djedi’s name and two references to a priesthood of Djedi unequivocally identify Djedi as a god.

Figure 3A. False door of Ptahshepses. British Museum EA 682. Photo © Trustees of the British Museum.

Figure 3B. False door of Ptahshepses (detail). Photo © Trustees of the British Museum.

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Literary Evidence for Djedi’s Apotheosis: Papyrus Westcar The most famous reference to a man named Djedi comes from the Tales of Miracle and Won­der, also known as Papyrus Westcar (p.Berlin 3033).4 The Tales are difficult to date—­the manuscript at the earliest dates to the Fifteenth/Seventeenth Dynasty, but it is likely that the text existed e­ arlier in some form (Parkinson 2002, 295–96). In Tales, a magician named Djedi is a main character. Although the historical real­ity of this character is unknown, it is pos­si­ble the character was inspired by the enduring social memory of the deified Djedi (a similar suggestion is made in Morenz 1996, 122n541).5 Indeed, this is the stance taken by Goedicke, who admits, though, that “the assumption submitted ­here, namely, that the deity 𓊽 𓀻 is to be considered as the deified magician Ḏdj known from the Westcar Papyrus, is in some ways still an hypothesis [sic]” (1955, 33). Djedi, according to the stories in the Papyrus Westcar, was a Fourth-­Dynasty magician, famed not only for his ability to sever heads and then successfully reattach them to their bodies without harm but for his prophecy announcing the transition of power at the end of the Fourth/beginning of the Fifth Dynasty by three b­ rothers born of the sun god Re. Djedi, in Tales, is described as a commoner of 110  years of age, who possessed power over animals (e.g., “he knows how to cause a lion to walk ­behind him, with its leash on the ground”) and had access to secret knowledge, such as the number of rooms in the sanctuary of Thoth, that evaded even the king. The suggestion that the Djedi deified during the Old Kingdom has any correlation to the Djedi of the Papyrus Westcar remains equivocal, since ­there is no direct evidence. The connection is suggestive, however, when considering that other distinguished and deified dead, such as Hordjedef and Kagemni, had texts ascribed to them. If for a moment we assume this to be true, the narrative would be as follows: Djedi is a Fourth-­Dynasty commoner (possibly a magician) who is celebrated for his wisdom and, by the late Old Kingdom, is deified. Men around Saqqara continue to worship and invoke Djedi, whose cult continues at least into the Sixth Dynasty and perhaps into the First Intermediate Period if, in fact, the false door of Wsr dates to the Herakleopolitan Period. During the ­Middle Kingdom, or Second Intermediate Period, the Papyrus Westcar is penned and Djedi is memorialized in lit­er­a­ture. Although this narrative is attractive, the fact remains that t­ here is not sufficient evidence to securely make the connection between the Djedi of the stelae and false door and the Djedi of Tales.



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Counterarguments to Djedi’s Identification as a God Goedicke asserts, and I think accurately, that Djedi is the “name of a private person who was deified in the Old Kingdom” (1955, 32). The main counterargument to this interpretation contends that Djedi is not the name of a man, but rather the hieroglyphs are instead to be read as a phrase, djed-­shepses, which refers to a manifestation of the god Ptah (Fischer 1965; Daoud 1998). Thus, the divine determinative following ­these hieroglpyhs would not be marking a man as a god but would be confirming the divinity of an already known deity. The argument arises from a debate as to how this phrase should be read: 𓊽𓀻. The following discussion is rather philological and dense, but necessary to fully address the prevalent counterargument and confirm Djedi’s identification as a deified dead. In essence, I show that the spelling of the name Djedi is such that it is best to read 𓊽𓀻 as a private name, Djedi (ḏd or Ḏd), rather than as djed-­shepses (ḏd šps), which may refer to a manifestation of the god Ptah. ­Because of the multivalence of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, it is often debatable how a phrase should be read. Some signs can be read as e­ ither (1) ideograms with a specific phonetic value(s), (2) phonograms, or (3) unvocalized determinatives that inform the reader as to the category of a word.6 To further complicate this issue, some hieroglyphs can be all three at the same time: a determinative and an ideogram and a phonogram. This means it is often impossible to determine with complete certainty the reading of a word or phrase. In ­these latter instances, context usually supplies some explanation as to how the word should be read. Of specific concern for the case of Djedi is the phrase 𓊽𓀻, which can be read ­either as a man’s name or as a phrase that refers to a form of the god Ptah. The reading of the first hieroglyph (Gardiner sign R11)7 is not debated; it is certainly transliterated as ḏd. It refers to an ancient Egyptian icon known as the “djed-­pillar” and stands for “stability.” As a personal name, Djedi, it would mean “he of the djed-­pillar” or “he of stability.” The djed-­pillar is associated with the god Ptah, who often holds three scepters that take the form of the hieroglyphs djed, ankh (life), and was (power), but the pillar is also associated with the gods Isis and Osiris, and the office of kingship. The main issue ­under debate ­here is the reading of the second hieroglyph. The man seated upon a chair (Gardiner signs A50 or A51) can be read both as a determinative, an unvocalized sign referring to revered dead person, or as an ideogram with the phonetic value šps(s)—­written both with one s and with two s’s, interchangeably. The word šps(s) translates as “noble,” “august,” or “valuable.” In short, it can classify something as august, be an unpronounced determinative, or be the adjective “august” in a phrase.

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Specifically, the phrase 𓊽𓀻 can be read as ­either: 1. 𓊽 ḏd + 𓀻 determinative, meaning something like “the august Djedi.” ­Here the seated man sign, 𓀻 (Gardiner signs A50 or A51), is a determinative that classifies a certain Djedi as someone who is exalted, rather than an ideogram with phonetic values. This is the reading that I ­favor. 2. 𓊽 ḏd + 𓀻 šps(s), aka djed-­shepses, which translates to the “noble djed-­ pillar.” ­Here the seated man hieroglyph is being read as an ideogram, with the phonetic value šps(s). This epithet is a known alias of Ptah and is the reading preferred by Fischer (1965) and Daoud (1998). It should be noted, however, that Maj Sandman Holmberg indicates that the association between ḏd-­šps and Ptah is first evidenced in the New Kingdom (1946, 157–59), and, as such, I argue that applying it to ­earlier evidence would be potentially anachronistic. I argue in f­ avor of reading this phrase as a man’s name, Djedi. In defending this point, it is helpful to ascertain if Djedi was ever used as private name in the Old Kingdom. In addition to all of the sources mentioned ­here, the Thesaurus Linguae Aegyptiae and Anthroponymes et Généalogies de l’Égypte Ancienne databases have rec­ords for at least two additional examples of the personal name Djedi, though all with varied orthographies, that date to the Old Kingdom.8 ­These personal names refer to a man whose tomb is at Giza and to a ­woman from Edfu. Thus, although not very popu­lar, ­there should be no doubt that Djedi was a legitimate Old Kingdom personal name. Furthermore, I show that the phrase in question, 𓊽𓀻, should be read as Djedi + 𓀻 determinative based on orthographic trends, and in ­doing so refute the evidence put forth primarily by Fischer (1965) and followed by ­others, which asserts that 𓊽𓀻 should be read as ḏd-­šps(s). Specifically, the lack of s ( 𓋴 ) phonetic complements indicates that the seated man sign should be read as a determinative. When, on the other hand, the term šps(s) is meant to be understood as an ideogram with phonetic value (and not as a determinative), it is almost always written, in the Old Kingdom, with one or two s phonetic complements (Goedicke 1955, 32). This phonetic complement is more commonly written with the traditional s, folded cloth sign, but can also use the z, door-­bolt sign (𓊃), which by ­Middle Egyptian becomes interchangeable with the s. When the term šps(s) is part of a name (e.g., Ptah-­shepses of the “False Door of Ptahshepses” discussed above), and thus definitively not being used as a determinative, the inscription also includes s phonetic complements (Goedicke 1955, 32). The False Door of Ptahshepses provides ample evidence to this effect. On the monument the name of Fourth-­Dynasty king Shepseskaf (špss-­kȝf) has two s



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phonetic complements clearly vis­i­ble, written ­after the seated šps(s) sign (see figure 3B). On this same artifact, the tomb own­er’s name (Ptahshepses, ptḥ-­ špss) is similarly written with two s phonetic complements, as seen throughout on figure 3A, at the bottom of e­ very column: 𓊪  𓏏  𓎛 𓀻 𓋴  𓋴. To summarize, the False Door of Ptahshepses provides evidence supporting Goedicke’s suggestion that the seated figure hieroglyph is to be read as špss when it is accompanied by one (or two) s phonetic complements. The consistent exception to this rule seems to be the title šps-­nswt, which translates to “the one whom the king ­favors.” This title often was not written with the phonetic complement, but this is not surprising, since titles are often abbreviated (Murray 1908; D. Jones 2000, 988–89). The name Djedi, however, in the four examples discussed above, is written as 𓊽𓀻, with a djed-­pillar and a šps sign without phonetic complements. This means that we should read this as ḏd + determinative, which would be the name Djedi, and not the phrase ḏd šps(s), which would refer to the god Ptah. Despite this clarity, Daoud is convinced that the phrase 𓊽𓀻 refers to a manifestation of the god Ptah (following Fischer 1965, 52–53) and does not refer to a deified dead named Djedi (Daoud 1998, 32). Henry George Fischer is further critical of Goedicke’s interpretation of 𓊽𓀻 as a deified man named Djedi b­ ecause he argues the theophoric names invoking ḏd šps are paralleled by names referring to Ptah. I discuss theophoric names in chapter 4 as a marker of apotheosis. In short, theophoric names are names that honor or invoke a god. The name Samuel, for example, invokes the biblical god “El,” and as a phrase translates to “the name of God.” Similarly, the name Abdullah means “servant of God.” Fischer points to the example of the personal name construction šps-­pw-­DN, where “DN” is a divine name. He gives the example of šps-­pw-­ḏd-­špss (a name that invokes ḏd-­špss) and parallels this with a similar personal name invoking Ptah, šps-­pw-­ptḥ. He also highlights that the personal name ny-­kȝw-­ḏd-­špss (ny-­kȝw-­DN) is paralleled by the name ny-­kȝw-­ptḥ (1965, 53). Fischer fails to reference, though, that t­ here exist other personal names with this exact structure that invoke gods who are clearly not aliases of Ptah: šps-­pw-­mn, for example, clearly invokes the god Min, who is not an alias or form of Ptah (Ranke 1935, 1:326), and ny-­kȝw-­jnpw, ny-­kȝw-­nbty, ny-­kȝw-­Rʿ, ny-­kȝw-­ḥtḥr, ny-­ kȝw-­ḥr, ny-­kȝw-­ẖnm are all attested names that invoke the gods Anubis, Nebty, Hathor, Horus, and Khnum, respectively (Ranke 1935, 1:180). If Fischer’s argument that t­ hese personal names invoking ḏd šps(s) refer to Ptah b­ ecause of parallels to names with similar structures, then one could just as convincingly argue that ḏd šps(s), should be associated with Min, Anubis, Hathor, and the like. When a determinative is used, it positively classifies a word as part of a certain category. The absence of a determinative, however, does not negate the

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inclusion of that word into any category. Djedi’s name includes a divine determinative (𓅆) in some instances, but not in all. Notably, in Goedicke’s Stela and the Stela of Wsr, discussed above, the divine determinative is not included, but in t­ hese examples Djedi is being invoked in a formula that communicates distinguished status, rather than deified status, and as such a divine determinative would not be necessary. ­Because of this, Fischer (1965, 52) and Daoud (1998, 32) have confusingly argued that the phrase 𓊽𓀻 should be read as an alias of Ptah ­because other known aliases of Ptah, such as ẖrj-­bȝq.f, also inconsistently receive a divine determinative. It does not make sense to equate the Djedi being referenced in ­these stelae (i.e,. where his name lacks a divine determinative) as a manifestation of Ptah, simply ­because other aliases of Ptah also sometimes do not have divine determinatives. In fact, many gods’ names do not consistently receive a divine determinative, and this fact does not indicate that they are all aspects of Ptah. Therefore, Fischer’s proposal is more complicated than it needs to be.

Arguments in Support of Djedi’s Apotheosis I believe I have refuted thoroughly the counterarguments that have been published. But more than that, the evidence presented above, drawn primarily from three stelae and a false door, supports the assertion that t­here was an Old Kingdom man named Djedi who was distinguished from other average dead through invocation of his name within jmɜḫ.w ḫr formulae, which was reserved for distinguished dead (and the king/gods). Furthermore, his divine status is made apparent in the references to a priesthood dedicated to him, and the inclusion (on two occasions) of a divine determinative following his name, literally categorizing him as a god. When analyzed in its entirety, the evidence convincingly shows that Djedi underwent apotheosis in the late Old Kingdom.

The Case of Mehu Whereas the locus for the cult of Djedi is unclear, the cult of Tjaty Mehu (mḥw) is securely located at Saqqara, near his mastaba (Altenmüller 1998).9 Mehu lived u ­ nder the reigns of Teti and Pepi I, during the early Sixth Dynasty. His mastaba was first discovered by Zaki Saad, and the findings ­were subsequently published by Abd el-­Salam Mohammed Hussein and Hartwig Altenmüller (Saad 1941; Hussein 1943; Altenmüller 1998). Evidence for Mehu’s apotheosis comes entirely from onomastic evidence associated with a local official



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named Bia (bjȝ). Although ­there is only a single observed marker of apotheosis for Mehu, its exclusive nature makes it convincing. Bia was a Sixth-­ Dynasty official buried at Saqqara near the mastaba of Tjaty Mehu, which was located near the Unas Causeway (Altenmüller 1998). Epigraphic evidence from Bia’s tomb does not provide an exact date for his burial, and the name is not listed in Ranke (1935). ­There are at least two attendants with the name Bia known from the tomb of Mehu, though both of their names are spelled differently than the Bia in discussion h ­ ere (Wilson 1954, 249). It is still pos­si­ble, though, to presume that Bia was a subordinate of Mehu, and this is attested to by a dif­fer­ent orthography of Bia in Mehu’s tomb, showing him to be one of Mehu’s attendants. John A. Wilson also notes that the titles possessed by Bia ­were common “at the very end of the Old Kingdom” (1954, 249), so it is probable that Bia lived near the end of the Sixth Dynasty, perhaps within a generation or two of Mehu. Ele­ments of Bia’s chapel, including a false door and three inscribed limestone slabs, ­were excavated by Saad during the 1939–40 season. Saad’s preliminary report briefly discusses the false door and two of the three known slabs; he identifies the slabs as belonging to a certain Bia, whose chapel, located to the southeast of Mehu’s mastaba, was not yet excavated (1941). It was not ­until 1954, with the publication of Wilson’s article “A Group of Sixth Dynasty Inscriptions,” that a set of photo­g raphs, line drawings, translations, and commentary w ­ ere made accessible. In this article, Wilson republishes in greater detail some of the objects mentioned by Saad in his excavation reports. Wilson is also the first to suggest, based on evidence from ­these slabs, that Tjaty Mehu may have been deified—­a notion that Altenmüller maintains (Wilson 1954, 264; Altenmüller 1998, 85). The primary evidence for Mehu’s deification is the appearance of three theophoric names of ­children of Bia in which Mehu is invoked as a god: Nebi-­pu-­Mehu (nb=j-­pw-­mḥw), Mehu-­em-­hat (mḥw-­m-­ẖȝt), and Mehu (mḥw). The names of Bia’s sons are found within what Wilson refers to as “Inscription B” and are discussed fully below (Wilson 1954). Based on the text and imagery, Wilson’s “Inscription B” is likely an architrave (an architectural ele­ment, similar to a lintel, set above a door or resting atop columns) set over an unidentified false door. This “Inscription B” is inscribed into a limestone slab and is comprised of two sets of five horizontal lines of text that start roughly in the m ­ iddle of the slab, to be read outward, ­toward the edges of the slab. The slab is broken very close to this vertical division, creating a “left” and “right” side of the slab.10 Both texts are fairly standard funerary inscriptions. The inscription on the right begins with a ḥtp-­dj-­nswt offering formula invoking Anubis. In this inscription Bia is associated with the jmɜḫ.w, “revered ones,” and is identified as an akh iqer (ȝḫ jqr), “effective akh.”

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The inscription is set above a scene depicting Bia seated before a t­ able of offerings. Opposite Bia are three of his ­children, acting as offering ­bearers, and ­behind him is a standing w ­ oman identified as ʿjtj. The inscription on the left opens with an “Appeal to the Living” and is followed by a request for an invocation offering. ­Here Bia is identified as a lector priest and an akh aper (ȝḫ ʿpr), “prepared akh,” which balances his identification on the right as akh iqer. On the left is a second scene depicting Bia seated, but this time with his wife, Idut, seated behind/alongside him before an offering ­table, and five ­children. His ­daughter, Hezit, is drawn quite small under­neath the offering t­ able. The other four ­children are his sons and are identified (from left to right) as Khai, Mehu, Nebi-­pu-­Mehu, and Mehu-­em-­hat. The names of ­these sons provide the evidence for Mehu’s apotheosis.

Onomastic Evidence for Mehu’s Apotheosis Arguably, prior to the New Kingdom, onomastics provided the most fruitful examples of individual relationships with the divine. Personal names could invoke the gods in a variety of ways and be used to communicate types of human-­divine relationships. The name Nebi-­pu-­Mehu can be translated as “Mehu is my lord.” The term “lord” in itself is not a marker of divinity; indeed, the king was often described as lord over his subjects, as ­were officials over their subordinates. The remarkable ele­ment ­here is that Mehu is lauded as lord as part of someone’s name—­the name of his presumed subordinate’s son in fact. While this in itself does not prove that Mehu was considered a god, it certainly suggests that Mehu was distinguished from o ­ thers as particularly elite, effective, and/or potentially possessing divine qualities, since this sort of construction is usually reserved for theophoric and basilophoric names. Bia’s son Mehu-­em-­hat’s name makes Mehu’s divinity apparent though. This name translates to “Mehu is at the fore.” As described in chapter 4, the construction of a personal name with a divine name followed by the m-­ẖȝt compound preposition is well known (DN-­m-­ẖȝt). Prior to the New Kingdom, the first ele­ ment in this name formula is exclusively, except in a single instance, reserved for a divine name, for example, jmn-­m-­ẖȝt, “Amun is at the fore” (Ranke 1935, 1:430). Thus, the use of Mehu’s name in the primary position within Bia’s son’s name is evocative, signaling Mehu’s divinity.

Arguments in Support of Mehu’s Apotheosis Unfortunately, this is the extent of evidence available for reconstructing the nature of Mehu’s elevated status. ­There is no material or textual evidence for



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a cult beyond the expected mortuary chapel, and no indication of a dedicated priesthood. This can be explained in two ways: (1) Mehu was fully divinized, recognized as a god by the time of Bia’s ­children, but only minimal evidence has survived, or (2) Mehu’s status exists within a spectrum of distinction in which he is marked as more than an average dead by certain characteristics of divinization. It is impossible, without further evidence, to ascertain which explanation unequivocally describes Mehu, but his inclusion in t­ hese restrictive name constructions suggests a divine status. Furthermore, at the onset I argued that only one of t­ hese divine indicators need be observable to include a case in this discussion of deified dead. B ­ ecause the archaeological rec­ord is incomplete, it is probable that if Mehu received divine honor in one instance, he likely received it in o ­ thers, evidence of which has not survived. This is, of course, a problematic argument. So, even without corroborating evidence, the single instance of Mehu being invoked in a divine name construction is compelling. His cult of and conception as a god ­were likely not widespread, but b­ ecause of the public nature of a name, Mehu’s conception as a god invariably extended beyond Bia’s immediate f­ amily. It is impossible, without additional evidence, to say for sure if anyone e­ lse partook in the cult of Mehu, but the fact that three of Bia’s four sons invoke Mehu in their names must have been common knowledge in their communities. Furthermore, Bia’s choice (or ability) to display t­ hese names on his tomb speaks to the fact that the invocation of Mehu in personal names was socially accepted, which means that ­there must have existed, somewhere in local memory, at least the acknowl­edgment, if not the confirmation, that Mehu was conceived of as divine.

The Case of Kagemni ­ hese facts can hardly lead to any other conclusion T than that the Vizier Kagemni was deified not long ­after his death, and was known, chiefly by his abbreviated name of Gmnj. —­Firth and Gunn (1926, 1:130)

Kagemni was tjaty during the reign of the Sixth-­Dynasty king Teti. He was buried at the cemetery associated with Teti at Saqqara, and it is in this complex that most of the evidence for his deification was found (von Bissing 1909; Firth and Gunn 1926). Specifically, Kagemni is invoked in the imakhu kher

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( jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formula at least two times on funerary monuments of local men who associated their burials, through vicinity, with the tomb of Kagemni. Additionally, a number of the men whose burials are found nearby Kagemni’s mastaba possessed theophoric names that invoke Kagemni, through the hypocoristic (nickname) Gmnj, as a god. Fi­nally, like many of the other deified dead discussed in this book, Kagemni is also known from ­later lit­er­a­ture, which I consider b­ ecause of its prominence in the scholarship, even though t­ here is good reason to disassociate the character of this literary text from the historical figure.

Funerary and Formulaic Evidence for Kagemni’s Distinction Kagemni’s mastaba in the Teti cemetery at Saqqara was discovered by Richard Lepsius in the late nineteenth ­century and excavations ­were first published by Friedrich von Bissing (1909, 1911), whose volumes focused primarily on the internal inscriptions and scenes. Firth and Gunn again published evidence from the mastaba in 1926, following Firth’s excavations of the Teti cemetery. Excavations of Kagemni’s tomb, located to the immediate north of Teti’s pyramid, show that he possessed numerous high titles u ­ nder the reigns of Kings Djedkare Isesi, Unas, and Teti, though his titles reached their zenith ­under the reign of Teti (Firth and Gunn 1926, 167). Indeed, it seems as though Kagemni became an increasingly impor­tant po­liti­cal figure ­under Teti, during whose reign Kagemni possessed the titles of tjaty (ṯɜtj), inspector (sḥḏ) of the pyramid of Teti, and overseer ( jmj-­r) of Teti’s pyramid town (njwt ḏd-­swt-­ttj). His titular prominence was mirrored in the grandeur of his tomb, around which burials of ­those of varied statuses are seemingly clustered.11 Kagemni’s large mastaba would have been prominent within the visual landscape of the cemetery and included strikingly high-­quality reliefs, which illustrated his dominant status within the community (Firth and Gunn 1926; Badawy 1979; Harpur 2005). Additionally, possibly motivated by an expectation of cultic activity or as a product of innovations in architectural display of social capital, Kagemni’s mastaba included an external false door and offering t­able on its eastern face, which aligned with the internal false door located in his chapel (Firth and Gunn 1926, 20; Hamilton 201412). Engagement with the mastaba a­ fter Kagemni’s interment is demonstrated by numerous secondary inscriptions that include visitors’ names and, sometimes, titles—­notably the titles of ḥm-­kȝ, “ka-­priest,” and zẖȝ n sȝ, “scribe of the phyle” (Hamilton 2016; Harpur and Scremin 2006). Secondary inscriptions w ­ ere not uncommon in Old Kingdom tombs and, as such, this does not alone prove Kagemni’s distinguished status, but alongside the epi-



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graphic evidence for his inclusion in imakhu kher formulae (see below), it adds to the overall picture that Kagemni possessed an elevated status within his community and that the locus of this distinction was his tomb. More concrete evidence of Kagemni’s posthumous distinction is the inclusion of his name as the agent in the imakhu kher formula on three funerary monuments in the Teti cemetery, though only the first two are certain: 1. One of five limestone slabs of Herytep-­Re Iti (Firth and Gunn 1926, plate 77, “block A,” line 5): jmɜḫ.w ḫr sȝb ṯȝtj kȝgmn(j) “favored by the dignitary, and tjaty Kagemni.” This slab was discovered near the southern wall of Kagemni’s mastaba and was part of a larger funerary monument composed of five limestone slabs. Since the monument was discovered u ­ nder a First Intermediate Period wall that ran nearby Kagemni’s mastaba, the monument must predate the mastaba (Firth and Gunn 1926, 212). Based on stylistic evidence, Naguib Kanawati suggests a more precise dating of the Sixth Dynasty, reign of Pepi I or e­ arlier, which would mean that Kagemni’s deification occurred within a generation of his death (1999, 288). In fact, Kanawati has even suggested the possibility that the slab was carved while Kagemni was still alive (1999, 287). Dating on the basis of style, though, is controversial, and the interpretation that Kagemni was distinguished while alive is improbable, based on the the socioreligious norms of Egypt at that time. 2. Broken Offering T ­ able of an Overseer (Firth and Gunn 1926, 223): ​[j]mɜḫ.w ḫr kȝgm[n(j)] The dating of this ­table is unclear and its precise findspot was unfortunately not recorded by Firth and Gunn. Additionally, Firth and Gunn did not include line drawings or photo­graphs of the offering t­ able, therefore prohibiting paleographic dating. Julia Clare Francis Hamilton has noted, based on the lack of an ox head and bird head in the invocation-­offering (prt-­ḫrw) inscription, that the offering ­table’s inscription is similar to other offering t­ables dated to the late Sixth Dynasty or First Intermediate Period by Firth and Gunn (Hamilton 2014; Firth and Gunn 1926, 219–26). 3. Broken Wooden Statue of/for Gemni (Firth and Gunn 1926, 270–71): jmɜḫ.w ḫr [sic?] gmn(j) This example is uncertain ­because the context of the find suggests that the statue should be dedicated to/owned by Gemni rather than invoking him. Gunn inserted a “sic” ­after the ḫr ­because he believed this was a ­mistake and that the author accidentally omitted the name of Osiris or Anubis ­here, based on parallels to the other three statues

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with which this artifact was discovered. The other three statues’ inscriptions clearly label the statues as being owned by or dedicated to a man named Gemni, who was described as jmɜḫ.w ḫr Osiris in two instances and Anubis in the other. The inscription gives evidence for the distinction of a man named (Ka)Gemni, but the context suggests that this might be a ­mistake. The writing of the jmɜḫ.w ḫr formula could suggest a late Old Kingdom or First Intermediate Period date. While this evidence alone does not prove that Kagemni was deified, it does illustrate that his distinguished status was conceptualized and pre­sent within local social memory by the Sixth Dynasty. The formula in which Kagemni is invoked is meant to communicate the ­favor provided by certain figures—­ usually the king, gods, or revered local men of power—­which allowed for admittance into the afterlife.

The Instructions for Kagemni as Evidence for His Distinction The Instructions for Kagemni is a text that belongs to a category of didactic lit­er­ a­ture referred to as teachings or instructions. In ­these instructions, social order, also known by the ancient Egyptian term maat, is shared with the Egyptian reader or listener, though the texts are framed narrowly, usually as a ­father imparting wisdom to his son. In The Instructions for Kagemni, a Fourth-­Dynasty tjaty gives advice to his son, Kagemni. Only the end of the text is preserved on the Papyrus Prisse and is dated to the late M ­ iddle Kingdom (Prisse d’Avennes 1847). Thus, this could be part of a pseudoepigraphical tradition in which ­Middle Kingdom texts ­were placed within a claimed historic past that was not necessarily confined by “real” historical narratives. In this way, ­these texts ­were part of a cultural memory of the past, allowing for the inclusion of ele­ ments of fantasy (Fischer-­Elfert 2003). It is further pos­si­ble that the Kagemni of the Instructions is meant to be the same tjaty Kagemni who lived in the Sixth Dynasty (and who is the topic of this study), despite the tale’s setting in the Fourth Dynasty. Gunn, inaccurately, referred to Kagemni as a “wise sage” (Firth and Gunn 1926, 130), despite the fact that he is never identified as the author of the text. Instead, Kagemni is the one receiving advice from an unidentified tjaty. Additionally, Kagemni is never referred to as rḫ ḫt (the ancient Egyptian equivalent of “wise sage”) in the textual rec­ord and is not included in the lists of famed writers known from antiquity (e.g., p.Chester Beatty IV; p.Harris 500). The suggestion, then, that tjaty Kagemni is the same Kagemni



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of the Instructions remains ambiguous and cannot be used as evidence of Kagemni’s deification but could speak to his lasting fame in social memory.

Onomastic Evidence for Kagemni’s Apotheosis The most succinct evidence for Kagemni’s apotheosis is the use of his name (or his hypocoristic, Gemni) in personal names, especially ­those that are theophoric. All of the names that invoke Kagemni in e­ ither form date to the late Old Kingdom, First Intermediate Period, or M ­ iddle Kingdom and are found within the Teti cemetery complex.13 ­There are five incidences of the name “Kagemni” from this complex (in addition to tjaty Kagemni) and, with the exception of one, they date to the late Old Kingdom or early First Intermediate Period.14 ­These five names represent at least four distinct individuals. The fifth name is known from a M ­ iddle Kingdom statue base and, b­ ecause the statue base is damaged, leaving no other legible text except for kȝ-­gm.n(j) mȝʿ ḫrw (“Kagemni, true of voice”), it is impossible to discern ­whether this attestation is a unique fifth Kagemni or possibly a statue erected in honor of another Kagemni (perhaps the tjaty Kagemni being discussed ­here).15 Additionally, nine individuals are known by the name Gemni, and a tenth is known as Gemni with the common name—­what the ancient Egyptians called a “good name” (rn=f nfr)—­ Megwi.16 ­These names are not necessarily theophoric names. In the M ­ iddle Kingdom, it was common for ­people to borrow the names of the gods; personal names such as “Isis,” for example, ­were used (Vittmann 2013b, 4). We do not have concrete evidence of this practice in the Old Kingdom, though our example could be circumstantial evidence in support of such an argument. Thus, the individuals with the name Kagemni could be recalling the name of a ­great local man, or possibly the name was simply popu­lar for other reasons. ­There are, however, a number of definitive theophoric names that invoke Kagemni through his hypocoristic, Gemni. Notable are two individuals who possess the theophoric name gmn(j)-­m-­ḥȝt, meaning “Gemni is at the fore.”17 As discussed in chapter 4, this name construction invokes deities and, as such, is strong evidence in support of Kagemni’s apotheosis. Furthermore, one individual possessed the theophoric name sȝt-­gmn(j), while two other individuals had the theophoric names sȝt-­gmn(j)-­ḥtp(.w) and gmn(j)-­ḥtp.w, respectively.18 A fourth had the name gmn(j)-­sʿnḫ.19 All of ­these name patterns are identified as theophoric by Vittmann (2013b). In addition to individuals with the name Kagemni, Gemni, and theophoric names invoking Gemni, thirteen additional attestations of names in which Gemni is an ele­ment are known from the necropolis.20 ­These thirteen names

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invoke Gemni, but they are not explic­itly theophoric and, at this stage, seem to be entirely ­limited to the cemetery, suggesting a local favoring of this name (Ranke 1935; Scheele-­Schweitzer 2014; Hamilton 2014). Kagemni was indubitably revered within his community, as manifested in the popularity of his name in the necropolis, but he was also invoked in theophoric constructions in personal names. The use of his hypocoristic, Gemni, in place of a god’s name in personal names suggests that Kagemni was perceived of as a super­ natural being akin to the gods.

Arguments in Support of Kagemni’s Apotheosis Arguments against Kagemni’s deification are based primarily on an assertion that the evidence in f­ avor of his deification is speculative (Fischer 1965, 52; Baines 1987, 88; Kanawati 1999, 287; Hamilton 2014, 19). Many point to the fact that he is not explic­itly identified as a nṯr, “god.” I would argue, however, that this is too narrow an interpretation (see my rejection of this argument in chapters 4 and 7 and the conclusion). While the case for Kagemni may not be as articulated as Djedi’s or Heqaib’s, his apotheosis is nevertheless demonstrated through his inclusion in theophoric names. Thus, if we assume that Kagemni underwent apotheosis, we can propose that his deification occurred by the late Sixth Dynasty and was likely centralized around Saqqara.

Characteristics of Old Kingdom Apotheosis Examples of apotheosis in the Old Kingdom come primarily from Saqqara, the elite cemetery site near the capital, and evidence for t­ hese cults relies largely on onomastics. Cults to Old Kingdom defied dead ­were modest in scale and display (for example, no large t­ emples ­were built for them), in comparison with the better-­known examples of M ­ iddle Kingdom apotheosis, which are discussed in the following chapter. The markers of apotheosis addressed in this chapter, though, are conclusive indicators of divine status. Kagemni and Mehu ­were invoked in theophoric names, while Djedi’s name received a divine determinative on two occasions. Notably, evidence for apotheosis in the Old Kingdom was intimately tied to the funerary realm, where display of social capital was determined by ingrained royal structures of power. As ­these power structures shifted at the end of the Old Kingdom, so did access and display. The conservative expressions of ­these cults could be explained by their proximity to the capital, where activity was restricted by proscriptive norms of elite



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decorum. In the next chapter, which is concerned with apotheosis during the ­Middle Kingdom, I show that t­here is an observable shift away from the mortuary-­based structures of power at the capital ­toward a temple-­based system, allowing for more fully expressed displays of divine status.

Notes 1. For example, Imhotep, the architect of Djoser’s Third-­Dynasty stepped pyramid, though an Old Kingdom deified figure, is not included ­here since his deification did not occur u ­ ntil the New Kingdom. On Imhotep’s deification, see Wildung (1977) and Quack (2014). 2. ­There has been a lot of scholarship on the topic of ­whether “determinative” or “classifier” is the most appropriate term for the Egyptian hieroglyphic system. This debate and its historiography are outlined well by Goldwasser (2006). Though my ­limited knowledge of the topic leads me ­toward favoring “classifier,” the term “determinative” remains most widely used (as in standard grammars, e.g., Allen 2014) and as such I continue to use “determinative” throughout this study. 3. For more information, see Porter and Moss (1964, 464); and for images, see the online British Museum cata­log, http://­www​.­britishmuseum​.­org​/­research​/­collection​ _­online​/­collection​_­object​_­details​.­aspx​?­objectId​=1­ 11377&partId​=1­ &searchText​ =­Ptahshepses&page​=­1. 4. Full translations of Papyrus Westcar are in Lichtheim (1975) and Simpson (2003). 5. The historicity of this text has been debated. Rolf Gundlach suggests that the text possessed a “historisch völlig richtigen Kern,” that is, a “historically accurate core” (1998, 247). Alternatively, Harold Hays argues that it was “not written as a conscientious history” and that “in at least two places, the author sacrificed historical accuracy for literary beauty” (2002, 30). 6. For more on the basics of ancient Egyptian grammar, see James P. Allen’s (2014) ­Middle Egyptian: An Introduction to the Language and Culture of Hieroglyphs. 7. The Gardiner signs numbers refer to t­ hose in the hieroglyphic sign list created by Alan Gardiner (1957) in his Egyptian Grammar, first published in 1927, with his third edition the most cited and used. 8. See, for instance, the Anthroponymes et Généalogies de l’Égypte Ancienne database for two examples of the personal name Djedi: http://­www​.­ifao​.­egnet​.­net​/­bases​ /­agea​/­noms​/­​?­id​=­521. 9. This term is often translated as “vizier.” See my discussion in the introduction as to why I prefer to use the ancient Egyptian term instead of this translation and for an explanation of this office of tjaty. 10. This slab was not mentioned in Saad’s original excavation publication, and, by the time of Wilson’s publication, the right side of the slab was missing, so he did not provide a discussion or translation of it. In 1956, Fischer was able to locate a photo negative of the right side of the slab at the Department of Antiquities in Saqqara, which he was allowed to reproduce in Fischer 1965. 11. It is hard to say with any ­great certainty ­whether or not ­these burials truly cluster around Kagemni’s mastaba, since no scientific spatial analy­sis has been performed of

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which I am aware. It is clear from plans that a number of individuals, some of whose names invoke Kagemni, are buried to the immediate east and south of Kagemni’s mastaba and, superficially, it looks a lot like clustering (following Hamilton 2014). 12. I acknowledge and give thanks to Julia Clare Francis Hamilton, who very generously shared with me her unpublished master’s thesis (2014, University of Auckland), entitled “Veneration of Vizier Kagemni at Saqqara during the Late Old Kingdom and First Intermediate Period.” I look forward to the publication of her thesis as it w ­ ill illustrate the complexity and challenges scholars face with this material. 13. An appendix listing each attestation with bibliographic references is included in Hamilton 2014. 14. Firth and Gunn (1926, 127, 129, 167, 214); Kanawati and Khouli (1984, 37, 41–42). 15. Firth and Gunn (1926, 129); Porter and Moss (1964, 1:55, 3:2). 16. Firth and Gunn (1926, 116, 127, 128, 197–98, 208, 210, 214–15); Kanawati and Khouli (1984, 330–31). On Megwi, see Firth and Gunn (1926, 127, 201). 17. Firth and Gunn (1926, 52–54, 127, 128, 187, 208). One Gmn(j)-­m-­ḥȝt is known from numerous artifacts discovered in his tomb at Saqqara, which Firth and Gunn refer to by the archaeological site designation HMK 30. 18. Firth and Gunn (1926, 128, 129, 188, 201, 204, 261). 19. Borchardt (1964, 147); Daoud (2005, 177–78, pl. cxiii). 20. Other names invoking Gemni that are not conclusively theophoric are: Gmn(j)-­jj(.w) (Firth and Gunn 1926, 128, 199); Gmn(j)-­jw(.w) (128, 210–11); Gmn(j)-­ʿnḫ (128, 224); Gmn(j)-­ʿnḫ(.w)-­m-­sȝ=s (128, 206–7); Gmn(j)-­wsr=j (128); Gmn(j)-­m-­sȝ=f (128, 207, 261); and Gmn(j)-­ ṯss (129, 224).

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Apotheosis in the M ­ iddle Kingdom See with your own face, that which I have done for you. May a god act for the one who acted for him. May you make my years last upon earth, and cause that my voice be made true in the necropolis. —­Sarenput’s inscription on the outer back wall of Heqaib’s shrine

An Introduction to ­Middle Kingdom Apotheosis As previous chapters have shown, the dead in ancient Egypt existed along a spectrum of distinction that ranged from akh (ȝḫ) to netjer (nṯr). Quotidian mortuary practices included individuals engaging akhu about personal and earthly concerns. This practice did not challenge royal prerogatives, which positioned the king as the sole mortuary benefactor of Egypt in the Old Kingdom. When certain dead, however, took on the role of mortuary liaison, as expressed by the imakhu kher ( jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formula, this subverted the king’s power, which was intimately tied to his position within systems of mortuary access and privilege (see chapters 5 and 6). As the king’s centrality declined, beginning in the Sixth Dynasty, power became more localized and tied to the ­temple. Instead of emphasizing their (no longer) unique role as mortuary benefactors, the nomarchs of the First Intermediate Period and the founding kings of the ­Middle Kingdom—­who themselves ­were local nomarchs—­defined their power in large part by their relationship to the gods and expressed this closeness (German, Gottennähe) through ­temple building and decorative programs. Just as po­liti­cal power was being articulated in a new, localized, temple-­ based way in the First Intermediate Period and ­Middle Kingdom, cults to esteemed dead similarly took new forms. Instead of the modestly articulated cults of Old Kingdom deified dead, which emphasized their role as mortuary 113

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intermediaries, cults to the dead who underwent apotheosis in the M ­ iddle Kingdom seem to have been more fully formed as bona fide divine cults. I have identified three individuals who underwent apotheosis during the ­Middle Kingdom, based on the framework established in chapter 4: Heqaib, Isi, and Wahka. Heqaib was buried at Elephantine during the Sixth Dynasty, reign of Pepi II, and the earliest evidence for his deification dates to the Sixth or Eleventh Dynasty. Isi was buried at Edfu during the reign of Teti of the Sixth Dynasty, and the earliest evidence of his apotheosis dates to the Twelfth Dynasty. Wahka (who I suggest may be Wahka II, specifically) was buried at Qau el-­Kebir during the Twelfth Dynasty, likely during the reign of Senwosret III, and the earliest evidence of his deification dates to the late M ­ iddle Kingdom. While evidence for apotheosis during the Old Kingdom is convincing, evidence for apotheosis during the ­Middle Kingdom is irrefutable. Notably, Heqaib and Isi w ­ ere both explic­itly identified as netjer (nṯr), “god.” Specifically, Isi is classified as netjer-­ankh (nṯr ʿnḫ), a “living god,” and in one instance a divine determinative follows Isi’s name, as is observed with the case of Djedi (see chapter 6). Although no cultic space is attested that honors Isi or Wahka apart from their tombs, a ­temple for Heqaib is known to exist on the island of Elephantine. This ­temple was expanded over many generations and includes local, private, and royal additions. Additions of monuments to Isi’s tomb and Heqaib’s ­temple provide evidence that local priests ­were dedicated to the cultic upkeep of Heqaib’s and Isi’s worship. Epigraphic evidence shows that Heqaib, Isi, and Wahka w ­ ere invoked as part of hetep-­di-­nesut (ḥtp-­dj-­nswt) formulae, while Heqaib was also included in imakhu kher formulae, illustrating deification and local social distinction, respectively. Contrary to what is witnessed in the Old Kingdom documentation, ­there is evidence for apotheosis of only a single official during the M ­ iddle Kingdom—­ Wahka. This apotheosis occurred (or at least took forms that persisted archaeologically) generations a­ fter the death of Heqaib and Isi, who w ­ ere both Old Kingdom, Sixth-­Dynasty officials. T ­ here is some indication that a cult began to emerge around Heqaib during the Sixth Dynasty, though evidence remains circumstantial. It seems as though deification in the provinces took longer to develop, but when it did, it developed more fully than we see near the capital. B ­ ecause this pro­cess was a slow, progressive operation, it did not fully materialize ­until the ­Middle Kingdom. That is not to say that ­these cults emerged out of nowhere in the ­Middle Kingdom; Heqaib and Isi ­were revered as, at least, distinguished dead a­ fter their deaths, but their divine cults do not appear u ­ ntil the Eleventh Dynasty, at the earliest. Additionally, none of the deified dead of the ­Middle Kingdom ­were associated with wisdom texts or lit­er­ a­ture. Instead it seems as though Heqaib, Isi, and Wahka w ­ ere venerated



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b­ ecause they w ­ ere remembered for the deeds they performed during life—­such as Heqaib’s reputation as a g­ reat warrior, or Isi’s and Wahka’s roles as local dignitaries and leaders. Thus, ­Middle Kingdom apotheosis can be generalized, on the basis of current evidence, as occurring uniquely in the provinces and typically (but not exclusively) numerous generations ­after the death of the deified dead in question. This delay, followed by a fully materialized display of divine status, was likely a reflex of the fact that the local ­temples became the primary locus of po­liti­cal display in the First Intermediate Period and ­Middle Kingdom. The deified dead of the Old Kingdom participated in Old Kingdom systems of power—­for example, mortuary benefaction. Deified dead of the ­Middle Kingdom participated in ­Middle Kingdom hierarchies of power, which ­were situated in the local ­temples. Their articulation as gods, then, was much more explicit.

The Case of Heqaib Since Labib Habachi’s 1946 discovery of the t­emple of Heqaib on Elephantine Island and his subsequent 1985 publication of evidence from the site, the deified Old Kingdom official Pepinakht Heqaib has become the oft-­cited example for the study of apotheosis in early Egypt. Pepinakht, whose “good name” (rn nfr) was Heqaib, was a Sixth-­Dynasty official ( jrj-­pʿt, ḥɜtj-­ʿ, jmj-­r-­ḥm.w-­nṯr) who worked u ­ nder King Pepi II.1 He lived on the island of Elephantine, ancient Abu, and was buried at the nearby cemetery of Qubbet el-­Hawa in a set of tombs designated by archaeologists as QH 35 and QH 35d (Habachi 1981,11–27). Sometime a­ fter his death (the exact date is disputed and is discussed below), a t­emple and cult w ­ ere established for him on the island. Although Heqaib is our most definitive example of apotheosis, ­because ­every marker of apotheosis is known for him—­including his explic­itly being called a god, nṯr, at a shrine built in his honor—­the nature of Heqaib’s divinity still remains debated among scholars. Some point to the fact that he never received a ḥwt-­nṯr ­temple, literally meaning “enclosure of the god” (Fischer 1965). However, many gods, such as Shu or Nephthys, did not have ḥwt-­nṯr ­temples, and their divinity is not questioned on that basis (Franke 1994, 134). Heqaib’s apotheosis and distinction are signified by (1) his identification as “god” in texts, (2) his inclusion in imakhu kher ( jmɜḫ.w ḫr) and hetep-­di-­nesut (ḥtp-­dj-­nswt) formulae, (3) a shrine built to celebrate his cult (referred to as both a ḥwt-­kȝ “ka-­ chapel” and kȝr “kar-­shrine”), and (4) evidence that priests ­were dedicated to the upkeep of his cult, which included participation in festivals. ­After detailing the archaeological and textual evidence in support of Heqaib’s deification,

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I pre­sent vari­ous scholars’ interpretations and argue that, like other dead who are discussed in chapter 5, Heqaib was distinguished from average dead, but I also assert that he was deified.

The ­Temple, Including Sarenput’s Stelae, as Evidence of Heqaib’s Apotheosis The t­ emple, also referred to as a “sanctuary” or “shrine,” of Heqaib abuts a major street lined with h ­ ouses and a large administrative building on Elephantine Island (see figure 1).2 It sits near to other divine t­emples, located to the north of both the Khnum ­temple and the Satet ­temple.3 The significance of the placement of Heqaib’s ­temple within the local lived and religious landscape of Elephantine is discussed below. Artifacts from the ­temple ­were first discovered through controlled and ­legal removal of sebakh in 1932.4 The importance of the finds was noted by chief inspector of southern Upper Egypt, Labib Habachi, in 1944, who began excavations of the mudbrick building in 1946. Since 1969, the German Institute for Archaeology has conducted research and excavations of the numerous sites on Elephantine Island. The fullest discussion of the ­temple of Heqaib is found in Detlef Franke’s 1994 monograph Das Heiligtum des Heqaib auf Elephantine: Geschichte eines Provinzheiligtums im Mittleren Reich, which is a thorough investigation of the ­temple, its history, and the related history of Heqaib’s deification. Additionally, a number of (relatively) recent articles are worthy of note, including Böwe’s 2004 article, which discusses phasing and who was active in the cults at the sanctuaries of Heqaib and Isi, and von Pilgrim’s 2006 article that similarly discusses the development of Heqaib’s t­ emple. The ­temple, as it stands, was built almost entirely by Sarenput I, with modifications added by Sarenput’s grand­son, Sarenput II, and unnamed other men identified as chief priests of the district (Habachi 1985, 1:158–59). Additional statues dedicated t­ here indicate continued building at the site through the reign of Senwosret I and into the reign of Amenemhat II ( Jiménez Serrano and Sánchez León 2015). Sarenput was a ḥɜtj-­ʿ, or “mayor,” of Elephantine during the reign of Twelfth-­Dynasty king Senwosret I. Sarenput I also erected, among other ­things, two large stelae (Habachi’s Stelae 9 and 10) that help in our understanding of the purpose of the ­temple. Sarenput calls the ­temple both a kȝr,“shrine,” and a ḥwt-­kȝ, that is, a chapel for the ka-­spirit. In general, ḥwt-­kȝ chapels ­were erected to honor the king, members of the royal ­family, and only rarely high officials, as is discussed in chapter 5 in the case of the governors of ‘Ain Asil (Legros 2010, 159). The term for shrine, kȝr, is known from the Old and M ­ iddle Kingdoms and refers specifically to the most inner,



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intimate part of the “­temple” (that is, a divine enclosure), more specifically the shrine, or naos, which often ­housed a statue or image of the god.5 Thus, while the construction of a ḥwt-­kȝ may indicate only privileged status and posthumous veneration, the construction of a kȝr to Heqaib unequivocally identifies him as a god. On Stela 9, Sarenput wrote that he built the t­emple and established for Heqaib divine offerings (mnḫ n nṯr ḥtp=f) so that “his god” Heqaib may welcome him and provide invocation offerings for the one who satisfies Heqaib, namely Sarenput. On this same stela, Sarenput describes erecting a stone shrine, a broad hall, sycamore trees, and a priestly ­house in honor of Heqaib. This was all done in accordance with the wishes of King Senwosret I, according to the text on Stela 10. Indeed, a chapel of Senwosret I was discovered in the foundations of l­ater ­temples on the island, proving that he had invested interest in the religious landscape of Elephantine. It is not known, however, for whom Senwosret’s chapel was built. The Heqaib ­temple is located between two ­Middle Kingdom residential zones t­ oward the east of the island, which is now by the modern museum of Elephantine (for a plan of M ­ iddle Kingdom Elephantine, see Eaton-­Krauss 1998, 13). The t­ emple was built along the same axis as the western residential quarter, integrating it spatially and visibly into Elephantine’s lived landscape. It sits to the immediate northwest of the Satet ­temple, and to the north of the presumed location—­based on its New Kingdom position—of the M ­ iddle Kingdom Khnum t­ emple (see also the plan of New Kingdom Elephantine in Eaton-­Krauss 1998, 15). Through its physical location, the ­temple was associated with the other t­ emples of the island, in what can be described as a sort of “religious zone.” It was placed alongside the other t­ emples, I assert, as an equal, a fact that is confirmed by texts that place Heqaib among the island’s other gods (Franke 1994, 140). Sandwiched between two residential zones and adjacent to the other prominent ­temples on the island, Heqaib’s ­temple was situated in a high-­traffic zone through which the inhabitants of the island would have passed on a not infrequent, even regular, basis. Thus, although the inscribed remains at Heqaib’s ­temple speak only of elite and royal donations, the t­ emple must also have been passed, if not visited, by the nonelite inhabitants and visitors of Elephantine. While exactly who participated in Heqaib’s cult may not be pos­si­ble to ascertain, it is clear that, at the very least, Heqaib’s ­temple, and thus his cult, ­were part of Elephantine’s vis­i­ble and lived religious landscape. Sarenput commented on Stela 9 that he built the ­temple anew, ­because the ­earlier incarnation of the ­temple was built “like that done by a foreigner,” and that the t­ emple built for Heqaib by Sarenput was better than all of t­ hose that preceded it (Habachi 1985, 1:158). This is compelling evidence to suggest that

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the ­temple existed e­ arlier in some form—­but when exactly? An Eleventh-­ Dynasty limestone lintel of King Nakhtnebtepnefer Intef III was discovered in 1946 at the t­ emple’s western entrance. The lintel refers to an e­ arlier building of a certain sah (sʿḥ) “noble,” but Heqaib is not referenced explic­itly: ms nfrw jr.n=f m mn=f n sʿḥ pn šp[s] [. . .] Begetter of goodness, he made as his monument to this august noble [. . .] Habachi, though, was convinced: “Being encountered in the sanctuary of Heqaib, ­there is no doubt that the latter is the one who is meant ­here by the words ‘this noble’ ” (1985, 1:111). The ­earlier building mentioned by King Nakhtnebtepnefer Intef III may, as Habachi suggests, have been built by his pre­ de­ces­sor, King Wahankh Intef II. Habachi comes to the conclusion that Intef II built the first sanctuary t­ here ­after considering Wahankh’s building activity elsewhere on the island and the fact that two of his statues w ­ ere discovered near Heqaib’s t­ emple. Habachi suggests that this could have been a po­liti­cal move. At the beginning of King Wahankh’s reign, he was in possession of only the southern five districts (or nomes) of Upper Egypt; the erection of a t­ emple dedicated to a local man/god of importance could have been a “gesture of good ­will” t­ oward the p­ eople of the cataract region (Habachi 1985, 1:160). The dating of a ­temple to Intef II, though, is not supported archaeologically and is circumstantial at best. I thus prefer to conservatively date the original sanctuary to the reign of Intef III, for which we have architectural evidence (assuming as Habachi does that the “noble” mentioned on this monument is indeed Heqaib). E ­ ither way, this would place the construction of a t­ emple for Heqaib right before the official unification of Egypt during the M ­ iddle Kingdom, within approximately a c­ entury of Heqaib’s death. By the Twelfth Dynasty, the shrine had become a destination for elite travelers and, as such, kings appropriated this growing locus of importance as evinced by Sarenput’s stelae (Franke 1994, 90–98). The popularity of the shrine as a locus for cultic engagement and elite memorialization waned over time, with evidence tapering off by the beginning of the Seventeenth Dynasty (Böwe 2004, 16). However, according to Friedrich Junge, the veneration of Heqaib may have occurred even ­earlier, in the Sixth Dynasty, at a dif­fer­ent shrine, which may have been located at his home or office (1976, 98; Kaiser et al. 1976; Eaton-­ Krauss 1998, 43). Junge argues that a Sixth-­Dynasty wooden relief (a Holzrelief) depicting offering ­bearers was discovered in a ­house likely inhabited by Heqaib, which was ­later used for his cult (1976, 107).6 The lack of an explicit reference to Heqaib, though, has led David O’Connor to suggest that the site



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was instead a ka-­chapel for some other Old Kingdom official (whom O’Connor has not identified) and was associated with the precursor to the Khnum ­temple (1992, 94–95). I am not entirely convinced by O’Connor’s argument h ­ ere. I do find Junge’s arguments persuasive, though neither Junge nor O’Connor is entirely convincing, since the evidence h ­ ere is scant and difficult to interpret ­either way. Junge does, however, raise an impor­tant point: the veneration of Heqaib could have, and likely did, begin before the construction of a ­temple. This ­earlier dating for the origin of the veneration of Heqaib is supported by the construction of a cult hall at Qubbet el-­Hawa to the north of his tomb by his son Sabni, which was also excavated by Habachi (see Habachi 1981, 1985). The hall intersects with Heqaib’s tomb and invokes him in the decoration, making it clear that the hall was dedicated to Heqaib (Böwe 2004, 15). This hall led Habachi to conclude that Heqaib was “of some repute as a deity” very soon ­after his death (1985, 1:161). The hall was fronted by an open courtyard within which numerous devotees w ­ ere buried (Habachi 1981, 14). Speaking specifically about ­family burials, Juan Carlos Moreno García notes the importance of group burials as a way to build cohesion and to emphasize par­tic­u­lar values across generations (2006, 216). I think he would agree that this similarly could be applied to extrafamilial group burials, such as ­those noted in Heqaib’s courtyard. In this instance, the values being articulated and maintained would be Heqaib’s esteemed posthumous status. The hall was likely the original locus of Heqaib’s worship, which grew from his mortuary cult, and perhaps where he was first positioned locally as a “distinguished” dead. Indeed, Habachi won­ders if “perhaps a­ fter this court was totally occupied, his h ­ ouse on Elephantine was used for a similar purpose” before his t­emple was built in the Eleventh or Twelfth Dynasty (1985, 1:160). Thus, the evidence suggests the following narrative: Heqaib was revered as a distinguished dead upon his death in the Sixth Dynasty. His veneration grew in importance ­until, at some point in the First Intermediate Period during the reign of Intef III, he was raised to the status of a god. Evidence for priests in the ser­vice of Heqaib also comes primarily from Sarenput’s stelae. Stela 10 addresses the priests directly: “Oh wab-­priests of the prince Heqaib . . . ​a god is not ignorant of the one who sustains him” (Habachi 1985, 2:38, lines 9–12). Franke points out that while ­there are no existing documents written by individuals identifying themselves as priests of Heqaib, ­there is a room in his t­emple called a “chamber for the wab-­priests,” which was likely a sort of sacristy (1994, 134). Thus, by the reign of Senwosret I, ­there was also an established priesthood for Heqaib’s divinized form.

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Formulaic Evidence of Heqaib’s Apotheosis Heqaib’s divine status can also be inferred from his invocation as a god as part of a hetep-­di-­nesut (ḥtp-­dj-­nswt) formula. This offering formula typically named a god, or group of gods, who, together with the king, provided an offering to a named recipient (see discussion in chapter 4). Heqaib is invoked as part of this formula on an altar and pedestal of a certain Amenemhet, son of Sattjeni, whom Habachi deduces must have lived near the end of the Twelfth Dynasty based on the location of his monuments and his ­family tree (1985, 1:60). The sandstone altar (Habachi, object no. 34) and the pedestal (Habachi, object no. 35) both read: ḥtp-­dj-­nswt jrj-­pʿt ḥkȝ-­jb An offering that the king and the member of the elite, Heqaib, have given (Habachi 1985, 2:59, figs. 8a, 9a). Heqaib’s identification as a god in this construction is strengthened by the fact that the altar has two nearly identical hetep-­di-­nesut formula inscriptions: one that invokes Heqaib and a second that invokes the god Osiris in parallel construction. This construction is seen again on the Thirteenth-­Dynasty shrine of Imeni-­Iatu, son of Nebu-aa (Habachi 1985, 2:63, figs. 1f–­g), though in this instance the text reads: “An offering that the king and the member of the elite, Heqaib, justified [mȝʿ ḫrw], have given.” Another Thirteenth-­Dynasty monument, a stela of the controller of the hall, Senebhenaef, similarly invokes Heqaib in this offering formula construction, though this time Heqaib is invoked as part of a local group of gods: “An offering that the king, [Satet] lady of Elephantine, Anukis preeminent in Nubia, Khnum lord of the cataract region, and the member of the elite and noble [šps] Heqaib have given” (Habachi 1985, 2:69, no. 43, fig. 5a, lines 1–2). Heqaib is invoked again in this formula as ḥqȝ-­jb šps (the noble Heqaib) on the stela of the king’s acquaintance, Nebankh (Habachi 1985, 2:70, no. 44). To summarize, Heqaib was included, on five occasions, in hetep-­di-­nesut offering formulae, both alone and alongside the other local gods of Elephantine.

Identification as nṯr as Evidence of Heqaib’s Apotheosis The most convincing evidence in support of Heqaib’s divine status is the fact that he was referred to explic­itly as nṯr, netjer, “god.” ­There are at least seven examples in which Heqaib is e­ ither directly or indirectly referred to as a god, each of which is addressed below. The first four of ­these examples are located on the shrine of Heqaib erected by Sarenput I (Habachi 1985, 2: artifact no. 2, plates 12–16). Two examples



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come from the facade of Heqaib’s shrine (Habachi 1985, 2:29, fig. 3a), while two additional examples are known from the back wall of his shrine (Habachi 1985, 2:30, fig. 3e). For examples 1 and 2 the pertinent parts of the facade of Heqaib’s shrine (lines 2–4, 6) are transcribed and translated ­here. 2/ zȝ=f mry=f hȝtj-­ʿ jmj-­r ḥm-­nṯr zȝ-­r npt ḏd: His beloved son, mayor, overseer of the priests, Sarenput, saying: jnk qd ḥwt-­kȝ nt jrj-­pʿt ḥqȝ-jb m-­ḫt 3/ gm(=j) st wȝs.tj wrt I am the one who built the ka-­chapel for the member of the elite, Heqaib, ­after I found it greatly ruined, qd n=f kȝr m jnr ʿȝ.wy jrj m ʿš n ḫnt š jnjn ḥr wȝt=s nbt m 4/ ḫȝ r sntt dpt building for him a shrine in stone, the doors being cedar of Lebanon sawed on all its sides in excess of the first plan. jrj.n(=j) n=f ḥȝ m jmn(y)t m prt-­ḫrw nt rʿ nb I made for him an excess of daily offerings and of invocation offerings ­every day, jrj.n(=j) n=f ḥȝ m ḥb(y)t r gm.t.n(=j) jr and I made for him an excess of festival offerings more than that which I found had been done. smnḫ.n(=j) ḥtp-­nṯr=f I established his divine offerings. . . . 6/ jw jrj.n(=j) ʿȝ=f ʿȝ m kȝt mnḫ ḏd=f I have made his ­g reat door through work excellently (so that) he would say jj.w n jrj sw prt-­ḫrw m mȝʿ-­ḫrw m wḏ.t nṯr=f njwt.j ḥȝtj-­ʿ jmj-­r zȝ-­r npwt welcome to the one who made it and an invocation offering in justification by the command of his local god, namely the mayor, overseer, Sarenput. 1. At the end of the inner line (line 4) of the right-­hand jamb of the façade of Heqaib’s shrine, Heqaib is indirectly referred to as a god in that his offerings are described as “his divine offerings.” Habachi aptly notes that “­here Heqaib is referred to as a god promising an invocation offering to Sarenput; such offerings are usually granted by kings or gods” (1985, 1:28).

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smnḫ.n(=j) ḥtp-­nṯr=f I established his divine offerings. 2. On the outer line (line 6) of the left-­hand jamb of the facade of Heqaib’s shrine, Heqaib is referred to as a “local god.” wḏ.t nṯr=f njwt.j By the command of his local god. For examples 3 and 4, on the outer face of the back wall of Heqaib’s shrine (Habachi 1985, 2:30, fig. 3e), the entirety of the text is transcribed and translated ­here. 1/ ḥtp-[dj]-­nswt jnpw dp ḏw=f jmj wt nb tȝ-­ḏsr An offering given of the king and Anubis atop his mountain, who is in the wrappings, lord of the necropolis dj=f prt-­ḫrw t ḥnqt 2/ kȝw ȝpdw giving an invocation offering of bread and beer, (2) oxen, and birds, ḫȝ [m šsr] ḫȝ mnḫt ḫȝ m ḥtp-­nṯr ḫt nbt nfr wʿb ʿnḫ.t 3/ nṯr jm a thousand linen and a thousand cloth (pieces), and a thousand of the god’s offerings, and all good and pure t­ hings (3) upon which a god lives n jrj-­pʿt ḥȝtj-­ʿ ḫtm(t)j bjtj smr wʿt ẖry-­ḥbt [. . .] for the member of the elite, mayor, royal seal ­bearer, sole companion, lector priest 4/ jmj-­r ḫȝswt nbt jmj-­r ȝʿʿ.w ḥr štȝw n dp-­šmʿ 5/ ḥqȝ-jb mȝʿ-­ḫrw (4) overseer of all foreign lands, overseer of t­hose who speak foreign languages, and over the secrets of the head of Upper Egypt, (5) Heqaib, justified 6/ ḥȝtj-­ʿ jmj-­r ḥm-­nṯr zȝ-­r npwt ḏd (6) the mayor and overseer of the priest, Sarenput, says: mȝ m ḥr=k jrj.t.n(=j) n=k See with your own face, that which I have done for you 7/ jmj jrj nṯr n jrj n=f (7) May a god act for the one who acted for him. swȝḥ=k rnpwt=j dp tȝ smȝʿ-­ḫrw m ḫrt-­nṯr May you make my years last upon earth, and cause that my voice be made true in the necropolis.



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3. In lines 2–3 of the text on the back wall of the shrine above the seated figure of Heqaib ­there is an offering list in which the god’s offerings, what Habachi refers to as the “god’s revenues,” are included. Additionally, the offerings are described as ­things that make a god live, meaning the recipient of the offerings. The recipient is clearly Heqaib, who is explic­itly invoked ­later in the text. ḫȝ m ḥtp-­nṯr ḫt nbt nfr wʿb ʿnḫ.t nṯr jm a thousand of the god’s offerings, and all good and pure ­things upon which a god lives 4. Also on the back wall of the shrine, in line 7, above the seated figure of Heqaib, Heqaib is petitioned to act for the one who acted for his god, namely Sarenput. Again, the god in reference ­here can only be Heqaib from the context. jmj jrj nṯr n jrj n=f May a god act for the one who acted for him. Example 5 is a granite statue of Sarenput I (Habachi, object no. 3) erected in the shrine of Sarenput I at the Heqaib ­temple, with an explicit reference to Heqaib as a god. 5. On the left side of the statue (Habachi 1985, 2:31, fig. 4c) is an inscription identifying Sarenput as honored by his local god, who, Habachi correctly argues, is likely Heqaib, due to the “­g reat consideration of Sarenput for the deified Heqaib” and the statue’s location within a shrine dedicated to Heqaib in his divine form (1985, 1:31). jmɜḫ.w ḫr nṯr =f njwt.j ḥqȝ n ȝbw zȝ-­r[n]pwt Honored before his local god (is) the ruler of Elephantine, Sarenput. Examples 6 and 7 are the four large sandstone stelae erected by Sarenput I (Habachi, objects no. 7–10). 6. On Sarenput I’s “Stela 9” he writes that he established a shrine for Heqaib and threatens against ­those who might steal food from the statue, that their god (Heqaib) ­will not accept the “white bread” (Habachi 1985, 2:36, fig. 3, line 24). nn šsp nṯr=f ḥḏ=f j(w)=f n ḥɜt His god ­will not accept his bread; it ­will be to fire.

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7. On Sarenput I’s “Stela 10” he addresses the wab-­priests of Heqaib, encouraging their continued work by ensuring that the god Heqaib is not ignorant of the one who does work for him and that Heqaib ­will repay them (Habachi 1985, 2:38, fig. 4, line 12). j wʿb nw 10/ jrj-­pʿt ḥqɜ-jb mr sʿḥ pn mr.t ȝḫ n=f Oh wab-­priests of the member of the elite, Heqaib, this sah-­noble man likes that which one that is useful to him likes jmɜ-jb srd 11/ pr=f and is merciful to the one who makes his ­house built. ḥtp-­jb=f m jrj. ṯn n=f His mind becomes content when you act for him m-­ḫt js ḥtp sḥtp sw for ­after the one who contents him goes to rest 12/ ḏbʿ=f wšb=f ḏdt He ­will repay his response in the necropolis. nj ḫm.n nṯr sḫpr sw A god is not ignorant of the one who sustains him It is clear from the context of this text that the “god” in reference h ­ ere is Heqaib. Heqaib is, altogether, referred to as a god, both indirectly and directly, in at least seven instances on three monuments.

A Discussion of the Nature of Heqaib’s Divinity Despite the seemingly abundant evidence in support of Heqaib’s apotheosis, some scholars, such as Hans Goedicke, argue that we cannot speak of a deified Heqaib.7 More recent scholarship, however, points to Heqaib as the earliest example of apotheosis (see von Lieven 2010). It is worth noting that Habachi was also convinced of Heqaib’s divinity. He suggests that the ­temple (or sanctuary) of Heqaib “stood side by side with the ­g reat t­ emple of Satis [Satet], the main goddess of the island of Elephantine” and that Heqaib was not a saint or demigod, but a god (1985, 1:165). Habachi explains: The fact that individuals w ­ ere described as beloved of Heqaib or “honored by Heqaib” shows that he was popu­lar with some p­ eople. But being invoked alone or with other gods by other persons and having had in



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his Sanctuary wab-­priests are facts which show clearly that some, at any rate, of the attributes of a divinity ­were ascribed to him. (1985, 1:163) Franke believes that the worship of Heqaib grew directly out of an elaborate mortuary cult initiated by his son Sabni (1994, 118). Habachi, however, argues that the worship of Heqaib grew from his fame as a military leader who achieved ­g reat age: It therefore seems beyond a doubt that Heqaib, who had acquired ­g reat fame, both as a soldier and administrator, attained such an old age that he was regarded as being especially loved and estimated [sic] by the gods, and even as somewhat partaking of their divine nature, so that, when he died, he was elevated to their com­pany and became an object of worship and prayer. (1985, 1:162) Furthermore, Habachi makes reference to a ­Middle Kingdom offering ­table on which Heqaib is addressed by the rare title “warrior,” jḥȝwtj (1981, 16). Although Heqaib was described as a leader in his tomb, t­here is no extant evidence for him being called a jḥȝwtj ­until the ­Middle Kingdom. Franke identifies three aspects associated with divine attribution: cult, ­temple, and priests (­these three aspects overlap with my framework established in chapter 4). He acknowledges that t­ hese variables are not real criteria by which to answer the question “god or not god” ­because we know of gods who have neither a cult nor t­ emple, but, due to their involvement in “mythological constellations,” no one doubts their identification (Franke 1994, 134). So, while ­these variables (cult, t­ emple, priesthood) are not definitive qualifiers of a god, he suggests that they can be used to argue for divinity in uncertain circumstances. He also refers to ­these variables ­because other scholars, such as Henry George Fischer (1965), have argued that ­these are, in fact, markers of divinity. As discussed in chapter 4, I believe ­these markers communicate divinity, but I do not suggest that all gods must possess all markers to be a god. I have addressed above the fact that priests of Heqaib are mentioned in texts, though no documentation by ­these priests has been discovered (the aspect of priesthood). The cult of Heqaib, at his ­temple, was undoubtedly being carried out by Sarenput (the aspect of cult) and the ritual actions associated with a divine cult are easily identified (Franke 1994, 134). Franke nuances this, though, by arguing that Sarenput understood his actions as an expression of filial duty (1994, 135). The suggestion that we, as scholars, can read how Sarenput understood his actions introduces prob­lems of interpretation. Clarity on this point comes from more clearly identifying the “space” in which Heqaib’s

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veneration was occurring, since the cult took place in a “special” space delineated from the profane space of the settlement. This sacred space, or sanctuary (what I have referred to throughout as his ­temple), is referred to as a ḥwt-­kȝ or kȝr, but never is the space called a ḥwt-­nṯr, which is the term Fischer argues is necessary for a space to be considered the locus of a divine cult (1965, 52). H ­ ere I agree with Fischer, that a ḥwt-­kȝ is not in itself a chapel for a deified figure, but rather a chapel to celebrate distinguished dead and at times the king. The t­ emple of Heqaib is also, however, referred to by the term kȝr, upon Sarenput’s stelae and the shrine itself. The term kȝr very explic­itly referred to a divine shrine, or naos, at that time, and contemporaneous texts suggest the typical use of this term was to refer to divine shrines within ­temples. For example, a stela of Ichernofret from Abydos reads: msj(.w) nṯr.w jmj-­ḫt=f jrj(.w) kȝr.w=sn m-­mȝwt dj.n=j [. . .] wnwt-­ ḥwt-­nṯr r jrj.t jr.t=sn The images of the gods who are in his following ­were made, and their shrines ­were made anew. I gave the hour priests of the ­temple [instructions] with re­spect to their tasks. (Porter and Moss 1964, 5:97; Urk., 2:70–71)8 In this excerpt, the kȝr-­shrine is associated with a ḥwt-­nṯr ­temple. That is not to say, however, that this term is exclusive to divine t­ emples, but it is exclusive to sanctuaries. ­There is a single example from the ­Middle Kingdom, in which a kȝr-­shrine is described as being pre­sent in a “special room” of a tomb. This is known from a text in Beni Hasan Tomb 3, the tomb of Khnumhotep (Porter and Moss 1964, 4:148; Newberry 1893, pl. 25–26). In the text, in lines 203– 4, the author (Khnumhotep’s son) claims to have built a ­g reat door for: kȝr n ʿt šps.t ntt m-­ẖnw jz pn The kar-­shrine of the special room which is in the interior of this tomb. Even with this example, it seems suggestive that this term refers to a naos, or a locus of ritual practice. The purpose of this shrine in a tomb is unclear. This could be an ave­nue for ­f uture research, as it could indicate a new form of local religious practice. Franke suggests that the posthumous status of Heqaib (and Isi) can be best compared to that of a saint, which he identifies by the terms agios and sanctus: “Man kann Heqaibs und Isi postumen Status mit dem eines ‘Heiligen’ (Agios, Sanctus) vergleichen” (1994, 139). He further clarifies that he is following H. Delehaye’s definition of “saint,” which describes a saint as a servant of god who is the object of public worship, and suggests that Heqaib was firmly rooted in the world of the sacred and was set apart from the average revered



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dead (1994, 136, 139).9 Franke highlights that the depictions of Heqaib at his ­temple do not help make his identification much clearer: he is not depicted in obvious divine garb, but he is distinguished by his short, straight “divine” beard and large scale (1994, 135). Heqaib is also beloved (mrj), praised (ḥzj), and is distinguished in his invocation as part of formulae (e.g., imakhu kher) reserved for kings and distinguished dead. Despite characterizing Heqaib as a “saint,” Franke points out that the scenes of Sarenput offering to Heqaib are paralleled in divine t­ emples and are not seen elsewhere in the graves or chapels of high officials (1994, 136). Franke also makes reference to the theophoric names, such as “Heqaib is g­ reat” (ḥqȝ-­jb-­ʿȝ), that invoke Heqaib in contexts typically expected of gods. Franke suggests, then, that while Heqaib started off as a revered dead, he became a god in the Twelfth to Thirteenth Dynasties and was associated with the specific ability of mediation. Franke parallels this with other gods who are also known for specific functions, such as fertility or healing. Heqaib’s origin in the ­human world, though, is never denied and, in fact, remained significant and apparent. Franke concludes that Heqaib’s worship was ­limited to the t­ emple on Elephantine, making him a “city god” alongside the triad of Khnum, Satet and Anuket—an assertion supported by the epigraphic evidence that clearly identifies Heqaib as a “local god” (1994, 140). However, while Heqaib may have been a “local” god, ­there is evidence that travelers (i.e., nonlocals) s­ topped by Heqaib’s t­ emple (Böwe 2004). Additionally, the royal sponsorship of monumental building at Heqaib’s t­emple indicates that the cult of Heqaib was eventually recognized by the state and was included within the national pantheon. In addition to the possibility of apotheosis, some scholars, such as John Baines, have suggested alternative notions explaining Heqaib’s elevated status. Baines argues that if any sort of deification existed it was certainly restricted to high, elite culture, and the phenomenon is perhaps better understood as evidence for “role models” or “cultural heroes” (1987, 82; 1991, 158f ). He suggests we understand ­these cults as “prolonging into the next life the elite professional and institutional sphere of this life” (1991, 159). Indeed, Franke similarly suggests that the invocation of dead men of “marked” status in offering formulae is initially nothing more than the transfer of the relationship between patron and follower into the Hereafter (1994, 133). To the contrary, the local prominence and visibility of Heqaib’s ­temple indicates, however, that Heqaib’s cult was not exclusive to elite culture or to t­ hose who benefited from Heqaib’s patronage.

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Arguments in Support of Heqaib’s Apotheosis What might have started as a funerary cult performed by a son for his f­ ather was quickly elaborated and exaggerated through the erection of a cultic hall near Heqaib’s tomb. “Popu­lar” participation—or at least participation that exceeded clear familial networks—is evinced by the numerous burials at this cultic hall and the continued decoration of the hall’s interior (Habachi 1981, 14). Heqaib’s tomb and affiliated hall became a nucleus around which certain ­people of Elephantine chose to associate. Burial shafts lining the interior of the hall ­were discovered empty, but a false door decoration above one of the shafts indicates that they may have been used or ­were intended for use (14). Furthermore, the courtyard fronting the hall was “honeycombed” with tombs dating to the late Old Kingdom through First Intermediate Period, suggesting clustering akin to Kagemni (14–15). The interior of his hall shows multiple stages of decoration, suggesting “that such repre­sen­ta­tions seem to have been carved over a relatively long period,” which would indicate an elongated period of veneration (14). In his tomb and hall, which might be called a sort of mortuary t­ emple, Heqaib is depicted in relatively large scale and is identified by his earthly titles. He is referred to h ­ ere as akh, but not yet netjer. Scenes are carved within the cultic hall depicting ­bearers presenting offerings to the august Heqaib. He received ­g reat attention and was remembered as an efficacious mediator, evinced by the numerous associated secondary burials around his tomb. The presence of a concurrent shrine dedicated to Heqaib in a h ­ ouse on Elephantine Island remains unsubstantiated. Undoubtedly, by the reign of Intef III, a sanctuary (ḥwt-­kȝ, or kȝr) was built on Elephantine dedicated to Heqaib. Since this construction was a royal act, it is presumed that veneration of Heqaib existed in some localized form on the island prior. During the reign of Senwosret I, Sarenput rebuilt the ­temple. It is from this period onward that Heqaib is explic­itly identified as nṯr, a “god,” and priests seem to have been active in his ser­vice. ­There is g­ reat debate as to what “type” of god Heqaib was—­was he a demigod, a “true” god, an intercessor, or a saint who was effective among the gods? Heqaib was called “god” on several occasions, a ­temple was built in his honor, he was invoked in theophoric names and in the ḥtp-­dj-­nswt formula, and evidence points to the existence of a priesthood dedicated to his cult. Thus, ­there is no reason not to consider Heqaib a bona fide Egyptian god. Surely not a god as popu­lar and decidedly power­f ul as Amun or Re, but a god nevertheless; perhaps best identified as a “local god.”



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The Case of Isi Contemporaneous with Heqaib’s apotheosis was Isi’s deification. Active engagement with Isi’s cult continued through the Second Intermediate Period (Farout 2007, 2009). Isi (also Izi) served as an official of Edfu, spanning the reigns of King Djedkare Izezi of the Fifth Dynasty and King Teti of the Sixth Dynasty. Isi carried many administrative titles: jrj pʿt, ḥȝtj-­ʿ, ḥrj-­dp ʿȝ n spȝt, sẖȝ, zȝb, ḥrj-dp nswt.10 Additionally, at some point e­ ither late in his c­ areer (­under Teti or Pepi I) or even posthumously (following Franke 1994, 136), Isi was given the impor­tant title of tjaty, ṯɜtj, commonly translated as “vizier.” Isi’s tomb is the primary locus from which evidence of his deification is known. The mastaba of Isi was excavated in 1933 by Maurice Alliot and documentation published in 1935 in his FIFAO Rapport sur le Fouilles de Tell Edfou. The publication about Isi’s tomb was followed by an article in the Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale (Alliot 1937), which discusses the evidence for Isi’s apotheosis. Alliot’s excavation focused on the superstructure of Isi’s tomb, with a Franco-­Polish team finishing the excavation of the burial shafts beginning in 1937 (Michalowski et al. 1950). Currently a proj­ect directed by Nadine Moeller is focusing on the Tell Edfu Old Kingdom settlement (Moeller 2013). A number of objects discovered at Isi’s tomb, which date to the ­Middle Kingdom, bear inscriptions that invoke Isi as nṯr ʿnḫ, a “living god,” providing evidence of his deification. The clearest evidence for Isi’s apotheosis is his identification as a “living god,” a netjer-­ankh (nṯr ʿnḫ), on a number of ­Middle Kingdom monuments erected ­after the construction of his tomb. It is worth noting that, unlike Heqaib, Isi did not have a shrine built in his honor separate from his tomb. Instead, his tomb became the locus for his divine cult, similar to what is presumed for Wahka. Furthermore, Isi is not associated with a priesthood, but he is very clearly invoked as a “living god,” leaving no doubt as to his apotheosis, despite the noticeable lack of other markers of deification. Alliot suggests the cult was restricted to the region of Edfu, though he highlights that Isi’s cult was public and the acts of devotion ­were the same as ­those intended for “real” (veritables) gods (1937, 139). Marcel Marée, however, provides convincing evidence that could suggest the cult of Isi was at least known outside of Edfu. Marée asserts that t­ here is “no doubt” that a stela (Warsaw 141265), which was discovered at Isi’s mastaba and invoked his deified form by a man also named Isi, originated from a “well-­attested” Abydene workshop (2009, 38). He also links this workshop to an altar commissioned for the cult of Heqaib at Elephantine (2009, 39). Thus, Isi’s cult was known at least as far as Abydos (figure 2).

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In the inner rooms of Isi’s mastaba, a number of objects w ­ ere found: twenty-­ two stelae, four offering t­ables, one statue, a three-­slab naos, a fragment of a second naos, and two door jambs of a chapel (Alliot 1937, 136, no. 1). Many of ­these explic­itly invoke Isi, and are described below, but some do not. ­Because ­these objects are damaged, Alliot suggests that in their original forms Isi’s name might have been pre­sent (1937, 136). However, it is also worth considering another possibility: the tomb of Isi could have become increasingly popu­lar as an effective place of communication with the divine Hereafter. For example, some Letters to the Dead would have been buried or interred close to the intended recipient(s), but not necessarily in their tomb, ­because the act of burial and the association of the tomb was enough to enhance its communicative abilities (Troche 2018a). As a “living god,” Isi was particularly accessible to the local community, and his tomb was recognized as a liminal, sacred space in which the divine realm could be easily reached—­similar to what was happening contemporaneously at t­emples. This would explain why a number of artifacts ­were deposited h ­ ere and dedicated to other gods in addition to the deified Isi.

Epigraphic Evidence of Isi’s Apotheosis ­ hose artifacts that include a reference to Isi are numerous. Isi is primarily inT voked as a “living god,” nṯr ʿnḫ, in inscriptions as part of a hetep-­di-­nesut (ḥtp-­ dj-­nswt) offering formula, as indicated in ­table 4. He is invoked by himself, but ­Table 4.  Known attestations of Isi’s epithet nṯr ʿnḫ OBJECT

INVOCATION

REFERENCE

Statue of nb-­jt

ḥtp-­dj-­nswt Isi nṯr ʿnḫ (x2)

Alliot (1937), text no. 6

Offering ­table of nb-­jt

mrj Isi sjḥ ṯȝtj nṯr ʿnḫ mȝʿ ḫrw

Alliot (1937), text no. 7

Stela of ḥr-­ . . . ​

ḥtp-­dj-­nswt Isi nṯr ʿnḫ

Alliot (1937), text no. 11

Stela of ḥr-­ʿȝ and ḥr-­ḥtp

ḥtp-­dj-­nswt Isi sʿḥ ṯȝtj Is(i) nṯr ʿnḫ

Alliot (1937), text no. 13

Stela of Wsr-­ḥȝtjw

wnnj m šm n ḥr Isi nṯr ʿnḫ

Alliot (1937), text no. 14

Stela of ḥr-­ʿȝ

ḥtp-­dj-­nswt Wsir nb ḏdw nṯr [ʿȝ] n [ȝbḏw Isi nṯr] ʿnḫ

Alliot (1937), text no. 17

Slab (left) of naos of ḥr -­ ʿȝ

ḥtp-­di-­nswt Isi sʿḥ ṯȝtj Isi nṯr ʿnḫ

Alliot (1937), text no. 30

Slab (left) of naos of ḥr -­ʿȝ

ḥtp-­di-­nswt Isi sʿḥ ṯȝtj Is(i) nṯr ʿnḫ

Alliot (1937), text no. 30

Slab (right) of naos of ḥr -­ʿȝ

ḥtp-­di-­nswt Isi sʿḥ ṯȝtj Is(i) nṯr ʿnḫ (x2)

Alliot (1937), text no. 30

Offering ­table of jb-­jʿ

ḥtp-­di-­nswt Isi nṯr ʿnḫ

Alliot (1937), text no. 34

Stela of Mesu

[1] ḥtp-­di-­nswt ḥr-­bḥd.ti Wsir [2] nb-­ḏd(w) {nṯr} Isi < nṯr > ʿnḫ

JE 46786

Stela of Iuf

[1] ḥtp-­dj-[nswt] ḥr-­bḥd.tj Wsjr nb-­ḏd(w) [2] nṯr ʿȝ nb pt {nṯr} Isi

JE 63949



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also with Horus, patron god of Edfu, and Osiris. In the two instances in which Isi is not invoked in this offering formula, he is described as a god who loves the owner of an offering t­ able and as a god in whose following is the owner of a certain stela. As noted in ­table 4, Isi is invoked fourteen times as a “living god” on ten monuments commissioned by at least six dif­fer­ent ­people, dating from the Twelfth through the Thirteenth Dynasties.11 Additionally, t­here are two examples that are not very clear, but may invoke Isi as a god. For example, in Alliot’s Text no. 22 the phrase “living god” is clear, but the name “Isi” is not (Alliot 1937, 109). In Alliot’s Text no. 31, which Alliot questionably identifies as a wall fragment, the name Isi is inscribed, but it is unclear in what context—­ whether as an invocation of the god Isi, part of a theophoric name, or part of a personal name (see “Onomastic Evidence” below). Isi’s identification as a god is further solidified by the seated divine figure pre­sent ­after the epithet “living god” in one instance (Statue of Nebit, Alliot, Text no. 6). The inscription on an offering t­ able (Alliot, Text no. 7) of the same man, Nebit, similarly invokes Isi as a “living god” and a sjḥ, which is a confirmed by the Wörterbuch (that is the dictionary of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs), to be an alternative variant of sah (sʿḥ) “dignitary, noble,” (Alliot 1937, 13, no. 2; Wb, 3:40). Notably, Alliot translates this as “saint.” Marée, however, more plausibly suggests that this translation is “overly specific” (2009, 35), pointing to instances in which the phrase is used in reference to a collective of nobles without any indication of their other­wise being deified. What the term sah does clearly indicate is an individual of elevated status, which is appropriate for someone who is being marked as divine, but not necessarily a marker of that divinity. Alliot again translates sah as “saint” in his Text no. 9 (Warsaw 141264), which dates to the late Eleventh or Twelfth Dynasty (1937, 130). Though this stela was discovered in the chapel of Isi’s mastaba, the phrase is not enough to include it as evidence of Isi’s deification, though its provenance does suggest that Isi was exalted as an individual of elevated status ­after his death, perhaps by the late Eleventh Dynasty. In ­either case, it is pos­si­ble that this stela provides evidence for the gradual growth of Isi’s cult. In three instances, Isi is invoked in an offering formula with other gods. Upon the stela of Hor-aa he is invoked in the second position, following Osiris in the first position, with a fully articulated epithet. The stela of Mesu ( JE 46786), dating to e­ ither the Thirteenth or Seventeenth Dynasty, invokes Isi as part of an offering formula that also includes Horus of Behdet and Osiris, lord of Abydos, in the first and second positions, with Isi coming last (Engelbach 1921, 65–66). The stela of Iuf, of uncertain date,12 includes a nearly identical invocation of Isi as part of a larger offering formula additionally calling upon

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Horus Behdet and Osiris, “lord of Abydos, ­g reat god, lord of the sky” (Engelbach 1922, 114–15). Interestingly, Isi can be invoked alone, but when clustered with other gods, he always takes the final, and most subordinate, position. To be fair, he is only ever clustered with Horus, the local patron city god, and Osiris, for whom an im­mense cult at Abydos existed. Thus, it may speak more to his elevated status that he is allowed to be included alongside ­these two prominent gods.

Onomastic Evidence of Isi’s Apotheosis Onomastics provide the second line of evidence for Isi’s deification. As discussed in chapters 4 and 6, names that invoke gods are known as theophoric names, and in ancient Egypt they followed strict rules. Thus, when a name shows up in the place where a god’s name is meant, it is evidence that the individual being invoked is understood to be a god. The personal name Isi is known elsewhere from the Old Kingdom—­for example, Stockholm Stela 29 (Lieblein 1871, 23). All attestations indicate that Isi was a common private person’s name and was not associated with any deity at Edfu (Engelbach 1922, 137). Additionally, the personal name Isi is known from at least four sources that are roughly contemporaneous with the deification of Isi of Edfu: a M ­ iddle Kingdom Wadi Hammamat inscription (Couyat 1912, 64–66); a stela dating to the reign of Sobekhotep IV (Alliot 1935, 19); a Thirteenth-­Dynasty statue from the cemetery at Edfu now in the Louvre (E 14330) (Delange 1987, 72–75); and an unprovenanced Second Intermediate Period stela known from a private collection (Engelbach 1922, 122–23). In the case of Djedi (see chapter 6), Fischer had argued that theophoric names invoking Djedi ­were invoking not the man Djedi, but a god whose name was similar (1965). A similar argument cannot be made in relation to Isi, as it is clear from the evidence presented h ­ ere that the name Isi was a common private name, and ­there was no (other) god known by this name or a similar name. Thus, when invoked in theophoric name constructions, the indication is that someone named Isi was considered to be a god. Since the monuments on which t­ hese names are found largely cluster around a single Isi’s tomb, it is logical to presume that the deified Isi mentioned in the names is the same Isi of the tomb at Edfu. On the right-­side slab of the above-­mentioned stela of Hor-aa, we see written the name of a “justified” man called “Isi-­n-­pr,” which Alliot identifies as an example of a theophoric name using the name of the god Isi (1937, 113, no. 5).13 This construction, though, is not included in Günter Vittmann’s list of theophoric naming patterns, but it is also very rare and I do not know of



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another name that follows this pattern exactly (Vittmann 2013b). Thus, ­whether this is a theophoric name remains unclear. Certainly, it invokes Isi and speaks to his local fame. T ­ here are two names, though, that clearly invoke Isi in theophoric patterns: zȝt-­Isi, and Isi-­nṯr. The name zȝt-­Isi follows Vittmann’s theophoric pattern number six (Vittmann 2013b, 4).14 Indeed, Engelbach also includes it in his discussion of such names (1922, 137). The reading of the second theophoric name that invokes Isi is unclear: the name is “Isi-­nṯr” or “nṯr-­ Isi” (Ranke 1935, 1:46, no. 8; 2:344, no. 46,8). This name could be understood in a number of ways, all of which suggest some sort of divine association: (1) as an A-­B nominal sentence, “Isi is (a/the) god” or “The god is Isi”; (2) as an apposition, “The god, Isi”; (3) as an adjectival sentence, “Isi is divine.” In any case, zȝt-­Isi and Isi-­nṯr are both definitive examples of theophoric names invoking Isi in his divinized form.

A Discussion of the Nature of Isi’s Divinity as a Living God, nṯr ʿnḫ It is worth noting that Isi is consistently referred to as a netjer-­ankh (nṯr ʿnḫ), “living god,” whereas Heqaib is typically referred to as simply a “god” or “local god” in his t­ emple inscriptions. This prompts the question—is this distinction theologically and/or philosophically meaningful? I can postulate two reasons for the ascription of the title “living god” to Isi: (1) This was a reflex of the par­tic­ul­ar cultural milieu of Edfu at this time. Isi was at some point described or i­magined as a “living god,” and this term became embedded in cultural memory to the point where it would be exclusively used as his epithet. While this may have originated in a theological articulation of the nature of Isi’s divinity, by the time the monuments ­were erected in the ­Middle Kingdom it could have become standardized and normalized. (2) The title says something very specific about how Isi’s divinity was ­imagined and communicated, which may have been distinct from other deified dead and/or other gods. ­These two options are not necessarily mutually exclusive. If the term “living god” carries some significant philosophical weight, what might this be? To answer this, I look to other textual references to “living god” in an attempt to discern if t­ here is a par­tic­u­lar connotation associated with the phrase. In the Pyramid Texts, the dead king is described as living together with the gods, but it is not ­until the ­Middle Kingdom that we see the adjective “living” being used to modify “god.” According to the Lexikon Der Ägyptischen Götter Und Götterbezeichnunge, the phrase is an attested epithet for gods, t­hose who ­were always gods, and transfigured beings—­that is, ­those who ­were once alive and are l­ater described as gods by nature of their transfigured status (Leitz et al.

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2002, 4:417). Some examples of note from the ­Middle Kingdom include the attestation of entities called a “living god” on M ­ iddle Kingdom sarcophagi taking the form of a snake or vulture, which Alliot interprets to be a reference to what he calls a “funerary genie” (1937, 135). Beni-­Hasan Tomb 2 also provides evidence for the use of the phrase as a proper name (Alliot 1937, 135). In the main chamber, along the north wall of the tomb, a row of thirteen attendants stand in uniform dress and posture before King Amenemhat, identified by their roles and names. One of t­ hese attendants is the “overseer” ( jmj-­r) of the hall (ʿrryt), named nṯr ʿnḫ, Netjerankh, whose name means “living god” (Newberry 1893, 16, pl. xiii). Nothing ­else is known of this figure or discernable from the funerary texts or painting, but the association between the name Netjerankh and a hall is intriguing, given ­later texts’ association between the “living god” and one who has effectively passed the judgment of Osiris in the Hall of the Two Maat. This association between the phrase nejter-­ankh and the mortuary hall of judgment, known as the Hall of the Two Maat, is reiterated in the ancient Egyptian text known as “Debate between a Man and His Ba,” a text roughly contemporaneous with the deification of Isi (see Allen 2011). In this text, one who has successfully reached the Hereafter is identified as a netjer-­ankh in the man’s fourth litany: wnn ms ntj jm m nṯr ʿnḫ Surely, he who is ­there ­will be a living god. (col. 142–43) It is perhaps made most explicit, though, in Papyrus London (EA 10793), a fragment from a Book of the Dead papyrus made for Panedjem, a Twenty-­First-­ Dynasty high priest of Amun. In it (lines 2, 5–6) he claims: pḥ.n=j mr n mȝʿtj ḫʿj.kw m nṯr ʿnḫ psḏ.kw m psḏ.t jmj(t) pt I have reached the channel of the Two Maat apparent as a living god and shining as the Ennead who are in the sky. (Munro 1996) Comparably, we see dead invoked as a “god who lives forever [r-­nḥḥ] and was made ­g reat [sʿȝ.w] in the West” in two examples known from the Theban tombs, both of which date to the New Kingdom.15 The Ptolemaic Book of the Dead papyrus of Iuefankh (p.Turin Museo Egizio 1791) also describes the dead at the judgment in this way (BD 1, 17): ḫʿj.kw m nṯr ʿnḫ I appear as a living god. (Lepsius [1842] 1969) Thus, the phrase “living god” seems to have been reserved for descriptions of transfigured dead who effectively passed through judgment in the Hall of the Two Maat in the Hereafter.



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Based primarily on the use of the phrase “living god” in the Debate between a Man and His Ba, Franke identifies three characteristics of the “living god,” which he concludes are in fact characteristics of ­those who act according to maat, the ancient Egyptian concept and goddess of order. He asserts that the living god (1) protects Re or Osiris against their enemies as they (2) sit together in the solar boat, which allows the living god to (3) have the ear of the gods, enabling him to make appeals on behalf of the living (1994, 137). He associates ­these virtues with the king and high officials, thus, suggesting that Isi (and Heqaib) held a special status, beyond that of akh, as officials to Re in their divinized forms (1994, 138). Indeed, Franke makes no fundamental distinction between Heqaib as nṯr and Isi as nṯr ʿnḫ. He describes them both as schutzheilige and Fürbitter—­sacred protectors and intercessors (1994, 139). But the term “intercessor” is not ideal for ­either, as it refers to one who prays or petitions (usually to a god) on behalf of another. This regulates Isi to the role of mediator between the living and the gods. Instead, it seems clear that the stelae, statues, and offering ­tables invoke Isi as a god himself and are not simply invoking him as a messenger to the gods—­which is, indeed, the role of the dead (akhu) invoked in ȝḫ jqr n Rʿ stelae (Demarée 1983). It is further impor­tant to note that the term ankh (ʿnḫ), though translated as “alive” or “living,” is not l­imited to corporeal living. In other words, one could be physically dead but still be an “alive” entity in Egyptian philosophy. This is best exemplified by references to living (ʿnḫ) and dead (mt) akh or ba spirits. Thus, the ancient Egyptian term ankh referred more to one’s social and/ or religious efficacy than to the beating of one’s heart. To reference again Pyramid Text 213, upon death one did not go away dead but “alive.” Applying this understanding of ankh then to the phrase nṯr ʿnḫ, the “living god” was seen as particularly effective and pre­sent within social networks of the living. This term is ideal for describing the divinized dead whose humanity was very much “alive” within the cultural memory of local communities. It also could be a way to emphasize the god in his social role, as one who listens to prayers and is engaged with the living. It is perhaps worth mentioning that Imhotep, who is celebrated as a god and son of Ptah from the New Kingdom through the Roman Period (Wildung 1977), is also invoked as a “living god” in a Ptolemaic inscription from Hatshepsut’s mortuary t­emple at Deir el-­ Bahri (Laskowska-­Kusztal 1984, 26, figs.1, 2). In this inscription, Imhotep is described as a netjer-­ankh who hears voices and gladdens the hearts of the gods. Though not a con­temporary of Isi—­either in life or in his divinized form—­Imhotep’s description as a “living god” may be engaging with similar social constructs, since it seems as if the phrase “living god” is used in comparable contexts from the M ­ iddle Kingdom through the Roman Period.

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Arguments in Support of Isi’s Apotheosis Evidence clearly supports the identification of Isi as a god by the Twelfth Dynasty. Isi is invoked in offering formulae and in theophoric name constructions that make his apotheosis apparent. His tomb transformed into a shrine dedicated to his divinized form. Most compelling is his identification as a “living god” on numerous monuments, which ­were dedicated by vari­ous individuals. This speaks to the ubiquity of Isi’s cult at Edfu, and possibly within the greater region, as far as Abydos.

The Case of Wahka Wahka’s case differs from the cases of Heqaib and Isi, who ­were both Sixth-­ Dynasty officials whose apotheosis likely occurred generations a­ fter their deaths. Wahka, on the other hand, was a ­Middle Kingdom official whose deification was quickly realized. How quick is impossible to say, since Wahka’s identity remains elusive. A number of massive tombs and artifacts at the cemetery of ancient Tjebu, better known as Qau (or Qaw) el-­Kebir, provide evidence that three ḥȝtj-­ʿ, “mayors,” who ­were named Wahka (I), Ibu, and Wahka (II) ­were entombed ­there.16 A fourth, smaller tomb of Mayor Sobekhotep is also known to exist in the area, but evidence of it remains largely unpublished and its exact dating is unknown. No king’s name was discovered in any of the mayors’ tombs, but dating based on artistic criteria is pos­si­ble, though still heavi­ly debated. The M ­ iddle Kingdom cemetery of Qau el-­Kebir was excavated by W.  M. Flinders Petrie, who published, in 1930, a report whose historical interpretations are now out of date. More reliable resources are Steckeweh (1936); Grajetzki (2012), which provides an overview to the site’s entire history; and Martellière (2008), which adds to our current understanding of the dating of the tombs. Wolfram Grajetzki has most recently dated the tomb of Wahka I to the reign of Amenemhat II, while Marie-­Delphine Martellière had dated the tomb of Wahka II to the reign of Senwosret III (Grajetzki 2012, 6; Martellière 2008). A stela known from Stockholm identifies a third Wahka, who was mayor during the reign of Amenemhat III, but for whom no tomb is known (Steckeweh 1936, 7). Additionally, a number of other mayors of the area are known from artifact inscriptions, but their tombs have not yet been located (Grajetzki 2012, 7). The tombs of Wahka I, Ibu, and Wahka II are notable for their incredible size, being among the largest identified from the ­Middle Kingdom. The largest of the mayors’ tombs belonged to Wahka II (Sauerbier 2006). They are also wor-



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thy of attention ­because their architecture is similar in form to Old Kingdom royal mortuary complexes, with gateways fronting long causeways that lead to elaborate chapels and rock-­cut tombs (see vari­ous plans in Steckeweh 1936). This appropriation of royal architecture indicates that t­hese mayors received a special status in life that allowed for a monumental display of their social capital that transcended with them in death. The numerous tombs of local high officials that cluster around t­ hese three prominent tombs further this notion. The dating of ­these clustered tombs is highly problematic, though they likely date to ­either the First Intermediate Period or ­Middle Kingdom (Grajetzki 2012, 7). Pottery sequencing suggests an ­earlier date, but their clustering suggests the l­ater date, b­ ecause their clustering would presuppose something around which to cluster (e.g., the mayor’s tombs). Guy Brunton hypothesized that this region’s pottery production was significantly more conservative, conserving First Intermediate Period forms into the ­Middle Kingdom and, thus, throwing off the dating of the tombs (1930, 2). Indeed, Stephan Johannes Seidlmayer’s study of the First Intermediate Period confirms Brunton’s hypothesis, noting that ceramic forms across Egypt w ­ ere codified only in the mid-­Twelfth Dynasty (Seidlmayer 1990, 348–97). Two lines of evidence indicate that one of the Wahka mayors was deified: (1) inclusion in a hetep-­di-­nesut (ḥtp-­dj-­nswt) offering formula on an Abydene stela (CG 20549) and a second stela now in Stockholm (Steckeweh 1936, 7) and (2) a pos­si­ble theophoric name on a seal impression from the Middle-­Kingdom South Abydos settlement of Wah-­Sut. Problematically, it is impossible with the extant evidence to definitively identify which Wahka is being invoked in the offering formulae and the seal impression.

Epigraphic Evidence of Wahka’s Apotheosis As discussed in chapters 4, 6, and the current chapter, invocation in the hetep-­ di-­nesut formula was a definitive marker of divine status. Wahka is invoked as part of this formula on two stelae. The first stela, CG 20549, was discovered in North Abydos at the so-­called Terrace of the ­Great God (Simpson 1974, 19, pl. 41; Wegner 2010). At the top of this elaborate f­amily stela, Wahka is invoked in the hetep-­di-­nesut formula in the primary (first) position. A second stela, now in Stockholm, invokes Wahka in the same formula, but in the second position, following Ptah-­Sokar (Steckeweh 1936, 7). The second line of evidence in support of Wahka’s apotheosis is found on multiple seal impressions discovered at the settlement of Wah-­Sut in South Abydos, located about one hundred kilo­meters from Wahka’s burial site. This

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Figure 4. Line drawing of sealing of Wahka. Photo © Josef Wegner. See also Wegner 2010, 455, fig. 5.

seal impression dates to the M ­ iddle Kingdom and provides evidence of a theophoric name invoking Wahka. It reads: jmj-­r pr wȝḥ-­kȝ [. . .] The end of the impression is broken, but t­ here appear (see figure 4) to be two signs: a netjer (nṯr) sign in the lower right, and a seated man beside it (photo­g raph in Wegner 2010, 455, fig. 5). The area around the netjer sign is broken, so this is a reconstruction, but the shape of the sign is rather unique among hieroglyphs, making this reconstruction probable. The seated man is prob­ably a determinative, indicating that this is a man’s personal name. What then is the grammatical function of the netjer sign? It could be ­either a determinative, part of a name phrase or sentence, or part of a personal name unattested elsewhere (similar to the name Isi-­nṯr mentioned above).17 As a determinative, the netjer sign would mark the preceding name (Wahka) as divine, just as the divine standard marked Djedi’s name as divine in chapter 6. This personal name simply repeats the name of a god, in this case “Wahka,” and follows this god’s name with a divine determinative and a seated man determinative that indicates both the divinity of Wahka and the man’s identity through the seated figure. Examples of this sort of name (that is, a personal name that simply is the name of a god) are known from the ­Middle Kingdom, making this a likely interpretation (Vittmann 2013b, 4). If the netjer-­sign was not a determinative, but rather part of the name, the name could be understood as ­either (1) an other­wise unattested name, Wahka-­Netjer or similar;( 2) an A-­B nominal sen-



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tence; or (3) words in apposition. The first option is unprovable as true or false, so I disregard it for now. As an A-­B nominal sentence, the name could be read as: “Wahka is (a/the/my) god” or “(a/the/my) god is Wahka.” Ancient Egyptian does not have indefinite or definite articles to distinguish between “a” and “the,” so both options are pos­si­ble. The seated figure is most likely a determinative, indicating that the phrase is a personal name, but a seated figure hieroglyph could also be the first-­person possessive pronoun, “my,” which would communicate an intimacy between the named individual and the god Wahka. The third option is a phrase with words in apposition, such as “a/the/ my god, Wahka.” No m ­ atter how this name is translated, the divinity of Wahka is apparent in e­ very pos­si­ble translation, making this a theophoric name and marking Wahka as a god.

Arguments in Support of Wahka’s Apotheosis Admittedly, ­there are a number of concerns about the evidence presented h ­ ere for the apotheosis of Wahka, most of all the inability to definitively identify which Wahka is invoked on ­either the offering formulae or the seal impression. The inclusion of Wahka in offering formulae is irrefutable evidence that Wahka was perceived as a god in his capacity as a benefactor of funerary offerings. ­Because the ḥtp-­dj-­nswt formula often invokes the god who was most prominent within the local cemetery, it would make sense for Wahka II to be the object of apotheosis, since his tomb was the largest at Qau el-­Kebir, though this remains a hypothesis. It is furthermore difficult to date the evidence in support of Wahka’s apotheosis. It can definitively be dated to the ­Middle Kingdom based on excavated context and style, but a more definitive date than that remains elusive. If Wahka II was the intended recipient of this worship, then a late M ­ iddle Kingdom date for his apotheosis might be most appropriate. This would make the case of Wahka unique from Heqaib and Isi b­ ecause his apotheosis would have occurred ­later in the ­Middle Kingdom ­because he was a Twelfth-­Dynasty official, whereas Isi and Heqaib w ­ ere Sixth-­Dynasty officials. I suggest, though, that the pro­cess of apotheosis observed with Heqaib and Isi was the same as that of Wahka. Although ­later in date, Wahka was a revered member of his local community, which extended from Qau el-­Kebir to Abydos. His tomb illustrates the reach of his power during life, and the evidence shown h ­ ere evinces his deified status in death.

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Characteristics of ­Middle Kingdom Apotheosis In the M ­ iddle Kingdom, apotheosis occurred exclusively in the provinces, away from royal restrictions on the display of social capital. Alternatively, in the Old Kingdom, apotheosis existed within royal power networks that began to change t­ oward the end of the period. In the ­Middle Kingdom, though, the rise of apotheosis was initially extremely local, intimately connected to local t­ emple structures of power that ­rose in prominence in the late Old Kingdom, concurrent with a growth in regionalism. The onset of the ­Middle Kingdom motivated the explicit and popu­lar articulation of cults to local deified dead as a means of conserving local power networks, a practice that continued through the Twelfth Dynasty, as demonstrated by the case of Wahka. As the cult of Heqaib grew in importance, kings of the Twelfth Dynasty, beginning with Senwosret I, began to include Heqaib’s t­emple in their state temple-­ building programs. This action could be interpreted as ­either a tacit approval of the local cult or, and I suggest the latter is more likely, an attempt to control the local systems of influence that surrounded Heqaib’s cult, which w ­ ere potentially threatening to royal power networks.

Notes 1. For a discussion of the meaning of vari­ous titles, see Baer 1960 and Strudwick 1985, both of which focus on Old Kingdom administration and titles, but their descriptions of many of t­hese titles have relevancy for the ­Middle Kingdom as well. On ­Middle Kingdom administration and titles in par­tic­u­lar, see, for example, Ward (1982), Quirke (1990), and Fischer (1997). 2. Since Heqaib was a god, this should properly be referred to as the “­temple” of Heqaib, though in previous scholarship it is more commonly identified as ­either a sanctuary or shrine. This is in part due to the fact that it is not identified in the ancient Egyptian sources as a ḥwt-­nṯr, which is the term most often translated as “­temple.” The context, however, makes apparent that this can be understood as a “­temple” in the con­ temporary view. In regard to ­these other two terms, I use “shrine” to refer to the specific ele­ment that was divine and held an image of Heqaib and “sanctuary” as a synonym of “­temple,” in that it refers to the larger complex, including offering t­ables, stelae, and associated monuments and artifacts. This discussion is elaborated further on in this chapter. 3. Khnum and Satet ­were popu­lar gods at Elephantine. The ram-­headed god, Khnum was associated with potters, the Nile inundation (and relatedly fertility), and silt. The goddess Satet was also associated with the inundation. For more on ­these deities, see Wilkinson (2017). 4. The Arabic term sebakh roughly translates to “fertilizer.” Before the Aswan High Dam was completed in 1970, the Nile flooded Egypt regularly. In antiquity (without modern dams or other interventions) this flood ­water carried rich, fertile soil with it, which was then laid to rest along the Egyptian flood plains. This naturally renewed



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Egypt’s agricultural land each year with fertile soil. Due to the Aswan High Dam, this specific benefit of the inundation is no longer realized. This has led some desperate Egyptian farmers to illegally dig up ancient mudbrick monuments for the fertile soil preserved in its bricks. Sometimes, controlled, ­legal digging has been allowed, as was the case ­here. 5. An introduction to the fundamentals of ancient Egyptian t­emples can be found in Wilkinson (2000). 6. “Dann aber darf man dies auf dem Wege des Indizienschlusses als eine Art Kultstelle bezeichnen, eine Kultstelle, die Elemente des Grabkultes dazu nützt, eine Privateperson zu glorifizieren” (But then one could interpret this as evidence of a kind of cult site, a cult site that uses ele­ments of the funerary cult to glorify a private person) ( Junge 1976, 107). 7. “Heqaib kann nicht von einer Vergöttlichung gesprochen werden, da kein Kult bestand” (Heqaib cannot be said to have been deified b­ ecause ­there was no cult) (Goedicke in LÄ 6:991, no. 14). 8. H ­ ere I follow the suggested rendering of “instructions” as made by the Thesaurus Linguae Aegyptiae, which is available h ­ ere, though accessible only with a (­free) account: http://­aaew​.­bbaw​.­de​/­tla​/­servlet​/­GetCtxt​?­u​=g­ uest&f​=0­ &l​=0­ &db​=­0&tc​=1­ 211​ &ws​=4­ 23&mv​=3­ . 9. Specifically, he argues “Heqaib hat also deutlich Eigenschaften und Status, die über die eines verehrten Toten hinausgehen” (Heqaib clearly has qualities and status, which go beyond ­those of a revered dead man) (Franke 1994, 136). 10. See note 1 of this chapter on ­Middle Kingdom titles and administrative offices. 11. Alliot identifies characteristics of late Eleventh/Twelfth Dynasty stelae in Text nos. 9 and 11. I am convinced, though, by Marée’s argument for a dating of Twelfth Dynasty, reign of Senwosret I, based on some orthographic trends, such as the spelling of ḏdw with two “d” phonetic complements and the syntactical construction jr.n, “made by,” to communicate maternal lineage, for which the earliest known attestation other­wise dates to the reign of Senwosret I (2009, 35). 12. Reginald Engelbach does not give a suggested dating, but Franke (1994, 84– 85) has suggested a potential Seventeenth-­Dynasty dating. 13. The ancient Egyptian phrase being referred to h ­ ere is mȝʿ ḫrw, which is often translated as “justified,” and is meant to communicate one’s status as deceased and literally one who is “true of voice.” 14. Vertical column 1 reads zȝt=f zȝ-­Isi mȝʿt ḫrw. 15. Nearly identical examples are known from Theban Tomb 32 (Djehutimose) and Theban Tomb 50 (Neferhotep): tj sw m nṯr ʿnḫ.w r-­nḥḥ sʿȝ.w m jmn.t. 16. It is worth noting that the cemetery of Qau el-­Kebir is the location of the only Letter to the Dead with a definitive findspot (Brunton 1927, 37). The letter, known as the Qau Bowl, dates to the First Intermediate Period (UC 16163). Two letters written to Shepsi’s ­father and ­mother are written, respectively, on the inside and outside of a red ceramic bowl (Gardiner and Sethe 1928, 3–5, 17–19). The presence of the Letter to the Dead and the extraordinarily prominent tombs may suggest that t­ hese local dead ­were especially venerated in this region, priming it for the apotheosis of Wahka. 17. For attested compound Wahka names, see Ranke (1935, 73–74). None of ­these seem to be theophoric names.

 

Conclusion

Death, Power, and Apotheosis What happens a­ fter we die? ­Great anxiety persists over the inability to answer this question, ironically central to h ­ uman life, and the focus of chapter 1. The ancient Egyptians, presumably similarly plagued by apprehension over this question, developed a belief system that articulated the existence of a spiritual life ­after corporeal death. Interestingly, this life ­after death was not a paradise or utopia by modern conceptions—­survival was not guaranteed, making ­those in the Hereafter dependent on offerings provided by the living; this dependence developed into a reciprocal social relationship in which duties and responsibilities to the living w ­ ere abundant. All the while, fields and flocks needed to be tended, ­cattle counted, and ­family members appeased. Furthermore, the afterlife was not a social equalizer; the elite could afford to be buried with ushabti workers (a group of funerary figurines that could be called on to do work for the tomb owner in the Hereafter) and handbooks for the recently deceased. Not only was access to the Hereafter unequal, but tombs, funerary texts, and visual and material mortuary culture indicate that upon death and transformation into an effective spirit, or akh, the dead could hold on to their social capital and individual abilities and skills from life. An elite in life, then, would be an elite in the afterlife. This social status was not simply retained in the divine Hereafter but endured within social networks on earth, 14 2

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among the living. Indeed, the dead in ancient Egypt possessed (­were perceived to possess) incredibly active social and po­liti­cal lives ­after their bodily demise. ­Because of their efficacy, the dead would be called on by the living for aid with life’s prob­lems (e.g., inheritance, fertility, illness) and for assurance of admittance into the Hereafter. The perceived agency of the dead imbued them with real social and po­liti­ cal power. They could help combat earthly illness and injustice, and haunt ­those who disturbed their tombs, but they could also be historically impactful po­liti­cal actors. Most notably, the king, in life and death, wielded ­g reat power in ancient Egypt (Brisch 2008; Frankfort 1948; O’Connor and Silverman 1995). As argued in chapter 2, from the onset of the ancient Egyptian state, royal power was intrinsically entangled with mortuary culture (see Bard 2000; Bestock 2011). At least by the early Old Kingdom, the king was Egypt’s sole mortuary benefactor, meaning that it was only through the king that an individual could be ensured admittance into the Hereafter. The gods could grant a proper burial, but this was done by the proxy of the king, as expressed by the ḥtp-­dj-­ nswt offering formula. The gods would cast final judgment, but individuals’ closeness (physical tomb proximity, but also jmɜḫ status) to the king could pre­ sent them in good standing before the gods. Thus, power in the Old Kingdom was fundamentally tied to the funerary and mortuary spheres. That is not to suggest that the king (and ­others) did not have economic power or religious authority. I assert, though, that the primary mechanism of power and authority in Egypt’s Old Kingdom was mortuary. An earthly life lasted for approximately seventy years, but life ­after death was eternal. Even the eco­nom­ically disadvantaged invested in mortuary objects and rituals to hopefully secure a better life in the Hereafter. This is how not only the king confirmed his own power but also how nonroyals articulated power. Elites would bury themselves (with royal allowance) as close as pos­si­ble to the king’s pyramid as evidence of their worth and social capital. Elites would build tombs with (sometimes massive) superstructures, inscribed with hieroglyphs and scenes that confirmed their titles, relationships, skills, and status. This all seemingly began to change around the Fifth Dynasty. Already in the Fourth Dynasty, kings began to increase royal ­temple domains throughout the land of Egypt. By the Fifth or Sixth Dynasty, ­these t­emples and ka-­ chapels (ḥwt-­kȝ) had grown into regional economic hubs in which power was ultimately located (see Bussmann 2010). Inherited administrative positions compounded this growing sense of regionalism. By the reign of Sixth-­Dynasty king Pepi II, the king’s socioreligious centrality had begun to wane. He turned his attention to the provinces in an attempt to hold onto power by furnishing local ­temples with royal architecture. Concurrent to a rise in regionalism, the

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king’s mortuary centrality was also undermined. Local dead w ­ ere providing mortuary benefaction, which was once a right exclusive to the king. As the First Intermediate Period took form, dif­fer­ent systems of power emerged. Thus, this mortuary-­based system of power disintegrated, with the ­temple becoming a venue through which local elite could siphon regional power away from the Residence and the king. Juan Carlos Moreno García describes this phenomenon in similar terms: “The overwhelming majority of sources at our disposal indicate that t­emples played an impor­tant role in defining the local elite. . . . ​­There also existed the possibility that control of the ­temples by the same families for several generations involved an increasing degree of autonomy in the long term, resulting in the gradual erosion of the authority exercised by the royal administration” (2013, 202). He further explains that “the economic and administrative organ­ization of the new spaces incorporated into the kingdom took several centuries, and it was not u ­ ntil the Sixth Dynasty that a network of royal centers (the ḥwt) effectively encompassed all of Egypt and allowed for the development of local royal agents who became more and more rooted in the nomes they administered and emotionally attached to their local ­family cemeteries instead of the traditional royal necropolis at Memphis” (208–9). A power­f ul ­family from Thebes would find themselves kings of the Eleventh Dynasty, ruling over a newly united Egypt. While some archaic trends are evident (e.g., the return of Memphite, Old Kingdom artistic style at the founder Montuhotep II’s Deir el-­Bahri funerary complex postunification), the nexus of power of early kings of the M ­ iddle Kingdom was, and remained, temple-­based. Moreno García explains that, alongside royal centers, ­temples ­were “the main poles of the state authority” during the ­Middle Kingdom in the provinces, where “the provincial sanctuaries began to be built on a larger and richer scale” (2013, 210). He further asserts that the connections of the kings “with power­ful local families linked to the t­ emples are also well attested,” and that “provincial Upper Egyptian sanctuaries remained impor­tant sources of power” even into the Second Intermediate Period (211). The king continued to be a mortuary benefactor, but he was no longer the sole mortuary benefactor. Mortuary benefaction was now more commonly expressed by the hetep-­di-­nesut (ḥtp-­dj-­nswt) offering formula, rather than the imakhu kher ( jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formula. The hetep-­di-­nesut formula expresses a gift, typically the right to be buried in a par­tic­u­lar necropolis, provided by the king and evoked gods in unison. Further, kings of the ­Middle Kingdom depicted themselves in increasingly intimate positions with the gods, invested more and more in stone ­temple construction (for example, Senwosret’s White Chapel), and emphasized their divine associations through the royal titulary. It is only in the

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­ iddle Kingdom that the five-­name titulary becomes consistent (Leprohon M 2013, 1). This titulary identifies the king as associated with Horus and sometimes Seth (the serekh name), with the two goddesses of Upper and Lower Egypt (the nbty name), with the Golden Horus (the Golden Horus name), as a divine and mortal king (the nswt-­bjt name1), and as the son of Re (the zɜ-­Rʿ name). T ­ here is no evidence that ­Middle Kingdom kings w ­ ere worshipped as gods during their lives, but they certainly ­were power­f ul intermediaries. They ­were not, however, the only intermediaries who could help the living negotiate between the earthly and the super­natural. Not all dead in ancient Egypt w ­ ere the same. Social hierarchies and capital that ­were garnered in life persisted in death. As discussed in chapter 2, ­those who could successfully transfigure into akh, or the “average” effective dead, ­were social beings who acted as intercessors and intermediaries. The dead (and for the most part we are speaking of male dead, but certainly not exclusively) threatened the living in order to protect their tombs; they boasted about their virtues and po­liti­cal connections so that the living would keep their funerary offerings replenished. In return, the dead used their efficacy ( jqr-­ness) within the divine Hereafter to negotiate with the other dead and the gods on behalf of the living petitioner, and the dead used their sacred knowledge (ʿpr-­ness) to litigate and give advice. The akh could travel between the earthly and divine realms through the liminality provided by the tomb. The tomb was, thus, likely the primary locus of engagement with the average dead, though ­later evidence suggests that ­there may also have been domestic shrines for more mundane or urgent ritual engagement (see Demarée 1983). The akh’s role, and that of the average dead more generally, was inherently tied to the living. Although the average dead may have been asked to act on behalf of someone in the divine tribunal, or to stop a vengeful spirit who was causing illness on earth, the akh’s efficacy was intrinsically linked to his relationship and usefulness to the living in their h ­ uman, corporeal form. Meaning, the average dead could not help the living transcend their ­human form upon death. They could not aid the newly deceased in their transfiguration. Although the akh had access to spells and knowledge that allowed him to partake in the world of the divine, his efficacy was l­imited to earthly ­matters. For super­natural ­matters, the living and the dead had to appeal to the king or special, esteemed dead. Certain dead ­were celebrated as above average—­what I have termed “esteemed dead.” T ­ hese esteemed dead included dead who ­were distinguished and ­those for whom evidence of full-­blown apotheosis, or deification, is evident. The markers used to identify and categorize t­ hese dead is defended in chapter 4. Ptahhotep, Hordjedef, and the governors of ‘Ain Asil, the focus of chapter 5, ­were only “distinguished” in death, in that they could facilitate the

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admittance of other deceased into the divine Hereafter, as communicated by their inclusion in imakhu kher (jmɜḫ.w ḫr) formulae. The king’s pivotal role in mortuary religion in the Old Kingdom is made abundantly clear by archaeological and textual sources; the clustering of tombs near the royal pyramids, the my­thol­ogy espoused in the Pyramid Texts, and biographies of officials all point to the essential role of the king in the divine Hereafter (Stauder-­Porchet 2011; Bárta 2013). It was through the king’s grace and f­ avor, through his jmɜḫ, that one could share in the ultimate splendor of the Hereafter (Bárta 2013, 259). That is not to say that the dead did not have an afterlife without the king (Smith 2009a; Hays 2011); clearly, the abilities of the akh indicate other­wise. But rather it was through this relationship with the king that one could most fully benefit from all of the privileges available in the Hereafter. So, when we witness certain dead partaking in the role of facilitator during the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties, as communicated by their inclusion in imakhu kher formulae, we can, and must, distinguish t­ hese beings from the average dead. It was through the ­favor and grace of ­these distinguished dead, in addition to the grace of the king and the gods, which was never denied, that o ­ thers could attain the privileges of a fully realized afterlife. T ­ hese men w ­ ere also renowned. Their fame was extolled in rock inscriptions (e.g., the Wadi Hammamat inscription listing Hordjedef as a king) and popu­lar lit­er­a­ture, such as the Instructions of Ptahhotep or Instructions of Hordjedef. Papyrus Chester Beatty IV con­ve­niently explains this phenomenon: “A man is dead. His corpse is in the ground. All his kin have perished. It is writing that ­causes him to be remembered in the mouth of the one who speaks the utterance.”2 The enduring social memory of t­ hese beings as distinguished dead could be similarly communicated through the continuation of monumental posthumous cults, such as we see in the case of the governors of ‘Ain Asil, whose chapels ­were preserved for generations. Thus, the role of ­these distinguished dead was, like the average dead, to help mediate between realms, but they additionally could assist in the transfiguration of the dead and their ac­cep­ tance into the Hereafter. It is this latter aspect that helped to destabilize royal authority, which was intimately tied to mortuary benefaction, near the end of the Old Kingdom. Alongside and overlapping with the sacred roles of the king and gods are the deified dead. ­These dead are, in some instances, marked as gods explic­itly by hieroglyphic inscriptions—­either through the inclusion of a divine determinative or their identification as “god” (nṯr). In other instances, evidence for their apotheosis is more indirect: inclusions in theophoric name constructions and offering formulae. Even seemingly obvious evidence, such as the presence of shrines and priests, is complicated by the fact that similar monuments and

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staff ­were also dedicated to the upkeep of the mortuary cults of average and distinguished dead. Significantly, the prior humanity of t­ hese beings was never denied or ignored. In fact, quite the opposite seems to have been prevalent. The dead who underwent apotheosis ­were men who held high titles and w ­ ere particularly renowned within their communities. They w ­ ere mortal men whose status and office endowed upon them certain religious privileges and super­natural qualities. Characteristics such as success in military endeavors, living to an old age, being an effective leader and communicator during life, and being remembered as particularly knowledgeable and prepared, are seen consistently among the dead who ­were deified. During the Old Kingdom, Djedi, Mehu, and Kagemni underwent apotheosis and became gods of local importance. Their names ­were invoked as part of theophoric names possessed by regional elite, and at least one of them, Djedi, had priests dedicated to the upkeep of his posthumous divine cult. While the identification of ­these dead as gods is apparent, or so I have argued in chapter  6, their cults w ­ ere never fully realized. This is not unusual in ancient Egypt—­cults to many gods ­were seemingly never fully realized, which perhaps highlights the discrepancies between scholarly expectations and ancient realities. The divinity of the god Shu, for example, has never been questioned in Egyptological scholarship, despite the fact that no t­ emple or shrine for him is extant. ­Those dead who underwent apotheosis during the late First Intermediate Period and early ­Middle Kingdom, on the other hand, had cults that ­were more fully realized. They include Wahka, Isi, and Heqaib, whose cults are considered in chapter 7. All three M ­ iddle Kingdom deified dead w ­ ere invoked in theophoric names, and as part of numerous hetep-­di-­nesut formulae, a position that was only ever afforded to gods. Heqaib and Isi ­were also explic­ itly referred to as “god.” Egyptian history is dynamic, and the way in which distinction and apotheosis operated near the end of the Old Kingdom is distinct from the form it took at the onset of the ­Middle Kingdom. The same could be said for the cases presented ­here and examples of apotheosis in the New Kingdom and l­ater. The evidence for apotheosis in the Old through ­Middle Kingdoms is admittedly ­limited, with only six examples found based on my framework for identification. T ­ here is no reason, however, to expect a significantly greater dataset. This is confirmed by contemporaneous examples of deified cults in Mesopotamia, which ­were similarly ­limited to about the same number of attestations (Brisch 2008). This means, though, that identifying trends is inherently problematic, as new evidence could challenge the conclusions being drawn ­here. Nevertheless, for the time being, two general trends emerge as apparent when looking at apotheosis during the Old and ­Middle Kingdoms.

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1. Our first rec­ord of apotheosis dates from the Sixth Dynasty in the cemeteries near the capital in a rather modest form. I suggest this was due to their closeness to the capital and the restrictive influence of elite decorum. Certain other dead ­were also distinguished during this period from “average” dead, but we lack evidence of their explicit deification. Historically, the late Old Kingdom was a period in which the king’s po­liti­cal and religious centrality within mortuary culture began to atrophy simultaneous to growing regionalism. I assert that cults to deified and distinguished dead ­were mobilized by the living as a means of subverting royal power, thus contributing to the changing role of the king at this time. 2. We can observe evidence of apotheosis in the provinces (for example, Edfu and Elephantine) dating from the onset of the ­Middle Kingdom (i.e., the Eleventh Dynasty). The divinity of t­ hese individuals was fully realized and publicly articulated. I argue that their more robustly articulated deification was a result of their distance from emerging royal power centers and ­because local power at that time was intrinsically tied to the ­temple system. Initially ­these deified dead ­were mobilized by local elites for po­liti­cal gains but ­were also accessible conduits for locals to access the divine Hereafter. Historically, this period marked the reunification of Egypt ­under new Theban kings who implemented a religious program that emphasized the role of the king in the larger divine pantheon. Thus, apotheosis in the late First Intermediate Period and ­Middle Kingdom was occurring within a milieu in which local gods and their divine institutions ­were recognized as being both potential re­sis­tance to and instruments of this new po­liti­cal machine. As an act of control, I argue, kings of the early ­Middle Kingdom built at ­these local sites as a way of appropriating local-­sacred space as royal-­sacred space.

Chronology During the early Old Kingdom (i.e., the Third and Fourth Dynasties) the king’s power was intimately tied to his position as Egypt’s sole mortuary benefactor. In the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties, this role was shared by a handful of local elite—­men who, upon their deaths, ­were distinguished as “above-­average” and some who underwent full deification. ­Whether distinguished or deified, ­these men took on roles once held exclusively by the king. On a po­liti­cal scale, this subverted royal authority and directly contributed to the waning power of the

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king evident near end of the Old Kingdom. From a cultural perspective, ­these individuals enabled locals to have greater access to the divine Hereafter. Perhaps during a time of growing trepidation, of growing insecurities about a person’s eternal ­future, ­these local esteemed dead ­were able to step up and help alleviate fears and anx­i­eties. But why was ­there trepidation at this moment in history? The Sixth Dynasty was founded by King Teti, who may have been married to the ­daughter of Unas, the last king of the Fifth Dynasty—­but this remains uncertain (Malek 2000a, 103; Dodson 2012). What is certain is that a new ­family was taking power and ­really shaking ­things up. A Nineteenth-­Dynasty king list, the Turin Canon, marks the transition from the Fifth to Sixth Dynasty as a break, which Jaromir Malek explains could indicate the movement of the capital (2000a, 103). This was a “troubled period” marked by “numerous difficulties,” including assassination plots, usurpation, “an astonishingly high mobility in some of the most impor­tant functions of state (like that of vizier),” the creation of new offices, and the destruction of other longstanding offices (Moreno García 2013, 207). By the end of the Sixth Dynasty, the king “whose economic power had been greatly weakened could no longer perform the role assigned to him by the doctrine of Egyptian kingship” (Malek 2000a, 106). With all of this ­going on, trepidation seems an understatement. In a world where nearly every­thing, ideologically but also practically, was entangled with the singular king, the destabilization of kingship would logically cause incredible anxiety—­ especially for the elite, who had the most to lose. Considering the rapid changeover of offices and abnormally high social mobility, it is logical to suppose that some elite would have been apprehensive and fearful. Accordingly, they sought alternative means of ensuring their admittance into the Hereafter and made efforts to diversify their social-­capital investments. The local dead, in their new distinguished and deified roles, could thus alleviate some of t­ hese concerns. It is not surprising, then, that the esteemed dead emerged as an alternative means of achieving posthumous goals during this time of uncertainty. In this way, the esteemed dead contributed to the subversion of royal power at the end of the Old Kingdom, by providing alternative access to mortuary benefaction. In the provinces, however, the story is a ­little dif­fer­ent. ­Here, during the First Intermediate Period and at the onset of the M ­ iddle Kingdom, local power structures ­were connected to local elites and local t­ emples. Heqaib is our best-­ evinced example of apotheosis, yet it is not entirely clear when the cult of Heqaib was fully formed. Some version of his cult (perhaps as a “distinguished” dead) could have occurred as early as the Sixth Dynasty, but his divinized cult prob­ably took form by the time of Intef III, more or less contemporaneous

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with the cult of Isi—­that is, right before Egypt was unified ­under the rule of the Theban kings. The origins of Isi’s, Heqaib’s, and Wahka’s cults are shrouded by a lack of concrete evidence, but it is notable that monumental evidence does exist for both Heqaib and Isi that definitively dates to the reign of Twelfth-­ Dynasty king Senwosret I, providing a terminus ante quem for their apotheoses. Both Heqaib and Isi ­were Sixth-­Dynasty officials who w ­ ere not deified ­until the Eleventh Dynasty at the earliest, that is, approximately one hundred years ­after their deaths. I have no answer that is not tainted by conjecture to explain why apotheosis in Edfu and Elephantine took so long to become fully articulated, but ­there are a few possibilities that seem reasonable. First, Heqaib and Isi may have been deified ­earlier than the existing evidence indicates, but we have lost all but the traces of this early cult (e.g., Heqaib’s cult hall). They w ­ ere certainly, at least, distinguished upon death, even if deification is not apparent. Perhaps ­because the structures of power in the provinces ­were already intertwined with local t­ emples and local rulers, when the Old Kingdom po­ liti­cal machine collapsed t­ here was no sense of immediacy; t­ here was no power vacuum to fill by distinguished or deified dead, since (living) local elite ­were already filling ­these positions. This explains why Heqaib and Isi might not have been deified upon their death in the Sixth Dynasty. It does not explain, though, why they underwent apotheosis at the onset of the ­Middle Kingdom. I have argued that apotheosis in the Old Kingdom was, in part, a reaction to moments of anxiety and transition. The end of the First Intermediate Period and the recentralization of authority ­under a single king marks the next big moment of transition in Egyptian history—so perhaps this explains the timing of their cults. Further, the new administration’s attempt to unify, codify, and normalize power across Egypt could have motivated local elite to hold on tighter to local traditions and histories as a form of re­sis­tance. It is not coincidence that much of our evidence for the deification of Heqaib comes initially from his direct descendants. A pos­si­ble impetus for this action is clear: by establishing a local cult to someone like Heqaib, a ­g reat warrior and administrator of the last period of the Egyptian empire, local elites could justify and legitimize their own power. Heqaib’s local history alone might not have been enough to justify power sharing in the face of the growing royal power in Thebes. Through his apotheosis, though, Heqaib became immutable and more power­f ul than, possibly, the new kings. Similarly, Isi was one of the first recorded provincial officials to receive the title of tjaty, vizier (Strudwick 1985, 302). His significant role in an e­ arlier administration made him a productive anchor on which to tie local power. Then, as kings of the early ­Middle Kingdom w ­ ere solidifying their power, they appropriated the cults to ­these local leaders through the commissioning of votives and monumental architecture.

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And this is why, for the case of Heqaib at least, our earliest definitive evidence of his cult is associated with royal building programs that date to the Eleventh and Twelfth Dynasties. Although a slightly dif­fer­ent situation occurred in the case of Wahka at Qau el-­Kebir, fundamentally the same pro­cess took place. Local elites at Edfu and Elephantine associated themselves with cults of local deified dead, ­after which kings of the ­Middle Kingdom intervened in order to reclaim local influence. The exploitation of local power in the region near Qau el-­Kebir was perhaps similar. Josef Wegner articulates a convincing case to this effect, asserting that in “the establishment of the mortuary foundation of Senwosret III at South Abydos, the kingship and royal administration may have capitalized on existing relationships with the provincial power structures at [Qau] el-­Kebir” (2010, 443). Qau el-­Kebir was a site of some influence during the M ­ iddle Kingdom, evinced by the construction of massive mayoral tombs on an unpre­ce­dented scale. Rather than this being an example of rebellious mayors, Wegner is suggesting that this is rather “symptomatic of this pattern of close royal patronage that, indeed, could have been further enhanced by [Qau’s] direct involvement in a major royal enterprise like the establishment of the royal mortuary complex and community at Wah-­Sut,” a settlement in South Abydos (443–44). In this context, the deification of Wahka could be understood as something new. Whereas ­earlier divinized cults ­were motivated by a cultural desire to foster mortuary benefaction and the po­liti­cal desire to subvert royal power (or alternatively to engrain themselves in local systems of power), the posthumous deification of Wahka may have been, from the start, state sanctioned. The Theban kings, as local rulers themselves of the late First Intermediate Period and M ­ iddle Kingdom, displayed g­ reat connectivity to their local t­ emples. They w ­ ere described as beloved of their local gods, who ­were identified as their ­fathers and ­mothers (Bussmann 2010, xciv). Where the kings of the Sixth Dynasty had failed, however, the Theban kings succeeded. Instead of furnishing local ­temples with votives to the gods, royal temple-­building campaigns of the ­Middle Kingdom emphasized the kings and their divine status in the Egyptian pantheon, thus transforming divine spaces into royal-­divine spaces (xciv). As the deified dead of the Old Kingdom fit into already prescribed structures of power, so did t­ hose who w ­ ere deified in the M ­ iddle Kingdom. This time, however, the structure of power was not the mortuary cult, but the local ­temple. This deification of the dead continued in varied forms throughout the rest of ancient Egyptian history. Apotheosis took on new attributes in the New Kingdom’s Ramesside period, during which time personal piety and social displays of piety became more publicly apparent (Wildung 1977; Baines and

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Frood 2011). This cultural-­religious phenomenon further witnessed a revival during the Ptolemaic and Roman periods, becoming entangled with the Hellenistic hero cult and the Roman emperor cult (von Lieven 2007). But, its emergence near the end of the Old Kingdom was not coincidental, nor inevitable. It emerged in response to specific cultural needs and po­liti­cal forces and would fundamentally alter the way in which nonroyals accessed the Hereafter.

Location and Articulation Cults to deified dead ­were expressed differently in the Old Kingdom than they ­were in the early ­Middle Kingdom. Only one or two markers of explicit apotheosis of the deified dead dating from the Old Kingdom have been uncovered: Djedi’s name includes a divine determinative and t­ here is extant evidence for a cultic priesthood, while Mehu’s and Kagemni’s deifications rely entirely on their inclusion in theophoric names. The M ­ iddle Kingdom examples of apotheosis, however, seem to be more fully articulated. While Wahka’s divinity is expressed only by his inclusion in hetep-­di-­nesut offering formulae and theophoric names, Isi’s divinity is expressed by ­those same two markers and he is explic­itly called “god” on multiple occasions. Similarly, Heqaib’s apotheosis is made apparent by his inclusion in hetep-­di-­nesut formulae and theophoric names, being called “god,” evidence for a shrine and priesthood dedicated to his divine form, and his participation in religious festivals as a local god. Broadly, then, Old Kingdom apotheosis can be described as more modest in form, whereas ­Middle Kingdom apotheosis can be described as more robust, or more fully articulated. I suggest that this is a reflex of time and place, but more specifically of elite decorum. Old Kingdom apotheosis occurred rapidly a­ fter death, but it did not seem to last more than a few generations. The memory of some of t­ hese dead, such as Kagemni, may have endured for millennia, but cults to his deified form seemingly only persisted for a few generations. T ­ hose whose deifications became apparent in the ­Middle Kingdom include Isi and Heqaib, who lived during the Old Kingdom, Sixth Dynasty. During the time between their deaths and apotheoses, they ­were distinguished and invoked by local communities. Their apotheosis was gradual, but also more intensive, than their Old Kingdom counter­parts. During the time between their deaths and deifications, the royal system of power notably shifted from one rooted in mortuary benefaction to one rooted in the ­temple and the king’s own closeness to the gods. The deified and distinguished dead ­were actors who participated in t­ hese same networks of power. Thus, the articulation of their cults reflects then-­current sys-

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tems of power: in the Old Kingdom, esteemed dead took on roles related to mortuary benefaction; in the ­Middle Kingdom, deified dead took on roles associated with divine cult and mortuary benefaction, which was now tied more explic­itly to the king and the gods as a team, as evinced in the hetep-­di-­ nesut offering formula. Not only was the articulation of the cults of esteemed dead determined by contemporaneous systems of power, the location of the cults also mattered. The proximity of the cults of Old Kingdom esteemed dead to the royal residence and royal pyramids meant that elite decorum was more fully integrated and potentially policed. In arguing against the concept of “democ­ratization of the afterlife,” Hays (2011) and Smith (2009a) have asserted that Old Kingdom mortuary rituals and knowledge w ­ ere not restricted exclusively to the royal sphere, but rather decorum—­that is, cultural tradition or fashion—­was such that it was “inappropriate” for nonroyals to express t­hese rituals and knowledge textually in their tombs and chapels (Baines 1985). In the First Intermediate Period and ­Middle Kingdom it became fash­ion­able for nonroyals to include ­these texts, and it was no longer in fashion for Pyramid Texts to be written on the walls of M ­ iddle Kingdom pyramids (Hays 2011, 119; Allen 2015). This is one example, then, of the power of decorum, originally defined by John Baines as “a set of rules and practices defining what may be represented pictorially with captions, displayed, and possibly written down, in which context and in what form. . . . ​Decorum supplies an analogy for restricted knowledge, a reason for restriction, and examples of the phenomenon” (1990, 20–21). Thus, cults that emerged during the Old Kingdom near the capital ­were more influenced, and restricted, by engrained notions of elite decorum as it related to display. ­Those cults that formed in the provinces, away from royal power centers, ­were less inhibited and more thoroughly articulated.

Audience Like the distinguished dead, cults of deified dead ­were originally incredibly local (Firth and Gunn 1926). Baines, more restrictively, suggests that the cults to deified dead ­were not just local, but l­imited to local elites specifically (Baines 1987, 88). While this may hold true for the cults of distinguished and deified dead of the Old Kingdom, who w ­ ere buried in local cemeteries or at the capital, ­there is evidence to suggest that at least some cults of the M ­ iddle Kingdom extended beyond local elite. This is perhaps most apparent with the cult of Heqaib, which I argue would have at least extended into the social awareness of local non-­elites. His t­ emple was located adjacent to residential quarters

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in a high-­traffic zone, meaning the t­emple would have been vis­i­ble to the inhabitants of Elephantine, to elites and non-­elites alike, and part of the lived and cultural landscape of the island (Eaton-­Krauss 1988, 13). Further, inscriptions from Heqaib’s ­temple identify him as an actor in local festivals, which would have been widely attended and vis­i­ble. Royal building programs at Heqaib’s shrine also indicate that his cult was recognized outside of the Aswan region. This has led some scholars to suggest a slightly wider circle of worship (see Junker 1947; Goedicke 1955). I agree with both points—­for most deified dead (the notable exception being Heqaib), their cults and worship remained relatively localized; however, the preponderance of l­ater evidence (for example, Kagemni being invoked in popu­lar lit­er­a­ture) and the visibility of some of ­these cults (such as ­those of Heqaib and Isi) logically implies that, at the very least, the larger (non-­elite) community was aware of t­hese beings. The inclusion of Ptahhotep and Hordjedef in New Kingdom lists of g­ reat writers and the worship of Imhotep, an Old Kingdom official, in the New Kingdom advocate for the existence of an oral tradition, perhaps folkloric, for which we do not have positive evidence, but which most certainly was practiced and accessible to vari­ous status groups (Baines 2010).

Final Thoughts Few studies have explored the social or po­liti­cal impacts of the dead beyond their role as ancestors, and even fewer consider how the dead ­were mobilized to negotiate social, religious, and po­liti­cal capital in ancient Egypt before the New Kingdom. Apotheosis and distinction of the dead occurred in the Old and ­Middle Kingdoms at times in which power structures w ­ ere shifting, adapting, and reforming—­the end of the Old Kingdom and the beginning of the ­Middle Kingdom. ­These po­liti­cal, cultural, and religious shifts created power vacuums and opportunities for local communities to display their ancestry, legitimize local power, and develop alternative means of accessing the divine Hereafter. Studies that have considered power in ancient Egypt tend to focus on the king, in a top-­down historical approach. Instead, this book has considered both the king and nonroyals (specifically the nonroyal dead) as actors who, together, negotiated power. This negotiation became most vis­i­ble during the ­Middle Kingdom, when apotheosis became more vis­i­ble in the religious landscape, as evinced by Wahka, Heqaib, and Isi. Eventually, Djefai-­Hapi, a Twelfth-­Dynasty nomarch of Asyut, would try to or­ga­nize his own apotheosis before his death (Kahl 2012, 168–69). It seems as though Djefai-­Hapi had to wait ­until the New Kingdom

Co n c lus i o n

155

for his cult to take form, but it does speak to a growing awareness of this phenomenon as a social and po­liti­cal force. It makes sense, then, that apotheosis became more and more vis­i­ble, and as a result more and more popu­lar in the New Kingdom and beyond. Though the origins of apotheosis are shrouded by po­liti­cal and religious strug­gles for power, we must not lose sight of the humanity in the pro­cess. Individuals within living communities ­were seeking posthumous privilege, divine access, and assurance of eternal life. Though apotheosis may have been constructed and manipulated for sociopo­liti­cal gains by a few, for the many ­these local gods became power­f ul anchors that connected their communities to the divine realm. The memory of t­ hese gods was embedded within the cultural fabric that made up t­hese communities. W ­ hether for a single generation or for a dozen, upon their deaths ­these mere mortal men ­were displayed, worshipped, and called upon as gods. At moments in which the state was undergoing fundamental changes, the men of ­these communities turned inward, ­toward their own ancestors and leaders, to find security and promise in this life and in the eternal Hereafter.

Notes 1. Ronald Leprohon (2013, 17) writes that the Throne Name (the nswt-­bjt name) was “compounded with the name of the sun god” and thus related to both mortal and divine aspects of the king and of the office of kingship. 2. p.Chester Beatty IV, col. 3: z ȝq ẖȝr=f m jwtn; hȝw.f nb ms n tȝ; jn zẖȝ r dd sḫȝ.tw.f; m r n ḏd n r.

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Index

Numbers followed by f and t refer to figures and t­ ables, respectively. Abu, 1, 115 Abydos, 5, 23, 51, 126, 129, 131–32, 136–37, 151 funerary monuments, 39, 79 See also Idy afterlife, 3–4, 8–10, 20–25, 40, 53, 63, 77n1, 89, 127, 149 admittance into, 15n10, 31, 42, 51, 56–57, 79, 108 democ­ratization of, 9, 36–37, 146, 153 See also dead (collective); gods ‘Ain Asil, 88–90 governors of, 79–80, 88–90, 92, 116, 145 akh, 15n10, 19, 31–35, 67–69, 76–80, 128, 135 abled (jqr) or equipped (ʿpr), 43–45, 104 average dead, 4, 13, 24–25, 113, 145–46 funerary inscriptions, 38–41 Letters to the Dead, 41–42 Pyramid Texts, 35–37 social agent, 29–31, 142 See also dead (collective) Akhethotep, 86 Alexander the ­Great, 65 altar, 120, 129 Amarna Period, 69 Amun, 66, 104, 128, 134. See also gods: Amun-­Re Amunhotep son of Hapu, 66 ancestor, 2–3, 10, 25, 29, 35, 40, 42, 74. See also dead (collective) ankh, 20, 65, 75, 99, 135 Ankhmahor, 41 Antinous, 65, 67 Anubis, 23, 51, 101, 107, 122 aper, 37–39, 43 apotheosis, 2, 4, 10, 64–67 Asyut, 66 Atum, 11, 29, 50 Augustus, 65

ba, 19, 26–31, 32n7, 35, 53 Baufre, 84 Bia, 102–5 body (djet), 26–31 Chris­tian­ity, 20, 65 climate, 7 collapse of Old Kingdom, 7–11 cult, 28, 110, 113–15, 118, 125, 128, 136, 140, 146, 152–53 of esteemed dead, 6, 66, 72–74, 89, 92–93 funerary or mortuary, 24, 31, 44, 67 local, 3, 12–14, 32, 68, 90 royal, 25, 52, 54 state cult, 10, 30, 54, 57 cylinder seal, 36–37, 139 Dakhla Oasis, 80, 88, 92 dead (collective), 2–3, 19–20, 24–32 average (see akh) deified (see deified dead) distinguished (see distinguished dead) esteemed (see esteemed dead) local dead, 12, 32, 56, 71, 77, 79, 89, 141, 144, 149 deification. See divinity: makers of deified dead, 4, 12, 34, 50–56, 64–69, 72–77, 133, 146, 148–49. See also names of individual deified dead Deir el-­Gabrawi, 41 Deir el-­Medina, 84 distinguished dead, 9–10, 55, 64, 67, 78–91, 102, 127, 145, 147–49, 152–53 definition, 4, 13–14, 25, 76–77 markers of, 31, 69–72 Divine Hereafter. See afterlife divine kingship, 10, 13, 20, 25, 52–55 divinity, markers of, 67–76, 77n4, 92–93, 113–15. See also gods

175

17 6 I nde x

Djedi, 8, 70t, 71, 73t, 92–102, 110, 114, 132, 138, 147 djed-­pillar, 99 Djefai-­Hapi, 66, 154 djet (time), 50. See also body (djet) Djoser, 6, 22, 111n1 dynasty Zero, 51 First, 36, 51 Second, 37 Third, 6, 54, 111n1, 148 Fourth, 6–8, 10, 53–54, 80–83, 93, 98, 108, 143, 148 Fifth (see Fifth Dynasty) Sixth (see Sixth Dynasty) Seventh, 6–7, 12, 14n3 Eighth, 6, 7, 12 Ninth, 6 Tenth, 6 Eleventh, 6, 12, 43, 114, 119 Twelfth, 66, 116, 118–20, 127, 131, 137, 154 Thirteenth, 28, 120, 127, 131–32 Fifteenth, 98 Eigh­teenth, 6, 30 Nineteenth, 149 Twenty-­First, 134 Edfu, 89, 100, 114, 129, 131–33, 136, 148 Elephantine, 1–2, 88, 116–17, 124, 127–29, 140n3, 148, 154 esteemed dead, 7, 9–10, 12–14, 25, 42, 76, 79, 89–90, 145, 149 cults, 6, 113, 153 definition, 4, 63, 75 See also dead (collective); deified dead; distinguished dead false door, 37–38, 45n2, 81–83, 94, 102–3, 106 False Door of Ptahshepses, 94–96, 100–101 See also stela: Stela of Wsr festival, 72, 78, 115 Fifth Dynasty, 90n2, 98, 143, 148–49 esteemed dead (see entries for individual esteemed dead) funerary traditions, 35–36 inscriptions, 38–41 ­temples, 64 Unas, king (see Unas) folklore, 69, 154 ghost, 24–25. See also akh Giza, 28, 39, 59n9, 75, 80–82, 86, 92, 100

gods, 1–4, 11, 20, 27–28, 58, 120–28, 155 Amit (The Devourer), 23 Amun, 66, 104, 128, 134 Amun-­Re, 30, 50 Anubis, 23, 51, 101, 107, 122 Anuket, 127 Apopis, 23 Atum, 11, 29, 50 city god (see local gods) deified dead (see dead; deified dead) demigods, 64, 124 in formulae (see imakhu kher [jmɜḫ.w ḫr]; hetep-­di-­nesut [ḥtp-­dj-­nswt]) funerary, 12 (see also Anubis; Osiris) Hathor, 101 Horus (see Horus) Isis, 75, 99, 109 Khnum, 101, 127 and kings, 36, 50–51, 57 (see also divine kingship) living god (nṯr ʿnḫ), 45n1, 114, 129–35 local (see local gods) markers of (see divinity: markers of ) Min, 101 Nebty, 101 Nephthys, 115 Nut, 23, 53 Osiris (see Osiris) Ptah, 11, 94–96, 99–102 Ptah-­Sokar, 137 Re or Ra (see Re) Satet, 127 Shu, 30, 32n7, 115, 147 Tefnut, 30 Thoth, 23, 98 graffiti, 66, 106 Hadrian, 65, 67 Hardedef. See Hordjedef Harkhuf, 40 Hatshepsut, 135 heka, 34, 43, 49 Heqaib, 1–2, 67–71, 80, 89, 113–28, 133, 135–36, 139–40, 147, 149–51, 153–54. See also deified dead; ­temple: Heqaib Hereafter. See afterlife hero, 64–66 hetep-­di-­nesut (ḥtp-­dj-­nswt), 72–74, 103, 114–15, 128–30, 137, 139, 143–44, 152–53 Hezi, 39 Hor, 28 Hordjedef, 57, 68, 70–71, 79–86, 88–90, 92, 98, 145–46, 154

I n d e x Horus, 41, 50, 53, 58n5, 75, 101, 131 Golden Horus, 145 Horus Behdet, 131–32 Hu bowl, 32 Hyksos, 6 Ibi, 41 ibis, 38 Ichernofret, 126 Idy, 79, 90n1 imakh, 54–57, 71, 81, 87 imakhu kher (jmɜḫ.w ḫr), 8, 54–57, 58n8, 59nn9–10, 71–73, 78–84, 93, 107–8, 113–14, 146 Imeni-­Iatu, 120 Imhotep, 6, 66, 84, 86, 111n1, 135, 154 Intef, 6 iqer, 43–45 Isi, 14, 70–71, 74–75, 89, 114–15, 129–36, 139, 147, 150–54 Isis (god), 75, 99, 109 Islam, 65 ka, 19, 26–28, 33, 38, 52, 75, 115, 116 ka-­chapel, 11–12, 72, 90, 119, 143 ka-­priest, 106 Kaemankh, 81 Kagemni, 14, 54, 70–71, 86, 92–93, 98, 105–12, 128, 147, 152–54 Karnak, 66 Kha, 81 Khafre, 53, 84, 90n2 Khai, 104 Khnumhotep, 126 Khufu, 81–82, 84 king, 1, 6–8, 71–74, 79–80, 113, 116, 127, 143, 148 Amenemhat, 120, 134 Amenemhat III, 136 Amenhotep III, 58n4, 66 cult of, 25, 52, 54, 65 divinity (see divine kingship) Djedefre, 84 Djedkare, 57 Djedkare Isesi, 106, 129 Djoser, 6, 22, 111n1 Intef, 84 Inteff II, 118 Intef III, 118, 128, 149 Isesi, 80, 86 as intermediary, 20, 25, 36, 50, 63 Khafre, 53, 84, 90n2 Khufu, 81–82, 84

177

King of the Two Lands, 53 Menkaure, 84, 90n2 Merenre, 68 Montuhotep II, 144 as mortuary benefactor, 33–35, 49–51, 54–57, 89–90 Nakhtnebtepnefer Intef III, 118 Nebheptre Montuhotep II, 6, 12 Neferirkare, 57 Niuserre, 57 Pepi I (see Pepi I) Pepi II (see Pepi II) power, 3–4, 10, 15n10, 50–57, 140, 143–44 Ramesses II, 66 Reneferef, 57 royal decree, 88 royal titles, 8, 27, 15n7 Sahu-re, 57 Senwosret I, 117, 140, 144 Senwosret III, 54, 114, 151 Shepseskaf, 100 Shepseskare, 57 Sobekhotep IV, 132 Teti (see Teti) Unas, 35–37, 57, 58n5, 106, 149 Wahankh, 118 local gods, 3, 11–12, 58, 64, 69, 73–74, 120–23, 127–28, 148, 151 Luxor, 50 maat, 25, 44–45, 50, 108, 135 Hall of the Two Maat, 134 magic. See heka mastaba, 35, 81–82, 102, 106, 111n11, 129–31 Mehu, 14, 70–71, 92–93, 102–5, 110, 147, 152 Mehu-­em-­hat, 104 Meidum, 54 Meir, 40, 55 memory, 71–74, 84–85, 87, 89, 108, 135, 146, 155 Memphis, 11, 81–83, 144 Mesopotamia, 64, 147 military, 124 monarchy. See king mummification, 3, 19, 28, 30 my­thol­ogy, 51, 72 Nag ed-­Deir, 39 name, 72–75, 105 basilophoric, 104 endophoric, 27, 74 hypocristic, 93, 106, 109, 110

17 8 I nde x

name (continued) theophoric, 72–75, 101, 103–6, 109–10, 132–33, 137, 141n17, 146–47, 152 Nebankh, 120 Nebi-­pu-­Mehu, 104 Nebit, 131 necropolis, 1, 3 neheh, 50 netjer, 69, 72, 76–77, 80, 113, 120, 128, 138 netjer ankh, 45n1, 114, 129–35 See also divinity; gods; priest: hem-­netjer Nile, 10, 50, 140n4 nome, 7 nomarch, 11–12, 58, 66, 113 nucleus princi­ple. See tomb: clustering offering, 38–41, 74, 121–23 formula, 77n7, 131, 136 ­table, 36–38, 106–7, 125, 130–31, 135 See also hetep-­di-­nesut (ḥtp-­dj-­nswt); imakhu kher (jmɜḫ.w ḫr) Old Kingdom collapse, 7–11. See also Sixth Dynasty dating, 4–6, 14nn3–4 onomastics. See name Osiris, 3–4, 23–24, 30, 41, 50–51, 53, 99, 107–8, 131–32, 134–35 overseer, 81, 107, 134 patronage, 3, 12 Pepi I, 10, 25, 39, 52–53, 80–82, 90, 93, 102, 107 Pepi II, 6, 8, 10, 55, 68, 80, 88, 114–15, 143 Pepyankhheryib, 40, 55 Pha­raoh. See king piety, 6, 74, 151 power, 3–6, 12, 14, 90, 98–99, 113, 148–55 definition, 47–49 royal, 3–4, 10, 15n10, 50–57, 140, 143–44 See also social capital priest, 11–12, 66, 93, 114–17, 125, 128, 146 hem-­netjer, 96, 121, 122 High Priest, 50, 57, 134 ka-­priest, 106 lector, 40, 43, 104, 122 wab-­priest, 119, 124–25 priesthood, 66, 72, 96, 102, 105, 119, 128, 152 Ptah, 11, 94–96, 99–102 Ptahhotep, 57, 70–71, 79–80, 86, 88–89, 92, 145, 154 Instructions of Ptahhotep, 80, 86–87, 146 Ptahiufni, 81–82 Ptolemaic period, 66–67, 152 pyramid, 6, 8, 22, 31, 49, 56–57, 76, 106, 111n1

Pyramid Texts, 24–25, 29, 32n4, 34–36, 43–44, 52–53, 58n5, 67, 77n2, 133, 153 Spell, 213, 19, 135 of Unas, 6, 57 Qila el-­Dabba, 88 Qubbet el-­Hawa, 40, 119 Ra. See Re Rahotep, 54 Ramesside Period, 82, 84–85, 151 Re, 6, 11, 30, 50, 53, 57, 75, 98, 128, 135 Residence, royal, 10–12 Roman period, 65–66, 152 ruler. See king Sabni, 119 sacrifice, ­human, 51 saint, 64, 124, 126, 131 Saqqara, 22, 35, 38–41, 80, 86, 92–96, 98, 102–6, 110 sarcophagus, 134 Sarenput I, 1, 116–17, 120–25, 128 Sarenput II, 116 secondary inscription, 66, 106 Sennedjim, 23, 32n3 Senwosret III, 54, 136 shadow (šwt), 27, 31 shrine, 3, 72, 88–90, 129 of Heqaib, 1, 13, 68, 118, 120–23, 126, 140n2, 152 ḥwt-­kȝ, 11, 72, 80, 88–90, 115–17, 121, 126, 128, 143 kȝr-­shrine, 115–17, 121, 126, 128 See also ­temple Sixth Dynasty, 55, 68, 76, 113–14, 143–44, 148–49, 151–52 end Old Kingdom, 7–11, 36, 57–58, 151 esteemed dead (see entries for individual esteemed dead) inscriptions, 38–41, 45n4 Pepi I, king (see Pepi I) Pepi II, king (see Pepi II) Second Style, 64 snake, 134 Sobekhotep, 136 social capital, 2–3, 14, 76, 110–11, 137, 142–43, 149 statue, 28, 30, 56, 109, 117, 130, 132, 135 stela, 37, 39, 43, 102, 117–20, 123–24, 126, 129–30, 132, 135 Cairo Stela, 94–96 Goedicke’s Stela, 94–95, 102

I n d e x Stela of Hor-aa, 131–32 Stela of Mesu, 131 Stela of Wsr, 94–95, 98, 102 šwt. See shadow (šwt) Tales of Miracle and Won­der. See Papyrus Westcar ­temple, 27–28, 34, 64, 90, 110–12, 125, 133 Heqaib, 1, 2f, 13, 113–19, 125–28, 140n2, 152 ḥwt-­nṯr, 115, 126, 140n2 Khnum, 116–17, 119, 140n3 local, 10–15, 58, 63, 77, 127, 133 mortuary, 22, 54, 73, 128 Satet, 116–17, 124, 140n3 sun, 6, 53, 57 See also Karnak; Luxor; shrine Teti, 93, 95, 102, 105–7, 109, 114, 129, 149 texts Am Duat, 23, 51 Appeals to the Living, 38–41, 43, 45n3 Book of the Dead, 23–24, 27, 32n3, 34–35, 51, 134 Book of Gates, 23 Coffin Texts, 24, 27, 34, 37–38, 44, 51 Debate between a Man and His Ba, 134–35 funerary, 9, 12, 37 Harper’s Song, 72 Instructions of Hordjedef, 84–86, 146 Instructions of Kagemni, 108–9 Instructions of Ptahhotep, 80, 86–87, 146 Letters to the Dead, 20, 24–25, 33, 35, 41–43, 78, 130, 141n16 Papyrus London, 134 Papyrus Westcar, 84, 96, 98

179

Pyramid Texts (see Pyramid Texts) Story of Sinuhe, 56 Wisdom Texts, 114 Thebes, 6, 12, 58, 144, 148, 151 tjaty, 8, 15n6, 87, 105–6, 108, 129 Tjebu, 136 tomb, 3, 24, 51, 126, 128, 130, 136–37, 141n16, 143, 153 architecture, 34–35, 119 (see also mastaba) art, 22, 23, 26 biographies, 5, 8, 146 clustering, 57, 90n1, 106, 111n11, 128, 132, 137, 146 cult, 65 destruction, 85, 143, 145 funerary texts (see texts) false door, 28, 37–38, 96 inscription, 33, 35, 38–41, 45n2, 45n4, 94 (see also offering: formula) location, 7, 25, 31, 54–56, 143 mortuary engagement, 19, 37, 42, 44, 72, 82, 129, 145 royal, 6, 22 (see also pyramid) trade, 7 Unas, 35–37, 57, 58n5, 106, 149 ushabti, 142 valley ­temple, 22, 54, 73, 128 vio­lence, 48 vizier. See tjaty votive, 58 vulture, 134 Wadi Hammamat, 39, 83–85, 90, 132 Wahka, 14, 74–75, 114–15, 129, 136–39, 147, 150–51, 154 Wahka II, 136, 139 workshop, 6