Change, Continuity, and Connectivity: North-Eastern Mediterranean at the turn of the Bronze Age and in the early Iron Age 3447109696, 9783447109697

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© 2018, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 9783447109697 — ISBN E-Book: 9783447197304

P H I L I P P I K A

Altertumswissenschaftliche Abhandlungen Contributions to the Study of Ancient World Cultures

Herausgegeben von /Edited by Joachim Hengstl, Elizabeth Irwin, Andrea Jördens, Torsten Mattern, Robert Rollinger, Kai Ruffing, Orell Witthuhn 118

2018

Harrassowitz Verlag . Wiesbaden

© 2018, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 9783447109697 — ISBN E-Book: 9783447197304

Change, Continuity, and Connectivity North-Eastern Mediterranean at the turn of the Bronze Age and in the early Iron Age Edited by Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò and Marek Węcowski

2018

Harrassowitz Verlag . Wiesbaden

© 2018, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 9783447109697 — ISBN E-Book: 9783447197304

Bis Band 60: Philippika. Marburger altertumskundliche Abhandlungen. Published with the financial support of the Polish Ministry of Science and Higher Education, within the frame of National Program for Development of Humanities and the University of Warsaw.

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.dnb.de abrufbar. Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the internet at http://dnb.dnb.de.

For further information about our publishing program consult our website http://www.harrassowitz-verlag.de © Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden 2018 This work, including all of its parts, is protected by copyright. Any use beyond the limits of copyright law without the permission of the publisher is forbidden and subject to penalty. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. Printed on permanent/durable paper. Printing and binding: Hubert & Co., Göttingen Printed in Germany ISSN 1613-5628 ISBN 978-3-447-10969-7 e-ISBN 978-3-447-19730-4

© 2018, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 9783447109697 — ISBN E-Book: 9783447197304

Table of Contents Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, Marek Węcowski 1

PART I: 7 Piotr Taracha 8 Rostislav Oreshko Ahhiyawa - Danu(na). Aegean ethnic groups in the Eastern Mediterranean 23 Emanuel Pfoh Socio-Political Changes and Continuities in the Levant (1300-900 BCE).....................

57

Jeffrey P. Emanuel Differentiating Naval Warfare and Piracy in the Late Bronze–Early Iron Age Mediterranean: Possibility or Pipe Dream? ..............

68

Ann E. Killebrew From “Global” to “Glocal”: Cultural Connectivity and Interactions between Cyprus 81 Guy D. Middleton ‘I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more’: The Sea Peoples and Aegean migration at the end of the Late Bronze Age ............................................

95

Francisco J. Núñez The impact of the Sea Peoples in Central Levant. A Revision. .......................................

116

David Ben-Shlomo Pottery and Terracottas in Philistia during the Early Iron Age: Aspects of Change and Continuity .................................................................................

141

Aren M. Maeir The Philistines be upon thee, Samson (Jud. 16:20): Reassessing the Martial Nature of the Philistines – Archaeological Evidence vs. Ideological Image? .............................

158

Teresa Bürge and Peter M. Fischer The Early Iron Age at Tell Abu al-Kharaz, Jordan Valley, and its Relations 169

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Table of Contents

PART II: Cross-Cultural Approaches....................................................................... 195 Jan Paul Crielaard Hybrid go-betweens: the role of individuals with multiple identities in cross-cultural contacts in the Late Bronze Age and Iron Age central and eastern Mediterranean................................................................................................

196

Sarah Murray Imported Objects in the Aegean beyond Élite Interaction: A Contextual Approach to Eastern Exotica on the Greek Mainland ...............................

221

Giorgos Bourogiannis The Transmission of the Alphabet to the Aegean .............................................................

235

Vicky Vlachou New Images, Old Practices? An Imagery of Funerary Rituals and Cult ..

258

S. Rebecca Martin Eastern Mediterranean Feasts: What Do We Really Know About the Marzeah? ...........

294

Gunnel Ekroth Holocaustic sacrifices in ancient Greek religion and the ritual relations to the Levant ... 308

PART III: 327 Dariusz R. Piwowarczyk Chronology and dating of linguistic corpora ...................................................................

328

Rafał Rosół Early Semitic Loanwords in Greek.................................................................................... 334 Paola Dardano Semitic influences in Anatolian languages ....................................................................... 345 Zsolt Simon Anatolian influences on Greek ......................................................................................... 376 419

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Table of Contents

VII

PART IV: 443 Maciej Chyleński, Marcin Grynberg, Anna Juras Late Bronze Age migrations in the Mediterranean. Prospects for approaching the problem of Sea Peoples using ancient DNA ....................

444

Argyro Nafplioti 451 467

© 2018, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 9783447109697 — ISBN E-Book: 9783447197304



© 2018, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 9783447109697 — ISBN E-Book: 9783447197304

Change, Continuity, and Connectivity

Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, Marek Węcowski The present collective volume stems from an interdisciplinary project funded by the Polish Ministry of Science and Higher Education, within the frame of the National Programme for the Development of the Humanities (research grant no. 12H 12 0193 81). It incorporates the main results of three international workshops held in Warsaw between 2014 and 2016 with several papers specifically written for this book. The broadly defined aim of this volume – combining the import of archaeological, historical, linguistic, and scientific studies in the field – is to offer a multidisciplinary reassessment of the relationships between the Aegean and the Levant ca. 1300-900 BCE (and slightly beyond), i.e. in the period when a series of decisive historical transformations in the North-Eastern Mediterranean took place reshaping the historical and cultural fates of this region. Traditionally, this period of cultural contacts has been conceived of teleologically, in which an ex Oriente lux interpretive pattern was the key to understanding archaic and classical Greek culture – a mono-directional or at best diffusionist view of intercultural relations. More recently, the pendulum of scholarly interest seems to have swung in the opposite direction, focusing, on the one hand, on modes of adoption and adaptation, and less on sheer transmission, of diverse cultural phenomena. On the other hand, hypothetical Aegean “influences” on Levantine cultures seem to have come to the fore, going far beyond the simple study of the geography, or “ethnography” of migrations, including the most famous case of the so-called Sea Peoples of the Late Bronze Age. The title of this volume shows its intention to study the North-Eastern Mediterranean at the turn of the Bronze Age and in the Early Iron Age as a hub of supra-local connectivity by tracing – on a general historical level and in almost each particular essay – textual and archaeological evidence of both change and continuity. To some extent at least, it may be much easier to observe discontinuities and novelties in the broadly defined field of cultural history. However, for a historical period of unquestionable crisis marked by political, social, and no doubt economic upheavals on an unprecedented scale in the North-Eastern Mediterranean, continuities and connectivities may be no less striking to a contemporary student. To find the balance between the two perspectives may perhaps be seen as the main challenge of the historical studies of this period. It is not our intention to present an authoritative and fully up-to-date version of the historical phenomena and processes involved, but rather to contribute to a fresh scholarly debate by juxtaposing informed but nonetheless often opposed points of view. As will be clear to every reader of this volume, the authors’ methods and general approaches differ considerably. Most importantly, whereas the historical implications of some of the essays are presented in a refreshingly optimistic manner, striving for a new understanding of some general cultural phenomena or of regional histories, other essays are soberly minimalistic regarding the feasibility of drawing firm conclusions with the current state of research. It is good to keep in mind that both maximalist and minimalist approaches may be equally valid.

© 2018, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 9783447109697 — ISBN E-Book: 9783447197304

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Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, Marek Węcowski

* The first and central part of the book (“Change, Continuity, and Connectivity – Regional Reassessments”) contains a series of essays arranged in a broadly geographical and chronological order, from Hittite–Mycenaean relations in the north, through Asia Minor, Cyprus, Cilicia, Syria, and the Levant, up to the Jordan Valley. This section has a double nature as it includes both general essays and case-studies. The case-studies are drawn from specific archaeological sites and their implications and focus on several particularly important problems of regional history. In this section, Piotr Taracha offers an introduction to the study of a fundamental historical problem of Hittite–Mycenaean interconnections in the Late Bronze Age, a starting point of the story to be followed in this book, dealing both with archaeological evidence for cultural links between the Mycenaean world and western Anatolia, and with the “Ahhiyawa problem” in a number of Hittite texts. This is a sensible reassessment of local political interactions in a liminal zone of western Anatolia – one of the crucial peripheral regions within the geographical scope of this book – having recourse to diverse archaeological, historical, and anthropological analyses. Later in the same section, Rostislav Oreshko tackles the crucial but debatable issue of the (conceivable) Aegean ethnic names in the eastern Mediterranean in his study of Ahhiyawa, Danu(na), combining his primarily linguistic approach with archaeological and historical considerations. This essay offers a meticulous study of old and new Hieroglyphic-Luwian evidence on the issue and may be conveniently compared to the general linguistic essays assembled in Part Three of this volume. Next, in his methodologically rich essay, Emanuel Pfoh studies socio-political changes and continuities in the Levant between 1300 and 900 BCE, addressing, first, particular factors in the twelfth century BCE transition relevant to socio-politics, but ultimately advocating for a longue durée view of the historical phenomena involved. Pfoh’s main intention is to challenge the scholarly consensus that “a key change in socio-political structures occurred [in this period], marking a transition from territorial polities to ‘national’ or ethnic polities” (p. 64). Instead, he observes “the fundamental permanence, after the twelfth century crisis, of hierarchical territorial structures based on kinship and patronage in the Levant” (p. 64). In a refreshingly provocative paper that invites further discussion, Jeffrey P. Emanuel tackles the difficulty of differentiating between regular naval warfare and piracy in the Late Bronze and the Early Iron Age Mediterranean. On a more general level, this issue is an example of the larger historical and methodological problem of studying non-state, asymmetrical, or guerrilla warfare typical of the periods of deep transition and change. As such, this paper discusses one of the crucial historical factors influencing the fates of the North-Eastern Mediterranean in the period under scrutiny in this volume. Ann E. Killebrew deals with the interactions and interconnections between Cyprus and the southern Levant during the Early Iron Age. Challenging the traditional view of the the last two centuries of the second millennium BCE as “a period of societal breakdown following the disintegration of the great Late Bronze Age empires”, Killebrew has recourse to the results of recent excavations in the southern Levant and on Cyprus as well as to extensive provenience studies of ceramics and metals. The emerging picture is one of decentralized but regionally-connected polities

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Change, Continuity, and Connectivity

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on Cyprus and the coastal Levant that survived and even flourished after the collapse of established socio-economic structures. Guy D. Middleton discusses the “Sea Peoples” and Aegean migrations at the end of the Late Bronze Age, arguing against “the ‘migrationist’ characterisation of the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age eastern Mediterranean – specifically the idea of a Mycenaean or Aegean migration to the southern Levant which saw the introduction of novel locally-produced Aegean cultural features” (p. 95). In yet another revisionist paper, Francisco J. Núñez offers an overview of the impact of the “Sea Peoples” in the central Levant and the socio-political and cultural repercussions for urban environments and explains the reasons for this particular situation, which are to be found, as he argues, in the fact that the gravitation point of the entire issue of the Sea Peoples in the Levant should be sought in events and circumstances that occurred in its northern part. Namely, “the issue in its entirety seems to have been a north to south phenomenon in which the battle [somewhere north of the Chekka cape, in north Lebanon] between Ramesses III and those foreign peoples changed the course of events and led to a new situation” (p. 128). In an archaeological case-study, David Ben-Shlomo presents various aspects of change and continuity when studying pottery and terracottas in Philistia during the Early Iron Age. He observes a peculiar duality in the material culture of this region. Southern Levantine pottery and terracottas show clear signs of Aegean and Cypriote imigration as well as continuity of Canaanite traditions. He concludes that: [T]he traditional view seeing the Philistine phenomenon as representing a group of people arriving from the west [...] to Philistia during the beginning of the 12th century BCE, and bringing various aspects of their material culture with them, can be maintained. Yet, the effect of this phenomenon on the local political scene of the southern Levant may have been more gradual and complex“ (p. 150)

In the same section, Aren M. Maeir presents a reassessment of “Philistine” material culture by reconsidering the extant archaeological evidence from sites thought to be Philistine, and relevant Egyptian iconography, and compares both to Biblical accounts of Philistines. He argues for a strongly ideological import of “early Israelite/Judahite foundation stories”. Teresa Bürge and Peter M. Fischer deal with regional and interregional contacts (trade, migration, hybridization etc.) between the Jordan valley and the eastern Mediterranean in the light of the Early Iron Age strata of the site of Tell Abu al-Kharaz. To round-off Part One of our volume, it may be instructive to quote some of the conclusions of this well-balanced paper (p. 179): […] it is clear that the settlers of early Iron Age Tell Abu al-Kharaz were influenced by the transformations in the 12th century BCE. Limited migration of individuals or families, which arrived from the Eastern Mediterranean through the Jezreel Valley, is suggested. These migrants mingled with the local population most likely by intermarriage, which explains the amalgamation of local and foreign traits in the material culture of many Phase IX contexts at Tell Abu al-Kharaz. This migration process might have lasted years, decades or even generations. Therefore, it is problematic to refer to these migrants as ‘Sea Peoples’, as the immigrants to Tell Abu al-Kharaz had already experienced cultural changes on their way to Transjordan due to the time lapse from their arrival at the Mediterranean littoral until they finally settled at Tell Abu al-Kharaz. However, these descendants, who represent one of the outcomes of the ‘Sea Peoples Phenomenon’, contributed to a rich, flourishing, well-organized and multi-cultural society at early Iron Age Tell Abu al-Kharaz.

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Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, Marek Węcowski

Moving from the regionally-oriented and chronologically more focused studies of our Part One, the second part (“Cross-Cultural Approaches”) offers some broader cultural perspectives on the historical period studied in this book. Not inappropriately, it is hoped, some of the essays included in this section go well beyond the chronological scope of the volume to study far-reaching historical and cultural consequences of some of the phenomena involved. Some others study notoriously debatable and methodologically demanding historical issues originating from historical comparisons between the two geographical extremes of the North-Eastern Mediterranean, the Aegean and the Levant. Jan Paul Crielaard studies the role of individuals with multiple identities dependent on cross-cultural contacts in the Late Bronze Age and Iron Age central and eastern Mediterranean, comparing them “to other individuals attested in the archaeological and textual records who seem to have possessed comparable positions in intercultural or transcultural situations of increasing interconnectivity” and thus highlighting “the possible role of [such] individuals in culture contacts” (p. 196) and exploring the phenomenon of cultural hybrids. Sarah Murray deals with eastern exotica on the Greek mainland in their immediate context with a view to go beyond their traditional, and elite-oriented archaeological interpretations. She argues that the largely ritual contexts and functions of many 13th through 10th century exotica may instead be indicative of “a variety of mechanisms, not only [… of] economic or political exchange systems associated with the élite, but also […] of the movements of humbler individuals, or in conjunction with non-local supernatural beliefs”. Thus, “imported exotica in the early Greek world may in some cases have served to provide individuals with an unseen superstitious or supernatural advantage rather than a socio-political one” (p. 228). In the same section, Giorgos Bourogiannis – by offering a lucid overview of the relevant material – deals with the problem of the transmission of the alphabet to the Aegean with a view to answer fundamental questions of “how, when and where the adoption of the alphabet by the Greeks took place” (p. 236). Vicky Vlachou discusses the imagery of funerary rituals and cult practices in the Aegean and the eastern Mediterranean, arguing that “despite the strong influence of Egyptian and Near Eastern beliefs, Aegean funerary iconography embodies regional traditions and beliefs”. At the same time, the author stresses the workings of “the varying symbolic meanings that these images seem to adopt during each period, and the importance that is placed on the different parts of the rituals in order to better serve the needs and aspirations of the communities that are undergoing significant shifts and transformations of their own” (p. 272). In her essay, S. Rebecca Martin asks what we really know about the Levantine institution of the marzeah, a type of feast often associated with, or even studied as a model of, the Greek aristocratic banquet, or symposion. As far as the similarities, and hence conceivable historical links, between the Levantine and the Aegean commensal practices go, she argues that “the symposion and marzeah were only as much alike as any elite occasion that involved wine drinking” and therefore scholars “must seek the symposion’s origin stories elsewhere” and not, simplistically, in Levantine social practice (p. 303). This section of the book concludes with Gunnel Ekroth’s essay on holocaustic sacrifices, rituals where an entire animal was put into the fire, in ancient Greek religion and on their conceivable links to Levantine rituals. The author combines here archaeological, zooarchaeological, and written evidence for holocaustic sacrifices in the Greek Early Iron Age and historical periods (ca. 900-100 BC). After an exhaustive overview of the relevant Greek material and a sober discussion of possible contact between the Aegean and the

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Change, Continuity, and Connectivity

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Levantine practitioners of holocaustic rituals, Ekroth’s concluding remarks, as in the case of the previous Part One, may be quoted to conclude this section of the volume as well (p. 322): The similarities between the Greek burnt animal sacrifice, holocausts as well as thysiai, and the practices in the Levant are fascinating, but also pose methodological challenges. Are we to focus on the likenesses or the differences? We are clearly facing ritual actions, which in many ways are similar but which also diverge as to the execution and to the purposes and meanings. A holocaust of a bull in the temple at Jerusalem was undoubtedly something different from the holocaust of a piglet to a local Greek hero. And could there be a greater distinction in the perceptions of the divine, between the Greek gods, anthropomorphic in the full sense of the word, the almighty God of the Hebrew Bible? Even so, they were both really fond of sweet-smelling fatty smoke.

Part Three (“Linguistic Approaches”), much more systematic in its presentation of relevant material than the two previous ones, covers the field of interactions between the Levantine, Anatolian, and Aegean languages. The evidence of the interaction of Aegean and Levantine languages recognizable in the linguistic material of historical periods should in principle be one way of assessing the interaction of populations in the northeastern and eastern part of the Mediterranean. Such an approach is naturally not free of methodological pitfalls that must be taken into consideration when the results of linguistic analyses are used by nonspecialists to support or disprove historical and archaeological generalisations regarding the Late Bronze and the Early Iron Age history of the North-Eastern Mediterranean. In this section, Dariusz R. Piwowarczyk discusses the methods of dating the linguistic developments pertaining to the languages involved in the cultural transfers studied in this volume. In general, when studying such linguistic phenomena, one can a priori speak of a “triangle” of mutual linguistic relationships whose “angles” would be formed by Greek, Anatolian, and Semitic languages. Within this framework, Rafał Rosłół deals with Semitic influences in Greek, Paola Dardano with Semitic influences in Anatolian languages, Zsolt Simon with Anatolian influences in Greek, and Wilfred G.E. Watson with Anatolian influences in Semitic languages. Besides presenting a polyphonic, and not smoothed or artificially consistent, version of Aegean-Levantine interconnectivity, the main novelty of this book is a fourth and final set of essays discussing new scientific approaches that transcend traditional multidisciplinary debates concerning the conflicting attitudes and, at times, conflicting methodologies of archaeology, history, and linguistic studies. Scientific studies can be groundbreaking, but their conclusions are sometimes ambiguous or difficult for non-specialists to understand. Scholars lacking the requisite methodological skills and field experience are sometimes prone to misunderstanding and misapplying technical studies. Therefore, in the final Part Four of the volume (“Scientific Perspectives”), Maciej Chyleński, Marcin Grynberg, and Anna Juras present some prospects for approaching the problem of Late Bronze Age migrations in the Mediterranean, using ancient DNA. In the same section, Argyro Nafplioti tackles the hotly debated issue of using isotope ratio analysis as a tool for reconstructing past life histories.

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Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, Marek Węcowski

* The Editors of the volume can only hope that this book will find its way not only to the specialists interested in the historical period between ca. 1300 and 900 BCE, but also to the scholars grappling with methodological and theoretical problems involved in studying various aspects of pre-modern archaeology and cultural history.

© 2018, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 9783447109697 — ISBN E-Book: 9783447197304

PART I: Change, Continuity, and Connectivity - Regional Reassessments

© 2018, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 9783447109697 — ISBN E-Book: 9783447197304

Approaches to Mycenaean-Hittite Interconnections in the Late Bronze Age 1 Piotr Taracha This paper deals with both, archaeological evidence for cultural links between the Mycenaean world and western Anatolia in the Late Bronze Age, and the Ahhiyawa problem that is based on nearly thirty Hittite texts (among the thousands that had been found in the archives of the Hittite capital Hattusa, modern Boğazkale about 150 km as the crow flies east of Ankara), in which the term “Ahhiya(wa)” appears. 2 Both issues are indeed connected and must not be treated separately, although there are still many scholars to do so. What is more, concerning the former “there is an unfortunate tendency in much recent work on interconnections to transform hypothesis into established fact,” 3 while the latter “still remains unsolved and unanswered almost a century after it was first introduced.” 4 Beckman, Bryce, and Cline concur with the opinio communis in accepting the designation of the Mycenaeans by the Hittites as “Ahhiyawa” (and an earlier version “Ahhiya”); still, they endorse and deliberate on the question: If so, was it meant to be a reference to all of the Mycenaeans on mainland Greece and elsewhere? Or, since we know that the Mycenaeans were split up into what were essentially a series of small city-states, was it a reference only to those in a specific region or locality, such as the Peloponnese (e.g., Mycenae), Boeotia (e.g., Thebes), Rhodes, or western Anatolia? Could the meaning have changed over time, as Hittite relations with these foreigners evolved over the centuries? 5

From a methodological perspective it is essential to understand that the Ahhiyawa texts and the archaeological evidence for Mycenaean presence in southwestern Anatolia are naturally of different informative value, though they do not contradict each other, and if asked properly, they can give a suggestive picture of western Anatolia in the Late Bronze Age and of Mycenaean-Hittite interconnections there. Another issue is whether the littoral of western Anatolia (including the offshore islands), from the perspective of the Mycenaean culture, should be considered an “interface,” a border zone (i.e., “a transitional area that extends from the limits of the core zone of a sedentary society to the limits of its effective control, political or otherwise” 6), or a frontier area that, as separated by a body of water, is commonly referred to as colonies or enclaves. 7 Feuer gives the following definitions: 1 Research related to the subject of this paper was possible thanks to the grant of the National Science Centre (NCN, Poland) no. 2015/19/P/HS3/04161. 2 Fischer 2010; Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011; cf. also Taracha 2006; 2009. 3 Rehak 1997: 401. 4 Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 1, 267-83, for the most recent discussion of Mycenaean-Hittite interconnection 5 Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 1. 6 Feuer 2011: 517. 7 E.g., Tartaron 2005. Cf. also Branigan 1981; 1984.

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Approaches to Mycenaean-Hittite Interconnections in the Late Bronze Age

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In the intermediate border zone, there are large numbers of other ethnic groups, and while members of these groups tend to interact primarily with one another, there is greater interaction with others as well; here, ethnic markers assume greater salience because the need for contrast with other groups is stronger. In the frontier zone, members of the core ethnic group are often a minority, and although they may interact a good deal with fellow members within an enclave, they are likely to be surrounded by and interact regularly with those of other ethnic and/or cultural groups. 8 He adds: Because groups or individuals from different groups encounter one another regularly in peripheral zones and because political and economic control, at least in preindustrial times, is more tenuous, border and frontier areas are almost by definition liminal zones wherein interaction and change can occur more readily than elsewhere. Within this contact zone, a condition of indeterminacy exists that has been variously characterized as a third space, middle ground, or contested ground. Although each of these concepts is slightly different, they overlap in sharing the notion of open-ended possibilities whereby the inhabitants of these regions have the opportunity to negotiate an identity or identities through the agency of choice. … One common form of interaction is trade or exchange. … A second process common in marginal zones is conflict, including warfare. … Other processes intimately associated with ethnicity and culture are acculturation, creolization, syncretism, hybridization, transculturation, emulation, and assimilation. … In addition to exchange, one of the primary means of acculturation or assimilation is intermarriage, and it has been noted that one thing that typically crosses boundaries – ethnic or otherwise – is people. 9

As a matter of fact, the foregoing criteria and concepts that have been put forward in the theoretical discussion on peripheral regions may well be applied to ethnic, cultural, and political conditions of western Anatolia in the Late Bronze Age. There are issues such as Mycenaean cultural and ethnic diacritics, trade or exchange, and processes of acculturation, emulation, and assimilation that can be referred to and discussed based primarily, if not exclusively, on the archaeological data. Yet, from Hittite texts we get further information, scarce and not always clear as it is, on the changing political situation in the region that was split up generally into small city-states that could join in an emergency, mostly when facing the power policy and military campaigns of the Hittite great kings, into coalitions and confederacies. One of the latter (with the capital Apasa, identified by some scholars with modern Ayasuluk near Ephesus), called Arzawa in Hittite sources, became temporarily a regional power ruled by a Luwian dynasty that controlled vast territories in western Anatolia and some of the offshore islands. During its heyday in the first half of the fourteenth century BC, Arzawa maintained diplomatic contacts with Amenhotep III, 10 and about 1321, after a period of vassal subordination to the Hittites due to the conquests of Šuppiluliuma I (ca. 1357–1322), the last Arzawan king, Uhha-ziti, rebelled once more against the new Hittite ruler, Mursili II (1322–ca. 1290), forming an alliance with the king of Ahhiyawa, which ended in the ultimate fall of the confederacy (1319). 11 8 Feuer 2011: 518. Cf. also Feuer 1999; 2003. 9 Feuer 2011: 518, 519, with references to the archaeological literature that offers a theoretical discussion of the foregoing issues. 10 Cline 1998. 11 Heinhold-Krahmer 1977; cf. also Hawkins 2009: 74-75, 79-80.

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Piotr Taracha

We are told also about local conflicts and rebellions of Hittite vassals, sometimes instigated by the Ahhiyawans, Hittite diplomatic contacts both with the western Anatolian vassals and the kingdom of Ahhiyawa, 12 and even about what Feuer designated as the opportunity for the inhabitants of the region, both members of the elites and men of humble birth, “to negotiate an identity or identities through the agency of choice;” in reality, however, due to perpetual conflicts, they were often forced into accepting the change of suzerain, as, for instance, in the case of the purple-dyers of the Hittite king (most likely Muwattali II, ca. 1290–1272) and Manapa-Tarhunta, Hittite vassal in the Seha River Land (probably the Caicus valley), who came to Lazpa (Lesbos) “across the sea” and then, after the smiting of the island by an Ahhiyawan vassal Atpa of Millawanda, became subordinates of the latter. 13 In this case, ethnicity or group identity of the men had no bearing upon the matter. Furthermore, if the Mycenaeans can be equated with the Ahhiyawans, then – as Beckman, Bryce, and Cline state: [W]e are able to trace not only the overall history of Mycenaean-Hittite relations over the course of the Late Bronze Age, but also parts of the careers of individuals such as the rascally Piyamaradu and the wily Attarissiya, as well as a portion of the history of individual places such as Millawanda / Milawata (Miletus) and Wilusa (probably Troy and/or the Troad). 14 There is no need here to restate the comments that have been made by other scholars concerning Ahhiyawa in Hittite texts, nor shall I go again over the countless interpretations of the archaeological evidence for the Mycenaean presence in western Anatolia. 15 What is my aim in the following is rather to pull out some issues concerning both the archaeological and textual data that might be augmented by additional considerations. Recent advances in anthropology and archaeology focus on the assumption that prehistoric people present themselves through their material culture. 16 However, as Feuer remarks: Compared with diacritics such as language, religion, and ideology, the relationship of material culture to ethnicity is more problematic. … Moreover, the effects of choice, contingency, and variability make it quite difficult to infer or predict which aspects of material culture in a given situation will be considered more salient. 17

In the previous discussion of Mycenaean identity, 18 quite numerous potential cultural and ethnic diacritics have been put forward, including both, ideational and organizational aspects of the Mycenaean civilization such as language, the Linear B script, religion, the so-called “wanax ideology,” 19 and mortuary practices, 20 as well as different categories of artifacts and forms of architecture that mostly would also qualify as criteria proposed for the express purpose of characterizing the presence of the ethnic Mycenaeans in peripheral regi12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Heinhold-Krahmer 2007; Melchert, forthcoming. Singer 2008. Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 267. Cf. also Cline 1994: 69; 1996: 145. See, e.g., Bryce 1989a; 1989b; 2003; Cline 1991; 1994; 1996; 1998; 2010; Güterbock 1983; 1984; Helck 1987; Kelder 2004-2005; 2010; Mee 1978; 1998; Mountjoy 1998; Singer 1983; now also Fischer 2010; Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011, all with many additional references. E.g., Graves-Brown et al. 1996; Jones 1997; Morris 2000; Meskell, Preucel 2007; Insoll 2007. Feuer 2011: 511. Cf. also Jones 1996: 72-73. For a summary, see Feuer 2011: 512-14. Kilian 1988. E.g, Cavanagh 1998.

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ons, first of all, tomb architecture, figurines, jewelry, and – last but not least – pottery. 21 The latter, however, was a trade item, often locally manufactured by either itinerant craftsmen or even local potters who adopted Mycenaean technology and tradition. The mere presence of pottery, therefore, by itself does not indicate the presence of the ethnic Mycenaeans, unless found in association with other Mycenaean diacritics. 22 Vanschoonwinkel, in his overview of Mycenaean expansion overseas, concurs that: [T]here is no logical ethnic link between a type of vase and its owner or even maker, such a vessel cannot give information about the racial, linguistic, cultural or geographical identity of its user. 23

Hence, the archaeological interpretations based essentially on pottery, as, for instance, the concept of the East Aegean – West Anatolian Interface proposed by Mountjoy, have considerable drawbacks. 24 The majority of sites in western Anatolia where Mycenaean(-type) ceramics have been found yielded only single potsherds, therefore, placing them all on an equal footing in the analysis of the distribution of Mycenaean pottery may provide a misleading picture. The ratio of Mycenaean(-type) pottery to local wares, however, appears a more important diacritic. In Miletus V, for instance, which is characterized as almost entirely Mycenaean in culture, 25 locally produced Mycenaean-type wares make up over 95% of the ceramic material, whereas farther to the north the ratio is less than 1% in Panaztepe and only 2% in Troy, which would not allow for extensive Mycenaean settlement at these sites. It may well be, of course, that such evidence, especially when associated with other Mycenaean diacritics (chamber tombs, figurines, etc.), represents the presence of the Mycenaeans, but conversely, the lack of such evidence at other sites cannot necessarily be used to signify their absence. Considering all the relevant archaeological data, I have concluded in another recent article: Mycenaean settlement certainly did not cover vast territories in Anatolia. It seems to have been limited generally to the southern part of the Aegean coastal region [and the adjacent islands], with a number of colonies or enclaves, both ports of call and larger settlements, among which Miletus (Millawanda of Hittite texts) was by far the most important from the very beginning. 26 ... The site became the main center of Minoan [Miletus IV] and subsequently Mycenaean culture in western Anatolia that exerted a strong impact on Anatolian population groups along the trade route in the Çine and Büyük Menderes region. 27

Mycenaean-type, LH IIIB and LH IIIC, pottery (forming about 10% of the total sherd count), found during recent excavations at Çine-Tepecik, the Aydın province, in the strata roughly dated to the late-thirteenth and twelfth centuries BC, indicates that this impact lasted till the very end of the Late Bronze Age. 28 From the same layer (II 1a) came also clay bullae with impressions of two Hittite stamp seals that confirm existence of the local administra21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

Kilian 1990; Cline 1994. Cf. also Feuer 2011: 521-22. Lambrou-Phillipson 1993; Sheratt 1999. Cf. also Feuer 2011: 522. Vanschoonwinkel 2006: 92. Cf. also Taracha 2009: 22. Mountjoy 1998. E.g., Gödecken 1988; Greaves 2002; Niemeier 2005. Taracha 2009: 21. Taracha 2009: 24. Günel 2010; Günel, Herbordt 2014.

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tive system based on Hittite traditions, at the time when the site was part of the kingdom of Mira, subordinate to the Hittite great king. 29 The finds from Çine-Tepecik indicate that emulation processes that resulted in acculturation and adoption of Mycenaean cultural influences by the genuine elites of southern Mira, stimulated by the existence of the trade route leading eastwards through the valleys of the Çine (Marsyas) stream and the Büyük Menderes (Meander) river, crossed here with the Hittite political impact on this vassal state in the second half of the thirteenth century BC. Furthermore, Hittite-like traits in material culture of the last LBA phase VI in Miletus confirm that at the time Millawanda was also open on Hittite cultural influences. 30 How far this archaeological evidence may be compared and augmented with the texts? First issue to be dealt with is the presence of the ethnic Mycenaeans (Ahhiyawans) in Anatolia. Apart from three persons, Attarissiya, Kagamuna, 31 and Tawagalawa (see infra), 32 there is no reference in the Ahhiyawa texts to the ethnicity of individual people, not to mention population groups. We do not know, for instance, whether Atpa, who was in charge in Millawanda as a subordinate of the Ahhiyawan king in the first half of the thirteenth century BC (during the reigns of the Hittite kings Muwattali II, Urhi-Teššub/Mursili III, ca. 1272–1267, and Hattusili III, ca. 1267–1240), was an ethnic Mycenaean or rather a local Anatolian. Of whatever origin might Atpa be, for the most part of his rule he conducted an independent policy, supported by his father-in-law and a local petty king Piyamaradu (whose name is Luwian) who appears at least twice in our sources, under Muwattali II and in the reign of Hattusili III, as fomenter and leader of the anti-Hittite movements (see also below). 33 More can be said about the Mycenaean expansion in southwestern Anatolia, at least in its early phase. The so-called Indictment of Madduwatta (CTH 147) confirms that the Mycenaeans had involved themselves in military operations in this region already in the late-fifteenth century BC (which is LH IIIA1 in the Aegean), during the reign of Tudhaliya II (ca. 1420?–1400). 34 The text mentions Attarissiya, a ruler or warlord of Ahhiya (to be understood rather in ethnic than in political terms), who is said to have chased a Hittite vassal named Madduwatta out of his country located most likely in eastern Caria and western Lycia. This may suggest that Attarissiya had installed himself on the Anatolian mainland with a significant military force at his command. The Hittite king rescued Madduwatta, but later on, when Attarissiya attacked Madduwatta a second time, the Hittite army had to go in battle against 100 chariots of the Ahhiyawan commander reinforced by the infantry. On another occasion, the rascally Madduwatta cooperated with Attarissiya in raiding Alasiya (Cyprus). Both then must have had fleets of ships, hence Attarissiya exerted political control over some coastal territories in southwestern Anatolia. We do not know whether his land comprised Miletus as well, although his activities coincided with the emergence of the Mycenaean settlement in Miletus V. Archaeological finds from such sites as Iasus, Müşgebi, and inland Mylasa indicate that Mycenaean settlement spread at the time throughout the whole region. 29 Günel, Herbordt 2010; 2014. Cf. also Taracha 2009: 24-26. 30 Greaves 2002: 48, 59-65. 31 For Kagamuna, who was probably the Ahhiyawan king during the reign of Tudhaliya III (ca. 1380– 1357), see, e.g., Hoffner 2009: 290. 32 See, however, in the following a comment on Alaksandu, king of Wilusa. 33 Heinhold-Krahmer 1983; 1986. 34 Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 69-100.

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Attarissiya’s designation as a ruler (LÚ) suggests that he was not viewed by the Hittites as a king (LUGAL), unlike the later king of Ahhiyawa in the thirteenth century BC, who resided “across the sea” and whom the Hittite kings, starting from Muwattali II, regarded on equal terms as a “Great King,” calling him “my brother” and “my peer.” 35 We do not know whether Attarissiya was acting on the orders of any other Mycenaean king. It cannot be excluded, however, that either the political situation in the Aegean could have changed over time, or another center of power, maybe located in a different region of Mycenaean Greece, could have taken over the sea routes to Mycenaean enclaves in western Anatolia. Thus the meaning of the term “Ahhiyawa” may be different in texts from different periods, although, admittedly, it always has an ethno-geographical connotation, referring to the Mycenaean world and people living there (including Mycenaean settlers in the Aegean coastal area of western Anatolia and on the adjacent islands). The archaeological evidence for a considerable Mycenaean presence in Miletus V does not reflect the unsteady political situation in the city from the mid-fourteenth through the second half of the thirteenth century BC that is known to us from the snapshots of the history of Millawanda/Milawata in the Ahhiyawa texts. A passage in the Extensive Annals of Mursili II is usually interpreted as referring to a Hittite attack on Millawanda. According to this interpretation, Millawanda, which formerly had been subject to the Hittites, shortly after Mursili’s accession to the Hittite throne would have switched its allegiance to the king of Ahhiyawa. 36 The defection of Millawanda met with response of the Hittite king. Two Hittite commanders captured the city in the third year of Mursili II’s reign (1319), a casus belli that might correspond to the conflagration strata in Miletus V. Consequently, it has been suggested that the (first?) Hittite supremacy over Millawanda was connected with the conquests of Šuppiluliuma I in western Anatolia, when he also took Arzawa in vassalage. Many scholars, both Hittitologists and archaeologists, consider this scenario to be an accomplished fact. The relevant passage in Mursili’s Annals, however, is poorly preserved and what is claimed to be a true situation is largely based on Götzes tentative restorations and his invention. As a matter of fact, as Popko recently pointed out, the Hittite troops could not attack Millawanda/Miletus prior to the definite victory over Arzawa, simply due to the topographical obstacles. 37 Moreover, the military operations in Millawanda described by Mursili might also be connected with Arzawan troops. Thus, there is no clear evidence for the Hittite supremacy over Millawanda before Tudhaliya IV (ca. 1240–1209). Millawanda was rebuilt and the new settlement was still strongly Mycenaean in character. 38 By the way, if the Mycenaean suzerain of the Millawanda dependency had ever changed, the Hittite raid of 1319 (or a period shortly after it) would be the time when it most likely had happened. Later on, Millawanda was controlled by the kingdom of Ahhiyawa. It is noteworthy that the first references to the king of Ahhiyawa (LUGAL KUR Aḫḫiya/uwā 39) 35 As in the so-called Tawagalawa Letter (KUB 14.3) from a Hittite king (probably Hattusili III) to the king of Ahhiyawa; see Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 101-22. Cf. also below. 36 Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 28-29, 45-46. 37 Popko 2010. 38 Niemeier 2005. 39 The form Aḫḫiyuwā, consequently used in the Extensive Annals instead of Ahhiyawā of the Ten Year Annals and later sources, may suggest that the extended form of Aḫḫiya with the suffix -uwa was at that time newly introduced on the model of Zalpa > Zalpuwa. For a different interpretation of the Ahhiyawā, see now Starke, forthcoming (“Die Umgestaltung von myken. Akhaiwiā … zu Ahhijā-

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are found in the Annals of Muršili II. 40 Beckman, Bryce and Cline adequately comment on this matter: [I]n this context, the name Ahhiyawa is used specifically of a kingdom whose ruler became politically and perhaps military involved in western Anatolian affairs. … Inevitably, Ahhiyawa’s and Hatti’s overlapping spheres of interest in the west led to tensions and perhaps on occasion conflicts between them. It seems likely, however, that Ahhiyawa sought to expand its influence and control in western Anatolia through alliances with local rulers, often at the expense of ties which these rulers had with Hatti, rather than by direct military action. 41

As has been mentioned before, during the reign of the Hittite Great King Muwattali II, Millawanda was ruled by Atpa. At that time, in the 1280s or early 1270s BC, Atpa became also, even if temporarily, a superior of Manapa-Tarhunta, king of the Seha River Land, as a consequence of the latter’s defeat at the hands of Piyamaradu, who also attacked Lazpa (Lesbos), certainly acting in cooperation with his son-in-law Atpa. We know that from a letter of Manapa-Tarhunta to Muwattali II (CTH 191). 42 Both attacks could only have come from the sea. From an archaeological perspective, if we agree that the Seha River Land was located in the Caicus valley, the Mycenaean presence in the region, including such sites as Panaztepe, might be associated with Millawanda’s (temporary) “overlordship” in this area. The same letter of Manapa-Tarhunta to Muwattali II alludes to a conflict over the region of Wilusa (usually identified as Troy and/or the Troad), in the course of which Muwattali had sent to Wilusa a Hittite expeditionary force led by a general named Kassu. Unfortunately, we have no record of the task and the outcome of this expedition. If, however, it was the same conflict which is recalled in the Tawagalawa Letter from the Hattusili III’s reign, the Ahhiyawan king was also involved in it. Hence, a possible task of the Hittites could have been to liberate their Wilusan vassal from a foreign invader. Note also in this connection the name of the Wilusan king, Alaksandu, with whom Muwattali II drew up a vassal treaty. 43 As early as the 1920s, soon after Hittite had been deciphered, Alaksandu was linked to the Greek Aleksandros, the name used in the Iliad for the Trojan prince Paris. 44 In his recent paper Kloekhorst speculates about the possible implications: The use of a Greek name by the royal family of Wiluša indicates that the Wilušans must at the very least have had close links to the Greeks, and possibly even that Greeks had married into the royal family (which could possibly be compared to the legend of the Greek Helen who fall in love with Paris and left Sparta for Troy, causing the Greeks to launch an attack on Troy to get her back). 45

40 41 42 43 44 45

und Ahhijawa- wird nur auf dem Hintergrund vorhandener luwischer Stammvarianten wie Adana- // Adanawa-, Tla- // Tlawa- … und der zugehöringen Ethnika Adanawi-, Tlawi-, *Arzawi- verständlich.”) Ten-Year Annals (CTH 61.I) § 25’ (Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 2-3); Extensive Annals (CTH 61.II) §§ 1’, 10’ (Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 28-29, 38-39). Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 46. Hoffner 2009: 293-96; Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 140-41. Beckman 1999: 87-93. Cf. also Latacz 2004: 105-10. E.g., Latacz 2004: 117 with note 14. Kloekhorst 2012: 46. Latacz (2004: 118) puts forward another speculative scenario, according to which Alaksandu could have been the son of one of Kukunni’s Greek concubines, or “Kukunni adopted an exceptional man of Greek extraction.”

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Could the above mentioned conflict over Wilusa in the reign of Muwattali II be connected with the legend of the Trojan War as well? However that may be, it seems that the first decades of the thirteenth century BC were the heyday of the kingdom of Ahhiyawa that controlled Millawanda as its dependency and probably also other coastal enclaves north and south of the city, as well as some of the islands off the Anatolian coast, including Lesbos. Millawanda, however, always played a pivotal role in the Mycenaean expansion in the region, becoming a suzerain (even if temporarily) in relation to other local kingdoms. Such a conclusion, drawn from the textual evidence, is not at odds with the finds of LH IIIB1 and LH IIIB2 pottery and other Mycenaean diacritics at many sites such as Troy, Beşik Tepe, Panaztepe, Çerkes Sultaniye, Miletus, Müşgebi, and Telmessos. 46 In fact, at least the territory of Millawanda/Miletus, although located overseas, might be considered at the time part of the Mycenaean cultural border zone (according to archaeological definitions). A fragmentary letter (KUB 26.91) from the archives in Hattusa, written in Hittite, which can be assigned to the authorship of a king of Ahhiyawa (its Hittite addressee was probably Muwattali II), is evidence for the diplomatic correspondence between both courts. 47 It confirms also that both sides acknowledged each other as a peer. The situation did not change until the mid-1250s BC or slightly later when the so-called Tawagalawa Letter (KUB 14.3) from a Hittite king (probably Hattusili III) to his Ahhiyawan counterpart was composed. 48 Heinhold-Krahmer pointed out four passages from this text in which letters of the Ahhiyawan king or requests for them are mentioned. 49 Furthermore, the letter announces the arrival of a certain Dabala-Tarhunta as a Hittite messenger to the Ahhiyawan king, which shows lively diplomatic relations between both countries. The surviving part of the text (its third and last tablet) describes the last anti-Hittite activities of the renegade Piyamaradu, who had continued to raid Hittite vassals in southwestern Anatolia. Chased by the Hittite king, he had fled first to Millawanda that was still ruled by Atpa in the name of the king of Ahhiyawa, and then to one of the islands just off the western coast controlled by Ahhiyawa. The letter requested in diplomatic terms his extradition. It is, however, not Piyamaradu, but an Ahhiyawan person named Tawagalawa who is of great interest to us. In my recent paper I have reconsidered the key issue, namely, who was Tawagalawa whose name was given by Hittitologists to the document in question. 50 To keep it in short here. Tawagalawa is mentioned in three passages of the text (KUB 14.3 i 1-5; i 7174; ii 59-62). And I agree with the interpretation, which is increasingly commonly accepted, that he was referred to not only as a “brother” of the king of Ahhiyawa (ii 61) but also as a 46 Kelder 2004-2005: 58, 60, 62-63, 71, 74, 79. 47 Hoffner 2009: 290-92; Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 134-39. Concerning a mechanism of exchange of diplomatic letters between Hatti and Ahhiyawa, H.C. Melchert (forthcoming) suggests tentatively that messages would have been conveyed in writing to the respective frontier outposts of each kingdom in its own language and script, that is Hittite and Linear B Greek respectively, where they were translated. However, as the Hittite king corresponded with his western Anatolian vassals in Hittite, it is very likely to have been the case of his correspondence with the king of Ahhiyawa as well. (Note also that Hittite was the language of the Arzawa royal chancellery in the exchange of diplomatic letters with Amenhotep III). If so, there could have been scribes working at the Ahhiyawa court who were competent in Hittite. For Hittite-Mycenaean diplomatic relations, see also Taracha, forthcoming. 48 Hoffner 2009: 296-313; Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 101-22. 49 Heinhold-Krahmer 2007: 192. 50 Taracha 2015.

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Great King (LUGAL GAL) and “mighty king” (sarkus LUGAL-us) (i 71, 73-74). However, the surviving text does not lead directly to the conclusion, which has been assumed a priori in fact, that Tawagalawa preceded the letter’s addressee on the throne of Ahhiyawa. In my opinion, the proper interpretation of the relevant passages favors an alternative, to wit, that he was a contemporary ruler of another Mycenaean kingdom. The term “brother” might denote his status as a royal peer of the Ahhiyawan king, rather than kinship. But even if both Mycenaean rulers had indeed been brothers, there is no reason why they could not have ruled over separate kingdoms. The case of the two brothers, Agamemnon and Menelaus, respective kings of Mycenae and Sparta, is telling. The third tablet of the letter starts with the following reference to a turmoil in the Lukka lands caused by Piyamaradu’s attacks (i 1-5): [Nex]t he (i.e. Piyamaradu) went (there) and destroyed the town Attarimma, and burned it down including the fortified royal compound. [Then] when the people of Lukka appealed to Tawagalawa, he went to those lands. They likewise appealed to me (i.e. Hattusili), so that I came down to those lands.

A straightforward interpretation of the passage leaves no doubt that it is the same casus belli. The text refers to Tawagalawa’s campaign to the Lukka lands that must have occurred shortly before Hattusili’s, seeing that both were called out by the Lukkeans in the face of the attack by Piyamaradu. Tawagalawa came first, maybe due to the fact that his land was closer to Lukka than Hatti. 51 I have speculated elsewhere about the possible location of Tawagalawa’s kingdom, suggesting the coastal islands in the southeastern Aegean, especially the Dodecanese, although Crete would still remain the best option. 52 Such an assumption, if we agree that the Tawagalawa Letter refers to two different Mycenean rulers as Great Kings, weakens to an extent the vision put recently forward by Kelder, who equates Ahhiyawa with the entire Mycenaean world, including “the (larger part of the) Peloponnese, the Thebaid, various islands in the Aegean and Miletus on the Anatolian west coast, with Mycenae as its capital.” 53 As a matter of fact, Beckman, Bryce and Cline take a more plausible view: [S]omeone like Agamemnon (or his real-life equivalent), who is described as “King of Kings” in the Iliad, could easily have been regarded by the Hittites as a Great King, despite the existence of other minor kings from the same general area. The beauty of this suggestion is that one is not forced to part ways with the evidence of the Linear B tablets for multiple small Mycenaean kingdoms (as one must do in following Kelder’s argument for a “Great Mycenae”). 54

51 Attarimma has now been plausibly identified by Rostislav Oreshko with Classical Loryma in the region of the Carian Chersonessos; cf. Rostislav Oreshko’s paper “The last foothold of Arzawa. The problem of the location of Puranda and Mount Arinnanda revisited,” read at the International Conference “Hrozný and Hittite: The First Hundred Years,” Prague, 11-14 November 2015. I am also indebted to an as-yet-unpublished manuscript of Rostislav Oreshko (forthcoming). Thus, Attarimma (Loryma) controlled a maritime route from Lukka to the Aegean through the strait between the Carian Chersonessos and Rhodes. And that is why this troublesome region was so important to both the Hittites and Mycenaeans. 52 Taracha 2015: 284. 53 Kelder 2010: 120. Cf. also Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 4. 54 Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 6.

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The Catalogue of Ships in the Iliad (II 499-773), which is regarded by scholars as an authentic piece reflecting Bronze Age realities, allows us to assume that there was enough room for at least several Great Kings in the LBA Aegean. The fleets put by the kings of Pylos (90), Tiryns (80), and Crete (80) (not to mention those of Lacedaimon [60], Boeotia [50], and Athenes [60]) almost equaled in number of ships that of Mycenae (100). Turning back to the Ahhiyawa texts, a letter sent in the late-thirteenth century BC by a Hittite king (probably Tudhaliya IV) to his western Anatolian vassal (probably Tarkasnawa, king of Mira), known as the Milawata Letter (CTH 182), refers to establishing new boundaries for Milawata by the Hittite king in consultation with his Miran subordinate, whose country bordered directly on it. 55 It is generally agreed that by the time Milawata/Millawanda had been lost to the Ahhiyawan king and was now under Hittite suzerainty. 56 Results of the excavations in Miletus seem to corroborate conclusions based on the textual data. The last LBA settlement in Miletus VI shows a mix of Mycenaean and possibly Hittite influences. 57 The treaty (CTH 105) between Tudhaliya IV and Šaušga-muwa, king of Amurru, where the king of Ahhiyawa was included and then erased from the list of Great Kings, royal peers of the Hittite king, belongs also at the time when Ahhiyawa was no longer viewed as one of the Great Powers. 58 Admittedly, the loss of peer status among the Great Kings by the king of Ahhiyawa must be taken as a(n immediate) result of the collapse of the Ahhiyawan kingdom, or generally, the Mycenaean palace system on the Greek mainland in the LH IIIB2 period, sometime in the thirties of the thirteenth century BC. 59 In another passage of the same treaty, however, ships of Ahhiyawa are mentioned in association with the embargo being set up against Assyria, which may suggest that the trade relations between the Mycenaean world and the Levant had not been affected. Two companion letters (RS 94.2530 and RS 94.2523) from the Urtenu archive in Ras Shamra/Ugarit, which were sent by the last Hittite Great King Šuppiluliuma II (ca. 1207– 1178) and a high official in his court called Benti-Šarruma to Ammurapi, king of Ugarit, indicate that Mycenaean-Hittite commercial relations lasted until the last days of the Hittite Empire. 60 Šuppiluliuma requests Ammurapi to provide ships and let them take a cargo of metal ingots 61 to be dispatched to the (A)hhiyawans awaiting the consignment in one of the ports in Lukka, that is somewhere on the Lycian or south Carian coast. It makes no matter here whether the “man of (A)hhiyawa” mentioned in the Šuppiluliuma’s letter would have been a leader of Hittite mercenaries of (A)hhiyawan origin, as Bryce claims that he could be, or perhaps a Mycenaean of high status, who was under orders to take over the Hittite consignment in the name of his lord. The Ugaritian cargo ships bound for Lukka were led by a certain Satalli, acting on the orders of the Hittite king. This late instance of the palace-directed sea commerce is not at odds with the general character of the LBA trade that was largely palace- and elite-directed, 55 Hoffner 2009: 313-21; Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 123-33. 56 For a different opinion, see Hoffner 2009: 315 (“The Milawata Letter suggests that Milawanda remained under Ahhiyawan control in the reign of Tudhaliya IV”). 57 See n. 30. 58 Beckman 1999: 103-07; Singer 2003: 98-100; Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 50-68. 59 For the political context of the treaty that Tudhaliya drew up with Šaušga-muwa at the beginning of the latter’s reign (ca. 1235), see Singer 1991: 172-73. 60 Singer 2006; Bryce 2010. Cf. also Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011: 253-62. 61 Which is I. Singer’s (2006) translation of the logogram PAD.MEŠ.

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comprising gift exchange and organized trade providing important raw materials and luxury items. 62 The ship wrecked around 1200 BC at Cape Gelidonya at the western entrance of the Pamphylian Gulf, which, among others, carried about one ton of copper ingots, some bronze scrap-metal, and small quantities of tin and lead, may give us an idea of how such ships looked like. 63 Concerning Mycenaean-Hittite trade relations, I drew elsewhere the following conclusion: On the textual evidence the Hittites, whose homeland was landlocked, engaged in sea commerce through their own merchants or through intermediaries operating in the ports of southeastern Anatolia and the Levant. Both documentary and archaeological data indicate that Ugarit became the most important port in the region. 64 …All the evidence indicates that the bulk of commercial contact between the Mycenaean world and Hittite Anatolia was of a rather indirect nature, going via northern Syria and Cilicia. Despite the suggestions of Cline, 65 Korfmann 66 and others, there is no evidence for overland trade routes from the Hittite homeland to the western coast of Anatolia. 67

As Ugarit in the Levant, Miletus remained probably the most important commercial port in the coastal region of western Anatolia. LH IIIC pottery found at a number of sites along the coast, as well as at inland sites such as Çine-Tepecik, indicates that the Mycenaeans/ early Greeks still maintained contacts with the natives and most likely kept settling there, although Ahhiyawa’s influence had waned, if not ceased entirely. There can be no doubt that the Great Colonization of the first millennium BC took its rise in Mycenaean settlement processes that had started in western Anatolia and on the adjacent islands by 1300 BC. Bibliography

Alparslan 2005 – Alparslan M. 2005: Einige Überlegungen zur Ahhiyawa-Frage. In A. Süel (ed.), V. Uluslararası Hititoloji Kongresi Bildirileri: Çorum, 02-08 Eylül 2002 / Acts of the Vth International Congress of Hittitology: Çorum, September 02-08, 2002, Ankara, Nokta Ofset: 33-41. Bass 1967 – Bass G.F. 1967: Cape Gelidonya: A Bronze Age Shipwreck. Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 57, pt. 8. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Bass 1991 – Bass G.F. 1991: Evidence of Trade from Bronze Age Shipwrecks. In N.H. Gale (ed.), Bronze Age Trade in the Mediterranean, Jonsered, Åströms: 69-82. Beckman 1999 – Beckman G. 1999: Hittite Diplomatic Texts. Writings from the Ancient World 7. 2nd ed. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011 – Beckman G., Bryce T.R., Cline E.H. 2011: The Ahhiyawa Texts. Writings from the Ancient World 28. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Branigan 1981 – Branigan K. 1981: Minoan Colonialism. BSA 76: 23-33. Branigan 1981 – Branigan, K. 1984: Minoan Community Colonies in the Aegean. In R. Hägg, N. Marinatos (eds), The Minoan Thalassocracy: Myth and Reality. Proceedings of the Third International Symposium at the Swedish Institute in Athens, 31 May – 5 June, 1982. SkrAth 4o, 32. Göteborg, Paul Åströms Förlag: 49-53. Bryce 1989a – Bryce T. 1989: Ahhiyawans and Mycenaeans – An Anatolian Viewpoint. OJA 8: 257310. 62 63 64 65 66 67

E.g., Kolb 2004: 579-83, with references to the earlier literature. Bass 1967; 1991: 69-74. Till its ultimate fall in the early seventies of the twelfth century BC. See now Cline 2015. Cline 1994: 71. Korfmann 2001. Taracha 2006: 147-48. Cf. also Kolb 2004.

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Bryce T. 1989b – Bryce T. 1989: The Nature of Mycenaean Involvement in Western Anatolia. Historia 38: 1-21. Bryce 2003. – Bryce T. 2003: Relations between Hatti and Ahhiyawa in the Last Decades of the Bronze Age. In G. Beckman, R. Beal, G. McMahon (eds), Hittite Studies in Honor of Harry A. Hoffner Jr. on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday. Winona Lake, Ind., Eisenbrauns: 59-72. Bryce 2010 – Bryce T. 2010: The Hittite Deal with the Hiyawa-Men. In Y. Cohen, A. Gilan, J.L. Miller (eds), Pax Hethitica: Studies on the Hittites and their Neighbours in Honour of Itamar Singer. Studien zu den Boğazköy-Texten 51. Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz: 47-53. Cavanagh 1998 – Cavanagh W. 1998: Innovation, Conservatism and Variation in Mycenaean Funerary Ritual. In K. Branigan (ed.), Cemetery and Society in the Aegean Bronze Age. Sheffield Studies in Aegean Archaeology 1. Sheffield, Sheffield Academic Press: 103-14. Cline 1991 – Cline E.H. 1991: Hittite Objects in the Bronze Age Aegean. AnSt 41: 133-43. Cline 1994 – Cline E.H. 1994: Sailing the Wine-Dark Sea: International Trade and the Late Bronze Age Aegean. BAR International Series 591. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Cline 1996 – Cline E.H.1996: Assuwa and the Achaeans: the ‘Mycenaean’ Sword at Hattusa and Its Possible Implications. BSA 91: 137-51. Cline 1998 – Cline E.H. 1998: Amenhotep III, the Aegean and Anatolia. In D. O’Connor, E.H. Cline (eds), Amenhotep III: Perspectives on his Reign. Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press: 236-50. Cline 2010 – Cline E.H. 2010: Bronze Age Interactions between the Aegean and the Eastern Mediterranean Revisited: Mainstream, Margin, or Periphery. In W. Parkinson, M. Galaty (eds), Archaic State Interaction: The Eastern Mediterranean in the Bronze Age: Santa Fe, N.M., School for Advanced Research: 161-80. Cline 2015 – Cline E.H. 2015: 1177 B.C.: The Year Civilization Collapsed. Turning Points in Ancient History. 2nd revised edition. Princeton–Oxford: Princeton University Press. Feuer 1999 – Feuer B. 1999: The Mycenaean Periphery: Some Theoretical and Methodological Considerations. In N. Kyparissi-Apostolika, M. Papakonstantinou (eds), The Periphery of the Mycenaean World: 2nd International Interdisciplinary Colloquium. 26-30 September, Lamia 1999 / Η Περιφέρεια του Μυκηναϊκού Κόσμου. Α΄ Διεθνές Διεπιστημονικό Συμπόσιο, 25–29 Σεπτεμβρίου, Λαμία 1994. Athens: 14th Ephorate of Prehistoric and Classical Antiquities: 7-14. Feuer 2003 – Feuer B. 2003: Cultural Interaction Processes in the Mycenaean Periphery. In N. Kyparissi-Apostolika, M. Papakonstantinou (eds), The Periphery of the Mycenaean World: 2nd International Interdisciplinary Colloquium. 26-30 September, Lamia 1999 / Η Περιφέρεια του Μυκηναϊκού Κόσμου. Α΄ Διεθνές Διεπιστημονικό Συμπόσιο, 25–29 Σεπτεμβρίου, Λαμία 1994. Athens: 14th Ephorate of Prehistoric and Classical Antiquities: 15-24. Feuer 2011 – Feuer B. 2011: Being Mycenaean: A View from the Periphery. AJA 115: 507-36. Fischer 2010 – Fischer R. 2010: Die Ahhijawa-Frage: Mit einer kommentierten Bibliographie. Dresdner Beiträge zur Hethitologie 26. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Gödecken 1988 – Gödecken K.B. 1988: A Contribution to the Early History of Miletus: The Settlement in Mycenaean Times and its Connections Overseas. In E.B. French, K.A. Wardle (eds), Problems in Greek Prehistory: Papers Presented at the Centenary Conference of the British School of Archaeology at Athens, Manchester, April 1986. Bristol, Bristol Classical Press: 307-318. Graves-Brown, Jones, Gamble 1996 – Graves-Brown P., Jones S., Gamble C. (eds), 1996: Cultural Identity and Archaeology: The Construction of European Communities. London: Routledge. Greaves 2002 – Greaves A.M. 2002: Miletos: A History. London: Routledge. Günel 2010 – Günel S. 2010: Mycenaean cultural impact on the Çine (Marsyas) plain, southwest Anatolia: the evidence from Çine-Tepecik. AnSt 60: 25-49. Günel, Herbordt 2010 – Günel S., Herbordt S. 2010: Ein hethitischer Siegelabdruck aus Çine-Tepecik. AA: 1-11. Günel, Herbordt 2014 – Günel S., Herbordt S. 2014: Mykenische Kraterfragmente mit figürlichen Darstellungen und ein hethitischer Siegelabruck aus der spätbronzezeitlichen Siedlung von ÇineTepecik. AA: 1-14.

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Güterbock 1983 – Güterbock H.G. 1983: The Hittites and the Aegean World: 1. The Ahhiyawa Problem Reconsidered. AJA 87: 133-38. Güterbock 1984 – Güterbock H.G. 1984: Hittites and Akhaeans: A New Look. PAPS 128: 114-22. Hawkins 2009 – Hawkins J.D. 2009: The Arzawa letters in recent perspective. BMSAES 14: 74-83. Heinhold-Krahmer 1977 – Heinhold-Krahmer S. 1977: Arzawa: Untersuchungen zu einer Geschichte nach den hethitischen Quellen. Texte der Hethiter 8. Heidelberg: Winter. Heinhold-Krahmer 1983 – Heinhold-Krahmer S. 1983: Untersuchungen zu Piyamaradu I. Orientalia 52: 81-87. Heinhold-Krahmer 1986 – Heinhold-Krahmer S. 1986: Untersuchungen zu Piyamaradu II. Orientalia 55: 47-62. Heinhold-Krahmer 2007 – Heinhold-Krahmer S. 2007: Zu diplomatischen Kontakten zwischen dem Hethiterreich und dem Land Ahhiyawa. In E. Alram-Stern, G. Nightingale (eds), Keimelion: Elitenbildung und elitärer Konsum von der mykenischen Palastzeit bis zur homerischen Epoche / The Formation of Elites and Elitist Lifestyles from Mycenaean Palatial Times to the Homeric Period. Akten des internationalen Kongresses vom 3. bis 5. Februar 2005 in Salzburg. Wien, Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften: 191-207. Helck 1987 – Helck W. 1987: Zur Keftiu-, Alašia- und Ahhijawa-Frage. In H.G. Buchholz, Ägäische Bronzezeit. Darmstadt, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft: 218-26. Hoffner 2009 – Hoffner H.A. Jr. 2009: Letters from the Hittite Kingdom. Writings from the Ancient World 15. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Insoll 2007 – Insoll T. ed. 2007: The Archaeology of Identities: A Reader. Abingdon: Routledge. Jones 1996 – Jones S. 1996: Discourses of Identity in the Interpretation of the Past. In Graves-Brown et al. 1996: 62-80. Jones 1997 – Jones S. 1997: The Archaeology of Ethnicity: Constructing Identities in the Past and Present. London: Routledge. Kelder 2004-2005 – Kelder J.M. 2004-2005: Mycenaeans in Western Anatolia. Talanta 36-37: 49-88. Kelder 2010 – Kelder J.M. 2010: The Kingdom of Mycenae: A Great Kingdom in the Late Bronze Age Aegean. Bethesda, MD: CDL. Kilian 1988 – Kilian K. 1988: The Emergence of the Wanax Ideology in the Mycenaean Palaces. OJA 7: 291-302. Kilian 1990 – Kilian K. 1990: Mycenaean Colonization: Norm and Variety. In J.-P. Descoeudres (ed.), Greek Colonists and Native Populations: Proceedings of the First Australian Congress of Classical Archaeology Held in Honour of Emeritus Professor A.D. Trendall, Sydney, 9-14 July 1985. Oxford, Clarendon Press: 445-67. Kloekhorst 2012 – Kloekhorst A. 2012: The Language of Troy. In J. Kelder, G. Uslu, Ö.F. Şerifoğlu (eds), Troy: City, Homer, Turkey. Amsterdam, W Books: 46-50. Kolb 2004 – Kolb F. 2004: Troy VI: A Trading Center and Commercial City?. AJA 108: 577-614. Korfmann 2001 – Korfmann M. 2001: Troia als Drehscheibe des Handels im 2. und 3. vorchristlichen Jahrtausend. In Troia – Traum und Wirklichkeit, edited by Archäologisches Landesmuseum BadenWürttemberg. Stuttgart, Konrad Theiss: 355-68. Lambrou-Phillipson 1993 – Lambrou-Phillipson C. 1993: The Limitations of the Pottery Model in the Identification of Trading Colonies. In C. Zerner, P. Zerner, J. Winder (eds), Wace and Blegen: Pottery as Evidence for Trade in the Aegean Bronze Age, 1939-1989. Proceedings of the International Conference Held at the American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Athens, December 2-3, 1989. Amsterdam, J.C. Gieben: 365-68. Latacz 2004 – Latacz J. 2004: Troy and Homer: Towards a Solution of an Old Mystery. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mee 1978 – Mee C. 1978: Aegean Trade and Settlement in Anatolia in the Second Millennium B.C. AnSt 28: 121-55.

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Mee 1998 – Mee C. 1998: Anatolia and the Aegean in the Late Bronze Age. In E.H. Cline, D. Harris-Cline (eds), The Aegean and the Orient in the Second Millennium: Proceedings of the 50th Anniversary Symposium, Cincinnati, 18-20 April 1997. Aegaeum 18. Liège, Université de Liège: 137-48. Melchert forthcoming – Melchert H.C. forthcoming: Mycenaean and Hittite Diplomatic Correspondence: Fact and Fiction. In A. Teffeteller (ed.), The proceedings of the workshop “Mycenaeans and Anatolians in the Late Bronze Age” held in Montreal, Quebec, January 4-5, 2006. Oxford: Oxford University Press. (available online at www.linguistics.ucla.edu/people/Melchert/montrealtext.pdf) Meskell, Preucel 2007 – Meskell L., Preucel R.W. (eds), 2007: A Companion to Social Archaeology. Oxford–Malden: Blackwell. Miller 2010 – Miller J.L. 2010: Some Disputed Passages in the Tawagalawa Letter. In I. Singer (ed.), ipamati kistamati pari tumatimis: Luwian and Hittite Studies Presented to J. David Hawkins on the Occasion of His 70th Birthday. Tel Aviv University, Institute of Archaeology Monograph Series 28. Tel Aviv, Emery and Claire Yass Publications in Archaeology: 159-69. Morris 2000 – Morris I. 2000: Archaeology as Cultural History: Words and Things in Iron Age Greece. Oxford–Malden: Blackwell. Mountjoy 1998 – Mountjoy P.A. 1998: The East Aegean–West Anatolian Interface in the Late Bronze Age. AnSt 48: 33-67. Niemeier 2005 – Niemeier W.-D. 2005: Minoans, Mycenaeans, Hittites and Ionians in western Asia Minor: new excavations in Bronze Age Miletus-Millawanda. In A. Villing (ed.), The Greeks in the East. British Museum Research Publications 157. London, British Museum Press: 1-36. Oreshko forthcoming – Oreshko R. forthcoming: Geography of the Western Fringes: Gar(a)giša / Gargiya and the Lands of the Late Bronze Age Caria. In O. Henry, K. Konuk (eds), Proceedings of the Conference ‘Karia Arkhaia. La Carie, des origines à la période pré-hékatomnide’ (Istambul, November 14-16, 2013). Istambul. Popko 2010 – Popko M. 2010: Hethiter und Aḫḫijawa: Feinde? In Y. Cohen, A. Gilan, J.L. Miller (eds), Pax Hethitica: Studies on the Hittites and their Neighbours in Honour of Itamar Singer,. Studien zu den Boğazköy-Texten 51.Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz: 284-289. Rehak 1997 – Rehak P. 1997: Interconnections between the Aegean and the Orient in the Second Millennium. AJA 101: 399-402. Sherratt 1999 – Sherratt S. 1999: E Pur Si Muove: Pots, Markets and Values in the Second Millennium Mediterranean. In J.P. Crielaard, V. Stissi, G.J. van Wijngaarden (eds), The Complex Past of Pottery: Production, Circulation and Consumption of Mycenaean and Greek Pottery (Sixteenth to Early Fifth Centuries BC). Proceedings of the ARCHON International Conference, Held in Amsterdam, 8-9 November, 1996. Amsterdam, J.C. Gieben: 163-211. Singer 1983 – Singer I. 1983: Western Anatolia in the Thirteenth Century B.C. according to the Hittite Sources. AnSt 33: 205-17. Singer 1991 – Singer I. 1991: A Concise History of Amurru. In S. Izre’el, Amurru Akkadian: A Linguistic Study. Vol. 2, 134-95. Harvard Semitic Studies 41. Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press. Singer 2003 – Singer I. 2003: The Treaties between Hatti and Amurru. In W.W. Hallo, K.L. Younger, Jr. (eds), The Context of Scripture: Monumental Inscriptions from the Biblical World. Vol. 2. Leiden– New York, Brill: 93-100. Singer 2006 – Singer I. 2006: Ships Bound for Lukka: A New Interpretation of the Companion Letters RS 94.2530 and RS 94.2523. Altorientalische Forschungen 33: 242-62. Singer 2008 – Singer I. 2008: Purple-Dyers in Lazpa. In B.J. Collins, M.R. Bachvarova, I. Rutherford (eds), Anatolian Interfaces: Hittites, Greeks and Their Neighbors. Proceedings of an International Conference on Cross-Cultural Interaction, September 17-19, 2004, Emory University, Atlanta, GA. Oxford, Oxbow: 21-43. Starke forthcoming – Starke F. forthcoming: Zu Ansatz, Lautung und Herkunft einiger luwischer Ländernamen des 12.-8. Jh. In N. Bolatti-Guzzo, P. Taracha (eds), “And I Knew Twelve Languages:” A Tribute to Massimo Poetto on His 70th Birthday. Warsaw: Agade.

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Taracha 2006 – Taracha P. 2006: Mycenaeans in Anatolia and Ahhiyawa of Hittite Texts: A Re-Assessment. Archeologia 57: 143-49. Taracha 2009 – Taracha P. 2009: New Light on Relations between the Mycenaean World and Hittite Anatolia. Archeologia 60: 19-26. Taracha 2015 – Taracha P. 2015: Mycenaean peer(s) of the king of Ahhiyawa? A note on the Tawagalawa Letter. In A. Müller-Karpe, E. Rieken, W. Sommerfeld (eds), Saeculum: Gedenkschrift für Heinrich Otten anlässlich seines 100. Geburtstags. Studien zu den Boğazköy-Texten 58. Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz: 279-287. Taracha forthcoming – Taracha P. forthcoming: On the Nature of Hittite Diplomatic Relations with Mycenaean Rulers. In R. Koliński, J. Prostko-Prostyński, W. Tyborowski (eds), Awīlum ša ana la mašê, “A man not to be forgotten:” Studies in Ancient Economy and Society Presented to Prof. Stefan Zawadzki on the Occasion of His 70th Birthday. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Tartaron 2005 – Tartaron T.F. 2005: Glykys Limin and the Discontinuous Mycenaean Periphery. In R. Laffineur, E. Greco (eds), Emporia: Aegeans in the Central and Eastern Mediterranean. Proceedings of the 10th International Aegean Conference, Athens, Italian School of Archaeology, 14-18 April 2004. Aegaeum 25. Liège – Austin, Université de Liège and University of Texas at Austin: 153-60. Vanschoonwinkel 2006 – Vanschoonwinkel J. 2006: Mycenaean Expansion. In G. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and Other Settlements Overseas. Vol. I. Leiden–Boston, Brill: 41-113.

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Ahhiyawa - Danu(na). Aegean ethnic groups in the Eastern Mediterranean in the Light of Old and New Hieroglyphic-Luwian Evidence* To the memory of Sergej R. Tokhtas’ev, a Teacher and a Friend

Rostislav Oreshko The topic of the present contribution is two ethnic terms of likely Aegean origin specified in the title, which appear, in different guises, in written sources of the late 2nd and early 1st millennium BC across the entire Eastern Mediterranean, from Egypt in the South to the Levant to Cilicia in the North (besides the Aegean itself). 1 My discussion of them will be, however, not quite the same. As for the first one, Ahhiyawa or Hiyawa, I will summarize the recent discussion revolving around recognition of this name in the Hieroglyphic-Luwian inscription KARATEPE, adding some details and placing it in a more general historical context. The second and central part of the paper will concern Danu(na), in which a full linguistic reassessment of this term and a revision of different sources which mention it will be offered. The third part will discuss the distinction between the two terms, also touching upon the problem of ethnolinguistic boundaries in Late Bronze Age Greece. Part I. Ahhiyawa/Hiyawa 2 The idea of Greek settlement in Plain Cilicia at some point at the end of 2nd (or in the early 1st) millennium BC, which has been distinctively present in the scholarly discourse since the 1930s, owes its coming into being to the Greek legendary tradition about colonization activities of the soothsayer Mopsos there. Paul Kretschmer was the first who took these accounts seriously and made an attempt to prove the veracity of the Greek tradition by philological and linguistic argumentation. 3 He argued that the name of the country known from Assyrian sources as Qawe or Que and located in Plain Cilicia finally goes back to the form Ahhiyawa * Although some parts of the paper go back to a much earlier time, the paper as a whole is written as a part of project ‘The Trojan Catalogue (Hom. Il. 2.816-877) and the Peoples of western Anatolia in the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age. A Study of the Homeric Text in the Light of Hittite Sources and Classical Geographical Tradition’ (2015/19/P/HS3/04161), which has received funding from the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation program under the Marie Skłodowska-Curie grant agreement No 665778 with the National Science Centre, Poland. I’m much indebted to Craig Melchert for improving the language of the paper; all the remaining infelicities remain, of course, solely my own responsibility. 1 Initially I intended to include in the paper also a discussion on the origin of Palastina, a third ethnic term of likely Aegean origin, exploring the idea of identity of this name with that of Pelasgians. The subject required, however, an analysis of a quite different type of sources than those used in the case of Ahhiyawa and Danu(na) and it was finally decided to publish it elsewhere as a separate paper. 2 The section summarizes and picks up the discussion which was initiated by Oreshko 2013 (but finally triggered by the publication of the ÇİNEKÖY bilingual thirteen years earlier (Tekoğlu, Lemaire 2000) and subsequently unfolded in (in chronological order) Hawkins 2015; Yakubovich 2015b; Oreshko 2015; Hawkins 2015; 2016; cf. also Simon 2015. For earlier literature not quoted below see Oreshko 2013: 19–20. 3 Kretschmer 1933; cf. further Kretschmer 1936.

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which had been shortly before discovered in Hittite texts and was compared with one of the Homeric appellations of the Greeks, Ἀχαιοί ( -u-. Despite its formal ingenuity, the idea contains several internal inconsistencies. 33 First and foremost, Danuna is attested in cuneiform as early as ca. 1350 BC, in the time when Cilicia was known under the name Kizzuwadna (or Kummanni) and Adana was nothing more than an ordinary town and not the capital of the region. 34 It is hardly possible to imagine how the name of a second-rate town could be adopted in the Levant to refer to the population of the whole region. Second, both in the cuneiform texts and in Phoenician dnn-/Danuna is not an adjective, but a noun, a country name, which is made obvious by the fact that, in order to denote the people of the country, it should be used in the form of a nisbe (adjectival formation) dnny-. 35 The claim that Danuna results from the adoption of the Luwian adjective adanawana/i- implies that some neighboring people of the Levant heard for some reason first not the root form of the city name but its derivative and, what is worse, were unable to realize and correct this later. Either assumption looks highly dubious. To the best of my knowledge, there is not a single 31 Alluded to, e.g., in Barnett 1975: 365. Most recently expressed in Röllig 2011: 121–122 and Hajnal 2011: 256. 32 In §5 an extension of the territory of the kingdom is reported which is termed as “Ahhiyawan territory” (á-hi(ya)-wa/i-(URBS) TERRA+LA+LA(-)wá/í+ra/i-) and as “territory of the Adana plain” (rṣ ‘mq ’dn). Similarly, §32 reports about an extension of the kingdom‘s borders which are termed as á-TANAwa/i-ní-zi(URBS) FINES+hi-zi “Ahhiyawan frontiers” vs. “frontiers of the Adana plain” (gbl ‘mq ’dn). 33 These are in part discussed by Simon 2015. However, the solution proposed there – to separate cuneiform Danuna from dnny(m) – looks quite unconvincing. For a further discussion s. below. 34 For the most recent discussion of the historical geography of Kizzuwadna see Forlanini 2013. 35 If the root is vocalized as Danuna, the plural form dnnym should sound like /danun(a)-(y)īm/ < /danun(a)-iyyīm/; see e.g., Krahmalkov 2001: 148–149.

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other example from the Amarna correspondence or from texts from Syria which corroborates the possibility of such misinterpretation: hundreds of toponyms appear there in their normal root forms. The idea of misinterpretation appears to be all the more incredible as the name of Adana was known in the Levant in its entirely normal form ’dny (i.e. Adaniya), as shown by its attestation in the letter form Ugarit mentioned above (note 11). Third, the two alleged “corruptions” of the form adanawana/i- > Danuna (the loss of a- and the contraction -awa- > -u-) are found already in the earliest attestation. This means that the concept of “phénicien tardif et vulgaire” adduced by Laroche 36 to explain the not quite trivial phonetic changes cannot work by definition. Neither is there any evidence to confirm a possibility of aphaeresis in a Semitic language of the Levant in the 2nd millennium BC. 37 But even if one excludes cuneiform Danuna from the picture, it would hardly change the argument significantly: the intruders from the Aegean d3-jnjw-n3 are mentioned in the Egyptian sources already about 1180 BC (the 8th year of the reign of Ramses III), i.e. much earlier than the imaginary “phénicien tardif et vulgaire”; on the other hand, the later evidence of KARATEPE shows that Adana was known in its normal form and was clearly distinct from dnny(m). In sum, the derivation of the ethnic name dnny(m) from the name of Adana represents something quite different from a cogent linguistic argument. As this association strongly contradicts historical evidence concerning dnny(m) and d3-jnjw-n3, it should be dismissed, and the similarity of dnny(m) and ’dn taken as simply accidental, which would hardly look so surprising, if one takes into consideration that the phonetic sequence (voiced) dental-vowel-nasal (-dVn-) is probably one of the most frequent ones in languages of the word. 38 The possibility of chance similarity can likewise not be excluded for the alternative connection of Danuna with Homeric Δαναοί. However, possible Aegean origin of the ethnicon, already strongly implied by the Egyptian sources, now obtains a strong support from the KARATEPE correspondence dnny(m) = á-hi(ya)-wa/i-(URBS), which is indeed strikingly reminiscent of the Homeric correspondence Δαναοί ~ Ἀχαιοί. Interpretation of the dnny(m)-Danuna as a term referring to a part of the Late Bronze Age Aegean population (“Greeks”) would bring historical and linguistic facts into a perfect agreement. There is, however, a formal difficulty which prevents a complete and unrestricted identification of Danuna with Δαναοί: the presence of an additional element -na in the former. Even if the problem is to a degree mitigated by the fact that Egyptian texts know the ethnicon both with and without this element (d3-jnjw-n3 and d3-jnjw, s. in detail below), the absence of a plausible linguistic explanation of the difference still may give rise to scruples about the connection. 39 A solution of this problem is offered by the new Hieroglyphic-Luwian evidence 36 Laroche 1958: 266. 37 For a more detailed criticism of the aphaeresis in Danuna see Simon 2015: 392–394. 38 Based on the phonetic similarity, it would be equally possible to fancy a connection of Danuna with virtually everything from the name of the river Don/Tanais, to the Indian race of divine beings Danava, to the Danes, to the Chinese Tang dynasty, to the Irish goddess Danu and Tuatha Dé Danann, to the Burmese Danu, to the native American Na-Dené and to Denver. A connection with the Dúnedain of the Middle-Earth might also be pondered upon. 39 It is noteworthy that earlier a number of comparisons were proposed to explain this element. Cf. O’Callaghan 1949: 195: “Anatolian termination -na”; Albright 1950: 172: “gentilic ending -na […] well attested in Hittite cuneiform sources”, which, as he thought, might be identical with the suffix seen in Lyc. Tlãnna “Tloan” and with “familiar Greek” -ᾱνός, -ηνός frequently found in the toponyms of western Anatolia; Goetze 1962: 52 saw in Danuna a Hurrian toponym composed of the stem tan(u)- “do, make” and plural article -na; Astour 1965: 46 compared the suffix of Danuna with a Semitic gentilic

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concerning the companions of the Danuna in the sea-borne enterprises at the end of the Late Bronze Age: the Philistines. 2. The Northern Palastina and the Origin of the Nasal Suffix. Two new hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions discovered during the seasons of 2003–2005 on the citadel of Aleppo (ALEPPO 6 and 7) unexpectedly highlighted the significance of the Early Iron Age kingdom of Palastin(a/i) or Walastin(a/i) (for the final vowel s. below) long known from several other inscriptions under the name WaDasatini. 40 The ARSUZ inscriptions, already discussed above, once again confirmed the significance of the land. Given the spatial distribution of the inscriptions mentioning this land, it represented one of the most significant political formations of Early Iron Age Syria, comprising at least the whole Amuq plain and the territories up to Meharde-Sheizar in the south, up to ‘Azaz (Hazaz mentioned in Assyrian sources) in the north and, possibly, up to Aleppo in the east. 41 The discovery in the Aleppo inscriptions of the form with initial and the improved reading of the second sign in the land name ( and instead of earlier and respectively) 42 has made the phonetic similarity of Palastin(a/i) with the name of Philistines quite manifest and led to the ingenious assumption that this land, like Palestine itself, has taken its name from the ethnic name of another (“northern”) group of the migrants who came to the Levant and Egypt from the Aegean at the end of the Late Bronze Age. 43 This assumption finds ample corroboration in the archaeological material. Recently renewed work in the Amuq plain and especially at Tell Tayinat, which conceals the remains of the kingdom’s capital (Kinalua), has brought abundant new evidence for the presence here in the Early Iron Age (Amuq Phase N, ca. 1200-1000 BC) of material culture with clear Aegean links, such as painted pottery of the LH CIII:1 and loom-weights of the Mycenaean type produced locally. 44 The evidence has, however, not only a historical dimension. The form in which the land name is attested also allows for an important insight into the language of the Aegean new-comers to be made.

40 41

42 43 44

suffix frequently used in personal names. With the exception of “Greek” -ᾱνός, -ηνός (which has, however, nothing to do either with a “gentilic ending -na” or with the Luwic ethnic suffix -wana/i- seen in Tlãnna, s. below), none of these comparisons produce a convincing explanation of the morphology and meaning of Danuna. Hawkins 2000: 365–367 (TELL TAYINAT 1) and 415–419 (MEHARDE and SHEIZAR). For the new inscriptions from the Aleppo temple see Hawkins 2011: 35–54. Cf. Hawkins 2000: 362; 2009: 169–170; 2011: 51. The evidence of Taita’s inscriptions found in Aleppo in a temple context should be, however, taken cautiously, as the finds do not necessarily indicate that he controlled Aleppo politically. The stele ALEPPO 6 represents only a dedication to the Storm-God of Halpa and tells us strictly speaking nothing about the relationship of this city with the kingdom of Palastin(a/i). One cannot exclude that Aleppo was not under direct political control of Taita, and the king dedicated the stele only to demonstrate his respect to this paramount cult center of the Storm-God (and strengthen the political alliance with Aleppo), not unlike Croesus when he made dedications at Delphi. A join of two new fragments found at Tell Tayinat by Weeden 2015 has produced the name spelled [w] a/i-la-s[à]-ti-ni-za-(REGIO), which makes clear that the second syllable was vocalized a. Hawkins 2009: 171–172. For discussion of the historical implications see Singer 2012; 2013, cf. also Weeden 2013. For general overview of the recent research in the Amuq plain and Tell Tayinat see e.g. Harrison 2013 (with earlier literature). For the Aegeanizing material s. most recently Janeway 2017.

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Neither of the texts attesting the name of the kingdom gives it in its root form. It appears only in the form of an adjectival derivative with suffix -izza- (the so called “ethnic adjective”): palastinizza- (or walastinizza-). 45 Identification of the stem type of the underlying toponym is not quite obvious, but in any case it is clear that the name contains a nasal element which distinguishes it from the forms of the name known earlier: Egyptian p-w-r-s3-ṯ(-j), Hebrew plšt (“Philistia”) and plšty (“the Philistine”) and two Assyrian forms, KUR palast- (earlier) and KUR pilišt- (later). In CHLI Hawkins read the name of the kingdom with a vocalic auslaut (WaDasatini). 46 However, in the edition of the new texts from Aleppo and Arsuz he rendered the name as Palastin; 47 the reason for this is not quite clear, but most probably it results from a mechanical separation of the suffix -izza- from palastinizza-. Both Hawkins’s own explanation of the origin of the final nasal element and that of Singer are based on this reading of the toponym. Hawkins assumed that Palastin results from the adaption of a Semitic form with the plural ending -īm (plšt-īm). 48 This explanation does not look especially convincing, both since there is no reason to assume a Semitic intermediary in the transmission of a Sea People’s ethnic name into Luwian, and since there are no examples supporting the idea of such a thoughtless adoption of a Semitic word into Anatolian. On the other hand, Singer proposed to connect the origin of the suffix with the region where the Philistines are supposed to have come from: the Aegean. 49 Embracing the parallel pointed out (but rejected) by Hawkins himself, he proposed to see in the nasal element of Palastin the same suffix as seen in the Greek adjectival formation Παλαιστίνη used first by Herodotus as a designation for a part of Συρίη. Singer identified this suffix as a sort of counterpart of the Luwian -izzawhich lead him to regard palastinizza- as a “double ethnicon”. Although the idea to see in the nasal element an “Aegean suffix” looks plausible, the interpretation of palastinizza- as a “double ethnicon” does not, as it again presupposes some sort of misinterpretation of the original name. 50 However, there is no necessity in this assumption, as palastinizza- can be

45 The forms are spelled as pa-lá/í-sà-ti-ní-za- in ALEPPO 6, §1 and ALEPPO 7, §1 (restored), as wa/ila/i-sà-ti-ni-za- in TELL TAYINAT 1 and MEHARDE §2; as [w]a/i-la-s[à]-ti-ni-za- in the new fragments from Tell Tayinat (cf. above fn. 42); as wa/i-lá/í-sà-ta-ni-za- in ARSUZ 1, §1 and as wa/i-lá/í-siti-ni-za- in ARSUZ 2, §1. In SHEIZAR §1 the final part of the word is badly damaged and is restored by Hawkins as wa/i-la/i-sà-ti-[ni-s]i-(REGIO) (Hawkins 2000: 417). However, the form expected from the context (“[mother] of Taita, the Palastnean Hero”) is actually walastinizzassi, i.e. root+-izz(a)-+assi. Although on the photo (Hawkins 2000: pl. 227) one can discern no traces of the signs in the gap, the fact that REGIO is set quite far away from suggests that there was a further sign after besides . Epigraphically this is certainly possible, as, when necessary, the scribe used quite tiny variants of /, cf. especially in |INFANS.NEPOS-ka-la-zi |(INFANS)NEG2-wa/i-zi at the end of l. 3. 46 Hawkins 2000: 365–367 (TELL TAYINAT 1) and 415–419 (MEHARDE and SHEIZAR). 47 Cf. Hawkins 2011: 51, Dinçol et al. 2015: 61. 48 Hawkins 2011: 52. 49 Singer 2012: 463–464 with fn. 56 (with references to personal discussions with C. Melchert and N. Oettinger). 50 Both examples cited by Singer 2012: 464 with fn. 56) are incorrect: Romanian (Rumanian) is not a “double ethnicon”, but a normal toponymic adjective on -ian derived from a country name Romania (Rumania); the latter is a usual formation on -ia, which is indeed based on an old adjective functioning as an ethnicon roman < romanus. The same applies to Pal(a)estinensis: the adjective in -ēnsi- is based on the country name Pal(a)estina and not directly on the ethnic name of the Philistines. As will be shown below, exactly the same misconception underlies Singer’s interpretation of palastinizza- as a “double ethnicon”.

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interpreted much more naturally if we re-examine two points: the original root form of the toponym and the precise meaning of Παλαιστίνη. As noted above, it is not quite obvious to which stem type the toponym underlying the ethnic adjective palastinizza- belongs. The underlying athematic stem form Palastin- preferred by Hawkins is in theory possible, but it is not the sole possibility. Equally likely would be a vocalic (thematic) stem. Moreover, a thematic stem is by default a much likelier possibility, as n-stems in Luwian are in general a rare class; 51 there appear to be no n-stem toponyms in Luwian texts, the reason for which is apparently that all such names, whenever adopted from another toponymic tradition, were re-interpreted as thematic stems. 52 The form palastinizza- suggests prima faciae an i-stem (Palastini). However, a closer glance at the evidence shows that an a-stem (Palastina) is no less possible. In all likelihood the stem vowel of the toponym was absorbed by the suffix -izza-. The first clear example for this is the city name Taurišša which is attested both in this root form and as a Luwian ethnic adjective, Taurišizza-. 53 The second example is the name of Karkamis in Hieroglyphic-Luwian texts. The original form of this Syrian toponym had a consonantal auslaut (Karkamiš); 54 however, the form of acc.sg. kar-ka-mi-sà-na attested in KARKAMIŠ A15b, §3 shows that the name was re-interpreted in Luwian as an a-stem (Karkamisa-), apparently for the reason that s-stems are in Luwian neutral nouns only. 55 The form of the ethnic adjective ubiquitously found in the texts from Karkamis is kar-ka-mi-si-za-. Some further evidence regarding stem type of Palastina/i can be gained from Assyrian texts. As was tentatively proposed already by Sh. Yamada, the Assyrian name of the country attested in the form Pa-ti-na-a-a (once Pat-ti-nu) should be somehow related to the Luwian name which was still read then as Wadasatini. 56 The new attestations of the name in the Aleppo texts with initial p- confirmed this connection. In all probability, the Assyrian form reflects an allegro form of the name and is comparable with such cases as rendering of the name of Indian city Pataliputra by Greeks as Παλίβοθρα or the name of Πολυδεύκης as Pollux by the Romans. 57 From the formal point of view, Pa-ti-na-a-a looks like a derivative 51 Cf. Starke 1990: 227, cf. Melchert 2003a: 197. The bulk of the n-stems constitute action nouns in -mman-; besides these, hardly half a dozen other true n-stem nouns are known in Luwian. Note that attribution of massana/i- “god” to this class by Melchert is based only on the analogy with Lycian (cf. Melchert 1993: s.v. māššan(i)-). 52 Cf. the case of Harran, which, as far as one can see, is an a-stem in Luwian giving the ethnic adjective with suffix -wanna/i- as /harranawanni-/ (hara/i-na-wa/i-ni-) and not */harranwani-/ (*hara/i-wa/ini-). There are reasons to think that other consonantal classes were also re-interpreted as a-stems (cf. below the case of Karkamis). 53 For attestations s. del Monte–Tischler 1978: s.v. Tauriša-. Note, however, that there are also several attestations of the athematic form Tauriš. 54 For early attestations of the name see Hawkins 1980. 55 Cf. Starke 1990: 95. The spelling with , which in the early texts from Karkamis tends to render /s/ without a vocalic component, cannot be taken as evidence for the absence of final -a- (which in the case of kar-ka-mi-sà-na is anyway not very sensible). The use of represents a traditional spelling of the name going back to the Empire Period, cf. kar-ka-mi-sà(REGIO) on the LİDAR bullae dated to ca. 1200 BC. Cf. further spelling with the same sign of dat.-loc. form (i.e. one ending in -a) in KARKAMIŠ A15b, §2: kar-ka-mi-sà(URBS) SUPER+ra/i-a = /karkamisa sarra/) and KARKAMIŠ A31, §5: kar-kami-sà-pa-wa/i(URBS) … SUB-na-na = /karkamisa … annan/. 56 Yamada 2000: 96 with fn.71. Cf. Dinçol et al. 2015: 63 with further references. 57 As was shown by Rieken, Yakubovich 2010 in the later Luwian dialects the dental consonants d/r/l were articulated very similarly, and seem to merge in a “flap” /ɾ/. The real articulation of Palastin(V)- could

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with formant -āyya(/u) (> -ā’a), frequently attested in foreign (first of all, west Semitic) ethnic names. 58 However, its usage by the Assyrians was inconsequent: in some texts Pa-tina-a-a does function as an ethnic adjective (“Patinean”); in some others, however, it appears where one expects a country name. 59 It is difficult to be sure where the confusion comes from; the simplest assumption would be, however, that both the root form and the ethnic adjective sounded similarly, i.e. that the form of the toponym was Patina or even Patinā. 60 In any case, the Assyrian evidence gives no hints that the country name ended in -i. 61 In sum, as toponyms of consonantal stem types were either non-existent or extremely rare in Luwian, there is every reason to think that the form palastinizza- was built on a noun of a thematic stem, Palastini or Palastina. From these two possibilities the latter appears to be somewhat likelier. As a result, there are good reasons to think that the name of the kingdom founded by the “northern branch” of the Philistines in the Amuq valley contains precisely the same final element -na as the name of Danuna. Moreover, in both cases it appears to have precisely the same meaning. As a matter of fact, Palastina in the Luwian inscriptions is a country name – and not an ethnicon, as was assumed by Hawkins and Singer – as it serves as the basis of ethnic adjective on -izza-; in contrast, p-w-r-s3-ṯ and other forms without -na refer first of all to the people representing thus, at least originally, ethnic names. Exactly the same can be assumed for Danuna: in KARATEPE and cuneiform sources, Danuna is a country name, while Δαναοί is an ethnicon. 62 One may conclude that the function of the element -na is to build country names from ethnica. Moreover, now a comparison of Palastina with Παλαιστίνη becomes practically compelling. Again, the similarity between two names goes beyond merely phonetic one. Formally, Παλαιστίνη can be analyzed as an adjectival derivative with a nasal suffix -n-, found both in Greek and other Indo-European languages, 63 plus feminine ending -ā (with the Attic-Ionic development ā > η). However, already Herodotus uses Παλαιστίνη not only as an adjective with Συρίη, but also elliptically as a country name (Hdt. VII 89,1 and 2; II 104,3), which later becomes a norm, adopted later also by the Romans (Palaestina). A clear parallel to the county name Παλαιστίνη consists of the country names ending in -ηνη (< -*(ā)nā), found especially in eastern Anatolia (cf., e.g., Κομμαγήνη < Hitt. Kummaḫa- or Μελιτήνη < Hitt. Malidiya-); these also look like old adjectives used elliptically (with ellipsis of γῆ or χώρα). 64 Thus, the name of the kingdom of the northern

58 59 60 61 62 63 64

be /padastinV-/ or /paɾastinV-/. Vowel contraction could lead to /paɾstin-/ which in the spoken language developed further to or was simply perceived by the Assyrians as /pattinV-/ (-ɾst- > -ɾt- >tt). Cf., e.g. von Soden 1995: 85. See attestations in Bagg 2007: s.v. ‘Pattinu’. As a country name: Grayson 1996: 102.3, 93 (KUR Patinā’a); the same context is 102.2, II 11, but spelling is different (IPatinā’a); cf. further 102.2, II 5 (URU Patinā’a), but clearly referring to the land. Note that Que is also appears in the spelling with the final ā (Qa-ú-a-a, Qu-a-a, Qu-u-a-a etc., see Bagg 2007: s.v. Que). Note that the oscillation between a-, i- and u-stems was very usual in Assyrian renderings of toponyms from Syria and southern Anatolia (cf., e.g. Tabali/a/u, Melidi/ā/u etc.). However, in Egyptian texts both d3-jnjw-n3 and d3-jnjw seem to refer to a people. However, the context of the texts (military attacks) allows for both ethnic and country names, as is the case also in modern usage, cf. virtual identity of the statements ‘Germany attacked…’ / ‘The Germans attacked...’. For nasal suffixes in Greek cf. Schwyzer 1953: 488–491, esp. §§6-8 for adjectival function. The suffix in the country names on -ηνη is apparently connected with the ethnic suffix -ηνος associated with certain regions of Anatolia and, to a lesser degree, with Syria; for a usual overview of the toponyms with which it is attested see now Dale 2015 (its usefulness is, however, somewhat lessened

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Philistines, Palastina, represents in all likelihood both morphologically and semantically precisely the same thing as Παλαιστίνη; the only difference is the absence of the AtticIonic change ā > η in the former. Danuna is consequently „the land of Danu-”. As the root underlying Δαναοί can be most probably reconstructed as *Danaṷ-, one can envisage that Danuna resulted either from a contraction of *Danaṷ-nā in the receiving Semitic language of the Levant, to which the cluster -ṷn- was alien, or that the country name was originally build on the stem with zero grade of the second syllable (*Danu-). Whatever is the case, the main formal problem of connecting Danuna with Δαναοί obtains a plausible explanation. 3. Cuneiform attestations of Danuna. Now it is appropriate to take a closer glance at the cuneiform attestations of Danuna. 65 Neither the context of the Amarna letter EA 151 nor that of KBo 28.25 provide unequivocal clues about the location of the country; the only basis for equation with dnny(m) of KARATEPE and d3-jnjw-n3 was phonetic correspondence. For a long time association with Adana made scholars regard it as a reference to Cilicia (or part of it). However, as noted already by Forlanini and once again argued by Simon, this location is fairly impossible on historical grounds: at the time after the first Syrian War, as the letter is usually dated, there was no question of an independent kingdom in Kizzuwadna with its own royal house, as the context of EA 151 implies; the same applies, of course, also to the later attestation in KBo 28.25 (reign of Ḫattušili III). 66 However, a location in northern Syria recently argued by Simon is equally impossible. 67 The geography of the Late Bronze Age Syria is well known from very different sources and it is quite difficult to imagine how as large an entity as a land (KUR) Danuna, having its own king (LUGAL) – and not just a (petty) ruler (LÚ), as the Levantine and Syrian city rulers are usually termed – escaped the attention of any other text concerning Syria. No more credible is separation of this Syrian Danuna from dnny(m) and d3-jnjw-n3, to which Simon is forced by accepting the Aegean origin of the latter. The basis for Simon’s location of Danuna in Syria was his belief that the context of the letter excludes all other possibilities. However, this is not the case. The words of the Egyptian king “What you hear from Canaan, then write to me” (ll. 50-51: ša tašme ištu KUR Kinaḫna u šupur ana yâši) 68 does not necessarily imply that he wants to hear only what is going on in

65 66

67 68

by the fact that the chronological factor is not taken its consideration). However, a connection of the suffix with Luwian -wanna/i- proposed by Dale seems to me rather unlikely. In fact, the picture of distribution of the suffix speaks just against its derivation from Luwian. The main area of the suffix spread is north-western and central Anatolia (the Troad, Mysia, Bithynia, Lydia and Phrygia), i.e. the regions more or less immediately affected by the migration from the Balkans at the end of the 2nd and the beginning of the 1st millennium BC. In contrast, in southern parts of Anatolia (southern Caria, Lycia and Cilicia Trachaea and Pedias), which arguably represent the area in which Luwic linguistic element persisted longest, the suffix is practically not found. There is thus every reason to connect the origin of the suffix with the Balkan languages, more or less closely related to Phrygian and Greek. The same origin may be assumed also for the suffix in Palastina and Danuna (cf. below). Spelled: Da-nu-na in EA 151,52 and Dá-nu-ú-na in KBo 28.25, 7”. Forlanini 2005: 112 and Simon 2015: 392. For the chronology of the reign of Supiluliuma I cf. now also Stavi 2015. Stavi (87, fn. 26; cf. p. 217) dates EA 151 even later than traditionally assumed, close to the end of the Amarna archive (i.e. shortly before the second year of Tutankhamun, ca. 1330 BC). On the conflagration in the palace of Ugarit mentioned in the letter cf. Singer 1999: 629–631 with further literature. Simon 2015: 394–400. See Rainey 2015: 764–765.

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Canaan, as the answer of Abi-Milku itself speaks against such a perception: after the report about the king of Danuna, Abi-Milku proceeds to the news from Ugarit, whose inclusion into Canaan would look rather odd, even if not entirely impossible. Rather, the pharaoh asks for any news which could be heard “there in Canaan” or, possibly, more specifically in Tyre as an important trade hub visited by merchants from different regions both of the Ancient Near East and the Eastern Mediterranean. 69 Thus, now as before, the letter gives no positive evidence concerning the location of Danuna. However, both the Amarna archive and the multitude of other sources provide quite eloquent negative evidence: there is no place for the land Danuna either in Cilicia or Syria or Canaan. Cyprus might seem to be a possible candidate for locating Danuna, the “land of Δαναοί”, especially taking into consideration the fact that the Early Iron Age name associated with the island, Yadnana, is quite probably linguistically connected with Danuna-Δαναοί. 70 However, no other textual source suggests that the island, known in the Late Bronze Age under the name Alašiya, was divided among several polities, and archaeological finds on Cyprus clearly show that there are no grounds to speak about Greek settlement on the island as early as the 14th century BC. The Danuna-Δαναοί appeared in all probability on the island roughly at the same time as in Cilicia, i.e., in the 12th century BC. 71 The only remaining possibility is to interpret cuneiform Danuna as referring to the original – the Aegean – homeland of the Δαναοί. This should represent most probably the same county, which the Hittites called Ahhiyawa. After so many years of misidentification and 69 Cf. the interpretation of ištu by Rainey 2015: fn. 68 as “there in” (cf. also his comments on p. 1503). 70 The interpretation of the name of Yadnana (KURia-ad-na-na (with variants), for attestations s. Bagg 2007: s.v. Jadnana) as a composite of west-Semitic ’y “island” (directly attested only in Hebrew) and the stem found in Danuna and Δαναοί goes back to Luckenbill 1914: fn. 24 and is commonly, but somewhat hesitantly accepted, cf., e.g. Albright 1950: 171–172; Mayer 1996: 475–476; Lipiński 2004: 46; Knapp 2008: 342–345; Jasink 2011: 8–10; for attestations of the respective word for “island” cf. Hoftijzer, Jongeling 2004, s.v.v. ’y3, ’y1. It is noteworthy that the common interpretation of Yadnana as the island name is in all probability incorrect. In the inscriptions of Sargon II the name appears in the recurrent combination KURIa-a’ nagê ša KURia-ad-na-na (cf. Bagg 2007: s.v. Jā’); nagê is generally interpreted as “region/district” and Yā, accordingly, is taken to be a name of one of Cyprus’s “districts” (cf., e.g. Fuchs 1994: 352: nagê as “Landstrich”). However, the interpretation of nagê “region/district” is senseless in the context, as the seven cities of Yā’ listed in the inscriptions are located all over the island, from Paphos (Pappa) in the south-west to Marion (Nūria) and Soloi (Sillu) in the north-west to Salamis (Silluwa) in the east (see discussion in Lipiński 2004: 62–76). It is also remains not clear what might stop Sargon from subjugating the whole island, which is not especially large. Surprisingly, the obvious alternative – to take nagê in its second attested meaning “island” – was never seriously taken into consideration (note, however, Albright 1950: 171, who translates “island” giving as an alternative “district”). However, given the noted discrepancy and the maritime context, there is every ground to prefer this interpretation. This means that it is Yā’ that is the Assyrian name of Cyprus; quite probably, it is indeed nothing other than an Assyrian rendering of west-Semitic ’y “island”. From this it follows that Yadnana in the inscriptions of Sargon is an ethnicon. As the island was at this time heavily Hellenized, there is indeed every reason to analyze Yadnana as compound of Yā’ and Danuna (with a reduction in vowels in both parts of the compound), which should mean most probably “the Island Danuna/Δαναοί” = “the Cypriot Greeks”. On the other hand, it is possible that the other current name under which the Assyrians knew the Greeks, Yamana, might in a way have influenced the formation of Yadnana; one cannot even exclude that Yadnana represents a sort of portmanteau of Yamana and Danuna (cf. also the curious “alternation” between the “nicknames” of a troublemaker from Ashdod in the inscriptions of Sargon: Yamani “Greek” vs. Yadna, possibly, “Cypriot”, cf. Mayer 1996: 480–481). 71 See e.g., Knapp 2008: 249–258 with further literature.

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misplacement, this new location of Danuna might seem surprising, but there is nothing improbable in it. There is no doubt that in the 14th century BC the Mycenaean ships visited Tyre, as well as the Tyrian ones the Aegean. As a mater of fact, Tyre is situated a great deal closer to the Aegean than Akhetaton (=Amarna) situated some 500 km upstream the Nile, if one counts with the route along the coast which should be usual for the merchant ships of the Late Bronze Age, so that one may expect that the news from the Aegean came to Tyre much faster than to the Egyptian capital. Unfortunately, the evidence of the letter about Danuna is more than terse. Abi-Milku reports only that “the king of Danuna died, and his brother became king after him, and his land is quiet” (ll. 52-54: LUGAL KUR Danuna BA.UG u šarra ŠEŠ-šu ana EGIR-šu u pašḫat KUR-šu). 72 Unsurprisingly, Abi-Milku does not know the names of the Mycenaean rulers, which contrasts with his more intimate acquaintance with his Syrian colleagues, who are mentioned by name (Etakama, Aziru, Biryawaza and Zimredda, ll. 59-66). Still, the evidence is of some historical value. First, the report sets a reasonably firm chronological benchmark for the death of a Mycenaean ruling dynast – the seat of whom was quite probably Mycenae itself (cf. below) – at ca. 1335 ±3 years (cf. above note 66). It is noteworthy that this date falls suspiciously close to the transition between Late Helladic IIIA2, linked with the reign of Akhenaten, and Late Helladic IIIB, which is usually set around 1330. 73 On wonders if this change of the ruler on the Mycenaean throne could not eventually trigger, despite the initial “quietness in the land”, the major changes in society and culture which subsequently found reflection also in Mycenaean pottery style. On the other hand, the remark of Abi-Milku that the “land is quiet”, shows that both in the Levant and Egypt one cared about the political situation in Mycenaean Greece, which seems to imply a fair degree of integration of the region into the trade (and, quite probably, diplomatic) network already in the Amarna Age. The second text concerning Danuna, the tiny fragment of a letter KBo 28.25, is not very informative either. The attribution of the fragment to the “Urḫi-Teššub dossier” proposed by E. Edel is highly speculative, as the text, as pointed out already by Singer, contains no actual clues for this 74 and even its appurtenance to the corpus of Hittite-Egyptian correspondence is far from certain. 75 The only, even if quite faint, clue to the context of the letter is a fragmentary city name appearing in l. 9´: URU.KII-na-x[… The name was tentatively restored by Edel as URU.KII-na-š[a(?)-ra], suggested by an attestation of KUR URUInaššara in KUB 21.6a rev. 9´. 76 The latter text contains a part of the Annals of Ḫattušili III describing attacks of an enemy from western Anatolia (very probably, Piyamaradu) on western and south-western parts of the Hittite Empire. 77 The restoration seems to be the only available 72 73 74 75

See Rainey 2015. See, e.g., Warren, Hankey 2010: 108, 117. See Singer 2006b: 35–36 contra Edel 1994: Bd. I: 84–85, Bd. II: 138–139. The attribution of the fragment KBo 28.25 (=Bo. 499/d) to the Egyptian dossier is based on the fact that the fragment was found not far from the find spot of several fragments of KBo 28.24 (Büyükkale, Building A, room 6) and demonstrates a similar ductus and clay color (Edel 1994: Bd. II: 138), as well as on Edel’s reading in l. 5´ the rests of the sign GIŠ/IZ and RI which he restores as [KUR Mi-i]ṣ-ri[-i]. However, what one can see on the tablet before RI is l. 5´ is only one vertical wedge; there may be very tentatively identified some traces of horizontal wedges before it, but there seems to be three of them rather than two. In any case, the reading of the name of Egypt in the line is more than optimistic. 76 Edel 1994: Bd. II: 139. 77 See Gurney 1997; and for identity of the enemy: Gander 2016.

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alternative 78 and, moreover, its appearance in one text with Danuna makes good sense indeed. The land Inaššara should be sought not in Taurus to the south of Karaman, as thought by Edel following Forrer, but somewhere in south-western Anatolia, not too far from the Lukka lands, as already pointed out by Forlanini. 79 Moreover, there is every reason to accept Forlanini’s identification of Inaššara with Annaššara, a city mentioned several times in the fragmentary letter KBo 18.86. A variation of i/e and a in the initial unaccented position does not represent anything unusual and is well attested later in Lycian (e.g., in Lycian PN ErKKazuma/ArKKazuma or arawazije-/erawazije-, reflecting apparently different renderings of the reduced vowel /ә/). The letter KBo 18.86 mentions Annaššara in a context with Ḫuwaršanašši and T(a)lawa. The latter city can be most probably identified with Tlos in Lycia and Ḫuwaršanašši (= Ḫuršanašša), as I recently argued, is a settlement located somewhere on (or near) the Carian Chersonessos; the latter designation represents most probably the Greek re-interpretation of the native Carian toponym. 80 The evidence of the letter might suggest thus an even more specific location of Annaššara/Inaššara to the west of Lycia, most probably in the coastal zone. Be that as it may, Annaššara/Inaššara was located in the direction of the Aegean, or, in other words, that of Ahhiyawa/Danuna. It is noteworthy that the context of the combined mention of Danuna and south-western Anatolia proves to be strikingly reminiscent of the two letters from Ugarit mentioned earlier (see above, note 11) in which the presence of Hiyawans – i. e. Ahhiyawans or the Mycenaean Greeks – in Lycia is alluded to. 4. Egyptian evidence: d3-jnjw(-n3) and tj-n-3-y(-w). Given the explicit identification of d3-jnjw-n3 as a “Sea People” and the indication that they come from the “islands” (cf. above), a connection of this group with the Aegean was always regarded as a likely possibility, so there is no need to linger on this question. There are, however, several points which deserve some discussion or, at least, a more pronounced formulation: 1) correct phonetic interpretation of the Egyptian syllabic writing d3-jnjw-n3; 2) attestations of the shorter form of the name (d3-jnjw); 3) the relationship between d3-jnjwn3 and tj-n-3-y-w, another name attested in Egyptian texts which has been connected with Δαναοί. 4.1. The appellation “Denyen”, which is still frequently found in the literature for this group of the “Sea People”, represents a clear misnomer, as it neither reflects the intended 78 Edel 1994 is right in pointing out that the gap between NA and ŠA is wider than one would normally expect. However, the interpretation of the sequence as URU.KI i-na š[a(?)-] would be highly unlikely for several reasons. On the one hand, the sequence … ša URU.KI ina š[… “ … of the city in …” is not very sensible syntactically: appearance of the word for “city” without any further specification does not make much sense, but, if ina š[… were intended to describe a location of the city (i.e. “the city in the land …”), one would, first, expect KUR immediately after ina, and, second, there should be a further determinative pronoun ša before after URU.KI. On the other hand, to the best of my knowledge, URU. KI is used in the Akkadian texts from Hattuša only as a determinative before city names and never as an independent logogram for “city”, cf. the indexes in Edel 1994: fn. 74; Bd. II: 372–373, 378 which lists no URU.KI among logograms and gives only the following writings with URU.KI (actually attested and not restored): URU.KIAna “Heliopolis”, URU.KIKizzuwadna, URU.KIQ[inza(?)] “Kadesh”(?) and URU. KI Ṣ[iduna(?)] “Sidon”(?). Lastly it should be noted that a reading URUKi-i-na-š[a…] in the present line is not completely excluded, but does not seem especially sensible. 79 See Edel 1994; cf. del Monte–Tischler 1978: s.v. Inašara; and Forlanini 2005: 112, fn. 6. 80 See Oreshko forthcoming (B), esp. fn. 23 for Annaššara/Inaššara.

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pronunciation of the name, nor even is in any sense a correct transliteration of the Egyptian spelling. As for both aleph-containing “syllabic groups” (d3 and n3), their primary a-vocalization hardly raises any doubts at all; the only stipulation to be made is that the vocalic value of any syllabic sign in the final unaccented position seems to be neutralized to ә. 81 Vocalization of the middle group jnjw as /nu/ or /no/ is confirmed by several good examples, as, e.g., by the spelling of Knossos in the “Aegean List” of Amenophis III as k3-jnjw-š3 (possibly /k(o)nossә/), by the rendering of Nuḫašše as jnjw-g3-s3 or spelling of the name of the musical instrument known as κιννύρα in Greek and kinnôr in Hebrew as k-n-jnjw-rw. 82 As a result, the Egyptian spelling can be phonetically interpreted as /danuna/ (or /danunә/) and there can be hardly any doubt that it renders indeed the same name as the cuneiform Danuna. 4.2. There are five attestations of the “Sea people” Danuna in the texts dated to the reign of Ramses III: four in the inscriptions of Medinet Habu and one in Papyrus Harris I. 83 Only one of them, reporting an attack of the Sea Peoples in the 8th year of Ramses III (KRI V 40:3-4), gives the name as d3-jnjw, which raised some doubts concerning the reality of the form. 84 However, there can be pointed out some later evidence which may confirm that the shorter form of the name, Danu, corresponding thus immediately to the ethnicon Δαναοί, was known both in Egypt and the Levant. First, the name of the same people seems to be attested in the Onomasticon of Amenope (Nr. 244) in the form d-n-jnjw. 85 Both the spelling and the context of the attestation are ambiguous. The name d-n-jnjw appears between Kškš “Kaškeans” (a north Anatolian people) and Ḫ-t-t3 “Hatti”, in a sequence which appears to be a list of Hittite allies in the Battle of Kadesh. The context made E. Edel assume a corruption in the text and propose the emendation d3-r-d-n-y “Dardanians” (who are indeed attested as Hittite allies). 86 However, it is difficult to assume so many drastic changes in the spelling of one name, 87 while all other names in the list are written in a quite usual way and are easily recognizable. A more likely assumption would be that the name was simply misplaced from another part of the Onomasticon (e.g., the list of the “Sea Peoples”), but the spelling d-n-jnjw itself is correct. 88 As for the phonetic side of the spelling, its interpretation as /Danu/ is not immediately obvious. However, this or a similar reading is the likeliest possibility. As 81 See already Albright 1934: 45–46 (for n3), and 65–66 (for d3); Helck 1971: 551 (for n3), and 564 (for d3); Edel 1966: 74-75 (for n3); cf. also Zeidler 1993: 579–590. 82 See Albright 1934: 46–47; cf. further Albright 1950: 170 with fn. 32; Helck 1971: 552; Edel 1966: 65; cf. also Zeidler 1993. 83 For the list of attestations see Adams, Cohen 2013: 658-659. 84 Cf., e.g. Albright 1950: 170 with fn. 32. 85 Gardiner 1947: 126. 86 Edel 1983: 95–99. 87 An especially strong argument against the corruption of the name from d3-r-d-n-y is the presence of the determinative “old man” (A 19), which makes sense only if the word has a phonetic shape close to tnj/ tnw “old”. Moreover, the latter word is attested in a very similar writing elsewhere in the Onomasticon (Nr. 54), see Gardiner 1947: 126. 88 The Sea Peoples appear as Nrs. 268-270 (š3-r-d3-n3, ṯ3-k3-rw, p-w-r-s3-tj) in the Onomasticon, followed by two damaged entries (see Gardiner 1947: 194–205). It is noteworthy that fragmentary nr. 272, which seems to begin with rw- might conceal a second entry for Lukka, this time mentioned as one of the Sea Peoples. Note also the appearance of Ḥ3(j)w-nbw(t) as nr. 276, which refers to the northern (= Mediterranean) lands in general. One should also note that the appearance of Danu(na) in the list of Hittite allies would be, of course, rather strange, but basically not completely improbable. Danuna could represent a small mercenary contingent, just like the rw-k3 (Lycians, nr. 247), who, as far as one

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observed by Gardiner, 89 the determinative of the “old man” (A 19) present in the spelling associates the name with Egyptian root for “old” (tnj), so the name contained in all probability only one -n- and the spelling reflects the practice of redundant notation of consonants. However, the association with the root for “old” also shows that the final vowel was to all appearances not pronounced as /u/ at the time of composition of the Onomasticon (the late 20th to 22nd dynasties), and the usage of jnjw probably reflects only a traditional spelling; the absence of aleph after the initial d also suggests that the value of the first vowel was reduced. Thus, the spelling most probably renders something like /Dәnә/; there are, however, good reasons to trace this form back to /Danu/. The next piece of evidence is the name of the ancient Israelite tribe of Dan (which is the Masoretic vocalization of dn). The connection of this name with the “Sea People” Danuna is a notoriously moot point, 90 and the possibility of a chance similarity is high. However, at least two indications speak for a possibility of some connection with the Aegean new-comers: their initial settlement in the coastal area just to the north of Philistia and the reference to the people in the Song of Deborah as “living on ships”, which strongly recalls the words applied to Šikalāyū (= Šikila), another group of the “Sea Peoples” whose origin is probably connected with Sicilia, in a letter from Ugarit (RS 34.129). 91 Furthermore, recent archaeological finds at Tel Dan – a settlement situated outside the territory ascribed to the tribe of Dan, but whose name is linguistically quite probably connected with the tribe name – seem to corroborate the Aegean links of Dan. 92 The third piece of evidence is preserved by the Phoenician inscription found in HassanBeyli (Hasanbeyli), located to the east of Amanus some 10 km to the south-east of the Bahçe Pass (Amanian Gate). 93 The inscription is fragmentary, but the preserved part makes it clear that the text concerns not only some local matters and the relationships with Assyria (cf. a mention of mlk ’šr ‘king of Assyria’), but also neighboring Cilicia. In particular, line 5 of the inscription mentions Awariku (’wrk) who is known from KARATEPE as a “king of Danunaeans” (mlk dnnym). Furthermore, Lemaire assumed that the combination mlk dn which can be tentatively read at the beginning of line 3 refers to Awariku; accordingly he interpreted the combination as “king of Adana”. The suggestion to see in mlk dn a reference to Awariku looks plausible, and one can propose no obvious alternative to it. However, dn cannot be Adana. As already discussed above, the city name was known in Phoenician in its usual form ’dn and there is no evidence that it ever lost initial aleph in any of the languages of the region. Moreover, the evidence of the inscription itself speaks clearly against the assumption of aphaeresis: both the name Awariku and that of Assyria are given with the initial aleph. Thus, if mlk dn indeed refers to Awariku, the only reasonable possibility is to

89 90 91 92 93

can judge, were not “allies” of the Hittites strictu sensu, but rather mercenaries serving in the Hittite army. Gardiner 1947: 126. See, e.g., Machinist 2000: 67 with further references. Singer 1988: 246. The finds have not yet been published, to my knowledge, but some information on the evidence can be found in popular articles (cf., e.g. http://www.haaretz.com/jewish/archaeology/1.756385; accessed on 19.03.2017). For edition see Lemaire 1983.

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interpret it as a synonym of the usual appellation of Cilician kings as mlk dnnym 94 using the original form of the ethnonym, Danu < Δαναοί. In sum, although every piece of evidence is ambiguous in its own way, the evidence taken together supports the possibility that Danu is a linguistically real form reflecting directly the ethnic name of the Δαναοί. A further indirect support is provided by the parallel situation with the name of the (land of the) Philistines known both with and without nasal element (cf. above). 4.3. The relationship between d3-jnjw-n3 and tj-n-3-y(-w) The toponym tj-n-3-y-w, rendered usually as Tanaja, appears most prominently near k-f-tj-w in the caption of the “Aegean list” (list EN) on one of the statue bases from the mortuary temple of Amenophis III at Kom el-Hettân. 95 Besides that, the name is attested (in a slightly different spelling tj-n-3-y) in an inscription of Tutmosis III also in a close association with k-f-tjw (Urk. IV 733, 5) and in a further geographical list from the time of Amenophis III. 96 Both appearance of the name in combination with K-f-tj-w “Crete” and the composition of the “Aegean list” containing many toponyms which may be plausibly identified with places in the Peloponnese (such as mw-k-j-nw “Mycenae”, mj-ḏ3-n3-j “Messenia”, nw-p-jr-j-y “Nauplia” and k3-ty-j-r “Kythera”, an island to the south of the Peloponnese) leave no doubt that tj-n-3-y-w refers to (a part of) Mycenaean Greece. 97 The question whether tj-n-3y-w was a designation for the entire Mycenaean Greece or specifically for the Peloponnese remains open, the choice depending first of all on the interpretation of the toponym d-iq3j-j-3-s (the two main candidates being Boeotian Thebes (Θῆβαι < Myc. /Thēg ṷai/) and Arcadian Tegea). 98 In any case, the general location of tj-n-3-y-w in the Aegean naturally suggests a connection with Δαναοί. Plausible in itself, this connection might seem problematic when confronted with the fact that d3-jnjw(-n3) is also derived from the same ethnic name. However, the discrepancies between tj-n-3-y-w and d3-jnjw(-n3) are not crucial and can be attributed to the different time of attestation in Egyptian texts and to a slightly different morphological structure. The first discrepancy is the difference in spelling of the initial syllable, both in its consonantal and vocalic part. This discrepancy is due most probably to the fact that spellings tj-n-3-y-w and d3-jnjw(-n3) reflect two different writing traditions and/or two different chronological stages of the Egyptian language. The former spelling appears in the texts of the 18th dynasty written in the Middle Egyptian orthography, while the “syllabic writing” in which d3-jnjw-n3 is spelled is based on the orthography of Late Egyptian, which became the 94 Besides KARATEPE and ÇİNEKÖY, mlk dnnym is attested in the Phoenician part of the Incirli trilingual (front: l. 2; left, ll. 3, 17, 25; see S. Kaufman 2007: 7–26, 107–115 [Pll. III-XI]) and in the Kilamuwa inscription (l. 7; s., e.g., Hallo, Younger 2000: 147–148 with further references). An alternative appellation is “king of (the land of) Que” (mlk qw), attested in Incirli l. 9. 95 For a detailed discussion of all the toponymic lists of the monument see Edel, Görg 2005: esp. 161-213 and for the new important finds of further fragments of the Aegean list, see, e.g., Stadelmann 2008, and the most recent discussion in Gander 2015. 96 Cf. Edel, Görg 2005: 167 with further literature. 97 Besides Edel, Görg 2005: 167, see Haider 2000: 149–158; Cline, Stannish 2011 (with further literature). Note that Edel strongly opposed a connection of the name with Δαναοί and the Peloponnese (cf. discussion in Edel, Görg 2005: 196–199), suggesting instead a location either in Cilicia (=Adana) or on Rhodes, the locations still sporadically referred to in some works. 98 Cf. Cline, Stannish 2011: 9.

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administrative language of the land in the Amarna period around the mid-14th century BC. 99 The differences between Middle and Late Egyptian are very significant and concerned, besides grammar, also the phonetic system in general and realization of dentals in particular, which has found its reflection, at least to an extent, in the hieroglyphic writing system, conservative as it was. 100 Besides these general considerations, one can adduce a particular case, which may serve as a perfect illustration of the changes. As mentioned above, the spelling of the name Danu (d-n-jnjw) in the Onomasticon of Amenope includes also the determinative for “old man” (A 19), which links it with the lexeme which is spelled in the Middle Egyptian orthography as tnj (“old”). This traditional spelling was replaced by t-n-nw in the period of the 19th-20th dynasties and, slightly later, by d-n-jnjw which one has in the Onomasticon. 101 It is clear that around 1100-1000 BC the ethnic name of Δαναοί (or at least its root) sounded in Late Egyptian just like the word for “old”. It is quite probable, however, that this was the case already some time earlier, and it is not excluded that already in the period of the 18th dynasty the articulation of the dental in tj was not so much different from the voiced dental in Greek. Furthermore, the usage of the signs for “voiceless dental” for rendering the Aegean voiced counterpart is confirmed by the example of k3-tw-n3-y “Kydonia” in the “Aegean list” (Κυδωνία, Linear B ku-do-ni-ja). As for the vocalic part of tj, its usage for rendering a-vocalized syllables is confirmed by other examples from texts of the 18th dynasty. 102 As for the second part of tj-n-3-y-w, its straightforward phonetic interpretation would be /-najV/ (or /-najǝ/). The form is traditionally perceived as reflecting *Danaya, a i̯ -suffix derivative (feminine noun) from the ethnic name of Δαναοί, designating the land of Δαναοί. 103 The interpretation looks plausible, as the context of the “Aegean List” indeed clearly presupposes a land name rather than an ethnonym; the derivation type corresponds to well-known Greek pattern and, even if *Danaya is not actually attested in Greek, its existence and the possibility of borrowing into Egyptian does not raise serious doubts. As for the final waw, which might seem strange for rendering a-vocalization, there are strong doubts that it corresponds to any phonetic reality at all. As already mentioned above, the Egyptian vowels had a reduced value (probably close to /ǝ/) in the word-final position and the rendering of this sound fluctuated almost freely between different “vowels” of the Egyptian script; 104 note also that in Urk. IV 733, 5 the final -w is simply absent in the name. Two other examples of the “Aegean list” clearly demonstrate how little final waw has to do with the phonetic reality of the respective syllable of the underlying toponyms: mw-k-j-nw renders the name of Mycenae (Μυκῆναι or Μυκήνη) and k-f-tj-w renders phonetically something like /kap(h)ta/ < /kap(h)tar/. 105 Lastly, one may ask why the final -ṷ- of the root underlying the name of Δαναοί (*danaṷ-) is not reflected in the Egyptian as -u-, as it is the case in d3-jnjw(-n3). The answer is that the cluster -ṷi̯ - of the putative pre-form *Danaṷ-i̯ a would develop to -i̯ i̯ - in Greek 99 See, e.g., Jansen-Winkeln 1995: 85–115 and for a more recent and general overview Richter, Grossman 2015: eps. 74–76 for Middle and Late Egyptian. 100 For the phonetic system of Egyptian see Peust 1999: esp. 27-28, 79-95 for a discussion of Egyptian stops; cf. also Peust 2008: 105–134. 101 See Erman, Grapow 1971: s.v. tnj. 102 See Albright 1934: 62-63 and Helck 1971: 552; Edel 1966: 80, 85 (who assumes indiscriminate usage of the sign for t/ta/ti/tu), cf. Edel, Görg, 2005: 151-154, 206. 103 See Edel, Görg 2005: 96-99. Despite my efforts, I was unable to identify the ultimate source of the proposal. 104 Cf. Edel, Görg 2005: 177-178. 105 See discussion Edel, Görg 2005: 177-180 (mw-k-j-nw) and 166-67 (k-f-tj-w).

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(cf., e.g., Linear B i-je-re-ja for /hi(i̯ )erei̯ i̯ a-/ < */hi(i̯ )ereṷ-i̯ a-/), 106 so that the resulting form would be in any case *Danai̯ (i̯ )a. 107 Part III. The origin of the distinction Danu(na) and Ahhiyawa and the ethnic picture of the Late Bronze Age Greece. As a result of the proposed revision, one may state that the references to the “Mycenaean Greeks” (or their descendants), Δανα(ϝ)οί and Ἀχαι(ϝ)οί, and their land are somewhat more appreciable in the Near Eastern sources of the Late Bronze and Early Iron Age than previously thought. It seems appropriate now to consolidate the evidence and give a concise overview of all the textual sources referring to the Mycenaean Greece. 1. Appellations going back to *Ἀχαιϝοί 1) Cuneiform Hittite Aḫḫiyawā (Aḫ-ḫi-ya-wa-a, A-aḫ-ḫi-ya-a; the determinative varies between KUR, KUR.URU and URU). There are 26 texts coming from Hattuša and written in Hittite which mention the land Aḫḫiyawa (although less than a half in a sensible geographical or historical context); the texts are dated from the reign of Tudḫaliya I/II/Arnuwanda I to that of Tudḫaliya IV (ca. 1400-1210 BC). 108 To this one should now add a fragmentary middle-Hittite letter from Ortaköy published recently which mentions a “man of Ahhiya(wa)” (LÚ URUAḫḫiya[(-wa)] in a west-Anatolian context. 109 The earlier form of the name is Aḫḫiyā (Āḫḫiyā), found in the middle-Hittite texts dating to the late 15th-early 14th century BC. The name clearly refers to a land in the Aegean, i.e. Mycenaean Greece or part of it, but the precise geographical scope of the term remains unclear (cf. below). 2) Cuneiform Akkadian Ḫiyawa/ī (Ḫi-ya-a-ú, Ḫi-a-ú-wi-i, Ḫi-ya-ú-wi-i, determinative LÚ(. MEŠ)). The form is attested in two companion letters from Ugarit written in Akkadian, which are addressed from a Hittite king (most probably Šuppiluliuma II, beginning of the reign ca. 1207 BC) and a Hittite high official respectively to Ammurapi, king of Ugarit; the probable dating of the letters is the early 12th century BC. 110 The term very likely refers to the Mycenaean Greeks, who, as the letters seem to suggest, reside in south-western Anatolia (Lukka). 3) Hieroglyphic-Luwian Ahhiyawa and Hiyawa (á-hi(ya)-wa/i-, hi-ya-wa-, PLUVIUM/ HIYAWA; determinative varies between URBS and REGIO). The forms are found in three texts: two coming from Cilicia (the KARATEPE bilingual and ÇİNEKÖY) and dated to the second half of the 8th century BC and one found in the northern part of the Levantine coast (ARSUZ 1 and 2, two copies of the same text), dated to the late 10th century BC. 111 The name refers to the land in Plain Cilicia (= Assyrian Que) and represents thus the “New Ahhiyawa”, a foundation by migrants from the Aegean (most probably around the mid-12th century BC). 4) Egyptian syllabic ’a-ḳ-3-(y-)w3-š3 (commonly rendered as “Akaiwasha” or “Ekwesh”, determinative varies between A1 (“man”/”people”) and N77 “foreign land”). The name 106 Cf. Sihler 1995: 195–196. 107 Cf. also a personal name da-na-jo attested in Knossos (KN Db 1324, V 1631), which might represent a name based either on the ethnicon Δαναοί or the land name *Danai̯ a (i.e. „Mr. Peloponnesian“); cf. Aura Jorro 1985–1993: s.v. 108 See Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2009: 1-26 (AhT) with further literature. 109 Süel 2014: 937–938. 110 See Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2009: AhT 27A and 27B with further references. 111 For references see above, notes 2, 16, cf. also Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2009: AhT 28 = ÇİNEKÖY.

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is found in two texts from the reign of Merneptah (ca. 2013-1203 BC), the Great Karnak Inscription and the Athribis stele, both times in the context of the Libyan wars; along with several other groups of the “Sea Peoples” – Tursha (t-w-rw-š3), Lukku (rw-k-w), Sherden (š(3)-3-r3-d-n(-3)), Shekelesh (š(3)-k-rw-š3) – the Akaiwasha appear as allies of the Libyans (Libu). 112 It is noteworthy that the Akaiwasha is the only group explicitly defined in the texts as “Sea People”. 113 Identification of the Akaiwasha with Ἀχαιοί and Ahhiyawa is commonly accepted; however, due probably to the somewhat strange context of their appearance and the fact that they, according to the text, were circumcised – a custom allegedly alien to the Aegean – the evidence is cited mostly briefly and somewhat hesitantly or frequently skipped entirely. 114 However, the circumcision of the Akaiwasha may be due simply to misunderstanding on the part of Egyptian scribes. 115 On the other hand, the idea that circumcision was practiced also in the Aegean would not seem so odd, if one takes into account the evidence of Aristophanes who seems to refer to this custom among the Thracian tribe of the Odomantians. 116 As for the phonetic side of the equation ’a-ḳ-3-y-w3-š3 with *Ἀχαιϝοί, it is amazingly exact, with the Egyptian form reflecting, unlike the Anatolian one, 117 even the diphthong -ai̯ -; the presence of the final element -š3 (also seen in t-w-rw-š3 and š(3)-krw-š3) does not in any way prevent the equation, as it represents in all probability a sort of suffixal extension, whatever its exact function. 118 Identification of Ahhiyawa/Hiyawa in the Hieroglyphic-Luwian inscriptions of the Early Iron Age brings now additional support for the equation, as it unequivocally demonstrates that a part of the Aegean population known under the name *Ἀχαιϝοί did take part in the “Oriental enterprise” at the end of the Late Bronze Age. Lastly, one should note that appearance of Akaiwasha in company with Lukku (Lukka ~ Lycians) is reminiscent of the dealings of the Hiyawa people in Lycia mentioned in the letters from Ugarit and the appearance of Danuna in the context with Annaššara in or close to Lycia (cf. above).

112 The attestations include KRI IV 2:13; 4:1; 8:9 and 12; 22:8; cf. Adams, Cohen 2013: 652 with further references. 113 KRI IV 22:8: ’a-ḳ-3-w3-y-š3 (sic) n3 ḫ3s.t n p3 ym. 114 Cf. the doubts in Niemeier 1998: 46 (pointing out their circumcision) or the agnostic stance in Bryce 2016: 73; the evidence is absent from Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2009 115 Cf. Stadelmann 1984: 815. 116 Arist. Ach. 158: τίς τῶν Ὀδομάντων τὸ πέος ἀποτεθρίακεν “who has stripped the fig-leaves of the dicks of the Odomantians?”. The context gives no reason to think that Aristophanes invented this (contra Olson 2002: 121; cf. also Henderson 1975: 118 for a discussion of the passage and p. 111 with fn. 17 for the Greek attitude to circumcision). One may also note that Herodotus (II 104) also knew the custom among the Colchians and some peoples in the north-eastern parts of Anatolia (“Syrians” in the Thermodon valley and Makrones). 117 As suggested in Oreshko 2013: 27 the metathesis -αιϝ- > -iyaw- in Ahhiyawa might be a result of folk-etymological approaching of the ethnic name with the Anatolian word for “rain” (Hittite hēu-/ hēyaw-). 118 For the element cf., e.g. Kretschmer 1933: 230. The problem of the linguistic attribution of this element will be addressed elsewhere.

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2. Appellations going back to *Δαναϝοί 1) Cuneiform Akkadian Danuna (Da-nu-na, Dá-nu-ú-na, determinative KUR). The name is attested in two texts dated to ca. 1335 BC and the first half of the 13th century BC respectively. 119 Both refer, as far as one can judge, to the land of Δαναοί, i.e. Mycenaean Greece or its part. 2) Egyptian syllabic tj-n-3-y(-w) (Danayǝ). The name appears in the texts of the 18th dynasty dated to the reign of Tutmosis III (ca. 1479–1425 BC) and Amenophis III (ca. 1388– 1351 BC). 120 The name refers either to Mycenaean Greece in general or specifically to the Peloponnese (cf. below). 3) Egyptian syllabic d3-jnjw-n3 and d3-jnjw (determinative “foreign people / land”). The name appears in the texts dated to the reign of Ramses III (ca. 1186–1155 BC) in the context of attacks of the “Sea Peoples” on Egypt and in the Onomasticon of Amenope (ca. 1100-1000 BC). 121 4) Phoenician and Hebrew alphabetic dnny(m) and dn. The nisbe dnny is attested in the Phoenician part of the KARATEPE bilingual dated to the second half of the 8th century BC. The country name dnn (= Danuna) refers to the land in Plain Cilicia (= Assyrian Que) and represents thus the “New Danuna”. The form dn is attested in the Phoenician inscription Hassan-Beyli, dated to the same period as KARATEPE, and, represents, as far as one can judge, an ethnicon referring to the people of the Cilician Danuna, the descendants of the Mycenaean Δαναοί. 122 There is a possibility that the name of the Israelite tribe Dan attested in Tanakh reflects ultimately the same Aegean ethnicon. 5) Assyrian cuneiform Yadnana (Ia-ad-na-na(-a-a), Ia-ad-na-na, Ad-na-na; determinative KUR). The name, contra the common view, represents probably not the name of Cyprus itself (which is Yā’), but the name of the people inhabiting it (see above, note 70). Despite deviating vocalism, it is quite probably connected with Danuna, referring specifically to “the island Danuneans”. The distribution pattern of the two names is quite obvious: with the exception of the Egyptian texts concerning the fights with the “Sea Peoples” – a very particular historical event – the appellation going back to *Ἀχαιϝοί is restricted basically to Anatolia, while the names based on *Δαναϝοί served as the standard reference to the Mycenaean Greeks and their land in the Levant and in Egypt. It is also noteworthy that even in Egyptian texts the terms d3-jnjw(-n3) and ’a-ḳ-3-(y-)w3-š3 does not appear together. Thus, the names have a complementary distribution in the texts. This pattern, combined with the fact that both in the Homeric poems and in the KARATEPE bilingual Ἀχαιοί-Ahhiyawa and Δαναοίdnnym are used as synonyms, strongly implies that Danajǝ/Danuna and Ahhiyawa in the Late Bronze Age texts are two different names for the same entity: the Mycenaean Greeks and their country. The question is where this distinction comes from. The default explanation, suggested by numerous parallels from different periods and regions, is that the respective ethnic (tribal) terms – originally specific in their application and only later generalized – were found in the regions situated most close to the country of the receiving people/language or were for 119 120 121 122

See above section II 3. See above section II 4.3. See above section II 4.1-4.2. See above section II 4.2 and for dating cf. Lemaire 1983: 16–18.

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some other reason encountered earlier than other names. The Greek evidence, scarce as it is, seems to corroborate this model. In the Homeric poems Ἀχαιοί and Δαναοί are used, as already noted, practically indiscriminately as synonyms. 123 However, both Homer and later authors preserve traces of the original distinction between the two terms. The Δαναοί, as well as their mythical eponym Δαναός, were strongly associated with the Peloponnese or even more specifically with its southern and eastern parts, Lakonia and especially Argοlis (cf. Pind. Pyth. 4,48-50; Paus. 7.1.7). 124 It is likely that in the Iliad Δαναοί originally represented either the Peloponnesian contingents in general or, more specifically, the Mycenaean, Spartan and Argive contingents coming with Agamemnon, Menelaus and Diomedes respectively; the development of the more transparent Ἀργεῖοι went apparently along the same lines (Argives > Peloponnesians > „Greeks“). As for Ἀχαιοί, a general clue for their location is offered by the Homeric formula Ἄργος ἐς ἱππόβοτον καὶ Ἀχαιΐδα καλλιγύναικα („to the horse-pasturing Argos and to Achaea, the land of beautiful women“, Il. 3.75 = 3.258 = 3.283) used to refer to the homeland of the Greek host in general. As Ἄργος refers, as pars pro toto, apparently to the Peloponnese in general (cf. Strab. 8.6.5), Ἀχαιΐς should refer to more northern parts of Greece. 125 A further and more specific indication is provided by the passage of the Catalogue of Ships describing the contingent of Achilles (Il. 2.681-685); here Ἀχαιοί appear as one of three tribes (the other two being Μυρμιδόνες and Ἕλληνες) inhabiting the territories under the sway of Achilles which were located approximately in the southernmost part of Thessaly and immediately to the south of it. These Ἀχαιοί later gave name to Ἀχαία Φθιῶτις, a region centered on the mountain range of Othrys and including the northern coast of the Thermaic Gulf. 126 However, it is dubious that Achaea Phthiotis represents the core land of the Late Bronze and/or Homeric Ἀχαιοί: the rough and rather out-of-the-way region looks rather like a retreat area. 127 As in the 13th-10th centuries BC one can count first of all with population pressure from the north-west (moving of Boeotian tribes from Thessaliotis and North-West Greek tribes (“Dorians”) from Hestiaiotis and Epirus) 128 one may safely assume that the original “Achaea” included at least some further parts of southern Thessaly. The question whether some more southern regions of Central Greece could be also included into this “core Achaea” remains open. The location of the heartland of the Δαναοί on the Argive plain and that of the Ἀχαιοί in Central Greece – or more specifically in southern Thessaly – squares well with the distribution pattern of the names for the Mycenaean Greeks in the Near Eastern sources. Indeed, the Peloponnese is the first region of the mainland Greece which one reaches sailing from Egypt and the Levant sailing along the south-Anatolian coast and making a stop at Crete, which appears to be the most usual trade route connecting the two regions. 129 Lakonia and Argolis are the closest regions of the peninsula and the Aegean List of Amenophis III, which mentions 123 Cf., e.g., Finkelberg 2011: s.v. Achaeans (R.L. Fowler), with further references. 124 For different sorts of evidence connecting the Δαναοί with the Peloponnese cf., e.g., the literature cited in Kopanias 2008: 73, fn. 225. 125 Cf. Steiner in LfgrE, s.v. Ἀχαιΐς B I 1 and Ἀχαιός Β Ι 1 or Finkelberg 2011: s.v. Achaeans. 126 For the definition of territory of Achaea Phthiotis see DNP, s.v. Phthiotis (H. Kramolisch). 127 The same is true also for the Peloponnesian Achaea, the mountainous region in the northern part of the peninsula. In this case it is, however, much more difficult to define from which direction the migrants have come. 128 Cf. referencs in Finkelberg 2005: 130. 129 For the sea routes and navigation in the Late Bronze Age eastern Mediterranean see, e.g., Wachsmann 1998: 295–301.

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Mycenae and Nauplia located in Argolis (cf. above), confirms that the Egyptians well knew the route to Mycenae. The adoption of the name based on the ethnicon Δαναοί as a name for the Mycenaean Greece in general in Egypt and the Levant looks thus perfectly logical. On the other hand, the most likely region of the first encounter of the Mycenaean Greeks with Anatolians was in all probability the western coast of Anatolia, possibly more specifically its central part, the region between Miletus and Ephesos. The distances between this region and almost any Aegean port of the Greek mainland do not differ significantly, and from a purely geographical point of view it is not quite evident which ethnic group of the Greek-speaking population might appear in the central part of western Anatolia first. However, if we consider the later distribution of Greek dialects in western Anatolia, we find out that it is not random, but correlates quite precisely with the dialectal situation in corresponding parts of mainland Greece. 130 The sphere of influence of Doric dialects, spread, inter alia, in the Peloponnese (excluding its central part) and in Megaris, was confined in the western Anatolian region to its southernmost part (Rhodes, Kos, the Knidos and the Halikarnassos peninsulas). The central part of the west-Anatolia coast, including both Ephesos and Miletus, was the domain of the East Ionic dialect, connected in mainland Greece with Attica and Euboea (West Ionic), while the northern part was Aeolic-speaking (Lesbian dialect), corresponding to Thessalian and Boeotian on the Greek mainland. The border between Aeolic and Ionian lay in western Anatolia somewhere in the region of Smyrna, as the latter city was claimed to be originally an Aeolian foundation later taken over by the Ionic-speaking Colophonians (cf. Hdt. I 150). It is quite possible that this pattern corresponded, at least approximately, to the pattern of interaction of Greek ethnic groups with western Anatolia in the Late Bronze Age, which would mean that the central part of the region lay within the “sphere of interests” of, first of all, the ethnic groups connected with Central Greece. Whether we can narrow it down specifically to southern Thessaly remains an open question. It seems thus possible to conclude that the Near Eastern sources as a whole preserve a genuine trace of the ethnic composition of Mycenaean Greece. However terse and ambiguous the evidence is, it is a useful reminder that the region was more diverse in ethnic and linguistic terms than is suggested by the Linear B texts with their uniform language and style. The uniformity of language of the Mycenaean texts can be explained, however, also as a result of the (relative) political integrity of the region in the late 13th-12th centuries BC (LH IIIB), a condition implied by several other indications, such as the uniform pottery style based on the standard of the region of Mycenae and perception of Mycenaean Greece by the Hittites as a kingdom under the rule of a single “Great King”. 131 Whatever was the actual degree of the political integrity of the Mycenaean Greece, there is hardly any reason to think that it could have any profound effect on the ethnolinguistic situation in it; the example of 130 Cf., e.g. the map in Finkelberg 2005: 110. 131 For a discussion of Mycenaean pottery of LH IIIB and the archaeological argument for political uniformity of Mycenaean Greece see Eder 2009. For an evaluation of Hittite evidence concerning the Great King of Ahhiyawa see Kelder 2012. For further discussion see Eder, Jung 2015: 113-140. As for the centre of the “Mycenaean Kingdom”, Mycenae itself remains the most likely candidate (cf. ibid.). Thebes, which is the other alternative advanced in recent years (see Kopanias 2008: 72 with further references) was no doubt a highly significant centre. However, there is no good evidence confirming its supra-regional significance in the Mycenaean Greece, and even in the Greek legendary tradition one does not find such a claim. A possibility of coexistence of two Mycenaean kingdoms with seats in Mycenae and Thebes does not seem likely either (cf. considerations of Kopanias 2008: 71–74).

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the “unitary” Hittite Kingdom with its highly complex ethno- and socio-linguistic situation aptly demonstrates how different the political and ethnolinguistic realities could be. 132 The highly diverse picture of the Homeric Catalogue of Ships – even if it reflects, in all probability, the situation several centuries after the disintegration of the Mycenaean palatial system (ca. 1000-900 BC) – as well as, to a degree, the evidence of the Greek dialects of the 1st millennium BC, once again corroborates that the ethnolinguistic situation in the Mycenaean Greece was very far from uniform and the distinction between the terms Ahhiyawa and Danu(na) is probably only the tip of the iceberg. 133 Bibliography

DNP – H. Cancik, H. Schneider (eds), 1996–2003: Der neue Pauly: Enzyklopädie der Antike, Stuttgart. KRI IV – K.A. Kitchen 1982: Ramesside Inscriptions: historical and biographical. Vol. 4. Merneptah and the late 19th dynasty, Oxford. KRI V – K.A. Kitchen 1983: Ramesside Inscriptions: historical and biographical. Vol. 5. Setnakht, Ramesses III and contemporaries, Oxford. LfgrE – Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos. Bd. 1–4, Göttingen, 1955–2010. RlA – Reallexikon der Assyriologie und vorderasiatischen Archäologie, 1922–2017. Adams, Cohen 2013 – Adams M., Cohen M. 2013: The “Sea Peoples” in Primary Sources, In A.E. Killebrew, G. Lehmann (eds), Philistines and Other “Sea Peoples” in Text and Archaeology (Archaeology and Biblical Studies 15) Atlanta: 645–664. Albright 1934 – Albright W.F. 1934: The Vocalization of the Egyptian Syllabic Orthography (AOS 5) New Haven. Albright 1950 – Albright W.F. 1950: Some Oriental Glosses on the Homeric Problem, AJA 54: 162–176. Astour 1965 – Astour M.C. 1965: Hellenosemitica. An Ethnic and Cultural Study in West Semitic Impact on Mycenaean Greece. With a foreword by Gordon C. H., Leiden. Aura Jorro 1985-1993 – Aura Jorro F. 1985-1993: Diccionario micénico. Vols. 1-2, Madrid. Bagg 2007 – Bagg A.M. 2007: Die Orts- und Gewässernamen der neuassyrischen Zeit: I. Die Levante (RGTC 7/1), Wiesbaden. Barnett 1975 – Barnett R.D. 1975: The Sea Peoples, In Cambridge Ancient History, Vol. II, part 2, Cambridge: 359–378. Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2009 – Beckman G., Bryce T., Cline E. (eds), 2009: The Ahhiyawa Texts (SBL 28) Atlanta. Bordreuil, Pardee 2004 – Bordreuil P., Pardee D. 2004: Ougarit–Adana, Ougarit–Damas: voyage outremer, voyage outremont vers 1200 av. J.–C. In M. Mazoyer, O. Casabonne (eds), Antiquus Oriens. Mélanges offerts au Professeur René Lebrun (Volume I), (Collection KUBABA – Série Antiquité, 5) Paris: 115–24. 132 For a general overview of the linguistic situation in the Late Bronze Age Anatolia see, e.g. Melchert 2003b: 8–26; for socio-linguistic situation see Yakubovich 2010. 133 For a discussion of ethnic and linguistic situation in the Late Bronze and Early Iron Age Greece see Finkelberg 2005: esp. 127–139 for an attempt of reconstruction (at places somewhat far-fetched) of the dialectal situation in the 2nd millennium BC (with a map on p. 132). For the question of the common ethnic identity of the Greeks, which is a rather late phenomenon (the 5th century BC), highly important are Hall 1997; 2002. It is noteworthy that the broad ethnic distinction between Ἀχαιοί and Δαναοί almost certainly implies some differences in dialect. The dialect of the Peloponnesian Δαναοί represents then the dialect on which the administrative language of the Linear B texts is based (“Mycenaean Greek”) and the dialect immediately related to the ancestral dialect of Arcadian and Cyprian; ironically, the term “Achaean” usually applied to this group of dialects proves to be incorrect. In fact, the dialect of the Late Bronze Age Ἀχαιοί can be tentatively identified as the dialect ancestral to (a part of) Aeolic dialects (Thessalian and Lesbian).

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Bossert 1947 – Bossert H.Th., Alkım U.B. 1947: Karatepe, Kadirlive Dolayları (İkinciön-rapor) Karatepe, Kadirliandits Environments. Second preliminary report, Istanbul. Bossert 1948 – Bossert H.Th. 1948: Die phönizisch-hethitischen Bilinguen vom Karatepe, Oriens 1: 163–192. Bryce 2005 – Bryce T. 2005: The Kingdom of the Hittites, Oxford. Bryce 2016 – Bryce T. 2016: The land of Hiyawa (Que) revisited, AnSt 66: 67–79. Cline, Stannish 2011 – Cline E., Stannish S. 2011: Sailing the Great Green Sea? Amenhotep III’s “Aegean List” from Kom el-Hetan, Once More, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 3/2: 6–16. de Fidio 2008 – de Fidio P. 2008: Mycenaean History In Y. Duhoux, A. Morpurgo-Davies (eds), A Companion to Linear B. Mycenaean Greek Texts and their World. Vol. 1, Louvain-la-Neuve–Paris–Dudley: 81–114. del Monte, Tischler 1978 – del Monte G.F., Tischler J. 1978: Die Orts- und Gewässernamen der hethitischen Texte (RGTC 6/1), Wiesbaden. Dale 2015 – Dale A. 2015: Greek Ethnics in -ηνος and the Name of Mytilene. In N.Chr. Stampolidis, Ç. Maner, K. Kopanias (eds), NOSTOI - Indigenous Culture, Migration + Integration in the Aegean Islands + Western Anatolia during the Late Bronze + Early Iron Ages, Istanbul: 421–444. Dinçol et al. 2015 – Dinçol B., Dinçol A., Hawkins J.D., Peker H., Öztan A. 2015: Two new inscribed Storm-god stelae from Arsuz (İskenderun): ARSUZ 1 and 2, AnSt 65: 59–77. Edel 1966 – Edel E. 1966: Die Ortsnamenlisten aus dem Totentempel Amenophis III., Bonn. Edel 1983 – Edel E. 1983: Kleinasiatische und semitische Namen und Wörter aus den Texten der Qadesschlacht in hieroglyphischer Umschrift In M. Görg (ed.), Fontes atque pontes. Eine Festgabe für Hellmut Brunner (Ägypten und Altes Testament 5), Wiesbaden: 90–105. Edel 1994 – Edel E. 1994: Die ägyptisch-hethitische Korrespondenz aus Boghazköi in babylonischer und hethitischer Sprache (Abhandlungen der Rheinisch-westfalischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 77), Bd. I-II, Opladen. Edel, Görg 2005 – Edel E., Görg M. 2005: Die Ortsnamenlisten im nördlichen Säulenhof des Totentempels Amenophis’ III, Wiesbaden. Eder 2009 – Eder B. 2009: Überlegungen zur politischen Geographie der mykenischen Welt, oder: Argumente für die überregionale Bedeutung Mykenes in der spätbronzezeitlichen Ägäis, Geographia Antiqua 18: 5–45. Eder, Jung 2015 – Eder B., Jung R. 2015: “Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno”: The Mycenaean palace system In J. Weilhartner, F. Ruppenstein (eds), Tradition and Innovation in the Mycenaean Palatial Polities, Proceedings of an International Symposium held at the Austrian Academy of Sciences, Institute for Oriental and European Archaeology, Aegean and Anatolia Department, Vienna, 1–2 March, 2013, Vienna: 113–140. Erman, Grapow 1971 – Erman A., Grapow H. 1971: Wörterbuch der ägyptischen Sprache, unveränderter Nachdruck, Bd. I-V, Berlin. Finkelberg 2005 – Finkelberg M. 2005: Greeks and Pre-Greeks, Aegean Prehistory and Greek Heroic Tradition, Cambridge. Finkelberg 2011 – Finkelberg M. (ed.) 2011: The Homer Encyclopedia, Chichester–Malden. Forlanini 2005 – Forlanini M. 2005: Un peuple, plusieurs noms. Le problème des ethniques au proche orient ancien. Cas connus, cas à découvrir. In W.H. Soldt (ed.), Ethnicity in Ancient Mesopotamia. Papers Read at the 48th Rencontre assyriologique internationale, Leiden, 1–4 July 2002, Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, Leiden: 111–119. Forlanini 2012 – Forlanini M. 2012: The Historical Geography of Western Anatolia in the Late Bronze Age: still an Open Question, OrNS 8: 133–140. Forlanini 2013 – Forlanini M. 2013: How to Infer Ancient Roads and Itineraries from Heterogeneous Hittite Texts: The Case of the Cilician (Kizzuwatnean) Road System, Kaskal 10: 1–34. French 1975 – French E.A 1975: Reassessment of the Mycenaean Pottery at Tarsus, AnSt 25: 53–75.

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Fuchs 1994 – Fuchs A. 1994: Die Inschriften Sargons II. aus Khorsabad, Göttingen. Gander 2015 – Gander M. 2015: Asia, Ionia, Maeonia und Luwiya? Bemerkungen zu den neuen Toponymen aus Kom el-Hettan (Theben-West) mit Exkursen zu Westkleinasien in der Spätbronzezeit, Klio 97: 443–502. Gander 2016 – Gander M. 2016: Piyamaradu in den Annalen Hattusilis III.?, N.A.B.U. 3: 111–114. Gardiner 1947 – Gardiner A.H. 1947: Ancient Egyptian Onomastica. 2 vols., London. Goetze 1962 – Goetze A. 1962: Cilicians, JCS 16: 48–58. Grandet 1994 – Grandet P. 1994: Le papyrus Harris I (BM 9999). Vols. I–II. Institut Frangais d’Archéologie Orientale du Caire, Bibliothbque d’Etude CIX, Cairo. Grayson 1996 – Grayson A.K., Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC. Vol. II (858–745 BC) (RIMA 3), Toronto – Buffalo – London. Gurney 1997 – Gurney O.R. 1997: The Annals of Hattusilis III, AnSt 47: 127–139. Haider 2000 – Haider P.W. 2000: Die Peloponnes in ägyptischen Quellen des 15. und 14. Jhs. v. Chr. In F. Blakolmer (ed.), Österreichische Forschungen zur ägäischen Bronzezeit 1998: Akten der Tagung am Institut für Klassische Archäologie der Universität Wien, 2–3 Mai 1998: Vienna 149–158. Hajnal 2011 – Hajnal I. 2011: Namen und ihre Etymologien – als Beweisstücke nur bedingt tauglich?, In Ch. Ulf, R. Rollinger (eds), Lag Troia in Kilikien? Der aktuelle Streit um Homers Ilias, Darmstadt: 241–263. Hall 1997 – Hall J.M. 1997: Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity, Cambridge. Hall 2002 – Hall J.M. 2002: Hellenicity. Between Ethnicity and Culture, Chicago. Hallo, Younger 2000 – Hallo W.W., Younger K.L. (eds) 2000: The Context of Scripture, Vol. 2, Leiden– New York–Cologne. Harrison 2013 – Harrison T.P. 2013: Tayinat in the Early Iron Age In K.A. Yener (ed.), Across the Bor der: Late Bronze-Iron Age Relations Between Syria and Anatolia, Amsterdam: 61–87. Hawkins 1980 – Hawkins J.D. 1980: Karkamiš In RlA 5: 426–446. Hawkins 1995 – Hawkins J.D. 1995: The Hieroglyphic Inscription of the Sacred Pool Complex at Hattusa. With an Archaeological Introduction by Peter Neve (StBoT Beiheft 3), Wiesbaden. Hawkins 2000 – Hawkins J.D. 2000: Corpus of Hieroglyphic Luwian Inscriptions, Volume. I: Inscriptions of the Iron Ages (UISK 8/1; CHLI), Berlin–New York. Hawkins 2009 – Hawkins J.D. 2009: Cilicia, Amuq, and Aleppo: New Light in a Dark Age, Near Eastern Archaeology 72/4: 164–173. Hawkins 2011 – Hawkins J.D. 2011: The inscriptions of the Aleppo temple, AnSt 61: 35–54. Hawkins 2015 – Hawkins J.D. 2015: Addendum to “Phoenician and Luwian in Early Iron Age Cilicia” by Ilya Yakubovich, AnSt 65: 54–55. Hawkins 2016 – Hawkins J.D. 2016: Adana(wa) vs. Ahhiyawa: a rejoinder to R. Oreshko, N.A.B.U. 1: 26–27. Helck 1971 – Helck W. 1971: Die Beziehungen Ägyptens zu Vorderasien im 3. und 2. Jahrtausend v. Chr., (Ägyptologische Abhandlungen 5), 2., verbesserte Auflage, Wiesbaden. Helck 1995 – Helck W. 1995: Die Beziehungen Ägyptens und Vorderasiens zur Ägäis bis ins 7. Jahrhundert v. Chr., Darmstadt. Henderson 1975 – Henderson J. 1975: The Maculate Muse: Obscene Language in Attic Comedy, New Haven–London. Hoftijzer, Jongeling 2004 – Hoftijzer J., Jongeling K. 2004: Dictionary of the north-west Semitic inscriptions (HdO, Bd. 21), Leiden. Janeway 2017 – Janeway B. 2017: Sea Peoples of the Northern Levant? Aegean-Style Pottery from Early Iron Age Tell Tayinat, Winona Lake, IN. Jansen-Winkeln 1995 – Jansen-Winkeln K. 1995: Diglossie und Zweisprachigkeit im alten Ägypten. Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 85: 85–115. Jasink 2011 – Jasink A.M. 2011: Anatolia and Cyprus between Greek Legends and History at the End of the 2nd Millennium BC, as Antecedents of the Iron Age Development, DO-SO-MO 9: 7–21.

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Oreshko 2013 – Oreshko R. 2013: “The Achaean Hides, Caged in Yonder Beams”: The Value of Hieroglyphic Luwian Sign *429 Reconsidered and a New Light on the Cilician Ahhiyawa, Kadmos 52/1: 19–33. Oreshko 2015 – Oreshko R. 2015: Once again on the Reading of Hieroglyphic Luwian sign *429: the Evidence of the Newly Published ARSUZ Inscriptions, N.A.B.U. 3: 123–125. Oreshko 2016 – Oreshko R. 2016: Studies in Hieroglyphic Luwian: Towards a Philological and Histor ical Reinterpretation of the SÜDBURG inscription (PhD Dissertation, 2012), Berlin. Oreshko forthcoming A – Oreshko R. forthcoming: Geography of the Western Fringes: Gar(a)giša/Gargiya and the Lands of Late Bronze Age Caria In O. Henry, K. Konuk (eds), Proceedings of Conference “Karia Arkhaia. La Carie, des origines à la période pré-hékatomnide» (Istanbul, November 14–16, 2013). Oreshko forthcoming B – Oreshko R. forthcoming: The last foothold of Arzawa. The problem of the location of Puranda and the Mount Arinnanda revisited In Proceedings of the international conference “Hrozný and Hittite: The First Hundred Years” (November 13, 2015, Charles University, Prague). Peust 1999 – Peust C. 1999: Egyptian Phonology. An Introduction to the Phonology of a Dead Language. (Monographien zur Ägyptischen Sprache 2), Göttingen. Peust 2008 – Peust C. 2008: On Consonant Frequency in Egyptian and other Languages, Lingua Aegyptia 16: 105–134. Rainey 2015 – Rainey A.F. 2015: The El-Amarna Correspondence. A New Edition of the Cuneiform Letters from the Site of El-Amarna based on Collations of all Extant Tablets. 2 vols. W.M. Schniedewind, Z. Cochavi-Rainey (eds), (HdO, Bd. 110), Leiden–Boston. Richter, Grossman 2015 – Richter T.S., Grossman E. 2015: The Egyptian-Coptic language: Its setting in space, time and culture In E. Grossman, M. Haspelmath, T.S. Richter (eds), Egyptian-Coptic linguistics in typological perspective. Empirical Approaches to Language Typology 55, Berlin–New York: 59–101. Rieken, Yakubovich 2010 – Rieken E., Yakubovich I. 2010: The new values of Luwian Signs L319 and L172. In I. Singer (ed.), Ipamati kistamati pari tumatimis, Luwian and Hittite Studies Presented to J. David Hawkins on the Occasion of his 70th birthday, Tel Aviv: 199–219. Röllig 2011 – Röllig W. 2011: »Und ich baute starke Festungen an allen Enden auf den Grenzen ...«. Zur Bedeutung der Inschriften und Reliefs vom Karatepe-Aslantaş In Ch. Ulf, R. Rollinger (eds), Lag Troia in Kilikien? Der aktuelleStreit um Homers Ilias, Darmstadt: 115–133. Schachermeyr 1938 – Schachermeyr F. 1938: Danuna In RlA 2: 120. Schwyzer 1953 – Schwyzer E. 1953: Griechische Grammatik: auf der Grundlage von Karl Brugmanns griechischer Grammatik, Bd. 1: Allgemeiner Teil, Lautlehre, Wortbildung, Flexion, München. Sihler 1995 – Sihler A.S. 1995: New Comparative Grammar of Greek and Latin, Oxford. Simon 2015 – Simon Zs. 2015: Where did the kings of Danuna of EA 151 rule? In J. Mynářová, P. Onderka, P. Pavúk (eds), There and Back Again – the Crossroads II. Proceedings of an International Conference Held in Prague, September 15–18, 2014, Prague: 391–408. Singer 1988 – Singer I. 1988: The Origin of the Sea Peoples and Their Settlements on the Coast of Canaan In M. Helzer, E. Lipiński (eds), Society and Economy in the Eastern Mediterranean (c. 1500–1000 BC). Proceedings of the International Symposium held at the University of Haifa from the 28th of April to the 2nd of May 1985, Leuven: 239–50. Singer 1999 – Singer I. 1999: A Political History of Ugarit. In W.G.E. Watson, N. Wyatt (eds), Handbook of Ugaritic Studies (HdO I/39), Leiden–Boston–Köln: 603–733. Singer 2006a – Singer I. 2006: Ships Bound for Lukka: A New Interpretation of the Companion Letters RS 94.2530 and RS 94.2523, AoF 33: 242–262. Singer 2006b – Singer I. 2006: The Urḫi-Teššub affair in the Hittite-Egyptian Correspondence In Th.P.J. van den Hout (ed.), The Life and Times of Ḫattušili III and Tutḫaliya IV – Proceedings of a Symposioum held in Honour of J. De Roos, 12–13 December 2003, Leiden, Leiden: 27-38.

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Socio-Political Changes and Continuities in the Levant (1300-900 BCE) 1 Emanuel Pfoh Change and continuity have been both conceptual tools and explanatory factors for addressing historical realities for quite a long time in general historiography. In effect, the idea of historical change, apart from eschatological conceptions of time, may be traced back—for instance, and in a rather Eurocentric view of history—to the very contemporary interpretations of the French Revolution of 1789, and it was a key element in progressive and evolutionary thinking during the nineteenth century as well, notably the Darwinist conception in biology and the Marxist view of history. However, one might say that it is rather during the 1960s and 1970s, with the intensive debates in the human and social sciences, specifically about the nature of history, that this analytical pair, together with the conceptual identification of regularities and singularities in social life through time, gained general acceptance as an essential constitutive element of historical understanding on the different aspects and variations of the human past. 2 Traditional biblical and ancient Near Eastern historiography in the twentieth century saw the transition from the Late Bronze Age to the Iron Age in the Levant after the images of invading (semi-)nomadic peoples, an idea probably tailored after the representation of conquering biblical Israelites taking the land of Canaan, as narrated in the book of Joshua, along with the Egyptian account of the arrival of the Sea Peoples—but maybe also after the long-lasting reception in Europe of notices about Germanic peoples piercing the peripheries of the Roman imperium and eventually entering it, fighting the local peoples and then mixing with them, during the first centuries CE. 3 Such an image of ethnic replacements has been recently challenged widely in several fields of historiography. 4 In studies related to the ancient realities of the Levant, this happened in part due to new archaeological discoveries, but in essence after rearranging interpretative paradigms of historical and social change. 5 I will address these issues in three following sections, compressing (1) general factors in the twelfth century BCE transition 1 I wish to thank my colleague and friend, Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, for his kind invitation to contribute to this volume. I extend my appreciation to Professors F. Mario Fales (Udine) and Maria Grazia Masetti-Rouault (Paris) for making relevant bibliography for the present discussion available to me. This article should better be seen as research notes on a historical problem (the change and continuity of socio-politics) and the offered interpretations as open to criticism, revisions and addenda. 2 For introductory discussions on this issue, cf. Burke 1992; Le Goff 1992, esp. 26-50, 115-127. 3 See, for instance, Albright 1939; cf. the criticism in Lemche 1985: 48-62, 148-152; also Silberman 1998; Masetti-Rouault 2009; in press. A recent and critical insight on ethnic identity and migrations of foreign people, relevant for the twelfth century transition in the Levant, can be found in NiesiołowskiSpanò 2016b: 1-11. 4 See, for example, Geary 2002. 5 See, especially, Lemche 1985; Coote, Whitelam 1987; Finkelstein 1988; Thompson 1992; Finkelstein, Na’aman 1994; Grabbe 2008; 2010.

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relevant to socio-politics 6; (2) socio-political changes; and (3) socio-political continuities. Finally, I will conclude with some open questions and insights that deserve revision and further research. 1. The Late Bronze-Iron Age Transition In recent ancient Near Eastern historiography, the twelfth century BCE transition is seen as a critical juncture by which a series of structural changes in the region, especially in the Eastern Mediterranean area, occurred: the disappearance of long-distance trade, along with a palace-centered economy; the replacement of territorial states by ethnic states, which means the appearance in the political identity’s scene of “new peoples”, coming from overseas and from the desert; and the appearance of new techniques (the spread of ironworking, the use of camels and dromedaries by long-distance traders, the diffusion of alphabetic writing). 7 From the perspective of political organization, the most significant change in the regional scene was held to be the replacement of a fragmented political topography during the Late Bronze Age (ca. 1550-1200 BCE) both in Syria and Palestine, especially visible in the Amarna diplomatic letters from the fourteenth century, by the emergence of local regional polities of relative extension from early Iron Age II (ca. 1000-600 BCE) onwards: the neoHittite and the Aramaean polities in Syria; the Philistine and Phoenician “city-states” on the coast of Palestine and the kingdoms of Israel and Judah in the highlands; and in Transjordan the kingdoms of Ammon, Moab and Edom. 8 Further, the understanding of a socio-political transition from small territorial city-states in the Late Bronze Age to ethnic/“national” states in the Iron Age has been common wisdom in ancient Near Eastern studies since the publication, in 1967, of Cities and Nations of Ancient Syria by Giorgio Buccellati. 9 Buccellati’s perception of a territorial organization of Bronze Age polities depended essentially on a close reading of diplomatic letters, especially from the Alalaḫ, Ugarit, Mari and Amarna archives, after which a political scene composed of kings who were lords of their servants and “vassals”—as the latter were foreign subordinates to the king—could be sketched. 10 Much like in Medieval European times—in this view—the kingdoms of the Bronze Age, both city-states and more regional polities, were territorial in structure and, essentially, in political terminology and conception. The beginning of the Iron Age marked, according to Buccellati, the rise of tribal organizations from the desert into regional political hegemony, which would soon develop into national states, as especially the Old Testament showed. 11 6 By “socio-politics”, I basically refer to a particular political organization comprising also a political ontology and a political practice, all crafted by particular cultural, historical and geographical features, and passible of analogical comparison through ethnographic examples and situations. 7 See Ward, Joukowsky 1992; Gitin, Mazar, Stern 1998; Liverani 2014: 381–400; Cline 2014. 8 See the discussion in Pfoh 2013. 9 Buccellati 1967. Buccellati has not changed the basic interpretation of his seminal essay in more recent times, see Buccellati 2013, esp. 257–261. 10 Buccellati 1967: 25-74. 11 Buccellati 1967: 75-135. My understanding of tribal organization/tribe in the present discussion denotes a polity in which kinship dynamics and the ideology of a common descent support a corresponding tribal politics. In contrast, a state polity, while allowing for tribal organization to exist within its realm, obliterates the hegemony of the tribal politics under proper state politics (i.e., a monopoly of coercion). See further Tibi 1990.

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I already observed that this socio-political perspective of historical change has been dominant in biblical and ancient Near Eastern studies since its formulation five decades ago. Notably, Mario Liverani writes: In the old system (the Bronze Age system), states were based on territory: everybody residing inside a given territory was the subject of the local king. The dominance of one polity over another was therefore simply depending on their respective forces. With the coming of the Iron age, a new factor became relevant: ethnicity. Inside a given polity, ethnicity provided a much more effective tool for solidarity, compaction, and identification. 12

Israel Finkelstein has indicated a more complex, not so mechanical (as Buccellati’s) scenario of transition for the rise of the new Iron Age polities in the highlands of Canaan, which however retains some of the basic conception expressed by Buccellati: The Omride state therefore also demonstrates both change and continuity. There was change in the sense that the Omrides succeeded in creating a territorial state covering large areas of both highlands and lowlands. There was continuity in the sense that this was an age-old dream of hill country rulers. Indeed, 9th-century Samaria was not very different, conceptually or architecturally, from Labayu’s Shechem.

The real revolution in political dynamics came only in the 8th century, with the integration of the Northern Kingdom into the Assyrian economic hegemony and the rise of a true national state in Judah. 13 After five decades of being the generally accepted framework for interpreting Levantine socio-politics, these conceptions, crafted under the categories of territorial and ethnic/national polities, can indeed be reconsidered in their analytical usefulness. I propose that if we separate socio-politics into two analytical aspects, political organization (the structure upon which politics are built and conducted) and political practice (the dynamics and concrete expression of politics, which in turn reproduce the political organization), we may be able to rearrange our knowledge about change and continuity in the Late Bronze-Iron transition in better terms. 2. Socio-Political Changes 2.1. Political Organization The local polities of Syria-Palestine during the Late Bronze Age were structurally reduced in size in a constantly fragmented political scenario. 14 In Syria, we find a relatively greater urban development than in Palestine, possibly due to early Mesopotamian influence. 15 However, such a condition of urbanism should not lead us to prescribe a necessarily complex political organization in all of the region, like the ones found in Egypt and Lower

12 Liverani 1997: 113. See also Liverani 2002: esp. 38-41. 13 Finkelstein 2003: 81 [the first two emphases are original; the latter one is mine]. See further Finkelstein 2013. In the same fashion, Sergi 2015, defines the kingdom of Judah as territorial but also in the end (along with Moab) as “national”. 14 See Savage, Falconer 2003; Jasmin 2006b. 15 Although this is certainly not a settled matter; see Akkermans, Schwartz 2003: 211-287.

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Mesopotamia. 16 In Palestine, given the lack of human resources in this period, 17 and also the high probability of the dominance of kinship organization in the rural and pastoralist population, one may conceive for these centuries a political organization of society based as well on kinship and kinship-related structures (patronage and clientage), in which the king of the polity was actually more a man of prestige than of real power in society, a condition hardly akin to any state-like structure, in spite of the presence of scribes and diplomatic communication in the courts of the Levantine petty kings. 18 During the Iron Age I (ca. 1200-1000 BCE), the presence of what has been called a tribal element in the political organization of the Levant should rather be seen as a reflection of the permanent political fragmentation of the region and a survival of part of the dislocated local political system of Late Bronze Age Canaan. 19 From the tenth century onwards, the Aramaean kingdoms of Syria expose this tribal element in the name of polities like Bīt Agusi, Bīt Adini, etc., meaning the “house of PN”. 20 The kingdom of Israel in the ninth century is also known in Assyrian sources as Bīt Ḫumri. 21 In Transjordan, the kingdoms of Ammon, Moab and Edom have been categorized too by scholars as “tribal kingdoms” or even “tribal states” due to their territorial and genealogical organization, overshadowing more clear aspects of proper state formation. 22 However, in their heterogeneity, two factors appear to be really new in the political configuration of all these polities to a greater or lesser extent: statehood and ethnicity. Usually in current scholarship, these polities are understood as essentially constituting “secondary states”, each of them with a more or less clear ethnic background rooted in their explicit tribal affiliations. 23 The Philistine and Phoenician “citystates” represent a new political phenomenon in the southern Levant of the Iron Age, yet their political organization resembles more the structure of Late Bronze’s “city-states”. 24 16 Regarding the notion of urbanism, Schloen 2016: 447 notes: “Archaeologists rather casually describe any walled settlement as ‘urban’ and refer to an increase in the number of walled settlements as ‘urbanization.’ But these terms carry theoretical baggage that is not appropriate for the case at hand [Iron Age Israel and Judah]. The term ‘urban’ implies far more than a purely descriptive distinction between walled and unwalled settlements. It is not an architectural term but a sociological term that implies an economic contrast between specialized cities and unspecialized villages which are the locus of staple production but are dependent on urban centers for manufactured goods and professional services, creating an economic dynamic that was famously described (and wrongly assumed to be universal) by Adam Smith in his Wealth of Nations”. 17 Cf. Bunimovitz 1994. 18 I have argued about this, although briefly, in Pfoh 2016: 98-105, 159-160. See further Skalník 1999. 19 See already Alt 1934 (reprinted 1959). I cannot include the United Monarchy of David and Solomon as a socio-political event in the Levantine political scene of the Iron Age since its existence is rather biblical than properly historical; see a recent critical evaluation in Finkelstein 2010. 20 See Dion 1997. “The polities constituted at this time by the Arameans—which may be singled out by the distinctive onomastics of the local rulers or chiefs—often betray by their very toponymy (formed along the pattern Bīt + PN, with PN indicating an eponymous ancestor) an origin in a sphere of kinship and tribal/clanic solidarity of long standing.” (Fales 2017: 153). 21 Cf., for instance, Hallo 2003, II: 267-268. 22 B. Routledge (2004) has recently suggested the concept of “segmentary state” as a replacement for the notion of “tribal state”. The problematic question in this terminology is, from my perspective, not so much the adjective but the very noun used, in terms of analytical concepts. 23 See LaBianca, Younker 1995; Joffe 2002. 24 See Belmonte 2003; Yassur-Landau 2010; Niesiołowski-Spanò 2016b: 144-179. Niemeyer 2000, refers, although somewhat loosely in terms of typological analysis, to the Phoenician polities from around 1000 B.C.E. as “city-kingdoms or city principalities” (p. 91), terms somewhat more appropriate than “city-

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2.2. Political Practice The Amarna letters, especially, allow for reconstructing the local political dynamics in Syria-Palestine under the shadow of the regional powers of the period: Ḫatti and, for some time, Mittani in Syria, and Egypt in southern Syria and Palestine. On the local scene, alliances between petty kingdoms, as well as conflict and competition among political peers seemed to be rule not only during the fourteenth century BCE but also during the whole of the Bronze Age. On the regional scene, the great powers would rule over the local petty kingdoms in two different ways: Ḫatti ruled over its Syrian polities through subordination treaties imposed over the local kings; Egypt placed garrisons and administrative centres in Palestine to control the local petty kings—later on, during the thirteenth century, “governor’s residences” would tighten the Egyptian presence in the southern Levant. 25 The twelfth century crisis would dismantle first the Hittite and later the Egyptian rule in the Levant. The absence of a major power in the region would have then allowed for local socio-political structures—based on kinship and tribal organization—to develop and expand by the ninth century BCE into regional polities of some extension and for the ability to conquer other regional polities (Israel ruling over Moab, Aram ruling over Israel), although for a short span of time as they all would eventually fall under the Assyrian sphere of political influence or its direct control, in the shape of “vassal” kingdoms and imperial provinces. 26 3. Socio-Political Continuities 3.1. Political Organization Settlement patterns, both in Syria and Palestine and with minor exceptions, seem to continue from the Late Bronze Age to the Iron Age, with the demographic expansion into the highlands during Iron I. 27 The political centres of the Late Bronze Age would re-emerge in the early Iron Age, and one should expect, not surprisingly indeed, similar patterns of political organization to appear (i.e., Shechem and Jerusalem in the Late Bronze Age and Samaria and Jerusalem in the Iron Age II). 28 One key difference during the Iron I and early Iron Age II is the absence of foreign overlords in the Levant, a situation that permitted that small polities developed into relatively major ones, like the Omrides, as alluded by Finkelstein above. However, the settlement continuity and the territorial expansion of the major sites could in fact speak more of a quantitative development of local factors and their potentiality, unconditioned by foreign interventions, rather than about a qualitative change in socio-political organization in the Levant (i.e., an evolutionary leap from chiefdom to statehood) in spite

25 26 27 28

state”, which is clearly a misnomer for the towns of the Levant acting as political centers. Likewise, Strange 2000: 135-136, refers in general to the Philistine city-states as forming a confederacy, each of them ruled by kings (the biblical seranim), yet without any exhaustive enquiry about their socio-political configuration. See Oren 1984. See recently Knauf, Guillaume 2016: 85-133. Dornemann 2003; Whitelam 2002; Finkelstein 2003: 76-78; Jasmin 2006a. For data on Philistia, cf. Yassur-Landau 2010: 282-300, 340-342. Cf. Finkelstein, Na’aman 2005.

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of the presence of state-like features, as it has often been sustained in current treatments of the matter. 29 3.2. Political Practice Ancient Near Eastern and biblical historiography has often understood the practice of political subordination to foreign powers in the Levant in terms of vassalage and a lord/vassal political dynamics, although without discussing or justifying the use of that terminology. I have argued elsewhere against the use of such terms and in favour of the concept of patronage or patron-client relationships in order to account for the concrete dynamics of such subordination. 30 If we analyze, for instance, the ways in which the petty Levantine kings expressed their loyalty to their foreign overlords, it is rather easy to see clues for finding patronage: loyalty is always personal and bound to an expectation of reciprocity, even if asymmetrical; the political bond is imposed by the stronger party over the weaker one and can be dissolved given the circumstances (inter-polity treaties do not account for the same institutional expectations as vassalage pacts did in Medieval Europe). Another clue pointing at patronage as a local conception of expressing politics can be found in the ways the Levantine kings, especially in Palestine, constructed their authority: inevitably, they had to answer to the demands of their subjects; they had to provide—like good patrons—to be followed. In the Late Bronze Age, we find evidence of this in the Amarna letters; 31 but also later on, in the Iron Age II, the Samaria ostraca could certainly provide further clues, which might be interpreted as relating to an episode in the cementation of a highland chiefdom 32 through the distribution by a “king” of Samaria of aged wine and washed oil to tribal leaders in the site’s immediate periphery. 33 These clues may be indicating a continuity, after the twelfth century crisis, in the practice of patronage as the main political vehicle and expression of local kings in Syria-Palestine. 4. Socio-Politics in the Longue Durée and the Ethnic Illusion Current scholarship about the transition from the socio-political realities of the Late Bronze Age Levant to the Iron Age ones still operates under the spell of the biblical account and a barbarian immigration paradigm: a generation ago, Aramaeans from the desert and settling Israelites (be they migrants from Egypt or local pastoralists) were the main factor in configuring both a new socio-political and a new ethnic reality in the period. In the present, the socio-political impact of these new Iron Age realities has been reduced: the historical reality of an Israelite United Monarchy has come under serious criticism and the possibility of finding concrete ethnic expressions in the archaeological record of the Levant is at the least an uncertain endeavor. Yet, the notion that state structures of some form can be found in the archaeological record of the Iron Age Levant alone under new ethnic realities is hardly undisputed—although a comparison of fortified sites from the Middle Bronze Age II (ca. 29 See Holladay 1995; Dever 1997; Na’aman 2007. 30 Pfoh 2013: 35-40; Pfoh 2016: 108-119. 31 See for instance EA 77, 85, 117, 118, and 130. The most recent translation (and transcription) of the Amarna letters is found in Rainey 2015. 32 I use this term in a non-evolutionary manner. I also find it a much better concept than “city-state” or “territorial state” to characterize Levantine socio-political systems and the dynamics of politics in the Bronze and Iron Ages. 33 Nam 2012. See also the earlier analysis in Niemann 2008.

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2000-1550 BCE) and the Iron Age II would find bigger and more monumental buildings and fortifications in the first period, where scholars do not find states but only territorial “citystates”, than in the second. The territorial expansion of Iron Age II polities is also usually perceived as a feature of statehood (altogether, especially in seventh century Judah, with the presence of public buildings, fortifications, administrative writing), 34 yet the political manoeuvering of the Aramaean polities in Syria and the kingdom of Israel in Palestine during the ninth and eighth centuries BCE could in fact be easily deemed as essentially tribal in their engineering of political alliances and modes of personal subordination and dependence—much like in Late Bronze Age times, except without major foreign powers controlling the Levant in these centuries. In spite of state-like features in the kingdoms of the Levant (being also these called anachronistically “national”, or those proper of so-called “tribal states”), the dynamics of politics and territorial expansion and control performed by them are marked not by proper state dynamics (bureaucratic administration, professional armies) but rather by what might be deemed a complex chiefdom’s dynamic: the Levantine kings of the ninth-eighth centuries BCE, just like the Levantine kings of the Amarna time, are more chiefs than proper heads of state—the basic difference between the periods is the extent of territorial control: limited to the king’s residence during the Late Bronze Age and much more expanded during the Iron Age II. They do not rule over a state society but over a tribal society of which they are the military leaders, protecting the community against the outside world and leading it into battle. Thus, seen in the longue durée, the socio-political history of Syria-Palestine does reflect a variety of political events and apparent changes in its configuration, yet deeper structures, like patronage, are resilient to these superficial changes, and they reappear after a crisis—like the one of the twelfth century BCE—and adapt under new social situations. 35 Recently, it has been affirmed that “the idea of sovereignty of small states in the area [the Levant] is an illusion based on temporary neglect by imperial powers”. 36 One may then rightfully ask to what extent can there be states without sovereignty and wonder therefore if the Levantine kings, both in the Late Bronze and Iron Ages, possessed instead political authority and prestige, rather than political power, in their societies, just like a tribal chief does. After thinking outside the statehood framework for interpreting the archaeological and epigraphic data from the Bronze and Iron Ages Levant, and attending to what can we know through the attested political practices in both periods, it is possible then to argue that degrees and variations of patron-client relationships and interactions—from the local community to inter-polity local relations to local subordination to foreign powers—mark the political situations in both periods. In this view, after the twelfth century crisis, a rearrangement of patron-client structures occurred, allowing for their territorial expansion until the Assyrian takeover of the Levant in the eighth century BCE. 37 Regarding the question of Iron Age ethnicity and their inscription within a socio-political scheme of “ethnic states”, as current scholarship has identified the matter, a critical revision can also be presented. Recent treatments of ethnicity in the archaeology of the Levant, especially the southern Levant, fail to present a definitive conclusion about what the archaeolo34 See Faust 2012. 35 One may thus revise the conclusions, but no so much the data analysis, in the otherwise excellent study on Palestine’s long-term history by Finkelstein 1994. Cf. Whitelam 2002: 400-1. 36 Knauf, Guillaume 2016: 145. 37 Cf. notably Lemche 1996; also Pfoh 2013.

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gical record can inform us. In fact, the ambiguity of the archaeological material, when seen from ethnographic perspective and data, points at an inconclusive identification of concrete self-conscious ethnic identities (with the partial exception, perhaps, of Aegean/Philistine newcomers); we may only assume the existence of different local cultural and political expressions in the land but that is not enough for us to know about a clear ethnic mosaic in the region. 38 Thus, and considering the present discussion on political organization and practice, it could be hypothesized that ethnicity in the Levant—once again, especially in the southern Levant during the Iron Age—might have been closely linked to the political realities that the territorial patronage exerted by the local petty kings imposed on the subjects living within their kingdoms. 39 In this sense, it should be fruitful to explore in future research the potentiality of this notion of clientelistic ethnicity, after which the ethnic identity of the population is marked not only by other identity factors such as kinship, descent, territory and opposition to neighboring alterity, but also by a flexible and adaptive attitude towards shifting political situations in the regional realm. In this regard, the crafting of ethnic identity should therefore be attached too to a network of political loyalties and subordination. To sum up, between 1300 and 900 BCE the region of Syria-Palestine experienced a series of disruptions and rearrangements, notably in the political scene. Further, the historiographical consensus indicated that a key change in socio-political structures occurred, marking a transition from territorial polities to “national” or ethnic polities. The discussion offered in this paper aimed at challenging such a view and observing the fundamental permanence, after the twelfth century crisis, of hierarchical territorial structures based on kinship and patronage in the Levant. It may therefore well worth the effort to research further, especially on the historical particularities of the matter, whether what is usually referred to as “national/ethnic” states in the Iron Age II corresponds not so much to new socio-political realities but instead to the development of an already present form of political organization and to the continuity and adaptation of certain political practices as they are previously found in Late Bronze Age’s socio-politics. Bibliography

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Pfoh 2016 – Pfoh E. 2016: Syria-Palestine in the Late Bronze Age: An Anthropology of Politics and Power. London. Rainey 2015 – Rainey A.F. 2015: The El-Amarna Correspondence: A New Edition of the Cuneiform Letters from the Site of El-Amarna based on Collations of all Extant Tablets, (2 vols.; ed. by W. Schniedewind, Z. Cochavi-Rainey; HdO, 110), Leiden. Routledge 2004 – Routledge B. 2004: Moab in the Iron Age: Hegemony, Polity, Archaeology. Philadelphia. Savage, Falconer 2003 – Savage S.H., Falconer S.E. 2003: Spatial and Statistical Inference of Late Bronze Age Polities in the Southern Levant, BASOR 330: 31-45 Schloen 2016 – Schloen J.D. 2016: Economy and Society in Iron Age Israel and Judah: An Archaeological Perspective. In S. Niditch (ed.), The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Ancient Israel, Oxford: 433-453. Sergi 2015 – Sergi O. 2015: State Formation, Religion and “Collective Identity” in the Southern Levant, HeBAI 4: 56-77. Silberman 1998 - Silberman, N.A. 1998:  The Sea Peoples, the Victorians, and Us: Modern Social Ideology and Changing Archaeological Interpretations of Late Bronze Age Collapse. In S. Gitin, A. Mazar, E. Stern (eds.), Mediterranean Peoples in Transition: Thirteenth to Early Tenth Centuries BCE, Jerusalem: 268-275. Skalník 1999 – Skalník P. 1999: Authority vs. Power: A View from Social Anthropology. In A. Cheater (ed.), The Anthropology of Power: Empowerment and Disempowerment in Changing Structures, London: 161-172. Strange 2000 – Strange J. 2000: The Philistine City-States. In M.H. Hansen (ed.), A Comparative Study of Thirty City-State Cultures. Copenhagen: 129-139 Thompson 1992 – Thompson T.L. 1992: Early History of the Israelite People: From the Written and Archaeological Sources, (SHANE, 4), Leiden Tibi 1990 – Tibi B. 1990: The Simultaneity of the Unsimultaneous: Old Tribes and Imposed Nation-States in the Modern Middle East In P.S. Khoury, J. Kostiner (eds), Tribes and State Formation in the Middle East, Berkeley: 127-152. Ward, Joukowsky 1992 – Ward W.A., Joukowsky M. (eds), 1992: The Crisis Years: The 12th Century B.C.: From Beyond the Danube to the Tigris, Dubuque. Whitelam 2002 – Whitelam K.W. 2002: Palestine during the Iron Age. In J. Barton (ed.), The Biblical World. Vol. 1, London: 386-410 Yassur-Landau 2010 – Yassur-Landau A. 2010: The Philistines and Aegean Migration at the End of the Late Bronze Age, Cambridge.

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Differentiating Naval Warfare and Piracy in the Late Bronze–Early Iron Age Mediterranean: Possibility or Pipe Dream? Jeffrey P. Emanuel The difference between warfare and piracy, particularly when it comes to naval conflict in the Late Bronze and Early Iron Age Eastern Mediterranean, has been in need of theoretical attention for some time. While both terms are frequently used, the acts themselves remain imprecisely delineated. This paper endeavors to begin the process of exploring to just what degree that is possible. 1 Introduction Documentary evidence from the end of the Bronze Age in the Eastern Mediterranean is spectacular in its portrayal of a chaotic time of transition, with textual references to events that modern scholars have vividly interpreted as lightning–fast attacks by enemy ships that appear from nowhere, pillage and set fire to cities, and quickly disappear, leaving behind only ruin and, in the cases where survivors remained to feel it, fear. These texts and inscriptions are complemented by the famous sea battle depiction from Medinet Habu, whose painted original must have been striking to behold, as well as by fragments of pictorial pottery from the Greek mainland and western Anatolia showing ships of warriors facing off in combat on the high seas. How much of this is an accurate reflection of the events of this time, and how much is the result of modern interpretation being projected onto a time three millennia before our own? To be sure, modern conditions and sociopolitical theory have frequently colored our interpretation of times before our own. 2 The significance of these individual data points can certainly be overstated, and each has been imputed with its own share of significance at different times in the past. Further, while the collapse of the great Late Bronze Age civilizations certainly attests to significant changes in the delicate balance of the Eastern Mediterranean world at this time, a certain level of low–intensity conflict seems to have been a constant throughout the Late Bronze Age. Rather than amphibious combat being a new phenomenon, the established powers had experience dealing with these threats. In spite of this, a combination of internal and external factors in the late 13th and early 12th centuries combined to make seaborne attacks more effective than they had been in the past, and polities more vulnerable to them. These included the rapid spread of improvements in maritime technology, with the development 1 The subject is particularly timely in light of the recent flurry of pirate–related scholarship, particularly with regard to the end of the Bronze Age (see, e.g., Hitchcock, Maeir 2014: 624–640; 2016; forthcoming A; forthcoming B), as well as recent studies dealing with the ‘Galley Subculture,’ or a charismatically–led society built around galleys, rowing crews, and their captains (e.g. Wedde 2005: 29–38; Tartaron 2005: 132–133; Emanuel, forthcoming). 2 See, e.g., Silberman 1998: 268–275.

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of the oared galley, brailed sailing rig, crow’s nest, and rower’s gallery covered with partial decking. These also included an increase in the scale of ship–based hostilities, which was likely part–cause and part–result of the displacement of people in the years surrounding the Late Bronze Age collapse. Warfare or Piracy? But what, of the events we see, should be considered warfare, and what piracy? How do we define each of these? On the surface, it seems like it should be simple; after all, in war, armies meet each other in a series of battles for the purpose of serving a larger strategic goal. This sounds good, but it doesn’t take more than a few moments’ thought to recognize that this is a simplistic approach. Nonstate actors, irregulars, declared and undeclared conflicts, and a wide variation in the size and complexity of combatants and the organizations they represent all serve to compound this issue. Add to this the geopolitical and military realities of a world before the Westphalian state, before the Geneva conventions and law of armed conflict, and before the advent of professional standing armies – all of which, in the grand scheme, are ultra–recent developments – and we may begin to appreciate the complexity of the question, and the multiplicity of possible answers, each as potentially correct as the last. Shifting ever so slightly to differentiation between pirates and soldiers, who, in this period three millennia prior to our current laws of war, and at a time when texts like the Hebrew Bible speak approvingly of treating conquered cities to the ḥērem, can be considered what we might call a “lawful combatant,” and who a “pirate”? While these may seem like they should be simple questions, they are, in reality, very difficult, having been debated for centuries and more without satisfactory resolution. My hope with this paper is to begin the process of teasing out an answer – or, at very least, to leave the discussion a bit less cloudy. Background: A Tour of the Evidence In order to properly understand the role of these changes at the end of the Bronze Age, it will be beneficial to first review the evidence for this constant state of sea–based conflict, considering the brief increases in intensity and corresponding lulls in light of some specific actions – and, in the case of some Ugaritic and Hittite texts, some less specific allusions to action – taken in response to these ongoing threats. Documentary evidence from XVIII dynasty sources suggest that both Egypt and Cyprus in particular were regular targets of seaborne raiders, probably by multiple aggressors. Some of these were identified with the geographic region of Lycia by the king of Alašiya, whose letter to the Egyptian pharaoh (Amarna letter EA 38) simultaneously declares his own innocence with regard to the charge of sanctioning raids on Egypt, and denounces the “men of Lukki” whom, he claims, wage annual campaigns against his own territory. 3 Meanwhile, an Egyptian inscription commissioned by Amenhotep son of Hapu, dating to the reign of Amenhotep III, refers to establishing defenses “at the heads of the river–mouths,” likely a measure taken against maritime raiders. 4 After the date of this inscription, but still a full century prior to the vividly depicted battles of Ramesses III’s reign, Ramesses II claimed in the Aswan stele of his second year to have “destroyed” [ fḫ; also ‘captured’] the warriors 3 Moran 1992: 111. 4 Breasted 1906–7: §916; Helck 1979: 133.

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of the Great Green (Sea),” so that Lower Egypt can “spend the night sleeping peacefully.” 5 In a separate inscription on the Tanis II rhetorical stele, Ramesses mentions the defeat and conscription of seaborne Sherden warriors “whom none could ever fight against, who came bold–[hearted], in warships from the midst of the Sea, those whom none could withstand.” 6 This is frequently assumed to have been the same battle as that referenced in the Aswan stele, 7 although there is no clear evidence that this is the case. The aggressor is not named in the Aswan inscription, and the frequency with which the coasts of Egypt seem to have been raided during this period certainly leaves open the possibility that this text refers to a different adversary. Likewise, the likely “mixed multitude” nature of these raiders, discussed further below, suggests that even references to the same “groups” might not refer to the people from the same point of origin, nor to people with a single cohesive identity. 8 Based on its absence from extant written accounts, the defeat of this “bold–hearted” enemy seems to have coincided with a temporary dissipation of the maritime threat to Egypt, which seems to have lasted for the remainder of Ramesses II’s reign. The defeat and capture of the Sherden and the raiders mentioned in the Aswan stele may have contributed to this, as may the series of forts Ramesses II established, beginning in the Delta and concluding 300 kilometers west on the North African coast. While these fortresses likely served multiple purposes, one seems likely to have been defense of the desert coast and the fertile Nile Delta from sea raiders, from restless eastward– looking Libyans, or from a combination of both. This seems particularly true for Zawiyet Umm el–Rakham, an “isolated military outpost reared against a backdrop of near total emptiness” located at the western edge of the Egyptian frontier. 9 This fortress sat a scant 20 km west of Marsa Matruh, the small, lagooned site that may have served as a revictualing station for mariners, and may have been the southwesternmost known point on the Late Bronze Age maritime trading circuit, or perhaps even have been a base for pirates, much as the coastal waters of Crete, Cilicia, Cyprus, and elsewhere were at times. 10 Effective as they may have been for the duration of his lengthy reign, Ramesses II’s line of fortresses does not appear to have survived beyond his death in 1213 BCE. As these defenses went out of use, as if on cue, sea raiders, and those we associate with them, arose once again in Pharaonic records, this time in the accounts of Merneptah and, ultimately, those of Ramesses III. Now, we go outside Egypt. Frequently–cited texts from Hatti and Ugarit of likely 13th and early 12th century date may either demonstrate the devolution of the Late Bronze Age Mediterranean system, or provide further evidence for continuous conflict between maritime raiders and coastal polities (as well as larger powers who owned an interest in the latter). Two texts from Ugarit, RSL 1 and RS 20.238, are both particularly relevant and often treated as companion letters. In the former, the sender – likely either the king of Alašiya or the king of Karkemiš – admonishes King ‘Ammurapi of Ugarit to prepare the city against a rapidly–approaching seaborne enemy: “If indeed they have spotted [enemy] ships,” he writes,

5 6 7 8 9 10

de Rougé 1877: §253.8; Kitchen 1996: 182. Kitchen 1996: 120. See, e.g., Cline, O’Connor 2012: 186. Hitchcock, Maeir 2014; 2016. White, White 1996: 29. Bietak 2015: 29–42.

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“make yourself as strong as possible. [...] Surround your towns with walls; bring troops and chariotry inside. [Then] wait at full strength for the enemy.” 11 The second text, a letter from ‘Ammurapi to the king of Alašiya, has traditionally been seen as a response to RSL 1, although this is obviously not the case if the latter was sent from Karkemiš. ‘Ammurapi writes that “the ships of the enemy have been coming. They have been setting fire to my cities and have done harm to the land. Doesn’t my father know that all of my infantry and [chariotry] are stationed in Hatti, and that all of my ships are stationed in the land of Lukka?” He concludes with a report and a plea: “Now the seven ships of the enemy which have been coming have done harm to us. Now if other ships of the enemy turn up, send me a report somehow(?) so that I will know.” 12 Also relevant is a report sent from the prefect of Alašiya to ‘Ammurapi, which states that “(the) twenty enemy ships – even before they would reach the mountain (shore) – have not stayed around but have quickly moved on, and where they have pitched camp we do not know.” 13 These numbers presented no small threat: depending on their size, the seven ships listen in RS 20.238 may have contained up to 350 rowers (and, therefore, potential warriors), while the twenty ships mentioned in RS 20.18 may have collectively contained as many as one thousand if each was a fifty–oared pentekontor. 14 Traditional assumptions aside, the relationship between these texts is difficult to discern, as is their meaning. They clearly speak of a threat, particularly from the sea, and of circumstances which seem to have prevented Ugarit from mounting a proper defense of its borders, but they also raise several questions. In particular, why were Ammurapi’s ships “stationed in the land of Lukka” instead of at their home port at this time of need? Two other texts, RS 94.2530 and RS 94.2523 (= Ahhiyawa Text 27A and AhT 27B) 15 describe a mission to Lukka on behalf of Hatti, to deliver a shipment of metal ingots to “the (Ah)hiyawans.” Does this, or a similar undertaking, explain their absence from Ugarit at this critical time, as Itamar Singer once suggested? 16 If so, this seems to have been an extraordinarily poorly–timed expedition, particularly because it evidently removed the entire Ugaritic fleet from its home port and thereby abandoned the defense of their coastal waters. The idea that it would have taken every serviceable ship at ‘Ammurapi’s disposal to carry out this venture is difficult to accept, particularly in light of the key role the Ugaritic fleet seems to have played in Ḫatti’s maritime strategy, such as it was – a fact recognized in Karkemiš, as evidenced by RS 34.138, a letter instructing the queen of Ugarit that she may not send her ships to places more distant than Byblos and Sidon on the Phoenician coast. 17 What, then, can help us make sense of this situation? It is admittedly speculative, but perhaps Ugarit maintained a number of combat–capable vessels, much smaller than its merchant fleet, which carried the dual charge of defending the coastal waters against pirates and invaders and escorting shipments of particular value or import to foreign ports. Singer discounted this possibility, instead arguing that “Ugarit did not possess a separate military fleet... [r]ather, some of the commercial ships were used in times of war for the transpor11 12 13 14 15 16 17

Hoftijzer, Van Soldt 1998: 343–344; Singer 2011: 117, n. 394. Hoftijzer, Van Soldt 1998: 343. Hoftijzer, Van Soldt 1998: 343. Emanuel 2014: 21–56. Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011. Singer 2006: 250. Singer 2000: 22.

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tation of troops and for fighting the enemy.” 18 However, as we have seen, piratical activity was a significant threat at this time, and individual merchants and polities alike may have attempted to mitigate this threat in part by placing armed individuals on heavily–laden merchant ships, as suggested by the Syrian, Aegean, and possibly Balkan or Italic weapons and armor on the Ulu Burun vessel. 19 Could it be possible that vessels carrying precious cargo were also provided with combat–equipped escorts? If this were the case, then ‘Ammurapi’s declaration that “all of my ships are stationed in the land of Lukka [and] haven’t arrived back yet” may mean that this critical, albeit notional, subset of the Ugaritic fleet was, most inopportunely, away on such an escort mission when the enemy ships were wreaking havoc on the city and its surrounding territory. 20 The companion complaint that Ugarit’s infantry and chariotry were “stationed in Hatti” may be related to events taking place elsewhere in northwestern Syria at this time, as well. Two texts, RS 16.402 and RS 34.143, address the king of Ugarit’s unwillingness to send troops to the aid of the Hittite viceroy in Karkemiš, who was responsible for overseeing the vassal state of Ugarit on behalf of the Hittite king. The viceroy was evidently dealing with an enemy that had established what Singer referred to as a “bridgehead” in in Mukiš. 21 In the Ugaritic letter RS 16.402, a representative informs the queen that the enemy is in Mukiš, while RS 34.143, the king of Karkemiš accuses the king of Ugarit of misrepresenting the location of his army, which is evidently supposed to be aiding the combat effort in Mukiš, but is positioned in the northern city of Apšuna instead. Mukiš consisted of the ‘Amuq plain and its surrounding areas, with its major center at Alalakh. Could the enemy movement in Mukiš recorded in RS 16.402 and RS 34.143 be connected to the arrival in the ‘Amuq of the intrusive people (or peoples) with Cypro–Aegean affinities who would ultimately settle Tell Ta‘yinat and the surrounding area and establish the polity of Palistin? 22 We should note again that this is not confirmed by text or archaeology, but rather is one possible conclusion that could be drawn from a synthesis of the available evidence. Alternatively – or, perhaps, also – it is possible that this overland movement through Mukiš is related to the seaborne threats noted in RS 20.18 and RS 20.238, and that it should therefore be seen as the land component of a combined land and sea assault. This would be a similar situation to that described by the Hittite king Šuppiluliuma II (KBo XII 38), who claimed that he met “ships of Alašiya [...] in the sea three times for battle.” He continues, “and I smote them; and I seized the ships and set fire to them in the sea. But when I arrived on dry land(?), the enemies from Alašiya came in multitude against me for battle [...].” 23 Based on the Medinet Habu inscriptions and this Hittite claim to having fought three sea battles and a land battle against the “enemies from Alašiya,” the tactic of parallel land and sea assaults seems to have been the modus operandi of at least some groups at this time – perhaps one or more of those we associate with the ‘Sea Peoples.’ Whatever the reason for Ugarit’s dire defensive situation, the seven ships of RS 20.238 seem to have been sufficient to cause significant damage to the lands under his control. We cannot be certain where these texts fit in Ugarit’s late history, nor if they are representative of anything other than the 18 19 20 21 22 23

Singer 2011: 66–67. Pulak 1998: 207–208; Yasur–Landau 2010: 44; Sauvage 2012: 171, 290. But cf. Singer 2011: 65–66. Singer 2011: 119–121. Harrison 2009: 174-189; Janeway 2017: 121–123; Emanuel 2015. Güterbock 1967: 78.

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standard threats a wealthy coastal polity had to endure from the sea simply as what we might call “the price of doing business.” However, as noted above, the destruction and permanent abandonment of the site attests to the fact that something did eventually change in the early 12th century, and that Ugarit finally met an aggressor whose attacks it could neither fend off nor recover from. Warfare or Piracy, Once Again So what in this documentary evidence should be seen as piracy, and what as warfare? The issue is one of theory and terminology – the Scylla and Charybdis, if you will, of any clear argument and historiographical reconstruction. The term “piracy” is consistently used to describe sea attacks of almost any kind, from state–sponsored to private, while it has been prominently argued that, in the Bronze Age, there was no distinction to be made between this and warfare. 24 In the “War and Piracy at Sea” chapter of his seminal work Seagoing Ships and Seamanship in the Bronze Age Levant, Shelley Wachsmann seems to regard the difference as hinging on the involvement or absence of a state (in the form of troops or vessels), even if that involvement is one–sided. For example, he classifies the Egyptian defeat of Sherden “in the midst of the sea” that is recounted in Tanis II, and the three sea battles against the “enemies of Alashiya” mentioned in the Hittite text KBo XII 38, as warfare. 25 Raids, on the other hand – perhaps conducted by these same enemies – are classified as piracy. 26 While acts of war and of piracy can be placed into these categories, the distinction between them can be difficult to negotiate. If, for example, a fleet of nonstate actors – for example a half–dozen ships of Lukka, or Sherden, or Odysseus’ fictional Aegean raiders – were to conduct a successful raid on the Egyptian coast, striking quickly, gathering plunder, and escaping to open water, then that would, under this system, be classified as piracy (and, in my view, rightly so). However, if something went awry on that raid, and the aggressors were unfortunate enough to come into contact with Egyptian troops, either while ashore (as described in Odyssey XIV 258–268), 27 while afloat but still in sight of land (as in the Medinet Habu relief), or even in the open water (as Tanis II seems to suggest), this would transform from piracy to war. In other words, it is not the involvement of the nonstate actor that dictates the terminology employed to describe this type of action or conflict, but that of the state actor. Philip de Souza, with whose 1999 study on piracy in the Greco–Roman world any scholar working in this area must contend, declined to split hairs on the issue, instead arguing that piracy simply was not practiced in the Bronze Age. “It cannot be said that there is evidence of piracy in the historical records,” he writes, “without some distinctive terminology. People using ships to plunder coastal settlements are not called pirates, so they cannot really be said to be practicing piracy.” 28 Citing the lack of terminological differentiation in ancient records, he continues in this vein, saying “It seems to me that there is no other possible label for this activity than warfare.” 29 However, de Souza has also noted elsewhere that, “if piracy 24 25 26 27 28 29

Karraker 1953: 15; Baruffi 1998: 10; de Souza 1999: 16. Wachsmann 1998: 317. Wachsmann 1998: 320. Emanuel 2017: 149–150. de Souza 1999: 17. de Souza 1999: 16.

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is defined in general terms as any form of armed robbery involving the use of ships, then it seems to have been commonplace in the ancient Mediterranean world by the Late Bronze Age,” 30 noting the texts we have already mentioned here as evidence. I would agree with this latter statement, and go a step further by suggesting that we can differentiate, at least for our own purposes, based on the evidence at hand. State Versus Nonstate Actors It is certainly true that piracy typically involves nonstate actors. As Augustine wrote, in a retelling of a Ciceronian anecdote, “It was an elegant and true reply that was made to Alexander the Great by a certain pirate whom he had captured. When the king asked him what he was thinking of, that he should molest the sea, he said with defiant independence: ‘The same as you when you molest the world! Since I do this with a little ship I am called a pirate. You do it with a great fleet and are called an emperor’” (Aug. de Civ. Dei IV 4.25). 31 This point of view rings true across the millennia. In his Treatise on International Law, 19th century attorney William Edward Hall noted that, “Piracy includes acts differing much from each other in kind and in moral value; but one thing they all have in common; they are done under conditions which render it impossible or unfair to hold any state responsible for their commission.” 32 An important corollary to this is that, if the perpetrators do belong to a state or organized community, their actions are a violation against their own state as well as that of their victims, and their own community can be responsible for disciplining the offenders. A glimpse of this can be seen in Amarna letter EA 38, with the king of Alašiya’s declaration that, “My brother, you say to me, ‘Men from your country were with them.’ ...If men from my country were (with them), send (them back) and I will act as I see fit.” 33 Hall continued his excursus on piracy by defining the term as “violence done upon the ocean or unappropriated lands, or within the territory of a state through descent from the sea, by a body of men acting independently of any politically organized society.” 34 Daniel Heller–Roazen, in his book The Enemy of All: Piracy and the Law of Nations, notes that pirates have traditionally been “defined as stateless persons for whose acts on the high seas no state would be held accountable.” 35 War and Warfare Conversely, for violence – even organized violence – to be classified as war or warfare, is participation by multiple states or statelike actors required? Contra Rousseau, this seems overly restrictive; after all, a state could well regard ongoing, low–intensity combat against even a loosely organized nonstate threat as warfare. In the recently–published and highly publicized U.S. Army field manual on Counterinsurgency, for example, now–retired generals David Petraeus and James Amos defined warfare as “a violent clash of interests between organized groups characterized by the use of force” and noted that the means these “organized groups” utilize “to achieve [their] goals are not limited to conventional forces 30 de Souza 2010: 290. 31 via de Souza 2002: 185. 32 Hall 1890: 253. 33 Moran 1992: 111. 34 Hall 1890: 257. 35 Heller–Roazen 2009: 144.

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employed by nation–states.” 36 In the mid–1970s, Webster’s dictionary defined war as “a state of open and declared hostile conflict between political units,” and both Hedley Bull and Keith Otterbein defined the term as a planned and organized armed dispute between such units. 37 This follows Bronisław Malinowski’s definition of war as “an armed contest between two independent political units, in the pursuit of a tribal or national policy.” 38 The flexibility on state status that terms like “political units,” “political communities,” and “organized groups” provide rightly “extend[s] the phenomenon of warfare to a large range of societies.” 39 Expanding the scope even wider, anthropologists Allen Johnson and Timothy Earle, for example, considered all “organized aggression” to be warfare, while noting that “warfare is on one phenomenon of the varying expression of aggression in varying institutional settings.” 40 Historian Helen Nicholson, writing on the medieval period, offered a similarly broad definition by suggesting that it be defined as “any form of ongoing armed violence between bands of men.” 41 A common thread in these definitions is that they are too broad, as the only clear factor that it serves to differentiate warfare from any other form of armed violence is its “ongoing” nature. Clearly, as anthropologist Stephen Reyna has noted, “while most would agree with a proposition that all war is organized violence, few would agree with its converse that all organized violence is war.” 42 The level of organization, both of the conflict and of its participants, is important, as is size – not necessarily of those involved in the conflict, but of the organization they represent, as well as the nature and scope of that conflict. After all, as military historian David Buffaloe has correctly noted, “By its very nature, warfare is a struggle at the strategic level. Battles are fought at the tactical level and campaigns at the operational level, but warfare is waged at the strategic level.” 43 Thus, a battle is not itself a war, but is one part of an ongoing strategic struggle that we may call warfare. If the correct reading of Ramesses III’s records at Medinet Habu and in the Great Harris Papyrus is one of systematic, coordinated land and sea campaigns by a confederation of tribes, for the purpose of a strategic objective, then this can very well be defined as warfare. This might also be seen in the Ugaritic texts of seaborne assault that we discussed earlier, particularly if they are correctly combined – as Itamar Singer suggested 44 – with Ras Shamra texts 16.402 and 34.143, which address the Hittite viceroy at Karkemiš’s struggle with an enemy that had established a “bridgehead” in in Mukiš. Should the enemy movement in Mukiš be connected to the aforementioned accounts of seaborne attack, and seen as a land component of a combined land and sea assault? If we accept these interpretations, then they seem to suggest that the tactic of parallel land and sea assaults was the modus operandi of at least some groups at this time. Perhaps this includes those we associate with the ‘Sea Peoples.’ On the other hand, while the situation described by Šuppiluliuma II in 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

U.S. Army, Counterinsurgency 2006: 1. Bull 1977: 184; Otterbein 1989: 3. Malinowski 1968: 247. Otterbein 1989: 3. Johnson, Earle 2000: 33. Nicholson 2003: 1. Reyna 2000: 30. Buffaloe 2006: 2. Singer 2011: 119–121.

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KBo XII 38, who claimed that he fought “ships of Alashiya” three times at sea, and then met this enemy once again on land, could be read similarly, it could just as easily be read less as warfare than as a tenacious a counter–piracy operation against an equally tenacious enemy. Piracy and Privateering While acts of a piratical nature can be perpetrated by one state or political unit against another, piracy itself is not carried out between states. This position was perhaps most explicitly defended by Hall, who unequivocally declared that “acts which are allowed in war, when authorized by a politically organized society, are not [themselves] piratical.” 45 This is in keeping with the aforementioned definition of “piracy” that includes the requirement that no state be able to be held liable for its perpetrators. At its most extreme, then, acts between states that are piratical in nature would be classified as privateering, which, while considered “but one remove from pira[cy],” is itself, to quote Fernand Braudel, “legitimate war,” 46 which, as historian David Starkey has explained, “might serve public as well as private interests; at once a business opportunity, a tool of war and a factor in the diplomacy between nations.” Starkey further notes the fact “that privateering was, and still is, confused with piracy is hardly surprising given the similarities in the aims and methods of the two activities. Both privateersman and pirate were intent on enriching themselves at the expense of other maritime travelers, an end which was often achieved by violent means, the forced appropriation of ships and merchandise. However, there had always been a theoretical distinction between the two forms of predation.” 47

Figure 1: Matrix of military and piratical classifications, after Thomson 1996: 8.

As we see from historian Janice Thomson’s helpful matrix, 48 an adapted version of which can be seen here (Fig. 1), the difference between a Privateer and a Pirate is no more and no less than the state’s investment in each. It is unlikely, of course, that freebooting sailors in at the end of the Late Bronze Age were carrying physical letters of marque while plundering foreign ships; such documentation, at least in the form we think of it, is an invention of the early second millennium CE. However, state sanction of piratical acts (either de facto or de jure) obviously predates the conflicts of late medieval and early modern history, and we 45 46 47 48

Hall 1890: 256. Braudel 1972: 866. Starkey 1990: 13, 19. Thomson 1996: 8.

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should recognize that non–state actors committing piratical acts on behalf of a supportive state are very much the ancient equivalent of the privateer, both medieval and modern. 49 The use of privateers, both in war proper and to harass adversaries, is well documented in Greek history in particular, from the Classical to the Hellenistic periods. In other words, the lack of what we may now think of as formal privateer status does not mean that this function did not exist at the end of the Bronze Age. At this point, we seem to be closing in on the heart of the mater: namely, if war and warfare require the involvement (and assent) of the state or similar organized political unit, then privateers can be said to have been participants in war, while pirates likely cannot. This is not to say that states involved in a conflict with each other cannot (or do not) consider their adversary to be engaging in piracy through certain seaborne acts of violence. In a 4th century BCE example, both Demosthenes of Athens and Philip II of Macedon accused each other of engaging in (and enabling) piracy, for the purpose both of politically undermining and of physically and economically harming the other. 50 On the other hand, an Athenian treaty from the 5th century BCE clearly differentiates between enemies of the state and pirates, declaring that their partners in the agreement are “not to admit pirates, nor to practice piracy, nor are they to join in a campaign with the enemy against the Athenians,” although the demarcation between campaigning, or conventional warfare, and piracy may be as relevant here as that which de Souza emphasized, which was the difference between pirates and the enemy. 51 This fits with what Philip Gosse, writing in the early 20th century, described as a “well– defined cycle” of piracy. 52 In this cycle, piracy is initially conducted by small groups, which work independently, using their privately–owned boats to pick off the most vulnerable prey. Success breeding success, this can lead to collaboration between groups, and greater danger to merchantmen. While unwieldy size, internal conflict, or a lack of sufficient prey to support it can lead to the disintegration of the larger group, this confederation can also grow to the point where it is not just recognized by one or more states, but becomes allied with them, effectively becoming a mercenary navy, at least for a time. 53 Thus, in Gosse’s words, “what had been piracy then for a time became war, and in that war the vessels of both sides were pirates to the other.” 54 Left out of this cycle, which we should add, is the liminality between trader or other maritime actor and pirate, which Michal Artzy so aptly summed by noting that, as economic conditions became less favorable for “fringe” merchants and mariners, a number may have “reverted to marauding practices, and the image of ‘Sea Peoples’ familiar to us from the Egyptian sources emerged.” 55 This was a reversible condition, though, and as it became more favorable to engage in what we might call above–board activities, they could re–enter what we might call “civilized society” at will.

49 50 51 52 53 54 55

Cf. Richard 2010: 411–464. de Souza 1999: 36–37. IG I 75:6–10 via de Souza 1999: 32. Gosse 1932: 1. Anderson 1995: 184; Hitchcock, Maeir 2014; 2016. Gosse 1932: 1–2. Artzy 1997: 12.

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Guerrilla and Asymmetric Warfare Piratical operations can also be seen as a form of guerrilla warfare on the sea. Long looked down upon by states that boasted effective armies, irregular fighters have been described as “cruel to the weak and cowardly in the face of the brave” – a statement that is likely only half true, with the latter portion being a response borne of frustration. 56 Likewise, counter–piracy operations could be classified as asymmetric warfare, or “nontraditional warfare waged between a militarily superior power and one or more inferior powers.” 57 Documentary sources suggest that in the Late Bronze Age, civilized people were expected to communicate both the date and location of a battle, and to wait until their adversary had arrived and completed preparations before engaging. Only barbarians utilized the element of surprise, exploiting their opponents’ weaknesses by attacking under cover of darkness and avoiding pitched battle with regular troops. In Mario Liverani’s words, “This is not war... it is just guerrilla activity – small–scale warfare, by small people, of small moral stature.” 58 However, for those without a professionally trained and equipped military force at their disposal, such tactics offered the best chance not only of success, but of survival. Because of this, for the barbarian – or for any nonstate actor – war as, by its nature, an irregular, guerrilla affair. Piracy was similarly hit–and–run, at least in part for the same reason, thus making true warfare and guerrilla activity on land, and piracy at sea, indistinguishable only for the non–state actor. In the ancient records, then, rather than being unable to differentiate between warfare and piracy, we can safely say that we are seeing elements of both. Hit–and–run raids conducted from the sea, such as those carried out year after year by the “men of Lukki,” should in fact be classified as piracy, as are the unnamed threats that armed escorts, such as those that may have been aboard the Ulu Burun ship, seem to have been employed to protect against. However, once confederations like those described by Ramesses III become involved, it is possible to say that we have shifted from banditry on the sea to warfare – even if actions taken by either side can be described as piratical in their nature. Lest we conclude this examination in possession of a false sense of certainly, though, it bears repeating that the gray area between warfare and piracy remains large, and the conversation will, like the U.S. Supreme Court’s 1964 ruling on obscenity, likely always hinge on at least some element of “you’ll know it when you see it.” Or, to use an alternate cultural reference, we must come down, to at least some degree, on the side of Obi–Wan Kenobi: the definitions of warfare and piracy depend on your point of view. However, as we have seen, there are lines that can be drawn between the two, and those can be extended back through time to the Late Bronze Age, where we can differentiate – from the point of view of our various actors – between warfare and piracy, however closely connected they may be. Bibliography

Anderson 1995 – Anderson J.L. 1995: Piracy and World History: An Economic Perspective on Maritime Predation, JWH 6: 175–199. Artzy 1997 – Artzy M. 1997: Nomads of the Sea. In S. Swiny et al. (eds), Res Maritimae: Cyprus and the Eastern Mediterranean from Prehistory to Late Antiquity, Atlanta: 1–16. 56 Keegan 1993: 9. 57 Buffaloe 2006: 17. 58 Liverani 2001: 109.

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Baruffi 1998 – Baruffi J.T. 1998: Naval Warfare Operations in the Bronze Age Eastern Mediterranean (unpublished doctoral thesis), University of Chicago. Beckman, Bryce, Cline – Beckman G.M., Bryce T.R., Cline E.H. 2011: The Ahhiyawa Texts, Atlanta. Bietak 2015 – Bietak M. 2015: War Bates Island bei Marsa Matruth ein Piratennest? Ein Beitrag zur Frühen Geschichte der Seevölker. In S. Nawracala, R. Nawracala (eds), ΠΟΛΥΜΑΘΕΙΑ: Festschrift für Hartmut Matthäus Anläßlich seines 65. Geburtstages, Maastricht: 29–42. Braudel 1972 – Braudel F. 1972: The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, New York. Breasted 1906-7 – Breasted J.H. 1906-7: Ancient Records of Egypt 2, Chicago. Buffaloe 2006 – Buffaloe D.L. 2006: Defining Asymmetric Warfare, Arlington. Bull 1977 – Bull H. 1977: The Anarchical Society: A Study of Order in World Politics, New York Cline, O’Connor 2012 – Cline E.H., O’Connor D. 2012: The Sea Peoples. In E.H. Cline, D. O’Connor (eds), Ramesses III: The Life and Times of Egypt’s Last Hero, Ann Arbor. de Rougé 1877 – de Rougé E. 1877: Inscriptions Hiéroglyphices Copiées en Égypte Pendant la Mission Scientifique de M. le Vicomte Emmanuel de Rougé, Paris. de Souza 1999 – de Souza P. 1999: Piracy in the Graeco–Roman World, Cambridge. de Souza 2002 – de Souza P. 2002: Greek Piracy. In A. Powell (ed.), The Greek World, London: 179– 198. de Souza 2010 – de Souza P. 2010: Piracy. In M. Gagarin, E. Fantham (eds), The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Greece and Rome 5, Oxford: 290–291. Emanuel 2014 – Emanuel J.P. 2014: The Sea Peoples, Egypt, and the Aegean: Transference of Maritime Technology in the Late Bronze–Early Iron Transition (LH IIIB–C), AegSt 1: 21–56. Emanuel 2015 – Emanuel J.P. 2015: King Taita and His ‘Palistin’: Philistine State or Neo-Hittite Kingdom?, AntOr 13: 11–40. Emanuel 2017 – Emanuel J.P. 2017: Black Ships and Sea Raiders: The Late Bronze and Early Iron Age Context of Odysseus’ Second Cretan Lie, Lanham. Emanuel, forthcoming – Emanuel J.P. forthcoming: The ‘Galley Subculture’: Unit Cohesion in Galley Crews and Its Possible Role in Crisis and Continuity at the End of the Aegean Bronze Age. In G. Lee, J.R. Hall (eds), Military Unit Cohesion in the Ancient World, London. Gosse 1932 – Gosse P. 1932: The History of Piracy, New York. Güterbock 1967 – Güterbock H. 1967: The Hittite Conquest of Cyprus Reconsidered, JNES 26: 73–81. Hall 1890 – Hall W.E. 1890: A Treatise on International Law, 3rd ed., New York. Harrison 2009 – Harrison T.P. 2009: Neo-Hittites in the ‘Land of Palistin’: Renewed Investigations at Tell Ta‘yinat on the Plain of Antioch, NEA 72: 174–189. Helck 1979 – Helck W. 1979: De Beziehungen Ägyptens zu Vorderasiens zur Ägäis: bis ins 7. Jahrtausend v. Chr., Darmstadt. Heller–Roazen 2009 – Heller–Roazen D. 2009: The Enemy of All: Piracy and the Law of Nations, New York. Hitchcock, Maeir 2014 – Hitchcock L.A., Maeir A.M. 2014: Yo–ho, Yo–ho, a Seren’s Life for Me! World Archaeology 46: 624–640. Hitchcock, Maeir 2016 – Hitchcock L.A., Maeir A.M. 2016: A Pirate’s Life for Me: The Maritime Culture of the Sea Peoples, PEQ 148: 245-264. Hitchcock, Maeir, forthcoming – Hitchcock L.A., Maeir A.M. forthcoming: Fifteen Men on a Dead Seren’s Chest: Yo Ho Ho and a Krater of Wine. In A. Batmaz et al. (eds), Context and Connection: Essays on the Archaeology of the Ancient Near East in Honour of Antonio Sagona, Leuven, forthcoming. Hitchcock, Maeir, forthcoming – Hitchcock L.A., Maeir A.M. forthcoming: Pirates of the Crete–Aegean: Migration, Mobility, and Post–Palatial Realities at the End of the Bronze Age. In Proceedings of the 12th International Conference of Cretan Studies, Heraklion, 21–25 September 2016, Heraklion. Hoftijzer, Van Soldt 1998 – Hoftijzer J., Van Soldt W.H. 1998: Texts from Ugarit Pertaining to Seafaring. In S. Wachsmann (ed.), Seagoing Ships and Seamanship in the Bronze Age Levant, College Station: 333–344. Janeway 2017 – Janeway B. 2017: Sea Peoples of the Northern Levant? Aegean-Style Pottery from Early Iron Age Tell Tayinat. Studies in the Archaeology and History of the Levant 7, Winona Lake.

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Johnson, Earle 2000 – Johnson A.W., Earle T. 2000: Evolution of Human Societies: From Foraging Group to Agrarian State 2nd ed., Stanford. Karraker 1953 – Karraker C.H. 1953: Piracy Was a Business, Rindge. Keegan 1933 – Keegan J. 1933: A History of Warfare, New York. Kitchen 1996 – Kitchen K.A. 1996: Ramesside Inscriptions Translated and Annotated: Translations II, Cambridge. Liverani 2001 – Liverani M. 2001: International Relations in the Ancient Near East, 1600–1100 BC, New York. Malinowski 1968 – Malinowski B. 1968: An Anthropological Analysis of War. In L. Bramson, G.W. Goethals (eds), War: Studies from psychology, sociology, anthropology, New York: 245–268. Moran 1992 – Moran W.L. 1992: The Amarna Letters, Baltimore. Nicholson 2003 – Nicholson H. 2003: Medieval Warfare: Theory and Practice of War in Europe, 300– 1500, New York. Otterbein 1989 – Otterbein K.F. 1989: The Evolution of War: A Cross–Cultural Study, 3rd ed., New Haven. Pulak 1998 – Pulak C.M. 1998: The Uluburun Shipwreck: An Overview, IJNA 27: 188–224. Reyna 2000 – Reyna S.P. 2000: A Mode of Domination Approach to Organized Violence. In S.P. Reyna, R.E. Downs (eds), Studying War: Anthropological Perspectives, Langhorne: 29–69. Richard 2010 – Richard T.T. 2010: Reconsidering the Letter of Marque: Utilizing Private Security Providers Against Piracy, PCLJ 39: 411–464. Sauvage 2012 – Sauvage C. 2012: Routes Maritimes et Systèmes d’Echanges Internationaux au Bronze Récent en Méditerranée Orientale, Lyon. Silberman 1998 – Silberman N.A. 1998: The Sea Peoples, the Victorians, and Us: Modern Social Ideology and Changing Archaeological Interpretations of the Late Bronze Age Collapse. In S. Gitin et al. (eds), Mediterranean Peoples in Transition: The Thirteenth to Early Tenth Centuries BCE, Jerusalem: 268–275. Singer 2000 – Singer I. 2000: New Evidence on the End of the Hittite Empire. In E.D. Oren (ed.), The Sea Peoples and Their World: A Reassessment, Philadelphia: 21–34. Singer 2006 – Singer I. 2006: Ships Bound for Lukka: A New Interpretation of the Companion Letters RS 94.2530 and RS 94.2523, AltF 33: 242–262. Singer 2011 – Singer I. 2011: A Political History of Ugarit. In I. Singer, The Calm Before the Storm: Selected Writings of Itamar Singer on the Late Bronze Age in Anatolia and the Levant, Atlanta: 19–146. Starkey 1990 – Starkey D.J. 1990: British Privateering Enterprise in the 18th Century, Exeter. Tartaron 2005 – Tartaron T.F. 2005: Maritime Networks in the Mycenaean World, Cambridge 2005. Thomson 1996 – Thomson J.E. 1996: Mercenaries, Pirates, and Sovereigns State–Building and Extraterritorial Violence in Early Modern Europe, Princeton. U.S. Army, Counterinsurgency 2016 – U.S. Army, Counterinsurgency, Washington. Wachsmann 1998 – Wachsmann S. 1998: Seagoing Ships and Seamanship in the Bronze Age Levant, College Station. Wedde 2005 – Wedde M. 2005: The Mycenaean Galley in Context: From Fact to Idée Fixe. In R. Laffineur, E. Greco (eds), Emporia: Aegeans in the Central and Eastern Mediterranean, Liège: 29–38. White, White 1996 – White D.B., White A.P. 1996: Coastal Sites of Northeast Africa: The Case Against Bronze Age Ports, JARCE 33: 11-30. Yasur–Landau 2010 – Yasur–Landau A. 2010: The Philistines and the Aegean Migration at the End of the Late Bronze Age, Cambridge.

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From “Global” to “Glocal”: Cultural Connectivity and Interactions between Cyprus and the Southern Levant during the Transitional Late Bronze and Early Iron Ages Ann E. Killebrew Spanning the Late Bronze transition and the early Iron Age, the last two centuries of the second millennium BCE are often depicted as a period of societal breakdown following the disintegration of the great Late Bronze Age empires. Excavations in the southern Levant and on Cyprus, combined with extensive provenience studies of ceramics and metals, are elucidating our understanding of this “dark age” that ensued after the collapse of interregional trade networks, which defined the Late Bronze Age. Although the Hittite and Egyptian empires and established elite socio-economic structures suffered devastation, other less centralized polities, including those on Cyprus and several coastal regions of the Levant, survived the crisis and even flourished. In what follows, I examine the evidence for cultural connectivity between these two regions, which encompasses administered trade, informal exchange networks, migration, colonization and other social interactions. 1 It is a relationship that continues long established prior ties, though differs in scope, intensity and intention during the pivotal 12th and 11th centuries BCE. Prologue to the Iron Age: Late Bronze Age Cypriot and Canaanite Interconnections and Trade in Their Global and Glocal Contexts Throughout the second millennium BCE, the archaeological record provides indisputable evidence for interaction of lands bordering the eastern Mediterranean, including Cyprus and the Levant. These interregional connections increase in scale during the Late Bronze Age (ca. 1550 – 1200 BCE) in tandem with the rise of New Kingdom Egyptian, Hittite, Mitannian, Babylonian and Assyrian imperial influence in the eastern Mediterranean and ancient Near East. In the shadow of Mycenaean, Hittite and Egyptian ambitions, imperial and local palaces, which operated under royal and elite patronage, dominated Late Bronze Age society. The resulting expansion of commercial trade relations encompassed the eastern Mediterranean and created the region’s first “global” economy. 2 Elite pursuit of high value and prestigious commodities such as metals, oils, wines and textiles fueled these long-distance exchange systems. 3 These categories of goods also testify to a high level of craft specialization, pointing to an administered economy under palatial supervision and a centralized redistribution system. At the same time, limited textual evidence suggests that finished products were likely obtained through multiple sources or mechanisms, indicating a variety of modes of

1 For a discussion of archaeological approaches to trade and social exchange see Bauer, Agbe-Davies 2010. 2 See, e.g., Sherratt 2016a: 608–610. 3 For a detailed discussion of these commodities, see Bevan 2010: 42–74.

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production. 4 Though imperial, palatial and elite influence on Late Bronze Age economies is indisputable, the extent of their control over production and commercial networks is debated and more informal market-based exchange systems and relationships likely co-existed. 5 Transregional linkages reach their peak during the 14th and 13th centuries BCE. 6 At the hub of these interconnections, was an urbanized Cyprus, 7 comprised of either power-sharing decentralized polities or a more centralized political structure associated with an absolute authority or king as suggested by the mention of Alashiya in the Amarna Letters. 8 Unlike the politically fragmented city-states of the Levant under Hittite or Egyptian domination, 9 Cyprus managed to maintain a degree of independence from these land-based imperial powers with a prosperous economy centered on the large-scale extraction, processing and exportation of copper. 10 Throughout the 13th century, Late Cypriot IIC Cyprus played an increasingly pivotal role in the “globalized” trade network, facilitating the export of Cypriot products and serving as a commercial intermediary or carrier of Aegean products to the east. 11 Cypriot–Levantine connections were expressed materially by the appearance of noteworthy quantities of imported Late Cypriot II pottery, one of the few exported commodities that is preserved in the archaeological record. Base Ring II, White Shaved and White Slip II wares, which comprise the majority of imports in the Levant, significantly outnumbered Aegean exports to the region and highlight the intermediary role of Cyprus. 12 Though many of these vessels served as packaging for high value commodities, 13 not all Cypriot pottery recovered in Levantine contexts functioned as containers. The widespread 4 The Levantine Ugaritic texts and Mycenaean Linear B tablets are of particular relevance, especially when contextualized with the archaeological evidence. Regarding Ugarit see, e.g., Heltzer 1999 and McGeough 2007. Recent research on Mycenaean palatial economies provides a particularly insightful view of their multi-variable complexity. See, e.g., a series of articles published as open-access Forum entitled: Crafts, Specialists, and Markets in Mycenaean Greece, which appear in the American Journal of Archaeology 117 (2013), 413–459 (https://www.ajaonline.org/toc/1173). Of special interest are the contributions by Hruby 2013 and Pullen 2013. 5 In support of imperial control see, e.g., Liverani 1987: 66–69, a view Liverani continues to support, see Liverani 2005. For analyses of the various agents involved in eastern Mediterranean trade networks, see, e.g., Knapp 1993; Monroe 2009. As pointed out by S. Sherratt, imperial powers were likely more successful in their monitoring of overland routes and coastal maritime centers, but faced greater difficulties controlling sea traffic and trade which utilized smaller anchorages. See Sherratt 2016b: 290–295. 6 See, e.g., Sherratt, Sherratt 1991: 370–373; Manning, Hulin 2005. 7 For a recent overview of Late Cypriot (or Protohistoric Bronze) Cyprus, see, e.g., Knapp 2013: 348–476 and Steel 2014. 8 See Peltenburg 2012, who advocates for decentralized polities vs. Knapp 2013: 432–446 who argues for the existence of a centralized authority on the island during the 13th century BCE. 9 For an overview of the southern Levant, the focus of this chapter, see e.g., Panitz-Cohen 2013. 10 For a recent overview of copper extraction, production and export see, Kassianidou 2013 and extensive bibliography therein. Regarding the provenience of 14th and 13th century copper oxhide ingots found in the eastern Mediterranean, see Gale 2013, who concludes that Apliki (Cyprus) was the source of copper for 14th- and 13th-century ingots. 11 Bell 2005: 366. 12 See, e.g., Gittlen 1981; for more recent, specialized studies see, e.g., Artzy 2001; 2006. For a recent comparative study of the relative quantities of Aegean and Cypriot pottery in the eastern Mediterranean see, e.g., Papadimitriou 2012. 13 See, e.g., Bunimovitz, Lederman 2016, for a recent study of the contents of Cypriot Base Ring II juglets found in Canaan; see also Pulak 2008, artifact catalog: 306–310, 313–321, 324–333, 336–342, 345–348,

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distribution of imported Cypriot bowls and other non-container pots suggests the co-existence of thriving informal parallel exchange systems, possibly under the aegis of small-scale maritime traders who likely operated independent of royal oversight. 14 In the reverse direction, Levantine imports to Cyprus included Canaanite storage jars, signaling the export of perishable Canaanite products to Cyprus, 15 though it should be noted that archaeological evidence indicates Cypriot imports to Canaan far outnumber Levantine exports to Cyprus. During the final decades of the 13th century, contacts between Cyprus and Canaan also included the importation of Cypriot-manufactured Late Helladic IIIB2 Mycenaean-style pottery. The production of Mycenaean-style pottery on Cyprus marks the beginning of a process of “glocalization,” or Aegeanization of Cypriot material culture, which intensifies on the island during the 12th century BCE. The majority of these vessels were containers, especially small stirrup jars or flasks, that are decorated with painted bands in a style that has been termed in the literature “Simple Style,” “Derivative Mycenaean,” or “Late Mycenaean IIIB.” These Aegean-style ceramics produced on Cyprus have been identified at Levantine sites such as Tel Nami, Megiddo, Tel Beth Shean, Tel Dor, Tell es-Say‘idiyeh and possibly at Tell el-Far‘ah (S). 16 Their presence coincides with the disappearance of imported Mycenaean pottery in Canaan from well-known production centers on the Greek mainland. It also reflects the gradual transmission of Aegean technology and shift in production from mainland Greece, especially the Argolid region, to the east. Although exported Cypriot-produced, Aegean-style pottery appears in smaller quantities than the earlier traditional 13th-century hand-made wares produced on the island, its presence in the Levant testifies to Cyprus’s continuing interaction and familiarity with this region at the end of the Late Cypriot IIC period. 17 Due to its sporadic appearance, Aegean-style Cypriot pottery in the Levant has been understood as the material expression of more informal, decentralized and entrepreneurial exchange networks linking these two regions during the twilight of the Late Bronze Age. 18 Cypriot (Late Cypriot IIIA) – Southern Levantine (Late Bronze III/Iron IA) Informal Exchange Networks, Migration and Colonization during the 12th Century BCE 19 The collapse of the Hittite Empire, the dissolution of the palace system on mainland Greece and the decline of Egyptian New Kingdom suzerainty in Canaan disrupted Late Bronze Age transregional interconnections. This breakdown is mirrored in the marked decrease of imports throughout the eastern Mediterranean. In the archaeological record, the crises that rippled across the region is expressed by the destruction of numerous Late Bronze Age

14 15 16 17 18 19

350–358, 366–378, 382–385 and Pulak 2012 for a discussion of the cargo, including raw materials, edibles and perishable goods, found in the late 14th-century BCE Uluburun shipwreck off the southern coast of Turkey. Sherratt 2016b: 292–296. Georgiou 2014, and Knapp, Demesticha 2017, especially Table 1, pp. 56–58 for a detailed summary and bibliography of Canaanite storage jars on Cyprus. For an overview of the Canaanite jar in the Levant, see Killebrew 2007; Pedrazzi 2016; and Knapp, Demesticha 2017: 46–66. Artzy 2006; Gilboa, Waiman-Barak, Sharon 2015: 88–89. See, e.g., Zuckerman et al. 2010: 412–415 and figs. 3–4; Killebrew 2008: 55–58; Artzy 2013. For a detailed discussion, see Sherratt 2013; 2016b: 293–298. Absolute chronological dates for the end of the Late Bronze Age and the subsequent Iron Age are highly contested. For a comparative chronological chart of the various chronologies see Lehmann 2013: Tables 3a and 3b. In this chapter, I follow the chronology proposed by Mazar 2008.

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centers over the span of many decades in the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean, some of which were also abandoned, most notably the Hittite capital Hattusa. 20 The power vacuum that emerged out of the ruins of the Hittite empire and a weakened Egypt in retreat encouraged the rise of local entities and decentralized societal structures. Twelfth-century BCE Cyprus demonstrated resiliency and even thrived in an environment devoid of imperial domination. 21 In the southern Levant, Egypt’s withdrawal of its military and administrative personnel results in societal fragmentation and development of diverse material cultures, whose boundaries often correspond to geographic features of the landscape. 22 Cyprus: Though settlement patterns realign during the transitional Late Cypriot IIC/ IIIA period, the island of Cyprus does not experience the crises that struck much of the eastern Mediterranean region. Late Cypriot IIC settlements undergo a variety of fates, best described by M. Iacovou as “a complex puzzle of highly diverse, non-matching settlement histories.” 23 Several 13th-century urban centers, such as Kalavasos-Ayios Dhimitrios and Maroni-Vournes were abandoned prior to the end of the 13th century, apparently peacefully and possibly due to the decline in the extraction, processing and export of copper. Similarly, Late Cypriot mining villages such as Mathiatis, Analiontas and others ceased to exist during this transitional period, also likely because of the fall in demand for copper internationally. Other sites such as Enkomi, and probably the nearby site of Sinda, experienced violent destructions at the end of the Late Cypriot IIC, however, these settlements were rebuilt and occupation resumed immediately. Occupation at the southeastern coastal site of Hala Sultan Tekke, the inland urban center of Alassa and Episkopi-Bamboula, continued without interruption during the 13th and 12th centuries BCE. Several sites including Kition and Palaepaphos not only were not destroyed at the end of the Late Cypriot IIC but reached their floruit during the 12th century BCE. Other locales, such as Maa-Palaeokastro and Pyla-Kokkinokremos, were newly established settlements at the end of the 13th century and remained occupied for only a few decades. At both sites, storage facilities, remains of copper smelting and evidence of trade were uncovered. 24 One of the distinguishing features of 12th-century Late Cypriot IIIA Cyprus is the appearance of large quantities of locally produced Aegean-style material culture, a phenomenon which began already during the final decades of the 13th century BCE, as noted above. This is best illustrated by the shift from traditional Cypriot pottery assemblages dominated by hand- and mold-made wares to locally produced Aegean-style wheel-made ceramics. Initially, this cultural shift to the Aegean was interpreted as an indicator for large-scale migration of peoples (or “Achaean colonization”) from the Greek mainland who settled on Cyprus, bringing with them their Mycenaean-style culture. 25 However, additional excavations and reanalysis of the evidence at sites such as Enkomi, Hala Sultan Tekke, Kition, 20 For recent overviews of the end of the Late Bronze Age in the eastern Mediterranean, analyses and detailed bibliography, see Cline 2014, as well as Knapp, Manning 2016. Regarding the Levant, see Killebrew 2014. For a summary and typology of Late Bronze Age destruction layers in the southern Levant, see Kreimerman 2017. The withdrawal of Twentieth-Dynasty Egypt from southern Canaan is vividly evidenced by the destruction or abandonment of their administrative and military outposts and the disappearance of locally-produced Egyptian-style material culture, Killebrew 2005: 51–92. 21 See, e.g., Georgiou 2011; Iacovou 2014a: 664–670 for recent discussions of Late Cypriot IIIA Cyprus. 22 See Killebrew 2005; Gilboa 2014 for recent discussions of Iron Age I southern Levant. 23 Iacovou 2013: 617. 24 For detailed treatments and comprehensive bibliography see Iacovou 2013; 2014a; Georgiou 2015. 25 See, e.g., Karageorghis 1984; 2002: 71–113.

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Maa-Palaeokastro and Pyla-Kokkinokremos suggest a more gradual transmission and appropriation of a hybrid Aegean-style material culture by Cypriot populations, which also includes Levantine and Anatolian elements. This process begins already at the end of the Late Cypriot IIC and becomes the dominant style during the Late Cypriot IlIA period. This local appropriation of Aegean-style material culture is manifest in the restricted number of Aegean typological forms that were included in the Cypriot repertoire and an amalgamation of decorative motifs from a variety of regions including the Dodecane and Cycladic islands, Crete, the Greek mainland and the Levant. 26 Recent analyses tend to emphasize the diversity of Late Cypriot IIIA sites and the complexity of the Aegeanization processes on Cyprus, which likely included various social exchanges, long-term small-scale migrations over time and hybridization that resulted in more gradual local appropriation of Aegean-style material culture. 27 Limited commercial exchange and connectivity with the Levant are evident in the appearance of both imported and locally produced Canaanite storage jars. 28 Southern Levant: The paucity of imported objects, well-defined regionality in settlement patterns and demarcated material culture boundaries characterize 12th-century BCE Canaan. With the collapse of Late Bronze Age administered trade and retreat of Egyptian bureaucratic and military personnel from the southern Levant, the region experiences population relocations. Archaeologically this is expressed in various ways: the emergence of numerous small villages in rural hill country regions, often identified with the ethnogenesis of early Israel; the appearance of an Aegean-style material culture in the southern coastal plain at five sites – Ekron, Ashdod, Ashkelon, Gath and Gaza – associated with the Philistines; and the continuation of Late Bronze Age traditions at many sites in the northern coastal plains and valleys in regions later considered Phoenician. 29 Exchanges between Cyprus and the southern Levant endure, but are diminished in scope and intensity. As outlined above, interactions between Cyprus and the Levant began to decline noticeably already at the end of the preceding 13th century, continuing a trend that characterizes the end of the Late Bronze Age. Overall, the physical evidence for direct interaction between the two regions is limited, although it is likely that the exchange of commodities such as metals, raw materials and trinkets, which are less visible in the archaeological record, continued. For the 12th century, only a handful of imported Cypriot objects have been catalogued, which likely represent a more informal system of exchange or what S. Sherratt has termed “opportunistic and interstitial trade.” 30 These include Mycenaean-style stirrup jars, flasks and skyphoi, which have been identified as 12th century “Mycenaean IIIC.” They appear most notably in the Akko Plain at Tel Akko and Keisan and the Jezreel Valley at Tel Beth Shean. 31 Even fewer Cypriot imports have been identified from other regions. These include two Mycenaean IIIC sherds out of hundreds excavated at Philistine 26 B. Kling and S. Sherratt were among the two earliest scholars to propose a local development for the appearance of Aegean-style culture on Cyprus at the end of the Late Cypriot IIC and IIIA periods: Kling 1989; Sherratt 1991: 191–195. 27 For a comprehensive overview and arguments in favor of continuity and hybridization, see Voskos, Knapp 2008: 665–673. See also Jung 2011; Karageorghis 2011. 28 See, e.g., Courtois 1971: 249–251, Fig. 91 and 256, Fig. 96 for a room full of Canaanite storage jars; Mazar 1988; Georgiou 2014. 29 For detailed summaries and bibliography see Killebrew 2005; Gilboa 2014. 30 Sherratt 2013: 636. 31 D’Agata et al. 2005; Mountjoy 2011; Sherratt, Mazar 2013.

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Ashkelon, which, based on INAA analysis, originated from Cyprus. 32 The above evidence suggests that Iron I trade patterns in Palestine were largely local, with only sporadic connections with Cyprus and even more limited long-distance interaction in the Mediterranean region. 33 In Philistia, a very different type of interaction occurs between Cyprus and the southern coastal plain. During the 12th century BCE, the southernmost coastal region of the Levant experiences a transformation in settlement and population. Twentieth-Dynasty Egypt, which was still a dominant presence in the region during the early decades, gradually retreats from southern Canaan. Coinciding with the decline of Egyptian influence and withdrawal of personnel by the mid-12th century BCE, a distinctive Aegean-style culture appears in significant quantities at several extensively excavated sites. These include Ekron, Ashdod, Ashkelon and Gath, all centers that are associated with the Philistines in biblical and Egyptian texts. Constructed on the remnants of earlier Late Bronze Age Canaanite settlements, the Philistine presence is heralded by the sudden appearance of Aegean-style material culture that is reflected in the locally produced Mycenaean IIIC pottery and associated ceramic assemblages (“Philistine 1”), weaving industry, cuisine, cult and architectural features. 34 Based on the noteworthy quantities of this new material culture and its similarities to that of the Mycenaean world, most early scholarship advocated a Greek mainland or western Aegean origin for the Philistines. 35 However, expanded excavations and more recent analyses of the evidence point to close stylistic and technological ties with the Aegeanizing features of 12th-century BCE Cyprus, especially the ceramic assemblages, and to a lesser extent, with those on Crete, coastal Cilicia and Rhodes. 36 In addition to the pottery repertoire, many other aspects of Philistine material culture, including spool-shaped loom weights, hearths, incised scapulae and ceramic bathtubs from Ekron and other Philistine sites, also find their closest parallels on Cyprus, demonstrating the extent of connectivity between the southern coastal Levantine plain and Cyprus. 37 Though all Philistine sites share a similar Aegeanizing material culture, recent excavations illustrate subtle variations in decorative motifs on Mycenaean IIIC pottery and the intensity of “Aegeanization.” Thus, it is likely that each site possesses a unique settlement history, which should be examined individually, within its own context. For example, Philistine material culture at Ekron appears suddenly and overwhelms a very modest Late Bronze 12th-century village. The early Philistine city expands rapidly ten-fold in size, complete with a city wall, elite area and industrial zones. The material culture exhibits close ties with Cyprus and, to a lesser extent, Cilicia as well as other regions of the eastern Aegean and Crete. Considering these factors, cultural change at Ekron can be best described as a case 32 Regarding the paucity of imports at Iron I Ashkelon, see, e.g., Master 2009. For the recently identified Cypriot import see Master, Mountjoy, Mommsen 2015. 33 For evidence of sporadic long-distance Mediterranean exchange see, e.g., Gilboa, Sharon, Boaretto 2008; Kourou 2008; Nijboer 2008; Sherratt 2012. 34 For recent detailed discussions of the textual and archaeological evidence relating to the Philistines, see, e.g., Yasur-Landau 2010; Killebrew 2016, 2017; Niesiołowski-Spanò 2016. 35 For a comprehensive presentation of this view and bibliography, see Dothan 1982. 36 Killebrew 2013; Mountjoy 2013. 37 Regarding hearths, see Maeir, Hitchcock 2011. Regarding bathtubs, see Mazow 2006–2007. For a general overview of these Aegeanizing features see, e.g., Killebrew 2017.

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study of “relocation diffusion” a process brought about by significant migrations of peoples, including potters, to Canaan’s southern coastal plain. 38 Conversely, evidence from other sites, such as Ashkelon and Gath, 39 suggests more gradual and longer-term processes in the transmission of Aegean-style cultural traits and technologies, which have been defined variously in the literature as creolization, hybridity and transculturalism. 40 Cypriot (Late Cypriot IIIB and Cypro-Geometric IA) – Southern Levantine (Iron IB): Informal Exchange, Migration and Colonization during the Late 12th – Early 10th Centuries BCE Although written evidence remains scarce, 11th- and 10th-century Cyprus and the Levant experience the beginnings of cultural consolidation. Supra-regional interactions continue between Cyprus and the Levant, especially in the northern coastal plains and valleys. These contacts begin to intensify during the late 11th and 10th centuries BCE and include the exchange of commodities and most likely populations as well. Cyprus: Late Cypriot IIIB heralds the beginning of the early Iron Age on Cyprus. The transition from the Late Cypriot IIIA to IIIB is defined by a marked change in settlement patterns and a break with the previous tradition. The resulting material culture bears little resemblance to that of the Late Cypriot IIIA period. Many Late Cypriot IIIA settlements were abandoned or relocated. Enkomi, Palaepaphos and Kition continue to be inhabited. Several of the newly established Late Cypriot IIIB towns, including Salamis, Idalion, Marion and Lapithos, eventually develop into the major kingdoms of Iron Age Cyprus. Mortuary practices, which now include cremation and inhumation, undergo change including a shift to cemeteries outside of settlements. Aegean-style Mycenaean IIIC and its affiliated assemblages, also termed White Painted Wheel-made III, is replaced by Proto-White Painted wares during the Late Cypriot IIIB. This develops into White Painted I Ware of the Cypro-Geometric (CG) IA period. The early Iron Age was also characterized by a growing social and material-culture homogeneity, which culminates in an island-wide koiné during the Cypro-Geometric period. 41 Another prominent feature of Late Cypriot IIIB is its increasing “Hellenization” during the 11th century, which is reflected in both the material culture and the proto-Greek dialect of Cyprus. These developments have led some scholars to suggest that Greek-speaking people settled in Cyprus during the Late Cypriot IIIB. 42 Others prefer to interpret 11th-century Cypriot material culture as representing a hybridization of Cypriot, Greek and Phoenician influences, including arrival of coastal Levantine populations, that coincides with the beginning of Phoenician expansion. 43 38 Killebrew 2015. 39 Regarding Ashkelon, see: Master, Stager, Yasur-Landau 2011; Master, Mountjoy, Mommsen 2015. Regarding Gath, see: Maeir 2012. 40 See, e.g., Hitchcock 2011, who suggests that the Philistine phenomenon can best be defined as “transcultural,” or a bringing together of different cultures, a process that is characterized by cultural fluidity and gradual interaction between various groups. For a critique of creolization and hybridity, and additional discussion of transculturalism see Hitchcock, Maeir 2013. 41 For an overview of Late Cypriot IIIB see Voskos, Knapp 2008: 673–676 and bibliography there. See also Iacovou 2014b. 42 See, e.g., Iacovou 1999; 2006. 43 Voskos, Knapp 2008: 675–679.

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Materially, direct contact is also evident in the imported Levantine lentoid flasks, Canaanite-style storage jars and Phoenician Bichrome-style containers that display both Canaanite and Cypriot motifs. During the later 11th century BCE Cypro-Geometric I period, increasing quantities of Levantine Phoenician Bichrome pottery and related wares appear on the island. A recent study, utilizing thin section optical mineralogy (petrographic) analysis, has shown that these vessels originate not only from the northern Levantine Phoenician sites, mainly Tyre, but a significant percentage also from the Carmel coast and region of Dor. The results of this study illustrate the continuity of Cypriot – Levantine interconnections and may indicate nascent Phoenician commercial activities, presence and even colonization. 44 Southern Levant: Iron IB southern Levant remains a period of ethnic, political and cultural complexity. Culturally, the inhabitants have been identified as “Phoenicians” (the descendants of Late Bronze Age Levantine northern coastal peoples), various “Sea Peoples” (Philistines and possibly other groups such as the Sikils and Shardanu along the northern coast), and rural populations (“Israelites”) in the highland regions. The 11th century also marks new cultural horizons, which are defined by consolidation, re-establishment, development and/or expansion of many Iron I settlements. These include Keisan, Dor, Megiddo, Yoqneam and Rehov in northern Israel and Beth Shemesh, Gezer, Tell es-Safi, Qasile, Batash and Masos in the south, just to mention a few. Together with these developments, this period also witnesses the last gasp of Late Bronze Age traditions in the northern coastal plains and valleys, still faintly visible in some of the ceramic decorative traditions. 45 Cypriot influence is evident in large wavy-band pithoi that are found at several sites including Dor, Sasa and Megiddo in late 12th- and 11th-century contexts, suggesting continued, albeit limited, commercial contacts. These large jars are a type well known during the Late Cypriot IIC period and later. Provenience studies reveal that a few of these pithoi from southern Levantine sites were imported, with the vast majority produced locally. Based on these results and their close affinities with pithoi on Cyprus, A. Gilboa proposes that the Levantine storage containers were produced by Cypriot potters working in the Levant. 46 Additional evidence for informal 11th-century connectivity between the two regions is suggested by the appearance of a handful of prestige items such as bimetallic knives recovered from Ekron, Qasile, Dor, Megiddo and Beth Shean. These knives are prevalent in Cyprus, especially Enkomi, and were either imitated or exported to the Levant. 47 During the course of the Iron IB, the number of imported Cypriot vessels in the southern Levant progressively increases, especially during the second half of the 11th and 10th centuries BCE. They are found mainly along the Phoenician coast and related hinterlands, both in Lebanon and northern Israel. Of interest here are the imported CG White Painted I wares found in southern Phoenicia, most of which are open forms. The majority of these vessels have been found at Dor, leading A. Gilboa to suggest the presence of a Cypriot population at Dor. Small quantities of CG imported pottery have also been recovered at Achzib, Megiddo, Gerisa, Qasile and Tell el-Far‘ah (S). 48 44 45 46 47 48

Gilboa 2014: 633. Regarding the thin section optical mineralogical analyses, see Gilboa, Goren 2015. For overviews, see Mazar 1994; Gilboa 2014. Gilboa 2001. See, e.g., Dothan 2002: 14; Stern 2013: 60–61. Gilboa 2015: 483–485 and Pl. 4.2.1:5-20.

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In the southern coastal plain, Philistine 1 pottery evolves into the bichrome decorated (“Philistine 2”) pottery. Most scholars interpret this ceramic type as reflecting a local stylistic development, however it has been proposed by T. and M. Dothan that this should be understood as a second “wave” of migration. 49 Philistine 2 assemblages include the cylindrical and horned-shaped bottles, which are comparable to Cypriot shapes and lack Philistine 1 antecedents. Other aspects of the material culture, which reflect Cypriot influence, are the incised scapulae and bimetallic knives, previously mentioned, though the evidence for direct interaction between Philistia and Cyprus during the 11th century BCE is scant. Cypriot and Southern Levantine Connectivity during the Iron Age I (ca. 1200 – 980 BCE) This analysis of interactions between Cyprus and the southern Levant explores the impact of long-term connectivity between these two regions. During the Late Bronze Age, Cypriot – southern Levantine interconnections formed a key component of the eastern Mediterranean’s institutionalized trade network. However, already in the late 13th century, visible remains of more informal exchange systems are discernible in the archaeological record, reflecting a parallel and less structured set of economic and social interactions. The demise and the decline of the Hittite and Egyptian empires and the collapse of centralized administered trade encouraged “glocalization,” best evidenced in the local production at multiple workshops on Cyprus and in the Levant of previously prized imported commodities. The breakdown of this “global” system also triggered the movement of peoples, especially from Cyprus to the southern Levant during the following early Iron I period. Among these groups were the biblical Philistines. Reciprocal Phoenician influence on Cyprus is increasingly apparent during the later Iron I and IIA periods. Bibliography

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Killebrew 2013 – Killebrew A.E. 2013: Early Philistine Pottery Technology at Tel Miqne-Ekron: Implications for the Late Bronze–Early Iron Age Transition in the Eastern Mediterranean. In A.E. Killebrew, G. Lehmann (eds), The Philistines and Other “Sea Peoples” in Text and Archaeology, Archaeology and Biblical Studies 15, Atlanta: 77–129. Killebrew 2014 – Killebrew A.E. 2014: Introduction to the Levant during the Transitional Late Bronze Age/Iron Age I and Iron Age I Periods. In M.L. Steiner, A.E. Killebrew (eds), The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of the Levant c. 8000–332 BCE, Oxford: 595–606. Killebrew 2015 – Killebrew A.E. 2015: In the Footsteps of the Philistine Potters: Tracking the Dissemination of Technical Knowledge in the Production of Twelfth-Century B.C. Aegean-Style Pottery to the Coastal Southern Levant. In W. Gauß, G. Klebinder-Gauß, C. von Rüden (eds), The Transmission of Technical Knowledge in the Production of Ancient Mediterranean Pottery: Proceedings of the International Conference at the Austrian Archaeological Institute at Athens 23rd–25th November 2012, Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut, Sonderschriften 54, Vienna: 51–61. Killebrew 2016 – Killebrew A.E. 2016: The World of the Philistines and Other “Sea Peoples”. In J. Aruz, M. Seymour (eds.), Assyria to Iberia: Art and Culture in the Iron Age, The Metropolitan Museum of Art Symposia, New York: 30–39. Killebrew 2017 – Killebrew A.E. 2017: The Philistines during the Period of the Judges. In J. Ebeling, J.E. Wright, M. Elliot, P.V.M. Flesher, The Old Testament in Archaeology and History, Waco, Tx.: 317–334. Kling 1989 – Kling B. 1989: Local Cypriot Features in the Ceramics of the Late Cypriot IlIA. In E.J. Peltenburg (ed.), Early Society in Cyprus, Edinburgh: 160–170. Knapp 1993 – Knapp A.B. 1993: Thalassocracies in Bronze Age Eastern Mediterranean Trade: Making and Breaking a Myth, World Archaeology 24: 332–347. Knapp 2013 – Knapp A.B. 2013: The Archaeology of Cyprus: From Earliest Prehistory through the Bronze Age, Cambridge World Archaeology, Cambridge. Knapp, Demesticha 2017 – Knapp A.B., Demesticha S. 2017: Mediterranean Connections: Maritime Transport Containers and Seaborne Trade in the Bronze and Early Iron Ages, New York. Knapp, Manning 2016 – Knapp A.B., Manning S.W. 2016: Crisis in Context: The End of the Late Bronze Age in the Eastern Mediterranean, American Journal of Archaeology 120: 99–149. Kourou 2008 – Kourou N. 2008: The Evidence from the Aegean. In C. Sagona (ed.), Beyond the Homeland: Markers in Phoenician Chronology, Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement Series 28, Leuven: 305–364. Kreimerman 2017 – Kreimerman I. 2017: A Typology for Destruction Layers: The Late Bronze Age Southern Levant as a Case Study. In T. Cunningham, J. Driessen (eds), Crisis to Collapse: The Archaeology of Social Breakdown, Aegis 11, Louvain: 173–204. Lehmann 2013 – Lehmann G. 2013: Aegean-Style Pottery in Syria and Lebanon during Iron Age I. In A.E. Killebrew, G. Lehmann (eds), The Philistines and Other “Sea Peoples” in Text and Archaeology, Archaeology and Biblical Studies 15, Atlanta: 265–328. Liverani 1987 – Liverani M. 1987: The Collapse of the Near Eastern Regional System at the End of the Bronze Age: The Case of Syria. In M. Rowlands, M. Larsen, K. Kristiansen (eds), Centre and Periphery in the Ancient World, Cambridge: 66–73. Liverani 2005 – Liverani M. 2005: The Near East: The Bronze Age. In J.G. Manning, I. Morris (eds), The Ancient Economy: Evidence and Models, Stanford: 47–57. Maeir 2012 – Maeir A.M. 2012: Insights on the Philistine Culture and Related Issues: An Overview of 15 Years of Work at Tell es-Safi/Gath. In G. Galil, A. Gilboa, A.M. Maeir, D. Kahn (eds), The Ancient Near East in the 12th–10th Centuries BCE, Culture and History: Proceedings of the International Conference Held at the University of Haifa, 2–5 May 2010, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 392, Münster: 345–403. Maeir, Hitchcock 2011 – Maeir, A.M., Hitchcock L.A. 2011: Absence Makes the Hearth Grow Fonder: Searching for the Origins of the Philistine Hearth, Eretz Israel 30: 46*–64*.

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Manning, Hulin 2005 – Manning S.W., Hulin L. 2005: Maritime Commerce and Geographies of Mobility in the Late Bronze Age of the Eastern Mediterranean: Problematisations. In E. Blake, A.B. Knapp (eds), The Archaeology of Mediterranean Prehistory, Malden: 270–302. Master 2009 – Master D.M. 2009: The Renewal of Trade at Iron Age I Ashkelon, Eretz-Israel 29: 111*–122*. Master, Mountjoy, Mommsen 2015 – Master D.M., Mountjoy P.A., Mommsen H. 2015: Imported Cypriot Pottery in Twelfth-Century B.C. Ashkelon, Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 373: 235–243. Master, Stager, Yasur-Landau 2011 – Master D.M., Stager L.E., Yasur-Landau A. 2011: Chronological Observations at the Dawn of the Iron Age in Ashkelon, Ägypten und Levante 21: 261–280. Mazar 1988 – Mazar A. 1988: A Note on Canaanite Storage Jars from Enkomi, Israel Exploration Journal 38: 224–226. Mazar 1994 – Mazar A. 1994: The 11th Century B.C. in the Land of Israel. In V. Karageorghis (ed.), Proceedings of the International Symposium: Cyprus in the 11th Century B.C., Nicosia: 39–58. Mazar 2008 – Mazar A. 2008: From 1200 to 850 B.C.E.: Remarks on Some Selected Archaeological Issues. In L.L. Grabbe (ed.), Israel in Transition: From Late Bronze II to Iron IIa (c. 1250–850 BCE), New York: 86–120. Mazow 2006-2007 – Mazow L.B. 2006-2007: The Industrious Sea Peoples: The Evidence of Aegean-Style Textile Production in Cyprus and the Southern Levant, Scripta Mediterranea 27–28: 291– 321. McGeough 2007 – McGeough K.M. 2007: Exchange Relationships at Ugarit, Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement Series 26, Leuven. Monroe 2009 – Monroe C.M. 2009: Scales of Fate: Trade, Tradition, and Transformation in the Eastern Mediterranean ca. 1350–1175 BCE, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 357, Münster. Mountjoy 2011 – Mountjoy P.A. 2011: An Update on the Provenance by Neutron Activation Analysis of Near Eastern Mycenaean IIIC Pottery Groups with Particular Reference to Cyprus. In W. Gauß, M. Lindblom, R.A.K. Smith, J.C. Wright (eds), Our Cups Are Full: Pottery and Society in the Aegean Bronze Age. Papers Presented to Jeremy B. Rutter on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday, Oxford: 179–186. Mountjoy 2013 – Mountjoy P.A. 2013: The Mycenaean IIIC Pottery at Tel Miqne-Ekron. In A.E. Killebrew, G. Lehmann (eds), The Philistines and Other “Sea Peoples” in Text and Archaeology, Archaeology and Biblical Studies 15, Atlanta: 53–75. Niesiołowski-Spanò 2016 – Niesiołowski-Spanò Ł. 2016: Goliath’s Legacy: Philistines and Hebrews in Biblical Times, Philippika. Contributions to the Study of Ancient World Cultures 83, Wiesbaden. Nijboer 2008 – Nijboer A.J. 2008: Italy and the Levant during the Late Bronze and Iron Age (1200750/700 BC). In C. Sagona (ed.), Beyond the Homeland: Markers in Phoenician Chronology, Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement Series 28, Leuven: 423–460. Panitz-Cohen 2013 – Panitz-Cohen N. 2013: The Southern Levant (Cisjordan) during the Late Bronze Age. In M. Steiner, A.E. Killebrew (eds), The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of the Levant c. 8000 – 332 BCE, Oxford: 541–560. Papadimitriou 2012 – Papadimitriou N. 2012: Regional or ‘International’ Networks? A Comparative Examination of Aegean and Cypriot Imported Pottery in the Eastern Mediterranean, Talanta 44: 92–136. Pedrazzi 2016 – Pedrazzi T. 2016: Canaanite Jars and the Maritime Trade Network in the Northern Levant during the Transition from the Late Bronze to the Early Iron Age. In S. Demesticha, A.B. Knapp (eds), Maritime Transport Containers in the Bronze–Iron Age Aegean and Eastern Mediterranean, Uppsala: 57–77. Peltenburg 2012 – Peltenburg E. 2012: Text Meets Material in Late Bronze Age Cyprus. in A. Georgiou (ed.), Cyprus: An Island Culture, Society and Social Relations from the Bronze Age to the Venetian Period, Oxford: 1–23.

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Pulak 2008 – Pulak C. 2008: The Uluburun Shipwreck and Late Bronze Age Trade. In J. Aruz, K. Benzel, J.M. Evans (eds), Beyond Babylon: Art, Trade, and Diplomacy in the Second Millennium B.C., New York: 288-305. Pulak 2012 – Pulak C. 2012: Uluburun Shipwreck. In E.H. Cline (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of the Bronze Age Aegean, Oxford: 862–876. Pullen 2013 – Pullen D.J. 2013: Crafts, Specialists, and Markets in Mycenaean Greece: Exchanging the Mycenaean Economy, American Journal of Archaeology 117: 437–445. Sherratt 1991 – Sherratt E.S. 1991: Cypriot Pottery of Aegean Type in LCII-III: Problems of Classification, Chronology and Interpretation. In J.A. Barlow, D.L. Bolger, B. Kling (eds), Cypriot Ceramics: Reading the Prehistoric Record, University Museum Monographs 74, Philadelphia: 185–198. Sherratt 2012 – Sherratt S. 2012: The Intercultural Transformative Capacities of Irregularly Appropriated Goods. In J. Maran, P.W. Stockhammer (eds), Materiality and Social Practice: Transformative Capacities of Intercultural Encounters, Oxford: 152–172. Sherratt 2013 – Sherratt S. 2013: The Ceramic Phenomenon of the “Sea Peoples”: An Overview. In A.E. Killebrew, G. Lehmann (eds), The Philistines and Other “Sea Peoples” in Text and Archaeology, Archaeology and Biblical Studies 15, Atlanta: 619–644. Sherratt 2016a – Sherratt S. 2016: A Globalizing Bronze and Iron Age Mediterranean. In T. Hodos (ed.), The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization. Oxford: 602–617. Sherratt 2016b – Sherratt S. 2016: From “Institutional” to “Private”: Traders, Routes and Commerce from the Late Bronze Age to the Iron Age. In J.C. Moreno García (ed.), Dynamics of Production in the Ancient Near East, Oxford: 289–301. Sherratt, Mazar 2013 – Sherratt S., Mazar A. 2013: “Mycenaean IIIC” and Related Pottery from Beth Shean. In A.E. Killebrew, G. Lehmann (eds), The Philistines and Other “Sea Peoples” in Text and Archaeology, Archaeology and Biblical Studies 15, Atlanta: 349–392. Sherratt, Sherratt 1991 – Sherratt A., Sherratt S. 1991: From Luxuries to Commodities: The Nature of Mediterranean Bronze Age Trading Systems. In N.H. Gale (ed.), Bronze Age Trade in the Mediterranean: Papers Presented at the Conference Held at Rewley House, Oxford, in December 1989, Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology 90, Jonsered: 351–386. Steel 2013 – Steel L. 2013: Cyprus during the Late Bronze Age. In M. Steiner, A.E. Killebrew (eds), The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of the Levant c. 8000 – 332 BCE, Oxford: 577–591. Stern 2013 – Stern E. 2013: The Material Culture of the Northern Sea Peoples in Israel, Winona Lake, Ind. Voskos, Knapp 2008 – Voskos I., Knapp A.B. 2008: Cyprus at the End of the Late Bronze Age: Crisis and Colonization or Continuity and Hybridization, American Journal of Archaeology 112: 659–684. Yasur-Landau 2010 – Yasur-Landau A. 2010: The Philistines and Aegean Migration at the End of the Late Bronze Age, Cambridge. Zuckerman, et al. 2010 – Zuckerman, S., Ben-Shlomo D., Mountjoy P.A., Mommsen H. 2010: A Provenance Study of Mycenaean Pottery from Northern Israel, Journal of Archaeological Science 37: 409–416.

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‘I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more’: The Sea Peoples and Aegean migration at the end of the Late Bronze Age

Guy D. Middleton 1 Introduction This paper is intended as a critique of the ‘migrationist’ characterisation of the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age eastern Mediterranean – specifically the idea of a Mycenaean or Aegean migration to the southern Levant which saw the introduction of novel locally-produced Aegean cultural features (figure 1). Some may say that such a critique is not necessary, since eastern Mediterranean specialists, whether they be Aegeanists or Levantologists, have already dispensed with simplistic notions of culture change in favour of more nuanced views utilising concepts of agency, connectivity, and hybridity, but while this may be true for some individuals, it is clear, as I shall show, that the migrationist view is still alive and well. In order to make a ‘non-migrationist’ case for culture change in the eastern Mediterranean, and to argue against the idea of a Mycenaean migration to the southern Levant, it is necessary to present these migrationist views. This should not be seen as setting up a straw man to knock down – and to demonstrate this, the migrationist views published in the past decade will be the focus. To begin, this paper discusses the explanatory heritage of diffusion and migration; it then introduces the Aegean migration as it appears in recent work. After that, it turns to an examination of the Egyptian evidence for the origins and migration of the Sea Peoples and discusses ideas about the Greek identity of some of the Sea Peoples described in it. Next considered is the notion that deep change and Aegean migration can be detected in the archaeology of domestic practices in the Levant ideas of cultural conservatism. Finally, the paper outlines some of the ‘alternative’ views proposed in recent years and suggests that our understanding of the eastern Mediterranean in the LBA/EIA transition, and of the Sea Peoples phenomenon, is at last shifting into a new paradigm in which connectivity, entanglement, hybridisation, and mobility and local agency play a greater role than mass migration in explaining and situating culture change. This set of interlinked concepts allow a more sophisticated and perhaps more historically accurate understanding of the issues at hand.

1 I would like to thank Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò of the University of Warsaw for inviting me to contribute a paper on this theme. Also, I offer my thanks to Louise Hitchcock, Ann Killebrew, and Bernard Knapp, who have kindly corresponded with me on some of the issues discussed here, and have provided me with papers and references – needless to say they may not agree with all of the ideas presented.

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Figure 1. The Eastern Mediterranean in the LBA with selected areas and sites mentioned in the text.

Diffusion and migration as explanations of culture change In the development of archaeology as a discipline, it was necessary to try to identify reasons for why things changed in prehistory. ‘Things’ in this context refers primarily to a material culture that was assumed to represent a distinct people or ethnic group. In the later nineteenth century, in the context, Trigger argues, of disillusionment with progress and the belief that humans were inherently conservative rather than inventive, the concepts of diffusion and migration became the major explanatory models for explaining culture change. 2 Change was widely thought to happen because of the diffusion of ideas and technologies from more developed to less developed areas; diffusionists doubted independent development – ‘no invention has been made twice, and… what applies to material culture applies equally in the realm of ideas’. 3 Particularly widespread was the idea that many aspects of culture had originated in Egypt and had diffused to other places. Grafton Elliot Smith (1871-1937) suggested that ‘all early cultural development had occurred in Egypt’ and had spread through Egyptian merchants looking for raw materials. 4 This included agriculture, kingship, monumental architecture, and pottery.

2 Trigger 1989: 150-151. 3 Raglan 1957. 4 Trigger 1989: 152-153.

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Although such ‘hyper-diffusionism’ has rightly been rejected, diffusion remains a viable perspective on transfer in some cases, for example of writing systems such as the alphabet 5, religious ideas 6 , and pottery traditions. 7 In these transfers, we must hypothesize mobility and contact, as well as agency, choice, and deliberation – not, of course, a simple osmosis from high culture to low. With the Greek alphabet, for example, Woodard argues that ‘the process of adapting the Phoenician script for Greek usage must have taken place in a setting of Greek-Phoenician interaction and is almost certainly the handiwork of Greek-Phoenician bilingual speakers; such bilingualism would have undoubtedly been common in the eastern Mediterranean of the early first millennium BCE’; he suggests it may have happened on Cyprus. 8 He further suggests that the alphabet spread amongst Greeks because it was a useful and easily learned means of communication ‘amongst Greek-speaking mercenaries’. 9 The Minoan adoption of Egyptian gods, such as Tawaret, also suggests close contacts and the exchange of knowledge – they ‘had been close enough to an Egyptian source to have understood Tawaret’s functions and then began to reinterpret the demon within a Minoan context’. 10 Potters too seem to have been a mobile group who could teach their own traditions and techniques. Borgna and Levi have argued for the presence of Mycenaean potters in Italy, who taught their techniques to locals; these then continued to produce pottery in an ‘Aegean’ way. 11 In this view of diffusionism, there is no need to see influence as automatic or relationships as polarized between more/less complex, dominant/subservient but it is necessary to consider the reasons for transfer, thus choices and agency, and the mechanisms involved, and to set these in a context of mobility and connectivity. Migration was the other means by which change was traditionally thought to have been brought about. In 1911, Kossinna (1858-1931) proposed, in his The Origins of the Germans, three ideas – that archaeological cultures could be interpreted as ethnic groups, that ethnic continuity could be traced in material culture, and that the spread of culture could be explained by migrations. 12 In an Egyptian context, Petrie later ‘explained all cultural changes in terms of mass migrations or the arrival of smaller groups who brought about cultural change by mingling culturally and biologically with the existing population’ – a ‘hypermigrationist’ paradigm. 13 Migration and diffusion as explanations of culture change are also particularly associated with V. Gordon Childe. 14 Although a ‘retreat from migrationism’ was identified in 1978 by Adams and colleagues, they noted that migration ‘has… been invoked as an ad hoc explanation for cultural, linguistic, and racial change in such an extraordinary number of individual cases that to speak of a migrationist school of explanation seems wholly appropriate’. 15 In the archaeology of the eastern Mediterranean there is still a migrationist school, which derives its explanations for change from these views of migration as massive waves of culturally distinct ethnic groups. 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

For example: Woodard 2010. For example: Weingarten 2013. For example: Clarke 2005; Gauss, Klebinder-Gauss, von Ruden 2015. Woodard 2010: 35. Woodard 2010: 43. Weingarten 2013: 371. Borgna, Levi 2015. Klejn 2008. Trigger 1989: 154. Trigger 1989: 170-172. Adams, van Gerven, Levy 1978.

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Hesse and Wapnish note that ‘Near Eastern archaeologists use what can be labelled the ‘primordial’ concept of ethnicity, wherein groups are defined by their material/behavioural content, that is the symbols and material culture items that serve to reify social entities whose existence is assumed a priori’; thus mass migration seems to some as a sufficient and likely explanation of change. 16 As with diffusion, it is quite clear from the archaeological and historical records that people migrate and move around. Renfrew and Bahn discuss the settlement of the Polynesian islands from a ‘Lapita culture’ homeland, which Kirch locates in the Tonga-Samoa area. 17 Given that these were first settlers, the conclusion that people migrated from somewhere is clear, and the new material culture gives an indication of their origin and path of migration. However, it is not the case that material culture always clearly equates with a distinctive population or ethnic group in this way, and so to trace changes in the archaeological record, and the people associated with them, back to a point of origin in an original homeland can be a mistake. Equally problematic is the idea that the appearance of novel culture can be used to track migrations. Migrants or people on the move may well be less visible archaeologically simply as a function of them being migrants, who would have used whatever material culture was available wherever they happened to be. In the context of the LBA/EIA eastern Mediterranean, where there was no terra nullius, and where there had long been imports of Mycenaean materials, caution is required when suggesting that locally made Mycenaean pottery indicates the settlement of Mycenaean migrants amongst locals. Migration especially now occupies an ambivalent position in archaeology. 18 We know that people (are and) were mobile, and that this is a normal condition of life, especially in the connected eastern Mediterranean 19, but identifying, characterising, and explaining movement from material culture is not straightforward. Since migration has been and sometimes still is, at least in the eastern Mediterranean LBA/EIA, ‘defined by a default, if often implicit, conceptualization… as ‘invasion’ and ‘large-scale population movement’ it is perhaps helpful to draw a distinction between migration and mobility. Mobility is a precondition of diffusion and the idea of mobility helpfully dovetails with the ideas of connectivity and cultural mixing, with hybridity, and ‘a pattern of interacting flows of things and entangled identities’. 20 Mobility can result in occasions of contact and may involve temporary or permanent resettlement and here refers to individual, families, and small groups. The Aegean migration in recent work The ‘Aegean migrationist’ position has been routinely put forth in recent years in both popular and academic works. The Penguin Historical Atlas of Ancient Greece, for example, maps Sea Peoples and Mycenaean refugees heading east to Cyprus, southeastern Anatolia, and the southern Levant. 21 Fagan’s popular work on climate and civilisation also pictures ‘marauding fleets and armies of hungry, displaced people, including the mysterious Sea People, many of them from the Aegean’. 22 On the academic side, a brief glance at the litera16 17 18 19 20 21 22

Hesse, Wapnish 1997. Kirch 2011; Renfrew, Bahn 2012: 464-465. Van Dommelen 2014. Horden, Purcell 2000. Rowlands 2010. Morkot 1996. Fagan 2004: 186.

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ture from 2000 on shows the Aegean migrationist position to be still prominent. In looking at the archaeological expression of the Philistine phenomenon, Ben-Shlomo, for example, claims the archaeological evidence is best interpreted as indicative of migration and Barako that the evidence indicates ‘the influx of a diverse population group, culturally defined not by occupation but by a common geographic and, most likely, ethnic background’. 23 Bunimovitz and Lederman have more recently argued that ‘the only viable explanation for such a distinct culture change is migration’. 24 The late Itamar Singer also reiterated his view that the Sea Peoples came from mainland Greece. 25 For Cyprus, Karageorghis has suggested that Mycenaeans (a large proportion, amongst others) were to blame for the destruction of Enkomi (Level IIB), fleeing from danger and destruction in Greece itself. 26 Enkomi (Level IIIB), he suggests, was then settled by ‘a considerable number of immigrants from the Aegean’. He intimates that Kition was rebuilt, probably with ‘a new ethnic element, which cohabited peacefully with the local population’. 27 Kaniewski and colleagues have recently (re)presented the view that the Sea Peoples phenomenon resulted from ‘inland invasions’ into Greece, which picked up more migrants, who then all headed east, causing a wave of destructions: ‘The Sea Peoples symbolize the vast movements of population that lie at the heart of changes for this key period in human society’. 28 This is despite the prevailing view of Aegeanists that there is no archaeological evidence for any northern invasion of LBA Greece around 1200 BC; that there was is an old idea that was based on interpretations of much later myths such as the Return of the Heraclidae and the story of a Dorian invasion. 29 The most consistent proponent of the Aegean migration school in recent years is YasurLandau, who has published a number of works detailing the identity, numbers, origins, roots, and manner of arrival and settlement of Aegean people/Philistines in the southern Levant. In his major 2010 study he argues for a ‘massive’ (perhaps 12,500) multigenerational migration of commoners from the Aegean to the southern Levant; these people arrived in the southern Levant after an overland trek, ‘leapfrogging from site to site’ through the now post-Hittite Anatolia. 30 The argument also appears in an authoritative handbook on the archaeology of the Bronze Age Aegean of the same year. 31 In two more recent contributions in 2012, Yasur-Landau has again emphasised ‘the reality of the Aegean settlement in Philistia’ and has argued for a peaceful joint settlement of the southern Levant by Aegeans and Canaanites, in order to explain ‘the co-existence of both Aegean and local cultural traditions’. 32 He has marshalled an impressive array of evidence to support this idea, which ranges from consideration of the Egyptian texts to Mycenaean-style ceramics, and other features and traditions. These, he argues, add up to ‘deep change’ in the southern Levant, which is best, in his view, explained by migration from the Aegean. The list includes especially

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

Barako 2000; Ben-Shlomo 2010: 25. Bunimovitz, Lederman 2014. Singer 2012. Karageorghis 2013. Karageorghis 2013: 129. Kaniewski, Guiot, Van Campo 2015. Middleton 2010: 41-44; Voutsaki 2000. Yasur-Landau 2010a: 116-118, 190, 294-295, 326, 334, 342. Yasur-Landau 2010b. Yasur-Landau 2012a; 2012b.

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domestic change: ‘foodways, subsistence patterns, architecture, gender, pottery technology, and textile production’. 33 We shall return to this further below. Generally speaking, if differing in details, the manner and presentation of these arguments are greatly influenced by the earlier works of Dothan and Stager. 34 Dothan suggested that the Philistines ‘arrived from the Aegean as hostile invaders’ while Stager posited an arrival in ‘boatload after boatload’ of some 25,000 Philistines from the Aegean. 35 YasurLandau would suggest a more peaceful settlement, for the most part (excepting Tel MiqneEkron), which happened not in a single event, and also with fewer arriving people (though still up to 10-12,000). 36 I have addressed many of the points raised before 37, but it is worth re-emphasising that, if we hold the view that archaeological traits are indicative of ethnicity, migration becomes a seemingly valid form of explanation for change. We can then justifiably use their appearance to track migrations of individuals and groups. Our prior beliefs on what constitutes a valid paradigm for interpretation influence our conclusions about what the archaeology indicates and the construction of narratives based upon it – narratives which are hypothetical rather than factual. The archaeological evidence, in this case, as in others, remains open to be read in a variety of ways and can be placed in and contextualised by different kinds of narrative; to suggest otherwise is antiscientific and verges on dogmatism. 38 The archaeological evidence of novel features in the eastern Mediterranean can equally, and perhaps be better understood as a consequence of the very different post-collapse world, in which people remembered and transformed their heritage, were still mobile and still in contact across the sea, and were still actively engaged in shaping the world around them. It is clear to most that the Philistine archaeological package is never wholly Mycenaean in character; Sandars has suggested ‘it is no good looking for a clue to the ‘origin of the Philistines’ in the pottery. What we find is evidence for an intermingling of peoples . . .’. 39 Vanschoonwinkel too concluded that local people actively made use of ‘Mycenaean cultural traits and artifacts’; these were not carbon copies, but were ‘frequently altered or transformed in passage’. 40 Explaining the material by ethnic and cultural mixing en route, through Cyprus and Cilicia and Canaan, may seem to make sense, but it takes a primordialist view of material culture and ethnicity. The point is that people can choose the material culture that they produce and use and can choose how they acquire or produce it. 41 These choices may have little or nothing to do with their biological, ethnic, or geographic origins. The ‘traditional’ migration narrative is based both on well-known Egyptian sources and archaeological evidence and it is to the Egyptian evidence we shall turn next.

33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Yasur-Landau 2010a: 19-30. For example: Dothan 1997; Dothan, Dothan 1992; Dothan, Zuckerman 2004; Stager 1995. Dothan 1997: 96; Stager 1995: 334. Yasur-Landau 2010a: 334. Middleton 2015. Habu, Fawcett, Matsunaga 2007. Sandars 1978. Vanschoonwinkel 1999: 98. Mac Sweeney 2009; 2011.

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The Egyptian evidence: Origins and migration The migration story of the Sea Peoples has been developed from several sources, which have been usefully compiled by Adams and Cohen (table 1). 42 In addition, there are cuneiform documents from Ugarit, tabulated by Knapp and Manning, mentioning enemy ships, conflict, and raiding, although, as they point out, the chronology of these is much less certain than often presented. 43 Different groups of what we now term ‘the Sea Peoples’ appear at different times in the Egyptian sources, but the migration narrative is primarily interpreted from the Medinet Habu programme on the mortuary temple of Ramesses III. This includes both texts and images describing ‘the Sea Peoples’ invasion’ and their defeat at the hands of Pharaoh. The images show a sea battle and a land battle, and women and children in oxcarts, with Ramesses shown in both as a giant figure with a chariot attacking the enemy with bow and arrow. 44 The key text from Medinet Habu is from the Year 8 inscription: The foreign countries conspired in their islands. All at once the lands were removed and scattered in the fray. No land could resist their arms, from Hatti, Kode, Carchemish, Arzawa, and Alashiya on – being cut off one at a time. A camp was set up in Amurru. They desolated its people, and its land was like that which had never existed. They were coming forward toward Egypt, while the flame was prepared for them. Their confederation was the Peleset, Tjeker, Shekelesh, Denyen, and Weshesh, lands united. They laid their hands upon the lands as far as the circuit of the earth, their hearts were confident and trusting: ‘Our plans will succeed’. 45

Certainly, on the face of it, and in the context of the ship and oxcart friezes, this text may seem to refer to a violent mass movement of peoples. However, it does not claim that there were vast numbers of Sea Peoples and no attempt at migration is mentioned; it does not suggest that these people wanted to settle in Egypt. Thinking of numbers, the record in the Great Karnak Inscription of the Libyan invasion in the reign of Merneptah, in his Year 5, counts the slain Sea Peoples as Shekelesh: 222 men, Teresh: 742 men, Sherden: …, Ekwesh: 6,111; no Lukka dead are mentioned, although they are recorded in an earlier section as allies of the Libyans. 46 The Athribis Stela counts as follows: Ekwesh: 2,201 men, Shekelesh: 200 men, Teresh: 722 men; Sherden (possibly including others): 32 men; it does not mention Lukka men as participants. 47 But how reliable are these sources as historical evidence?

42 43 44 45 46 47

Adams, Cohen 2013. Knapp, Manning 2016. Images can be seen in Drews 2000. Van de Mieroop 2011: 251. Breasted 1906: 249 (v. 3). Breasted 1906: 255-256 (v. 3).

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Pharaoh

Sea Peoples mentioned

Egyptian sources and Sea Peoples Amenophis III/IV Denyen?, Lukka, Sherden Amarna Letters 151: (1390-1336 BC) Denyen?; 38: Lukka; 81, 122, & 123: Sherden Ramesses II Karkisa, Lukka, Sherden Kadesh Inscriptions: (1279-1213 BC) Karkisha, Lukka, Sherden Merneptah Ekwesh, Lukka, Shekelesh, The Athribis Stela (Year 5): (1213-1203 BC) Sherden, Teresh Ekwesh, Shekelesh, Sherden, Teresh The Cairo Column (Year 5): Shekelesh The Great Karnak Inscription (Year 5): Ekwesh, Lukka, Shekelesh, Sherden, Teresh, The Israel Stela (Year 5): Does not mention the Libyan’s allies Ramesses III Denyen, Peleset, Shekelesh, Medinet Habu (Year 5): (1184-1153 BC) Sherden, Teresh, Tjekker, Peleset, Sherden (Egyptian alWeshesh lies), Tjekker Medinet Habu (Year 8): Denyen, Peleset, Shekelesh, Teresh, Tjekker, Weshesh The Papyrus Harris (possibly Year 8): Denyen, Peleset, Sherden, Tjekker, Weshesh

Table 1. ‘Sea Peoples’ mentioned in various Egyptian sources in chronological order. Based on: Adams, Cohen 2013; Breasted 1906. Dates from Shaw 2000: 485.

There are clear discrepancies that should be noted; the Great Karnak Inscription mentions Lukka men as Libyan allies but no Lukka are mentioned in the Athribis Stela. The Ekwesh, described as ‘circumcised’ in the Great Karnak Inscription, and as ‘of the sea’ in the Athribis Stela, seem to have been a sizable group of Libyan allies, but there is a considerable difference in numbers (almost 4,000) between the two sources. In both the Year 5 and Year 8 Sea Peoples attacks in the reign of Ramesses III, the Ekwesh are not mentioned as participants – neither are the Lukka and Teresh. As for the families in oxcarts and the land battle in Djahi, Drews has argued that these do not represent migrant Sea Peoples but locals fleeing a punitive raid by Egyptian forces. 48 There is no compelling reason to see the Year 8 conflicts as described as involving masses of migrating Sea Peoples.

48 Drews 2000: 166.

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Assessing the source, a number of critics have pointed out problems with using the Medinet Habu scheme as a historical document. 49 Both Drews and Roberts have pointed out that the text is pharaoh-focussed not fact-focused; the representations are Egyptian creations that served to glorify the pharaoh and to show him (to the gods) performing the duties expected of him – to defend Egypt. 50 As Wilkinson states ‘the Egyptians were adept at recording things as they wished them to be seen, not as they actually were’. 51 There are also well-known errors and omissions in the Medinet Habu text referring to the Ramesses Year 8 attack. Hittitologists now doubt any role for Sea Peoples in the Hittite collapse, which is blamed on internal causes and perhaps military overstretch and defeat. 52 Work at Carchemish has not revealed any destruction layer at this time and it gained in relative importance as the capital of a Neo-Hittite kingdom ruled by Great Kings descended from the kings of Hatti. 53 The Arzawa kingdom had not existed for some time, after being broken up by the Hittites. 54 There were destructions on Cyprus/Alashiya but also rapid recovery, continuity, and flourishing. 55 It is also notable that the texts do not assign the destruction of Ugarit to the Sea Peoples (though some modern archaeologists do), especially since they were supposed to have made their camp in Amurru. Significant here is also the continuity in the middle Levant, with continuity at Tyre and elsewhere. 56 We must bear in mind the quite distinct possibility that the Egyptians neither knew what was really happening in the north, or that, if they did, they were not interested in recording it accurately and objectively for posterity. Some have suggested that what we are seeing at Medinet Habu is ‘a narrative condensation of several minor skirmishes that took place over many generations into a couple of imaginary battles for propagandist purposes’. 57 Roberts does not believe that ‘critical analysis of the Egyptian evidence at Medinet Habu can establish the historicity of an invasion of the sort that is widely assumed’. 58 The Sea Peoples story as developed from the Egyptian sources is of dubious veracity; as Drews has argued the modern migration story is ‘based not on the inscriptions themselves, but on their interpretation’. 59 Greek Sea Peoples? Since the mid-nineteenth century, some of the groups of Sea Peoples have been seen as prehistoric Greeks. When the Great Karnak Inscription describing the Libyan invasion in Year 5 of Merneptah’s war with the Libyans was deciphered, the groups Ekwesh, Lukka, Shekelesh, Sherden, and Teresh were quickly identified with Achaea, Lycia, Sicily, Sardinia, and Tyrsenia. 60 Slightly later, names from Medinet Habu, Denyen, Peleset, Shekelesh, Sherden, Tjekker, and Weshesh were read and fitted into this scheme. The Denyen must have 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

Knapp, Manning 2016: 118. Drews 2000: 167-168; Roberts 2009. Wilkinson 2010: 56. Genz 2013; Middleton 2010: 59-60. Bryce 2012: 83-84; Sagona, Zimansky 2009: 299-301. Bryce 2011. Voskos, Knapp 2008. Sader 2014. Knapp, Manning 2016: 118. Roberts 2014. Drews 1993: 51-53. Drews 1993: 49-55.

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been Danaans and the Peleset were associated with the pre-Greek Pelasgoi and the Biblical Philistines. As Yasur-Landau points out ‘the etymological approach to the Sea Peoples has not changed much over the past century’ and still the basic similarity of names leads to guesses as to ultimate points of origin and ultimate destinations for these Sea Peoples. 61 These identifications are still influential; the Pelasgoi – Peleset – Philistine equation, Yasur-Landau has recently stated, is ‘almost universally accepted’. 62 The Biblical references in Amos 9:7 and Jeremiah 47:4 to the Philistines as coming from Caphtor, Crete, is seen as further proof of their Aegean origin. 63 But if we accept that Pelasgians were Peleset, we would be forced to conclude that they were not ‘Greek’, or at least not Greek speakers, at all. In the Odyssey 19.177 they are distinguished on Crete from Achaeans, Etocretans, Kydonians, and Dorians. This in itself points up a series of problems that apply to the migration theory itself. If there were ‘Pelasgians’ in the Late Bronze Age Aegean, they may well have used Mycenaean material culture, in which case, going by the archaeological usage of ‘culture’, they could be regarded as ‘Mycenaean’ – yet for us, Mycenaeans are early Greeks. But properly speaking ‘Mycenaean’ itself is not an ethnic term, even if it is often taken as one, but a name for a material culture and its users. Thus Pelasgian Peleset would have to be reckoned as non-Greek Mycenaeans. This simple point highlights a serious issue of equating a material culture with an ethnic or linguistic group. Another recent tentative proposal for the origin of the name Peleset is that it comes from the Mycenaean Greek word po-rowi-to(s)-jo, meaning ‘the month for sailing again’. 64 If that were the case, the name could be regarded as functional/descriptive rather than ethnic. It is the Peleset, the Philistines, who are regarded, based on the material evidence from the southern Levant, as Mycenaean migrants in the traditional narrative. The two other peoples regarded as possibly Greek are the Denyen (Danaans) and the Ekwesh (Achaeans). The Denyen are possibly to be connected, through an inscription of Amenophis III, with the land of Tanaja/Danaja, which has been interpreted as referring to Mycenaean Greece (it appears connected with Kafta, plausibly Crete, and contains a list of place-names that may correspond to major cities and regions on the mainland). 65 In Amarna Letter 151 a ‘king of Danuna’ is reported to have died – the suggestion of Adams and Cohen and others is that this refers to a place in Canaan and may be different to the later ‘Sea Peoples’ Denyen. 66 We have already seen that the Egyptian sources do not associate the Ekwesh with the attacks of Egypt under Ramesses III; they appear only as Libyan allies in the earlier attacks in the reign of Merneptah. The migration story, derived from the Medinet Habu texts, does not include them. The notion that they might be Greeks is entirely predicated on the apparent similarity of the names. Adams and Cohen’s conflation of the Ekwesh with ‘Ahhiyawans’ (and therefore Achaeans) is speculative. 67 It should also be recalled that the Ekwesh are described as circumcised in the Great Karnak Inscription, but as Barnett has observed this ‘is absolu61 62 63 64 65 66 67

Yasur-Landau 2010a: 180. Yasur-Landau 2010a: 180. Stager 1995: 332. Schneider, cited in Hitchcock, Maeir (in press). Latazc 2004: 130-131. Adams, Cohen 2013: 660. Adams, Cohen 2013: 652-654.

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tely out of keeping with everything that we know about the Greeks’. 68 However, there is interest in making a case for a Mycenaean migration to Que/Cilicia in southern Anatolia, very recently summarised by Bryce and Killebrew and Lehmann. 69 Textually, this rests on five primary sources, two texts from LBA Ugarit, two tenth century inscriptions from Arsuz, and an eighth century bilingual Luwian-Phoenician inscription from Cinekoy (near Adana). The two Ugarit texts refer to Hiyawa-men in Lukka, whom Bryce argues were Mycenaean, ‘Ahhiyawan’, mercenaries in the Hittite army. The two Arsuz texts, dating to around two centuries later, which were commissioned by a Neo-Hittite king Suppiluliuma of P/Walistin (which may have been a Peleset foundation, though was Neo-Hittite in culture), mention the defeat of ‘the land Hiyawa’. The Cinekoy inscription, another two centuries later, also mentions in Luwian the land Hiyawa and describes its king ‘Warikas’ as a descendant of ‘Muksas’; in the Phoenician text the people are called dnnym and the king’s ancestor Mopsos. In Greek myth, Mopsos was a Greek who migrated to Cilicia. 70 Herodotus (7.91) notes that Cilicians were later known as ‘Hypachaeans’. The contention is that Mycenaeans from the Greek mainland settled in Cilicia at the end of the LBA and brought their material culture with them. The migrant Ahhiyawans/Hiyawans created ‘the land of Hiyawa’, and its people were the Denyen or Danaans and Ekwesh, who are therefore Mycenaean Sea Peoples. This is seen to tie in with the novel material culture of EIA (post-Hittite) Cilicia, about which Killebrew and Lehmann note ‘Aegean-style material culture is more prevalent… than in Palestine’. 71 This is a hypothesis of great interest and significance, but rests on very little evidence so far. It is unclear that ‘Hiyawa-men’ were necessarily ‘Ahhiyawan’ men and that they were from Greece rather than from a local place called Hiyawa. 72 There is also the possibility that Denyen people came from Adana, which Bryce has seen as the most plausible explanation. 73 As for the Aegean-style material culture – pottery – it may be that it bears more similarity to Cypriot ‘Mycenaean’; the terms ‘true Helladic’ and ‘Hellado-Cilician’ have been employed to describe it, which suggest, in the latter case, hybridity. 74 French describes the HelladoCilician material as ‘a widespread but minor presence’. 75 The Muksas/Mopsos link with Greece is interesting, and Lopez-Ruiz notes the evidence for the occurrence of Mopsosrelated place names in Cilicia, but that later Greeks may have believed in a migration to Cilicia does not mean that there was one. 76 The myth may have functioned as a mechanism by which Greeks positioned Cilicia and Cilicians in relation to themselves and vice versa. Rather than Mycenaeans migrating to Cilicia en masse, causing destructions, and introducing a novel culture, a divergent process, something more like convergence could explain the available evidence. This could be similar to mythical ideas of the Ionian, Aeolian, and Dorian migrations, and Greeks arriving in Cyprus, and how these were ‘explained’ in later times. That said, mobility to Cilicia cannot and should not be ruled out; it is plausible, 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76

Barnett 1975. Bryce 2016; Killebrew, Lehmann 2013a. Lane Fox 2008: 222-239; Lopez-Ruiz 2009. Killebrew, Lehmann 2013a: 13. Bryce 2016: 72. Bryce 2009: 191-192. French 2013; Sherratt 2013: 624-625. French 2013: 482. Lopez-Ruiz 2009: 489.

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though not at all proved, that ‘Hiyawa-men’, if these were Mycenaean mercenaries, could have settled in Cilicia (and/or Cyprus), but this is not necessary to explain the evidence and if they did settle, it is not certain that they would be visible as Mycenaeans. As Yakubovich notes, the region ‘belonged to the Neo-Hittite cultural sphere’. 77 It is not at all clear from the evidence presented above that any of the Sea Peoples were of Mycenaean or Greek origin. In short, if we are trying to squeeze points of origin from the Egyptian texts, and from a handful of other mentions on texts that span a very wide period, very little can be concluded for certain. But the case for a Mycenaean migration does not rest solely on the texts, even though the interpretation of the Medinet Habu scheme has inspired it; we shall next turn to review some of the archaeological evidence. Archaeology and lifeways: Conservatism and dynamism The migrationist view also relies on interpretations of what the archaeology at the LBA/ EIA transition signifies. As Sherratt has noted, in the archaeology, it is locally produced ‘Mycenaean’ pottery that has played the most important role in the migration narrative. 78 This pottery appears at many locations in the eastern Mediterranean after c. 1200 BC (Mycenaean LH IIIC) 79 – in Cilicia 80, Cyprus, the northern Levant 81, and the southern Levant. 82 It is this pottery, in addition to other ‘Aegean traits’ that has been used to ‘track’ the supposedly ‘massive’ Aegean migration from the Aegean into Cilicia, Cyprus, and the southern Levant. 83 The ‘markers’ of this Aegean/Sea Peoples migration have been summarized by Barako, Bunimovitz and Lederman, and Killebrew. 84 These include: architecture; bathtubs; cuisine; female figurines; hearths; incised scapulae; lion-headed cups; and cylindrical loomweights. Others have also considered the appearance of a linear script as relating to the Aegean, but this is not at all convincing on current evidence. 85 Elsewhere, I have addressed the ‘Aegeanness’ or ‘Mycenaeanness’ of a number of these features, so I will not repeat all of those points here at length. 86 In each case, there was nothing straightforwardly Mycenaean or Aegean about them and they do not prove the reality of a Mycenaean or Aegean migration. This is the conclusion of others too. 87 They can be succinctly explained as the results of cultural appropriation. 88 Here I confine my discussion to two categories of evidence which I did not examine earlier: incised scapulae and lion-headed cups, and also to a discussion of foodways and textile production, which have been identified as indicative of deep change brought about by an Aegean migration. Killebrew notes that incised scapulae (bovine) have been found in the southern Levant at Ashkelon and Tel Miqne-Ekron in Iron I levels. 89 Reese, who has collected references 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89

Yakubovich 2011. Sherratt 2013. Summarised in Sherratt 2013. French 2013. Lehmann 2013. Gilboa 2014. Yasur-Landau 2010a: 192, 216-281, 294, 335 (‘massive Aegean immigration’). Barako 2000: 522-524; Bunimovitz, Lederman 2014: 254-255; Killebrew 2006–2007. Faust, Lev-Tov 2011; Middleton 2015: 55-56; Yasur-Landau 2010a: 309-310. Middleton 2015. Muhly 1984; Sherratt 1998; 2003; Vanschoonwinkel 1999. For example, Fisher 2006-2007. Killebrew 2006-2007: 254.

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to incised scapulae in the eastern Mediterranean records many examples from Cyprus, at Enkomi and Kition, for example, and also from Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, Israel and the West Bank, and elsewhere. 90 There are no known examples from the Aegean, however. This longlived tradition may rather suggest closer links between the northern and southern Levant and Cyprus. 91 As for the lion-headed cups, these have been identified as part of the tradition of Aegean animal-headed rhyta. 92 Lion-headed rhyta in Greece are found as early as the Shaft Grave period. These have been found at seven sites in Israel: Tell ed-Safi, Tel Dor, Tel Zeror, Megiddo, Tell Qasile, Tel Gerisa, and Tel Miqne-Ekron. 93 Although often called rhyta in the literature, the Philistine lion-headed pots are cups, since they lack a drainage hole; they are thus functionally distinct from lion-headed rhyta. Meiberg notes Zevelun’s theory that the inspiration for these cups comes from northern Syria, three examples come from Ugarit, and that they represent a Syro-Canaanite tradition. 94 These themselves could have been inspired by Aegean traditions, as Aegean-made animal-headed rhyta have been found in Ugarit, but Meiberg argues that they are more appropriately seen as part of an old Anatolian tradition, in which lion-headed cups were particularly popular (the Aegean tradition may itself have been inspired by this tradition). 95 While Meiberg suggests the tradition was brought to the southern Levant by migrants from northern Syria at the end of the Late Bronze Age, no migration is necessary to explain the adoption of such a tradition in the context of the regional connectivity and mobility which existed. As noted above, Yasur-Landau points at a number of changes in domestic life in the southern Levant, which to him and some others are indicative of deep change and the presence of Aegean migrants who had preserved, over generations and in the context of a long overland migration, aspects of an Aegean way of life. 96 The interpretation hinges on the ethnic association and conservatism of domestic practices, such as cooking and foodways, pottery, and textile production. As an illustration, he considers the conservatism of foodways in relation to Chinese migration to North America, in which he points out that Chinese-style serving ware was preferred, to retain the ways of the home country. 97 But one could equally consider the spread of Chinese cooking techniques without migration but with mobility signified by ‘the travelling wok’, and associated crockery and eating utensils, from China, which have been diffused throughout the western world. 98 The wok represents a widely adopted ‘foreign’ food technology and dietary option in the west. Preparing and eating Chinese food (or local approximations of it) may initially have had an exotic social value for westerners, although it is now a normal (thus partly ‘native’) culinary option for non-Chinese and preparation and consumption of it may primarily be dictated by personal taste. Woks, Chinese crockery, and chop sticks can be found not only in western towns and cities but in the same kitchens as traditionally western items. This cultural novelty is associated with complex changes over a long time, which did involve 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98

Reese 2002. Yasur-Landau 2010a: 304. Meiberg 2013. Meiberg 2013: 132. Meiberg 2013: 140; Zevelun 1987. Meiberg 2013 : 144. Yasur-Landau 2010a : 227-281. Yasur-Landau 2010a : 20. Baker 1997; Goody 1998.

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some movement of Chinese people, and the development of Chinese communities overseas (which were initially male-dominated), but it is also associated with a changing valuation of Chinese foodways amongst non-Chinese people far from China. A future archaeologist of a migrationist persuasion might argue that the presence of Chinese food technology in western homes reflects intermarriage, perhaps between western men and a Chinese women, but we know that this is not the case in the majority of examples. The ‘foodways equal people’ equation is as suspect as the pots equal people equation. Twiss has noted of studies of food and social phenomena such as ethnicity that ‘the fundamental premise of most… studies is simply ‘different diets and/or food activities = different social groups.’ However, this simple equation is complicated by the simultaneous relevance of multiple axes of social variation (e.g., gender and economics and religion), by individuals’ and groups’ strategic manipulation of foodways, and by diachronic change’. 99 Food and food preparation ways can signal other aspects of claimed and socially constructed identity; the adoption of rice from India may have signaled cosmopolitanism in medieval east Africa, for example. 100 It is difficult to see migration, rather than mobility, contact, and changing local tastes, as the main or sole driver of the adoption in the west of Chinese foodways. Equally, in the context of the LBA/EIA eastern Mediterranean, we can plausibly hypothesise the adoption of foodways and food preparation techniques from other areas – these may have signaled cosmopolitanism and may have become fashionable and widespread in an interconnected world. Within local communities, such habits could diffuse throughout society. It is fair to conclude that that foodways are not fundamentally conservative and are not necessarily indicators of particular ethnic groups. In addition, it can also be suggested that migrants of the type hypothesised in the Aegean migration narrative – refugees of one sort or another – may often be much less visible archaeologically (how materially visible and distinct are the refugees entering Europe at the current time?); the circumstances of their movement their transient nature and limited access to resources for production would contribute to this. The appearance of ‘Aegean-style’ bathtubs and loom weights in Cyprus and the Levant have also been interpreted as evidence of deep change reflecting the migration of Mycenaeans and their culture and practices. 101 Bathtubs thus indicate Aegean-style bathing and hospitality while loom weights point to transplanted Mycenaean domestic habits and the presence of Greek women. An alternative hypothesis proposed by Mazow, based on consideration of function rather than the identification of ethnic traits, however, suggests that these represent a development of the textile industry in the eastern Mediterranean. 102 This would account for the often industrial context of bathtubs, which may have been used in fulling. Both MaaPalaekastro and Tel Miqne-Ekron may have been heavily involved in textile manufacture, with both bathtubs and loom weights found in association. Rather than originating in the Aegean and being carried elsewhere by the mass migration of an ethnic group, these developments could well have happened largely in parallel, with Cyprus in the middle, as people in contact actively adopted new ‘Aegean-style’ methods of production, making textiles for trade and exchange. Production could also have taken place on a domestic scale in this new fashion. That this was the case may also be hinted at by the continuation of local spinning 99 100 101 102

Twiss 2012. LaViolette 2008; Mintz, Du Bois 2002. Karageorghis 1998; 2000; Yasur-Landau 2010a: 270, 314. Mazow 2006-2007.

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practices whilst weaving practices changed. 103 Technical knowledge and tools are transferable and not restricted to any particular ethnic group. From migration to mobility: Towards a new paradigm It has been traditional to work within a paradigm of migration for understanding the Late Bronze Age/Early Iron Age transition and the evidence for the Sea Peoples. Yasur-Landau suggests that ‘most scholars seem to accept the general concept of an Aegean migration’ and even claims that ‘most researchers’ work with the idea of a ‘paradigm of unified migration’. 104 Yet even when these comments were published, there were already voices of ‘dissent’. It is fair to say that a new paradigm is gaining ground, one that is rooted not in searches for origins, homelands, or migration routes, but in a more nuanced understanding of what the material evidence may represent and how aspects of a novel ‘Aegean-inspired’ culture came to appear in the east. Sherratt proposed a model that focussed not on ethnicity or points of origin but on a functional idea of what the Sea Peoples might represent. 105 In her view, the Sea Peoples represent a mercantile phenomenon, with its heart in Cyprus, where a new common material culture, taking its influence from Mycenaean-inspired culture, developed. In the context of continued interaction in the eastern Mediterranean, this cultural and behavioural package was adopted and adapted by locals in other areas. In more recent work, Sherratt suggests that the Sea Peoples were ‘interstitial’ groups with identities predicated on their activities; these ‘various economic groupings… coalesced into kingdom[s] or tribal entities’. 106 These groups, and the economic shift they represent, may have undermined palatial networks and contributed to the c. 1200 BC collapse. Mazow, who argued that ‘Aegean-style’ bathtubs and loomweights might be better interpreted functionally, argues that ‘the Philistines were not only distributors… but also active producers’. 107 Bauer supports this view and suggests that Philistine culture was brought to the southern Levant by Cypriot merchants seeking closer ties with their markets. 108 Mobile Greeks from palatial and non-palatial areas, and from post-Minoancollapse Crete may have been involved as participants in cultural and technological transfer, but no Mycenaean migration is needed to explain the cultural changes that are evident. Another view, which has been further developed recently, sees the Sea Peoples as pirate bands that developed out of the circumstances of collapse. 109 These groups, Hitchcock and Maeir note, could be ethnically diverse and made up of people of various origins, perhaps including ‘non-elites… sailors, disenfranchised warriors, mercenaries, workers, craft workers and peasants from the Mediterranean social network’. 110 Like more recent examples of pirate bands, they point out, they may have rallied around particular symbols, and adopted sets of material culture, and behaviours; the occurrence of ‘Mycenaean-style drinking and feasting ware’ may reflect group feasting activities and/or an ideology of commensality. Commensality could ‘express identity and belonging or exclusion’ and could, as an activity 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110

Cecchini 2011. Yasur-Landau 2010a: 316; 2010b: 842. Sherratt 1998; 2003. Sherratt 2009. Mazow 2006-2007: 300. Bauer 1998. Gilan 2013; Hitchcock, Maeir 2014; Jung 2009. Hitchcock, Maeir 2014: 626.

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and a social practice, help to create and maintain group bonds. 111 Symbols such as the Sea Peoples’ feathered and horned helmets may have served as a distinctive costume or ‘uniform’ that at once set these groups apart and bound them together. Such groups would have been mobile, knowledgeable about the eastern Mediterranean, and may well have settled new sites or moved into existing communities. 112 Possibly they attacked and plundered older established wealthy centres, accessing wealth and food supplies from within palatial systems and diverting it into a new non-palatial economic system. This idea is an interesting one, and potentially has more explanatory power than the migrationist-based framework: ‘if we abandoned the non-productive argumentation that such practices are either local or foreign, or represent a colonizing other, and regard them instead as an outcome of pirate culture and limited migration, early Iron Age anomalies showing aspects of local and imported cultural packages existing together become easier to understand’. 113 In this mode, while some of the Sea Peoples groups could be regarded as coming from particular ethnic groups – the Lukka, for example, some of the others might have been relatively new c. 1200 BC. If names like Ekwesh do refer to Achaeans, and were chosen as pirate-band names (though were these the names given to them by outside groups or given by the bands themselves?), there is still no necessary reason, in this argument, to assume they were all, or even predominantly Greek. Groups such as the Peleset may have split into two, with some in the northern Levant, which developed into the Neo-Hittite Palastin kingdom and others in the southern Levant. The Shekelesh mentioned at Dor in the Egyptian Tale of Wenamun, are archaeologically invisible as an ‘intrusive’ culture, leading Gilboa to suggest ‘one cultural continuum, with the Sikila and Phoenicians essentially synonymous. Cypriot elements were paramount to this culture’. 114 Pirate groups were necessarily mobile, but also had bases and safe harbours, some of which may have been in existing towns, but it is not necessary to consider them as migrant ethnic (or non-ethnic) groups. Others also see the new Philistine culture of the southern Levant as one that was created in the milieu of the post-collapse world in which the Hittites and the Egyptians were no longer the powerful players in the Levant. Killebrew argues for the Philistine culture coming from populations in Cyprus and Cilicia, and possibly the eastern Aegean, which had, over a longer period, become ‘Mycenaeanized’, in a context of mobility and interaction. 115 She thus posits migration within the eastern Mediterranean, rather than from Greece itself. The developing paradigm of normal mobility and connectedness allows us to understand culture change not as the result of mass migrations from Greece, but as a more a complex process that took place between groups and individuals that were in contact, a process in which aspects of material and behavioural culture were revalued. The trend towards ‘Aegeanisation’, which is a loaded term, used circumspectly here, was not a postcollapse phenomenon, but one that stretched back decades, if not longer in parts of the eastern Mediterranean. As part of this paradigm, we might see a spread of foodways and textile production technology as well as elements drawn from Mycenaean culture as it had been absorbed into and mixed with local elements elsewhere, on Cyprus, for example. Some of these changes may have contributed to palatial collapse or have consolidated the post111 112 113 114 115

Kerner, Chou 2015; Nell 2015. Hitchcock, Maeir 2014: 630. Hitchcock, Maeir 2014: 630-631. Gilboa 2006-2007. Killebrew 2005: 233; 2014: 595-606.

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collapse situation, which may have hindered palatial recovery and the replication of the earlier status quo, but they were also driven by it in a new post-collapse world. Conclusions This brief discussion has reviewed the Aegean migrationist position in recent work, and has attempted to demonstrate that a paradigm of mobility in an interconnected region can serve to explain the appearance of Aegean and Aegean-derived features in the archaeological record of the eastern Mediterranean across the LBA/EIA transition. Rather than mass migration and the imposition of a new material culture, choice, hybridisation and connectivity offer sufficient, and more plausible mechanisms of change, in which aspects of culture and technology are transferable and diffusable. Recent work has begun to shift the discussion in this direction, but migrationist views are still widespread. The paper has also examined the Egyptian and other textual evidence and the identification of Greeks as Sea Peoples and finds that none of the evidence clearly demonstrates this. It has also evaluated the arguments for deep change related to foodways and textile production and highlighted issues with the idea of clear ethnic dietary and production boundaries and coservatism. It has suggested also that refugees may be less visible archaeologically because of their position as relatively disempowered and transient people. To conclude, we can echo Knapp’s words about Cyprus and reiterate that the arguments presented here do not mean that Aegean people never came east, nor that some did not settle in new places, nor that their culture did not impact on others, but migration need not have been the primary mechanism of culture change. Bibliography

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The impact of the Sea Peoples in Central Levant. A Revision. Francisco J. Núñez The aim of this paper is to analyze the nature and relevance of the relationship between the cities of Central Levant and the so-called Sea Peoples. To do so, the available Archaeological and Historical sources, old and new, will be revised and later geographic as well as historically contextualized. Several questions seem to have conditioned the positions from which this issue has been traditionally approached: –– What was the nature and extend of the changes experienced by the central Levant at the end of the Late Bronze Age? –– What do we really know concerning the nature of the so-called Sea Peoples’ and their relationship with this particular region? –– Was their presence the manifestation of a general and homogeneous phenomenon that affected the entire Levant and Cyprus? –– Did the Sea Peoples play any role in the changes experienced by those lands at the end of the Late Bronze Age? –– If that was the case, is it possible to talk of actual presence or, rather, of some sort of cultural, political and / or economic influence? –– Whatever the case was, to what extend that interaction affected the central Levantine cities? It goes beyond any doubt that a comprehensive answer to those questions may require an extension that is not available here. Instead, this synthetic paper will be articulated in four coherent and interrelated parts. In the first place, a brief introduction to the issue, which does not consist of an exhaustive Forschungsgeschichte; other authors have perfectly summarized the evolution of the research on the Sea Peoples, so it makes no sense to repeat it here. 1 Instead, the focus will be on those aspects that, in my opinion, have traditionally characterized the research on the Sea Peoples, although there is no intention on my side of giving answers ad hominem. The Archaeological data produced by the Central Levant will be presented in the second place. Old and new data will be analyzed focusing on relevant aspects such as (1) the stratigraphic evidence produced by the cities of the region; (2) the nature of the transition between the Late Bronze and the Early Iron Age ceramic repertoires, considering in this context the role played by imported wares; and, finally, (3) a comparison between the funerary customs that characterize both periods in order to analyze the possible existence of changes also in the sphere of the beliefs. Thirdly, the archaeological evidence will be historically contextualized paying attention to the existing historical evidence from the end of the Palace System of the Late Bronze Age 1 See, for example, Yasur-Landau 2010; Cline 2014.

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in the central Levant, the possible role played by the Sea Peoples and the transformations that led to an alleged new social, economic and political situation of the Iron Age. Finally, the fourth part of this article is reserved for the conclusions reached at after the analysis of the evidence. A short introduction The presence of the Sea Peoples in central Levant in particular, and in the entire Levant in general, represents a complex, sometimes biased issue, which can obviously be approached from three different sides depending on the factor or factors to highlight: the perspective of the local societies, that of the Sea Peoples and, thirdly, from a less common holistic approach that puts all the factors on the same level. The issue is strongly affected by several interrelated factors: an unbalanced geographical distribution of the available information, a preeminent attention on the foreign element in the discourses, the existence of assumptions and generalizations that have conditioned readings and interpretations of the available data and, finally, the nature and evolution of the research itself, which has led to a situation dominated by a continuous exchange of models, arguments and counter-arguments that most times was centered more in defending the respective positions than in a discussion of the evidence itself. Keeping those ideas in mind, the image of the situation of the eastern Mediterranean basin in the later stages of the Late Bronze Age is still pictured by the rather meager, fragmented and unbalanced information offered by the written sources and, to a relatively larger extend, the material culture. Those sources of information come basically from specific areas: Cyprus, north Syrian and, especially, south Levant. Other areas such as central Levant have traditionally experienced a relative lack of data, which has led to a dependence from other regions, in particular the south Levant. This dependence affected any reading, analysis and interpretation, so that central Levant in many ways became nothing but an extension of what happened in the south, with an apparent need to replicate phenomena or situations observed there. This often implies acceptance, most times unchallenged, of a Sea Peoples’ active presence in its territory that caused, directly or indirectly, the destruction of settlements and traumatic changes in their social, political and economic life. 2 Besides, as mentioned, each author regards the available evidence differently. As seen by someone working in central Levantine sites who lacks any intention of interfering in those controversies, it becomes patent that most times the evidence is not used as it is, but read and interpreted depending on the approach followed, frequently displaying barely disguised intentions of just open an innovative and challenging path in the research on this subject. In this sense, it is customary the search for appreciations and the twist of facts that appear in the sources, a phenomenon that only leads to the intricate situations afore mentioned (see also below). Hence, we have moved from positions that saw in the Sea Peoples and their actions the reason for all the changes in Levant at the end of the Late Bronze Age, to others that either contextualize and relativize their relevance, even denying their participation in those changes, or explore certain aspects that are in turn considered more relevant than they actually are. Besides, it is also evident a tendency towards the application of these interpretations to the entire Levant, as if it was a homogeneous region, an assumption that is incorrect from social, political, economic and even historical perspectives. 2 In this sense, see, for example, Elayi 2013: 99-109.

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In some other instances it is not only a question of presence of these alien cultural groups, but also of influence. In this regard, and notwithstanding the reigning theoretical approaches that focus on the interaction between ‘entities’ and the concept of ‘identity’ in Archaeology, 3 we should accept that ‘presence’ and ‘influence’ do not mean the same on cultural terms. Their traces on the archaeological record are different and so could be their consequences on the local culture. Besides, attention is usually paid in this context to the local society, stressing on alleged phenomena of hybridization, as if there was only one receiver, and not as much to the actual influences in both directions and their consequences on them. In this regard, two other concepts may stand in front of the idea of hybridization as a phenomenon in which two cultures actively interact giving place to mixed manifestations: adoption and adaption. 4 Hence, the possibility of just one active side in that interaction (that one that adopting foreign elements) should be considered, whilst the other side was rather passive (the culture originating them). Therefore, there are instances where the presence of a foreign group is not needed to perform this cultural phenomenon; only the (social, economic or ritual) requirements of the culture that take (not receive) and adapt those elements to their own material concepts and uses. Following this idea, any manifestation and effects resulting from the contacts with the Sea Peoples should be understood only against the nature of the local societies of the Levant and their own circumstances, regardless the character, degree and duration of that interaction. In point of fact, (only?) local social-economic factors may explain which foreign elements are adopted by the local culture, how and why. In other words, local factors condition and explain the nature, degree and extension of the foreign elements adopted (on this, see below), the result of which are not hybrids in the cultural sense of the word, but versions provided of a function that can be culturally contextualized and explained. The archaeological evidence In order to identify the possible presence and real impact or influence of those foreign groups in central Levant, four related aspects should be taken into consideration: first, one would be the geographic scope of central Levant; second, the stratigraphic remains that can be linked to the time frame analyzed here; third, which are the elements that may provide hints on actions performed directly by those Sea Peoples; finally, and closely related to the previous one, what were the effects of those actions on the local material culture. ‘Central Levant’ (Figure 1) is cosidered here as the region extends itself between two clear natural boundaries: Rass Naqura in the south and Rass Chekka in the north. Its limits to the east can be set on the mountains of the Lebanon and Barouq ranges in the north and center respectively, leaving probably outside the Beqaa valley. More complicated would be the location of those boundaries in the southern half of this territory. South from the Barouq range the boundary could continue along the Litani river; however, no clear geographic border can be set east from Tyre, whose hilly hinterland extends itself over the Jebel el-‘Amel region until the Jordan valley to the east and the Naqura ridge to the south. This entire territory can be in turn divided into two partes by the Awali river, near Sidon. The northern part consists of a relatively narrow coastal strip that is articulated by a succession of bays separated from each other by more or less relevant geographic features, espe3 See, for example, Blake, Knapp 2005; van Dommelen, Knapp 2010. 4 See, for example, Stockhammer 2012; 2013; Jung 2012.

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cially capes and promontories, which give place to more or less separated coastal niches. In contrast, the southern half of the territory is characterized by a continuous and flat coastal line of variable width, limited to the east by a hilly territory whose height increases gradually but does not reach the altitudes of the mountains to the north. The mentioned coastal continuity is only broken by the Bayada cliffs in the south, which closes the coast plain just before Naqura cape. All these areas are characterized by an assumed cultural homogeneity, although the potential existence of differences among the communities on the sea-side and between them and those of the neighboring mountains is an aspect not fully explored as yet. Probably the existence of a series of valleys that serve as natural roads to the interior made possible the interaction between the communities on the coast and those of the hinterland, a interaction that was surely intense at all times. Second, the sites that can offer information on this historical moment can be divided into two groups. On the one hand are those excavated some time ago and whose data have been used in previous analysis. This is the case especially of Tyre - Stratum XIV, 5 and Sarepta Strata G1 and F, 6 to which some materials recovered at Khirbet-Slim 7 and the last levels of Late Bronze Age Kamid el-Loz could be added. 8 Alternatively, the second group comprises a number of sites that have been recently excavated or where work is still underway (represented in gray on Figure 1). Among those new sites are, for example, what is left of the ancient tell of Beirut, 9 Saidah – College Site, 10 Chhim 11 and, recently, the Acropolis of Tyre. 12 Thirdly, two well defined groups of elements have been traditionally used to identify the presence of the Sea Peoples in the Levant. 13 The first one comprehends stratigraphic events such destruction layers, which apparently mark the end of the Late Bronze Age in many sites, or the presence of Aegean-inspired structures such as the hearths. The second group refers to the existence of foreign elements in the material culture, 14 especially the Late Helladic IIIC wares, either imported or produced locally, 15 the so-called Hand Made Burnished Ware, 16

5 6 7 8 9 10 11

12 13 14 15 16

Bikai 1978. Anderson 1988. Chapman 1972. Penner 2006. Badre 1997; Finkbeiner 2001; Finkbeiner, Sader 1997. The study of the levels corresponding to the Late Bronze and the Iron Ages is under the responsibility of this author. Doumet-Serhal 2013. The excavations of the Polish Centre of Mediterranean Archaeology of the University of Warsaw at Chhim are supervised by Professor Tomasz Waliszewski. Among its results, in process of publication, are levels that correspond to the Bronze Age and the Early Iron Age. The present author is in charge of the study and publication of the latter. The excavations on the so-called Acropolis of Tyre are under the supervision of Professor M. E. Aubet, Dr. A. Badawi and the author of this paper. See an updated analysis of all those elements in Yasur-Landau 2010: 122-154. Besides Dothan 1982; see Dothan, Dothan 1992; Lehmann 2007: 517-518; Killebrew, Lehmann 2013. Jung 2007: 558-559; Lehmann 2007: 507-508; 2013: 267-268. Badre 2003; 2006: 89-92; Badre et al. 2006: 33-36; Charaf 2006; Capet 2006-2007: 198; Jung 2009b.

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the Grey Ware – Trojan or not 17 – and the stable cooking pots, 18 weapons, 19 tubular loom weights 20 and certain cultic elements like the so-called Psi-like figurines. 21 All available archaeological sources considered, several aspects must be highlighted. The first one is an apparent absence among the central Levantine sites of any trace of destruction layers or the aforementioned hearth. There would be only one exception: Kumidi; however, its abandonment and ulterior destruction, to which I will come later, probably had nothing to do with a group of Sea Peoples raiding along the Beqaa Valley, but with the end of the Egyptian hegemony over this territory. Another instance, many times referred to in the bibliography, is an ashy layer and the alleged short period of abandonment recognized at Tyre between its strata XV and XIV. 22 Even if a destruction level is expected to be something more than a mere ‘ashy layer’, the existence of an anthropic destruction layer or an abandonment of the city is something that ongoing excavations in the former island will certify and explain. In this sense, the size of Bikai’s excavations should not be a reason to deny the validity of her observations, 23 since those results match conclusions reached at in other places, as it is stated here (see also below). Two other sites confirm the mentioned absence of destructions and, more importantly, the existence of a continuous evolution from the Late Bronze to the Iron Age. One of them is Saidah. The excavations at the so-called ‘College site’, directed by Dr. Claude DoumetSerhal, have produced a continuous sequence that dates back to the Neolithic up to modern times. In what refers to the moment under consideration here, the transition between the Late Bronze and the Early Iron Age was smooth, without any apparent break or traumatic situation (personal communication). The second site is Beirut. The transition between those periods is marked by the refurbishment of the defensive system that existed there during the Late Bronze Age. This relevant architectonic event has been clearly recognized in four areas excavated in recent years: Bey 03, 24 13, 20 25 (see also Figure 2) and 32. 26 It consists of the construction of a new, massive glacis paved with stones on top of previous one, built in an earlier stage of the Late Bronze Age. Judging the character of the material associated to these new structures, the works under consideration here were undertaken somewhere at the end of the mentioned period. This statement is supported by the unequivocal Late Bronze Age standards followed by the local wares and the presence in Bey 020 of a probable variation of the so-called Syrian White-Slip ware (this time painted in black and displaying a wavy-line as central decorative element), 27 as well as imported Grey and Late Helladic IIIC wares. All these materials point to a date in the 12th century BCE for the construction works;

17 Capet 2006-2007: 198-200; Badre et al. 2006: 31-32; Lehmann 2007: 510; 2013: 305-306. 18 Yasur-Landau 2010: 124-132; Jung 2011a. 19 In particular certain types of sword and knives; Jung 2009a; 2009b; Bietak, Jung 2008; Jung, Mehofer 2013. 20 Yasur-Landau 2010: 132-134. 21 Yasur-Landau 2010: 134-135. 22 Bikai 1978: 8. 23 Gilboa, Sharon 2003: 44. 24 Badre 1997. 25 Finkbeiner 2001; Finkbeiner, Sader 1997. 26 Jamieson 2011. 27 On this ware, see du Piêd 2006/2007; Gilboa 2006/2007; Vasteenhuyse 2010.

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however, the presence of the wavy line on the krater may push the date even down to the first half of the 11th century BCE. 28 The apparent absence of traumatic events in all these sites is also reflected in the evolution of their material culture. Two examples can be brought into consideration. The first one is the evolution of the storage jar types along the stratigraphies of Tyre and Sarepta combined (Figure 3), which perfectly displays the gradual evolution of the repertoire, void of apparent breaks. 29 These types, clustered in four groups after their morphological affinities, overlap one another from the earliest stratum recognized in the sample (Sarepta Stratum L), belonging to the Middle Bronze Age, to the last one (Tyre Stratum XI), which represents the end of the Early Iron Age. At the same time, as the example also clearly shows, some stages of this transitional phase are characterized not as much by the presence or absence of certain types as by their proportions. The coherence of this sequential arrangement and its relevance is also supported by the imports produced by the strata that represent the transition between the Late Bronze and the Early Iron Age (see again Figure 3). Hence, Sarepta Stratum G2, representative of the latest stages before that transition, has produced fragments of a Mycenaean LH IIIB2 pilgrimflask of the so-called Lineal or Levantine Style; 30 Sarepta Stratum G1, which marks its beginning, offers a complete LH IIIC skyphos, 31 whereas the Stratum F, in an advanced stage of that phenomenon of change, counts with a fragment of a similar vase; 32 Tyre Stratum XIV, which marks the pass to the Early Iron Age, yielded fragments of a Sub-Mycenaean skyphos and a wall fragment of a bichrome Philistine vase; 33 finally, Sarepta E, which represents the first Early Iron Age level in the sample, produced the neck and rim of a Cypriot White-Painted I amphora. 34 Therefore, from the perspective of the ceramic evidence, central Levantine sites display a strong continuity from Late Bronze Age standards, a fact that even led to some authors such as W. P. Anderson to speak of a Late Bronze Age III for the strata G2 and G1 in Sarepta, 35 a phenomenon that has been observed also, for example, in Megiddo. 36 In point of fact, the local ceramic repertoire of the Early Iron Age is clearly the outcome of a local dynamic of change based on a series of typological, morphological and decorative principles, which are firmly rooted in the region as far back as the Middle Bronze Age. In this context, the role of foreign influences in this phenomenon of change cannot be denied, but neither overweighed, for their existence did not modify the general trend. The role or incidence of those foreign influences can be traced in other two interrelated phenomena. The first one is the update of some local traditional forms of the Late Bronze Age. The best example would be the amphoroid kraters, whose local manifestations, cha28 Kling 1989: 174; du Piêd 2006/2007. 29 The arrangement of the strata of Tyre and Sarepta presented on Figure 3 is part of the results of a correspondence analysis that takes into consideration a particular number of ceramic types present in both sites. This analysis and its sequential and chronological consequences is the subject of a monographic volume that is in preparation by this author. 30 Anderson 1988: 611, pl. 27: 1. 31 Anderson 1988: 613, pl. 28: 19. 32 Anderson 1988: 619, pl. 30: 10. 33 Bikai 1978: pl. 39:20. 34 Anderson 1988: 623, pl. 32: 2. 35 Anderson 1988: 390. 36 Arie 2006: 227.

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racterized by wide carinated bodies, became more stylized through the influence of Late Helladic prototypes. 37 The second phenomena consists of the adoption and adaption of foreign forms. An example of the first case would be pyxis/alabastron, a shape that was adopted without major morphological or decorative modifications from the Late Helladic ceramic repertoire. On the other hand, the spouted jug would represent the best example of adaptation – not hybridation – of a foreign ceramic form to local standards. 38 As a conclusion, it can be safely stated that changes in the local ceramic repertoire between the Late Bronze and the Early Iron Age took place notwithstanding the arrival of foreign influences, which in turn were rather limited. Changes were the outcome of an internal phenomenon that updated the Bronze Age repertoire by keeping local standards. In this sense, the presence of ceramics originated by the Sea Peoples, or their influences on the local wares, should be put against two facts. The first one is the actual proportion of foreign elements regarding the total repertoire; the second would be what elements or changes are observable. Furthermore, these facts can be applied to other non ceramic elements such as the metal objects or, especially, objects provided of a ritual character, for example the Helladic so-called Psi-figurines, apparently scarce in the central Levantine archaeological register, but not so much in the north. 39 Also connected to the ideas of cult and ritual, another element may confirm the cultural linearity between the Late Bronze and the Early Iron Age in this region: the funerary customs. Burials of both periods follow in essence the same patterns: the normal treatment of the body was the inhumation, whilst the gifts were always linked to the funerary banquet and, particularly, the consumption of wine. 40 Three ceramic categories are clearly visible in this set (Figures 4 and 5): a jug, which in the Late Bronze Age were of diverse types and origins (Figure 4a and f) but always of the neck-ridge type in the Early Iron Age (Figure 5a and b); a jug provided with a spout or beck suitable for the serving of liquids (decanters –Figure 3g-, dippers – Figure 4b - or, already in the Early Iron Age, the spouted-jugs; Figure 5c), and, finally, a drinking bowl (Figure 4c, d and e; Figure 5d and e). The role played in that set by other ceramic forms such as the pilgrim-flasks (Figure 5g), plates or zoomorphic jugs (Figure 5f) is complementary and does not affect the composition of the mentioned set. Something similar may occur with big containers like kraters, amphorae or cauldrons. Usually used as cinerary urns from the Middle Iron Age onwards, 41 their presence in inhumation tombs of the Late Bronze and the Early Iron Age may be explained, most probably, by their use in the funerary banquet. 42 Therefore, these elements show a strong continuity also in the funerary ritual, or else in the elements used in it. In this sense, changes in the ceramic repertoire used in Iron Age tombs may have affected the typological nature of the vase or sometimes its origin, but never their functional character, which remained the same: the funerary banquet and the deceased’s share in it. 43 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

Núñez 2010. Núñez 2015a; see also below. Bretschneider, et al. 2012. On these habits, see Aubet 2014; Doumet-Serhal 2013: 61-100. Aubet 2004; 2014; Núñez 2015b; 2017. Núñez 2017: 189. Núñez 2015b: 249-250; 2017; see also Baker 2006; 2012.

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This last statement leads again to the character and relevance of the wares of Aegean origin or inspiration that appear not only in those tombs, but also in settlements. In essence, the Aegean imports of the Late Bronze Age, and those recovered in Early Iron Age contexts, offer few if any functional differences (see also below). The forms represented are related to the preparation and consumption of wine, especially kraters and cups. This continuity is somehow broken by the absence in Early Iron Age contexts of containers comparable to Late Helladic forms such as the pithoid or the stirrup jars. 44 However, this situation could be perfectly explained by the end of the contacts with the areas that produced the contents of those jars. In contrast, the alabaster/pyxis was locally produced probably because they contained local counterparts of the products previously imported in its Mycenaean prototypes. 45 Historical context Any attempt to historically contextualize the afore mentioned archaeological evidence needs to explain the absence of an apparent impact of the Sea Peoples in central Levant, especially since other surrounding territories display alleged traces of their actions. A probable solution for this dilemma could be to put all raw available data – written and archaeological – in a chronological order using Ramesses III texts as a reference and analyze it as it is. Hence, Ramesses III royal inscriptions on the walls of Medinet Habu, evident pieces of official propaganda, 46 and the Papyrus Harris I provide clues of what seems to have happened in the Levant and how following a chronological order. 47 The record starts by mentioning the presence in north Levant and south Anatolia of groups of foreigners (philistines, tjeker, shekelesh, denyen and weshesh), which supposedly caused the destruction of certain territories (Hatti, Kode, Carchemish, Arzawa and Alashiya), set ‘a camp... in one place in Amurru’, ‘desolated its people’ and ‘were coming towards Egypt’. Once considered the reasonable doubts regarding the veracity of the list of northern territories cited by the Egyptian king, the diplomatic correspondence between the royal palaces of Hatti, Ugarit, Alashiya and Amurru seems to corroborate, at least in part, the Pharaoh’s remarks. 48 These letters explicitly mention, first, the threating presence of certain foreign peoples and, later, their actions against their territories, including the destruction of settlements in the kingdom of Ugarit. 49 Many sites of this region have produced evidence of destruction episodes, traumatic events that put an end to their Late Bronze Age levels (Figure 6). Broadly contemporary of the episodes of destruction observed in Cyprus and other places in north Syria and southeast Anatolia, or slightly later, Ugarit was destroyed and never resettled again; Ras el-Bassit was destroyed and later resettled, but the new settlement was less relevant; 50 Tell Sukas 51 or Tell ‘Arqa 52 were also destroyed and resettled, but in an advanced moment of the Iron Age; Tell 44 Leonard 1994: 12-22, Figs. 14-51 and pp. 45-79, Figs. 164-185 respectively. 45 Leonard 1989: 33-39, Figs. 80-86; see, for example, Saidah 1966: 63, nr. 14 and p. 77, nr. 48, from Khalde necropolis. 46 O’Connor 2000: 100. 47 Pritchard 1969: 262-263; Cline, O’Connor 2012: 201-204. 48 See, for example, O’Connor 2000; Lipiński 2006: 42-43. 49 Klengel 1992: 174; Singer 1999: 704-733; Yasur-Landau 2010: 117-118, 164-166; Liverani 2014: 384. 50 Courbin 1986; 1990; du Pîed 2006/2007. 51 Riis 1970; Riis et al. 2004. 52 Thalmann 2006; Badre 2007-2008.

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Tweini/Gibala was destroyed, resettled shortly afterwards and, again, destroyed, 53 Ras IbnHani was resettled soon after the destruction of its Late Bronze Age levels and destroyed again, this time for good 54 and, finally, Tell Kazel/Simirra experienced two different episodes of destruction separated by a short reoccupation of the city. 55 The connections between the facts mentioned in the letters and the evidence produced by all those sites, ramain open questions. Nevertheless, certain links could be recognized by isolating certain elements. For instance, the alleged identification of a ‘Kingdom of the Palastin’ in the Amuq plain, whose capital could have been Tell Ta’yinat, 56 should undoubtedly be taken into consideration, as well as the presence of the afore mentioned Aegeaninspired constructions, structures and materials associated with some of those destructions or the new occupation layers. 57 However, those destructions do not appear south of the Akkar Plain (that of Tell ‘Arqa is the southernmost instance so far recognized), a territory that broadly corresponds to the afore mentioned kingdom of Amurru and whose south border should be set probably on the Chekka promontory or slightly north of it (Figure 6). One way or another, the events observed in the north, both of archaeological and textual nature, must be contextualized by the collapse of the Palace-System in its entirely, most probably by internal circumstances, 58 the breakdown of the kingdom of Hatti, ulterior atomization of its territories and the new situation created afterwards. 59 Unfortunately, neither the written nor the archaeological sources are eloquent enough in what refers to the situation of the region during the Iron Age and whether a cultural component of western origin – the Sea Peoples – had any role to play in the generation of a new balance. In this sense, many scholars stress a marked continuity of local standards in the transit between the Late Bronze and the Early Iron Age. 60 However, sometimes it is complicated to understand what this alleged continuity means. As mentioned, detailed information on these local wares is not available for most of the excavations and too often an excessive attention is paid to the imports, especially those of Aegean origin. 61 Other times it is also difficult to know what could be the real sequential relationship of all those destruction layers and, therefore, what could be the chronological distance between them, if that really existed at all. Stratigraphic connections have been established mostly on the presence or absence of certain foreign wares and not on the nature of the local materials. This procedure could obviously lead to a process of sequential homologation that can be false. Therefore, this fact, together with the local origin of some of those alien wares (see below) and the idea that all the destructions that obliterated the region occurred at the same time, might have blurred the chronological reality of each episode and, logically, biased their historical interpretation. In other words, it is possible that many of the destructions events 53 Bretschneider, van Lerberghe 2008; Bretschneider et al. 2005; 2008; 2011; 2012; see Figure 6a. 54 Bounni-Lagarce 1998; du Piêd 2006-2007. 55 Badre 2006, with additional bibliography; 2007/2008; Badre et al. 2018; Capet, Gubel 2000; Capet 2006/2007; see Figure 6b. 56 Hawkins 2009; Yasur-Landau 2010: 161-163. 57 See, especially, Yasur-Landau 2010: 164-168; Bretschneider et al. 2012. 58 See two synthesis of those causes in Cline 2014 or Knapp, Manning 2016; see also Kaniewski et al. 2011; 2010; 2013; Langgut et al. 2013. 59 Liverani 2014: 381-389. 60 Du Piêd 2006-2007; Caubet 2006/2007; Janeway 2006/2007; Charaf 2007; 2007/2008; Vansteenhuyse 2010: 98-99. 61 See, for example, Yon et al. 2000.

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registered were not caused by actions by the Sea Peoples, but the consequences, for example, of episodes of turmoil after the fall of the Hittite hegemony over those north Levantine territories (see also J. Millek’s paper in this volume on the origin of the destructions in Palestine). The alleged continuity of the local material culture also affects the functional character of these imports and their local imitations. 62 As mentioned before, with the probable exception of the Handmade Burnished Ware, 63 the new imports – Aegean, Cypriot or Trojan – and their local counterparts match from typological and, hence, functional perspectives the imports found in Late Bronze Age contexts, that is, table wares, and especially, drinking bowls. 64 Therefore, and without forgetting the always thorny equation pots-people, the presence and nature of some of the new wares or their local imitations could be equally explained by the persistence of a local demand for certain ceramic forms to continue with their consumption habits. 65 For those reasons, and without ruling out violent situations or the taking over of local powers by Sea People’s components, it is more than plausible that the ulterior situation was one of integration, or even coexistence, rather than of substitution of the local population by foreigners. Ramesses III’s texts also mention that, in front of the menace of those foreigners, he set the ‘frontier in Djahi’, a region that corresponds, broadly, to Canaan. 66 This frontier was defended by ‘(local?) princes, commanders of garrisons and maryannu (i.e. the local military elite)’, whereas the river mouths were defended by ‘warships, galleys and coasters (fully) equipped’. Apparently, two violent encounters took place soon afterwards, one on land and another in the sea. The texts explicitly say that against ‘those who reached my frontier... those who came forward together on the sea... His Majesty (set) out for Djahi... (and) the entire flame was in front of them’. As a result, the Pharaoh did ‘not let foreign countries behold the frontier of Egypt’, for he succeed in defeating the denyen, tjeker, philistines, shardana and weshesh, which were ‘settled in strongholds, bound to (his) name’ as members of his army and were allotted ‘with clothing and provisions from the treasuries and granaries every year’. Three main conclusions can be drawn from this paragraph. Firstly, the battle on land took place after the northern regions – including Ugarit – experienced the impact of these foreign populations and their occupation of Amurru. Secondly, the Sea Peoples did not enter in territories controlled by Egypt (for the opposite, see below). Third, given that the Pharaoh’s border was settled south of Amurru, it is logical to consider that the actual battles between Ramesses III troops and the Sea Peoples took place somewhere in that territory. 67 Regarding the Late Bronze Age kingdom of Amurru, whose capital has been placed in Tell Kazel, and extended itself broadly on the limits of the Akkar Plain, it played the role of a buffer zone between the regions controlled, respectively, by Hatti in the north and Egypt in the south. 68 As mentioned before, several sites located in this region display destruction layers, whereas Tel Kazel would be the most relevant in this context. 62 On these at Tell Kazel, see Badre et al. 2006: 27-31; 2018; as well as Jung 2007: 557-563; 2011b; for a more general picture, see Lehmann 2007: 464-465, 507, 517; 2013: 267-268. 63 Charaf 2006; Capet 2006/2007; Yasur-Landau 2010: 147-149; Jung 2009a: 78-79; 2012: 109, 111-112; Pedrazzi, Venturi 2011: 38. 64 Jung 2011b; 2012: 110, 115; Venturi, Pedrazzi 2011; Lehmann 2007: 500-508; 2013: 323. 65 In this sense, Sherratt 1999; du Piêd 2006/2007; Lehmann 2013: 328; Pedrazzi, Venturi 2011. 66 Yasur-Landau 2010: 173-174; for Amurru, see Lipiński 1999: 6; for Israel, see Cline, O’Connor 2012: 182. 67 See, Lipiński 2006: 43-44. 68 Klengel 1992: 160-174.

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The last Late Bronze Age occupation at Tell Kazel, or Phase K2, has been recognized in its Level 6 ‘lower’ in Area II and Level 5 ‘lower’ in Area VI (see Figure 6b). This level is represented by a local Late Bronze Age ceramic repertoire, and certain Late Cypriot IIB and Late Helladic IIIB imports. 69 This phase ends with a destruction, followed by a hiatus in the occupation of the site and, subsequently, by a level originally interpreted as transitional between the Late Bronze and the Iron Age – Phase K1: Level 6 upper in Area II and Level 5 upper in Area VI. 70 The local repertoire recovered in it has been interpreted as a continuation of Late Bronze Age standards, with the addition of some representatives of the so-called Syrian White-Slip wares, whilst among the foreign wares the presence of Late Helladic IIIC, Hand Made Burnished and the Grey wares has been reported. The presence of these Aegean wares in the transitional phase at Tell Kazel has been seen as evidence of a first wave of peaceful Sea Peoples in the city, an event that had taken place before the events of Ramesses III’s fifth regnal year. Accordingly, its violent end and the new occupation has been placed around 1179/1176 BC in connection with a proposed second wave of more aggressive newcomers identified with the Ramesses III’s Sea Peoples that brought havoc in Amurru and settled there. 71 Finally, the destruction of that transitional horizon gave place to the Iron Age in the site – Level 5 in Area II and 4-3 in Area VI –, characterized, again, by the continuity from local Late Bronze Age traditions and typical Early Iron Age imports from Cyprus. 72 The suggestion of a destruction of the transitional LBA / EIA phase at Tell Kazel caused by a second wave of more aggressive Sea Peoples is a plausible interpretation, but there may be other acceptable alternatives as well. One could be, for example, to relate the hiatus between the LBA and the LBA / EIA transition to an abandonment of a city under the threat of the Sea Peoples and the ulterior occupation of the site by a mixed local and foreign population (on this situation, see above). This succession of events would perfectly explain the presence of the Aegean and Aegeanizing wares, whereas the destruction that put an end to the transitional phase could had been the consequence of the battle against Ramesses III. 73 Another question would be the location of the sea battle. The Egyptian texts state that it took place ‘in the mouth of the river’, which has been identified by many as the mouth of the Nile. 74 However, several aspects should be taken into consideration. In the first place, the mobility of a fleet, especially a small one, is bigger than that of land troops; therefore, sea incursions to the south of the cited border should be possible, if not even assumed. This may explain why the Pharaoh’s ‘warships, galleys and coasters (fully) equipped’ guarding the river mouths (in plural). Second, it is also possible that the invading ships were able to reach the coasts of Egypt, but to do so, they should have saved the blockage of the Pharaoh’s fleet all over the central and southern part of the Levant. Third, the texts mention the existence of various encounters on the sea (literally: ‘the full flame was in front of them at the river mouths’). 75 Therefore, and taking into consideration the mentioned reasons, it would be possible that, if the sea battle consisted of only one encounter, it took place also in Amurru; in 69 70 71 72 73 74 75

Badre 2006: 67-82; Badre et al. 2018: 20, table 2. On this site, see recently, Badre et al. 2018. Badre 2006: 82-92, Figure 6b. Badre 2006: 93; Jung 2007: 565-567. Capet, Gubel 2000: 430. See Lipiński 2006: 43-44. See, for example, Cline, O’Connor 2012: 182-183; also below. Cline, O’Connor 2012: 202.

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this case, the best candidate are the mouths of the Nahr el-Kebir, the river that articulates the Akkar Plain, or the Nahr el-Bared, north of Tripoli. However, if we consider the reference to several rivers, and, hence, to diverse sea encounters, we should accept that those correspond to an unspecified number of rivers that water in the Mediterranean to the south, but always in the Levant. An obvious consequence of the interpretation just offered above affects the idea of the Nile Delta as a scenery of the land and sea battles, an option held by many scholars. 76 However, this possibility implies the assumption of one of two not attested situations. The first one would be that Egypt had lost their control over the central and south Levant, either due to its conquest by the Sea Peoples 77 or to internal causes. Alternatively, the second option postulates the existence of a sea invasion of the southern part of a Levant, still in the hands of the Egyptians, by the Sea Peoples, and particularly, by the Philistines. 78 Those alternatives can probably be ruled out, for they are based mostly on assumptions, and are not fully supported by the facts. For instance, in an scenario of a void of Egyptian hegemony in the Levant caused either by conquest by the Sea Peoples or previous retreat, the apparent lack of destructions south of Amurru may denote that the Sea Peoples crossed the entire territory peacefully, probably in agreement with the local powers. However, it is not clear that Egypt had lost their power over central Levant that early, 79 since the construction of the last temple in Kamid el-Loz by Ramesses III seem to suggest the contrary. 80 In point of fact, the abandonment of Kumidi by the Egyptians should have happened not too far in time from the destruction of Megiddo Stratum VIIA, for their ceramic repertoire seems to be roughly contemporary. 81 Seeking for a chronological reference for both events, we may consider the presence in Megiddo of a bronze stand with the name of Ramesses VI (1141-1134 BCE), the last evidence of the Egyptian hegemony in northern Palestine. 82 Finally, a sea invasion not only stands against what the Egyptian texts explicitly indicate; such an offensive would imply a war machinery, whose size and sophistication are difficult to imagine in the hands of the Sea Peoples. At the same time, probably caused by an apparent indetermination in the original text and the use of plural in its references to the sea encounters, an alternative interpretation proposes that the Egyptian sources do not refer to two battles, one on the land and another in the sea, but to a series of smaller and sporadic violent encounters. 83 This interpretation seems to be a twist of the textual evidence without sound basis, 84 even if it is plausible to consider the existence of a series of previous encounters – both on land and in the sea – between the pharaoh’s forces and the intruders. However, these events should be nothing more than skir76 See, especially, Redford 2000; Cline, O’Connor 2012: 182-183; besides, Yasur-Landau 2010: 170-186 gives a revision of all the interpretations, including further bibliography. 77 Cline, O’Connor 2012: 182-183. 78 Barako 2000; 2007; 2013; Bietak 1993; Bietak, Jung 2008. 79 See Kitchen 2012: 11-18. 80 Hachmann 1996: 17-26; Weippert 1994: 33; Lipiński 1999: 6; 2006: 40-45. 81 A date that is supported by recent 14C analysis from this site (note: Toffolo et al. 2014: 236, 241; Finkelstein 2015: 281-282). See also Finkelstein 1996; 1998; 2013: 21; Finkelstein, Piasetzky 2009: 263266; 2010: 379; in this case, only one fragment of a bell-skyphos, decorated with spirals, has been apparently recovered in this stratum, Loud 1948: pl. 69: 7. 82 Liverani 2003: 46-47; Finkelstein 1996; 1998; against Bietak 1993; Mazar 1997. 83 See Cifola 1991: 54-55; Yasur-Landau 2010: 174-175. 84 Kitchen 2012: 16.

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mishes that anticipated the final battles, encounters that on land took place most probably around the frontier and could even extend themselves south from that line as sea incursions that may have reached, why not, southern Levant shores. Finally, and more importantly, a battle in Amurru between Ramesses III and the Sea Peoples may explain the situation of central Levant, for the defeat of the invaders saved those territories and its cities from that menace, as evidenced by the archaeological record. Conclusions All facts considered, it seems that the presence and impact of the Sea Peoples in central Levant is part of the complex and long process that put an end to the so-called Palace System of the Late Bronze Age. This process was not homogeneous: it counted with different phases that affected the diverse regions in a north-south order, and always conditioned by the social, political and economic circumstances of each territory. As mentioned, the issue in its entirely seems to have been a north to south phenomenon in which the battle between Ramesses III and those foreign peoples changed the course of events and led to a new situation. This encounter took place after the Pharaoh’s reaction in front of their presence in the land of Amurru, which limited to the south directly with Canaan/Djahi, a territory under Egyptian domination. Therefore, the battle should be sought somewhere north of the Chekka Cape, in north Lebanon. Nevertheless, the new situation caused by the defeat of the Sea Peoples did not change the fate of the so-called Palace system in its entirely, but led to somehow different consequences. Thus, the system had collapsed in the north, whereas central Levant evolved having the retreat – not fall – of the Egyptian hegemony as a central factor. In this context, the Sea Peoples influence was not determinative. In point of fact, no conclusive evidence of their presence and direct impact on the ground has been attested so far. In this regard, it is difficult to observe the nature and impact of foreign elements on the local immaterial culture. However, the existence of certain Aegean influences on the material culture of the central Levant, especially the pottery, cannot be denied nor overlooked. In any instance, those influences are rather linked to trends already seen in the Late Bronze Age, namely, the objects used in a social ceremony such as the banquet in general and the consumption of wine in particular. For that reason, those local forms inspired by Aegean prototypes should not be seen as hybrids, but adaptations of foreign models to local functional and ceramic standards. In this phenomenon, the role played by a foreign element is reduced to the provision of a model, not to the changes experienced by it afterwards. As a consequence, the effects of the historical events mentioned above on the central Levant are obvious. Its cities never lost their essence as consolidated social, political and economic entities, even in those moments when Egypt withdrew its hegemony over those territories, a phenomenon that happened late in the second half of the 12th century BCE (Tiglath-pilesser I expedition to the coast could be a good terminus post quem). This character would explain why those cities did not experience major breaks in times of trouble, especially in what regards to their material culture. In any instance, what fell at the end of the Late Bronze Age was the particular character and, above all, the scale and probably scope of the diplomatic and economic system that characterized that period. However, as mentioned, its essence remained thanks to a certain number of politic entities that succeed to overcome the crisis. Some of those entities are

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the Phoenician cities, which took over the commercial role previously in the hands of other cities like Ugarit. 85 Sidon was probably the first city in central Levant to endure after the disappearance of the Egyptian hegemony, followed by Tyre probably in the 10th and surely in the 9th century BCE. Accordingly, the situation observed in the Akko region and Tell Dor were other manifestations of the same phenomenon of restructuration. 86 However, an analysis of the situation of southern Levant in this context requires the consideration of factors of textual, archaeological, historical and even ideological nature that lie beyond the intention and scope of this paper. In any instance, the succession of events and situations observed there, not their different interpretations, should be seen as a further chapter of the line of events analyzed above and, obviously, their consequence.

Figure 1. Map of north and central Levant with the places referred to in the text. Source: the author. 85 Aubet 2008: 54-57, 109. 86 Gilboa 2005; 2006/2007.

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Figure 2. View on the Iron Age glacis of Beirut (Bey 020 and 013). Source: the author.

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Figure 3. Sequential arrangement of the Late Bronze and Early Iron Age strata of Tyre and Sarepta and the distribution of four typological groups belonging to the storage jars. Group 1 corresponds to Tyre type SJ 15 (Bikai 1978: 43) and Sarepta types SJ-1 and 5 (Anderson 1988: 190 and 192); Group 2 corresponds to Tyre types SJ-13 and 14 (Bikai 1978: 43-45) as well as Sarepta SJ-2, 3 and 4 (Anderson 1988:190-192); Group 3 corresponds to Tyre types SJ-11 and 12 (Bikai 1978: 45) and Sarepta types SJ-6, 7 and 8 (Anderson 1988: 192-194); Group 4 corresponds to Tyre types SJ-8 and 9 (Bikai 1978: 45-46) and Sarepta types SJ-11, 12 and 13 (Anderson 1988: 195-196). © 2018, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 9783447109697 — ISBN E-Book: 9783447197304

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Figure 4. Sidon-Dakkerman tombs 2 and 3 (by the author after Saidah 2004: 41, fig. 7 and p.42, fig. 9).

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Figure 5. Khalde tomb 21 (by the author after Saidah 1966: 74 and 77, nr. 47).

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Figure 6. Stratigraphies of Tell Tweini (a) and Tell Kazel (b). By the author based on the references provided in the text.

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Liverani 2003 – Liverani M. 2003: Relaciones Internacionales en el Próximo Oriente Antiguo, 16001100 a.C. Barcelona. Liverani 2014 – Liverani M. 2014: The Ancient Near East. History, Society and Economy. London and New York. Loud 1948 – Loud G. 1948: Megiddo II: Seasons of 1935–39. Chicago. Mazar 1997 – Mazar A. 1997: Iron Age chronology: a reply to I. Finkelstein. Levant 29: 157-167. Núñez 2010 – Núñez F.J. 2010: Referencias Secuenciales del Repertorio Cerámico Fenicio Metropolitano de la Edad del Hierro Tardío. In L. Nigro (ed.), Motya and the Phoenician Ceramic Repertoire between the Levant and the West 9th–6th Century BC. Quaderni di Archeologia Fenicio-Punica, 5. Rome: 49-83. Núñez 2015a – Núñez F.J. 2015: Phoenician Early Iron Age Ceramic Interaction Dynamics. In Babbi et al. 2015: 111-128. Núñez 2015b – Núñez F.J. 2015: The al-Bass Funerary Ceramic Set. In Cult and Ritual on the Levantine Coast and its Impact on the Eastern Mediterranean Realm. Proceedings of the International Symposium. Beirut 2012. Bulletin d’Archéologie et d’Architecture Libanaises, Hors-Série X. Beirut: 235-254. Núñez 2017 – Núñez F.J. 2017: The Tyrian cemetery of al-Bass and the role of ceramics in the Phoenician funerary ritual. Levant 49/2: 174-191. O’Connor 2000 – O’Connor D. 2000: The Sea Peoples and the Egyptian Sources. In E.D. Oren (ed), The Sea Peoples and Their World: A Reassessment. University Museum Monograph 108. Philadelphia: 85–101. Pedrazzi, Venturi 2011 – Pedrazzi T., Venturi F. 2011: Le ceramiche egizzanti nel Levante Settentrionale (XII – XI Sec. A.C.): aspetti e problemi. Rivista di Studi Fenici e Punici 39/1: 23-54. Penner 2006 – Penner C. 2006: Kamid el-Loz. 19. Die Keramik der Spätbronzezeit. Tempelanlagen T3 bis T1, Palastanlagen P5 bis P1/2, Königsgrab (`Schatzhaus‘) und ‚Königliche Werkstatt‘. Saarbrücker Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 63. Saarbrücke. Pritchard 1969 – Pritchard J.B. 1969: Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament. Princeton. Redford 2000 – Redford D.B. 2000: Egypt and Western Asia in the Late New Kingdom: an overview. In E.D. Oren (ed.), The Sea Peoples and Their World: A Reassessment. University Museum Monograph 108. Philadelphia. 1-20. Riis 1970 – Riis P.J. 1970: Sukas 1: The North-East Sanctuary and the First Settling of Greeks in Syria and Palestine. Publications of the Carlsberg Expedition to Phoenicia 1. Copenhagen. Riis et al. 2004 – Riis P.J., Thuesen I., Lund J., Riis T. (eds), 2004: Topographical Studies in the Gabla Plain. Publications of the Carlsberg Expedition to Phoenicia 13.Viborg. Saidah 1966 – Saidah R. 1966 : Fouilles de Khaldé. Rapport Préliminaire sur la Première et Deuxième Campagnes (1961-1962). Bulletin du Musée de Beyrouth 19: 51-90. Saidah 2004 – Saidah R. 2004: Sidon et la Phénicie Méridionale au Bronze Récent. Â propos des Tombes de Dakerman. Bibliothèque Archéologique et Historique 170. Beirut. Sherrat 1999 – Sherrat S. 1999: E Pur si Muove: Pots, Markets and Values in the Second Millennium Mediterranean. In J.-P. Crielaard, V. Stissi, G.J. van Wijngaarden (eds), The Complex Past of Pottery: Production, Circulation and Consumption of Mycenaean and Greek Pottery (Sixteenth to Early Fifth Centuries B.C.). Proceedings of the Archon International Conference, Held in Amsterdam, 8–9 November 1996. Amsterdam: 163–211. Singer 1999 – Singer I. 1999: A Political History of Ugarit. In W.G.E. Wilfred, N. Wyatt (eds), Handbook of Ugaritic Studies. Handbuch der Orientalistik Abt. 1. Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten Bd. 39. Leiden – Boston – Köln: 601-733. Stockhammer 2012 – Stockhammer P.W. 2012: Conceptualizing cultural hybridization. A transdisciplinary approach. Berlin. Stockhammer 2013 – Stockhammer P.W. 2013: From hybridity to entanglement from essentialism to practice. Archaeology and Cultural Misture 28.1: 11-28.

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Thalmann 2006 – Thalmann J.-P. 2006: Tell Arqa I. Les Niveaux de l’Âge du Bronze. Bibliothèque Archéologique et Historique, 177. Beirut. Toffolo et al. 2014 – Toffolo M.B., Arie E., Martin M.A.S., Boaretto E., Finkelstein I. 2014: Absolute chronology of Megiddo, Israel, in the Late Bronze and Iron Ages: high-resolution radiocarbon dating. Radiocarbon 56.1: 221-244. Van Dommelen, Knapp 2010 – Van Dommelen P., Knapp A.B. 2010: Material connections in the Ancient Mediterranean, Mobility materiality and Mediterranean identities. London-New York. Vansteenhuyse 2010 – Vansteenhuyse K. 2010: La Céramique du Chantier A. In M. al-Maqdisi, K. van Lerberghe, J. Bretschneider, M. Badawi (eds), Tell Tweini. Onze Campaignes de Fouilles Syro-Belges (1999-2010). Documents d’Archeologie Syrienne. Damascus: 95-114. Ventury, Pedrazzi 2011 – Ventury F., Pedrazzi T. 2011: La Ceramiche Egeizzanti nel Levante Settentrionale (XII-XI sec. a.C.): Aspetti e Problemi. Rivista di Studi Fenici: XXXI.1: 23-54. Weippert 1998 – Weippert H. 1998: Kumidi. Die Ergebnisse der Augrabungenaufdem Tell Kamid elLoz in den Jahren 1963 bis 1981. Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästinas Verein 114: 1-38. Yasur-Landau 2010 – Yasur-Landau A. 2010: The Philistines and Aegean Migration at the End of the Late Bronze Age. Cambridge. Yon, Karageorghis, Hirschfeld 2000 – Yon M., Karageorghis V., Hirschfeld N. 2000: Céramiques Mycéniennes d‘Ougarit. Ras Shamra - Ougarit, XIII. Beirut.

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Pottery and Terracottas in Philistia during the Early Iron Age: Aspects of Change and Continuity David Ben-Shlomo Introduction For about 50 years rather intensive archaeological research, initiated by Trude and Moshe Dothan, with the Ashdod excavations in the 1960’s, was dedicated to the Philistines. 1 The Philistine material culture can be considered today a typical example in the archaeology of the Levant where we have the case of a combination of historical records (both biblical and extra-biblical), and a distinct material culture appearing in a limited geographical and chronological context, a coastal strip 70 km long and about 20 km wide in southern Israel. An increasing amount of archaeological evidence from sites in the eastern Mediterranean dating to the late 13th through the 11th century BCE, and in particular from the main Philistine cities Ashdod, Ashkelon, Ekron (Tel Miqne) and Gath (Tell es-Safi) is now available. Gaza, because of its dense population and political situation was never extensively excavated. While it is now almost commonly agreed upon that the Philistine phenomenon can be seen as representing movement of certain amounts of peoples from the Aegean region and/ or Cyprus to the Levant in the period mentioned above, the nature and magnitude of this migration process as well as its exact geographical origin or origins are still very debatable. 2 Moreover, some scholars describe it as a dramatic and violent military event on the background of the collapse of the palatial system, while others as a more gradual influx of immigrants to what later became Philistia. 3 In any case the Philistines may well be considered as a characteristic case of a ‘pots and people’ story during the Iron Age I period (ca. 1200–1000/900 BCE). It is difficult to ignore the alien components which the Philistine material culture contains. These are elements originating from the Aegean region and Cyprus and are alien to the local Canaanite culture, and thus probably brought to Philistia by a group of people during the beginning of the 12th century BCE. However, as will be shown, along the alien components the Philistine culture illustrates a continuity of local elements in its material culture. And thus, a ‘Philistine’ phenomenon can be defined as representing a feature attested in Philistia, either illustrating western influence or other traditions, or developing in an independent manner. The paper will focus mainly on pottery and terracottas, and will attempt to explain the balance between change and continuity in the material culture of early Iron Age Philistia.

1 E.g., Dothan 1982; Dothan, Dothan 1992. 2 E.g., Sherratt 1998; Barako 2000; Yasur-Landau 2010. 3 See e.g., Barako 2000; Yasur-Landau 2010; Ben-Shlomo 2011.

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Pottery Traditions: Philistine Pottery Decorated Philistine pottery is the most well-known and common element of the Philistine material culture. 4 It is also one of the better examples showing the ‘alien’ nature of this culture and its connections with the west. 5 The Philistine Bichrome pottery was already identified and linked to the Mycenaean culture of Greece over 100 years ago by Welch, and then by Mackenzie and Macalister. Chemical and petrographic analysis has shown several times that virtually all this pottery was locally made in the Levant, most likely mainly in the different Philistine city sites. 6 Moreover, several Iron Age I pottery kilns were excavated in Philistia and are associated with Philistine pottery as at Ekron and Tell Jemmeh. 7 As this pottery was locally made, it is clearly it is not evidence of trade connections with the Aegean region or Cyprus, but of either a population from these regions moving to the Levant and procuring pottery, or of a strong cultural influence. It is rather commonly agreed today that this pottery tradition illustrates several typochronological stages. 8 The earliest stage shows the highest affinities to its Aegean prototypes in form, decoration and fabric appearance. In the next stage (the Bichrome stage), the pottery retains its basic Aegean affinities but combines local tradition influence as well. In the latest stage this pottery shows its foreign affinities only in rather limited way, gradually declining. Recently, these different wares were conveniently denoted as Philistine 1, 2 and 3. Ashdod was the first site where the earliest Philistine pottery was found and identified: The ‘Mycenaean IIIC:1b, Philistine Monochrome, or Philistine 1 pottery. 9 Later on this pottery was found in the earliest Iron I levels at Ashkelon, Tel Miqne Ekron (Fields I, III and IV) and in smaller quantities so far at Tell es-Safi-Gath. 10 This pottery is very rare outside these sites. The multitude of names for this pottery ware, probably indicate the different approaches to this phenomenon in the recent decades. For example, the former name (Myc. IIIC:1b) emphasizes the assumed connection to a specific Mycenaean pottery ware, while the latter, are more descriptive, focused on local developments. As noted, much attention was given to this locally produced pottery, which illustrates strong relations in forms, decoration motifs and technique to Late Helladic IIIC Early pottery. 11 Recently, it was suggested that this ware has an earlier ‘linear’ phase, and a later phase in which more sophisticated motifs appear as well. 12 The Philistine 1 pottery represents mostly open forms of table-ware and appears in significant quantities in the earliest Iron I strata in the Philistine cities (Fig. 1). The common forms are bell-shaped bowl (Fig. 1:1, skyphoi), carinated bowls and bell-shaped kraters (Fig. 1:2–3). A distinctive detail is the use of horizontal handles. Closed forms include stirrup jars, spouted jars, ‘feeding bottles’, globular jugs with wide necks, and strainer-spouted jug (Fig. 1:7); other forms appear rarely. Much of the material comes from Tel Miqne-Ekron which

4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

E.g., Dothan 1982; Ben-Shlomo 2006a. Killebrew 2000. Perlman et al. 1971; Gunneweg et al. 1986; Killebrew 1998; Ben-Shlomo 2006a. Killebrew 1998; Ben-Shlomo, Van Beek 2014: 337–349. E.g., Ben-Shlomo 2006a; Dothan et al. 2006. Perlman et al. 1971; Dothan, Porath 1993. Dothan, Zuckerman 2004. Mountjoy 2002; Dothan, Zuckerman 2004; Ben-Shlomo 2006a: 22–25. Mountjoy 2010.

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was excavated during the years 1981–1996, by Trude Dothan and Seymour Gitin. The pottery shown includes previously unpublished pottery from Tel Miqne-Ekron Field III in the southern lower city (Figs. 1–2). Several new types, expanding the Philistine pottery repertoire, were found in this field, as a possible decorated hydria fragment (Fig. 1:6). This is a rare Philistine 1 type, appearing so far only at Ashkelon Phase 20. 13 Both vessels were analyzed by petrography and are locally made. Notably, the Philistine assemblage includes only selected pottery forms compared to the contemporary LHIIIC Early assemblages; forms, which are very common in the Aegean, as spouted bowls, high handled cups and kylikes are rare in Philistia. This fact was emphasized by several scholars, 14 and it was also suggested to be related to different feasting traditions in the Aegean and the Levant. 15 The motifs of decoration, appearing in one color (red or brown), include mostly geometric designs but also rare human depictions, birds, fish and vegetative motifs. There is a distinctive appearance of motifs that may be seen as relating to the sea as fish, and ‘tongues’, spirals, and wavy patterns that may depicts waves in the sea. 16 Stylistically, the Philistine 1 assemblage illustrates strong similarities to locally-produced Aegeanizing pottery on LCIIIA Cyprus, especially to Enkomi, yet many parallels come from the Argolid, the Cyclades, the Dodecanese and even Crete; 17 this is especially true concerning the decorative motifs, which show a certain blend of regional styles. Thus, essentially this ware may be perceived as another regional version of the general Late Helladic IIIC Early-Middle style, which is in itself an array of many local styles. 18 This component of the material culture is therefore not very useful for determining the cultural nature and origin of the Philistine immigrants. The Philistine 2 or Philistine Bichrome ware illustrates a number of changes in relation to the former one. The relative quantities of this ware increase and become up to 50% of the pottery in the main Philistine city sites. The appearance of expands to other sites in Philistia and on its borders as Tel Qasile, Tel Batash, Beth Shemesh, Gezer, Azor, Tell Jemmeh and Qubur Walaydeh, as well as to Levantine sites outside Philistia such as Megiddo, Dan and Dor. 19 Whether this ware outside Philistia was locally produced or imported from Philistia or elsewhere is outside the scope on this paper. This pottery combines the basic Aegean-related forms (although in less variety than the earlier ware) and decoration motifs, but also illustrates Canaanite, Cypriote and Egyptian influences. The vessels are usually coated by a thick chalky white slip and decorated in red and black paint. The decoration in red and black in itself can be considered in principal a Levantine decoration tradition, attested in the previous periods as the Late Bronze and Middle Bronze Age. Common forms are the bell-shapes bowls and kraters (Fig. 1:5) and strainer spouted jugs (Fig. 1:7), as well as other types of bowls and closed vessels. 20 The repertoire of decorative motifs is rich and diversified, and includes many geometric and linear designs as well as birds, fish, rare human depictions, and other motifs. The fi13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Master, Aja 2011: 135, Fig. 5:1. Sherratt 2006; Shtockhammer 2006. Faust 2015, see below. See Dothan 1982; Dothan, Zuckerman 2004; Ben-Shlomo 2010. Dothan, Zuckerman 2004. Mountjoy 1999; 2002. See Dothan 1982; Ben-Shlomo 2006a; Ben-Shlomo 2011. Dothan 1982: 96–150.

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nishing and appearance of the clay are more like local Canaanite pottery. Distinct Egyptian motifs include depiction of the lotus plant. 21 The final Philistine ware of the Iron Age I is the Philistine 3 pottery. This pottery appears in much smaller quantities than the Bichrome ware both in the Philistine cities and the Yarkon valley. 22 It shows only slight resemblance in forms to the Aegean proto-types; for example, the horizontal handles of the bell-shaped bowls and kraters are attached to the body (Fig. 1:4). The decoration is comprised of either linear designs in red or of red slip, in similarity of local tradition pottery in this period. Possibly, this ware fills the gap between the Iron I and Iron Age II ‘Late Philistine’ decorated pottery (the ‘Ashdod ware), decorated by red slip and black and white paint. 23 Cooking Vessels, Traditions and Food-ways In addition to the decorated pottery appearing during the 12th century BCE a new type of cooking vessel was also introduced in Philistia, the cooking jug. 24 This is a jug with a globular-to-ovoid body, about 20 cm in height, about 2–3 liters volume (Fig. 1:8–9). It is made on a fast wheel, as opposed to the Canaanite cooking pots. The cooking jugs commonly have soot marks on the exterior, usually on one side, attesting to their use as cooking vessels. At Ekron, during the 12th century BCE this type, to a large extent, replaces the traditional Canaanite open cooking pots. The cooking jugs can be paralleled to many examples from Cyprus and the Aegean. In the Argolid and Crete some examples are associated with rooms with hearths inside them. 25 They indicate a new cooking tradition in the Levant. Possibly, these vessels were used for cooking or heating near or on rounded or square hearths; the cooking is slower and the capacity is lower than the open cooking pots. The use of a freestanding closed cooking vessel on a slow fire may be appropriate either for re-heating previously prepared food, for cooking meat as a stew, or for boiling. 26 This is opposed to the Canaanite tradition open and larger cooking pots with a rounded base and not free-standing (see Fig. 2:4). Another, usually non-decorated Aegean-related form in Philistia, is the straight-sided basin or kalathos. 27 It seems that in general the Philistine material culture is characterized by a somewhat distinct diet and cooking traditions. 28 These include the use of special cooking facilities -the hearths, special cooking vessels -the cooking jug, and a rise in the use of pig as well as other specific foods as the appearance of a special type of lentil (lathyrus sativus) 29 that requires a special cooking method to remove toxins. All these components are not found in the Late Bronze Age Levant or in the early Iron Age outside Philistia, and show certain links to the Aegean region and Cyprus. It was also suggested that the Philistine pottery or some of it represents feasting events in the Philistine community. In particular this was suggested recently by A. Faust, basically on 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

Dothan 1982: 198–218. See Dothan 1982: 197; Ben-Shlomo 2006a: 35–44. Ben-Shlomo et al. 2004. Killebrew 1999; Dothan, Zuckerman 2004; Ben-Shlomo et al. 2008. Stockhammer 2006: 144, Pl. 7:3; Hallager, Hallager 2000: 82, 162, Pl. 77, f. See Ben-Shlomo et al. 2008. Dothan, Zukerman 2004: 16–21. Ben-Shlomo et al. 2008. See e.g., Kislev and Hopf 1985.

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the basis of the appearance of new types of serving and tableware vessels. 30 It should be noted, however, that there is no clear evidence so far for Aegean-style or other types of feasting events in early Iron Age Philistia. Typical Aegean feasting vessels as large tripod cooking vessels and kylikes are nearly missing from the Philistine assemblage. Furthermore, the socio-economic character of the Philistine people arriving at Philistia may represent lower and middle classes and less the elite in the Mycenaean world, and thus elite-related feasting events should not be expected. 31 Canaanite Tradition Pottery While the Philistine pottery constitutes a large portion of the pottery, at least in the Philistine cities, at least half of the Iron I pottery assemblage is comprised of local, ‘Canaanite’ pottery forms, continuing in most cases Late Bronze Age forms of the 13th century BCE in southern Israel (Fig. 2). The common forms are simple rounded and carinated bowls (Fig. 2:1–2), kraters (Fig. 2:3), chalices, cooking pots (Fig. 2:4), pithoi (Fig. 2:5), jars (Fig. 2:6), jugs and flasks (Fig. 2:8). It should be noted that the Late Bronze Age decorated kraters, jars, jugs and flasks also seem to continue during the 12th century (Fig. 2:7–8). The assemblage also shows the regional characteristics and chronological development attested in other, non-Philistine regional sites (as Beth Shemesh, Gezer and Tel Batash) (see Table 1). Some of these forms continue with some changes to the Iron Age IIA. Decorated Canaanite style pottery appears as well (Fig. 2:7–9); these are mostly biconical kraters and jugs decorated by painted red designs. The pottery at Philistia, especially during the 11th century BCE, shows also a hybridization combining Aegean-related and Canaanite ones. The hybridization could be attested by the form, decoration style motifs or both. For example- Philistine motifs appearing on Canaanite forms as bowls, flasks and jugs (Fig. 2:7). Hybrid types of representation illustrating a certain mixture between the foreign and local elements and influences are present in other aspects of the material culture as terracottas (see below). Terracottas Terracottas in Philistia are the other aspect addressed here. These clay objects are part of the iconographic manifestations in Iron Age Philistia which also include for example ivories and seals and painted motifs on pottery. Iconographic representations in material culture can be considered as representing a cultural and ideological syntax or a certain type of language of the people producing them. They convey a message, reflecting both the background of the person creating the artifact and the recipients of it. Therefore, these items should naturally be more sensitive to ethnic and ideological aspects. 32 Any figurative object combines two major aspects: the motif, image or symbol it represents, and the style in which it is made. As noted, a ‘Philistine’ and a ‘Hybrid’ style and symbolism can be defined. A hybrid type of representation illustrates a certain mixture between the foreign and local elements, while a ‘Philistine’ type can represent a style either copying Aegean proto-types, or, developed in Philistia locally, possibly in an independent manner. The term ‘Canaanite style’ (or Levantine style) denotes traditions that continue the 30 Faust 2015. 31 See also Ben-Shlomo 2011. 32 See Ben-Shlomo 2010.

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general southern Levant traditions of the Late Bronze Age, or develop the southern Levant in the course of the Iron Age. 33 Female and bovine figurines that are similar to Aegean prototypes include three major types: standing, ‘Psi-related’ female figurines (Fig. 3:1–2), seated female figurines (‘Ashdoda’, Fig. 3:3), and decorated bovine figurines (Fig. 3:4). 34 Psi and ‘Psi-related’ figurines depict a schematic standing female with its hands uplifted appearing at Ashdod, Ekron and Ashkelon (Fig. 3:1–2). Several examples preserve the painted decoration depicting the typical dress recalling LHIIIC figurines, indicating that the Philistines had knowledge of the details of these figurines, and probably of their meaning. ‘Ashdoda’ figurines (Fig. 3:3), 35 depict a seated schematic woman, and show in their form a mixture of Aegean and Canaanite features. However, the concept probably originates from Mycenaean seated female figurines. According to parallels from the Mycenaean culture they probably represent an Aegean goddess. This type does not appear before the latter part of the 12th century, absent from the initial stage. Recently, Michael Press suggested that the Philistine figurine types are similar to contemporary types in Cyprus and also show similar chronological developments in both regions during the 12th and 11th centuries BCE. 36 Notably, so far, Canaanite style female plaque figurines were not found in Iron I levels in the Philistines cities. These figurines, continuing the tradition of the Late Bronze Age, reaper in Philistia later in the Iron Age II. 37 Another type of Aegean-style figurine, appearing so far only at the earliest Iron I levels at Ekron, is the decorated bovine figurine (Fig. 3:4). 38 These have good parallels from Tiryns, Phylakopi and LCIIIA Enkomi, Maa-Palaeokastro and Sinda. While there are similarities between Aegean-style bovine figurines from Philistia and Cyprus, it should be noted that the origin of this type is in the Mycenaean culture, and it appears in both these areas only during the 12th century BCE. 39 The fact that Aegean style bovine figurines were found so far only at the earliest levels at Ekron may indicate that the cult practices that related to these figurines were less widespread among the Philistines, than those related to the female figurines. Zoomorphic vessels in the shape of a hedgehog and schematic bird askoi also appear at Ekron. 40 These rare finds are decorated in the Philistine 1 monochrome tradition and have good parallels in the Aegean region. On the other hand zoomorphic vessels in the shapes of bovines and donkeys also appear in the same levels. 41 These are forms known from the Canaanite tradition as the burden-carrying beast and bull-shaped libation vessels. Some vessels appear in a local form but are decorated in the Philistine style, and are thus hybrid (Fig. 4). 42

33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

Ben-Shlomo 2010: 25–29. Ben-Shlomo, Press 2009. Dothan 1971: Fig. 91:1; Yasur-Landau 2001; Ben-Shlomo 2010: 45–51. Press 2014. Ben-Shlomo 2010: 74; Press 2012. Ben-Shlomo, Press 2009: 58–60. See Ben-Shlomo, Press 2009: 58–60. Ben-Shlomo 2008; Ben-Shlomo 2010: 35, 143. Ben-Shlomo 2008. Ben-Shlomo 2010: 105–109.

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Undecorated zoomorphic figurines appear commonly in various periods in the southern Levant, but, the large number of these figurines in Philistine cities, especially at Ekron, may indicate this is a more unique phenomenon, which could relate to the Philistine material culture. More than forty undecorated zoomorphic figurine fragments, were found in Iron I levels at Ekron (Fig. 3:5–6). Examples come from Ashdod and Ashkelon as well. Most of these figurines are made of coarse clay rich with organic temper; they were not fired in a high temperature and in many cases carry black soot residues, as if they were put in fire. It seems that the most dominant animal depicted is the bull, usually identified by its horned head and the hump on the back or nape, dewlap and the stumpy body, with ovoid or rounded section. Most zoomorphic figurines are found in diverse contexts. 43 Undecorated crude zoomorophic figurines were published from Tiryns Unterburg as well as Lefkandi during the Late Helladic IIIC. Cretan LMIIIC examples come from Agia Triadha, and Cypriot 12th century examples come from Enkomi and Maa-Palaeokastro. 44 These figurines may therefore represent domestic cult practices, possibly of a voodoo-like or ‘sympathetic witchcraft’ nature, that are characteristic of post-palatial societies in the Aegean and in the eastern Mediterranean, occurring also in the main urban sites and not only in remote peak sanctuaries. The cult which is possibly represented by these figurines is different than that related to the LHIIIB palatial ‘hearth-wanax’ religious ideology, which is very centralized and homogenized, with most rituals occurring in major shrines. 45 This type of zoomorphic figurines in the Greece, especially in the mainland, could even represent influences from Cyprus or from the Levant in this period, as these figurines are essentially rooted in earlier periods in the Levant. In this case the immigrants in Cyprus and Philistia may have developed these customs independently in the first stage (maybe as a result of interactions with local traditions) and then somehow influenced their peers in the Greek mainland, indicating a continuous communication, or a ‘koine’, between populations in these regions. 46 When examining the archaeological contexts of these finds during the early Iron Age, it seems that the Philistine style figurines were not used in any of the temples or public cultic areas excavated at Philistia. This include the Iron I temples at Tell Qasile which contains many terracottas, including anthropomorphic and zoomorphic vessels, a lion head cup, birdbowls, masks and a stand with figures (dancing?). All these objects show mostly Canaanite iconographic and stylistic tradition, save from an occasional use of the Philistine Bichrome decoration style of red and black over white slip. In particular the head-cup shows Philistine motifs. The style here may be defined as a hybrid one, while the themes are of the local repertoire. 47 It was suggested Building 350 at Ekron is a temple, although its architecture and contents do not indicate this clearly. 48 The structure contained several figurative objects, including a Canaanite style ivory head, an ivory lid with an Aegean style scene, an Egyptian style monkey statue, a kernos with ibexes, a pomegranate vessel and few fragments of bovine and other zoomorphic kernoi. This is indeed a much diversified assemblage but, it seems 43 44 45 46 47 48

See Ben-Shlomo 2010: 114–119; 2011: 195–198. See Ben-Shlomo 2010: 118. Kilian 1988. Ben-Shlomo 2011. Ben-Shlomo 2010: 163–171. Dothan 2003; Mazow 2005.

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the local-Levantine stylistic components in it are more dominant. This situation might be similar in a cultic context or temple at Gath of the early Iron Age II. 49 Other assemblages relating to temples in Philistia are somewhat later and are dated to the Iron Age II, including the temple at Nahal Patish site 50 and the favissa at Yavneh. 51 In particular the Yavneh assemblage yielded a very rich iconographic repertoire. As has been shown by Irit Ziffer the themes appearing in this assemblage are mostly Canaanite in their tradition, while the style shows a hybrid Philistine-Canaanite character. 52 Late Iron Age II cultic context were found at Ashdod and Ekron, the latter yielded a large temple-palace complex of the 7th century BCE. 53 Therefore, the Aegean-style figurines from Iron I Philistia probably represent domestic cultic activities of the Philistine immigrants, who retained elements of their motherland religion. 54 This evidence does not seem to indicate the presence or activities of an elite or priesthood class originating from a palatial Mycenaean society, which is related to the ‘wanax-hearth’ ideology, 55 but rather indicates private activities of a sort of a ‘middle class’ population. Other Figurative Objects Other objects carrying iconographic representations as ivories and seals show in fact less foreign influence. Ivory objects found in Bronze and Iron Ages sites of the southern Levant are usually considered luxurious items. In many cases, ivory carving reflects high artistic skills and is viewed as one of the important iconographic expressions of Near Eastern cultures, a perception evident in biblical and other ancient texts as well. Objects found in Iron I Philistia include inlays, boxes palettes and other items. The majority of ivory carving from Philistia reflects in its technique and iconography distinct and direct relations with both Egyptian and Canaanite traditions; 56 Aegean connections are hardly evident. This group of domestic and relatively luxurious items also sheds light on the daily life of the elite classes in the early Iron Age in the Philistine cities. The relatively large amount of ivory objects in the Philistine sites may stem from the Philistines’ high communal status identity as an elite class in southern Palestine. However, these objects were possibly used by non-Philistine or Canaanite groups as well. Seals and seal impressions found in Philistia also attest mostly Egyptian and Canaanite traditions, both in their style, and iconographic themes. 57 It should also be noted that so far hardly any evidence has been found for an Aegean-oriented Philistine script or administration system. Stager and Cross’s suggestion (2006) regarding the marked jar handles from Ashkelon and their relation to the Cypro-Minoan script and administration system is somewhat problematic. This is since many of the signs appearing are also common in earlier and later periods throughout the southern Levant. It is suggested, thus, that in the Philistine 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

Maeir et al. 2013: 21–23. Nahshoni 2009. Kletter et al. 2010. Ziffer, Kletter 2007; Kletter et al. 2010: 65–66. Gitin 2003. See, e.g., Berry 1997. E.g., Kilian 1988. See Ben-Shlomo and Dothan 2006. Ben-Shlomo 2006b; 2010.

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cities the Aegean-related iconographic syntax penetrated mostly to the realms of daily life and domestic cult, as manifested by the pottery decoration and terracottas. The dominions of administration and writing as well as other traditional crafts such as ivory carving were still under the influence of the local Canaanite and Egyptian traditions. Discussion When the material culture of Philistia between the 12th and 10th centuries BCE is examined one realizes that alongside the distinct new features appearing in this region a certain degree of continuity exists. The continuity is also attested to a certain degree by the architectural remains in the Philistine cities. Both at Ashdod and Ashkelon there is no clear evidence of a violent destruction in the end of the Late Bronze Age. Rather, some structural elements are continued to be used in the earliest Iron I phases. At Ekron, however, there are signs of a destruction of the acropolis Late Bronze Age settlement. Also Ekron, as well as other Philistine city sites, seem to undergo a substantial expansion, either in the very beginning of the Iron Age, or in a certain stage of this period. The arrival of the Philistines to the southern Levant was often described as a very dramatic, sudden and even violent event, occurring on the background of the collapse of the Aegean palatial system, either as its cause, effect or both, as the textual evidence on the ‘Sea Peoples’ and the damage reported to have been caused by them, may indicate. These descriptions sometime allude to refugees from the palatial society and/or groups of violent Sea Peoples or Sea Raiders. Stager describes two waves of a coordinated attack of the coast in a ‘D-Day’–like event, 58 while Yasur-Landau describes a terrestrial migration of large numbers of civilian population as an ‘exodus-like’ event, and violent colonization. 59 However, the Philistine settlement in Philistia could have been a more gradual nonmilitary process occurring during several decades. Eventually, such an accumulation of immigrants divided in some way between the five major cities (and possibly smaller sites) would undoubtedly have a significant effect on the society and material culture of Philistia. The different cities may have accommodated different numbers of immigrants, probably dictated according to the political and socio-economic situation present in each location. 60 I believe that the material finds from Iron Age I Philistia seem to fit the latter scenario better. In particular, the aspects of change and continuity in the material culture briefly surveyed above support an assumption that the Iron I Philistine material culture represents a community of immigrants that was a component within the society structure in Philistia. The selective nature in which Aegean or Cypriote elements appear in the Philistine culture would also fit an immigrant society. The foreign elements introduced by the Philistine could reflect an immigrant society using such objects mainly in their domestic sphere: decorated pottery, cooking vessels, figurines, food consumption. In the same time elements of the Canaanite culture continue to be present, including in the official cult (temples), higher classes (ivories) and possibly in the administration (seals). Egyptian influence was still present during this period, as the Egyptian may have controlled some of the region of the southern Israel coast in the earlier Iron I. 58 Stager 1991: 35. 59 Yasur-Landau 2003; 2010. 60 See Ben-Shlomo 2011: 201–202.

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Burmeister (2000) suggested that when dealing with reflection of immigrants on material culture more emphasis should be given to domestic daily practices and assemblages rather than to public, cultic or burial ones. The appearance of the Philistine foreign cultural elements can be also seen as representing a part of a ‘resistance’ mechanism of an immigrant society with a larger (Canaanite) hosting society. 61 The traditional view seeing the Philistine phenomenon as representing a group of people arriving from the west—either Greece, Cyprus, the Aegean coast of Turkey, or combinations of these—to Philistia during the beginning of the 12th century BCE, and bringing various aspects of their material culture with them, can be maintained. Yet, the effect of this phenomenon on the local political scene of the southern Levant may have been more gradual and complex. The Philistines as an ethnic group may have gained more political power rather later in the Iron Age II period, when ethic states have evolved throughout the Levant. This can be attested by external Assyrian and other texts. In the same time this population abandoned some its material representations that linked it to the Aegean traditions. Maybe, as it was not needed any more as an ethnic marker or a ‘resistance’ tool of a minority immigrant group. 62 During the subsequent stages of the Iron Age, the late Iron Age I and the Iron Age II Philistia maintains a degree of political and cultural independence, and, thus, it still seems justified to continue and treat the material culture of Philistia throughout the Iron Age as a well-defined cultural unit, but, the late Philistine culture is beyond the scope of this paper.

61 See Ben-Shlomo 2011: 205–206. 62 See e.g., Ostergen 1988, for a modern example.

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Figure 1. Philistine Iron Age I Pottery from Tel Miqne-Ekron, Field III.

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Figure 2. Iron Age I Pottery from Tel Miqne-Ekron, Field III (Canaanite and hybrid types).

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Figure 3. Iron Age I figurines from Philistine sites.

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Figure 4. Zoomorphic libation vessels from Tel Miqne-Ekron: showing Canaanite forms and Philistine-style decoration (after Ben-Shlomo 2010: Fig. 3.55:1–2).

Bibliography

AJA – American Journal of Archaeology BASOR – Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research IEJ – Israel Exploration Journal Barako 2000 – Barako T.J. 2000: The Philistine Settlement as a Mercantile Phenomenon? AJA 104: 513–30. Ben-Shlomo 2006a – Ben-Shlomo D. 2006: Decorated Philistine Pottery: An Archaeological and Archaeometric Study. B.A.R. International Series No. 1541. Oxford. Ben-Shlomo 2006b – Ben-Shlomo D. 2006: New Evidence of Seals and Sealings from Philistia. Tel Aviv 33/2: 134–62. Ben-Shlomo 2008 – Ben-Shlomo D. 2008: Zoomorphic Vessels from Tel Miqne-Ekron and the Different Styles of Philistine Pottery. IEJ 58/1: 24–47. Ben-Shlomo 2010 – Ben-Shlomo D. 2010: Philistine Iconography: A Wealth of Style and Symbolism. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 241. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Ben-Shlomo 2011 – Ben-Shlomo D. 2011: Early Iron Age Domestic Material Culture in Philistia and an Eastern Mediterranean Koiné. In A. Yasur-Landau, J.R. Ebeling, L.B. Mazow (eds), Household Archaeology in Ancient Israel and Beyond, Leiden: Brill, 183–206. Ben-Shlomo, Dothan 2006 – Ben-Shlomo D., Dothan T. 2006: Ivories from Philistia: Filling the Iron Age I Gap. IEJ 56/1:1–38.

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Ben-Shlomo, Press 2009 – Ben-Shlomo D., Press M.D. 2009: A Reexamination of Aegean-Style Figurines in Light of New Evidence from Ashdod, Ashkelon and Ekron. BASOR 353:1–37. Ben-Shlomo, Van Beek 2014 – Ben-Shlomo D., Van Beek G. 2014: Excavation at Tell Jemmeh, Israel 1970–1990. Smithsonian Contributions to Anthropology, No. 50. Washington DC. Ben-Shlomo, Shai, Maeir 2004 – Ben-Shlomo D., Shai I., Maeir, A.M. 2004: Late Philistine Decorated Ware (“Ashdod Ware”): Typology, Chronology, and Production Centers. BASOR 335: 1–35. Ben-Shlomo, Shai, Zukerman, Maeir 2008 – Ben-Shlomo D., Shai I., Zukerman A., Maeir A.M. 2008: Cooking Identities: Aegean-Style Cooking Jugs and Cultural Interaction in Iron Age Philistia and Neighboring Regions. AJA 112.2: 225–246. Berry J.W. 1997 – Berry J.W. 1997: Immigration, Acculturation and Adaptation. Applied Psychology: An International Review 46/1: 5–34. Bierling 1998 – Bierling N. 1998: Report of the 1995-1996 Excavations of Field XNW (Miqne Field Reports Series 7). Jerusalem: Albright Institute. Burmeister 2000 – Burmeister S. 2000: Archaeology and Migration. Approaches to an Archaeological Proof of Migration. Current Anthropology 41/4:539–567. Cross, Stager 2006 – Cross F.M., Stager L.E. 2006: Cypro-Minoan Inscriptions Found in Ashkelon. IEJ 56/2:129–159. Dothan 1971 – Dothan M. 1971: Ashdod II-III. ‘Atiqot 10–11. Jerusalem. Dothan 1982 – Dothan T. 1982: The Philistines and Their Material Culture. Jerusalem. Dothan 2003 – Dothan T. 2003: The Aegean and the Orient: Cultic Interactions. In W.G. Dever, S. Gitin (eds), Symbiosis, Symbolism, and the Power of the Past: Canaan, Ancient Israel, and Their Neighbors from the Late Bronze Age through Roman Palaestina. Winona Lake, IN: 189–213. Dothan, Dothan 1992 – Dothan T., Dothan M. 1992: People of the Sea: In Search of the Philistines. New York: Macmillan. Dothan, Gitin, Zukerman 2006 – Dothan T., Gitin S., Zukerman A. 2006: The Pottery: Canaanite and Philistine Traditions and Cypriote and Aegean Imports. In M.W. Meehl, T. Dothan, S. Gitin (eds), Tel Miqne-Ekron. Excavations 1995-1996, Field INE East Slope: Late Bronze II-Iron I (The Early Philistine City). Jerusalem: 71–176. Dothan, Porath 1993 – Dothan M., Porath Y. 1993: Ashdod V. ‘Atiqot 23. Jerusalem: IAA. Dothan, Zukerman 2004 – Dothan T., Zukerman A. 2004: A Preliminary Study of the Mycenaean IIIC:1 Pottery Assemblage from Tel Miqne-Ekron and Ashdod. BASOR 333: 1–54. Faust 2015 – Faust A. 2015: Pottery and Society in Iron Age Philistia: Feasting, Identity, Economy, and Gender. BASOR 373: 167–198. Gitin 2003 – Gitin S. 2003: Israelite and Philistine Cult and the Archaeological Record: The “Smoking Gun” Phenomenon. In W.G. Dever, S. Gitin (eds), Symbiosis, Symbolism and the Power of the Past. Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns: 279–295. Gunneweg, Perlman, Dothan, Gitin 1986 – Gunneweg J., Perlman I., Dothan T., Gitin S. 1986: On the Origin of Pottery from Tel Miqne-Ekron. BASOR 264: 3–16. Hallager, Hallager 2000 – Hallager E., Hallager B. (eds), 2000: The Greek-Swedish Excavations at the Agia Aikaterini Square Kastelli, Khania 1970-1987. Vol. II The Late Minoan IIIC Settlement. Stockholm. Kilian 1988 – Kilian K. 1988: The Emergence of Wanax Ideology in the Mycenaean Palaces. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 7(3): 291–302. Killebrew 1998 – Killebrew A.E. 1998: Ceramic Typology and Technology of Late Bronze II and Iron I Assemblages from Tel Miqne-Ekron: The Transition from Canaanite to Philistine Culture. In S. Gitin, A. Mazar, E. Stern (eds), Mediterranean Peoples in Transition. Thirteenth to Early Tenth Centuries BCE. Jerusalem: 379–405. Killebrew 1999 – Killebrew A.E. 1999: Late Bronze and Iron I Cooking Pots in Canaan: A Typological, Technological and Functional Study. In T. Kapitan (ed.), Archaeology, History and Culture in Palestine and the Near East. Essays in Memory of Albert E. Glock (ASOR Books Volume 3). Atlanta: 83–126.

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Killebrew 2000 – Killebrew A.E. 2000: Aegean-Style Early Philistine Pottery in Canaan During the Iron I Age: A Stylistic Analysis of Mycenaean IIIC:1b Pottery and Its Associated Wares. In E.D. Oren (ed.), The Sea Peoples and their World: A Reassessment. Philadelphia: 233–253. Kislev, Hopf 1985 – Kislev M.E., Hopf M. 1985: Food remains from Tell Qasile. In A. Mazar (ed.), Excavations at Tell Qasile, Part Two (Qedem 20). Jerusalem: 140–147. Kletter, Ziffer, Zwickel 2010 – Kletter R., Ziffer I., Zwickel W. 2010: Excavations at Yavneh I: The ‘Temple Hill’. Repository of Cultic Stands (tentative title). OBO SA 30. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Maeir, Hitchcock, Horwitz 2013 – Maeir A.M., Hitchcock L.A., Horwitz L.K. 2013: On the Constitution and Transformation of Philistine Identity. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 32(1): 1–38. Master, Aja 2011 – Master D.M., Aja A. 2011: The House Shrine of Ashkelon. IEJ 61/2:129–145. Mazar 1985 – Mazar A. 1985: Excavations at Tell Qasile, Part Two. The Philistine Sanctuary: Various Finds, The Pottery, Conclusions, Appendixes. Qedem 20. Jerusalem: Hebrew University. Mazow 2005 – Mazow L.B. 2005: Competing Material Culture: Philistine Settlement at Tel MiqneEkron in the Early Iron Age. Unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation. Tucson. Mountjoy 1999 – Mountjoy P.A. 1999: Regional Mycenaean Decorated Pottery. Rahden/Westfalen. Mountjoy 2002 – Mountjoy P.A. 2002: Mycenaean Pottery: An Introduction. Oxford: University Press. Mountjoy 2010 – Mountjoy P.A. 2010: A Note on the Mixed Origins of Some Philistine Pottery. BASOR 359: 1–12. Nahshoni 2009 – Nahshoni P. 2009: Evidence for Cultic Practices from a Rural Temple in the Northwestern Negev. Lecture in a Seminar Day in Ben-Gurion University, Beer Sheva, January 15, 2009. Ostergren 1988 – Ostergren R.C. 1988: A Community Transplanted: The Trans-Atlantic Experience of a Swedish Immigrant Settlement in the Upper Middle West, 1835–1915. Uppsala: Almqvist and Wiksell. Panitz-Cohen 2006 – Panitz-Cohen N. 2006: The Pottery of Strata XII–V. In N. Paintz-Cohen, A. Mazar (eds), Timnah (Tel Batash) III: The Finds from the Second Millennium BCE. Qedem 45. Jerusalem: The Hebrew University: 9–150. Perlman, Asaro, Friedman 1971 – Perlman I., Asaro F., Friedman, D. 1971: Provenience Studies of Tel Ashdod Pottery Employing Neutron Activation Analysis. In Dothan, M. Ashdod (eds), II-III. ‘Atiqot 10–11, Jerusalem. 215–219. Press 2012 – Press M.D. 2012: Ashkelon 4. The Iron Age Figurines of Ashkelon and Philistia. Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns. Press 2014 – Press M.D. 2014: The Chronology of Philistine Figurines. IEJ 64/2: 140–171. Sherratt 1998 – Sherratt E.S. 1998: “Sea Peoples” and the Economic Structure of the Late Second Millennium in the Eastern Mediterranean. In S. Gitin, A. Mazar. E. Stern (eds), Mediterranean Peoples in Transition: Thirteenth to Early Tenth Centuries BCE. Jerusalem: 292–313. Sherratt 2006 – Sherratt E.S. 2006: The Chronology of the Philistine Monochrome Pottery: An Outsider’s View. In A. Maeir, P. Miroschedji (eds), “I Will Speak the Riddles of Ancient Times”: Archaeological and Historical Studies in Honor of Amihai Mazar on the Occasion of His Sixtieth Birthday. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Vol. I, 361–374. Stager 1991 – Stager L.E. 1991: When Canaanites and Philistines Ruled Ashkelon. Biblical Archaeology Review 17/2: 24–37, 40–43. Stockhammer 2006 – Stockhammer P. 2006: Bericht zur spätmykenischen Keramik aus Stadt-Nordost. In J. Maran (ed.), Forschunden im Stadtgebiet von Tiryns 1999–2002, Archaologischer Anzeiger 2006: 139–62. Yasur-Landau 2001 – Yasur-Landau A. 2001: The Mother(s) of All Philistines? Aegean Enthroned Deities of the 12th-11th Century Philistia. In R. Laffineur, R. Hägg (eds), Potnia, Deities in the Aegean Bronze Age (Aegeum 22). Liège: 329–343. Yasur-Landau 2003 – Yasur-Landau A. 2003: The Many Faces of Colonization: 12th Century Aegean Settlements in Cyprus and the Levant. Mediterranean Archaeology and Archaeometry 3/1: 45–54.

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Yasur-Landau 2010 – Yasur-Landau A. 2010: The Philistines and Aegean Migration at the End of the Late Bronze Age. Cambridge: University Press. Ziffer, Kletter 2007 – Ziffer I., Kletter R. 2007: In the Field of the Philistines. Cult Furnishings from the Favissa of a Yavneh Temple. Tel Aviv: Eretz Israel Museum.

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The Philistines be upon thee, Samson (Jud. 16:20): Reassessing the Martial Nature of the Philistines – Archaeological Evidence vs. Ideological Image? Aren M. Maeir The image that is often conjured in modern understandings of the Philistines is that of a strong, warlike society. This is mostly likely based on the martial image of the Philistines in the biblical narratives, in which they are depicted as a mighty enemy, repeatedly fighting the Israelites and Judahites (at times, quite successfully). In just about all surveys of the Philistines, their history, and their relations with Israel/Judah, the military prowess and domination of the Philistines, during the early stages of the Iron Age, is accentuated. 1 The military might of the Philistines is often connected to the biblical depiction of Goliath and his impressive panoply, which when compared to the description of Israelite weaponry and military knowledge, seemingly reflects Philistine military and technological dominance during the early Iron Age. 2 Similarly, the well-known reliefs in the mortuary temple of Rameses III in Medinet Habu, where the Philistines and other “Sea Peoples”, in the midst of an all-out mêlée with the Egyptian army and navy, are depicted carrying a variety of weapons, and seemingly of very impressive military abilities. This being the case, one would expect that after more than a century of quite intensive excavations at many sites in Philistia, evidence of the weaponry related to the Philistine culture would have emerged. However, the situation is quite to the contrary. As already noted by Koller, 3 very few items that can identified as weaponry have been recovered from Iron I (by and large, even Iron II) Philistia. Earlier research suggested that a sword, supposedly found at Beth Dagon, Israel (SE of modern Tel Aviv), kept in the British Museum, should be identified as a Philistine sword, as it was seemingly identical to the straight swords held the “Sea Peoples” in the Medinet Habu reliefs. Shalev (1988) long ago demonstrated that it in fact dates to the EB IV and had no connection to the Philistines. The paucity of weapons of any type from Iron Age sites in Philistia is quite conspicuous. A survey of sites in Philistia dating to the Iron Age demonstrate this quite clearly.

1 E.g., Macalister 1914; Alt 1953; Wainwright 1959; Wright 1966; Hestrin 1970; Hindson 1971; Albright 1975; Strobel 1976; Dothan 1982; Sandars 1985; Bierling 1992; Dothan, Dothan 1992; Stager 1995; Ehrlich 1996: 23-25; Garbini 1997; Machinist 2000: 58-59; Killebrew 2005; Singer 2013; Faust 2015; D’Amato, Salimbeti 2015; Niesiołowski-Spanò 2016. 2 E.g., Yadin 1955; King 2007; Garsiel 2009; Millard 2009; Zorn 2010; cf. Finkelstein 2002; see further discussion below. 3 Koller 2012: 191–192.

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Below is an interim list of various weaponry from Philistine sites: 4 Tel Qasile: Mazar reports a few weapons and weapon-like objects from the excavations of the Philistine levels at Tel Qasile. 5 A bronze axe-adze that was an offering in the Stratum X (Iron Age IB) temple, which most likely was not a weapon; 6 a bronze spearhead 7 and bronze arrowhead 8 both from the Stratum XI (Iron IA/B) temple; A bimetallic knife was found in the Stratum XII (Iron Age IA) temple, but such objects are of symbolic and nonmartial character. 9 Azor: In the final report on the 58 Iron Age tombs excavated by Moshe Dothan at Azor, Ben-Shlomo 10 mentions only two relevant objects: a bimetallic knife from an Iron II burial 11 – as noted above – most likely is not a weapon; and a knife or spear point, 12 which although found in an Early Islamic context, may date to the Iron Age. In the more recent excavations of the Azor cemetery, 13 no weapons were reported. Tel Miqne-Ekron: The early Iron Age levels at Tel Miqne-Ekron produced a few weapons. This includes a possible bronze axe head from Iron IA, Stratum VIA, 14 a bronze spear butt 15 from Stratum VB (Iron IB), a bimetallic knife from Iron Age IB, Stratum VA 16 and a very similar knife from Iron Age IB, Stratum VC, though with an iron rivet (instead of the bronze rivets found in bimetallic knives), 17 a bronze arrowhead from Stratum VC, 18 and a bronze armor scale from Iron IC, Stratum IVA. 19 Ashdod: A small selection of weapons were reported from Ashdod. Dothan and Porath report a bronze spearhead 20 and a bronze knife (but this might be a tool). 21 Dothan and Porath report a bronze sword from a very early Iron I context (Stratum XIIIb), 22 and a tanged bronze blade from Stratum XII. 23 Ben-Shlomo reports a bronze arrowhead from Stratum 4 The sites included in this list are those with predominant evidence of the Philistine culture, within the region usually identified as settled by the Philistine culture. I am very much aware of the problematic aspects of clearly defining the cultural affiliation of sites to specific cultures (e.g. Maeir, Hitchcock 2016) and thus discuss sites that just about all researchers agree that they are Philistine in character during the Iron Age (or parts of the period). Thus, sites with questionable cultural affiliation, such as Tel Eton (with the so-called “Philistine Tomb” – in which two arrowheads were reported – Edelstein, Aurant 1992: 28, fig. 13:16-17; see as well Faust 2015) are not included in this list. 5 Mazar 1985. 6 Mazar 1985: 3-4, photo 1, fig. 1:1. 7 Mazar 1985: 4-5, photo 2, fig. 1:3. 8 Mazar 1985: 5, fig. 1:2. 9 Dothan 2002; Ben-Shlomo, Dothan 2006. 10 Ben-Shlomo 2012. 11 Ben-Shlomo 2012: 160-162, fig. 5.25.13 12 Ben-Shlomo 2012: 162; not illustrated. 13 Buchennino and Yannai 2010. 14 Drenka, Ben-Shlomo 2016: 500, color photo 10.2:3; but this might have served as a tool. 15 Ben-Shlomo 2006: 193, fig. 5.2:4. 16 Drenka, Ben-Shlomo 2016: 500-501, color photo 10.2:1. 17 Drenka, Ben-Shlomo 2016: 501, color photo 10.2:2. 18 Drenka, Ben-Shlomo 2016: 501, color photo 10.2:4. 19 Drenka, Ben-Shlomo 2016: 502, color photo 10.3:1. 20 Dothan, Porath 1982: fig. 12:4. 21 Dothan, Porath 1982: fig. 17:5. 22 Dothan, Porath 1993: fig. 17:17 23 Dothan, Porath 1993: fig. 36:7.

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XII (Iron Age IA), three Iron arrowheads from Stratum IX-VIII (Iron IIB), and three iron spearheads from Stratum VII (Iron Age IIC). 24 Tell es-Safi/Gath: Only a small amount weapons was found in the Iron Age levels at Tell es-Safi/Gath. This includes: a hoard of bronze iron arrowheads and a knife blade found in the late 9th cent. (Iron IIA) temple of the lower city (Area D; Fig. 1); a bimetallic knife from the Iron Age I (but see comments above on these objects); a few as yet unpublished bronze arrowheads found in various Iron I and Iron II contexts; a bronze armor scale from an early Iron Age cultic context; and possible evidence for the production of bone arrowheads from the late 9th cent. BCE. 25 Interestingly, it should be stressed that only two arrowheads (as yet unpublished) were found in the late Iron I/early Iron IIA tomb excavated near the tell. 26 Ashkelon: Preliminary reports on the recently discovered, Iron IIA-B cemetery at Ashkelon indicate that few of the burials contained weaponry, save for one male who was buried with a collection of arrowheads, perhaps representing the contents of a quiver. 27 In addition to this, weapons were reported from the late Iron Age II (late 7th cent. BCE) stratum, destroyed by the Babylonians in 604 BCE. From this level, Aja notes 21 iron bladed objects (most weapons but some possibly tools), 16 iron pointed objects (including spearheads and arrowheads of various types), one iron armor scale, and 13 bronze pointed objects (including spear heads and arrowheads of various types). 28 Tell Jemmeh: Ben-Shlomo and Gardiner report two trilobate bronze arrowheads from the Iron IIC levels, 29 and a group of large iron spearheads or arrowheads and a spear butt from Iron IIC contexts as well. 30 All these objects come from late Iron Age contexts, most likely related to the Assyrian activity at Tell Jemmeh. 31 Tell el-Far’ah (S): The excavations by Petrie in the early Iron Age cemeteries at Tell el-Farah (S) 32 revealed a selection of weapons: Tomb 542 of the Iron IA contained a dagger with an iron blade and bronze handle, along with a bronze dagger; 33 Tomb 552 of the Iron IA contained a bronze spear butt; 34 Tomb 562 of the Iron Age IA had an Iron knife and a bronze dagger; 35 Tombs 615 of the Iron Age IB contained a bronze knife with a bone handle. 36 From this provisional list it appears that weapons were not overly common at Iron Age sites in Philistia. Save for a few examples from the tombs from Tell el-Farah (S), and a few arrowheads from Tell es-Safi/Gath and Ashkelon, very few weapons are found in tombs in Iron Age Philistia. Many of the weapons derive from late Iron Age contexts, much later that 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

Ben-Shlomo 2005. Horwitz et al. 2006; Maeir et al. 2009. For the preliminary report, see Faerman et al. 2011. Based on personal communications with the excavators and the recently published preliminary report (Master, Aja 2017). Aja 2011. Ben-Shlomo, Gardiner 2014: 880-881, fig. 21.1: n-o. Ben-Shlomo, Gardiner 2014: 881-882, fig. 21.2. E.g. Ben-Shlomo 2014. In general, see Laemmel 2003. Petrie 1930: pls. XXI: 89-90; XXV; Dothan 1982: 32, pls. 2:1-2. Petrie 1930: pl. XXI: 92; Dothan 1982: 32, fig. 7:22. Petrie 1930: pl. XXI: 94, 96; Dothan 1982: 32, fig. 8: 22-23. Petrie 1930: pls. XXX-XXXI.

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the supposed milieu of the biblical and Egyptian depictions of the military might and martial character of the Philistines. One might claim that this relative lack of weaponry is due to poor preservation. However, this is hard to accept. If one compares the amounts of weaponry from the Middle and Late Bronze Ages on the one hand, 37 and from the Iron Age II on the other 38 in Canaan in general and in Philistia in particular, it is clear that weaponry often does survive in this region. Similarly, when one compares this situation to other cultures of the same timeframe, in other regions, there is explicit archaeological evidence of warfare-related finds. For example, the well-known warrior burials with ample examples of weaponry from the early Iron Age Aegean, 39 or farther afield – the Tollense Valley battle site in northern Germany, ca. 1200 BCE, 40 with extensive evidence of weapons of various kinds. Once again, the lack of weaponry in Philistia stands out. More so, excavations at neighboring Khirbet Qeiyafa, in a late Iron I/early Iron IIA context of apparent Judahite cultural orientation, a large cache of iron and bronze weapons was found 41. Clearly then, weaponry did survive in the archaeological record in this region from this period. Thus, it is more likely that this paucity is due to other reasons – and I would suggest that it might indicate a relative lack of weaponry in the Philistine culture in general. If so, this should have a direct impact on how we reconstruct Philistine culture – and the extent of its martial character on the one hand, and clear-cut military dominance of other cultures on the other. Is early Iron Age Philistine culture a socially dominant, conquering and militarilyactive society? Or is this in need of reassessment? Does the archaeological evidence – as opposed to the biblical texts and the Egyptian reliefs, support this image of the Philistines? Alternatively, was the on-the-ground realia somewhat different? I’m not sure that we ever will be able to know what exactly this reflects, but it does indicate that we should be wary of the previously accepted overly martial image of the Philistines. 42 Let me be crystal clear. I do think that in comparison to the early Israelites, and perhaps other groups as well, the Philistines, during the Iron Age I and IIA, most probably had distinct social, organization, technological and military advantages. Moreover, it may very well be that some of the early Iron Age I/IIA destruction levels seen in Philistia and the eastern Shephelah are the result of Philistine military activity (e.g. Khirbet Qeiyafa 43 and Khirbet e-Rai 44).

E.g., Philip 1989; Miron 1992; Shalev 2004. E.g., Gottlieb 2004; Sass, Ussishkin 2004. E.g., Treherne 1995; Whitley 2002; Molloy 2016. E.g. Jantzen et al. 2011. Garfinkel et al. 2016: 82, fig. 48 The lack of military hardware from Iron Age Philistia might be seen to run contrary to the suggestion that some of the early Philistines derived from a pirate-like character (e.g. Hitchcock, Maeir 2014; 2016; in press). Perhaps, the pirate-like behavior of those of the early Philistines that were associated with piratical activities were abandoned after their arrival in Philistia in Iron I, and metal weapons from the piratical activities were recycled into implements useful to an agrarian society. 43 Garfinkel et al. 2016. 44 Garfinkel, Ganor 2017.

37 38 39 40 41 42

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That said, I believe caution is warranted as to how the modern “images” of the Philistines, based on biblical traditions and modern ideological constructs, can affect our understanding of the past, and create misguided reconstructions of the early Iron Age. Biblical depictions do retain information on certain aspects of the early Iron Age Philistines, but significant parts of these depictions reflect later, ideologically-driven narratives. Names and terms relating to the Philistines appearing in the biblical texts and epigraphic finds, clearly indicate connections with the early Iron Age. 45 Similarly, as previously noted, the important status of Gath as portrayed in the biblical texts relating to the period of the early Judahite monarchy, fits in well with the archaeological evidence from the excavations at Tell es-Safi/Gath. 46 Moreover, the image of the Philistines as a socially, technologically, and even military advanced society (in comparison to the Israelites) is well evidenced by the archaeological finds at the various Philistine sites. 47 However, many of the depictions relating to the Philistines during the early Iron Age clearly include aspects more at home with later parts of the Iron Age, and in some cases, post-Iron Age periods as well. While I don’t accept suggestions that all aspects of the David and Goliath story relate to the very late Iron Age 48 or post-Iron Age, 49 the mixed nature of Goliath’s weaponry, 50 and clear evidence of the complex editing of the David and Goliath narrative indicate that the story reflects early and later aspects mixed together. 51 The depictions of the Sea Peoples and the Philistine in the Medinet Habu reliefs are often seen as straightforward historical depictions of the early Iron Age Philistines. However, despite the fact that some contemporary early Iron Age evidence can be gleaned from these depictions, a facile extrapolation of these depictions to recreate early Iron Age Philistine society and military prowess is hard to accept, as it is clear that they are highly ideologically colored depictions. 52 Finally, modern perceptions of the Philistines and the Sea Peoples contribute to this image. Silberman has already noted the very strong influence of Victorian era worldviews on the early interpretation of the Philistines as invading peoples, and the ongoing influence of these views in modern research. 53 Other aspects of modern ideological underpinnings undoubtedly contribute to this as well. All of these cautionary remarks do not mean that the Philistines were non-violent pacifists. Rather, the image that we have of them of bloodthirsty and mighty warriors is in need of revision. Such images of the Philistines still affect current research. Most recently, Faust argued for evidence of Philistine colonialism in the early Iron Age southern Levant. 54 In his opinion, the appearance of objects with a clear connection to the Philistine culture in a tomb at Tel Eton (the so-called “Philistine Tomb”), 55 should be seen as evidence of local Canaanite elites 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55

E.g. Davis et al. 2015; Maeir et al. 2016. See, e.g. Maeir 2012 and there additional literature. E.g. Maeir 2012. E.g. Finkelstein 2002. E.g., Gmirkin 2006; Rodan 2015. Already noted by Galling 1966. E.g., Auld, Ho 1992; van der Kooij 1992. E.g. Ben-Dor Evian 2015. Silberman 1998. Faust 2015. Edelstein, Aurant 1992.

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emulating Philistine material culture in the context of a colonial relationship. This scenario assumes (as most previous research does) that the Philistines were a dominating, colonizing culture. However, the relative lack of weaponry noted above, as well as mounting evidence that the very appearance of the Philistine culture should not be seen as the result a clear-cut situation of foreign conquest and cultural domination, but rather a mixed and multi-faceted process, 56 makes this supposition difficult to accept. In order to justify the definition of a the socio-political relations between groups as colonial, one must have a clear relationship of domination between a dominating party (in this case, supposedly the Philistines) and a dominated party (supposedly the “Canaanites”). 57 Based on the available archaeological evidence, this claim is hard to accept. In summary, let me reiterate that while it is clear that if one compares the Philistine culture to that of the early Israelites and Judahites, it does appear that the former had distinct technological, organizational and most probably military advantages. That said, the biblical and contemporary image of the Philistines as the mighty enemy of the early Israelites might very be the result of ideological narratives, narratives in which the prowess of the Philistines was exaggerated in the context of the depiction of early Israelite/Judahite foundation at narratives. What does this mean? That attempts to recreate the social, political and military characteristics of the Philistines, and their relations with other contemporary cultures, should be cautious in acceptance of age-old images of who the Philistines were. Instead, we should strive to base this on the actual historical and archaeological data.

56 E.g., Maeir, Hitchcock 2017a; 2017b. 57 On the character of colonial relations, see, e.g. Horvarth 1972; Mohanty 1984: 333; Osterhammel 2005: 8; Jordan 2009; Kohn 2011; Ypi 2013: 162; Steinmitz 2014: 79–80; Loomba 2015: 20.

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L.119808 B.1198046

Figure 1. View of heavily corroded cache of iron arrowheads from the Stratum D3 (late 9th cent BCE) temple in Area D, Tell es-Safi/Gath.

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Sandars 1985 – Sandars N. 1985: The Sea Peoples: Warriors of the Ancient Mediterranean. Ancient Peoples and Places. London: Thames & Hudson. Sass, Ussishkin 2004 – Sass B., Ussishkin D. 2004: The Weapony of the Assyrian Attack. Section B: Spears, Armour Scales and Slingstones. In D. Ussishkin (ed.), The Renewed Archaeological Excavations at Lachish (1973-1994). Monographs Series of the Institute of Archaeology. Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University: Vol II: 1970-82. Shalev 1988 – Shalev S. 1988: Redating the ‘Philistine Sword’ at the British Museum: A Case Study in Typology and Technology. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 7 (3 November): 303-11. Shalev 2004 – Shalev S. 2004: Swords and Daggers in Late Bronze Age Canaan. Prähistorische Bronzefunde, Abteilung IV, Band 13. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner. Silberman 1998 – Silberman N. 1998: The Sea Peoples, the Victorians and Us: Modern Social Ideology and Changing Archaeological Interpretations of the Late Bronze Age Collapse. In S. Gitin, A. Mazar, E. Stern (eds), Mediterranean Peoples in Transition: Thirteenth to Early Tenth Centuries BCE. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. 268–75. Singer 2013 – Singer I. 2013: The Philistines in the Bible: A Short Rejoinder to a New Perspective. In A.E. Killebrew, G. Lehmann (eds), The Philistines and Other “Sea Peoples” in Text and Archaeology. Archaeology and Biblical Studies 15. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature: 19-27. Stager 1995 – Stager L.E. 1995: The Impact of the Sea Peoples in Canaan (1185-1050 BCE). In T.E. Levy (ed.), The Archaeology of Society in the Holy Land. London: Leicester University: 332–48. Steinmitz 2014 – Steinmitz G. 2014: The Sociology of Empires, Colonies, and Postcolonialism. Annual Review of Sociology 40: 77–103. Strobel 1976 – Strobel A. 1976: Der spätbronzetliche Seevölksersturm. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 145. Berlin: De Gruyter. Treherne 1995 – Treherne P. 1995: The Warrior’s Beauty: The Masculine Body and Self-Identity in BronzeAge Europe. Journal of European Archaeology 3(1): 105–44. van der Kooil 1992 – van der Kooij A. 1992: The Story of David and Goliath: The Early History of Its Text. Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses 68(1): 118–31. Wainwright 1959 – Wainwright G. 1959: Some Early Philistine History. Vetus Testamentum 9: 73–84. Whitley 2002 – Whitley J. 2002: Objects with Attitude: Biographical Fact and Fallacies in the Study of Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age Warrior Graves. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 12(2): 217-32. Wright 1966 – Wright G.E. 1966: Fresh Evidence for the Philistine Story. The Biblical Archaeologist 29(3): 70-86. Yadin 1955 – Yadin Y. 1955: Goliath’s Javelin and the Mnwr ʾrgym. Palestine Exploration Quarterly 87: 5869. Ypi 2013 – Ypi L. 2013: What’s Wrong with Colonialism. Philosophy and Public Affairs 41(2): 158–91. Zorn 2010 – Zorn J.R. 2010: Reconsidering Goliath: An Iron Age I Philistine Chariot Warrior. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 360: 1-22.

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The Early Iron Age at Tell Abu al-Kharaz, Jordan Valley, and its Relations to the Eastern Mediterranean: Trade, Migration, Hybridization, and Other Phenomena Teresa Bürge and Peter M. Fischer Introduction Tell Abu al-Kharaz is a 12 ha mound in the central Jordan Valley, 5 km east of the Jordan River and just north of the perennial Wadi al-Yabis (today Wadi ar-Rayyan). The site is located close to or on the ancient trade route through the Jordan Rift Valley between the Sea of Galilee in the north (ca. 35 km distant) and the Dead Sea in the south (ca. 70 km distant; Fig. 1). The eastern end of the road from the Jordan Valley through the Jezreel Valley to the approximately 80 km distant Mediterranean is just north of Tell Abu al-Kharaz. The favourable position of the site stimulated travelling and trade from the site to various regions of the Eastern Mediterranean and vice versa throughout all settlement periods, i.e. from the Early Bronze Age IB (approximately 3200 BCE) to the Iron Age IIB/C, approximately the end of the 8th century BCE. 1 The Biblical scholar Nelson Glueck was the first to suggest an identification of Tell Abu al-Kharaz with Jabesh-Gilead, 2 which is mentioned several times in the Old Testament 3 and plays an important role, amongst others in connection with King Saul and his warfare. 4 In any case, since Tell Abu al-Kharaz was settled during most of the Iron Age until the Assyrian conquest in 732 BCE and was an important town with interregional connections according to the archaeological evidence, it must have played a decisive role in the periods referred to in the bible – regardless of whether it was actually Jabesh-Gilead or not. 5 As regards the archaeological evidence from the early Iron Age, a large and exceptionally well-preserved compound at Tell Abu al-Kharaz 6 offers the possibility of a better understanding of the transition from the Late Bronze to the Iron Age in this region, in particular as regards continuity versus occupational breaks and cultural discontinuity, and innovations. The aim of this paper is to discuss possible evidence of migration to Tell Abu al-Kharaz in the early Iron Age and connections to the ‘Sea Peoples phenomenon’, i.e. migration movements in the Eastern Mediterranean in the 12th century BCE and beyond.

Fischer 2006; 2008; 2013. Glueck 1943a; 1943b: 7–9; 1951. Judg. 21:8–14; 1 Sam. 11:1–11; 31:11–13; 2 Sam. 2:4–5; 21:12; 1 Chr. 10:11–12. The identification of Jabesh-Gilead with Tell el-Maqlub, which is not based on the archaeological evidence, is still widespread; see e.g. Noth 1953; Mittmann 1970: 214–215, note 18; more recently MacDonald 2000: 202–204; Gaß 2005: 504–509; Finkelstein et al. 2012. However, the only site in this area which produced firm archaeological evidence from the time of King Saul (tentatively dated around 1000 BCE) and from later periods is Tell Abu al-Kharaz; Fischer 2013: 481–482; Galil 2015. 5 See discussion in Bürge 2015: 21–24. 6 Fischer 2012b; 2013; Fischer, Bürge 2013a; 2013b; Bürge 2015; 2017. 1 2 3 4

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The material evidence The earliest Iron Age occupation at Tell Abu al-Kharaz, i.e. Phase IX of the occupational sequence of the site, is mainly attested in Area 9 in the southern part of the tell (Fig. 2), where a 46 m long and 8 m wide compound was excavated. It is built against the city wall and consists of 21 rooms of standardized sizes, approximately 3–3.5 m × 3.5–4 m large, with walls preserved to a height of roughly 2 m. The rooms are pairwise arranged, with small doorways between the two rooms, one to the north and one to the south. The easternmost three rooms did not have a room to the north, as the raising bedrock in the north-east did not provide enough space. The contexts inside the compound were sealed by a roughly one metre thick layer of secondarily fired mudbricks and debris from the collapsed upper storey including stones, carbonized wood and ash. The nature of the find contexts clearly indicates that the building and its contents were exposed to fire. With the exception of one entrance there are no other passages in the stone walls, leading to the exterior. 7 Therefore this structure is interpreted as a basement, which could be reached from above via ladders. The upper storey was built of mudbricks judging by the large amount of such bricks in the debris, which sealed the basement. The rooms contained more than 200 complete or almost complete ceramic vessels, in addition to metal and bone objects, alabaster vessels and other stone objects, textile production tools and jewellery. Several clay ovens and a clay silo were also found in the compound. A large amount of carbonized organic remains, such as wheat, barley, millet, chickpeas, lentils, olive stones, barley flour and possibly the remains of dried olive oil, was preserved in vessels or spread on the floors. The number of storage jars suggests that the structure was mainly used for storage. However, also other vessel types, especially cooking pots, but also kraters, jugs, juglets and bowls are well represented. Absolute and relative chronology The absolute chronology of the Iron Age periods at Tell Abu al-Kharaz dating from the 12th century to the 7th century and thus including Phase IX has been published and intensely discussed elsewhere. 8 Consequently, only a summary will be presented here. Due to the favourable find situation of the contexts of the Phase IX compound, plenty of short-lived samples for radiocarbon dating were collected from floors and from the contents of in situ vessels. In total, fifteen of a total of 44 Iron Age samples were radiocarbon-analysed. Thirteen samples are from the basement and two from the upper storey. Thus, all the samples from Phase IX derive from a single destruction event. The combined data of the uncalibrated ages yield a very precise 14C age of 2917 ± 10 years BP (Fig. 3). Unfortunately the calibration curve in the time period between roughly 1130 and 1050 BCE is rather flat and exhibits some wiggles. Thus, the uncalibrated high precision age does not provide calibrated dates of the same precision. In summary, on the basis of 95.4% (2σ) probability, the destruction of Phase IX occurred between 1193 and 1049 BCE. If the probability is reduced to 68.2% (1σ) the time span of the

7 Only the westernmost pair of rooms, Rooms 1 and 2, could be entered from the exterior via a doorway leading into Room 1. 8 Fischer 2013: 516, table 83; Wild, Fischer 2013; see also Fischer, Bürge 2013a: 156–158.

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destruction can be narrowed to 1128–1055 BCE. If both 2σ and 1σ probabilities are taken into account, the destruction cannot be dated later than around 1050 BCE. Also the relative chronological sequence and parallels to other Southern Levantine early Iron Age sites are discussed in detail elsewhere. 9 In general, Iron Age I shapes have a long life-span and it is often difficult to distinguish Iron Age IA (early Iron Age I) from Iron Age IB (middle or late Iron Age I) types. 10 One of the criteria to distinguish these periods is the presence of Philistine Monochrome / Bichrome pottery in earlier strata and its absence or the transformation of this ware into ‘degenerated’ forms in later strata. 11 However, even at a well-stratified site, such as Megiddo, it is not clear if such a subdivision is valid. 12 In addition, the fact that early Iron Age pottery is characterized by regionally distinct pottery assemblages, 13 does not facilitate a synchronisation of sites in different areas of the Southern Levant. Common early Iron Age shapes attested at Tell Abu al-Kharaz, Phase IX, include rounded and s-shaped or carinated bowls, handle-less kraters with high carination, multi-handled carinated kraters with 12 (and possibly more) handles, open handle-less cooking pots with rounded bases and folded over, triangular rims, closed-shaped cooking jars, goblets with globular and piriform body, dipper juglets, jugs and jars with rounded or biconical bodies, storage jars with ovoid bodies or with pronounced shoulders, Phoenician-imported lentoid flasks, pilgrim flasks with cup mouths and pyxides of different shapes (see selected pottery types in Figs. 4–6). This assemblage can thus clearly be dated to the Iron Age IB. 14 The transition from the Late Bronze Age to the early Iron Age in the Southern Levant: crisis, restitution and transformation The final part of the Late Bronze Age, roughly 1400–1200 BCE, is often labelled the ‘international period’ or ‘the age of internationalism’ or ‘globalism’. 15 It is characterized by extensive trade networks and far-reaching cultural contacts throughout the Eastern Mediterranean and beyond, the latter of which includes central Europe, 16 the Western Mediterranean, 17 Scandinavia, 18 and Mesopotamia. 19 During this period the Levant was controlled by two mighty kingdoms: Hatti to the north and Egypt to the south. The demise of the Late Bronze Age societies in the Eastern Mediterranean had multiple causes. The period between the end of the Late Bronze Age and the beginning of the Iron Age is characterized by political and social changes. This period sees the collapse of

9 Bürge 2015: 319–334; Bürge forthcoming B. 10 Finkelstein and others prefer a subdivision of the Iron Age I into three periods: early, middle and late; Finkelstein, Piasetzky 2011: 50. 11 Dothan 1982: 70–80, 149–153; Finkelstein et al. 2000: 265. 12 Harrison 2004: 12; Arie 2006: 223. 13 Mazar 2015: 5; Herr 2015: 97. 14 See comparanda, e.g., in Mazar 2015. 15 E.g. Killebrew 2005: 21–49; 2014; Aruz et al. 2008; Aruz et al. 2013; Fischer et al. 2015; Pfälzner, al-Maqdissi 2015. 16 E.g. Jung, Mehofer. 2006. 17 E.g. Vianello 2005. 18 Ling et al. 2014; Varberg et al. 2015. 19 E.g. Aruz et al. 2008; Aruz et al. 2013.

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political entities, such as Mycenae 20 and the Hittite kingdom, 21 socioeconomic and political transformations, 22 climatological changes, which may have resulted in droughts and famines, 23 earthquakes and other natural causes, 24 as well as warfare. 25 In the face of this plethora of events it is difficult to distinguish between the main causes of the changed conditions, the triggers which started these changes, and the consequences of the changes. Processes of collapse and transformation have been discussed at length. 26 Similar events may have had different consequences in different regions. The events, which are archaeologically and historically recorded in the Southern Levant, include a number of destruction layers starting around 1200 BCE and continuing in the 12th century BCE. These events were contemporaneous with the waning power of Hatti and Egypt, which resulted in their withdrawal from the Levant. At the same time, the rupture of long-distance trade, migration and the settlement of newcomers in certain regions, followed by a reorganisation of social structures 27 and technological changes, for instance a gradual increase of iron and a decrease of bronze working. 28 The settlement of the Philistines, one of the groups of the ‘Sea Peoples’, who are mentioned and depicted at the mortuary temple of Ramesses III, and the appearance of new groups, for instance the Israelites, are amongst the most debated issues in the archaeology of the early Iron Age in the Southern Levant. The above-listed events are often associated with a terminology, which is frequently used to describe the transition from the Late Bronze to the Iron Age, for example, ‘crisis years’ or ‘Late Bronze Age collapse.’ These terms may lead to the conclusion that this transitional period was of short duration and the changes were sudden. Some changes may have occurred suddenly on a local level but in general this period should be considered as a process of long-lasting transformation. These changes affected various regions in different ways. Therefore, it is important to discuss geographical together with chronological aspects in the study of this period. The ‘Sea Peoples phenomenon’ and the problem of ethnicity of early Iron Age peoples in the Southern Levant The somewhat misleading term ‘Sea Peoples’ traces back to Gaston Maspero’s translation and interpretation of Egyptian New Kingdom texts, 29 which refer to a number of peoples ‘originating from islands’. 30 These ‘Sea Peoples’ are – according to the Egyptian sources – composed of several groups, which are named Denyen, Peleset, Shekelesh, Sherden, Sikil/ Tjekker, Teresh, Weshesh, Lukka, and Eqwesh. Although some groups are already mentioned in the Amarna letters and later again in the Onomasticon of Amenope (late XX–XXII 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Deger-Jalkotzy 1998a; Yasur-Landau 2010: 58–96. Yakar 2006; Genz 2013. Liverani 1987; Demand 2011: 193–219. Weiss 1982; Drake 2012; Kaniewski et al. 2013; Kaniewski, Van Campo 2017. Nur, Cline 2000; Nur 2008. Drews 1993; see also the overview by Knapp, Manning 2016, although the present authors do not agree with certain arguments; observe that Knapp and Manning present a wrong date for the abandonment of Hala Sultan Tekke (admitted by Knapp, personal communication March 2016). Renfrew 1979; Liverani 1987. Deger-Jalkotzy 1995; 1998b; Yasur-Landau 2010: 60–96; cf. also Renfrew 1982. E.g. Yahalom-Mack, Eliyahu-Behar 2015. Maspero 1897. E.g. O’Connor 2000; Adams, Cohen 2013; Killebrew, Lehmann 2013: 1–5, n. 1.

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Dynasties) and the Report of Wenamun (XXII Dynasty), 31 the most important document from the transitional Late Bronze to Iron Age period is the inscription and the reliefs in the Mortuary Temple of Ramesses III at Medinet Habu, where the battles on land and sea against invaders/‘Sea Peoples’ are described supplemented by the Harris Papyrus I, which was composed shortly after Ramesses III’s dead. 32 According to the Egyptian source the invaders were defeated and certain groups of the ‘Sea Peoples’ settled in Canaan: The Peleset on the southern Coastal Plain of today’s Gaza/ Israel, and the Sikil in the northern coastal part of Israel. Amongst these groups the Peleset, which can be equated with the Philistines of the Old Testament, are the best documented. Their presence in the archaeological context of the Southern Levant has been connected with the appearance of a certain kind of pottery, earlier termed ‘Mycenaean IIIC:1b’ 33 ware. This is a locally made variant of Mycenaean, Aegean and Cypriot pottery which appeared after the imports from the Greek mainland ceased. 34 At the same time other new components appear in the material culture, mainly on the southern Coastal Plain: These include, inter alia, closed, jug-like cooking pots, pebble hearths, spool-shaped loom weights of unfired clay and Aegean-inspired figurines. 35 In addition, pork was consumed there, which in this period seems to have been obsolete in the remainder of the Southern Levant. There is also evidence of the consumption of a special kind of lentil, the grass pea (lathyrus sativus), which comes from South-eastern Europe and the Aegean. The archaeological record from the early Iron Age sites along the southern Coastal Plain demonstrates a number of similarities with Aegeanizing material, mainly from Cyprus. Therefore, close relations between these peoples and Cyprus seems likely 36 but the Aegean 37 and other parts of the Eastern Mediterranean have also been suggested as the places of origin of these immigrants. As will be discussed below, a further complicating possible implication is that there might also have been limited trade between Cyprus and Philistia and other parts of the Southern Levant in addition to immigration. 38 This would make it even more problematic to distinguish between immigration and trade. Two examples are Ashkelon 39 and Beth-Shean 40 where Cypriot ‘White-Painted wheel-made III’ pottery has been found in mid-12th century contexts. The evidence for other groups of ‘Sea Peoples’ in the Southern Levant is more fragmented. Aegean-style pottery, i.e. ‘locally made Mycenaean IIIC’, which was often produced in Cyprus, 41 and ‘foreign’ so-called Hand-made Burnished Ware, 42 were found along the coast

31 See compilation of all sources by Adams, Cohen 2013. 32 E.g. Kahn 2011; discussion in detail of the sources in Redford 1992: 241–256. 33 This term is obsolete, as it implies a chronological sequence with Myc IIIC:1a pottery, which designates imported pottery. 34 E.g. Killebrew 1998; D’Agata et al. 2005. 35 Yasur-Landau 2010: 216–281. 36 Killebrew 2005: 197; Rutter 2013. 37 Yasur-Landau 2010: 192; Niemeier 1998: 17–18, 46–47. 38 Yasur-Landau 2010: 300–302. 39 Master et al. 2015. 40 Mazar 2007. 41 Mommsen et al. 2011. 42 Pilides 1994; Lis 2009; Boileau et al. 2010.

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of the Northern Levant 43 and in Anatolia. 44 These groups of pottery are often connected with the influx of immigrants. Mainly on the basis of later Egyptian texts – i.e. the Onomasticon of Amenope, and the Wenamun tales – and non-contemporaneous biblical records, various locations have been suggested for other groups of the Sea Peoples: the Shekelesh/Sikil at Tel Dor and its surroundings, 45 the Sherden at Akko, 46 and the Denyen at Tel Dan. 47 Other hypotheses, which are more relevant to Tell Abu al-Kharaz, point to the presence of ‘Sea Peoples’ in the Jordan Valley 48 and Transjordan in general. 49 All these hypotheses are mainly based on historical considerations, whereas firm archaeological evidence is missing. In fact, what has been interpreted by J. Tubb as evidence of ‘Sea Peoples’, who according to his theory served as mercenaries in the Egyptian army in the Jordan Valley, rather hints at a strong Egyptian presence at Tell es-Sacidiyeh. 50 The main difficulty in understanding the ‘Sea Peoples’ phenomenon is that there is very little more known about these peoples than what can be interpreted from the Egyptian records. 51 Apart from the ‘Sea Peoples’ and one of their specifically named groups, the Peleset/ Philistines, there is another group of people, which appears in the early Iron Age in the Southern Levant, namely the Israelites. The first known possible reference to the Israelites is the victory stele of Merneptah (1213–1203 BCE). 52 These people are not less discussed than the Philistines being their antagonists in the biblical narratives. Archaeologically, they are often connected with collared-rim jars and four-room houses. In contrast to the much debated archaeological Philistine evidence, it is interesting to note that ethnic aspects connected with the Israelites were for a long time less intensely discussed: Based on limited textual and material evidence it has been claimed that they could be traced ‘archaeologically’. However, lately the origin of ‘Israelite’ culture and related topics has been debated and challenged. 53 Instead of discussing the ethnic designation of peoples in the Southern Levant at the beginning of the Iron Age – which requests the existence of written sources –, we should rather concentrate on the nature of the transformation, which took place between the end of the Late Bronze and the beginning of the Iron Age.

Badre et al. 2005; Jung 2007; 2008; 2012; Lehmann 2013; Pucci 2013. Sherratt, Crouwel 1987; Gates 2013; Janeway 2011; 2013. Stern 2000; 2013. Dothan 1986; Zertal 2001. Yadin 1968; 1991; Margalith 1994: 91–124. McGovern 1994. Pritchard 1968; Tubb 1988; 1995; 2000; Kafafi 2009. Negbi 1991; 1998; van der Steen 2004: 67–68. There are other texts which inform of warfare in the Eastern Mediterranean, for instance, one from Ugarit which refers to a correspondence between the king of Ugarit and the king of Alashyia (Cyprus) but which does not specifically mention the ‘Sea Peoples’; see compilation in Fischer 2017. 52 E.g. Hasel 1994. 53 Finkelstein 1988; 1996; Dever 1993; 1995; 2003; Esse 1992; Bloch-Smith 2003; Killebrew 2005: 149–196; Kletter 2006; Faust 2006; Rainey 2007; Pfoh 2008.

43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

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Interregional interactions: trade versus migration There are in general two theories which explain the transformations in the 13th–12th centuries BCE in the Eastern Mediterranean: One uses economic and mercantile phenomena. 54 The other follows the migration model outlined above. Thus, it must be questioned whether and how migration can be ascertained in the material culture. 55 A number of theories and models for defining migration phenomena in archaeology have been discussed in the past. 56 In general, migration implies intense interaction between the locals and the newcomers. This interaction leads to changes, which are expected to be visible in the archaeological record. 57 These changes are labelled ‘deep changes’ by Yasur-Landau. 58 This term is more descriptive than the frequently used but interpretive ‘ethnic markers’. Different kinds of interregional interaction, such as trade, raids or migration, leave different traces in the archaeological record: If we are dealing with trade, we should see mainly foreign objects, which are portable, i.e. trade goods, rather than ‘deep changes’ in the local material culture, which instead would hint at migration. However, we can expect that a number of interaction phenomena occurred at the same time and at the same places as regards migration in the 12th century Eastern Mediterranean, 59 which is verified, for instance, by the presence of Cypriot-imported tableware and locally produced Aegean-/Cypriot-type cooking vessels in the Southern Levant after 1200 BCE. Since the supposed settlement of Philistines and other peoples in the Southern Levant occurred in an already settled area, there are a number of reactions, which may be expressed in the material culture and influence ‘deep changes’. 60 Such reactions include processes of creolization, hybridization, amalgamation and acculturation, which are, inter alia, manifested in entanglement, appropriation and transculturalism. 61 Identifying economic relations of Tell Abu al-Kharaz in the early Iron Age There are a number of pottery vessels, which hint at trade connections of Tell Abu al-Kharaz with other regions. 62 Imports from Phoenicia comprise the bichrome decorated globular jug (Figs. 5:6, 6:8), and the lentoid flasks with monochrome decorations (Figs. 4:14, 6:6, 7). These vessels have parallels, for instance in Tyre 63 and in Phoenician Tell Keisan. 64 Globular jugs with bichrome decoration were exported from Phoenicia to other parts of the Southern Levant including the Jezreel and Jordan Valleys. 65 Whereas many of them are original imSherratt 1998; 2003. E.g. Binford 1965; Adams 1968; Myhre, Myhre 1972. E.g. Anthony 1990; Berry 1992; 1997; Burmeister 2000. Yasur-Landau 2010: 14. Yasur-Landau 2010: 13–33. Yasur-Landau 2010: 10. Yasur-Landau 2010: 13–33. Yasur-Landau 2010; Stockhammer 2012; Hitchcock, Maeir 2013; Faust, Lev-Tov 2014. Only selected vessels with ‘foreign’ influences are discussed here (see a more comprehensive discussion in Bürge 2017). Additional vessels are shown in Figs. 5 and 6. 63 Stratum XIII/I: Bikai 1978: 38, table 8A.b; pl. XXXIII: 25. 64 Levels 9a–b: Briend, Humbert 1980: pl. 62:4–6. 65 Tell es-Sacidiyeh, cemetery Phase 2: Green 2006: 366, fig. A.6.6; Yoqnecam, Stratum XVII: ZarzeckiPeleg et al. 2005: 325-237, type J VIA1; Megiddo, Stratum VIA: Arie 2006: 206, fig. 13.22; Tell Abu Hawam, Stratum IV: Hamilton 1935: 9, fig. 14; pl. XIV:158.

54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62

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ports, some globular jugs are local imitations of Phoenician vessels. However, the vessel from Tell Abu al-Kharaz is clearly an import: it differs to a large extent from other locally produced vessels in its extremely well-levigated clay and the highly burnished surface with precise decoration. It is difficult to assess whether our jug was imported directly from Lebanon or via middlemen from the Mediterranean littoral through the Jezreel Valley. Our two lentoid flasks are more common in the Southern Levant than the globular jug. They have forerunners in the later part of the Late Bronze Age. 66 These flasks are sometimes locally made but at least one of our two flasks is imported from Phoenicia according to the fabric. The globular jugs and the lentoid flasks were certainly traded not only as containers, but also because of their coveted contents. 67 Some vessels of fine table ware reflect western influences. These influences concern either the surface treatment and decoration or the general vessel shape, or both. The thick white slip on the bowl with the loop base (Figs. 5:1, 6:1) and on the jug with red decoration (Figs. 5:8, 6:2) resembles some vessels of Philistine Bichrome 68 and earlier Monochrome ‘Myc IIIC’ wares. 69 This surface treatment is clearly a foreign element at early Iron Age Tell Abu al-Kharaz. 70 The jug with the thick white slip and red decoration (Figs. 5:8, 6:2) represents a special case: The shape differs from all the other early Iron Age jugs. In particular the profiled rim, which is somewhat everted, and the long narrow neck are unusual. In addition, the decoration is uncommon in the local repertoire of patterns: there are five horizontal lines on the belly, just above the carination, another line is at the height of the shoulder and above the line are alternating patterns of four concentric semicircles and vertical wavy lines; there are six horizontal stripes on the handle. This pattern of semicircles and wavy lines differs from the local repertoire of decoration, which is limited to rather simple patterns. Close parallels of this pattern are from the Aegean and Cyprus, where often shoulders of stirrup jars are decorated with such a pattern which includes semicircles. 71 Similar patterns in the Southern Levant include jugs from cAfula 72 and Beth-Shemesh. 73 There are also a few other vessels at Tell Abu al-Kharaz, Phase IX, with a thin white slip which bring to mind the surface treatment of Philistine pottery. The pilgrim flasks with cup mouths (Fig. 5:4, 5, 6:4) appear to be a local innovation, which seems to originate around the Jezreel Valley but in any event in the northern part of the Southern Levant. The uniformity of these vessels is striking, and their decoration seems to be limited to only a few patterns. Our bichrome flask is decorated with the ‘Maltese Cross’, wheel spokes and wavy lines. This pattern was labelled as ‘Philistine’ by T. Dothan 74 and the ‘Maltese Cross’ often occurs on Philistine or related pottery. 75 The use of two co66 67 68 69 70

71 72 73 74 75

Gilboa et al. 2008: 124–127 with further references. E.g. Namdar et al. 2013. E.g. Zukerman 2009: 500. E.g. Ben-Shlomo 2005: 65. In addition to the bowl with three loop feet, which reflect a revival of Middle Bronze Age traditions, one should mention Chocolate-on-White Ware from Tell Abu al-Kharaz and elsewhere in this discussion. It has an even thicker white slip and also started to appear at the end of the Middle Bronze Age; see Fischer 1999; 2003. E.g. at Hala Sultan Tekke: Fischer 2012a: 94, fig. 3:1. Dothan 1955: 69, fig. 20:2. Grant 1931: pl. XV: 1106: 1932: pl. XLII:4. Dothan 1982: 204. Mazar 1985: 72–73.

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lours is paralleled in the Philistine Bichrome pottery. The monochrome decoration on our other flask consists of metope-like bundles of ‘wheel-spokes’ with concentric circles in the centre. This pattern slightly resembles the ‘Maltese Cross’; on the other hand, metope patterns are a characteristic pattern on Late Bronze Age Canaanite pottery (Fischer 1999). 76 The amalgamation of different styles of decoration on pottery, namely local ‘Canaanite’, Syrian/Phoenician and Aegean/Cypriot is a characteristic of the early Iron Age pottery from the Jezreel Valley. Evidence of migration at Tell Abu al-Kharaz Phase IX? There are mainly two types of objects at Tell Abu al-Kharaz, which provide evidence of ‘deep changes’ in the material culture of the early Iron Age: These include cooking pots and loom weights. Cooking and dietary habits, as well as domestic textile production techniques are closely connected to certain societies. These lifestyles are transmitted from one generation to the next. 77 In fact, our cooking jars from Phase IX (Figs. 5:9, 10, 6:5) display a mixed influence: Wheel-made closed cooking pots with one handle and flat or disk bases reached Cyprus via the Aegean around 1200 BCE. 78 Identical cooking jugs were found in the earliest Iron Age settlements in Philistia. 79 Our cooking jars differ considerably from the Philistine jugs, as they have two handles, rounded bases and often a carinated body, which resembles the general profile of the common, open-shaped cooking pots (Fig. 4:6). Thus, the cooking jars from Tell Abu al-Kharaz, Phase IX, are regarded as an amalgamation of the ‘traditional’ Canaanite cooking pot and the closed, Aegean cooking jugs, which were most likely transmitted from the Aegean via Cyprus and (possibly) Philistia, or directly from the Mediterranean coast through the Jezreel Valley. The volumes of the Canaanite-type cooking pots and the Aegean/Philistine-type cooking jars from Tell Abu al-Kharaz differ (Fig. 7). In addition, the shape is an indication that foodstuff which was prepared differed depending on the type of cooking vessel used: Open cooking pots are more suitable for rapid cooking or frying at high temperatures, whereas the closed cooking vessels were used for low-cooking of mainly liquid food. 80 The rounded bases which characterise both types hint that the same kind of oven was used as in previous periods. There are a number of sites which produced contemporary parallels to our cooking jars, i.e. Tell es-Sacidiyeh, Deir cAlla, Beth-Shean, Megiddo, Tell Qiri, Yoqnecam and Tell Qasile. 81 However at these sites, the amount of closed cooking jugs compared to the number of traditional open cooking pots is very small, and never exceeds 10%. 82 In contrast, the relatively high proportion of closed cooking pots in Phase IX, i.e. 25% of all cooking vessels, is striking and represents a different pictures in comparison with listed sites in Cisjordan. The distribution of cooking jugs within the building does not follow a strict pattern, as in a number of rooms both closed and open types were found (Fig. 8). Thus it can be assumed 76 77 78 79 80 81 82

Fischer 1999. Yasur-Landau 2009; 2010: 29–30. Jung 2011. Yasur-Landau 2010: 232. Borgna 1997: 204; Ben-Shlomo et al. 2008: 237; Yasur-Landau 2010 : 131–132. See references in Bürge 2015: 188. Hunt 1987: 183; Panitz-Cohen 2009: 255, table 5.12a.

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that both types were used by the same people. This phenomenon can described as an amalgamation of Canaanite, Philistine, Cypriot and Aegean traditions. Our cylindrical or slightly spool-shaped loom weights of unfired clay (Figs. 5:11, 6:9) also derive from the Eastern Mediterranean. Similar weights were common in Late Helladic IIIC Tiryns and other contemporary sites on the Greek mainland. 83 They appear eventually in Cyprus, e.g. in Kition 84 and Maa-Paleokastro 85 during the Late Cypriot IIIA period. In due course they reached Philistia, for instance Ashkelon, 86 Ashdod, 87 Tell es-Safi/Gath 88 and Tel Miqne/Ekron. 89 It is the only type of loom weight at Tell Abu al-Kharaz in Phases IX and X. If warp-weighted looms were used, both the shape/thickness, and the weight itself of loom weights are of importance: Heavy loom weights are more suitable for weaving thicker yarns, whereas the thickness influences the density of the fabric. 90 Thus, the sudden change of loom weights also has implications for the production of the intended fabrics. It is not possible to isolate specific ethnic groups during the early Iron Age in the Jordan Valley, as we have no evidence of how these groups referred to themselves or of their ethnic consciousness. It is only possible to trace elements of a number of ethnic groups and their culture and their possible provenance. As far as the material from Tell Abu al-Kharaz, Phase IX, is concerned we can certainly demonstrate cultural traits from vast parts of the Eastern Mediterranean. Both the possibly imported fine wares and the locally made cooking jugs show an amalgamation of foreign and local traits, whereas the loom weights are totally new. However, these traits seem to become less evident in the subsequent Phase X and disappear in Phase XI. A possible explanation is gradual assimilation, which occurred after Phase IX. It is interesting to note that one of these traits, the cooking jars, which disappear at Tell Abu al-Kharaz in the Iron Age IIA, becomes rather common in the Iron Age II in most other parts of the Southern Levant. 91 This proves once again that cultural traits were not uniform in various regions. In summary, it is suggested that individuals or small groups of people arrived at Tell Abu al-Kharaz, where they intermingled or married local people. 92 These individuals most likely do not come directly from the Mediterranean coast, and therefore cannot be labelled ‘Philistines’ or any other tribe of the ‘Sea Peoples’, but may be their offspring. Chronologically, this is supported by our radiocarbon dates. They had already undergone a number of cultural changes before their arrival at Tell Abu al-Kharaz. However, this remains only a tentative reconstruction, as many other possible indicators of the presence of a foreign group amongst the local population, such as funerary habits and religious beliefs, are not attested in the early Iron Age at Tell Abu al-Kharaz. In any case, in the aftermath of the transformations from the intercultural Late Bronze Age to the more isolated early Iron 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92

Rahmstorf 2003. Karageorghis, Demas 1985: pl. 201. Karageorghis, Demas 1988: pl. 189. Stager 1991: 36–37. Dothan, Porath 1993: 64, 193, figs. 24:3–5. Cassuto 2012: 469–470. Shamir 2007: 44, fig. 1. Frangipane et al. 2009; Mårtensson et al. 2009. Ben-Shlomo et al. 2008. See similar suggestions referring to other sites in Bunimovitz, Yasur-Landau 2002; Yasur-Landau 2009.

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Age, the ‘multi-cultural’ town of Tell Abu al-Kharaz of Phase IX is an exception because it was obviously still in contact with other regions. Conclusions The discovery of the excellently preserved compound from early Iron Age Phase IX at Tell Abu al-Kharaz is unique in the Southern Levant. The virtually undisturbed contexts of the basement and the remains of the collapsed upper storey(s) allowed the study of a number of aspects: The analysis of the architecture and the building materials revealed that the building had (at least) two storeys, of which the lower storey – the basement – is built of stone whereas the upper storey(s) is/are of mudbrick. The unparalleled regular layout of the building indicates that it was rigorously planned before and constantly supervised during construction. This, in turn, hints at a well-organised society which settled the early Iron Age town. The associated finds are all mainly related to domestic activities. The results from 15 radiocarbon dates from short-lived samples which were found on floors and inside vessels from our compound provide a time span from 1193–1049 BCE (95.4%, 2σ probability) and from 1128–1055 BCE (68.2%, 1σ probability). Therefore, the destruction cannot be dated later than around 1050 BCE. In relative terms, Phase IX at Tell Abu al-Kharaz can be attributed to the period traditionally termed Iron Age IB. The early Iron Age pottery and other finds at Tell Abu al-Kharaz indicate a high degree of continuity from the Late Bronze Age despite the occupational lacuna between Phases VIII and IX. On the other hand there are a number of innovations, which reflect an amalgamation of new, foreign, and traditional, local traits. This combination of continuity and innovation is consistent with finds from other sites in the Jordan and the Jezreel Valleys, for instance Beth-Shean, Megiddo, Tel Qashish and Yoqnecam. Foreign traits, which are visible in the material culture of Phase IX, are mainly from the Eastern Mediterranean, specifically Cypriot and Aegean, spheres of culture. There are a number of Phoenician imports, whereas the Egyptian influence, which in principle was never clearly perceptible in the Late Bronze Age material from Tell Abu al-Kharaz, is negligible. Western traits are reflected in fine ceramic wares and small portable objects, which were most likely traded, together with objects which were locally produced. These include new types of cooking pots and loom weights, which indicate changes in cooking and dietary habits, and in domestic textile production. Thus, it is clear that the settlers of early Iron Age Tell Abu al-Kharaz were influenced by the transformations in the 12th century BCE. Limited migration of individuals or families, which arrived from the Eastern Mediterranean through the Jezreel Valley, is suggested. These migrants mingled with the local population most likely by intermarriage, which explains the amalgamation of local and foreign traits in the material culture of many Phase IX contexts at Tell Abu al-Kharaz. This migration process might have lasted years, decades or even generations. Therefore, it is problematic to refer to these migrants as ‘Sea Peoples’, as the immigrants to Tell Abu al-Kharaz had already experienced cultural changes on their way to Transjordan due to the time lapse from their arrival at the Mediterranean littoral until they finally settled at Tell Abu al-Kharaz. However, these descendants, who represent one of the outcomes of the ‘Sea Peoples Phenomenon’, contributed to a rich, flourishing, wellorganized and multi-cultural society at early Iron Age Tell Abu al-Kharaz.

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Acknowledgements This study was supported by a DOC-fellowship from the Austrian Academy of Sciences and a Marietta Blau fellowship of the Austrian Ministry of Science, Research and Economy, which were awarded to T. Bürge. The Royal Swedish Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities supported the excavations at Tell Abu al-Kharaz by grants to the project director P.M. Fischer. We would like to thank Łukasz Pospieszny and Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, the organiser of the conference.

Figure 1. Map of the Southern Levant with major early Iron Age sites.

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Figure 2. Aerial photograph of cell-plan compound at Tell Abu al-Kharaz, Phase IX (October 2014).

Figure 3. Calibration plot of the combined 14C data from phase IX, Area 9, generated with OxCal4.1. The calculated mean value, the calendar time ranges with their respective probabilities and the result of the χ2 test are displayed in the plot (by E.M. Wild).

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Figure 4. Selected finds from Tell Abu al-Kharaz, Phase IX.

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Figure 5. Selected finds from Tell Abu al-Kharaz, Phase IX.

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Figure 6. Selected finds from Tell Abu al-Kharaz, Phase IX.

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Figure 7. Volumes of cooking jars (cj) and cooking pots (cp) from Tell Abu al-Kharaz, Phase IX.

Figure 8. Distribution of open- and closed-shaped cooking pots in the Phase IX compound.

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PART II: Cross-Cultural Approaches

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Hybrid go-betweens: the role of individuals with multiple identities in cross-cultural contacts in the Late Bronze Age and Iron Age central and eastern Mediterranean 1 Jan Paul Crielaard Introduction The point of departure for this paper is a number of tombs found in locations scattered over the central and eastern Mediterranean. Together they cover a period that encompasses the outgoing Bronze Age and the Iron Age. Although dispersed in time and space, these tombs have in common that each of them has features that are definitely of a non-local nature and is different or unusual in comparison to the graves that accompany them. The ambiguity of these tombs and the individuals buried in them has confused archaeologists, which is another element that these burials share. Scholars are divided over the question how to evaluate these individuals and, more in particular, what kind of ethnic identity they had. In this contribution I take a closer look at these tombs with two main aims in mind. First, I wish to offer a different perspective on these ambiguous individuals. I will treat them not in isolation but consider them as manifestations of a more widely occurring phenomenon. I will argue that these individuals had hybrid or multiple identities, and compare them to other individuals attested in the archaeological and textual records who seem to have possessed comparable positions in intercultural or transcultural situations of increasing interconnectivity. In many recent studies on culture contact, the focus is on larger collectives, such as migrants or colonists. 2 In this paper, however, I will highlight the possible role of individuals in culture contacts and explore the phenomenon of cultural hybrids, which constitutes the second aim of my paper. 3 Four ambiguous tombs The first of our group of ambiguous tombs is Kourion-Kaloriziki tomb 40 (fig. 1a). This burial chamber dating to the Late Cypriot IIIB period (early 11th c. BCE) probably originally held two bronze amphoroid kraters, covered by bronze sieves. One krater was found in 1953 inside the tomb and supposedly served as an ash container for a middle-aged female. A large bronze krater and a gold and cloisonné enamel sceptre head that some 50 years earlier had been confiscated by the local police, were probably looted from the same tomb 1 I am grateful to the organizers for their invitation to participate in the conference and for the kind hospitality received in Warsaw. I presented the lecture on which the present paper is based also at the international conference ‘Mistaken Identity. Identities as resources in the central Mediterranean’ at Eberhard Karls Universität Tübingen, 17-19 November 2016. I should like to thank the participants in both conferences and Dr. Andrea Babbi for their feedback. 2 See e.g. Raaflaub 2004. 3 I have discussed aspects of these tombs in previous articles, see esp. Crielaard 1998; 2011: 101-3; 2012: 14551; 2016: 50-67; in press, but in this article I wish to explore their hybrid character.

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and may be attributed to a male co-occupant of the grave. 4 The deceased had been buried with other bronze vessels, two bronze tripod stands, a spearhead, bronze shield bosses and pieces of bronze sheet 5 that were thought to belong to a type of shield that is depicted on the LH IIIC Warrior krater from Mycenae. 6 Cremation was little known in Late Bronze Age Cyprus, but was practiced in the Aegean where it gained in popularity from the LH IIIC period onwards. 7 In addition, there are many other tomb goods that are Aegean imports or testify to connections with the Aegean. 8 Taking all these peculiar elements together, it was thought that the tomb belonged to ‘a stranger in the land’, perhaps an Achaean royal, buried in a typically Cypriot chamber tomb, but accompanied by a Mycenaean-style sceptre and other kinds of prestigious items taken from the homeland. 9 A number of other scholars have questioned this interpretation, however, and feel that the burials have to be regarded within a Cypriot context. 10 The second tomb is that of the male and female buried in one of the two burial shafts (fig. 1b) under the Toumba building at Lefkandi (Middle Protogeometric, early 10th c. BCE). The male was cremated, after which the bone remains were gathered in a cloth and stored in a large amphoroid krater of bronze that also contained a linen robe, a cloth band and a bronze hemispherical bowl. The bronze amphoroid krater, which was an antique at the time of the burial, has close parallels in one of the kraters from Kaloriziki t. 40, and like the bronze hemispherical bowl it was identified as an import from Cyprus. An iron sword, a spearhead and a whetstone were found next to the bronze krater. The same shaft contained the inhumation of a richly adorned female. She was buried wearing an Old-Babylonian gold pendant, a faience necklace and two unique disks of gold sheet that might stem from Italian prototypes. Part of the funerary rites was the killing of four horses that were dumped in a neighbouring shaft. 11 Some scholars have acknowledged this tomb’s Cypriot connection but set the burial in a Greek tradition, pointing at the Homeric or heroic character of the funerary rituals. Others have stressed the Cypriot character of the funerary rites – especially the sacrifice of horses, which has parallels in Cyprus – and the Oriental origin of the grave goods. On these grounds they suggest that the couple buried under the Toumba building were immigrants from Cyprus or even further east. 12 At this point it may be noted that this type of argument is very similar to those that are put forward to suggest that the incumbent of Kaloriziki t. 40 had been an Aegean immigrant to Cyprus. 4 McFadden 1954: 134; Benson 1973: 20-2; Vandenabeele 1987: 230; Matthäus, Schumacher-Matthäus 2012: 51-3. 5 Inventory of tomb finds: Matthäus, Schumacher-Matthäus 2012: 75-79. 6 Catling, Catling 1973; also Snodgrass 1967: 44. Matthäus, Schumacher-Matthäus (2012: 63-75) have recently suggested that the pieces of bronze belong to a helmet that again testifies to Aegean connections. 7 See Crielaard 2015: 45-47, with refs. 8 Matthäus, Schumacher-Matthäus 2012: 56-59. Both kraters are rooted in a Minoan-Mycenaean artistic tradition, and seem to have been antiques at the time of their burial: Matthäus, Schumacher-Matthäus 2012: 56-7; Papasavvas 2015; Crouwel, Morris 2015. Also the sceptre and rod tripods are considered antiques. 9 McFadden 1954: 134; Matthäus, Schumacher-Matthäus 2012: 70-74; Kourou 1994: 204-6: sceptre is Cypriot work under Egyptian influence. 10 Cf. Knapp 2013: 465. 11 Burials: Popham, Calligas, Sackett 1993: 17-22, 71. Bronze amphora: Catling 1993: 81-96. Pendant: Antonaccio 2002: 18-9 with n. 26. Disks: Jung 2007: 225. 12 E.g. S.P. Morris 1992, 140-141; Boardman 2002, 72-4.

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The third example is Toumba tomb 79, also at Lefkandi (fig. 1c). It belongs to a male individual who died some 100 years after the burial of the couple under the Toumba building (Sub-Protogeometric II, ca. 875–850 BCE). After his body was cremated, his ashes were deposited in a bronze cauldron of Cypriot type, covered by a second bowl and placed in a shaft grave together with a set of terracotta vases (which had probably been used during the funerary feast), a sword, a spearhead, knives, a bunch of arrowheads and a bronze grater. 13 The burial rites as well as the bronze grater are reminiscent of Homeric practices. 14 There is again an eastern link, as the deceased was buried with several Phoenician and Cypriot flasks, a possible bronze weighing balance, a seal stone (an early second-millennium antique from North Syria), and 16 haematite weights and fragments that are of eastern type and represent weight standards that were current in the Near East. 15 For some scholars, including the excavators, the grave goods allow this individual to be identified as a ‘Euboean warrior–trader’. 16 Others doubt this identification and variably prefer to see him as a proxenos assisting the interests of eastern merchants, 17 a Cypriot who had returned to the land of his forebears, 18 an émigré Phoenician buried in Greek lands 19 or indeed a Phoenician aristocrat based at Lefkandi. 20 To elaborate somewhat on Toumba t. 79’s connections with the Near East, as Bert Nijboer has pointed out the tomb inventory bears remarkable resemblances to the assemblage of grave goods buried with one of the individuals in Achziv tomb 1 (10th/9th century BCE), a Phoenician site in today’s northern Israel. 21 We may add that the Achziv burial assemblage has good parallels in tomb 67 at Palaepaphos-Skales in Cyprus (early Cypro-Geometric IA - IB/II, i.e. mid 11th to mid 10th century BCE). 22 Both contain earrings, weighing balances, stone weights, 23 seals and Phoenician oil flasks, as well as locally made terracotta dining sets. Furthermore, the Achziv burial held knives and weapons, including a large number of arrowheads, while the Palaepaphos burial contained bronze vessels. 24 Thus, the Lefkandi, Achziv and Palaepaphos tombs constitute a group of three, almost contemporary tombs with a highly comparable assemblage of grave goods. It may be pointed out that this similarity in grave goods cannot be explained merely in terms of trade. The grave goods in question are not simply trade commodities; quite the contrary, there is a whole world beyond these items. Weighing balances, for instance, had symbolic and ideological connotations. We find 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23

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Popham, Lemos 1995; Lemos 2003: 190-1. Graters in Homer: Il. 11. 639-40; Od. 20. 234, with Ridgway 1997a; West 1998. Kroll 2008. Popham, Lemos 1995: 156. Antonaccio 2002: 28-29; also Lemos 2003: 191-2. Kopcke 1990: 93, who feels that this interpretation solves the mystery of the deceased’s liking for Eastern objects and monumental building types. Cf. H.W. Catling 1995: 128, who on the basis of grave goods suggests that the 11th-c. tombs 186 and 201 in the Knossos-North Cemetery belonged to Cretans who spent part of their lives in Cyprus. Papadopoulos 1997: 192; 2011: 115-6. Niemeyer 2006: 149. Nijboer 2008: 299-301. Karageorghis 1983: 158-76. The haematite sphendonoid weights found in Lefkandi-Toumba t. 79 have parallels in PalaepaphosSkales t. 67 and t. 89, see Kroll 2008: 42; J.-C. Courtois in Karageorghis 1983: 424-5. For references to Cypriot tombs with bronze scales dating to either the Late Bronze Age or the Iron Age, see Karageorghis 1983: 183-4. See further Crielaard 2012: 148-51.

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testimony of this in Mycenaean Greece, the Homeric epics and also in the Near East, where high-ranking officials are sometimes portrayed carrying weighing balances. 25 But weighing balances most probably also had a practical function, presumably in weighing precious metals (Hacksilber or Hackgold) as part of economic transactions. Because several weight standards were in use in the ancient Near East and Mediterranean, merchants were obliged to travel with multiple sets. This is vividly illustrated by, for instance, the balance weights from the Uluburun shipwreck, which represent nine or ten complete and partial sets. What is of particular interest is that the eastern weights could indicate that the individual buried in Toumba t. 79 at Lefkandi was also familiar with the multiple metric systems that were current in the Near East. 26 To add a last, mundane but interesting detail, the Achziv, Palaepaphos and Lefkandi males all wore earrings. If we look at other tombs containing weapons at Lefkandi, we find that the wearing of earrings was not a custom among high-status males at Early Iron Age Lefkandi. We may cautiously conclude that in bodily adornment the individual buried in Toumba t. 79 differed from his fellow Lefkandiots, following a custom or fashion that he may have picked up in the East. In addition to all this, a number of distinct elements connect Toumba t. 79 to local traditions, such as the use of a shaft grave (en vogue at Lefkandi since the MPG period note, however, that the niche is unusual) and especially the custom of secondary cremation employing a metal urn that seems to emulate the interment of the important male buried under the Toumba building. 27 Moreover, the majority of the pottery as well as the weapons and the combination of a cheese grater with weaponry all have close parallels in other graves at Lefkandi. 28 This forms a clear indication that the individual buried in Toumba t. 79 had in addition to his eastern connections roots in the Lefkandiot society and followed certain local traditions. Taking everything together we may suggest that this individual had an intimate knowledge of different social and economic cultures, and could function in more than one world at the same time. The mixed character of the tomb type, burial rites and grave goods may be considered indicative of his mixed or multiple identity. This may also relate to the other tombs discussed thus far, and it certainly relates to the last grave assemblage that I will discuss here. Our fourth and last example brings us to Fondo Artiaco, tomb 104 at Kyme in Campania in Italy. In the last quarter of the 8th century BCE an important individual was buried with elaborate ceremonial and exceptional grave goods (fig. 1d) in one of the grave plots north of the acropolis (ca. 720–700 BCE). His burnt bone remains were put in a silver urn that was placed inside two bronze cauldrons, the outer one covered by a bronze shield made in 25 Crielaard 2011: 101-3. 26 Kroll 2008: 43; also Alberti 2016: 299, 303. They are virtual duplicates of balance weights that were commonly employed in the LBA Levant and Cyprus, and can be linked to three current mass standards (Mesopotamian, Egypto-Syrian and Palestinian). The sphendonoid weights that are fractions or denominations of the c. 8.4 g standard might represent a single, graduated set, but the other weight shapes are too few and too varied in form and standard to make up one or more series. Kroll (idem) suggests that these miscellaneous weights were brought together from several old, broken sets, specifically for funerary use, as symbolic possessions or tokens of the deceased’s way of life. 27 See also Antonaccio 2002: 28; Lemos 2003: 190-2; Nijboer 2008: 301. 28 Crielaard 2012: 151 n. 36 for further refs. For other tombs at Lefkandi combining graters and weapons, see Popham, Lemos 1995: 153, with n. 6.

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Villanovan central Italy. These were then put in a tufa box placed in a large fossa. The box and fossa contained a collection of personal ornaments of gold and electrum, eight vessels of silver, a bronze stand (holmos) with two cauldrons, an SOS amphora, iron weapons, two horse bits and, possibly, obeloi and parts of a wheeled vehicle. 29 The interpretation of this tomb has led to the kind of confusion that is familiar by now. The rite of secondary cremation and the use of metal urns are reminiscent of burial practices described in the Homeric epics, and have parallels in contemporary graves at Eretria, one of the places that ancient sources mention as Kyme’s mother city. 30 From a Greek perspective, this alleged match forms a solid ground to attribute Fondo Artiaco t. 104, as well as similar metal urn cremations at Kyme, to members of the early colonial elite, recruited from the ranks of Euboian hippeis or hippobotai. 31 For Etruscan archaeologists, on the other hand, the many grave goods with parallels in the Villanovan world and in the somewhat later ‘princely tombs’ in Latium and Etruria (especially the bronze shield and ornaments of precious metals) leave no doubt that Artiaco t. 104 belonged to a rich Etruscan warrior, who lived in the Greek colony and was buried with a set of objects, most of which originated in his native country. 32 Still others have pointed out that the tomb inventory testifies to a ‘hybridization’ of Greek and Tyrrhenian elements, whether or not as the result of mixed marriages. 33 Pier Giovanni Guzzo identifies a mixed material culture and ideology consisting of an even greater diversity of elements, and distinguishes between indigenous, Etruscan, EretrianGreek, and colonial/Pithekoussan Greek traits. He hypothesizes that the deceased was a local chief who had been a key figure in the relationships with both Greeks at Pithekoussai and Etruscans at Capua in inland Campania. 34 What is striking about the discussion of the above four tombs and the six individuals they contain is that the various authors tend to have an eye for one category of objects or burial customs only, overlooking the mixed character of the grave goods or burial rites and perhaps the mixed or multiple identity of the deceased. Toumba t. 79 at Lefkandi provides a particularly clear example of tomb type, burial rites and types of grave goods forming a mixed bag, but to a greater or lesser extent this also applies to the other tombs. The rite of cremation and possibly the sceptre and other items in Kaloriziki t. 40 might testify to Aegean connections, but the majority of the objects as well as the tomb type link in with Cypriot traditions. The bronze krater and bowl from the tomb under the Toumba building are Cypriot, but the shaft grave and the apsidal building standing over the burial shafts follow local practices. The sacrifice and burial of horses in connection with high-status funerary ritual might be ultimately traced back to a ‘local’, Mycenaean tradition, although in the course of the Early Iron Age such burials became part of a wider, Mediterranean phenomenon, linked to high-status or heroic burial ritual. 35 What is also noticeable is that in each case those involved in the debate Pellegrini 1903; Guzzo 2000: 135-40: inventory and discussion of grave items and date of tomb. Dion. Hal. 7.3; Strabo 5.4.9. E.g. Albore Livadie 1975; Buchner 1979: 129-30; Frederiksen 1984; Crielaard 1992/93. Strøm 1990: 90-1; see also Gabrici 1913: 429; Johannowsky 1975: 103, 133-5; Kilian 1977: 124; Barker, Rasmussen 1998: 125. 33 D’Agostino 1996: 463; Coldstream 1993: 95-6; 1998: 308-9, who suggests that metal-urn cremations at Cumae belong to members of an elite of second-generation Pithekoussans of mixed Euboeo-Etruscan parentage, who had moved over to Cumae and consolidated their power and prosperity. 34 Guzzo 2000: 139-43. See also Donnelan 2012: 489. 35 Kosmetatou 1993; Karageorghis 2003; Ruby 2007.

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feel a need to narrow the discussion about the identity of the deceased to a binary choice: the deceased is either Greek or Cypriot, Euboean or Phoenician, Greek or Etruscan, or Etruscan or indigenous. This type of reasoning seems to be the result of a tunnel vision fostered by the selective focus on particular objects and burial rites in combination with scholarly preoccupation with social classifications and delineation of boundaries. There are, however, no good a priori reasons to assume that these individuals possessed just one identity, or to think that their ‘real’ identity could be established. My thesis is that the mixed nature of the tombs and rituals allows us to attribute them to hybrid individuals. In the rest of this contribution, I will argue that these individuals could be both at the same time, and offer an explanation as to when and why such bicultural individuals or individuals with multiple identities came to the fore. This is not to say that I would favour employing such labels as ‘Greek’, ‘Euboean’, ‘Phoenician’, ‘Cypriot’ and ‘Etruscan’. There is little evidence that these were operative during the end of the second millennium and the first half of the first millennium BCE. More generally, such ethnic categories probably did not play a role in self-identification before the Classical period. Of course, there must have been a sense of ethnic self-awareness and linguistic or ethnic differentiation between Self and Other, but this generally seems to have operated at the level of local or regional identities. 36 To make one last remark in relation to the above six ambiguous individuals, it may be clear that these are not the only cases that can be found in the archaeological record. A few additional examples, all from a somewhat earlier period, may suffice to illustrate this point. At the end of the Bronze Age, contacts between the Aegean and the central Mediterranean intensified. Spread over the Aegean we find a number of cases of individuals who stand out because they were buried with either Italian-type weapons (e.g. Kos-Langada, t. 21; warrior tomb at Kouvaras near Ambrakia in Acarnania) or Italian-type personal items (e.g. Achaia-Klauss, tomb H, burial Γ). 37 It has been suggested that these tombs belong to Italian migrants. It is true that for this period there is evidence of communities of migrants from the central Mediterranean having settled in, for instance, Tiryns 38 or Kastrokephala 39 near Heraklion, Crete. However, considering that the Achaia-Klauss male, for example, was buried in an existing chamber tomb possibly belonging to a particular family, it seems more plausible that he and the other two individuals were not migrants but locals who had spent some years overseas. 40 They would thus have supposedly adopted a mixed or hybrid cultural identity, and acquired, as Kimberley van den Berg in her discussion of the Klauss burial puts

36 Hall 2002; Crielaard 2009. 37 Kos: Italian-type Naue II sword and Italian-type spearhead (LH IIIB:2-LH IIIC Early), Jung 2009: 75. Kouvaras: two greaves, Type F sword, Naue II sword with gold wire (Italic import, as scientific analysis indicates), spearheads, arrowheads, tripod-cauldron, clay vases, and gold kylix (end of LH IIIC), Stavropoulou-Gatsi 2009: 417-8; Stavropoulou-Gatsi, Jung, Mehofer 2012. Klauss: 25- to 35-year-old male, buried with a Mycenaean-type flask, deep bowl, stirrup jar, handmade tripod cup and imported razor, possibly from northern Italy (LH IIIB:2-LH IIIC Early); Paschalidis, McGeorge 2009: 85-6. 38 Kilian 2007: 80. In reference to the presence of Handmade Burnished Ware at Tiryns, Kilian suggests that the users of this class of pottery were Gastarbeiter. 39 Fortified settlement, large but short-lived (ca. 50 to 70 years around 1200 BCE), which has yielded a Naue II sword, sub-Apennine-type of pottery and an Italian razor, very similar to the one from AchaiaKlauss, tomb H, see Kanta, Kontopodi 2011: 133. 40 Jung 2009: 75; Jung, Moschos, Mehofer 2008: 91.

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it, a ‘state of in-betweenness’. 41 This is just to illustrate that the six burials from Kourion, Lefkandi and Kyme are part of a broader phenomenon that, as I will discuss below, seems to become salient especially in times when intercultural contacts are first made or become more intense. 42 Hybridity The terms ‘hybrid’, ‘hybridity’ and ‘in-between-ness’ have been extensively discussed in recent decades, especially in relation to colonial and diaspora situations and other instances of intense culture contact between groups of different origins. The terms figure prominently in post-colonial thinking, as they are considered to offer a welcome alternative to traditional (colonial) conceptions stemming from such binary oppositions as colonizer vs colonized, Greeks vs barbarians, etc. 43 Hybridity is not simply equated with adaptation, fusion or synthesis, but is considered to be a creation in its own right, a mixture of differences and similarities, producing a new social and cultural domain to which new meanings are given that are mutually comprehensible but are neither purely native nor entirely imported. 44 A point of critique on this notion of hybridity is that it goes back on to determinist and essentialist presumptions that see cultures as well-defined, coherent and autonomous entities, which in a first-contact situation are supposedly pure and authentic. In this paper, however, the focus is not so much on culture contact between groups of people as on individuals who interact with other groups and cultures. The application of the term hybridity to individuals seems to be less problematic. The individuals to whom it applies are at home in more than one culture and are in a position to mediate as go-betweens between different cultures. In the following section I will further explore aspects of ambiguity and hybridity with the help of a number of cases of individuals attested to have switched between cultures. I have gathered these examples from the central and eastern Mediterranean. Most come from the first half of the first millennium BCE, whereas some date to more recent periods, with a few even from our own, modern world. As will be clear in a moment, a substantial number involve Egypt, which traditionally attracted many people who wished to expose themselves to a foreign culture for a longer or shorter period of time. I will use archaeological and, quite frequently, historical and epigraphic sources as these are particularly informative for studying individuals in the past. In the end I will try to make clear how these insights may help us to understand our six burials.

41 Van den Berg 2018. I thank her for discussing these examples with me, and for providing references to some of the recent literature. 42 For other examples, see Giangiulio 2010, discussing individuals with multiple and multi-layered personal identities, belonging to more than one world, in 6th- and 5th-century inland Sicily. 43 Van Dommelen 1998: 17-24; Antonaccio 2003; 2005. 44 See e.g. Van Dommelen 1998: 24-33; 2006: 136-8; Antonaccio 2003; 2005 (both discussing the work of Homi K. Bhabha, who introduced the concept of hybridity in post-colonial studies). Scholars studying creolization in the domain of, for instance, language or music emphasize that creolization arises from the need to communicate across linguistic and cultural boundaries. Creole languages or cultures facilitate the transfer of goods and capital, and are therefore a potential locus of power relations. Moreover, creolization is not a matter of blending, leading to the loss of the ‘purer’ original, but implies the creation of new cultural expressions that often continue to exist next to the original, resulting in the plural coexistence of cultures or cultural expressions. See Kapchan, Turner Strong 1999: 241.

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Heterophily In today’s multicultural world the influx of foreign people, customs and ideas is sometimes thought to be a threat to the traditional order that for long had managed to keep these influences out. I wish to use this short, introductory section just to remind us that highly adaptive individuals familiarizing themselves with other cultures are of all times. A telling example is Yariri, who round 800 BCE was regent of Karkemish following the death of king Astiruwa. He claimed to have been educated to speak twelve languages, including Urartian, Assyrian and perhaps Aramaean, and master four written systems, Assyrian, Aramaean and probably Urartian and Phoenician scripts, next to Luwian hieroglyphic. During his reign he maintained diplomatic contacts with almost all of the surrounding nations, elevating Karkemish to international status. 45 His exceptional knowledge of other cultures and languages was probably largely professional, acquired during his previous function as Astiruwa’s vizier, 46 but it was surely something to boast about and an important asset that contributed to his successes. To give just another example of a complex form of hybridity and possibly heterophily we may refer to Cellarka t. 33 at Salamis in Cyprus (first half of the 5th c. BCE). The syllabic inscription cut on the tomb’s façade is read by O. Masson as Αβδ(ο)υβάλω ἠμι τω Μόληϝος. Abdoubalos is identified as a Phoenician name; his father’s name, Moles, is a common Lycian name, and points to Asia Minor. However, the epitaph uses Cypriot syllabary, while the formula (inscription in the first person singular) is typically Greek. 47 Already in Homer we find clear statements that travelling to interact with other people was held as a mark of civilization. 48 This is also apparent from the theme of the wandering hero, who was away from home long enough to acquaint him- or herself with the customs of people in faraway places. 49 For instance, according to the Odyssey, Menelaus and Helen travelled to Cyprus, Phoenicia, Egypt and Africa on their way home from Troy. In Egypt, Helen was taught how to use particular drugs by Polydamna, the wife of the Egyptian Thon. 50 Egypt in particular was a source of knowledge and a popular travel destination. Phoenicians, Greeks and Karians came to Egypt to trade or offer their services to the Egyptian army, as well as for leisure, pleasure and adventure, or to acquire knowledge and wisdom. Solon, one Rhoikos attested by graffiti from Naukratis and possibly to be identified as the Samian architect, Thales, Hippokrates the mathematician and, much later, Plato visited Egypt for a longer or shorter period of time. 51 As Herodotus (3.139) remarks, ‘a great many Greeks visited [Egypt] for one reason or another’ and in this manner exposed themselves to Egyptian society and culture. They brought back trade goods, special items, and specific knowledge that influenced the architecture and sculpture of the time, cult places and perhaps cult itself. 45 Hawkins 2000: 130-3, par. A15b, 19-21; Bryce 2012: 94-7. 46 ‘My Lord [prob. Astiruwa] gathered every country’s son to me by wayfaring concerning language, and he caused me know every skill’ (transl. J.D. Hawkins), see Bryce 2012: 95. 47 Karageorghis 1970: 269-73. 48 E.g. Od. 1. 3; 4. 226-32, 267-9, with Crielaard 2012. 49 Lane Fox 2008. 50 Wanderings and riches: Od. 4. 78-85,125-32, 617-9; Egyptian drugs: 4.220-32 (so powerful that one ‘forgot all sorrows’; perhaps opium or kyphi?; see Heubeck, West, Hainsworth 1988: 206-7. 51 Trade: Yardeni 1993; Möller 2000. Military service: Haider 1996; Raaflaub 2004: 206-10. Pleasure: Crielaard in press. Knowledge: Solon fr. 28 [West]; Plut. Solon 2.1-2, 2.4, 26.1; cf. Hdt. 2.177; Möller 2000: 97-8, 175-6 (Rhoikos).

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Egyptian inspiration – or, if one wishes, hybridization of Greek culture – is detectable in, for example, the colossal marble kouroi (in Samos, Delos, Klaros and Delphi), sculptures of seated temple officials and other figures (Samos and Didyma) and the rows of couching lions and sphinxes (Didyma and Delos). 52 Naukratis was the place par excellence where Greeks and other foreigners came together. 53 Similar hubs that seem to have housed, on a temporary or semi-permanent basis, individuals from different cultural or ethnic backgrounds were also found in other places in the Mediterranean – the most notable of these being the port towns of Pithekoussai, Al Mina and perhaps Methone in the northern Aegean. 54 How profound the effects of cultural submersion were, varied from one individual to the next. Culture switching History is full of examples of individuals who do not just expose themselves temporarily to a different culture but possess the ability to switch between cultures. Alcibiades, the 5th-century Athenian military commander and politician, is perhaps the most notorious ‘culture-switcher’. He fled to Athens’ enemy Sparta, where he served as a strategic adviser. He then had to flee again, this time to the Persians, where he became an adviser to the satrap Tissaphernes in Sardis. He changed allegiance one last time when he was recalled to Athens by his political allies. 55 The  iconic example of a modern, culture-switcher is archaeologist and army officer T.E. Lawrence, a.k.a. Lawrence of Arabia, the illegitimate son of an Anglo-Irish baronet and a Scottish governess. Speaking Arabic fluently and acquainted with Bedouin life, he is believed to have led ‘his’ insurgent Arabs to guerrilla-style desert warfare, ‘[d]ressed in beautiful, flowing, white Arab dress, with the golden dagger which proclaimed him an adopted sherif, descendant of the Prophet’. 56 He eventually returned home to England and was tragically killed in a motor accident. In ancient sources there are quite a few instances of individuals moving from one culture to another, participating for a prolonged period of time in their host community and subsequently returning to their original homes. In both the Bible and the Odyssey, Egypt plays the role of foster culture where Joseph, Moses and the Cretan figuring in one of Odysseus’ liar stories by a quirk of fate become detached from their own communities, end up at the pharaoh’s court, make a career, and after many years return to their own worlds. Odysseus’ Cretan not only stayed with the Egyptian king for seven years, but subsequently associated himself with a Phoenician trader for a further year. 57 One of the conclusions we may draw from the existence of this recurring motif is that ancient audiences were comfortable with the idea that individuals could be part of an alien society for some time and then return to their own communities. The figures in these stories have a counterpart in the epigraphic record of the Archaic period. The Greek graffiti carved on the legs of the colossal rock-cut statues at Abu Simbel, 52 Crielaard 2009: 67-8, with further refs. Egyptianizing kouros at Delphi: Haider 1996: 113. 53 Möller 2000, with Crielaard 2005. 54 Al Mina: Pithekoussai: Ridgway 1997b; Crielaard 2012: 152 (epigraphic evidence of Greek, Levantine and Italic people present on the island). Methone: Besios et al. 2012; Papadopoulos 2016. 55 Rhodes 2011. 56 ‘Introduction’ by A. Calder to Lawrence 1997. 57 Joseph: Gen. 37:25-50:26; Moses: Exod. 1-14; Odysseus’ Cretan: Od. 14.199-359, esp. 246-300, with Crielaard 2012: 138-40, 145-8; Emlyn-Jones 1986.

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probably during the Nubian expedition of Psammetichos II in 592/1 BCE, 58 refer to one Psammetichos, son of Theokles. He is said to have led the Greek soldiers in the Egyptian army, perhaps as a commander of a ship or fleet that sailed to ‘above Kirkis, as far as the river permitted’. 59 This testimony shows that foreigners could have a career in Egypt. We do not know what happened after the Nubian expedition to this Psammetichos (or Psammatas, as his Kurzname seems to have been according to another inscription 60). More informative in this respect is an Egyptian basalt block statue allegedly found in a cave near Priene in western Anatolia. Its inscription in Greek tells us that it was brought from Egypt and dedicated by Pedon, who served under Psammetichos and was rewarded with a gold bracelet and a city for his bravery. The rewards mentioned must be genuine, as these were the traditional forms of royal recompense given to officers in Egypt. 61 Apparently, foreigners – in the latter case, a courageous Greek mercenary or elitist fighter – could make a career in the Egyptian army or even the Egyptian administration (taking the revenues of the city in question implies that he probably also governed the city). After an undetermined number years of living a working life in Egypt, Pedon evidently returned to his hometown in Ionia. A similar model of migration and remigration may apply to the so-called ‘Egyptians’ who were living at Larisa on the Hermos. Xenophon mentions that Cyrus the Elder had given the place to Egyptians who had fought against him in the army of Kroisos. 62 It is likely that, instead of being ‘real’ Egyptians, these were by origin East Greek mercenaries who had served in the Egyptian army, had become assimilated to some degree, joined Kroisos’ forces and were finally sent back to their ancestral homeland by the victorious Persian king. Also indicative of Larisa’s hybrid character is that on the Archaic acropolis a conspicuous building has been excavated that seems to be modelled on bit hilani-type palaces known from Syria. 63 If with Pedon’s career in mind we are allowed to speculate about how such a hybrid type of palace came to be erected in Larisa, we may envisage a re-émigré who had become acquainted with this sort of architecture in the Near East and once back home combined it with local architectural elements. Culture switching may involve such relatively superficial things as changing dress or house-type, but may also reach much deeper registers. People may even switch between faiths and religious belief systems. In his brilliant Salonica: City of Ghosts, Mark Mazower discusses examples of faith-shifting in the Ottoman Mediterranean. Although situated in a much later period, these examples give us an insight into the flexibility of the human mind that may be quite astonishing to the modern reader. This applies in particular to the following passage, which also provides us with a very apt metaphor to characterize culture-switchers: [Converted] Catholics returned to Judaism as they had left it, to protect their wealth or to inherit property from relatives; in Italy Jews allowed themselves to be baptized for similar reasons. Traders even switched between faiths as they sailed from the Ottoman lands to the Papal states. One seventeenth-century Marrano [Iberian crypto-Jew], Abraham Righetto, in his own words, See Hdt. 2.161-3. Haider 1996: 104-9; Pernigotti 1999: 53-74; Vittmann 2003: 200-3. Vittmann 2003: 202. Ampolo, Bresciani 1988; Masson, Yoyotte 1988; Haider 1996: 100-2; Vittmann 2003: 203-6. The pharaoh in question is either Psammetichos I (c. 665-610; favoured by Haider 2001: 200-1) or II (c. 595-589; see Pernigotti 1999: 95-6). 62 Xen., Hell. 3.1.5; Cyrop. 7.1.21. 63 Torelli 2001: 76-7; Pace 2010: 21.

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Jan Paul Crielaard ‘lived as a Jew but sometimes went to church and ate and drank often with the Christians’. Another, Moise Israel, also known by his Christian name of Francesco Maria Leoncini, was baptized no less than three times as he shifted to and fro [...] Such men were dismissed by contemporaries as ‘ships with two rudders’. 64

Most of the examples discussed so far relate to individuals who function in a different society and culture and return to their homeland in the end. We also find culture-switchers who stayed in their foster society. Turning to the central Mediterranean for a moment, we have such a case with the story of Demaratos. According to the tradition, he was a member of the Corinthian noble Bacchiadai family, who owned a ship and generated much profit by trading goods between Greece and Etruria. When Kypselos became tyrant in Corinth (c. 657 BCE), Demaratos decided to settle in the Etruscan town of Tarquinia, where he had many good friends. He built his own house, married a local wife of illustrious birth and had two sons, to whom he gave Tyrrhenian names, Arruns and Lucumo. 65 ‘Having instructed them in both Greek and Tyrrhenian learning [paideuas amphoterous Hellēnikēn te kai Tyrrēnikēn paideian], he married them … to two women of the most distinguished families.’ 66 According to tradition, Demaratus introduced literacy to the Etruscans and brought Corinthian potters or, rather, terracotta workers to Tarquinia, 67 and can thus be seen as a cultural mediator. After his death, his son Lucumo, at the urging of his Tarquinian wife Tanaquil, took their household, friends and riches off to Rome. Here, Lucomo became good friends with King Ancus Marcius, succeeded him as the next king under the name of Lucius Tarquinius Priscus (c. 616 BCE) and became ancestor of the Roman gens Tarquinia. 68 A common element in Demeratos’ story and that of Joseph, Moses and Odysseus’ alter ego is that all arrived in their new country as people with an uncertain position or even as nobodies (as exile, prisoner, foundling and prisoner of war, respectively), but in the end made it to the highest social circles. One may see this as a common folk motif, but Demaratos’ case may contain a certain amount of credibility and there are indeed a number of examples, both from Antiquity and more recent periods, of culture-switchers who ascended from nobodies to influential figures. To give three, random examples: Demokedes, the 6th-century physician from Kroton, was brought to Susa by the Persian satrap Oroites as a slave and ended up as court physician of Dareios I. 69 The Andalusi Berber diplomat and adventurer al-Hasan ibn Muhammad al-Wazzan al-Fasi (c. 1494 - c. 1554) was taken captive by Spanish corsairs and then brought to the Papal court in Rome, where he was baptized and became a celebrated geographer and man of learning under the name of Giovanni Leone or Leo Africanus. 70 The 64 Mazower 2004: 69. 65 For mixed Etruscan-Greek names (Larth Telicles and Rutile Hipucrates) occurring in 7th-c. graffiti from Etruria, see Coldstream 1993: 101. 66 Dion. Hal. 3.46.3-5; also Polyb. 6.11a.10; Livy 1.34.2; Val. Max. 3.4.2; Plut., Rom. 16.8; Publ. 14.1. 67 Tac., Ann. 11.14; Pliny, Nat. Hist. 35.152, with Ridgway, Ridgway 1994; Smith 1994. 68 According to Liv. 1.34.4-5 and Dion. Hal. 3.47.1-2, Lucumo left Tarquinia because his mixed background was hampering his political ambitions; Polybius (6.11a.7) mentions that he and Tanaquil went to Rome for opportunistic reasons. See also Plut., Publ. 14.1. 69 Hdt. 3.129-137, with Davies 2010. For the similarly spectacular career of Rhodopis, see Hdt. 1.134. 70 Masonen 2001. At the end of his life, Leo possibly returned to North Africa and reconverted to Islam. An interesting parallel from the New World is Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca, who in 1528 shipwrecked on the coast of Texas, was enslaved by various American Indian tribes living on the coast, escaped, and travelled for eight years through what is now the American Southwest and northern Mexico to Mexico

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legendary Hürrem Haseki Sultan (c. 1502-1558), finally, also known as Roxelana, was born in Polish Ruthenia, possibly as Aleksandra Lisowska. Captured by Crimean Tatars and taken as a slave to Constantinople, she was selected for the sultan’s harem. She became the chief consort and legal wife of Suleiman I the Magnificent, who held her in high esteem. She acted as his counselor and chief adviser on matters of state and foreign policy, and engaged in international diplomatic relations with the king of Poland. 71 For a perhaps not dissimilar story of assimilation into the upper class from the Archaic period we may turn to an Egyptian sarcophagus in the collection of the National Museum of Antiquities at Leiden (fig. 2). According to the hieroglyphic inscription, it belonged to one Wahibre-em-achet. His name is connected with the throne name of Psammetichus I and the birth name of Apries (589-570 BCE), respectively. The same inscription mentions Arkskares and Sentiti as his parents, in which the Greek names Alexikles and Zenodote can be recognized. These must have been Greek immigrants to Egypt. Their son became (or already was) a high ranking individual, judging from the fact that he could afford a large sarcophagus made of basalt. 72 In this connection it should be remarked that the Egypt of the 26th Dynasty was not a closed or even segregated society. Greeks and Karians living in Egypt became increasingly assimilated. This is also indicated by the gravestones of socalled Karomemphites from Karikon Teikhos at Memphis and from Abusir (fig. 3). 73 What makes Wahibre-em-achet’s case special is that his large stone sarcophagus imitates New Kingdom examples, which can only be seen as a powerful statement to underline his newly found Egyptian identity, which through this item acquired a flavour of antiquity or eternity. Cultural pluralism We end our brief survey of hybrid individuals with Herodotos’ story of the Skythian king Skylas, probably set in the first half of the 5th century BCE. Skylas had a Greek mother from Istros, and could speak and read Greek. He spent part of his time living a traditional life among his fellow Skythians with his Skythian spouse (who was one of his murdered father’s wives), and part of his time living, unattended by his fellow Skythians, in the city of Olbia, with his Olbian wife in, as Herodotus explicitly mentions, ‘a large house decorated with marble sphinxes and griffins’, wearing Greek clothes and performing Greek religious ceremonies. Living in two worlds was a satisfactory solution for Skylas, but not for his fellow Skythians who, as Herodotos mentions, had the reputation of being ‘dead-set against foreign ways’ and were inclined to severely punish ‘anyone who introduces alien customs’. When Skylas’ tribesmen learnt that he took part in the Dionysiac mystery cults, they rebelled and eventually killed him. 74 This is an extreme response by outsiders to what may be called cultural pluralism, 75 and there are examples from other cultures where people, like Skylas, were comfortably

71 72 73 74 75

City. After many years of living among the local tribes he became a hybrid go-between and during his wanderings he managed to support himself as a trader and earnt a reputation among the local populations as a healer. See Wade 1999. Peirce 1993: 58-65. I owe this example to Filiz Songu. Vittmann 2003: 203. Vittmann 2003: Ch. 6. Hdt. 4.76-80, with Braund 2015: 359-62. What is probably also at stake here is that Herodotus often uses the Skythians as a mirror for the Greeks: in contrast to the Skythians, they liked to adopt new customs. See Raaflaub 2004: 199.

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bi- or tricultural. One is Abraham Righetto, the Marrano just referred to, who sometimes went to church and wined and dined with the Christians. Another is Roman poet Quintus Ennius, who ‘used to say that he had three hearts, since he spoke Greek, Oscan and Latin’, which he had acquired during different stages of his life and probably used depending on the specific context and situation. 76 Finally, in his panoramic essay Cultural hybridity, Peter Burke discusses how in Japan in the second half of the 19th century AD some upper-class men started to live a ‘double life’, ‘a life both Western and traditional, consuming two kinds of food according to the occasion, wearing two kinds of clothes (a kimono at home, for example, and a Western suit at the office), reading books in two kinds of script and living in traditional houses that now included a room furnished in the Western style’. 77 The lastmentioned example draws our attention to the circumstance that cultural pluralism – or ‘cultural disglossia’, as Burke prefers to call it – does not necessarily have to take place in the foster society, as in Skylas’ case, but can also be adopted in an individual’s own milieu. In the case of the Japanese gentlemen, the double life meant participating in world culture but retaining a local culture. 78 The examples that we have discussed here range from individuals who chose to expose themselves to other cultures for a limited amount of time (e.g. those visiting Naukratis) to those who switched to another culture altogether (Demaratos, Wahibre-em-achet, Hürrem Haseki Sultan), or switched and then came back (Pedon, Leo Africanus, Lawrence) or even switched frequently (Acibiades, Mazower’s Marranos). Most of our cases relate to individuals moving to a foster society that was physically far away, whereas others switched cultures or enjoyed a double life in their own town or region (Yariri, Skylas, Abraham Righetto) or even within their own home (Burke’s Japanese gentlemen). Many of our individuals belonged to the upper echelons of society (Alcibiades, Demaratos, Psammatas, Pedon, Skylas, Ennius) or moved out of and then back into the highest social circles again (Joseph, Moses, Odysseus’ Cretan, Demokedes, Leo Africanus). Switching cultures meant a new identity, which sometimes meant a new name (Wahibre-em-achet, Lucomo/Lucius Tarquinius Priscus, alHasan ibn Muhammad al-Wazzan al-Fasi/Giovanni Leone/Leo Africanus/Yuhanna l-Asad al-Gharnati, Anastasja Lisowska/Hürrem/Roxelana) or more than one name at the same time (Moise Israel/Francesco Maria Leoncini, T.E. Lawrence/Lawrence of Arabia). We may safely assume that there were degrees of hybridity or variations in cultural pluralism depending on situation and context. But most important is these hybrids’ knowledge of different cultures (presumably including languages) and ability to act in more than one culture. Social aspects of hybrid individuals In modern western culture there exists a certain fascination for culture-switchers, hybrids and other ambiguous characters. Think of, for instance, Lawrence of Arabia, Kimball O’Hara in Rudyard Kipling’s Kim, Mr Kurtz in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and Colonel Kurtz in Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, or hybrid characters from popular culture, like Tarzan of the Apes, Spider-Man and Batman. Batman is even a double hybrid: not only does the character play with the human-animal boundary, he also functions 76 Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticae 17. 17.1, with Yntema 2009: 159-60. 77 Burke 2009: 91. 78 Burke 2009: 61, 111-2.

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in two worlds, fighting criminals of the underworld and protecting law-abiding citizens of the Gotham upperworld. In Antiquity these figures find counterparts in Aegypto-Israelite Moses, demigod Herakles and the thrice-hybrid Dioskouroi, who belonged alternately to the worlds of the living, the dead, and the immortals, and were thus immensely popular as protectors of travellers. What these characters have in common is that their hybrid or ambiguous nature puts them in a position to act as mediators between cultures and potentially assume powerful positions. 79 When discussing processes of hybridization in colonial situations, Peter van Dommelen remarks that ambiguous meanings and perceptions are instrumental in bridging cultural differences and constructing stable identities. 80 Burke takes this point further by pointing out that hybrid individuals, like émigrés, exiles, refugees, captives and converts – to whom we may now add culture-switchers – often act as cultural mediators: hybrid individuals can be translators from one cultural language to another. They take advantage of their liminal position and mediate between the two cultures to which they owe a kind of allegiance. As Burke puts it, ‘people who transferred their allegiance from one culture to another have often played an important role in the process of interpreting’. They have a ‘double consciousness’ that assists them in the task of translation. 81 Time to go back to our tombs and their hybrid occupants. If we are correct to assume that the person buried in Toumba t. 79 had an intimate knowledge of different social and economic ‘cultures’, and could function in more than one world at the same time, we may compare him to such ‘situational’ culture-switchers as Mazower’s 17th-century Marranos, or rather to the type of culture-switchers participating in a different culture for a prolonged period of time, like Pedon from Priene. The individual interred in Artiaco t. 104 lived in a contact situation that started when migrants from an Aegean background settled at Pithekoussai and Kyme. 82 The example of Skylas shows that such contact situations may produce persons with bicultural or multiple identities. It cannot be excluded that one or more of our individuals were immigrants (comparable to Demaratos) or the offspring of mixed marriages between locals and immigrants (like Demaratos’ son Lucumo), and indeed this is what Nicolas Colstream has suggested with respect to the individuals buried under the Toumba building and in Artiaco t. 104. 83 However, the question whether these were biological or cultural hybrids is not very relevant. What is much more important is that we have here social actors who lived in contact situations or were part of two culture communities, and had the possibility to act as intercultural mediators. This role may be performed by both men and women, as shown by the above Tanaquil and Hürrem Sultan but also by the example of Krotoa/Eva (c. 1643-1674), the linguistically gifted Khoena woman who served as translator between the Khoikhoi and the first Dutch settlers at the Cape of Good Hope and became personal trading agent of chief Oedasoa within the Dutch community. 84 79 T.E. Lawrence, Kimball O’Hara and Mr Kurtz (probably based on one or more real-life examples) can all be seen, more specifically, as agents of European imperial power; see e.g. Ghiasvand, Zarrinjooee 2014 on Kipling’s Kim. Cf. Herakles as the travelling, culture hero of Doric colonizers in the Mediterranean, see Malkin 2011: Ch. 4. 80 Van Dommelen 2006: 139. 81 Burke 2009: 30-3, 100-1. 82 D’Agostino 2011; Greco, Mermati 2010-2011: 109. 83 See above, n. 33. 84 Wells 1998.

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What our hybrid individuals have in common is that each seems to have lived in a time of change. In Cyprus, the Cypro-Geometric period is a dynamic era that saw an increase in external contacts and a shift in settlement patterns and the adoption of new cemetery locations, possibly partly connected with incoming migrants. 85 Something similar relates to Lefkandi, where the MPG period marks a time of social diversification and what in an Aegean context was the start of unusually intense contacts with the east. 86 Fondo Artiaco 104 belongs to an individual who during his lifetime had probably seen how local people and migrants from an Aegean background started to live together in Kyme. 87 Burke points out that in contact situations, some individuals and groups participate in the process more than others. 88 We may assume that our individuals played a key role in streamlining these processes, as they were part of more than one culture and could play a role in boundary-crossing or different kinds of integrative cultural processes. A final remark concerns the social position of our hybrid or ambiguous individuals. What is important to note is that our six burials do not mark the start of a process of further hybridization. In a way, they stand by themselves. They were not trendsetters, so to say, but the first and the last to be buried with this particular mix of burial goods and funerary rites. This is clearly the case for Kourion and Lefkandi where, for instance, the rite of urn cremation remains rare or even non-existent among the generations to come. Both graves also contained objects that are entirely unique, like the gold disks adorning the breast of the woman buried under the Toumba building. At Cumae, we see the adoption of cremation using metal vessels as a marker of high status for later tombs, but in a much more sober fashion and without the wide array of foreign elements. In that sense, Fondo Artiaco t. 104, too, stands by itself. One explanation could be that the different way of burial was a material expression of their ‘in-between-ness’, being literally ‘neither One nor the Other but something else besides, in-between’, to quote Homi Bhabha. 89 In other words, our hybrid individuals had links with two groups but were not fully part of either group or at least were different from most other members of these groups. This liminal, ambiguous identity of the deceased was given expression in a different type of burial ritual. An alternative (or additional) explanation takes into account power relations. To judge from the special types of tomb and burial rites, these were individuals with a high status. Part of this may be related to their ability to bridge differences, cross boundaries and intermediate between communities and cultures. Especially in times of change or a proliferation of cross-cultural contact this might be an important asset. They were ‘champions’ of the new worlds and buried in an extraordinary fashion in accordance with this special status. For late 8th- and 7th-century central Italy, for instance, this meant that Fondo Artiaco t. 104 set a long-lasting standard, not so much for the more sober, local elite burials, as for the so-called tombe principesche, that is, extremely rich tombs discovered in a number of places in Etruria, Latium and Campania. They are generally later in date than Artiaco t. 104, but contain sets of comparable tomb items whose most important message seems to have been that these housed intercultural mediators. What the examples discussed in this paper underscore is that individuals or groups can treat their cultural identity with great flexibility. The keywords are fluidity and multiplicity. 85 86 87 88 89

Crielaard 1998: 188. Crielaard 2006: 286-90. Greco, Mermati 2010-2011. Burke 2009: 67. Bhabha 1994: 219.

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We have witnessed examples of changes in identities, overlappings of identities, plural coexistence of cultures and, above all, the flexibility of mediation.

Figure 1. A. Burial chamber tomb 40 at Kourion-Kaloriziki, Cyprus (LC IIIB); B. Burial shafts of male and female under the Toumba building at Lefkandi, Euboia (MPG); C. Shaft grave of Toumba tomb 79 at Lefkandi, Euboia (SPG II); D. Fondo Artiaco tomb 104 at Kyme, Campania (late 8th century) (b. and c. published with permission of the British School in Athens).

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Figure 2. Sarcophagus of basalt of Wahibre-em-achet, National Museum of Antiquities at Leiden (courtesy National Museum of Antiquities at Leiden).

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Figure 3a. Gravestone of Egypto-Carian woman found at Abusir (published with permission of the British Museum).

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Figure 3b. Gravestone of Egypto-Carian woman found at Abusir (published with permission of the British Museum).

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Haider 2001 – Haider P.W. 2001: Epigraphische Quellen zur Integration von Griechen in die ägyptische Gesellschaft der Saïtenzeit, In U. Höckmann, D. Kreikenbom (eds), Naukratis. Die Beziehungen zu Ostgriechenland, Ägypten und Zypern in archaischer Zeit. Akten der Table Ronde in Maiz, 1999, Möhnesee: 197-215. Hall 2002 – Hall J. 2002: Hellenicity. Between ethnicity and culture, Cambridge. Hawkins 2000 – Hawkins J.D. 2000: Corpus of Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions I. Inscriptions of the Iron Age, Berlin. Heubeck, West, Hainsworth 1988 – Heubeck A., West S., Hainsworth J.B. 1988: A commentary on Homer’s Odyssey 1. Introduction and Books I-VIII, Oxford. Johannowsky 1975 – Johannowsky W. 1975: Problemi relativi a Cuma arcaica, In Contribution à l’étude de la société et de la colonisation Eubéennes (Cahiers du Centre J. Bérard II), Naples : 98-105. Jung 2007 – Jung R. 2007: Goldene Vögel und Sonnen. Ideologische Kontakte zwischen Italien und der postpalatialen Ägäis, In E. Alram-Stern, G. Nightingale (eds), Keimelion. Elitenbildung und elitärer Konsum von der mykenischen Palastzeit bis zur homerischen Epoche. Akten des internationalen Kongresses vom 3. bis 5. Februar in Salzburg, Wien: 219-255. Jung 2009 – Jung R. 2009: Pirates of the Aegean: Italy – the east Aegean – Cyprus at the end of the second millennium BC, In V. Karageorghis, O. Kouka (eds), Cyprus and the East Aegean. Intercultural contacts from 3000 to 500 BC. An international archaeological symposium held at Pythagoreion, Samos, October 17th–18th 2008, Nicosia: 72-93. Jung, Moschos, Mehofer 2009 – Jung R., Moschos I., Mehofer M. 2009: Φονεύοντας με τον ίδιο τρόπο: Οι ειρήνικες επαφές για τον πόλεμο μεταξύ δυτικής Ελλάδας και Ιταλίας κατά τη διάρκεια των όψιμων μυκηναïκών χρόνων, In S.A. Paipetis, Ch. Giannopoulou (eds), Πολιτισμική αλληλογονιμοποίηση νότιας Ιταλίας και δυτικής Ελλάδας μέσα από την ιστορία, Patras: 85–107. Kanta, Kontopodi 2011 – Kanta, A., Kontopodi D.Z. 2011: Kastrokephala (Crete): strangers or locals in a fortified acropolis of the 12th century BC, In V. Karageorghis, O. Kouka (eds), On cooking pots, drinking cups, loomweights and ethnicity in Bronze Age Cyprus and neighbouring regions. An international archaeological symposium held in Nicosia, November 6th–7th 2010, Nicosia: 129-148. Kapchan, Turner Strong 1999 – Kapchan D., Turner Strong P. 1999: Theorizing the Hybrid, The Journal of American Folklore 112 no. 445: 239-253. Karageorghis 1970 – Karageorghis V. 1970: Excavations in the necropolis of Salamis II, Nicosia. Karageorghis 1983 – Karageorghis V. 1983: Palaepaphos-Skales. An Iron Age cemetery in Cyprus, Konstanz. Karageorghis 2003 – Karageorghis V. 2003: Heroic burials in Cyprus and other Mediterranean regions, In N.Ch. Stampolidis & V. Karageorghis (eds): Πλοες – Sea routes… Interconnections in the Mediterranean 16th–6th c. BC. Proceedings of the international symposium held at Rethymnon, Crete, 2002, Athens: 339-51. Kilian 1977 – Kilian K. 1977: Zwei Italische Neufunde der Früheisenzeit aus Olympia, ArchKorrBl 7: 121-126. Kilian 2007 – Kilian K. 2007: Tiryns XV. Die handgemachte geglättete Keramik mykenischer Zeitstellung, Wiesbaden. Knapp 2013 – Knapp A.B. 2013: The archaeology of Cyprus, Cambridge. Kopcke 1990 – Kopcke G. 1990: Handel. Archaeologia Homerica, Kap. M, Göttingen. Kosmetatou 1993 – Kosmetatou E. 1993: Horse sacrifices in Greece and Cyprus, Journal of Prehistoric Religion 7: 31-41. Kourou 1994 – Kourou N. 1994: Sceptres and maces in Cyprus before, during and immediately after the 11th century, In V. Karageorghis (ed.), Cyprus in the eleventh century B.C. Proceedings of the international symposium organized by the Archaeological Research Unit of the University of Cyprus and the Anastasios G. Leventis Foundation, Nicosia, 30-31 October 1993, Nicosia: 203-227. Kroll 2008 – Kroll J.H. 2008: Early Iron Age balance weights at Lefkandi, Euboea, OJA 27: 37-48. Lane Fox 2008 – Lane Fox R. 2008: Travelling heroes. Greeks and their myths in the epic age of Homer, London.

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Imported Objects in the Aegean beyond Élite Interaction: A Contextual Approach to Eastern Exotica on the Greek Mainland Sarah Murray Systems of exchange between the Aegean and the Levant during the Late Bronze Age/Early Iron Age transition have been the subject of a formidable quantity of scholarship over the last several decades. 1 Nonetheless, many aspects of trade and interaction over this transition remain poorly understood. 2 In this paper I consider the meaning of one of the most direct categories of evidence that we have for such systems: imported exotica, which I define here as finished goods found in regions outside their “cultural unit” of manufacture. 3 The interpretation of so-called “imports” in the archaeological record is a vast topic, so due to limitations of space I focus here only on objects imported from the eastern Mediterranean that are found in the Greek mainland from contexts dated to the Late Bronze to Early Iron Age transition. In particular, I am interested in taking a fresh look at the depositional contexts and potential meaning of these imported objects as a corpus. 1. Early Greek Trade: Current Models In Aegean Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age archaeology, maritime trade has most frequently been cast as an economic and political institution, through which exotic finished objects and locally unavailable commodities were transferred across space, mostly for consumption by an economic or cultural “élite”. These élites used exotica to create their identities as privileged and special by way of conspicuous consumption within communities. 4 1 A sample of recent work includes: Betelli 2011; Bell 2012; van Wijngaarden 2012; Tartaron 2013. For general and relatively up-to-date summaries, see Dickinson 2006; Burns 2010a. The author would like to thank the organizers of the conference The Aegean and the Levant at the Turn of the Bronze and Iron Ages for the invitation to participate in the proceedings and for putting together an excellent event in Warsaw. Portions of this paper closely reproduce the ideas presented in the author’s dissertation (Murray 2013) and monograph (Murray 2017). The author thanks Cambridge University Press for permission to reuse some of this material in the current publication. 2 Not for the lack of effort on the part of scholars but because trade systems are simply difficult to reconstruct for the prehistoric period. As Bennet has pointed out, “the core problem with understanding past exchange patterns is that objects tend to be recovered archaeologically in contexts where they were consumed, not in the process of distribution, or even at their point of arrival.” (Bennet 2007: 201). This means, of course, that we cannot excavate trade systems, and we are left to interpret “indirect traces in bad samples” (Clarke 1973: 16). 3 For definitions see Vianello 2011, vii (there given as “any foreign as opposed to indigenous material and products”); Michaelidou, Voutsa 2005. The term exotica is used interchangeably here with “imports”, partly for stylistic variation, but also because its Greek root, ἐξωτικός, or foreign, from outside, provides a less anachronistic framework within which to categorize exogenous objects in the archaeological record than “import” which is imbued with valences accrued from the modern capitalist economy. 4 As most clearly articulated by Helms 1988; 1993. See also Colburn 2008: 206; Heymans, van Wijngaarden 2011: 125; Vianello 2011: 169; Whittaker 2011. The term exotica has even occasionally been defined in

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According to this view, long-distance trade with the Levant was not only an economic institution, but also a socio-political tool used to consolidate power and entrench hierarchical differences within Greek society. 5 This model is partly based on work from anthropology, especially the idea of the kula ring established by Malinowski and Mauss long ago, but also on a rich accumulation of contemporary documentation from the Aegean. 6 For the Late Bronze Age, there is plenty of evidence for élite exchange in the form of a combination of epistolary evidence for correspondence among great kings in the Near East 7 and the archaeological remains of shipwrecks at Kaş (Uluburun) and Cape Gelidonya. 8 These windows into the prehistoric world provide ample and incontrovertible evidence that élite-driven exchange was a real and prominent feature of Late Bronze Age exchange between the Aegean and the Levant. From the 12th to 9th centuries, we do not possess contemporary textual evidence, but the 8th century Homeric poems may afford us a glimpse backwards into an Early Iron Age system of xenia, by which luxury goods were transferred between the Levant and Greek basileis. This was a system that differed in its mechanisms from the preceding Late Bronze Age one (perhaps involving more travel on the part of élites themselves), but that essentially served the same function: to bind élites together and provide them with special objects that were inaccessible to the common man. 9 Finally, to demonstrate that exchange was really going on along the lines that texts and anthropological models suggest, archaeologists have documented many examples of imported exotica in archaeological contexts in the Aegean and the Levant. 10 Existing arguments assert that these objects support the view that finished imported goods did circulate among élites and accrue “distance value” because of their unusual nature. 11 I suggest in this paper that we should reassess this view of imported exotica, which have too often been assumed to provide an illustration of the models built from texts and/or anthropological case studies, rather than independently interpreted in their archaeological contexts. Do the depositional contexts and seeming meaning (as far as we can extract it) of exotica always “match” the role that they have been assigned based on texts and anthropological models of exchange? This is an important question to consider because the great advantage of archaeology (in direct opposition to textual evidence) is that it often allows scholars to access the viewpoint of a non-élite subset of society.

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ways that underline the frequent conflation of these objects with élite competition, i.e. Vianello 2011: vii, wherein exotica are “symbolic tools of distinction primarily used in contexts of competition.” Burns 2010b; Cline 2005; cf. sources cited in n. 1. Malinowski 1922; Mauss 1923. On the ancient world: Finley 1970; Renfrew 1975; 1977; Snodgrass 1991. The best collection of Hittite documents available in English remains Beckman 1995. For the Amarna letters, Moran 1992. Uluburun: Pulak 1998; 2008. Gelidonya: Bass et al. 1967. For shipwrecks and their relationship to the wider economy see Knapp 1991: 52; Dickinson 2006: 34; Shelmerdine 2013: 451. On élite exchange in Homer, élites, and the EIA, Lemos 2007; Crielaard 2006; Mazarakis-Ainian 2006; Crielaard 1995. For the Late Bronze Age, Cline’s oeuvre still represents the most thorough attempt to quantify the evidence for long-distance trade in the LBA Aegean (Cline 1994; 2005; 2010; cf. Parkinson 2010). For the Early Iron Age, some catalogs have recently appeared (e.g. Lemos 2002: Appendix B; Braun-Holzinger, Rehm 2015) alongside lists buried in individual site publications, but the history of research is scantier. Burns 2010a; 2010b; Knapp 1990; 1998; Sherratt 2001; Voutsaki 1997.

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In the service of assessing the archaeological record of Aegean-Levantine exchange, then, I briefly lay out the evidence so that we may consider what the imported exotica might tell us about relations between the Aegean and the Levant over the 13th to 10th centuries. Once I have summarized the evidence, I attempt an interpretation of the objects discussed that is independent of ideas drawn from prevailing textual sources and models, then consider how we might explain the apparent discrepancies between what the imported Levantine exotica in Greece seem to mean in their contexts and what our current models seem to push them towards. 2. Eastern Exotica in LBA–EIA Greece As has been noted before by scholars studying imported objects in Mycenaean contexts, one surprising aspect of identified imported exotica is the relatively small number of such objects that archaeologists have managed to recover and identify. 12 From the roughly 125 years of Late Helladic (LH) IIIB, we know of only 121 securely-dated, imported exotica from the east. 13 The objects have been found primarily in contexts that are in fact closely associated with the élite–palatial complexes and élite tombs. One hundred and two of these objects come from just three sites: Mycenae, Tiryns, and Thebes. 14 This accords with what we might expect, that exotica are preferentially deposited at palatial sites, where élites, using exotic imports to distinguish themselves from their followers, might be the primary consumers. However, when we look more closely at the archaeological record for each site, the association between élite consumers and imported objects becomes more difficult to sustain. At Mycenae, imports have been recovered from a number of areas both within and outside of the citadel proper. 15 While the complex stratigraphy and history of excavation at the site makes many of these imports difficult to interpret with any certainty, 16 a number of patterns are apparent in the nature and intra-site distribution of the imports. First, the majority of identified exotica from the site come from contexts associated with religious/cultic activities (around the Citadel House) 17 or with the manufacture of special craft objects (the Ivory Houses). 18 The imported objects known from LH IIIB Mycenae primarily comprise small 12 For discussion of the apparent dissonance between the importance of trade in the LBA Aegean and the small number of recognizable imports recovered see Dickinson 2006: 201; Cherry 2010: 112; Tartaron 2013: 34. 13 Figure is based on work presented in Murray 2013: 380–397, and in brief in Murray 2017, chapter 2. 14 Other sites with imports dated to the LH IIIB period include Menidi, Dendra, Monodendri, Pylos, Tsoungiza, Prosymna, Spiliareika Lousikon, and Midea (see Murray 2013: 380–397 for details and bibliographies for these finds). 15 Two imports have been found in recent excavations at Mycenae outside of the citadel (a faience cartouche from a dump, Whitley et al. 2005-2006: 33, and one fragment of a Canaanite jar, Shelton 2010: 197). 16 The concentration of excavated imported objects in the marginal areas of the citadel may or may not be a function of the state of preservation of the site, since deposits from the upper citadel did not survive antiquity in good stead. 17 The structures of the Citadel House area include a series of storage facilities as well as a number of spaces that have been interpreted as cult locations (French 1981; Taylour 1981). 18 Tournavitou 1995. All of the imports from the House of the Shields consist of faience or alabaster vessels discovered in the West room and the West half of the North room (Tournavitou 1995: 695–712). The vessels consist of shapes that would not be out of place in ritual contexts, including rhyta, alabastra, kylikes (Wace 1956: 111–12; Peltenburg 1991: 164; Cline 1994: nos: 652–61; Tournavitou 1995: 695–712).

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faience vessels intended for ritual use and faience figures and plaques. 19 One of the plaques was discovered inside of a lead vessel deposited under the threshold of a cult building in the citadel house area. 20 In Egypt such objects are likewise most frequently located in foundation deposits. 21 From the area NE of the lion gate also comes a bronze reshef figurine. 22 At Tiryns, the characteristics of known exotica are quite different. The largest concentration of LH IIIB imports is in the area around Building VI in the lower citadel, which contained cult materials and metalworking equipment. 23 A second import-rich deposit was excavated just inside the North gate of the lower citadel. 24 Both of these deposits come from areas in the site that functioned primarily as workshops or sites of ritual activity in the late Mycenaean period. 25 The Tirynthian import assemblage of exotica is notable for the additional presence of several Cypriot open and closed ceramic vessels, as well as a few highly unusual imports, such as an ivory rod inscribed in Ugaritic cuneiform (it has been interpreted by the excavator as a tally stick) and wall brackets (one imported, along with local imitations), a Syro-Palestinian or Cypriot ceramic type that functioned as a wall-mounted incense burner, usually found in ritual contexts. 26 As a corpus, then, Tirynthian imports are characterized by exclusive presence in the lower citadel and lower town, and by consistent association with ritual or workshop areas (and metalworking areas in particular). The disposition of known imports from Thebes is quite different again. All but one of the IIIB Theban imports were found in a single cache of cylinder seals in the so-called “treasure room”, a late IIIB deposit in what was apparently a workshop for the production of value-added goods in the New Kadmeion. 27 The majority of the seals show evidence of having been recarved or abraded before their final deposition. In addition, the seals were found along with an assemblage of other semi-precious stone objects, both finished and raw, including a set of cylinder seal shaped stones that had not been cut at all. Most scholars believe that this is because the cylinder seals at Thebes had been subsumed into a stonecutting industry for their value as raw materials, rather than because of their distance value as imported objects. 28 During the Mycenaean palatial period, then, when the link between élites, exotica, and power has traditionally been taken as a given, the imported objects that archaeologists have recovered from the Greek mainland, although located preferentially at palatial centers, do not come from contexts that suggest imported exotica were especially prized by palatial officials as status symbols. The few finished eastern exotica that we have recovered come from workshops or areas that suggest ritual use. Finally, these objects comprise categories of material culture (plaques, bronze statuettes, faience vessels) that seem remarkably humble 19 For imports interpreted as religious votives from the nearby areas of Tsountas’ house and the South House: French 1981: 45; Burns 2011: 150; Wardle 1973: 303–4. 20 French 1981: 45; Taylour 1981: 9, 10, 17. 21 Cline 1990: 206. 22 Cline 1994: no. 16; Gallet de Santerre 1987. 23 Kilian 1981: 58; Kilian 1983: 304; Brysbaert, Vetters 2013: 195–199. 24 Maran 2004: 13; Brysbaert, Vetters 2013: 195–199. 25 Maran 2004: 25. 26 For wall brackets see Rahmstorf 2008; Panitz-Cohen 2006; the inscribed ivory rod, Cohen et al. 2010. 27 Porada 1981; on the context of the find, Falkenstein 1964. 28 Burns 2010b: 155. The overall weight of the seals is about one mina (Porada 1981: 68). See Kopanias 2008: 55–56 for the value of raw lapis lazuli.

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in scale and media compared to the lavish gifts enumerated in kingly missives preserved from the ancient Levant. 29 From the following IIIC period the raw number of imported eastern exotica present in the archaeological record is once again quite small (69). Once again the majority of the exotica come from only a couple of sites: Tiryns & Perati. 30 At Perati, a single-period cemetery site, imported objects were found in 19 different tombs (8% of the non-looted tombs from the cemetery). The tombs containing imports are located only in the western portion of the cemetery (see Figure 1). While a few tombs (30, 13, 147) contained several imported objects, in most cases exotica were found in singles or pairs, in tombs ranging in architectural type and plan. 31 In addition to an unusual number of scarabs, the import assemblage includes several other Egyptian amulets (three crocodiles, several Bes figurines, and one figurine of the goddess Thoeris/Taweret), two faience cartouches of Ramses II, Syro-Palestinian crescent and rosette amulets, and five Cypriot bull-shaped earrings. If we found them in their Egyptian or Near Eastern contexts, we could class the figural amulets as prophylactic. That is to say that they seem to have been intended to ward of danger, perhaps specifically the many hazards that await the soul on the journey to the underworld. 32 Likewise, the gold Syro-Palestinian rosette and crescent amulets, suspended from small hoops, are regarded by Iakovidis as protective amulets against the “evil eye”, which is consistent with their use in Egypt, the Levant, and Asia Minor. 33 Along with amulets and seals, exotica from Perati include three imported balance weights (two of the weights adhere to the Egyptian q-det standard, the other to the contemporary Palestinian shekel). 34 These are not as numerous as the amulets, but they are equally conspicuous because they suggest the practice of some kind of mercantile or metallurgical activity by the interred. The imported objects from the cemetery at Perati in Attica have, like exotica from the palatial period, usually been interpreted as indicating some kind of continued élite contact

29 For example, EA 14, describing a partial list of gifts in a single instance of exchange between Burnaburiash and Akhenaten includes: gold necklaces, golden oil containers, gold pins, silver goblets, gold figurines, silver figurines, gold goblets, gold pails, gold rings, golden sandals, ivory bracelets, bronze razors, gold bowls, gold necklace plaques, tubes of eye paint, gold knives, gold ladles, a statue of the king and his family, chariots overlaid with gold, seven ships overlaid with gold, gold-embellished furniture, silver braziers, monkey figurines, abundant sweet oil, silver ladles, silver sandals, silver mirrors, hundreds of bronze mirrors, bronze tripods and braziers, horse tack, bronze razors, bronze ladles “for the barber”, hundreds of fine linen garments and bed furnishings, hundreds of jars of perfumed oils, stone vessels and figurines, stone headrests, whetstones, ebony and ivory boxes, and over four hundred ivory containers of various types. 30 Other IIIC imports are known from Mycenae, Teichos Dymaion, Lefkandi, Aigio, Portes, and Agia Varvara (see Murray 2013: 402–420 for details and bibliography). 31 Tombs containing imports are nos. 13, 24, 25, 28, 29, 30, 31, 37, 43, 52, 75, 86, 104, 147, 152, 409, 471, and 483. Full details and description of the contexts is available in Iakovidis 1969. 32 Most recently Herrmann 2016; Ben-Tor 1994; Giveon 1974 on Canaanite usage in the Middle Kingdom; Horn 1972 for Palestinian scarabs. 33 Iakovidis 1980: 84–5. The use of amulets in Syro-Palestine, especially as guards against the attacks of the Lamashtu against unborn babies and newborns, is well attested, and endured well into the seventh century amongst the Phoenicians (Ackerman 2004: 460; Stager 1995). 34 Iakovidis 1980: 98.

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between Perati’s inhabitants and the wider Mediterranean world. 35 However, although some of the tombs containing imports are among the richest in the cemetery (in terms of finds/ burial), there is no clear correlation between tomb wealth and import presence (Figure 2). 36 The only other mainland site with a meaningful concentration of imported eastern exotica from the LH IIIC period is Tiryns. Of special interest among IIIC Tirynthian imports is a Syro-Palestinian armor scale that was deposited underneath a hearth in the courtyard of a building in the northeastern section of the lower town. 37 The hearth consisted of a smooth clay surface, below which a pavement made of sherds covered the carefully placed bronze armor scale. The armor scale, and its deposition in a clearly ritual context, has its closest parallels in contexts associated with Cypriot metalworkers at Hala Sultan Tekke. 38 In addition to this armor scale, and several more wall brackets, Stockhammer has recently has identified a number of Cypriot simple style stirrup jars and further fragments of imported wares, as well as an assemblage of pottery that ought to be associated with opium-smoking rituals typical of Cypriot practice. 39 Moreover, in the same phase from Tiryns was discovered a small clay ball inscribed with Cypro-Minoan markings, another object that finds its closest parallels in contexts associated with merchants and traders in Cyprus. 40 As is well known, there are not many finished, imported eastern exotica from the Protogeometric period in Greece (1050 to 900 BCE), and the majority of those that have been found come from mortuary contexts at the site of Lefkandi in Euboea. 41 Once again, scholars have tended to associate these imported objects with élites, be they “local” élites, warrior-traders, or bicultural individuals, 42 but once again the pattern is not so clear-cut when we look carefully at the mortuary contexts yielding exotica. The correlation of import access to overall wealth of burial in PG tombs at Lefkandi Toumba is greater at Lefkandi than it was at Perati. 43 This is especially true for imported objects other than objects made of faience, suggesting that the bronze and gold imports from Lefkandi probably should be ascribed to some sort of élite display or competition. 44 However when it comes to faience objects–scarabs, rings, seals, necklaces–there is no straightfor-

35 Iakovidis 1980: 111; Desborough 1964: 69–70; Dickinson 2006: 185; Muhly 2003: 26; Thomatos 2006: 178; Lewartowski 1989: 75. 36 Figure based on data compiled from Iakovidis 1969; 1970. 37 Vetters 2011: 13–14; Maran 2004: 18. 38 See bibliography cited in Vetters 2011: 13, n. 115–117; 30. 39 Stockhammer 2008: 156, cat. 1182 (Cypriot or Near Eastern lamp); Stockhammer 2008: 90–91 for new simple style Cypriot imports. For a combination of a small cylinder of clay and an amphoriskos as an assemblage for opium smoking in Cyprus and Ugarit, see Stockhammer 2008: 172–173. 40 Vetters 2011. This is the only site on the mainland where significant numbers of Cretan coarseware transport vessels continue to be found during the IIIC period (Maran 2005). 41 For summary of finds and full citations see Lemos 2002: 165; Key Lefkandi publications include: Popham et al. 1980; Popham, Touloupa, Sackett 1982a; 1982b; Popham, Calligas, Sackett 1983; 1988; Popham et al. 1993; Popham, Lemos 1996. See also publications of the related settlement which had been ongoing since the 1960s at Popham, Sackett 1968, and sources cited therein. 42 For association of wealth with Lefkandi imports, Crielaard 2006: 286–289; Lemos 2003; for “warrior traders” see Antonaccio 2002; for the bicultural individual see Crielaard in this volume. 43 For plot of wealth and import presence in the Toumba cemetery see Murray 2017, fig. 2.6. 44 A case that is especially strong for the burials in the Toumba heroon itself (Popham, Touloupa, Sackett 1982a: 172; Lemos 2002: 165).

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ward relationship between imported objects and élite burials. 45 Many come instead from children’s or women’s graves that are not particularly well-furnished, and seem to be related to “amuletic”/prophylactic practice rather than to élite identity, in a way that is consistent with the use of such objects–scarabs and figurines–in contemporary Cyprus and Tyre. 46 3. Imported exotica in Context It is difficult to read meaning from such a meager body of archaeological evidence as we have in the case of LBA–EIA exotica, but the patterns of contextual deposition evident in the above review of eastern exotica suggest that we should take seriously the idea that the imported artifacts that we have recovered from the LBA–EIA Aegean archaeological record relate to something other than élite self-fashioning. At Mycenae the association between imported objects and élite individuals is problematic, because the finished imported exotica that we have discovered in IIIB levels are found most commonly in ritual and workshop areas. Likewise, the kinds of imported exotica recovered from the archaeological record are not necessarily the sort of flashy accouterments that you would expect the élite to acquire for the purpose of “personal aggrandizement”. Cylinder seals at Thebes, on the other hand, are made from one of the LBA world’s most valuable exotic materials (lapis lazuli), and come from a palatial context, but their findspot in a palatial workshop and their state of re-working and wornness shows that these artifacts were not of interest to palatial élites because they were exotica in their own right, but as commodities. At Tiryns, the evidence from both LH IIIB and IIIC deposits has been convincingly interpreted by the excavators to indicate the clear and consistent association of imported exotica with workshops and/or with demonstrably non-local ritual activities. Maran and Vetters have pointed out in a number of different publications that metalworking at Tiryns is often associated with ritual or cult, and that Tiryns is likely to have been home to resident Cypriot craftsmen whose presence ought to account for the significant number of imports excavated in the lower citadel. 47 Turning to IIIC Perati, the imported Levantine objects from this cemetery comprise a motley potpourri of small artifacts ranging from amulets, seals, and other small pieces of gold jewelry to seemingly utilitarian stone weights. There is no clear correlation between tomb wealth and import possession at Perati. In addition, the presence of various classes of unusual small finds–chisels and slag, the bones of whole sheep and goat, cowrie shells, unique pieces of pottery, and beads in the shape of exotic plants such as the lotus flower–that are not commonly encountered in other Mycenaean burials suggest non-local residents or practices may have been common at Perati. 48 Likewise, at Lefkandi many of the imported exotica discovered in the Toumba cemetery come from relatively humble graves and seem to be related to “amuletic” ritual practice rather than to élite self-identity. 45 See Arrington 2016 for an argument that Lefkandi’s exotica can primarily be explained as talismanic trinkets deposited in accordance with a general system of mortuary ritual, rather than special objects accessible only to a small fraction of society; for talismanic practice on PG and Geometric Crete, Shaw 2000: 168–170. 46 Aubet 2004: 59; Gamer-Wallert 2004; Mazar 2004; Ben-Shlomo 2008. 47 Maran 2004; Cohen et al. 2010; Vetters 2011. 48 Oddities of mortuary ritual in the cemetery include not only unusual offerings, but the lack of any evidence for feasting at the tombs in the dromoi and the nearly complete lack of kylikes from the tomb offerings, not to mention the very early appearance of several cremation burials, most of which co-occur with imported exotica. For a full analysis of the Perati cemetery see Murray 2018.

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When we look at the evidence this way, it is abundantly clear that a significant portion of identifiable, imported finished objects apparent in the archaeological record from the 13th to 10th century Greek mainland cannot be easily associated with politically-driven exchange among élites (Table 1). What, then, are most finished, imported exotica doing in the archaeological record? Are they simply “trinkets” like the ones peddled by the Phoenicians in Homer’s Odyssey? 49 I suggest that these objects instead speak mostly to the presence of non-local individuals, often perhaps craftsmen or merchants, in the Greek mainland, and in a broader sense, to the increasing exchange of ritual practices and syncretism in the environment of great flux and mobility that characterizes the transition from the LBA to the EIA. Of course, the process of reading religious, superstitious or ritual practice from the archaeological record is as fraught as determining ethnicity from material remains. Whether the people responsible for the final deposition of these exotica are Greeks returning from mercantile voyages abroad, non-Greeks living and working in the mainland, or local élites who have picked up new ritual practices from their peers around the Mediterranean is largely impossible to discern from the archaeological record. It is nonetheless interesting to observe a connection between the appearance of these objects in the archaeological record, a time of extraordinary migration and movements of peoples, and an era in which the world seemed especially frightening and risky, where good luck was in short supply and things like prophylactic amulets, that could confer some kind of ritual advantage might have been especially valued. However we interpret them, the largely ritual contexts and functions of many 13th through 10th century exotica call into question the usual idea that these items serve only to “confer power” onto the élite, a simplistic formula which has been correctly problematized in recent literature. 50 This is not to say that Aegean élites were not actively interested in collecting and displaying unusual commodities and objects–a premise that is clearly supported by ample documentary and archaeological evidence. However, when we consider the archaeological residues of Aegean interaction carefully, it is incontrovertibly clear that a majority of the archaeologically recoverable eastern exotica from the Greek mainland over the LBA–EIA transition do not seem clearly associated with these individuals. In sum, the association of a sizable portion of known imports with some kind of ritual context, mortuary or otherwise, holds true across the dataset of Aegean imports from the eastern Mediterranean between c. 1300 and 900 BCE. This trend could easily be extended down to the 8th century when we know most eastern exotica found in Greece come from sanctuaries. 51 There are two possible implications for our understanding of Levantine/ Aegean relationships during this period. The first is that exotica are likely to have moved around the Aegean through a variety of mechanisms, not only through economic or political exchange systems associated with the élite, but also as a result of the movements of humbler individuals, or in conjunction with non-local supernatural beliefs. A second is that imported exotica in the early Greek world may in some cases have served to provide individuals with an unseen superstitious or supernatural advantage rather than a socio-political one, and that spiritual authorities, in addition to political or economic ones, were often at the center of early Greek cosmopolitanism. 49 Coldstream 2003: 97; Arrington 2016; Hom. Od. XV 415–429. 50 Brysbaert, Vetters 2013; Heymans, van Wijngaarden 2011: 129. 51 Crielaard 2015; Boardman 1964: 63–71; Markoe 1985; Braun-Holzinger, Rehm 2005; Muscarella 1992; Herrmann 1966: 17–18.

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Figure 1. Spatial distribution of imported objects in the cemetery of Perati (base map imodified from Iakovidis 1969: 12 σχεδ.1)

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Securely dated exotica perhaps associated with eastern exotica workshops, ritual practice, or talismanic belief LH IIIB (1325–1200 BCE) LH IIIC (1200–1050 BCE) Protogeometric (1050–900 BCE)

121 69 68

76 58 41

Table 1

Figure 2. Distribution of quantity of objects per burial and presence of imported objects in the cemetery at Perati.

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Popham, Touloupa, Sackett 1982b – Popham M., Touloupa E., Sackett L. 1982: The Hero of Lefkandi, Antiquity 56: 169–74. Porada 1981 – Porada E. 1981: The Cylinder Seals Found at Thebes in Boeotia, Archiv fur Orientforschung 28: 1–70. Pulak 1998 – Pulak C. 1998: The Uluburun Ship: an overview, IJNA 27: 188–224. Pulak 2008 – Pulak C. 2008: The Uluburun shipwreck and Late Bronze Age Trade. In J. Aruz, K. Benzel, J. Evans (eds), Beyond Babylon: Art, Trade, and Diplomacy in the Second Millennium B.C., New York: 289–310. Renfrew 1975 – Renfrew C. 1975: Trade as Action at a Distance: Questions of Integration and Communication. In J. Sabloff, C. Lamberg-Karlovsky (eds), Ancient Civilization and Trade, Albuquerque: 3–59. Renfrew 1977 – Renfrew C. 1977: Alternative models for exchange and spatial distribution. In T. Earle, J. Ericson (eds), Exchange Systems in Prehistory, New York: 71–90. Shaw 2000 – Shaw M. 2000: The Sculpture from the Sanctuary. In J. Shaw, M. Shaw (eds), Kommos IV: The Greek Sanctuary, Princeton: 135–209. Shelmerdine 2013 – Shelmerdine C. 2013: Economic Interplay Among Households and States, AJA 117: 447–452. Shelton 2010 – Shelton K. 2010: Citadel and Settlement: A Developing Economy at Mycenae, the Case of Petsas House. In D. Pullen (ed.), Political Economies of the Aegean Bronze Age, Oxford: 184–204. Sherratt 2001 – Sherratt S. 2001: Potemkin Palaces and Route-Based Economies. In S. Voutsaki, J. Killen (eds), Economy and Politics in the Mycenaean Palace States, Cambridge: 214–238. Snodgrass 1991 – Snodgrass A. 1991: Bronze Age exchange: a minimalist position. In N. Gale (ed.), Bronze Age Trade in the Mediterranean, Göteborg: 15–20. Stager 1995 – Stager L. 1995: A Lamashtu Plaque from the Judaean Shephelah, IEJ 45: 155–61. Stockhammner 2008 – Stockhammner P. 2008: Kontinuität und Wandel: Die Keramik der Nachpalastzeit aus der Unterstadt von Tiryns, Ph.D. diss., Ruprecht-Karls-Universität Heidelberg. Tartaron 2013 – Tartaron T. 2013: Maritime Networks in the Mycenaean World, Cambridge. Taylour 1981 – Taylour W. 1981: Well Built Mycenae: the Helleno-British Excavations within the Citadel at Mycenae 1959-1969, fasc. 1: The Excavations, Warminster. Thomatos 2006 – Thomatos M. 2006: The Final Revival of the Aegean Bronze Age: A case study of the Argolid, Corinthia, Attica, Euboea, the Cyclades and the Dodecanese during LHIIIC Middle, Oxford. Tournavitou 1995 – Tournavitou I. 1995: The Ivory Houses at Mycenae, Athens. Vetters 2011 – Vetters M. 2011: A Clay Ball with a Cypro-Minoan Inscription from Tiryns. AA 2: 1–49. Vianello 2011a – Vianello A. 2011: Introduction. In A. Vianello (ed.), Exotica in the Prehistoric Mediterranean, Oxford: vii–viii. Vianello 2011b – Vianello A. 2011: One Sea for All: Intercultural, Social, and Economic Contacts in the Bronze Age Mediterranean. In K. Duistermaat, I. Regulski (eds), Intercultural Contacts in the Ancient Mediterranean, Paris: 411–426. Voutsaki 1997 – Voutsaki S. 1997: The Creation of Value and Prestige in the Aegean Late Bronze Age, JEA 5.2: 34–52. Wace 1956 – Wace A. 1956: Mycenae, 1939-1955: Preliminary report on the excavations of 1955, BSA 51: 103–122. Wardle 1973 – Wardle K. 1973: A group of Late Helladic IIIB2 pottery from within the citadel at Mycenae, BSA 68: 297–348. Whitley 2006 – Whitley J. 2006: Archaeology in Greece 2005-2006, AR 52: 1–112. Whittaker 2011 – Whittaker H. 2011: Exotica in Early Mycenaean Burials as Evidence for the Self-Representation of the Élite. In A. Vianello, (ed.), Exotica in the Prehistoric Mediterranean, Oxford: 137–146. van Wijngaarden 2012 – van Wijngaarden G. 2012: Trade goods reproducing merchants? The materiality of Mediterranean Late Bronze Age exchange. In J. Maran, P. Stockhammer (eds), Materiality and Social Practice: Transformative Capacities of Intercultural Encounters, Oxford: 61–72.

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The Transmission of the Alphabet to the Aegean 1 Giorgos Bourogiannis Introduction: The adoption of the alphabet, first steps towards a more literate society There are many reasons why the 8th century BC in the Aegean has been designated as the Greek Renaissance. 2 It is the time when coastal areas of the Aegean Sea entered a new phase of prosperity, often accompanied by artistic and technological innovation. Maritime contacts became more systematic, trade intensified, population grew, the formation of the polis was rapidly consolidating and colonization gave the Greeks direct access to a large part of the Mediterranean, both east and west. These are only a few of the changes that marked the final passing of the stagnation of the so-called Dark Ages. Yet what may be viewed as the most remarkable aspect of the 8th century cultural vitality is the recovery of literacy, thanks primarily to the adoption of the alphabet. The art of writing had fallen into oblivion in Greece after the collapse of the Mycenaean palaces in the 12th century BC. The syllabic writing of Linear B was a rather laborious system reserved for palace administration and its complexities were managed by trained scribes. The alphabetical system on the other hand was simple and much easier to master, encouraging a high proportion of people to become acquainted with it. The gradual increase of literacy in the Greek world from the 8th century BC onwards is reflected in the casual form of most early alphabetic inscriptions, their private character, as well as in the presence among them of abecedaria that manifest the importance of alphabetic prowess. Despite remarkable fluctuations in our current appraisal of the levels of literacy in ancient Greece, 3 it would be misleading to undervalue the major cultural impact of learning how to write alphabetically. The estimation of how many people in ancient Greece could actually read or write and at what level, has generated extensive discussions and it is too complex a matter to be tackled here. Moreover, the remarkable fluctuation in the number of early alphabetic inscriptions at different Greek-speaking areas makes the collective treatment of the matter laborious. However, the informal and private character of the oldest Greek alphabetic inscriptions—I shall return to this point later—indicates that levels of literacy were not negligible. Moreover, as has been rightly pointed out, since so much legislation was publicly displayed at places such as Crete in the archaic period, it is reasonable to think that those legislative inscriptions were widely communicated to those able to read them. 4 Discussion about the birth of the Greek alphabet is built upon a broad spectrum of literary, linguistic, epigraphic and archaeological evidence. The question has been studied 1 I would like to warmly thank Professor Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò for inviting me to participate in this volume. My gratitude is also due to Dr Philippa Steele for proofreading my chapter and for making valuable suggestions. 2 Hägg 1983; Coldstream 2003: 107, 388; Morris 2009. 3 Johnson 1983; Harris 1989: 43–146; Thomas 1992; Murray 1993: 98; Wilson 2009: 544, 561. 4 Gagarin, Perlman 2016: 53–54. For literacy in Crete in particular see also Whitley 1997; Papakonstantinou 2002; Johnston 2013.

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extensively by numerous scholars and has been approached from different angles. 5 Almost all these studies involve questions about how, when and where the adoption of the alphabet by the Greeks took place. .

The ‘Phoenician letters’ of the Greek alphabet: ancient terminology and modern comprehension Although certain details regarding the birth of the Greek alphabetical script are in need of further elaboration, there is consensus of scholarship regarding the Phoenician ancestry of the Greek alphabet. It was thanks to the Phoenicians that the Greeks learned to write alphabetically, centuries after the use of the Linear B syllabic script had been abandoned and forgotten. The creation of the Greek alphabet is therefore one of the most extraordinary cultural outcomes of the contacts between Greeks and Phoenicians in the early first millennium BC. The Greeks had one more practical reason to turn to the Phoenicians when the desire to visually represent their own language arose: although not the only one, the Phoenician alphabet was the writing system with which Early Iron Age Greeks were most familiar and to which they had quite easy access. 6 The Phoenician/north Semitic origin of the Greek alphabet can be securely traced in the names, forms and sequence of the letters, as well as in the right-to-left reading of most of the earliest Greek alphabetic inscriptions. It is further attested in ancient Greek texts and inscriptions in which the letters of the alphabet are often named ‘Phoenician’, either because they were invented by the Phoenicians or because they were brought to Greece by King Cadmus, the legendary migrant from Phoenicia. 7 Although many of these narratives are expressions of a mythical tradition—a common practice among Greek writers—they often preserve a kernel of historical truth. Herodotus (v. 57–58) is one of the key figures to associate the introduction of the alphabetic script in Greece with Phoenician immigrants led to Boeotia by King Cadmus, the legendary founder of the House of Thebes. In the narrative it becomes clear that by ‘Phoenician letters’ Herodotus means the alphabet, which had hitherto been unknown to the Greeks. He also refers to the process of adaptation of the new script since the sound (φωνή) and the form (ῥυθμός) of the letters were changed as time went on. A similar declaration was made in the 5th century BC also by Kritias stating that it was the Phoenicians who discovered the letters, the latter being characterised as ἀλεξίλογα / word-guarding (Φοίνικες δ’εὗρον γράμματ’ἀλεξίλογα). 8 The Phoenician origin of the alphabet is clearly stated also by Diodorus, while alluding to a bronze cauldron with an inscription written in ‘Phoenician letters’ and dedicated to the sanctuary of Athena at Lindos by Cadmus. 9

5 For a bibliographic overview see Bourguignon 2010. A comprehensive bibliography on the birth of the Greek alphabet is neither possible nor useful in this context. The following citations are therefore selective and indicative of the literature on this subject: Guarducci 1987: esp. 10–30; Jeffery 1990: esp. 1–65; Kourou 1990–1991; Baurain, Bonnet, Krings 1991; Powell 1991; Mazarakis Ainian 2000: 119– 132; Coldstream 2003: 295–302, 405–406; Oikonomaki 2009; Wilson 2009; Sass 2005; Woodard 2010; Voutyras 2012; Janko 2015; Strauss Clay et al. 2017. 6 Sherratt 2003: 233–234. 7 Pugliese Carratelli 1976. 8 Diels, Kranz 1952: 377, B 2.10. 9 Diod. Sic. 5,58,3. The same designation of the alphabet is attested also at Diod. Sic. 3,67,1 and 5,74,1.

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The Greeks, as well as the Romans, 10 were aware of the Phoenician origin of the Greek alphabet and this knowledge is clearly demonstrated in the terminology they used in relation to writing. An early-6th century BC decree in secondary use from Eltyna in central Crete includes the term ποινικήια / φοινικήια (Phoenician), an adjective that substitutes the function of a noun to designate the Phoenician letters. 11 On the Spensithios decree, irregularly chased on a bronze ‘mitra’ from Afrati in the area of Arkades in Crete and dating around 500 BC, the verb ποινικάζεν is used alongside the noun ποινικαστάς. 12 Since the first attestation of the verb ποινικάζεν in the inscription is coupled with μναμονεῦFεν (to recall, to remain in memory or on record) the basic meaning of ποινικάζεν must be to do Phoenician letters and therefore to preserve the memory through writing. The noun ποινικαστάς will then be the scribe of Phoenician letters and in the context of the decree whoever writes and keeps records. 13 The equation of the term φοινικήια with the term letters in some Greek inscriptions survived into the classical period. In a fragment of a well-known inscription from Teos that dates to the first half of the 5th century BC, the term φοινικήια is attested alongside the present participle φοινικογραφέων 14 which refers to the skill of writing Phoenician letters and therefore may refer to whoever writes or keeps records and has the same meaning as the term γραμματεύων. 15 Unlike these consistent references to ‘Phoenician letters’, the name ἀλφάβητον (alphabet) itself is not attested before the Hellenistic period although the adjective ἀναλφάβητος (illiterate) occurs already in the fourth century BC. 16 Despite the dense attestation of the Phoenician origin of the alphabet in the ancient Greek sources, the illiteracy of the Homeric heroes and the almost complete absence of references to the art of writing by Homer are astonishing, even more so given that epic and alphabetic writing have been placed in the context of solidifying a pan-hellenic identity (the adoption of writing was giving the Greeks a visual embodiment to their shared language). 17 In a single passage from the Iliad 18 Bellerophon is sent by Proitos to Lycia, carrying with him baneful signs (σήματα λυγρά) that were scratched on a folded tablet. These signs may provide the single Homeric mention to writing, yet no specific script is revealed (syllabic, alphabetic, simple marks or other). 19 Did Homer avoid any explicit mentions to writing in order to add credibility to his poetic narrative, the latter referring to the distant, mostly illiterate past, or was any allusion to writing considered unnecessary given the chiefly oral performance of the poems? It seems more likely that this absence results from Homer’s own ignorance of writing at a time when his poems were nevertheless written down. This is the reason why he applies the term signs (σήματα) instead of letters, the same word he uses elsewhere to designate other (non-writing) types of signs such as lots. 20 What is clear in the epics is Homer’s 10 Guarducci 1987: 18. 11 Kritzas 2010; Gagarin, Perlman 2016: 260–262. 12 Jeffery, Morpurgo-Davies 1970: 124, line A5 (ποινικάζεν) and B1, 5,7–8 (ποινικαστάν). See also Bile 2016: 62–71; Gagarin, Perlman 2016: 181–196. 13 Jeffery, Morpurgo-Davies 1970: 132. 14 Herrmann 1981, (Teiorum Dirae) lines B37–38 and D19 respectively. 15 Herrmann 1981: 12. 16 Jeffery 1990: 40. 17 Sherratt 2003: 232–233. See also Powell 1991: 119–186. 18 Il. VI 168–170. 19 Aravantinos 1976; Powell 1991: 198–200; Mazarakis Ainian 2000: 119–120. 20 Il. VII 181–189: The Achaean warriors prepare to draw lots to see who will fight Hector. Aias recognises the sign of his own lot (κλῆρον ἐσημήναντο ἕκαστος...κλήρου σñμα ἰδών...).

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concern with language and the wish to distinguish the use of languages other than Greek, attested though the adjective ἀλλόθροος (speaking of other languages or of the confusing noises that others make when they speak). The concept of allothroism is explicit in the two epics not only in connection with non-Greeks but also in connection with the Greeks who were themselves of course ἀλλόθροοι to the rest of the world. 21 Shapes, names, sounds and sequences: the complex transformation of the Phoenician signary into the Greek alphabet (Figure 1) There are plenty of solid arguments to verify ancient Greek perceptions about the Phoenician origin of the alphabet. The names and the order of the letters provide an eloquent attestation of where the new script originated. The letters of the Greek alphabet, all indeclinable, maintain unaltered the sequence of the Phoenician signary, 22 with subsequent Greek additions following the last letter of the Phoenician alphabet. In addition, the majority of individual letters bear names that are meaningless in Greek yet they reflect on real words in Phoenician and other western Semitic languages. 23 More than half of the letters of the Phoenician signary (13 out of 22) are meaningful and may also explain the original form of the sign. Alpha for example corresponds to the Semitic ’aleph denoting an ox and the corresponding Semitic sign in its oldest form is identifiable as an ox head. Beta corresponds to the Semitic bēt meaning house, delta to dalet meaning door and so on. Five letters also have a meaning albeit doubtful, as in the case of gimel, the Semitic ancestor of Greek gamma, which may denote a camel or a throw stick and ḥēt that may denote a fence. Noticeably, only three letters of the Phoenician alphabet cannot be explained: hē, ṭēt and ṣādē.  24 Hence it becomes clear that the Greeks maintained the original Semitic names for the majority of the individual letters of their alphabet even though they most probably ignored their Semitic meaning. The same goes for the shape of the letters of the Greek alphabet. Fifteen of them have common variants that are in essence identical to their Phoenician counterparts: gamma to gimel, delta to dalet, epsilon to hē, zeta to zayn, heta to ḥēt, theta to ṭēt, kappa to kapp, mu to mēm, nu to nūn, xi to samek, omicron to ‘ayin, pei to pē, qoppa to qop, rho to resh and tau to tau. The form of some letters of the Greek alphabet (alpha, beta, lambda, sigma), although close to their Phoenician models, is either rotated on an axis or inverted. The best example of this case is the letter alpha that in its usual upright position it is written in a ninety degrees rotation compared to the Phoenician ’aleph, yet it is hard to tell how and why beta doubled the single loop of the Phoenician beth. Morphological relations between the shape of the Greek letters and their Phoenician originals are less straightforward in the case of digamma and upsilon that relate to the Pheonician waw, of iota (Phoenician yōd) and of san (Phoenician ṣadē). Given that the forms of each Phoenician letter underwent many changes, morphological comparisons with the earliest Greek alphabetical inscriptions yields an additional tool to designate when the Greeks learned to write alphabetically. From the sound morphological correlation between the letters of the Greek alphabet and their equivalents in the Phoenician signary, the three supplementary letters of the Greek alphabet, namely phi (Φ), chi (Χ) and psi (Ψ) are excluded. Their shape follows simple geometrical forms yet it 21 Od. XV 453: Eumaios’ Phoenician nurse uses the term ἀλοθρόους ἀνθρώπους (men of strange speech) to apply to the Greek-speakers on Ithaca. See also Sherratt 2003: 231–232. 22 Guarducci 1987: 20. 23 Willi 2008. 24 Powell 1991: 25. Willi 2008: 423: unlike Powell, he suggests a meaning for letter ḥēt.

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is perhaps impossible to reconstruct the paths of their formation with any precision. As a general tendency, the Greeks were fond of vertical and rectilinear shapes for their letters, possibly influenced also by the decoration of their late Geometric pottery. 25 Even though we are uncertain about the details of this letter transmission, it seems reasonable to envisage it as a rather informal process, as will be further discussed below. If each Phoenician sign represented the initial sound of the name applied to it (acrophonic principle), 26 then the adoption and adaptation of the Phoenician name by the Greek-speaking learner(s) could have occurred by quickly grasping the acrophonic principle of each sign and adapting it to the Greek vocalic setting. This procedure would have been simple for certain consonants such as b(eta)/beth and g(amma)/gimmel, though other sounds would be more difficult to adapt due to the phonological disparities between Greek and Phoenician. 27 The first letter of the alphabet is a good case of such a difficulty. The Greek adapter linked the vowel a(lpha) to the Phoenician ’aleph. However the latter in fact represented a consonantal glottal stop that was peculiar to Semitic languages but alien to Greek ears. Our ability to trace the transmission of the Semitic letter names into the Greek alphabet is somehow hampered also by the uncertainty regarding the original form of the Phoenician names and their vocalic quality. The early names of the Semitic signs are inferred either from their Greek transcriptions—that display considerable vocalic variations—or from later Semitic testimonies mostly in Hebrew. 28 They did serve, however, as a practical mnemonic device for the Greek adapter that helped learning the Phoenician script and designating its signs. It seems that when transferred into Greek, most names of the Phoenician signs were either maintained with little or no changes (tau/tau, pei/pē) or were adapted to the Greek language usually by adding a terminal alpha (’aleph/alpha, bēt/beta and so on). The addition of a vowel at the end was a uniform and successful practice when transmitting the names of Phoenician signs with final sounds that were unpronounceable by Greek standards. Moreover, sinistroverse (ἐπὶ τὰ λαιά) inscriptions characterise some of the earliest attestations of the Greek alphabet, and this may well have been copied from Phoenician, although other directions were developed at an early stage. By the early 7th century BC in particular, retrograde writing was combined with the reversed direction upon reaching the end of the line. This writing system, known by its eloquent term βουστροφηδὸν (boustrophedon) because it reminded of oxen turning during ploughing, was abandoned by the end of the archaic period. Further obstacles were posed by the fact that vowels were not rendered in the Phoenician script. A system of vowel notation was, however, necessary for the written documentation of Greek due to its complex nominal morphology, the latter resulting from the declensional system and vowel degradation. This linguistic dissimilarity was treated with the addition of vowels to the Greek alphabet, by using signs of the Phoenician script that had no phonetic equivalent in the Greek language. These redundant signs were consequently used to represent the sounds of vowels. In this way the glottal stop ’aleph became the vowel alpha, the mild aspirate hē became epsilon, consonantal yōd became iota, glottal stop (OR voiced pharyngeal fricative) ‘ayin became omicron and waw gave birth to the vowel upsilon (υ) as well as to the semi-vocalic F (digamma). The choice of certain symbols used to indicate vowels 25 26 27 28

Coldstream 2003: 406. Powell 1991: 24–25. Jeffery 1990: 1–5; Powell 1991: 32–42. Powell 1991: 33–37.

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was either based on phonological criteria—at least on how the Greeks would spot phonetic affinities between the consonantal sounds of certain Phoenician signs and the vowels they wished to denote (aleph/a)—or as a free inventions (‘ayin/o). Whatever the case, it is evident that right from the start the Greeks adapted the Phoenician script to the needs of their own language through simple and practical modifications that were nevertheless shared by every local version of the Greek alphabet. The first four vowels (a, e, i, o) maintained the sequential position they had in the Phoenician script. The sole exception to this form was the letter upsilon, positioned after tau, the last letter of the Phoenician alphabet, since in the Greek alphabet the position of waw was occupied by the letter digamma. Once the five vowels were fixed, space for local varieties according to the Greek dialects was created. A tricky inconsistency to be solved was the large number of sibilants in Phoenician (zayn, samek, ṣadē, šin) that were, however, excessive for Greek dialects, usually having only one sibilant. This irregularity caused different Greek adaptations of the Phoenician sibilants and, subsequently, dissociations between names and signs, also due to possible confusion on Greek ears between samek and šin, and between ṣadē and zayn. 29 However, the position of the letters in the Greek alphabet remained unaltered. Phoenician voiced sibilant zayn corresponds in shape and position to the Greek zeta (dz or zd), whereas voiceless samek was converted into xi in most Greek alphabets. To denote the simple sibilant some Greek alphabets evolved san from ṣadē, while others evolved sigma from the rough sibilant šin. This perplexity was known to the ancient Greeks. Herodotus (I.139) for example states that ‘the same letter the Dorians call ‘san’ the Ionians call it ‘sigma’. However, Herodotus’ statement is not entirely clear since certain Doric areas such as Laconia used sigma (shaped as Σ) instead of san (shaped as M). Noticeably, Greek alphabets very soon chose between sigma and san for rendering the one sibilant that Greek possessed. 30 The Greek alphabet is also marked by the addition to the original 22 Phoenician signs of the so-called supplemental letters: the aspirated plosives phi (Φ) and chi (X) and the cluster psi (Ψ). In the conventional series of Greek alphabets these three letters follow tau, the last letter of the Phoenician signary, yet the details of their development have been the source of long discussion and much speculation. 31 If the three supplemental letters entered the Greek alphabet at a later stage, after the alphabet’s first adoption, one of the main questions to be answered is when and under what authority the new letters were added. The local scripts of these three letters present wide divergences that affect both their values 32 and their order (X, Φ, Ψ or Φ, Χ, Ψ). The list of letter additions is completed with heta and omega. The symbol H (ḥēt/heta) that indicated the aspirate /h/ had no practical use in the psilotic dialects of Ionian Asia Minor, the islands of Chios and Samos, as well as in Crete, where the aspirated sound had fallen into oblivion. In Ionia in particular, the vocalic value given to the ḥēt sign was used to denote the long half open ē, differentiating it from the short or the long close e (epsilon) with which it was hitherto sharing the same symbol. A similar addition occurred with the letter Ω (omega) first added in Ionia in the late 7th century BC, to distinguish between the long open 29 Powell 1991: 46–48; Woodard 1997: 139–139. 30 Slings 1998: 648. Both letters appear, however at Etruscan abecedarian, as in the case of the early 7th century BC bucchero cockerel at the Metropolitan Museum of Arts (24.97.21a, b). 31 Guarducci 1987: 22–24; Powell 1987; Powell 1991: 48–49, 55–57; Jeffery 1990: 35–37. 32 For example, X (chi) is /ks/ in the red alphabets—see below—but /k h/ in the blue ones.

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o, and the short and long close o (omicron). Since omega is the last letter of the alphabetic row, it was presumably the latest addition also. How did the introduction of the alphabet occur? One of the main characteristics of the earliest Greek alphabet(s) is that they display common changes from their Phoenician/north Semitic model. When closer-examined, these changes are actually unique and arbitrary alterations of the original Phoenician script, adopted, nevertheless, by all local varieties of the Greek alphabetic writing. These include: i) derivation of the five Greek vowels from certain Phoenician consonantal signs and the splitting up of Phoenician waw in two letters, one consonantal (digamma) and one vocalic (upsilon); ii) extraordinary and confused reassignment of the names and values of the four Phoenician sibilants; iii) the co-existence from quite an early stage of the sinistroverse, dextroverse and boustrophedon writing; iv) the presence of the supplemental letter phi, an invention that had no Semitic antecedent, in all local varieties of Greek writing except on Crete and its dependants (Melos and Thera), where there may have been no use for it since the Cretan dialect was psilotic. Given these inimitable and arbitrary alterations at roughly the same time in all versions of the Greek alphabet, it is reasonable to envisage them as having occurred only once at a single place, during the actual creation of the Greek alphabet from its Phoenician model. 33 In other words, it seems that all local Greek scripts evolved from a single Greek prototype, although it has also been argued—less convincingly—that the fully developed Greek alphabet may have been indebted to more than one traditions and that it was preceded by earlier unvocalised or partly vocalised attempts to adopt the Semitic writing. 34 Deciding on whether these changes were due to a single person 35 or rather due to a group or community 36 is more difficult. Whatever the case, the previously mentioned arbitrary modifications reflect certain misapprehensions about the Semitic script and its phonetic values, which in turn indicate that the initial learner(s) were Greek rather than Semitic and only had a limited knowledge of Phoenician. The Phoenician teachers themselves were not literary experts either but had a working knowledge of the alphabet that was sufficient for practical purposes. That the Greeks were taught by Phoenicians who themselves wrote briefly in a cursive script is further confirmed by the fact that the earliest inscriptions make no use of punctuation (either dots or vertical strokes) that were integral parts of the north Semitic scripts, 37 as well as by the derivation of certain letters of the Greek alphabet, namely digamma and iota, from the cursive Phoenician script. 38 Chronological setting: When did the Greeks learn to write alphabetically? One of the mostly controversial questions about the alphabet is the date of its adoption by the Greeks. The question about when the Greeks started to write alphabetically has been discussed extensively with most answers ranging in time between 1100 and 750 BC. The subject has been treated based on a twofold methodology: on one hand, the absence of Greek 33 34 35 36 37 38

Guarducci 1987: 17; Jeffery 1990: 6–7; Powell 1991: 10–12; Wilson 2009: 544. Isserlin 1991. Powell 1991: 11–12. Woodard 1997; Teodorsson 2006: 169–172; Oikonomaki 2012. Note however the use of double dots at the Nestor cup from Pithekoussai, see discussion below. Jeffery 1990: 6–7.

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alphabetic inscriptions prior to the 8th century BC is an argumentum ex silentio initiated by Carpenter in 1933 39 and used mostly by classical scholars. This suggests that the advent of the alphabet in the Aegean cannot have occurred much earlier than the earliest inscriptions. The fact that several important Early Iron Age sites both in the Aegean and beyond have been extensively excavated without producing any evidence that could change this view, adds further value to the argumentum ex silentio. Although substantial written evidence must have been written on perishable materials and is therefore unknown to us, it is hard to accept that pre-eighth century Greeks would abstain from writing anything on their pots, in contradiction to the habit of their 8th century descendants. 40 Other scholars have endeavoured to assess chronologically the transmission of the alphabet based on script comparisons between the earliest Greek and Semitic inscriptions. Since the morphological evolution of the Semitic scripts has been studied and mapped out in detail, the palaeographic and comparative approach of the earliest Greek alphabetic inscriptions can indeed lead to valuable results. A well-balanced treatment was produced by McCarter in 1975 41 and resulted in an early 8th century BC date for the Greek adoption of the alphabet, in perfect agreement with the results of the argumentum ex silentio approach. However, the palaeographic/comparative methodology has also produced less consistent results. Naveh 42 for example assigned the Greek acquisition of the Phoenician script to the early 11th century BC, associating it with a lapidary Semitic, in particular with a Proto-Canaanite rather than a Phoenician script. Noticeably, this was a period of rapid economic and demographic decline in the Aegean, making such cultural interactions less likely. 43 For some scholars in favour of the 11th century BC introduction of the alphabet, the absence of alphabetic inscriptions in the Aegean prior to the 8th century BC is viewed as an indication of the restricted usage of the new writing system, the latter being kept in the hands of a few people. For them, the spread of the alphabet from the early/middle 8th century BC is only viewed as a proof of the beginning of more widespread literacy, not of ignorance of alphabet. 44 Significantly earlier dates have also been proposed but they are equally problematic—if not even more problematic—to document. The mostly cited work with a very early date is the book by M. Bernal. 45 He argues for the introduction of the alphabet in the Aegean between 1750 and 1400 BC, with only a major reorganisation of the Greek alphabets during the first centuries of the first millennium BC. However, such chronological attributions are extreme and they lack any epigraphic or archaeological documentation. In our current state of knowledge, the birth of the Greek alphabet is more likely to have occurred sometime around the end of the 9th century BC, possibly around 800 BC, 46 or early in the 8th century BC, although slightly earlier dates, in the 10th or 9th centuries BC, have 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

Carpenter 1933. Jeffery 1990: 17. McCarter 1975. Naveh 1973. Wilson 2009: 546. Mavrojannis 2007: 317–318. Bernal 1990. Jeffery 1990: 12–21; Powell 1991: 18–20; Thomas 1992: 53; Mazarakis Ainian 2000: 120; Slings 1998; Coldstream 2003: 296–298; Sass 2005: 146–152; Wilson 2009: 545–546; Bourguignon 2010: passim; Voutyras 2012: 87. This date would fit well also with the Phrygian evidence: Brixhe 2007: 278–282; Janko 2015: 17–19.

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also been suggested. 47 The late 9th/early 8th century BC date appears more convincing not only because the earliest attestations of Greek alphabetic writing cling persistently around the middle of the eight century, yet also because this is a period of intense contacts between Greeks and Phoenicians, of which archaeology has produced sound evidence. What happened after that original adaptation, however, is also remarkable. While the new writing system was rapidly spreading throughout the Greek-speaking world, a number of local variants of the new alphabet were soon established, enabling us to assign such epichoric alphabets to a specific area or polis of the Greek world. Such regional alphabets fall into two major groups, an eastern group and a western group, conventionally identified as blue and red respectively, after the colours utilised by Kirchhoff on his distribution map of alphabet types. 48 To the two main groups a third one, marked as green was added, to designate ‘primitive’ alphabets of islands such as Crete, Thera and Melos, distinguished by their resemblance to their Phoenician prototypes and the absence of the supplemental letters phi, chi and psi, as well as the letter ksi. This striking alphabetic variety has generated much deliberation among experts, as it may reflect not just dialectical differences in pronunciation yet also a conscious sign of local collective identities-formation and, in the case of poleis, a conscious sign of differentiation from neighbours, 49 as the identities of individual Greek cities were bound up with language both in its oral and in its written form. 50 The opposite is also true, however, since political rivalry did not prevent the spread of local scripts between rival states. 51 A glimpse of the earliest written evidence The question about when the Greeks first learned to write alphabetically largely depends on the date of the oldest extant inscriptions in Greek alphabet, especially if one accepts that the transmission cannot have taken place much earlier than the oldest extant inscriptions. Such evidence provides a reliable tool for the chronological designation of the alphabetic transmission and may also be verified by the archaeological data. Future radical revisions are rather unlikely since the systematic investigation of most major Early Iron Age sites in the Aegean has not produced inscriptions antedating the 8th century BC. There is no scope in presenting here a complete list of the early Greek inscriptions (from the first half to the 8th to c. the middle of the 7th century BC), as they have been catalogued and discussed extensively. 52 Instead, only certain of the oldest inscriptions will be considered and used as chronological tools for the earliest attestation of the Greek alphabetic writing. All these inscriptions are preserved on pots and display special care not only in the message they communicate but sometimes also on the successful integration of the inscription with the vase’s decoration. 53 Noticeably, a large part of the oldest Greek alphabetic inscriptions oc-

47 48 49 50 51 52 53

Guarducci 1987: 19–20; Kritzas 2010: 16; see also Ruijgh 1998 (ca. 1000 BC). Kirchhoff 1877; see also Guarducci 1987: 23–24; Woodard 1997: 140–141, 146–147. Luraghi 2010; Johnston 2012. Sherratt 2003: 230–231. Jeffery 1990: 42. Jeffery 1990; Powell 1991: 119–186. Osborne, Pappas 2007.

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cur at areas with an archaeologically documented Euboean presence, 54 such as Lefkandi, 55 Eretria, 56 Oropos, 57 the Cyclades, 58 Cyme, 59 Pithekoussai  60 and Al Mina. 61 This may reflect the decisive Euboean role at the first stages of the transmission of the alphabet. From the transition to the 7th century BC the geographic distribution of early inscriptions expands considerably including numerous sites on both the Greek mainland and the islands. 62 The hitherto known corpus of early Greek graffiti augmented considerably after the discovery of 191 pottery fragments with inscriptions and trade marks from the so-called Ypogeio (basement) at the northern Greek site of Methone, a Euboean colony founded around 733 BC on the coast of Pieria in Macedonia. 63 In the ‘Greek Questions’ Plutarch reports that it was the ἀποσφενδόνητοι (repulsed by slings) men of Eretria who founded Methone, after being repelled by their fellow-citizens when trying to return to Eretria from Corcyra. 64 The vast majority of this astonishing corpus (166 pieces) bears non-alphabetic symbols, mostly post-firing pot-marks or trade-marks. The remaining 25 pieces, mostly amphorae and sympotic vessels, bear alphabetic signs, usually comprising of just one or two letters. By far the most interesting pieces in this alphabetic corpus are the nine longer, complete or fragmentary alphabetic inscriptions, cut mostly on sympotic vessels, most of them used to denote ownership. The latter were all found in the lower layers of the Ypogeio shaft and date around 730–700 BC. 65 The earliest inscription possibly in Greek alphabet is an exceptional graffito from the Osteria dell’Osa cemetery at Gabii, in the hinterland of Latium. 66 An Italic impasto flask is inscribed with five letters which, if their Greek reading is correct, give the word εὔλιν(ος), ‘good at spinning’ an epithet of Eileithyia. The flask is securely dated around 775 BC. Even if the letters are in some Italic tongue instead of Greek, which seems likely, 67 they still raise 54 Johnston 1983: 63. 55 Popham, Sackett, Themelis 1980: 89–93. Most of these graffiti, the earliest dating to the 9th century BC are non-alphabetical and are identified as pot marks. 56 Mostly short graffiti dating to the second half of the 8th century BC: Johnston, Andriomenou 1989; Kenzelmann Pfyffer, Theurillat, Vedan 2005; Pruvot, Reber, Theurillat 2010: 98–100, nos 50–55. See also Verdan 2010. 57 Petrakos 1997: 486, no. 769; Mazarakis Ainian, Matthaiou 1999: fishing weight with an inscription denoting ownership, 750–700 BC. 58 A retrograde inscription on a Geometric krater from Naxos, dated around the middle of the 8th century BC, slightly later than the vessel itself since the graffito was cut on the interior of the vase: Lambrinoudakis 1981: 294, pl. 201a; Mazarakis-Ainian 2000: 122, n. 334. A Late Geometric graffito from Andros, 750–725 BC: Cambitoglou 1981: 53–54, fig. 23, no. 111. 59 Powell 1991: 156: abecedarium on an early 7th century Protocorinthian oenochoe. Mazarakis-Ainian 2000: 122, n. 336. 60 Over 35 inscriptions dating between 740 and 675 BC, some of them proprietorial: Johnston 1983; Powell 1991: 124–128, 163–167; Mazarakis-Ainian 2000: 122, n. 337. Phoenician and Aramaic inscriptions are also known from Pithekoussai: Ridgway 1992: 111–118. 61 Boardman 1982; Luke 2003: 12: an unusual personal name in the genitive (ναβεο) cut on a late 8th century BC fragment of a cup that is possibly Attic. 62 Mazarakis Ainian 2000: 123–124. 63 Besios, Tzifopoulos, Kotsonas 2012, with an English summary on pp. 555–560; Janko 2015. For the history of Methone, Besios, Tzifopoulos, Kotsonas 2012: 15–40. 64 Plutarch Moralia IV.293a–b. 65 Besios, Tzifopoulos, Kotsonas 2012: nos 1–8, 22. 66 Ridgway 1996. 67 See also Janko 2015: 15.

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the possibility of alphabetic instruction from precolonial Greek visitors. This phenomenon may be viewed as the written equivalent of the precolonial occurrence of Middle Geometric II skyphoi, mostly of Euboean origin found at various Italic burial grounds mostly at southern Etruria, Sardinia and Campania. 68 Interestingly, Gabii is the place where Romulus and Remus were allegedly sent to learn Greek at an early age, according to the episode recounted by Dionysius of Hallicarnassus, 69 although as it has been pointed out, the story reflects the desirability of acquiring a Greek veneer in Dionysius’ own time rather than the language situation at Latium in the early 8th century BC. 70 The alternative reading euoin, in which the third of the five letters is read as omikron instead of lambda has also been proposed, connecting the short inscription with the pouring of libations. 71 The graffito from Gabii is contemporary to a short graffito from Lefkandi, scratched on a seemingly non-local vase, probably a jug or some other large closed vessel. Comprising of only two letters, the graffito reads […]σα or Αμ[...], depending on the direction of reading, and was found in a Sub-Protogeometric III (Middle Geometric II) context. 72 However, the majority of the early graffiti from Lefkandi, coming from Sub-Protogeometric I–ΙΙ (Early Geometric I–II) and later contexts are usually identified as potters’ marks and they are clearly non-alphabetical. 73 Actually, when looking at the evidence from the Aegean, one has to wait until the third quarter of the 8th century BC for the first securely datable attestation of alphabetic writing. The famous oenochoe of the Dipylon Workshop, dated to c. 740 BC (Late Geometric Ib), 74 bears a post-firing graffito incised on the vessel’s undecorated shoulder, 75 consisting of a complete hexameter verse and around twelve additional signs cut on a right to left direction. The inscription may be viewed as exceptional for a number of epigraphic reasons. It contains a sidelong alpha, a crooked iota and a curved pi, all three of which stand unusually close to their Phoenician originals, whereas the lambda with a hook at the top is also extraordinary. Although these features of the letter forms are shared by other areas, such as Pithekoussai and Crete, they are uncommon in Attica, leading to the hypothesis that the inscription was made by someone from outside Athens. 76 The Athenian provenance of the Dipylon inscription is further weakened by the absence of further evidence of writing in Attica until the graffiti from Hymettus, dated around 700 BC, hence nearly half a century later, which display a fresh start with upright alpha, straight iota and rectilinear pi. 77 Although the possibility of a non-Athenian scribe for the Dipylon inscription is valid, Athens was an outward-looking society already in the 9th century BC, as is manifested by the Middle Geometric I (850 BC) tomb of the rich Athenian Lady at Kerameikos with its many Near Eastern/Phoenician connotations. 78 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78

Ridgway 1996: 94; Coldstream 2003: 223–224. Dion. Hal. 1.84.5 Ridgway 1996: 97. Peruzzi 1992. Popham, Sackett, Themelis 1980: 89, 90, n. 102 and p. 93; Powell 1991: 15, n. 34. Popham, Sackett, Themelis 1980: 89; Papadopoulos 1994. Coldstream 2008: 32, n. 36 and 358–359. Powell 1988 (with previous bibliography); Coldstream 2003: 298–299. Jeffery 1990: 16, 23, 68. Langdon 1976: esp. 9–10. Smithson 1968; Stampolidis, Giannopoulou 2012: 89–103; Martelli 2016.

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The first part of the Dipylon inscription, probably composed by an aoidos who knew the Homeric poems, 79 reads ὃς νῦν ὀρχηστῶν ἀταλώτατα παίζει (whoever of all the dancers now performs most daintily). Noticeably, a verse very similar in its meaning is attested in the Odyssey. 80 The remaining twelve signs, far less skilful in their execution, are more puzzling. Although there is no consensus over their interpretation, 81 the most widely accepted readings are ΤΟΤΟΔΕΚΑΛΜΙΝ or ΤΟΤΟΔΕΚ(Μ)Μ(Ν)Ν. 82 One of the most common assumptions is that they award the oenochoe to the winner of the dancers however they have also been viewed as an inept scrap of an abecedarium. 83 The possibility that some of the inept signs of the inscription represent a decoration rather than a text has also been postulated recently. 84 The striking difference between the two parts of the same inscription has been viewed as an indication of two scribers, with the second hand belonging to a sloppy scribe who was just learning how to write. 85 Moving west, the most celebrated example of early Greek inscription marks a kotyle of north Ionian rather than Rhodian origin 86 found on Pithekoussai, the so-called Nestor’s cup. 87 The inscription comprises of three lines written in continuous retrograde, of which the first one is probably a prose and the bottom two are written in hexameter verse. Restored from numerous pieces, the vase was deposited in the burial of a 12–14 year-old adolescent, buried around 720–710 BC. The inscription itself, however, may have been written a decade or two earlier, 88 in which case it is almost contemporary to that from Dipylon. Written in Euboean alphabet, with two vertical dots (a colon) to indicate word division on the first row and phrase division in the second and third lines, the inscription reads: ΝΕΣΤΟΡΟΣ : Ε[ΙΜ]Ι : ΕΥΠΟΤ[ΟΝ] : ΠΟΤΕΡΙΟΝ ΗΟΣ Δ ΑΝ ΤΟΔΕ ΠΙΕΣΙ : ΠΟΤΕΡΙ[Ο] : ΑΥΤΙΚΑ ΚΕΝΟΝ ΗΙΜΕΡΟΣ ΑΙΡΕΣΕΙ : ΚΑΛΛΙΣΤΕ[ΦΑ]ΝΟ : ΑΦΡΟΔΙΤΕΣ [I am] the fair drinking-cup of Nestor; whoever drinks from this cup, straightway shall the desire of fair-crowned Aphrodite seize him.

The lettering here is well-executed and includes the near-Phoenician five stroke M, which the Euboean scripts retained for a long time. There is no way of knowing whether the owner of the cup, more likely the father of the adolescent buried at Pithekoussai, was named Nestor, or whether this is simply a joyful allusion to the famous golden drinking cup (δέπας περικαλλές...χρυσείοις ἥλοισι πεπαρμένον) of the Homeric king, 89 written by a well-practised scribe on a modest clay vessel during a symposium. What one may confidently say, 79 The word ἀταλώτατα for example is attested in the Iliad in various forms: ἀταλά (Il. XVIII.567), ἀταλῇσι (Il. XX. 222). 80 Od. XXXIII 143–147. See also Powell 1988: 76. 81 Powell 1988: 70. 82 Powell 1988: 82–84 with references. 83 Jeffery 1990: 27, 40; Powell 1988: 74–75. 84 Binek 2017. 85 Jeffery 1990: 68; Powell 1988: 77–78; Mazarakis-Ainian 2000: 125; Coldstream 2003: 299. 86 Bourogiannis 2014b: 110. 87 Powell 1991: 163–166. Ridgway 1992: 55–57. Buchner, Ridgway 1993: 219; Russo 1993; Over 200 studies have been devoted to the inscribed vessel from Pithekoussai. For a selected bibliography, Mazarakis Ainian 2000: 125, n. 366. 88 Mazarakis Ainian 2000: 126; Coldstream 2003: 300. 89 Il. XI 632–637

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however, is that this clearly is one of the most accomplished early Greek inscriptions, produced at a place where Euboean men of affairs were present, and at a time in which is usually supposed that the Homeric epics were finally written down. As it has been pointed out, 90 the combination of nearly the oldest example of alphabetic writing with Europe’s first literary (Homeric) allusion is an extraordinary fact and offers a glimpse of the cultural assets that the 8th century BC Greeks were carrying with them to Italy. Pithekoussai has also produced the oldest Greek dipinto as well as the earliest known occurrence of the well-known potter’s signature formula. On the rim fragment of a local krater dating around 720–700 BC, the retrograde inscription -]ινος μ’εποιεσε (a potter whose name ends in –inos made me) was painted. 91 Under the signature a winged mythological creature, probably a sphinx is depicted. The fragment was found underneath one of the foundation stones of Structure II at the Mazzola industrial complex in Pithekoussai. 92 The Homeric connection is clear also on an inscription from Ithaca, a well-placed port of call on the sea-route between Greece and Italy. A fragmentary poem in hexameter is painted in a spiral from left to right on a local oenochoe, dated towards the end of the 8th century BC. 93 Interestingly, the possibility of a Euboean/Chalcidian influence has been suggested for this inscription too, based on features such as the use of Euboean lambda: the script, however, is most likely Achaian. 94 Of particular interest is the third line which reads [-ξ]ένος τε φίλος [καὶ πιστό]ς ἑταῖρος (a guest and a friend and a trusted companion) that may be directly associated with the Iliad where a very similar verse is attested: τὸν δὲ Μενεσθῆος πιστὸν ἑταῖρον (and the other a trusty comrade of great-souled Menestheus). 95 Roughly contemporary is the inscribed Euboean skyphos from Methone in Pieria known as the cup of Hakesandros, dated to the late 8th century BC. 96 The vessel is very fragmentary and so is the retrograde post-firing graffito, of which only the two edges and small intermediate parts are preserved. However, the lettering is well-executed and the script may be securely identified as Euboean/Eretrian. The inscription, ending in an iambic rhythm, reads: ΗΑΚΕΣΑΝΔΡΟ ΕΜ[... ...]ΕΙΤΕΤΟ[... ...]ΜΕΚ[... ]ΑΤΟΝ ΣΤΕΡΕΣ[ΕΤ]ΑΙ: ([Ι am the cup] of Hakesandros. [Whoever steals me from him] will be deprived of his eyes (or money), depending on whether the missing word is restored as (ὀμμ)άτων or (χρημ)άτων. An interesting alternative was suggested by Janko. 97 If Hakesandros was a doctor, since his name means ‘healer of men’, then who drank from his cup would lose his pains—(πημ)άτων— instead of his eyes. The Hakesandros inscription from Methone seems to be a forerunner of another playful combination of a proprietary formula with a curse: a roughly dactylic graffito cut in a continuous spiral on a lekythos from Cyme in Italy and dated to c. 675–650 BC reads: ΤΑΤΑΙΕΣ ΕΜΙ ΛΕQΥΘΟΣ. ΗΟΣ Δ’ΑΝ ΜΕ ΚΛΕΦΣΕΙ ΘΥΦΛΟΣ ΕΣΤΑΙ (I am the lekythos of Tataie. Whoever steals me shall be struck blind). 98

90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98

Powell 1991: 167; Ridgway 1992: 57. Powell 1991: 127–128; Ridgway 1992: 96. See also Osborne, Pappas 2007: 135–136. Ridgway 1992: 92, fig. 25. Jeffery 1990: 230; Powell 1991: 148–150. Robertson 1948: 123; Morgan 2017: 574. Il. XV 331. Besios, Tzifopoulos, Kotsonas 2012 : 313–316, 339–343; Janko 2015 : 2–3. Janko 2015: 3. Powell 1991: 166–167; Besios, Tzifopoulos, Kotsonas 2012: 342–343.

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These striking instances of hexameter graffiti among the oldest Greek alphabetic inscriptions do imply a special connection between epic and alphabetic writing. 99 Yet, as Sherratt 100 has pointed out, such a connection does not lie in the use of writing as a tool to record epic but in the fact that both the Homeric epic and writing were manifestations of the same thing: they are concerned and they contribute to the formation of a collective (pan/Hellenic) identity. This could be one of the reasons why, once introduced, the alphabet spread remarkably widely and quickly. Noticeably, although the context in which the Greek alphabet was created was closely related to trade and economic activities, some of the oldest Greek alphabetic inscriptions, dating to the second half of the 8th century BC, show a clear preference for poetic verses. Among the oldest hitherto known inscriptions there is a total absence of financial accounts and administrative texts, even of numbers until around 600 BC, although proprietorial inscriptions are quite common. This fact led certain scholars to the hypothesis that the need to declare ownership was a principal driving force behind the Greek adoption of the alphabet. 101 Here lies a major difference between Late Bronze Age Linear B script and alphabetic writing. In the first case, writing was a tool in the hands of the palatial administration, used primarily to record economic information. Since the use of writing was primarily administrative, language qualities such as rhythm were clearly unnecessary. Alphabetic writing on the other hand recorded spoken language, often in the form of the pre-existing oral epic tradition. The specialised use of some of the early Greek inscriptions to record hexameter verses continued uninterrupted into the early 7th century BC, as evidenced by two well-known votive examples in boustrophedon: the Mantiklos inscription on a bronze statuette from Thebes 102 and the Nikandre inscription on the Naxian stone statue found on Delos. 103 Under this new formation, the oldest alphabetic inscriptions afford a glimpse into the way eighth century Greeks expressed themselves both socially and culturally. What makes those early inscriptions fascinating is their private character, the striking omission of any public or economic matters. Sometimes humorous, sometimes literary, the oldest alphabetic attestations of the Greek world are self-assertive expressions of a society that is gaining confidence and enjoys interaction. Once adopted, the new writing system spread quickly and displayed a wide range of uses, from single letters and nonsense inscriptions, to declarations of ownership, private dedications to gods, hexameter verses, craftsmen signatures, recordings of gifts, etc. More aspects of everyday life were possibly also written down yet sadly we have no trace of them. 104 The existing spectrum indicates that by the late 8th century BC alphabetic writing in the Greek world had become a fairly public accomplishment and that people were eager to learn and record their spoken words. From the 7th century BC onwards, more official and public uses of the alphabetic writing, such as laws and honorific decrees, are also being established. 105 A clear indication of the rapid diffusion of the alphabetic writing among the early Greek inscriptions is the presence of abecedaria, inscriptions listing the letters of 99 100 101 102 103 104 105

Powell 1991: 182. Sherratt 2003: 232–233. Johnston 1983: 67. Jeffery 1990: 90–91; Powell 1991: 167–169, 700–675 BC. Jeffery 1990: 291, 303; Powell 1991: 169–171, ca. 650 BC. Jeffery 1990: 58–59. Jeffery 1990: 59–63; Powell 1991: 181–186; Wilson 2009: 549–556.

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the alphabet. Such listings are often incomplete or even inaccurate although the alphabet is occasionally written in full. 106 If the second part of the Dipylon inscription discussed previously really functioned as the inept scrap of an abecedarium, then the trend to simply record the letters of the alphabet appeared almost as soon as the first alphabetic inscriptions occurred. Although such abecedaria may have been used for practicing the new craft of writing, they may have also enjoyed a symbolic value that was related to the ability to read or write, as they were often used and displayed as votive offerings. One of the earliest examples, a retrograde pre-firing graffito, occurs on a monochrome cup from at the Sanctuary of Apollo in Eretria and dates around 750–700 BC. 107 The best-known votive corpus, however, is that of Hymettus near Athens, and date mostly to the early 7th century BC. 108 Where did the adoption of the alphabet take place? The geographic designation of the alphabetic transmission to the Greeks has received much deliberation yet it remains a composite subject. 109 Many different areas, both in the Aegean and beyond, have been viewed as possible places of introduction of the alphabet. It is reasonable to accept that the adoption and adaptation occurred in a context where Greeks and Phoenicians were living in close proximity, since only through such an interaction on a regular basis could the new writing system be taught and comprehended. Greece itself should not be ruled out from this process, since Phoenician presence in the Aegean displays a robust archaeological and epigraphic attestation 110 that may even imply the existence of small bilingual communities. It has already been noted that a large part of the oldest Greek alphabetic inscriptions occurs in areas with an archaeologically documented Euboean presence, both in the Aegean (Euboea, Oropos, Cyclades) and beyond. Euboea is indeed a strong candidate for the alphabetic transmission, not merely due to its early written evidence, yet also because the Euboeans intermingled with the Phoenicians on a regular basis at many different parts of the Mediterranean. 111 Even though these are good reasons to postulate that the Euboeans were the first possessors of the alphabet, it is difficult to be precise about the place of adaptation not least because the Euboeans of the early first millennium BC, just like the Phoenicians, were adventurers that frequented the eastern as well as the western Mediterranean. 112 What differentiates them from the rest of the Greeks, at least between the 10th and 8th centuries BC is that the Euboeans seem to have had the most active and reciprocal contacts with the Levant and they were not mere recipients of Levantine traders and their (cultural) products. It is indeed easier to place the transmission of the alphabet to the Greeks in such a context of mutual, dynamic and reciprocal interaction. It cannot be a coincidence that the Euboean Powell 1991: 152–158. Kenzelmann Pfyffer, Theurillat, Vedan 2005, 60, no. 3; Pruvot, Reber, Theurillat 2010: 98 no. 51. Langdon 1976: esp. 17–18. Guarducci 1987: 17–19; Jeffery 1990: 5–12; Powell 1991: 12–18; Mazarakis-Ainian 2000: 128–129; Coldstream 2003: 298–302; Wilson 2009: 546–549. A land-route for the adaptation of the Phoenician alphabet by the Greeks based on a Greek-Phrygian interaction has also been suggested, see Brixhe 2007. 110 Lipiński 2004: 145–188; Adam-Veleni, Stefani 2012; Bourogiannis 2014a. 111 Kourou 1990–1991; Powell 1991: 17; Mazarakis Ainian 2000: 129; Luke 2003: 56–60. 112 The earliest Euboean pottery from the eastern Mediterranean (Cyprus and the Syropalestinian littoral) dates to the 10th century BC, while from the west to the 8th century BC: Lemos 2005; Kourou 2012b. 106 107 108 109

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script of Pithekoussai and the Italian Cyme has also been recognised as the parent of the Etruscan alphabet, which made its first appearance around 700 BC. 113 One of the places where these Euboeans and Phoenicians met was Al Mina, at the mouth of the Orontes hence close to the Phoenician homeland. Although modern scholarship is more confident about the Levantine rather than Greek character of the site, 114 the quantities and ratio of Greek and more specifically of Euboean pottery at Al Mina are considerably higher than those of other Levantine sites and they seem to imply a Greek presence there. 115 Noticeably, Euboean pottery was not simply the earliest post-Mycenaean Greek ceramics to be imported to the Levant but also those imported in the greatest quantity, suggesting special Euboean connections with the area. The Euboeans trading at Al Mina could easily have seen Semitic writing and indeed, Al Mina has produced both Phoenician and Aramaean inscriptions. 116 A very important setting of interaction between Greeks and Phoenicians was also Crete. The island displays an exceptionally rich archaeological manifestation of such contacts, 117 including the oldest Phoenician (hence alphabetic) inscription from the Aegean, found in a burial context at Tekke-Knossos and dating around 900 BC. 118 The main strength of the Cretan (as well as Theran and Melian) case is the primitive character of its script, which resembles the corresponding Semitic forms, as in the case of the five stroke mu, the crooked iota and the curved pi. Cretan acquaintance with Semitic writing is confirmed also by the direction of writing that in Crete is always retrograde until as late as the 5th century BC, and use of vertical strokes to separate between words, a common practice in north Semitic inscriptions. 119 The Cretan alphabet is also marked by the striking absence of supplementary letters chi and psi that have no Semitic equivalents. This possibly means that these letters were not yet invented when the newly invented alphabet reached Crete. Furthermore, the fact that the mild aspirate hē was used by the Greeks to denote vowel epsilon rather than any aspirate implies that the Greek alphabet originated at an area where a psilotic dialect was spoken, such as Crete. The earliest Greek alphabetic sign from Crete, a botched alpha cut in a single handle fragment, was produced at Kommos and dates to the 8th century BC. 120 Situated on the south coast of Crete, Kommos is a site with special links to Phoenicia 121 that has produced a large number of short inscriptions. 122 Among the most interesting cases is a 7th century BC dextroverse post-firing inscription on a cup reading μ]έτρον ἠ[μί, perhaps a comment on 113 The oldest inscriptions in the Etruscan language are proprietorial: on an imported Early Protocorinthian kotyle from Tarquinia and bears the names of its two owners (Jucker 1969), and on a local plate bearing the name of its owner, from a burial context at Caere and found together with two Early Protocorinthian cups, a Rhodian aryballos and a jug decorated in ‘colonial Greek’ style (Staccioli 1968: 249; Colonna 1968). 114 Kearsley 1999. 115 Luke 2003. 116 Graham 1986: 55. 117 Stampolidis, Kotsonas 2006. 118 Sznycer 1979. 119 Kritzas 2010: 16–17; Janko 2015: 7–13. 120 Johnston 2005: 366, n. 289, fig. 41. 121 Shaw 2004. 122 Csapo, Johnston, Geagan 2000.

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the capacity of the vessel. 123 When looking for longer attestations of the Greek alphabet in Crete, one has to wait until around 700BC for a retrograde graffito on a domestic pithos from Phaistos, claiming as it is the property of Herpetidamos, son of Paidophila (Ερπετιδαμο Παιδοπιλας οδε). 124 The possibility of Crete being the birthplace of the Greek alphabet survives also in later literary sources, as in the case of Cretan Dosiadas in the 3rd century BC: Δωσιάδης δὲ ἐν Κρήτηι φησὶν εὑρεθῆναι αὐτά. 125 It seems indeed reasonable to suggest that even if Crete was not the birthplace of the Greek alphabet, it was at least one of its earliest receivers. 126 The recovery of objects closely linked to the art of writing, such as styli and a writing tablet at the cave sanctuary of Eileithyia at Itanos, on the south coast of central Crete, 127 probably dated to the Geometric or early archaic period, add further value to the role of Crete in turning Greece into a literate land again. Marking the entrance to the Aegean for those sailing from the east, Rhodes is another, albeit less likely, case for the birth of the Greek alphabet. The island’s contacts with the Phoenicians, especially during the 8th and early 7th centuries BC, are manifested both archaeologically and epigraphically and there is a good chance that some Phoenicians were actually settled on the island during that period. 128 Moreover, a literary tradition puts Cadmus, the legendary king from Phoenicia who brought the Phoenician letters with him, on Rhodes. 129 When looking at the written evidence, one of the oldest Greek graffiti is cut in retrograde on a glazed skyphos fragment purchased in Rhodes in 1902 and dated to the second half of the 8th century BC. The inscription reads Qορακο ημι Qυλιχς (I am the kylix of Korax), 130 hence offering a declaration of ownership. The Rhodian inscription already includes letter chi (X) like the Dipylon oenochoe from Athens but no unusual or near-Phoenician forms, whereas the use of qoppa is quite frequent in early Greek writing. When moving west, to the Greek mainland, the claim of Boeotia sticks out. Herodotus (V 58) claims that it was in Thebes that Cadmus first brought the alphabet from Phoenicia and recent finds from Oropos, a meeting point equally close to Boeotia, Attica and Euboea, may add some archaeological support to this literary statement. 131 Thebes, however, are lacking in Phoenician evidence. Attica, close by, may be viewed as a more likely case, not only thanks to the early inscriptions from this area yet also because archaeology has produced evidence of Oriental presence already in the second half of the 9th century BC (Middle Geometric I). 132 An intriguing hypothesis suggests a land-route for the adaptation of the alphabet by the Greeks, via Asia Minor. The great resemblance between the earliest Greek letters and the letters of the earliest Phrygian inscriptions, as well as their Phoenician prototype, led to the assumption that the Greek alphabet was not adopted directly from the Semitic but that its mother script was Phrygian, deriving from Phoenician. 133 Phrygian precedence relies on the 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133

Csapo, Johnston, Geagan 2000: 112, n. 8. Powell 1991: 138. Jacoby 1950: 458, F6 (Schol. Dionys. Thrac. [Gr. Gr. III], p. 183 (190)). Jeffery 1990: 310. Papasavvas 2003. Kourou 2003; Bourogiannis 2013; Bourogiannis 2014a. Diodorus 5.58 Powell 1991: 137–138; Coldstream 2003: 299; Coulié, Philimonos-Tsopotou 2014: 245, no. 82-2. Mazarakis-Ainian 2000: 129. Kourou 2012a: 219–223. Sass 2005: 146–149; Brixhe 2007; Janko 2015: 17–19; Papadopoulos 2017: 99–103.

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revised absolute chronology of the pertinent Gordion strata that redates the earliest Phrygian inscriptions much earlier than formerly suggested, to the first half of the 8th century, from c. 800 to c. 750 BC. This in turn would mean that the earliest Phrygian texts antedate any Greek inscriptions known so far, unless the enigmatic graffito from Gabii is in Greek. The Phrygian chronological precedence is of course still debated. However, the overlap of shared vowel letters in both Phrygian and Greek seems to rule out an adoption of the alphabet by the Phrygians and the Greeks independent of one another. Instead, either the Phrygian script was adopted from the Phoenician and subsequently the Greek from the Phrygian or vice versa. 134 Such an adoption could have occurred at a place where Greeks, Phrygians and Phoenicians had early contact. The more likely areas would be western Asia Minor, as well as the eastern and northern Aegean. 135 This geographic navigation is completed with Cyprus that has also been postulated as a possible area where the alphabetic transmission took place. 136 This large and fertile island retained its literacy after the end of the Late Bronze Age but stayed faithful to syllabic writing. Cyprus was indeed a meeting place for Greeks and Phoenicians, the latter having settled at certain areas of the island already in the 9th century BC. 137 Moreover, the island provided an almost ideal multilingual ground that could facilitate the transmission of the alphabet and displayed a complex linguistic history 138 in which both Greek and Phoenician languages were included. Moreover, Phoenician and Greek bilingualism, a feature that would certainly facilitate the teaching of the new script, is attested in Cyprus also epigraphically from the 7th century BC onwards. 139 There are, however, certain issues with the Cypriot candidacy. In the Early Iron Age the Cypriot syllabary was used for writing not only in the un-deciphered indigenous language of the island usually described as Eteocypriot, 140 but also for Greek (although never, it seems, to write Phoenician). To our present knowledge, the Greek alphabet is not attested in Cyprus until as late as the 6th century BC. 141 Its use remained negligible until the 4th century BC and even then it often coexisted with the Cypriot syllabary in digraphic inscriptions. Therefore the Greek-speaking population of the island was unwilling to let go of the Cypriot syllabary in the name of the Greek alphabet. It has been convincingly argued that the reasons behind this obstinate denial of the Greek alphabet in Cyprus during the early first millennium BC were chiefly political, since the Cypriot syllabary had long be used as a royal signature on the island. 142 A possible way out of this puzzling Cypriot situation—almost ideal circumstances for the alphabetic transmission but very limited use of the Greek alphabet until the 4th century BC—has been suggested by Teodorsson: 143 it was the Euboean merchants visiting Cyprus rather than the Cypriot Greeks who took after the alphabetic writing from the Phoenicians. 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143

Sass 2005: 147. Papadopoulos 2017: 100. Woodard 1997; Bourguignon 2010: 133. Kourou 1990–1991: 277–279. Steele 2013: esp. 243–248. Steele 2013: 201–211. Steele 2013: 101–104. Jeffery 1990: 352; Olivier 2013: 16. Iacovou 2013. Teodorsson 2006: 172.

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Figure 1. Comparative table of Phoenician and earliest Greek alphabetical scripts (after J.N. Coldstream, Geometric Greece 900–700 BC (Second Edition), London and New York 2003, p. 297, fig. 94), by permission of Routledge (Taylor and Francis Group).

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New Images, Old Practices? An Imagery of Funerary Rituals and Cult in the Aegean and the Eastern Mediterranean* Vicky Vlachou Introduction Unlike the Hittite texts that provide ample evidence for the rituals that accompanied the funerals of important individuals and kings, the Aegean Bronze Age does not offer any documents for approaching or reconstructing funerary attitudes and beliefs. Nonetheless, during the Late Bronze Age, a new form of funerary expression is introduced into Aegean art: that of communication through images. From around the second quarter of the 14th and throughout the 13th century BC we witness a large corpus of compositions and figured representations used to decorate the funerary containers, such as terracotta larnakes and bathtubs, in Crete and Mainland Greece. These images seem to express post mortem beliefs: they emphasize specific parts of the funerary rituals and the prevailing mortuary ideology by repetition of a small selection of images that may appear either independently or frequently as parts of larger pictorial compositions. The study of the terracotta larnakes has placed a particular focus on the iconographical particularities of the painted Mycenaean specimens and the Late Minoan series. 1 A contextual analysis of the larnakes has proven to be an arduous task, as most of the large burial grounds in both Crete and the Mycenaean mainland remain poorly published. 2 In addition, terracotta larnakes were deposited in tombs that already contained more than one burial and frequently remained in use for more than one generation. Tomb 6 of the burial ground at Gephyra in the area of Tanagra is said to have contained sixteen larnakes, both painted and unpainted, 3 though most of the Tanagra tombs seem to have contained no more than one larnax. Their use served as an alternative to the simple disposal of the body inside the tomb, regardless of the age, sex or social status of the deceased. 4 On the basis of the publication * My sincerest thanks are to the organisers of the conference for their hospitality at Warsaw and for putting together such an interesting conference. I would like to warmly thank Don Evely for the language editing. The contribution draws from the author’s current research on mobility of objects, people and the transmission of knowledge and ideas in the Eastern Mediterranean that is funded by the F.R.S.FNRS (Belgium). I use the following abbreviations: EIA - Early Iron Age; LBA - Late Bronze Age; LH - Late Helladic; LM - Late Minoan. 1 Vermeule 1965; Watrous 1991. On the Mycenaean larnakes from Tanagra, see Immerwahr 1995; Kramer-Hajos 2015. For a comparison between the Minoan and Mycenaean larnakes, see Marinatos 1997. 2 Especially for the Boeotian larnakes, see Phialon, Farrugio 2005: 230–231; Kramer-Hajos 2015: 627–629. 3 For some of the painted larnakes from tomb 6 at Tanagra, see Spyropoulos 1969: 8–9, pls. 5a-b, 6b, 7a and 13b; Spyropoulos 1970a: 185–190. 4 Kramer-Hajos 2015: 628–629. Wooden biers, coffins and even beds were equally used in both Crete (mainly in the wider area of Herakleion) and the Mainland (in Attica and the Argolid): they are considered as an expensive option for the burial. Rutkowski 1968; Hägg, Sieurin 1982; Muhly 1996: 208–210;

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reports of the two burial grounds at Tanagra, in the area of Thebes, the main use of figured painted larnakes should date to the LH IIIA2-LH IIIB period. 5 Likewise, the Late Minoan specimens seem to fall within the same period. The time-span covered almost two centuries of continuous use, while some of the latest specimens enter the LM IIIC period. 6 The variety of the images selected for the surface of the funerary larnakes and somewhat later for the clay vessels, speaks against any canonical iconographic patterns and standardised forms of funerary imagery that may reflect a degree of heterogeneity in mortuary expressions and beliefs between regions or social groups. Images cannot be considered independently from the communities that produced and used them. Accordingly, we shall approach these images as a powerful means of communication of ideas, beliefs or even myths and oral traditions. These cannot always be fully understood by modern viewers, but should have carried some meaning and symbolic importance to their contemporaries. In this way it is possible to set forth an approach regarding the meaning and symbolism of funerary imagery. By linking the introduction of a varied funerary imagery to a narrative of mortuary expression, we set the scene for a discussion of the different patterns of selection and consumption. At least two stages of evolution may be discerned: one that is strongly influenced by Egyptian funerary images and Near Eastern post mortem beliefs, and one that demonstrates definite regional choices and ritual expressions. Nonetheless, the above stages do not assist any attempts to elucidate a chronological classification of the larnakes, but rather demonstrate how Aegean, Levantine and Egyptian funerary beliefs are communicated through images. Thus we may better understand how pictorial imagery served deep rooted expressions and practices. To the origins of funerary iconography: the Aghia Triada sarcophagus As a starting point, the painted sarcophagus from tomb 4 at Aghia Triada near Phaistos 7 will serve: here funerary rituals find their most elaborate pictorial expression. This is the only painted funerary chest from the Aegean made out of limestone, frescoed with acts associated with funerary rituals or cult. According to the archaeological context of the tomb and the pictorial decoration of the sarcophagus a date in the Final Palatial period (Early LM IIIA2 or in absolute chronology ca. 1370/1360 BC) is given. The complex figured decoration involves individuals performing a variety of ritual acts: aulos and lyre players, vase bearers, sacrifice, processions of men and women carrying offerings on the long sides, and ceremonial chariots driven by winged griffins and agrimia at the ends. The standing figure dressed in a long cloth has been generally seen as the image of the deceased in front of what could be the tomb’s entrance (fig. 1). Different ‘readings’ of the Aghia Triada imagery exist: some Phialon, Farrugio 2005: 238–242. Stone and rock-cut benches occasionally seen in the Mycenaean and Minoan chamber tombs seem to have served a similar function, see Blegen 1937: 245. For a discussion of the different types of disposal in both the Aegean and Cyprus, see Vlachou forthcoming A. 5 Immerwahr 1995: 109; Cavanagh, Mee 1995: 46; Phialon, Farrugio 2005: 230; Kramer-Hajos 2015: 628. 6 Tzadakis 1971; Watrous 1991; Merousis 2000; 2011; Kanta 2012. For two LM IIIC larnakes with figured decoration from Eastern Crete, now unfortunately lost, see Merousis 2000: 202, footnote 429, 136 cat. 75 and 138 cat. 80. 7 Herakleion Museum, inv. no. 396: Demopoulou-Rethemiotaki 2005: 171–182. See Long 1974; La Rosa 1999. The iconography of the sarcophagus was recently analysed by Brendan Burke 2005, and discussed in its archaeological and wider social and political context of the LM IIIA period. See also Burke 2008: 76–80.

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equate the scene to a cult of the dead, where the standing figure would represent the image of the deified deceased, others see a chthonic cult centred around a young vegetation god. The prevailing funerary or chthonic symbolism of these images is further emphasized by the function of the sarcophagus as the container for the dead body. In this way both image and artefact serve by communicating ritualized activities addressed to the deceased. Burke has characterized the sarcophagus as ‘a complex cultural hybrid’, expressing the ideological concerns of the Mycenaean elites, while incorporating the symbols of the Minoan past. 8 The iconography of the sarcophagus presents a mixture of Minoan cult symbols, such as the double axes, and Egyptian pictorial compositions, namely the standard procession of offering bearers commonly shown on tombs, and the mummified deceased receiving last rites before his tomb (fig. 2). 9 This unique funerary container adds a ritual overtone to the funerary preparations and emphasizes a sophisticated mixture of motifs deriving from different cultural and geopolitical regions. Thus, the complex imagery on the Aghia Triada sarcophagus introduces a new manner of funerary display in Aegean art, during a period of profound changes in the social and political stage of Crete, following the downfall of the palace of Knossos in the LM IIIA2 period. 10 New forms of ritual performance appropriate for distinguished individuals have been associated with new elite groups operating on a regional basis. Ostentatious funerary expressions in Final into Postpalatial Crete may be better understood within this changing context. 11 Within the wider Mediterranean context, the performance of specific ritual acts involving sacrifice, lament and the offering of food and gifts marks part of the different stages of funerary rituals and mortuary commemoration, confined to important individuals of authority such as kings and queens, or priests (Fig. 3). Egyptian funerary expressions provide an outstanding source of both pictorial and literary evidence dating from the Old Kingdom (2664–2155 BC) and extending to the New Kingdom (1554–1075 BC). 12 Such mortuary expressions were originally restricted to the commemoration of kings and queens and then equally to the nobility. Nonetheless, during the New Kingdom, funerary texts and images in the form of the Book of the Dead became accessible to wider social groups that could afford such expressions. The central concern is on the accomplishment of the proper rituals by the living that allow the deceased to make a journey in space and time in the hope of entering the Other World of Osiris. The iconography of the Ahiram sarcophagus of Byblos belongs to a similar symbolic expression, whereby the king becomes a god following death, through the successful accom-

8 Burke 2005: 405. 9 See for example, BM 10470. Hieroglyphic funerary papyrus, XIXth Dynasty (ca. 1250 BC). Faulkner 1996: 38–39. Also the frescoes depicting the deceased, lamenting women and the funerary procession, tomb of Ramosis (TT 55), New Kingdom, XVIIIth Dynasty, Zeigler and Bovot 2001: 196, fig. 102 b-c. 10 According to Burke 2005: 418, “The scenes represented on the painted sarcophagus from Ayia Triada maintain and transmit Minoan symbols to a local group in order to communicate Mycenaean power to a broader population”. He further considers tomb 4, which contained the sarcophagus, and the contemporary megaron building to fall within this same social and political context. 11 Burke 2005: 410–411; Hatzaki, Schuster Keswani 2012: 311. For the grave enclosure, see Sakellarakis 1970; Kanta 1980: 33; Preston 2004: 334–335. 12 Lesko 1977: 1–7; Tylor 2010; Eyre 2014: 290–293.

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plishment of specific funerary rituals (fig. 4a-b). 13 The sarcophagus was found inside tomb V, one of nine tombs of the royal necropolis of Byblos. Three sarcophagi were found here, of which only one has figured decoration on its four sides and the lid: it was accompanied by a Phoenician inscription identifying the inhumed individual as King Ahiram of Goubal, and offered by the king’s son [It]tobaal. The long inscription on the upper edge of the short side of the sarcophagus and its rim is widely accepted now as dating from the 10th century BC. 14 The sarcophagus itself however demonstrates a mixture of Hittite, Egyptian and Canaanite features in its composition and rendition of the figured scenes, and has been dated to the 13th century BC. The figured scenes on its sides can be divided into two groups: those involving female and male figures in procession towards the enthroned king, bringing offerings and performing ritual acts; and also female mourners ripping their clothes and holding their heads in their hands, so expressing profound grief. The imagery of the Ahiram sarcophagus places a particular emphasis on the ritual performance in a funerary context. Processions of worshippers bringing gifts to the enthroned god or performing libations in front of the temple had already comprised part of the religious activity since the 3rd millennium BC. A stone plaque from Ur, dated to the Early Dynastic III period in Southern Mesopotamia, is a characteristic example of such religious imagery. In two superimposed registers a priest is shown pouring an offering before a seated god and in front of a temple building. Three worshippers follow, some simple attendants and others carrying animal offerings. 15 In a similar way, the consecutive stages of the fourteen-day royal funerary ritual in Hittite Anatolia, known as the sallies wastais [translated as ‘great calamity or sin’], was meant to ensure the divine status of the deceased king or queen. 16 The lavishness of the funerary preparations and honours that are described in the sallies wastais funerary ritual have been likened to the rituals performed on the death of heroes, such as Achilles, in Greek epic poetry. 17 It seems clear however from the above discussion that texts, as well as images, are not intended to create new forms of expression, but instead reflect parts of specific existing traditions that remain deeply rooted in space and time. Recent scholarship has emphasized the intense interactions on several fronts between the people of the East Mediterranean region with those far beyond: from the Aegean to Afghanistan via the Persian Gulf. 18 The development of the exchange networks during the 14th and 13th centuries BC seems to have created an appropriate framework for both the circulation of sophisticated commodities and the wider diffusion of ideas, social and ritual practices. These interregional contacts are well manifested in the large corpus of the official correspondence that the Egyptian Pharaohs Amenhotep III and Akhenaten exchanged with the Great Kings of the Ancient Near East (Babylon, Hatti, Mitanni and Assyria) and the 13 Haran 1958. Contra, Giveon 1959. For a detailed description of the tomb, the sarcophagus and the rest of the findings, see Chéhab 1970. 14 More recently, see Lehmann 2005. See also Gubel 1987: 52–53; 73, 261; Cecchini 2006. 15 British Museum inv. 118561 (2900–2300 BC), Aruz, Wallenfels 2003: 74, no. 33. 16 The largest corpus of the cuneiform tablets has been dated to the 13th century BC. For the texts and commentary, see Christmann-Frank 1971; van den Hout 1994; Kassian et al. 2002; Rutherford 2007: 226. 17 van den Hout 1994: 56–61; Testart 2005; Rutherford 2007: 223–226; 2008: 229–230 and 231, table 12.1. 18 For the redefinition of the ‘international style’ of the 14th and 13th centuries in the Mediterranean regarding high-status artifacts, see Feldman 2002; 2006; 2014. Also, Caubet 1998; Steel 2013: 50–53. The circulation of goods and the mixing of shared elements to create hybrid forms are among the characteristics of the LBA international style.

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rulers of smaller independent kingdoms (Arzawa, Cyprus). 19 The Amarna letters, named after the temporary Egyptian capital founded by Pharaoh Akhenaton, date from the middle of the 14th century BC and offer valuable insight on international diplomacy, relations, interactions and the various modes of exchange within the Eastern Mediterranean. Access to these networks and the ensuing shared material culture became special characteristics of kings, powerful rulers and local elites who distinguished themselves by stressing their exclusivity. 20 The introduction during this period of pictorial compositions related to funerals in Aegean art, namely in Crete and the Mycenaean mainland, should be considered within this long period of Mediterranean interconnections. Specific traits originating from both the Egyptian and Near Eastern belief-systems were not simply copied and reproduced, but rather adjusted to fit into the requirements and aspirations of the Aegean elites. In this way the Near Eastern combination of ‘Women at the window’ are shown on the Mycenaean painted larnakes and Egyptian figures and motifs are combined with the Minoan religious symbols such as horns of consecration, double axes and boucrania. 21 On the terracotta larnax from Klima in the Messara plain, a large throne-stool, of Oriental inspiration is combined with what has been considered as an epiphany of the Minoan Goddess (Fig. 5). 22 It is only possible to approach and better understand such interrelated phenomena by accessing the wider Eastern Mediterranean context, one that goes beyond cultural, geographical and artistic constraints. On the local stage, the Aghia Triada sarcophagus and the Klima larnax seems to belong to and exemplify a period of a deep change in Crete that followed the destruction of the palace of Knossos in LM IIIA2 and the consequent decentralization of the political and economical power, as previously monopolized by this palatial centre. 23 An imagery of post-mortem beliefs? The use of terracotta larnakes and bathtubs as funerary containers has a long tradition in Crete. Already since the EM II period they served as funerary receptacles, namely for child burials. 24 From around the second quarter of the 14th and throughout the 13th centuries BC (LMIIIA2-LM IIIB period), pictorial imagery is applied on the surface of certain larnakes and bathtubs demonstrating the vast repertory associated with mortuary beliefs and funerary rituals. 25 In the Mycenaean Mainland similar terracotta containers are mainly known from the two large burial grounds in the area of Tanagra (Boeotia), with only a few specimens reported from other areas. 26 The individuality of the Aegean images, their frequently 19 Cohen, Westbrook 2000; Brinkman 2008; Cline 2015; Cline, Cline 2015. 20 For a comprehensive discussion and further bibliography, see Steel 2013: 50–53. The bibliography on this issue is quite large, see for example Wijngaarden 2012; Sherratt, Sherratt 1998; Sherratt 2011. 21 Vermeule 1979b: 203; Kanta 2012. 22 Rethemiotakis 1997; Kanta 2012: 234–235. 23 For a discussion, see Burke 2005 (with further references); Hatzaki, Schuster Keswani 2012: 310–311; Kanta 2012. 24 Sakellarakis, Sapouna-Sakellaraki 1997: 248 and 252; Merousis 2000: 49–58. 25 Vermeule 1965; 1979b; Watrous 1991; Marinatos 1997. For the re-introduction of terracotta larnakes in Knossos during the LM IIIA2, see Hatzaki 2005: 87–89; Hatzaki, Schuster Keswani 2012: 311. For the latest specimens in the LM IIIC period, see Merousis 2000: 202, footnote 429, 136 cat. no. 75 and 138 cat. no. 80. 26 Demakopoulou 1987: 74; Phialon, Farrugio 2005: 235; Kramer-Hajos 2015: 629 (with further bibliography). Nine of the larnakes found at the burial grounds of Tanagra are illustrated in Aravantinos 2010: 100–129.

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generic and abstract figured style, the incorporation of Minoan and Mycenaean ritual symbols along with Egyptian and Near Eastern influences (translated, adapted and modified as needed), and the absence of any accompanying texts, all combine to create a complex symbolic universe characterizing this new form of funerary expression in the Aegean. There is no homogeneity in these images. Rather pronounced differences exist between the Cretan and Mainland specimens, and again equally so among the Cretan terracotta larnakes and bathtubs. Yet, it is possible to identify certain common features that seem to refer to a highly symbolic vocabulary of post mortem beliefs. The lack of a clear delineation of the space and the disposition of the figures within it, create ‘a world of their own permeated by abstract concept and symbol’, nicely defined by N. Marinatos as “Postpalatial ‘surrealism’ ” in the case of the Cretan larnakes. 27 The Mainland specimens seem to have served the funerary beliefs and expression of palatial elites, especially in the area around Thebes. The creation of imaginary landscapes is highly characteristic, populated by plants, birds, animals and fantastic creatures, or marine motifs, octopuses, fish and other creatures of the sea. 28 Although most of these motifs derive from a common visual vocabulary as developed in the Late Bronze Age Aegean, their symbolic value in a funerary context should equally be emphasized. With their particular and repeated motifs, commonly combined with ritual symbols of the Minoan and the Mycenaean repertory, the imaginary landscapes have been considered as singular attempts to illustrate generic moments of the journey of the soul after death and its existence in the Underworld. On the larnax from Kavrochori near Herakleion (fig. 6), a horse chariot is placed within a fantastic landscape composed of birds, plants, snakes and sea creatures mixed together. 29 The bizarre rendition of the horses and the chariot, with the absence of visible passengers, further accentuates the unrealistic aspects of the image, presumably in an attempt to depict an Underworld scene. On a larnax from Tanagra, an oared boat is shown among sketchy figures that seem to adopt the characteristic mourning gesture. The figures, compared to the Mycenaean phi and psi figurines by Immerwahr, seem like images of the inanimate ‘shades’ existing in the Underworld (fig. 7). 30 The funerary symbolism of the boat is again made plain on a clay larnax from Gazi, where a large sailing vessel is depicted on one long side among spiral waves, a large bird and a fish (fig. 8). 31 The symbolism of the boat is emphasized already on the Aghia Triada sarcophagus, where what seems like a boat model is carried by one of the male figures who approaches the standing figure of the deceased. Lastly, another feature is the winged female figures, mainly represented on the Tanagra larnakes (fig. 9). Two larnakes show four winged figures: they have been interpreted as images of the psyche, of the

27 28 29 30 31

Marinatos 1993: 240, 234. Vermeule 1965; 1979a: 68–69; Marinatos 1997: 288–291. Rethemiotakis 1979; Watrous 1991: pl. 89c, e; Marinatos 1993: 232–234 and figs. 238–239; 1997: 288. Spyropoulos 1973b: 266–267, pl. 221c; Marinatos 1997: 291; Immerwahr 1995: 116–117, fig. 7.7. Watrous 1991: 298, pls 90e, f and 91a. On the funerary aspect of boats, see Marinatos 1933: 234–235; Long 1974: 48–49. For boat models placed in tombs, see Demakopoulou 1988: 244, cat. 243; DemopoulouRethemiotaki 2005: 74–75, 89. For ship on a clay pyxis from the tholos tomb at Pylos (LH IIIC), see Tzahou-Alexandri, Spathari 1987: 79, cat. nos. 40, 41 for a boat model in a PG tomb from Fortetsa (second half of the 9th century BC). For a recent discussion, see Gallou 2005: 43-49.

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flying spirit of the deceased, 32 or as images of a goddess shown in epiphany. 33 Although the suggestion of Vermeule that these winged figures represent the flying soul of the deceased is quite attractive, the interpretation of an epiphany as suggested by Spyropoulos seems more convincing. The epiphany of the goddess is a Minoan religious theme that is just as regularly present in the pictorial repertory of the Minoan larnakes by LM IIIA2/LM IIIB period. The terracotta larnax from Klima in the Messara is an exceptional example, in representing the epiphany of the goddess before a throne-stool. 34 On another larnax from the vast burial ground of Armenoi near Rethymnon, the figure of the goddess with upraised arms is shown standing on high base. 35 Watrous comments on a similar representation of the protective goddesses Isis and Nephthys, shown in comparable postures on the funerary coffins of the New Kingdom in Egypt. 36 Our perception and approach to these images has been largely influenced by Near Eastern texts referring to the perception of the Underworld – the long journey overland to reach there and the airy form of the spirits, the funerary symbolism of the boat, renditions that find their parallels in Egyptian art. The available Bronze Age literary texts from the Near East in general provide a number of comparable elements regarding the state of the spirit after the death of a person, the journey until it reached the Underworld and the geography of the same. 37 Egyptian mortuary literature comprises a number of ritual texts of a composite form rather than a unique and homogenous composition. 38 In the Book of the Dead there is no single cosmological vision, but rather versions of the Underworld that seem to have run in parallel throughout this long period down many centuries. 39 The contribution of Near Eastern and Egyptian texts to the formation of Greek perceptions about the Beyond, at least from the 8th and 7th centuries BC, has been convincingly argued. 40 Greek cosmogony as is presented in the Homeric and Hesiodic poems seems to have adopted and assimilated older beliefs about the existence of the soul following death and the geography of the beyond. But was this image of the Underworld invented during this period by the two poets, or do such beliefs and ideas have deeper roots in the mortuary beliefs of the Aegean? The repetition of funerary imagery on the terracotta larnakes of the LBA and their employment over a period of a time by several generations seem to argue that a specific funerary symbolism did exist in the Aegean, at least by this period. Images

32 For the representation of psyche on the larnax now in Kassel, see Vermeule 1965: 126–129 and pls 25–26a; 1979b; Lullies 1979; Cavanagh, Mee 1995: 60–61, nos 13–14, 34; Immerwahr 1995: 116–117; Marinatos 1997: 291. 33 Spyropoulos 1977a: 31 and pl. 12b; 1977b: 18–19 and figs 9–10. Gallou 2005: 34-36 (with further bibliography). For the identification of a chthonic deity in epiphany, see Alexiou 1958: 219. 34 Rethemiotakis 1997; Kanta 2012: 234–235. 35 Tzadakis 1971: 221, fig. 9; Watrous 1991: 291–292, 91e. See also the scene on a larnax from Milatos interpreted by N. Marinatos as a scene of epiphany (1997: 291), or the journey of the dead “to the depths of the ocean” (2008: 145). Also, Vermeule 1965: 128, fig. 2a and 136. For the presumed image of the deceased on a cylindrical pyxis for the Late Minoan cemetery at Mochlos, see Andreadaki-Vlazaki, Rethemiotakis, Dimopoulou-Rethemiotaki 2008: 191 (C. Sophianou). 36 Watrous 1991: 292 and 302–306. 37 Scurlock 1995; 2002; Katz 2003; 2007; Kopanias 2012. 38 Lesko 1977: 1–7. 39 Tylor 2010; Eyre 2009; 2014. 40 Burkert 1961; 1995; West 1997: 149 ff. See also, Warren 2007; Marinatos, Anderson 2010.

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carrying a particular symbolic value are only valid and able to work because their ‘meaning’ is recognized by the community who engendered them. Symbolic expressions associated with funerals are not unknown in the Bronze Age Aegean. Gail Hoffman has discussed more recently some Cycladic figurines with folded arms that were marked with red vertical striations on their cheeks, presumably reproducing the effect of facial laceration. She further argues that these early figurines, most of which are considered to represent females, acted as portable images of mourners during the funerals and were deposited inside the tomb along with the burial. 41 That these symbolic images were made especially for the funerals is highly unlikely. Rather one should think about the symbolic transformation of material culture: an object may serve in different roles in different contexts and even in different stages of one ritual. As a result, though, our approaches to ritual and the symbolic display of material culture remain largely speculative. From around the same period, the class of artifacts known as ‘frying pans’ display a symbolic set of symbols: birds, fish, longboats, in combination with female genitalia. 42 Although the exact purpose of these curious objects is debated, their placement in tombs, occasionally along with figurines with folded arms, shows a symbolic value attached to these objects, one that is related to funerary rituals and mortuary beliefs. 43 ‘Frying pans’ showing longboats among spirals that were presumably meant as waves were closely associated with funerary rituals (Fig. 10), as it is shown by the ones deposited in the tombs of the large burial ground at Chalandriani on Syros. The iconographic association of the sea, the longboat and occasionally the female genitalia place an emphasis on maritime prowess and navigation, fertility and biological reproduction, as discussed by Broodbank. S. Sherratt has discussed certain connections to Levantine deities, such as the imagery of Astarte: she placed the emphasis on achieving the protection and guidance of the seafarers, as well as sexual pleasure. 44 Depictions of boats have certainly a long tradition in the Cyclades, demonstrating the importance of seafaring in the life and identity of these insular communities. On the other hand, the possibility of a symbolic association with the boat of the dead in eschatological terms should equally be considered. 45 When approaching the mortuary beliefs of past societies, the material evidence often remains extremely poor and in most cases ambiguous. Objects and images speak only selectively of acts and beliefs that likely express older and deep-rooted traditions. Lamentation as an expression of profound grief, the belief that the performance of funerary rites ensures 41 Hoffman 2002. Also Burke 2008: 84. For different interpretations see also Doumas 1968: 88–94; Marangou 1990: 140–142; Broodbank 2000: 172–173, 253; Sherratt 2000: 132–136. The same ritual laceration of the face as the result of profound grief and intense lamentation has been seen on one of the figures depicted on a larnax from Tanagra, today in Kassel: see Vermeule 1979b: 65; 1965: pl. 25a; lakovides 1966: 48, fig. 3; Immerwahr 1998: 110, fig. 7.1e; Hoffman 2002: 542, fig. 9. See also a clay rhyton in the form of a human ‘dead head’, Vermeule 1991: 110–119. 42 Coleman 1985. For the use of these objects as liquid-mirrors, see Papathanassoglou and Georgouli 2009. For a ‘frying pan’ from Marathon with the handle in the form of legs, see Pantelidou-Gofa 2014: 9, pls. 5b, 6a and 7a. For a discussion of the Cycladic ‘frying pans’ with depictions of longboats, see Marthari 2017. 43 For the finding of ‘frying pans’ with marble folded arm figurines in Chalandriani tomb 307, see Coleman 1985: 206. 44 Broodbank 2000: 249–256; Sherratt 2000: 197–200. For the association of the spirals as symbolic rendering of waves, see Renfrew 1972: 421. 45 For the offering of boats to the dead see also, Gallou 2005: 43-44.

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the protection of the goddess for the deceased, and the conviction that the souls existed in the Underworld after completing a long journey overland and/or overseas all reflect beliefs shared in the Mediterranean, as demonstrated in both funerary art and texts in Egypt and the Near East. 46 Although the ambiguous images painted on the LBA funerary larnakes cannot offer a definite reading of the post-mortem beliefs, still they make it plain that cultural ideas, ritual practices and material items were exchanged and re-invented to better serve local beliefs and identities. Yet, we should not underrate the introduction of new types and forms of expression in funerary traditions and beliefs. The appearance of the winged sphinx on the Tanagra larnakes and equally the curious proto-Centaur that appears once are new to the funerary iconography of the LBA. 47 Their exact meaning is far from clear, although their presence in the symbolic landscape of the funerary larnakes may have some reference to the liminality of death. Funerary Rituals and Performance: the Episkopi larnax Created almost a century later than the Aghia Triada sarcophagus, the Episkopi larnax introduces a whole range of iconographical themes connected to funerary rituals. The rich and complex iconographical themes are organized in ten square and two almost triangular panels that cover the surface of the sarcophagus and that of its lid (Figs 11a-b). The sarcophagus, dated around the middle of 13th century BC (LM IIIA2-LM IIIB), was found in a chamber tomb, along with two more, in 1946 by N. Platon and published recently by M. Platonos. 48 Nine panels show wild goats (agrimia), identified by their long horns and short upright tails and accompanied possibly by dogs, twice hunting scenes, a figure performing some kind of a gesture before a cow, a chariot with three figures on board and three more placed in the field holding kylikes and balloon-like emblems, and a large figure holding a kylix, the reins of an animal and a balloon-like object, presumably acting as the leader of the religious festivities. The ideological and artistic circumstances that motivated the selection of such rich iconography for a funerary monument will have been complex. The pictorial scenes place the emphasis on ritual performance within the context of mortuary rites, possibly of a largely local importance. Although the scenes are largely generic and highly symbolic, a representation of ritual performance is explicitly communicated, involving procession, the carrying of ritual symbols, the performing of libations and/or drinking from kylikes, sacrifice and hunting. The importance of the shared ceremonial acts is emphasized by the numerous participants in the rituals that carry various objects, drink from kylikes and/or pour libations. Ritual drinking is well known in the art of the Aegean, and its association here with the funerary imagery manifests the existence of a ‘common’ iconographic language of ritual expression, either religious or chthonian and funerary. The wide diffusion of the motif showing figures holding kylikes is illustrated by such as the fragmentary krater from Troy

46 Marinatos and Anderson 2010: 13. 47 Spyropoulos 1974a: pls. 10b and 11a; 1973b: pl. 221b; 1979a: pl. 20b; Vermeule 1979b: 204–205. For the proto-Centaur, see Kourou 1991: 114 note 28; Belgiorno 1978. 48 Platonos 2008; Kanta 2012: 234 and fig. 11. For earlier treatments of the figured decoration of the sarcophagus, see Kanta 1980: 156–158 and pl. 63.1–5; Watrous 1991: 300–301, pl. 93a–d; Marinatos 1993: 236–239.

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dated to the end of the 13th century BC (LH IIIB2-LH IIIC period), 49 on the contemporary fragmentary amphoroid krater from Tiryns, 50 the fragmentary terracotta figure from the open-air sanctuary at Amykles near Sparta, 51 and again on the PWP pyxis of LC IIIB (ca. 1125–1050 BC) from Cyprus (Cyprus Museum 1968/5–30/113) (Fig. 12). 52 Together these demonstrate the dynamics of established iconographical themes. On the clay larnax from tomb 36 at Tanagra in Boeotia, both ritual lament and drinking or pouring libations from a kylix are performed by women (Fig. 13). 53 In addition to the evidence of the iconography, the material remains of the consumption of food and drink and the performance of libations in ritual contexts and at the tomb are plentiful in the archaeological context, manifesting thus the increased importance of this part of the ritual performance. 54 The symbolic connection between hunting and royal funerals is a well-known one in the art of the Mediterranean. The act of hunting and killing a wild animal as usually emphasized in pictorial representations became a potent metaphor for the hunter to prove his strength, and epitomized in this way conceptions of power and success adapted to suit rulers, privileged and important individuals. The stone grave markers from Mycenae decorated with ‘royal’ hunts that date back to the 16th century BC are indicative of this kind of funerary expression and symbolism. Scenes of hunting as presented on the terracotta larnakes of the LBA place the hunters among wild goats, deer and bulls. Spears and presumably also nets are used for trapping and killing the animals. Two larnakes from Armenoi and Maroulas in Western Crete are decorated with hunting scenes, probably made by the same craftsman or workshop (Fig. 14). A ritual overtone is apparent in both scenes as is apparent from the male figure holding an axe and the rest of the hunters aiming their spears at the bulls. 55 On 49 Mountjoy 2006: 107–110, notes that fragments of the krater were found in levels of different dates. The earliest was related with the Phase VIIa destruction level dated to the Transitional LH IIIB2/IIIC Early, while a connection with the succeeding Phase VIIb is not excluded. 50 Although the exact find spot is unknown, the amphoroid krater has not been associated with a funerary context, cf. Kilian 1980: 22 no. 10; Wright 2004: 164–165. For an interpretation of the chariot scene as a reference to an aristocratic life-style, cf. Steel 1999: 806. See also Benzi 2009: 14. For a LH IIIC fragmentary krater from Lefkandi, showing a seated figure before a large krater placed on the ground and containing (?) a kylix, cf. Benzi 2009: 240–241, 249, pls 59, 71 B2b. 51 Demakopoulou 1982: 54–56, pls 25–26; Buchholz, Karageorghis 1971: nos 1246, 1247a–b; Demakopoulou 2009: 96–97, figs 10.1–10.2a-b. For a recent study of the figure within the early cultic space at Amykles, see Vlachou 2017: 13–25. 52 Iacovou 1988: 16 no. 15, 35–36, 71, figs 34–35; 2006: 199–200, fig. 4a-c. The similarity of the form of the pyxis with the Aegean pyxides further emphasizes the Aegean connections. Iacovou has suggested that the male figure on the Cypriote pyxis raises his kylix in performing a libation on the occasion of a sacrifice, as indicated by the presence of the goat. 53 Spyropoulos 1973a: pl. 10β. For the interpretation of the scene as ‘a funeral libation at the entrance of the tomb’, see Immerwahr 1995: 113, 115–116 and fig. 7.5a. For an association with the cult of the dead, see Kilian 1980: 21–31. 54 For a recent discussion of ritual activity in relation to funerals in LM III Crete, see D’Agata and De Angelis 2016. For discussion of recent finds in ritual contexts, namely at Pylos and Methana, see Wright 2004. For a discussion of processions in Linear B tablets, cf. Weilhartner 2013. 55 For the larnax from Armenoi with three male hunters among bulls, goats and large birds, see Tzedakis 1971: 216–222, fig. 4; Demakopoulou 1988: 80–81, cat. 6; Watrous 1991: pl. 92a, e, b; Marinatos 1997: 284–288, fig. 8. For the clay larnax from Maroula near Rethymnon, probably by the same hand, see Kanta 1973: 315–318, fig. 3 and drawing 3; Watrous 1991: pl. 89b, d; Marinatos 1993: 234–236 and fig. 241. On a larnax from Armenoi, the hunter is aiming with his spear an agrimi, see Tzedakis 1971: 218 fig. 5 (larnax 1 from t. 24); Watrous 1991: l. 87f-g. Spear-heads, knives and daggers accompanied occa-

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the Episkopi larnax, hunters target with their spears wild goats on two square panels. Wild goats followed by dogs and by a single human figure are shown four more times on the larnax. In contrast, a large cow occupying one of the panels of the lid is shown nursing her calf and accompanied by a human figure performing some kind of a gesture, presumably in a ritual or religious context. Unlike bulls combined with Minoan symbols such as double axes and horns of consecration, 56 the focus on the Episkopi larnax is on fertility, reproduction and probably pasturage and property, reflecting the standing of the deceased individual and his family within the local community. This is further emphasized by one of the panels occupying the long side of the larnax: the foal is again shown suckling from its mother. The animal seems to be led by the large human figure, placed behind it, and arguably acting as the leader of the ritual activity. Although wild animals are frequently shown in the company of their younger ones, the iconographical theme of animals nursing or feeding their young is quite rare in the Bronze and equally in the Early Iron Aegean. 57 On a clay larnax from Gournia in the Mirabello bay, a calf with its mother and a horse provide an abbreviated version of the Episkopi larnax, again placing the focus on themes associated with pasturage and land property. 58 Defining the consecutive stages of the funerary ritual During the 13th century BC, we witness the introduction of specific ritual actions by and on behalf of the living on the occasion of the death of an individual. The laying-out of the dead body (prothesis) concentrates on the care of the deceased before the final deposition in the tomb and gives the opportunity to the family and the community to pay their final respects and to express their grief. Although mourners, mainly females, become a rather frequent element in the decoration of the Tanagra larnakes and occasionally on the Minoan specimens, the prothesis of the deceased remains a rare iconographical theme. 59 To the present, one terracotta larnax from Pigi near Rethymnon and two more from the large cemeteries at Tanagra are known to portray this latter theme (fig. 15). 60 Action takes place on both sides of the funerary bed and lamentation is performed, though the exact

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sionally the deceased, probably themselves hunters in real life, as manifested from the tombs in Crete and Boetia. For the case of the necropoleis at Armenoi and Maroulas, see Papadopoulou 2014: 85–86, 105–106, 126. For the representation of dogs in Mycenaean iconography, see Crouwel 1976. Minoan ritual symbols are commonly shown in the decoration of the funerary larnakes. From the large cemetery of Armenoi near Rethymnon bulls and consecration corns are combined in the decoration of the terracotta larnakes: Tzedakis 1971: 219–220, figs 6–8; Watrous 1991: pls 87b-c, e and 88a-b; Godart, Tzedakis 2003. The most characteristic piece is a small alabastron from Lefkandi depicting among animals and fantastic creatures a pair of griffins feeding their young, still in the nest. See Popham, Milburn 1971: 333–349, pl. 54.2; Demakopoulou 1988: 132, cat. 68; Crouwel 2006a: 233–255, pl. 67; Kosma 2015: 33–34, cat. 5. For the iconography of the Geometric period, see Vlachou 2015: 142; On the ivories of Arslan Tash (9th8th centuries BC) equally depicting cows and their calves, see Fontan 2015: 154. Demopoulou-Rethemiotaki 2005: 169. For mourners on the Tanagra larnakes, see Vermeule 1965; Immerwahr 1995: 109–113; Kramer-Hajos 2015. For the Cretan specimens, see Morgan 1987; Watrous 1991: 291–292. For the Pigi larnax, see Baxevani 1995; Hiller 2006: 183–184, fig. 2. For the larnax from Tanagra tomb 22, see Spyropoulos 1969: pl. 14a; Demakopoulou, Konsola 1981: 83, pl. 42; Cavanagh, Mee 1995: 48, fig. 4; Immerwahr 1995: 112, fig. 7.2; Benzi 1999; Hiller 2006: 183–184, fig. 4. For the larnax from Tanagra tomb 3, see Spyropoulos 1970b: pl. 48a; Cavanagh, Mee 1995: 48, fig. 7; Immerwahr 1995: 112, fig. 7.2b; Hiller 2006: 183–184, fig. 3. For the expression of ritual lament, see Alexiou 1974.

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iconographic elements vary significantly from one scene to the other. The emphasis now is on the patterns of behaviours that concentrate on the preparation of the dead body before the internment, ensuring the separation of the deceased from the world of the living that they may be fully integrated in the world of the dead. Egyptian pictorial scenes with similar arrangement and meaning have been thought of as having direct influence from the Aegean prothesis. 61 Yet local tradition and beliefs remain a strong determinant of style and artistic expression. An interesting element of these early depictions is the young age of the deceased individual, as shown by the size of the body and the funerary bed. This is the first time that the deceased is clearly indicated; the principal role of women in the care of the dead body is emphasized, undertaking post mortem preparations for a specific individual. Among the terracotta larnakes decorated with a prothesis that from tomb 22 at Tanagra in Boeotia is the only one combining different scenes in a complex pictorial synthesis (figs 16a-b). Processions of female mourners occupy the upper registers of the short and the one long side of the larnax. In the rest of the figured scenes, the chase is presented (with a male hunter surrounded by wild goats), an athletic competition of bull-leaping and a singular scene with two males in combat accompanied by horse chariots. Although the significance of hunting scenes in the funerary iconography of clay larnakes seems well established, the association of the two remaining scenes with funerary rites is highly innovative. The performance of bull-leaping within a religious context ultimately derives from the Minoan past, while the composition with two confronted chariots and two central figures is new, and belongs to Mycenaean iconography. 62 Nonetheless, both scenes seem to emphasize a notion of athletic and agonistic competition that even if attested as part of the Minoan religion, now becomes associated with funerary rituals for the first time. 63 This competitive element is what underlies the performance of funerary games after the funeral in honouring a distinguished and important individual. References to funeral games are found throughout ancient literature: their most elaborate version is in the description made in the twenty-third book of the Iliad, regarding the games celebrated by Achilles for his friend Patroklos. 64 Although the introduction of games as part of the funerary performance remains an open question at this time, the decoration of the Tanagra larnax stands out because of its complex and original decoration. Such images foreshadow the inclusion of competitive display as part of the elite expression and ideology of the later Bronze Age and again in the Geometric period.

61 Hiller 2006: 183–187. There is no evidence for a prothesis ritual in Anatolia. The earliest evidence dates to the late 7th century BC: it is represented on the lid of a painted terracotta sarcophagus from the necropolis of Klazomenai. See Baughan 2013: 48, fig. 33 and 189–190 (with further discussion). 62 For the Minoan repertoire, see Marinatos 1993: 212–216. For scenes of bull-leaping beyond the Aegean, see Shaw 2009; Georgakopoulos 2012. Human figures and bulls, accompanied by mourning females are shown in one more terracotta larnax from Tanagra, see Aravantinos 2010: 112. 63 Spyropoulos 1970a: 190-196. For a detailed analysis of the iconography of the larnax, see Benzi 1999. 64 For references in Greek literature, see Roller 1981: 107–108; Ruby 2007. For the association of chariot races with funeral games, see Benson 1970: 20–24, 27; Crouwel 2006b; Gadolou 2011, discusses funeral games within the context of competitive display of the Geometric elites.

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From funerary containers to burial markers. Funerary iconography to display By the 12th century BC (or LH IIIC), the long tradition of painted funerary larnakes seems to have faded out in the Aegean. Even though numerous pottery workshops produced figured pottery for their Aegean elites, viz. at Mycenae, Tiryns, Pylos, Lefkandi, Kynos, Naxos, Kos and elsewhere, they do not seem to have preferred funerary iconography at all. 65 There are only a few cases where figured scenes may be associated with funerary activity. At Mycenae, a re-used painted funerary stele, and the polychrome Warrior krater (Fig. 17) that presumably functioned as a burial marker demonstrate a new iconographic repertory: one that includes processions of warriors, next to mourning women. 66 These images seem to place an emphasis on the qualities of the individuals as warriors, an aspect that built on the identity and the competitive and martial male principles of the deceased at Mycenae. Their use as burial markers creates a new framework of funerary commemoration and display. Comparable evidence has come to light in the western Peloponnese, from the extensive cemeteries of Elis, at Aghia Triada, Trypes Kladeou and Mageiras. The richly furnished burials from this region manifest the wealth and social stratification of the local communities during the 12th and 11th centuries BC. Among the fragmentary pottery that was found in the dromoi leading to the entrance of the tombs, two fragmentary Mycenaean vessels present the consecutive stages of the burial rituals, the prothesis and the ekphora respectively. 67 Both vessels have been interpreted as burial markers and both show the individual style of a single hand. A prothesis scene decorated the surface of the fragmentary krater from chamber tomb 5 at Aghia Triada (Fig. 18): the figures close to the funerary bier and the deceased are shown in the same posture of lament, with one hand to the head. A presumably male figure holds in one hand what seems like an axe, and probably leads the ritual action. The fragmentary amphora from the chamber tomb 8 at Trypes introduces a new scene into the funerary repertory of the LBA Aegean, namely the ritual transportation of the deceased to the place of the burial (ekphora). Two male figures are shown carrying on horizontal planks the funerary bier, which closely resembles that of the prothesis scene, having solid feet and a semicircular frame over it. The resemblance of the image of the deceased to that of the male warriors could indicate that the rituals were destined for a dead warrior. One more krater was recovered from chamber tomb 8 at Mageiras. 68 Horse-driven chariots and animals are shown on both sides of the krater that is said to have done duty too as a tomb marker. The emphasis placed on the military status of the deceased in the pictorial representations is further emphasized by the rich funerary assemblages deposited with the burials and consisting of weapons, helmets and various artifacts of value. The funerary iconography of the 12th century BC at Mycenae and Elis seems constructed on a different basis from the one of the previous two centuries in the Aegean. Although the images derive from the iconography of the LBA larnakes, with the addition of the ekphora scene, their symbolic meaning is quite the opposite to that of the earlier periods – now it places the emphasis on the social and military status and identity of the deceased warriors. 65 For a recent discussion, see Crouwel 2006c; 2009. 66 Sakellarakis 1992: 36–37, cat. 32 (with bibliography). For a reconsideration of the function of the Warrior krater, see Burke 2008: 80–84; Deger-Jalkotzy 2008. For a Cretan LM IIIC larnax with presumably similar decoration, unfortunately lost today, see Merousis 2000: 202 and footnote 429. 67 Schoinas 1999; Vikatou 2001; 2012: 365, figs 737, 738; Hiller 2006: 183–185, fig. 5. 68 Vikatou 2012: 376, fig. 774.

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After the collapse of the palatial system, this period is mainly characterized by a social and economic upheaval that transformed the Aegean societies and largely defined their expression. Furthermore, the function of the funerary vessels as burial markers at the tomb, around which the ritual action takes place, equally reveals and matches the differing function now performed by the funerary iconography. The images selected for these vessels were meant to be seen during the funerals and thereafter. Similar images depicting the consecutive stages of the funerary rituals appear again in the Geometric period around the mid-8th century BC, on the large tomb markers from the Attic burial grounds. 69 The prothesis and ekphora scenes are now accompanied by multiple figures – lamenting females, armed males, occasionally children, with chariot processions and races, or even sea and land battles that serve to paint a heroic context for the deceased (Fig. 19). Attic Geometric iconography excellently expresses what was considered appropriate on the death of an Athenian aristocrat, frequently with mythic overtones. From the intervening period, from the 11th until around the second quarter of the 8th century BC, funerary imagery is almost completely absent in Aegean art. There are only few examples from Crete that reflect to a minor degree the iconography of the latest Bronze Age. The 11th-century funerary krater from Mouliana is decorated with a mounted warrior combined with a hunting scene. 70 The Middle Protogeometric krater from Teke tomb F (ca. 900 BC) shows a running warrior-hunter aiming his spear; he is dressed in a tasselled outfit reminiscent of the late Mycenaean painted warriors from Tiryns, Elis and Lefkandi. 71 The Cretan Protogeometric kraters decorated with sphinx, boats, agrimia, warriors and lions, and even a ‘Nature Goddess’, deriving from the strong Minoan tradition, provide the closest link with the repertory of the LBA larnakes, as N.J. Coldstream has argued. 72 Despite the change in the funerary practice from inhumation to cremation, and the consequent function of most of these kraters as cinerary urns, the pictorial repertory does not seem to differ hugely from that of the previous periods. 73 In the relative absence of visual representations, the potential of the oral tradition and the dynamics of funerary performance and rituals in codifying and maintaining older and deep-rooted beliefs and expressions must not be underestimated. Images remain a means of selective expression and thus should be considered as symbolic reflections and not as direct evidence of mortuary behaviour. When funerary images reappear in the repertory of the 8th century BC, Athens and Attica remain our main source of evidence, by reintroducing familiar iconographic themes of the BA. However, Athens has only provided a single mourning figure on a krater fragment from the Athenian Acropolis, dated to the LH IIIC period, or even later, 74 while the rich funerary imagery of Boeotia or even Crete was almost completely forgotten in later periods. 69 Ahlberg 1971; Alexiou 1974; Snodgrass 1998; D’Agostino 2008. Large amphorae and kraters with funerary scenes were used as burial-markers over the tombs; from the second half of the 8th century BC smaller vases decorated similarly were deposited inside the tombs. 70 Wiesner 1968: F114-F118; Güntner 2006: 178–179. 71 Coldstream 1980; Blome 1982: 91–92; Coldstream, Catling 1996: 370; Vlachou 2012: 354–356. Coldstream 2006: 161, notes that the scene showing two hunters and a hound comes from the same tomb that also contained the burials of two horses and two dogs: he asks whether the krater was actually intended for a deceased hunter. 72 Coldstream 2006: 161–163. For the ‘Nature Goddess’, see Coldstream 1984. 73 Coldstream 2006; Bouzek 2007. 74 Graef, Langlotz 1925: no. 220; Sakellarakis 1992: 40–41 cat. 40.

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By the 8th century BC, the Homeric poems provide the earliest literary evidence from the Aegean on the rituals performed at the death of warrior-heroes. Funerary honours follow familiar traditions that illustrate the achievements, the heroic ethos and the communal expression of lamentation during the process of burial. 75 In this way, a strong link with the tradition of the latest BA is apparent, despite the long intervening period of approximately three centuries. Nonetheless, the symbolic meaning of these images is by no means the same. The latest BA images place an emphasis on the circumstances of death in the battlefield in celebrating warriors’ ideals. This seems to reflect on the concurrent social and political situation, characterized by the collapse of the palatial system and the general upheaval in the wider Mediterranean. Concluding remarks Images constitute a powerful medium of communication. The range of the funerary repertory as it unfolds through the iconography of the terracotta larnakes originally derives from a prevailing ideology strongly influenced by the Egyptian and Near Eastern royal funerals and representations. Perceptible stages in the evolution of funerary iconography may be seen around the mid-13th century and again in the closing decades of the 12th century BC. In a complex period as at the end of the Bronze Age, the existence of the above idiosyncratic compositions must be noted: arguably they neatly echo the equally complex and distinctive social dynamics being produced by the same historical process. The analysis offered above has underlined particular aspects of the funerary expression of the Aegean, within a period of important economic and social changes and of mobility in the wider Mediterranean region. The conscious and deliberate choices of funerary expression through images reveal a framework of ritual action that keeps pace with respective changes in social structures during the LBA and again the EIA in the Aegean. Despite the strong influence of Egyptian and Near Eastern beliefs, Aegean funerary iconography embodies regional traditions and beliefs. What remains important is the varying symbolic meanings that these images seem to adopt during each period, and the importance that is placed on the different parts of the rituals in order to better serve the needs and aspirations of the communities that are undergoing significant shifts and transformations of their own. Bibliography

Ahlberg 1971 – Ahlberg G. 1971: Prothesis and Ekphora in Greek Geometric Art. Göteborg. Alexiou 1974 – Alexiou M. 1974: The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition. Cambridge. Alexiou 1972 – Alexiou 1972: Λάρνακες και αγγεία εκ τάφου παρά το Γάζι Ηρακλείου, AE: 86–98. Aravantinos 201 – Aravantinos V.L. 2010: The Archaeological Museum of Thebes, Athens. Aruz, Wallenfels 2003 – Aruz J., Wallenfels R. 2003: Art of the First Cities: The Third Millennium B.C. from the Mediterranean to the Indus, New York. Baughan 2013 – Baughan E.P. 2013: Couched in Death. Klinai and Identity in Anatolia and Beyond, Madison. Baxevani 1995 – Baxevani K. 1995: A Minoan Larnax from Pigi, Rethymnou with Religious and Funerary Iconography. In C.E. Morris (ed.), Klados. Essays in Honour of J.N. Coldstream, London: 15–33. Belgiorno 1978 – Belgiorno M.R. 1978: Centauressa  o sfinge su una larnax micenea da Tanagra?, SMEA 19: 205–228. Benson 1970 – Benson J.L. 1970: Horse, Bird and Man: The Origins of Greek Painting, Amherst. 75 Alexiou 1974; Sourvinou-Inwood 1983; Ruby 2007; Mirto 2012: 62–91.

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Sherratt 201 – Sherratt S. 2011: The History of East Mediterranean and Aegean Interaction: Some When, How and Why questions. In H. Matthäus, N. Oettinger, S. Schröder (eds), Der Orient und die Anfänge Europas: kulturelle Beziehungen von der späten Bronzezeit bis zur frühen Eisenzeit, Wiesbaden: 3–13. Sherratt, Sherratt 1998 – Sherratt S., Sherratt A. 1998: Small Worlds. Interaction and Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean. In E.H. Cline, D. Harris-Cline (eds), The Aegean and the Orient in the Second Millennium, Proceedings of the 50th Anniversary Symposium, Cincinnati, 18–20 April 1997, Liège – Austin: 229–342. Snodgrass 1998 – Snodgrass A. 1998: Homer and the Artists: Text and Picture in Early Greek Art, Cambridge. Sourvinou-Inwood 1983 – Sourvinou-Inwood C. 1983: A Trauma in Flux. Death in the 8th century and After. In R. Hägg (ed.), The Greek Renaissance of the Eighth century B.C.: Tradition and Innovation: Proceedings of the Second International Symposium at the Swedish Institute in Athens, 1–5 June, 1981, Stockholm: 33–48. Spyropoulos 1969 – Spyropoulos T.G. 1969: Ανασκαφή μυκηναϊκού νεκροταφείου Τανάγρας, Praktika 124: 5–15. Spyropoulos 1970a – Spyropoulos T.G. 1970: Ανασκαφή εις το μυκηναϊκόν νεκροταφείον της Τανάγρας, AAA 3: 184–197. Spyropoulos 1970b – Spyropoulos T.G. 1970: Ανασκαφή μυκηναϊκού νεκροταφείου Τανάγρας, Praktika 125: 29–36. Spyropoulos 1973a – Spyropoulos T.G. 1973: Ανασκαφή μυκηναϊκού νεκροταφείου Τανάγρας, Praktika 128: 11–21. Spyropoulos 1973b – Spyropoulos T.G. 1973: Τανάγρα, AD 28, B΄1: 266–267. Spyropoulos 1974 – Spyropoulos T.G. 1974: Ανασκαφή μυκηναϊκής Τανάγρας, Praktika 129: 9–33. Spyropoulos 1977a – Spyropoulos T.G. 1977: Ανασκαφή μυκηναϊκής Τανάγρας, Praktika 132: 25–31. Spyropoulos 1977b – Spyropoulos T.G. 1977: Τανάγρα, Ergon: 14–19. Φτερωτές θεές Spyropoulos 1979 – Spyropoulos T.G. 1979: Ανασκαφή μυκηναϊκής Τανάγρας, Praktika 134: 27–36. Steel 1999 – Steel L. 1999: Wine, Kraters and Chariots: The Mycenaean Pictorial Pottery Reconsidered. In P.P. Betancourt, V. Karageorghis, R. Laffineur, W.-D. Niemeier (eds), Meletemata. Studies in Aegean Archaeology Presented to Malcolm H. Wiener as He enters his 65th Year, III, Liège – Austin: 803–811. Steel 2013 – Steel L. 2013: Materiality and Consumption in the Bronze Age Mediterranean, London. Testart 2005 – Testart A. 2005 : Le texte Hittite des funérailles royals au risque du comparatisme, Ktema. Civilisations de l’Orient, de la Grèce et de Rome Antiques 30: 29–36. Tylor 2010 – Tylor J.H. 2010: Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead: Journey through the Afterlife, London. Tzahou-Alexandri, Spathari 1987 – Tzahou-Alexandri O., Spathari E. 1987: A Voyage into Time and Legend Aboard the Kyrenia Ship, National Archaeological Museum, July-September 1987, Athens: Ministry of Culture. Tzedakis 1971 – Tzedakis I. 1971, Λάρνακες Υστερομινωικού νεκροταφείου Αρμένων, ΑΑΑ IV: 216– 222 Vermeule 1965 – Vermeule E.T. 1965: Painted Mycenaean Larnakes, JHS 85: 123–148. Vermeule 1979a – Vermeule E.T. 1979: Aspects of Death in Early Greek Art and Poetry, Berkeley. Vermeule 1979b – Vermeule E.T. 1979: A Painted Mycenaean Coffin. In E. Berger, R. Lullies (eds), Antike Kunstwerke aus der Sammlung Ludwig 1: Frühe Ton-sarkophage und Vasen: Katalog und Einzeldarstellungen, Basel: 201–205. Vermeule 1991 – Vermeule E.T. 1991: Myth and Tradition from Mycenae to Homer. In D. Buitron-Oliver (ed.), New Perspectives in Early Greek Art, Washington: 99–121.

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Vikatou 2001 – Vikatou O. 2001: Σκηνή πρóθεσης απó τo μυκηναϊκó νεκρoταφείo της Aγίας Tριάδας. In V. Mitsopoulos-Leon (ed.), Forschungen in der Peloponnes: Akten des Symposions anlässlich der Feier ‘100 Jahre Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut Athen’, Athen 5.3.–7.3.1998, Athens: 273–284. Vikatou 2012 – Vikatou O. 2012: Ηλεία. In A.G. Vlachopoulos (ed.), Πελοπόννησος, Athens: 362–367. Vlachou 2012 – Vlachou V. 2012: Aspects of Hunting in Early Greece and Cyprus: A Re-examination of the ‘Comb Motif’. In M Iacovou (ed.), Cyprus and the Aegean in the Early Iron Age. The Legacy of Nicolas Coldstream, Nicosia: 345–370. Vlachou 2015 – Vlachou V. [2012] 2015: Figurative Pottery from Oropos and Zagora: A Comparative Analysis. In J.-P. Descoeudres, S.A. Paspalas (eds), Zagora in Context Settlements and Intercommunal Links in the Geometric Period (900–700 BC). Proceedings of the Conference Held by The Australian Archaeological Institute at Athens and The Archaeological Society at Athens, 20–22 May 2012, Mediterranean Archaeology: Australian and New Zealand Journal for the Archaeology of the Mediterranean World 25: 137–151. Vlachou 2017 – Vlachou V. 2017: From Mycenaean Cult Practice to the Hyakinthia Festival of the Spartan Polis. Cult Images, Textiles and Ritual Activity at Amykles: An Archaeological Perspective. In A. Tsingarida, I.S. Lemos (eds), Constructing Social Identities in Early Iron Age and Archaic Greece, Etudes d’archéologie 12, Brussels: 11–42. Vlachou forthcoming – Vlachou V. Forthcoming: Death and the Elite: Thrones and Beds from the ‘Royal Tombs’ at Salamis in an Aegean and East Mediterranean Context (13th to 7th centuries BC). In S. Rogge (ed.), Salamis of Cyprus. History and Archaeology from the Earliest Times to the Late Antiquity, Acts of the Conference held in the University of Cyprus, Nicosia, 21–23 May 2015. Warren 2007 – Warren P. 2007: Ἠλύσιον Μινωικόν. In F. Lang, C. Reinholdt, J. Weilhartner (eds), Στέφανος Αριστείος. Archäologische Forschungen zwischen Nil und Istros. Festschrift für Stefan Hiller zum 65. Geburtstag, Vienna: 261–270. Watrous 1991 – Watrous L.V. 1991: The Origin and Iconography of the Late Minoan Painted Larnax, Hesperia 60: 285–307. Weilhartner 2013 – Weilhartner J. 2013: Textual Evidence for Aegean Late Bronze Age Ritual Processions, Opuscula. Annual of the Swedish Institutes at Athens and Rome 6: 151–173. West 1997 – West M.L. 1997: The East Face of Helicon. West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth, Oxford. Wiesner 1968 – Wiesner J. 1968, Fahren und Reiten, Göttingen. van Wijngaarden 2012 – van Wijngaarden G.J. 2012: Trade Goods Reproducing Merchants? The Materiality of Mediterranean Late Bronze Age Exchange. In J. Maran, P.W. Stockhammer (eds), Materiality and Social Practice: Transformative Capacities of Intercultural Encounters, Oxford: 61–72. Wright 2004 – Wright J. 2004: A Survey of Evidence for Feasting in Mycenaean Society. In J. Wright (ed.), The Mycenaean Feast, Princeton: 133–178. Ziegler, Bovot 2001 – Ziegler C., Bovot J.-L. 2001: Art et archéologie: l’Égypte ancienne, Paris.

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Figures

Figure 1. The sarcophagus of Aghia Triada (ca 1375 BC), showing libations and ritual offerings to the standing deceased. Herakleion Archaeological Museum.

Figure 2. Rituals performed at the entrance of the tomb. The Book of the Dead, Hounefer. British Museum (ca. 1280).

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Figure 3. The offering of the gifts. The Book of the Dead, Maâtkarê (ca 11th century BC).

Figure 4a. Limestone sarcophagus of king Ahiram, Byblos (probably 13th century BC). Beirut National Museum.

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Figure 4b

Figure 5. Detail of the long side of the terracotta larnax from Klima Messara. After Rethemiotakis 1997, fig. 5.

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Figure 6. Terracotta larnax from Kavrochori. After Rethemiotakis 1979, fig. 3.

Figure 7. Detail of terracotta larnax from Tanagra t. 47 (Boeotia). After Spyropoulos 1973a, pl. 10a.

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Figure 8. Terracotta larnax from Gazi. Herakleion Archaeological Museum. After Watrous 1991, pl. 90e.

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Figure 9. Terracotta larnax from Tanagra in the Sammlung Ludwig in Basel. After Lullies 1979, 18.

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Figure 10. ‘Frying pan” with longboat in the National Archaeological Museum of Athens (inv. no. P5053).

Figure 11a. Terracotta larnax from Episkopi Ierapetras. Ierapetra Archaeological Museum. After Platonos 2008, figs 1-2.

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Figure 11b

Figure 12. Line drawing of Proto-White Painted ware pyxis. Nicosia, Archaeological Museum. After Iacovou 1988, fig. 36.

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Figure 13. Terracotta larnax from Tanagra t. 36 (Boeotia). After Spyropoulos 1973a, pl. 10β.

Figure 14. Terracotta larnax from Armenoi. After Demakopoulou (ed.) 1988, 80–81 cat. 6.

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Figure 15. Detail of the lid decoration, terracotta larnax from Pigi Rethymnou. After Baxevani 1995.

Figure 16a. Terracotta larnax from Tanagra t. 22. Thebes Archaeological Museum.

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Figure 16b

Figure 17a. Warrior krater from Mycenae. After Deger-Jalkotzy 2008.

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Figure 17b

Figure 18. Fragmentary krater from chamber tomb 5 at Aghia Triada. After Vikatou 2001.

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Figure 19. Late Geometric krater of the Hirschfeld painter. Athens, National Archaeological Museum (in. no 990).

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Eastern Mediterranean Feasts: What Do We Really Know About the Marzeah? S. Rebecca Martin

Figure 1. The interior of this Attic black-figure eye cup shows a fantastical outdoor symposion in which participants recline under a grape arbor. Some drinkers wear mitrae, a head covering associated by Greeks with Eastern habrosyne. Attributed to the Manner of the Lysippides Painter, workshop of Andokides (potter), ca. 520 BCE. Purchased from the Bomford collection. Oxford, Ashmolean Museum AN 1974.344. Ceramic. Diam. 0.34 m. © Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford.

Eastern Mediterranean Feasts: The Symposion and the Marzeah Feasting is a topic well suited to the theme of Levant-Aegean connectivity. Ethnoarchaeological interest in drinking and dining rituals has increased in recent decades with the recognition of their social significance and contribution to identity formation. 1 Such rituals are thought to be “powerful cross-cultural explanatory concepts for understanding a range of cultural processes and dynamics.” 2 Luxurious feasting in a reclined position was behavior appa1 See Hayden, Villeneuve 2011. See also Douglas 1972. 2 Hayden 2001: 24. In the same volume (Dietler, Hayden 2001) are many important essays on the topic of feasting. Of especial relevance to the discussion that follows is Schmandt-Besserat’s chapter on the Near East.

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rently new to the Aegean in the seventh century BCE. This posture is often thought to have been introduced from the Levant. It is also thought to accompany the rise of a particular kind of Greek wine drinking party, the symposion, a lively example of which can be seen in the inside of an Athenian cup of ca. 520 BCE (Figure 1). Without doubt the consumption of fermented drinks played a significant cultural role throughout the Mediterranean. Wine was especially important as it could be stored and transported (unlike beer), meaning that its ritual consumption not only served to reinforce local ties but also connected elites over long distances. 3 Most scholarship seeking to understand the history of the symposion falls into one of two camps: those who view the symposion as a natural outgrowth of Bronze Age feasting practices, which gradually underwent changes with colonization, the rise of the polis, and the rise of the individual; and those who believe the symposion arose in the Iron Age. 4 While these ideas are related it is important to distinguish them, as the former frames the symposion as a continuation of Homeric feasting with some distinctive practices, whereas the latter – which of course does not deny the longer history of Greek feasting – presents the symposion as different in kind from early Greek feasts. Both approaches tend to frame some of the key characteristics of sympotic feasting in the Archaic and Classical periods, especially reclination on klinai (“couches”), as “Orientalizing” features that emphasize the symposion’s seemingly paradoxical indebtedness to eastern luxury and interest in expressing Hellenic commensality. Sources for these “Orientalizing” characteristics are naturally sought in Near Eastern feasting, and many Hellenists cite the marzeah in particular as an inspiration. Thus the symposion and marzeah are understood as evidence of eastern Mediterranean connectivity with ritual aspects that reinforced regional social identities as well as transnational, elite ones. Proceeding from that idea, scholars have made brilliant attempts to explain the symposion’s rise from the marzeah, using a combination of textual and visual evidence to trace its route in the eastern Mediterranean from its home in the Levant to Mesopotamia, western Asia Minor, and the Aegean. 5 The most popular starting point for this narrative is a specific marzeah in Samaria that appears in Amos’s reliably dated description of luxurious feasting on beds of ivory (6:1-7). Amos’s text of ca. 760 BCE is then connected to contemporary ivory and metal work associated in the scholarship with Syrians and Phoenicians who transfered these ideas through luxury objects, and perhaps also through direct social interaction, to Assyrians and Greeks. 6 In the diffusion of the marzeah through these channels the practice was modified. In the seventh century a version of it appeared in the Aegean, having developed a social meaning for Hellenes even while some of the trappings, such as klinai, were retained from the marzeah. The “oriental” origins of the symposion were thematized in the Archaic poetry of Alkman and Sappho and in painted Greek vases such as the 3 Hops were not known to Near Eastern brewers: Dietler 2006: 238. The production of alcohol – done primarily by women – was of course also important economically. Some scholars propose that the knowledge of wine production was spread westward to North Africa and Iberia by Phoenicians: Dietler 2006: 233-34; Greene 1995.See also Joffe 1998. 4 Murray 1980; 1990; 1994; Murray, Tecuşan 1995; Węcowski 2014. 5 There is a competing, but less popular, thesis that favors a western route, winding from the Levant through western colonies and thence to the Aegean. The early appearance of sympotic poetry at Pithekoussai, on the “Cup of Nestor” (SEG 14. 604), is critical to this argument. See Murray 1994. 6 On Greek-Near Eastern artistic contacts in the Assyrian period, see especially Gunter 2009.

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Bomford Cup shown in Figure 1. Both text and image celebrated habrosyne, the “lifestyle of luxury,” which, many scholars have argued, was associated with the same vague ideas of the East that permeated and popularized the symposion itself. 7 Unfortunately such a tidy scenario is not supported by our evidence and, indeed, some recent scholarship has challenged the supposed Easternness of symposion props and imagery. 8 There are substantial gaps in the textual and archaeological records, and the mostly unaddressed methodological problem created by studying this material as part of a single phenomenon is serious. Still more troubling is the fact that we do not have a very good idea about what the marzeah was, making the proposal of its fundamental importance to the symposion suspect. In the essay that follows, I will attempt to dial back this conversation to its purported beginning by reviewing written and visual evidence of the marzeah as a feasting ritual. My review of the texts proceeds from John MacLaughlin’s important 2001 study of the written evidence, which is laudable for its care with the source material and minimalistic approach to its interpretation. 9 The texts illuminate ancient usage of the term itself and the activities associated with it. Although there are very few images that can be associated explicitly with the marzeah, a few key depictions of feasting will be examined to demonstrate how the texts do and do not intersect with them. As will be evident, our grasp of the marzeah is loose, and its relationship with the symposion is only very general. The Meaning of Marzeah The term “marzeah” and its cognates appear some 45 times in Near Eastern literary records. 10 While this is no mean number, the records are diffuse and span three millennia in a multitude of languages. For convenience, they are listed here in approximate chronological order:

7 8 9 10

Baughan 2013: 217-23; Kurke 1992. Such as Baughan 2013; Topper 2012. See also Miralles Maciá 2007. This number is approximate and excludes the Moabite papyrus, which is not likely authentic. An unpublished text from the Transjordan dated to the late seventh century is said to mention the marzeah: Lewis 1992: 582.

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Find Spot

Language(s)

Genre (and Frequency)

ca. 2500 BCE ca. 1200 BCE 13th c. BCE ca. 760 BCE ca. 600 BCE? 5th c. BCE 4th c. BCE 4th-3rd c. BCE Hellenistic 1st c. BCE 1st c. BCE 1st c. 3rd c. CE Various 6th c. CE

Ebla Ugarit Emar Bible Bible Elephantine Lebanon? Carthage? Attika Petra ‘Avdat Palmyra Various Madaba

Eblaite Akkadian, Ugaritic Akkadian Hebrew Hebrew Aramaic Phoenician Phoenician Phoenician, Greek Nabatean Nabatean Greek, Aramaic Aramaic, Hebrew Greek

Texts (2) Various texts (9) Text Text: Amos 6:1-7 Text: Jer 16:5-9 Ostrakon Bronze phiale Inscription Inscription Inscription Inscription Tesserae (9), inscriptions (8) Rabbinic literature Floor mosaic: Madaba Map

297

Table 1. Distribution of marzeah testimonia in chronological order after McLaughlin 2001 and Mathys, Stucky, forthcoming. 11

As we can see from the list in Table 1, the term is remarkably persistent in the written record despite its erratic appearances. It is found in a Nabatean memorial inscription, a Punic temple tax, biblical texts, and on a few ritual objects. There are three primary usages of “marzeah” in this evidence, each of which appears in the Iron Age and persists into the first millennium CE, referring to a place, to a group, and to the ritual or festival itself. In four texts dating from 1200 BCE to the sixth century CE “marzeah” refers to a ritual space. 12 In Ugarit CAT 1.114, for example, the marzeah is a room in the god El’s house. 13 We also find the phrase beit Marzeah, “house of the Marzeah,” in Jeremiah and on the Madaba Map where it is written phonetically in Greek. 14 In about a dozen cases the word signals a festival or ritual. 15 In nearly three quarters of the testimonia, “marzeah” refers to a group or association. We can infer that this is the term’s primary usage. 16 11 Mathys and Stucky are publishing an eight-line inscription written on a marble slab found in the Eschmun sanctuary at Bostan esh-Sheikh outside Sidon. It is the first example of a marzeah inscription from controlled excavations in Phoenicia (in this case, led by Jean-Baptiste Yon). 12 Ugarit CAT 1.114, CAT 1.21.II; Jer 16:5-9 (beit marzeah); Madaba Map (beit marzeah). 13 See also CAT 1.21.II; Bordreuil, Pardee 1990; McLauglin 2001: 29-30. 14 The term beit mišteh or “drinking house” appears in Jer 16:8-9. In Jer 16:5 (cf. Isa 28:7-8), the beit marzeah is a “drinking house,” the place of thiasos in the LXX. Madaba Map: Avi-Yonah 1954. 15 Ebla TM 75.G.1372: Pettinato 1980: 309; Ebla TM 75.G.1443 XI.1-3: Archi 1985: 31; Emar 466 (month): Arnaud 1986: 422, 424; Amos 6:1, 4-7 (feasting); Phoenician phiale (to Shamash): Avigad, Greenfield 1982; the Piraeus Inscription (“fourth day of the marzeah”) = KAI 60; Palmyra tessera no. 2807 (“the marzeah of Be’eltak and Tayman, day 5”): McLaughlin 2001: 48-50; Targumim to Amos 6:7 and Jer 16:5 (mourning; connected to feast of Maioumas); Targum Ps.-Jonathan (feast and drunkenness); and Jer. Berakot 6a, Qohelet Rabbah 7:4, Esther Rabbah 3:3 (joyful feast in contrast to mourning fast). 16 Ugarit: RS 14.16:Virolleaud 1951: 173-79; RS 15.88: PRU III:88; RS 15.70: PRU III:130; RS 18.01: PRU IV: 230; CAT 4.399; CAT 4.642 (of ‘An[at]); CAT 3.9. Elephantine Aramaic ostrakon, Cairo Museum 35468: Sayce 1909. Phoenician: Marseilles Tariff = KAI 69 (group of nobles); Piraeus Inscription = KAI 60 (implies membership in a Sidonian marzeah, called in the Greek portion a koinon). Nabatean: Petra

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Thus it is clear that any attempt to distill the varied testimony down to determine a few core elements of the marzeah poses a methodological problem. Marek Węcowski’s invaluable work on the origin and definition of the symposion has been critical of similar approaches by Hellenists who attempt to find essential features of Greek social wine drinking in disparate evidence. 17 Although the limitations of the historical record inevitably impact methodologies, Węcowski’s criticism is warranted and applies equally to the marzeah scholarship. As our understanding of the meaning of “marzeah” relies on geographically and chronologically incongruent sources, sources that understandably only sometimes overlap or agree, we are limited in what we can do with much of the testimony. Bearing that serious limitation in mind, we can now proceed to investigate what the testimony tells us about the activities associated with the marzeah feast. Who Participated in the Marzeah and What Did They Do? Our source material repeatedly suggests marzeah activities were for elites. Ugaritic inscriptions describe marzeah associations that own buildings, land, and vineyards. Similar contracts are found at the other end of the chronological spectrum, as well, from Palmyra, and the sixth-century CE Madaba Map indicates building ownership with its representation of a domed structure below an inscription naming it as a beit marzeah. Two longer inscriptions, both written in Phoenician in the Hellenistic period, link the term “marzeah” to high status activities, even while they do not use the word in an identical fashion. One of these is the third-century BCE Punic tax document for the temple of the god Ba‘al-Sapon known as the Marseilles Tariff. 18 Line 16 mentions a “marzeah of nobles,” which can be understood as some kind of group with special status that stands somewhat apart from family units and individuals. The Marseilles Tariff can be compared to another Hellenistic text known as the Piraeus Inscription that was erected by a Sidonian community in Athens. 19 The text preserves four lines in Phoenician that describe honors given to a Shemaba‘al for service to the temple of Ba‘al of Sidon. The two, very brief, lines in Greek that follow specify the inscription’s audience: the Sidonian community (koinon) of Athens. The marzeah of the Piraeus Inscription was a costly festival lasting several days. The text’s description of expensive public honors in both Phoenician and Greek emphasizes the prestige of the event and the high economic status of participants. We note that marzeah activities in both of these texts directly or indirectly involve formal religious activities. Indeed nearly all of our marzeah evidence comes from a religious context or mentions at least one deity. In Phoenician texts different gods are honored: the civic deity Ba‘al is on the Marseilles Tariff and Piraeus Inscription; the solar deity Shamash is on memorial inscription (for ‘Obodas, a posthumously divine king): Dalman 1912: 92-94; ‘Avdat inscription (for Dushara, the god of Gaia): Negev 1963. Palmyra: tesserae nos. 2033, 2036-2041 (mention rb marzeah), 2279: McLaughlin 2001: 48-50; Palmyra PAT 0991, 2812; PAT 0316 (Greek part names Bel); PAT 0326 (for the gods ‘Aglibol and Malakbel); PAT 0265, 1357, 1358 (“the priests of Bel,” for the god Yarhibol in PAT 0265), PAT 2743 (wine distributed to members). 17 See, most recently, Węcowski 2014: 150-59. Compare to Nijboer 2013 who does not cite Węcowski’s work. 18 The Marseilles Tariff (KAI 69 = CIS I 165) is thought to have originated in Carthage. A third- century date is plausible on epigraphic grounds: McLaughlin 2001: 38-42. 19 The Piraeus Inscription (= KAI 60): Martin 2017: 117-19. The text’s date is debated, but it must not postdate the first quarter of the third century after which time darics fall out of use.

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the bronze phiale said to have come from Lebanon. 20 In one aforementioned Ugaritic example, CAT 1.114, the marzeah is held in the god El’s house, which fits, though only in a general way, imagery of feasting in the Near East attended by both human and divine figures. Thus we can be reasonably confident that the marzeah was both elite and religious. Understandably some scholars wish to connect the marzeah’s elite, religious activities with specific, archaeologically-retrievable spaces such as monumental mourning houses. 21 Recent scholarship shows that the characterization of the marzeah as a mortuary cult or ancestor cult to the “shades of the dead” (rephaim) is tenuous, however. The only direct connection between the marzeah and death is in Jer 16:5, where the beit marzeah is a mourning house; the marzeah in Jeremiah deliberately contrasts the revelry in Amos discussed below. 22 The Jeremiah passage alone does not prove that the beit marzeah was a purposebuilt space for mortuary cult, however, let alone a space used exclusively for mourning. We should not infer from this singular passage that the beit marzeah had to be located near a cemetery. Notwithstanding the specificity of contexts in Jeremiah and in CAT 1.114 (El’s house), the physical setting of the marzeah is ambiguous in the literary record. Secure correlation of architecture with the marzeah is thus impossible. We will see that uncertainty clouds our understanding of the feasting props, as well. The fullest description of a marzeah is found in the aforementioned text of the prophet Amos (6.1-7). 23 In Amos we get the opportunity to consider in some detail what elites were doing at the marzeah. The Samarian feast described in verses 4-6 contains literature’s first ever description of reclined feasting on couches (mth and ‘rš in verse 4): 24 4) Woe to those who lie on beds of ivory and stretch themselves out on their couches, and eat lambs from the flock and calves from the midst of the stall, 5) who sing idle songs to the sound of the harp and [like David 25] invent for themselves instruments of music, 6) who drink wine in bowls and anoint themselves with the finest oils, but are not grieved over the ruin of Joseph!

Amos’s marzeah is attended by nobles (verse 1) adorned in fine perfumes (verse 6) and reclining on ivory-inlaid beds (verse 4; cf. verse 7). 26 The nobles at this marzeah are drinking wine, singing accompanied by the harp, and eating choice meat. The language used throughout is expressly religious, from the type of wine-drinking bowls (mizraq) to the verb used 20 Phiale: “We two cups are offerings for the marzeah of Shamash” (Avigad, Greenfield 1982; translation after McLaughlin 2001: 38). The phiale comes from a Swiss collection, so its authenticity is not assured. 21 Such as Yon 1996; Bietak 2003. 22 The conversation has concentrated on Ugaritic evidence: McLaughlin 1991; 2001; Pardee 1996; 2000; contra Pope 1981. On Jeremiah, see Lundbom 1999: 753-54, 757-58. Rabbinic texts have indirect associations: Pardee 1996: 278; McLaughlin 2001: 61-64. See Carter 1995; 1997, for more balanced perspectives that still argue ancestor cult was part of the marzeah. 23 See Andersen, Freedman 1989; Greer 2007; King 1988a-b; Lewis 1992; McLaughlin 2001: 80-128. 24 ESV translation with minor changes. 25 The mention of David, although in the MT, seems to be a post-exilic interpolation according to McLaughlin 2001: 83 n. 15, 84, 103. 26 Samaria has the largest cache of worked ivory in the Iron Age Levant, offering rare archaeological support of a literary description: Mittmann 1976; Suter 2011.

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for anointing (mšḥ). The most important theme here – and in the book of Amos as a whole – is wealth discrepancy, the “dissolution of covenantal bonds between the rich and the poor,” as represented by the feasters’ disregard for the nation (“the ruin of Joseph”) at the end of verse 6 (cf. Amos 4:1). 27

Figure 2. “Garden Party” relief from the palace of Assurbanipal (r. 668-627 BCE) at Nineveh showing the use of shallow drinking bowls. The king reclines to feast on a couch with ivory inlays. London, British Museum WA 124920. Alabaster. Ht. 0.56 m. Photo: © The Trustees of the British Museum.

Amos’s vivid description of reclined feasting has made a lasting impression especially on Hellenists who understand it as a kind of proto-symposion. Amos is unusually descriptive, but how much does this text resonate with images of feasting? The first explicit Greek depictions of reclined feasting date to ca. 625-600 BCE when they appear on a series of Corinthian kraters, the “Eurytios krater” from Cerveteri, being the best known. 28 By the end of the sixth century, when the cup in Figure 1 was made, such imagery was popular, and it seems to have been an important part of some symposia. 29 In fact fewer than a half-dozen Near Eastern images show reclining feasters predating those found in Greek art. The earliest images are on three metal bowls in the Cesnola collections all of which (likely) come from Cyprus. This class of bowls is traditionally associated in the scholarship with Phoenician manufacture, but the bowls are now understood to have been produced in many parts of the Mediterranean; indeed our limited evidence indicates that Phoenicians did not use them. 30 Probably the bowls from Cyprus date to the eighth century BCE. 31 Two of them were made McLaughlin 2001: 96-97, 107. Arias 1962, pls. 32, IX. See Lynch 2011 for pottery used in the late Archaic symposion. New York 74.51.4555 = Markoe 1985: Cy 13, 181-82 = Matthäus 1985, no. 425; New York 74.51.4557 = Markoe 1985: Cy 6, 175-76 = Matthäus 1985, no. 424; London 1982/5-19/1 = Markoe 1985, Cy 5: 174-75 = Matthäus 1985, no. 426. See Vella 2010 for the most up-to-date interpretation of the bowls. 31 Bowls of this class have been recovered from secure ninth-century contexts at Lefkandi, so Glenn Markoe’s proposed eighth-century dates for these Cypriot bowls are plausible. Baughan 2013: 203-7 is the most recent overview of the bowls, their chronologies, and their representation of klinai.

27 28 29 30

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in silver and show hierarchical feasts in which some figures recline. A third bowl made in bronze seems to show a variation on this theme in a lively feast with musicians, attendants, and erotic activity. No examples of such images are found on metal bowls from the Aegean, however. 32 The most famous image of reclined feasting is the mid-seventh century Assyrian “Garden Party” relief from Assurbanipal’s palace at Nineveh (Figure 2). 33 The scene shows the king reclining on an elaborate couch below a vine. Across from Assurbanipal is his queen, who is seated upright on a chair. 34 Both drink from shallow wine bowls and are fanned by servants. The bowls are of the metal “Phoenician” type mentioned above. 35 The king and queen sit on furniture inlaid with relief ivories – another Levantine craft tradition, one alluded to in the Amos passage. So not only is the Garden Party relief a well-preserved, monumental example of reclined feasting, but also it, more so than any other Near Eastern feasting imagery, resonates with Amos’s description of the marzeah. Some scholars have gone so far as to call the Garden Party an Assyrian version of the marzeah, 36 but that claim to cultural continuity is over simplified and rightly has been rejected. 37 Furthermore, it is clear from other depictions of feasting that the seated position assumed by the queen on the Garden Party relief was preferred (see also Figure 3). 38 We must remember that the association of the marzeah with reclination is found in Amos, but not in other Iron Age (or earlier) texts. The only other marzeah text to describe a drinking posture is CAT 1.114 in which the god El is clearly described as sitting. 39 Assurbanipal’s reclined position on the Garden Party relief thus seems to be an innovation, one which, according to our available evidence, did not catch on (even for other kings) in Mesopotamia as it did for elites more generally in Asia Minor and the Aegean. This visual evidence raises the question of the origin of the reclining feasting posture. The matter is far from settled. Jean-Marie Dentzer and Burkhard Fehr propose that reclination originated with nomadic groups. 40 Others claim in a tautological fashion that it originated in Syria because of the marzeah’s very early and repeated appearance there. Many associate its popularity, if not its origins, with Syrians and especially Phoenicians who are thought to have specialized in the carving of ivory furniture inlays seen in the Garden Party relief. 41 Still other theories exist, each speculative and easily-upset by any number of new discoveries. The only explicit images of reclined feasting in the Iron Age eastern Mediterranean are 32 Two miniature votive shields from the Idaean Cave on Crete might show reclined feasting (Matthäus 1999), but they are very fragmentary and their interpretation is tenuous. See the helpful drawings in Baughan 2013, fig. 138. On Crete as an Aegean-Levant intermediary, see Carter 1997; Hoffman 1997. 33 Fehr 1971: 14-16. A detailed photograph of the couch, chair, and table is in Stronach 1995: 191, fig. 12.8. Compare to the recently discovered KTWM stele at Sam’al that shows a male figure seated on a chair and holding a cup and pinecone: Struble, Herrmann 2009. 34 A similar arrangement is found on the Genelaos monument, possibly the earliest example of a sculpted symposiast: Baughan 2011: 19. 35 See Greer 2007 for a close look at the relationship between these bowls and those shown on the Garden Party relief, though I do not follow his conclusions. 36 Barnett 1985. 37 Reade 1995: 51-55. 38 Couches do appear, but none can be connected clearly to feasting: Reade 1995. 39 McLaughlin 1991: 270-74, 277-80. Węcowski 2012; 2014 has argued against reclination’s primacy even in the symposion. 40 Dentzer 1971; 1982; Fehr 1971. For a short overview, now somewhat dated, see Collon 1992. 41 As Matthäus 1999.

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the Cypriot bowls, the Garden Party relief, Greek painted pottery, and a number of images in funerary contexts in Asia Minor. 42 It is not possible to demonstrate that these scattered images are related to the same kind of feasting, still less one we should associate with the marzeah. Furthermore, on the basis of this textual and visual evidence, it is not possible to claim that a reclined posture was common at marzeah feasts in the Bronze and Iron Ages.

Figure 3. Twelfth-century BCE “Celebration” ivory from Megiddo showing a procession towards an enthroned figure who drinks from a bowl. Behind the throne attendants draw wine from a krater using similar shallow bowls. Jerusalem, Israel Museum, IAA 1938-781. Ivory. Th. 0.01 m. Photo: Collection of the Israel Antiquities Authority. Photo © The Israel Museum, Jerusalem, by Avraham Hay.

We can finally turn to the most consistently described activity at the marzeah, the consumption of wine, 43 sometimes to excess. 44 Visual evidence of elite Levantine wine drinking can be found as early as the twelfth-century “Celebration” ivory from Megiddo (Figure 3). 45 The ivory cannot be connected to the marzeah concept but it is helpful nonetheless for understanding how wine drinking in a ritual setting might have taken place. Its left side shows a scene of revelry in which a seated ruler on a sphinx throne drinks from a shallow bowl; the bowl is morphologically similar to the metal bowls with feasting imagery from Cyprus and the bowls seen on the Garden Party relief. The enthroned ruler is attended by or receives a female and a musician. Behind him are two attendants, at least one of which holds 42 Asia Minor feasting and feasting imagery: Baughan 2013; Dusinberre 2013. 43 Although barley beer was consumed by all classes in the Near East, beer consumption is not associated with any extant marzeah text. See Hornsey 2003: 75-116; Michałowski 1994; Röllig 1970. 44 CAT 1.114 notoriously describes El’s overconsumption of drink to the point that he is unable to walk and ends up wallowing in his own urine and feces; the text ends with a hangover cure, the “hair of the dog”. McLaughlin 1991: 279-80. 45 Palestine Archaeological Museum 38.780, now in the Israel Museum (IAA 1938-781): Loud 1939: 13, no. 2, pl. 4. See also Ziffer 2005.

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a similar shallow bowl above a wine krater. Here the krater acts as a mid-point between storage jar, which is not pictured, and drinking vessel. Since cups and small bowls could be dipped directly into the krater, as on the ivory, a decanter was not strictly necessary. (Even in the Greek symposion the decanting jug – the oinochoe – was a formality.) There is limited evidence that wine was sometimes diluted or flavored in the Near East (cf. Hdt. 4.66), 46 although Greek literary sources suggest repeatedly the custom of dilution was their own. Kraters might have been used for the aeration of the wine or to mix wine with herbs, creating an aromatic drink. 47 Conclusion It has been argued that a similarity of feasting practices should be expected in the eastern Mediterranean where “certain religious, social, and political structures occurred with similar forms in different regional cultures.” 48 While this idea finds some support in the gift exchange of drinking props beginning in the late Geometric period 49 and earlier, 50 such ecumenical views, however accurate in historical hindsight, tend to rely upon parallels so general that they are in danger of proving very little. Although we know it does not circumscribe all feasting, “marzeah” is sometimes used in the literature as a synonym for “feast” effectively encouraging us to overlook the unevenness of the evidence. When we insist on the greater specificity of the term – that the marzeah, when it describes a feast is talking about something particular – we arrive at a paradoxical result: the activities described in the sources are so varied that they are difficult to relate to a single kind of ritual activity and are therefore unlikely to leave a clear archaeological footprint. Although the Garden Party relief and, to a lesser extent, the Cypriot bowls have been linked to Amos’s Samarian marzeah, and although they are thereby used as evidence of the diffusion of the Levantine marzeah to the Aegean, no such link exists. So while we have some compelling data, it does not add up to support a single thesis. This short exploration of the marzeah evidence leaves us with only a vague idea of what the marzeah was and a very broad model of a practice with which to compare the symposion or any other eastern Mediterranean feast. Even so, some differences present themselves. The marzeah seems to have sometimes involved food, whereas Greeks broke their feasts into two events; the meal or deipnon occurred first and was followed by the sympotic winedrinking party. The marzeah was expressly religious. While the symposion had a religious component, 51 as did all everyday activities in the ancient Aegean (and well beyond), it was not a profoundly religious institution. In sum, it would appear that the symposion and marzeah were only as much alike as any elite occasion that involved wine drinking. While there may indeed have been some sharing of ideas or of props because of Aegean-Levant interaction in the Iron Age, we must seek the symposion’s origin stories elsewhere. 46 Burkert 1991: 19. 47 Other uses including food service should not be ruled out. 48 Carter 1995: 303-5, drawing a connection between cults of the dead and feasting that lack adequate support in the marzeah evidence. 49 Gilboa 1989; 1999; 2015. 50 Schmandt-Besserat 2001: 394-95, 398, 400, fig. 14.2, argues that feasts were an important context for gift exchange from man to the gods in third-millennium Sumer. 51 Lissarrague 1990: 25-8.

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Stronach 1995 – Stronach D. 1995: The Imagery of the Wine Bowl: Wine in Assyria in the Early First Millennium. In P. McGovern, S. Fleming, S. Katz (eds), The Origins and the Ancient History of Wine. Philadelphia: Gordon and Breach: 175-95. Struble, Herrmann 2009 – Struble E., Herrmann V. 2009: An Eternal Feast at Sam’al: The New Iron Age Mortuary Stele from Zincirli in Context. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 356: 15-49. Suter 2011 – Suter C. 2011: Images, Tradition, and Meaning: The Samaria and other Levantine Ivories of the Iron Age. In G. Frame, E. Leichty, K. Sonik, J. Tigay, S. Tinney (eds), A Common Cultural Heritage: Studies on Mesopotamia and the Biblical World in Honor of Barry L. Eichler. Bethesda, Md.: CDL Press: 219-41. Topper 2012 – Topper K. 2012: The Imagery of the Athenian Symposium. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vella 2010 – Vella N. 2010: ‘Phoenician’ Metal Bowls: Boundary Objects in the Archaic Period. Bollettino di Archeologia On Line special issue: 22–37. (Accessed May 17, 2016). Virolleaud 1951 – Virolleaud C. 1951: Six textes de Ras Shamra provenant de la XIVe campagne (1950). Syria 28: 163-79. Węcowski 2012 – Węcowski M. 2012: When did the Symposion Rise? Some Archaeological Considerations Regarding the Emergence of the Greek Aristocratic Banquet. APXAIOGNOSIA 16: 19-48. Węcowski 2014 – Węcowski M. 2014: The Rise of the Greek Aristocratic Banquet. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Yon 1996 – Yon M. 1996: The Temple of the Rhytons at Ugarit. In N. Wyatt, W. Watson, J. Lloyd (eds), Ugarit, Religion and Culture: Proceedings of the International Colloquium on Ugarit, Religion and Culture, Edinburgh, July 1994. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag: 405-22. Ziffer 2005 – Ziffer I. 2005: From Acemhöyük to Megiddo: The Banquet Scene in the Art of the Levant in the Second Millennium BCE. Tel Aviv 32 (2): 133-67.

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Holocaustic sacrifices in ancient Greek religion and the ritual relations to the Levant 1 Gunnel Ekroth Aegean-Levantine interactions may be addressed from a number of angles. This paper will do so from the point of view of sacrificial practices, and in particular, the role of burnt animal sacrifice, especially holocausts, rituals where the entire animal was put into the fire. I will begin by examining the evidence for holocaustic sacrifices in the Greek Early Iron Age and historical periods (ca 900-100 BC), before relating the Greek sacrificial practices to those of the Levant. The material will consist of combination of archaeological, zooarchaeological and written sources. Holocausts and burnt animal sacrifice were practiced in both the Aegean and the Levant but were less common in the rest of the eastern Mediterranean. The apparent similarities in sacrificial practices in particular between the Greek and the Israelite practices regarding the use of complete or partial burning of the animal victim have often been remarked upon and has led scholars to postulate influences and transferals. 2 To what extent ritual practices were taken over from one religious system to another in antiquity is a complex issue. If that was the case, were both the actions and their contents adopted, or, would the ritual action be taken over but given a new content and meaning? Or did the opposite take place, that is, the actual meaning and beliefs were taken over, but once in their new setting, they were clad in a different ritual costume? As a first step to answering these questions, I will discuss to what degree rituals involving burning are similar if we consider both the practicalities and contexts of the sacrifices. The wider is aim to illustrate to what extent the study of the complexity of sacrificial practices may help our understanding of the relations between the Aegean and the Levant. To explore holocaustic sacrifices in the Aegean and the Levant, and any possible interconnections, the practical execution of the rituals are of great significance. The importance of paying close attention to the details of a ritual, how it was performed, the terms used to describe it and the material expressions it took, has become increasingly clear in the last decades’ work on sacrificial practices. 3 The execution of sacrifices was also one of the means for the ancient Greeks to express their own cultural character or identity, as well as defining non-Greeks. 4 At the same time, the largely polytheistic landscape of antiquity opened up for intricate possibilities of adaption, assimilation and adoption of ritual practises. 1 I would like to thank Marek Węcowski and Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, the organizers of the conference The Aegean and the Levant at the turn of the Bronze and Iron Ages, for their hospitality and the excellent arrangements. 2 See for example, Bergquist 1993: 26-43; de Vaux 1964: 46-47; Gill 1966; Burkert 1966: 102, n. 34; Burkert 1984: 9-10; Burkert 1985: 51; West 1997: 38-42; Milgrom 2000: 24-64. 3 See, for example M.H. Jameson’s work on sphagia sacrifices (1991); Jameson 1994; Ekroth 2008b: 259290; Patera 2012. 4 For example, Herodotus’ accounts of the differences between Scythian and Persian ritual practices in relation to Greek ones (4.61-62 and 1.131-132) and his famous definition of “Greekness” (8.144) as the

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Some burning background In order to understand holocaustic sacrifices we need to orient them within the wider ritual landscape of Greek sacrificial practices. The main Greek type of sacrifice was called thysia, a ritual at which the burning of parts of the sacrificed animal formed the core. 5 At a thysia, the animal was initially consecrated to the gods and then divided between gods and humans during the ritual. The gods got some blood, splattered on the front of the altar, but their prime share of the sacrificial victim was certain bones burnt in the altar fire, especially the thighbones wrapped in fat, meroi in Greek, and the sacrum bone (the back part of the basin) and the tail vertebrae, a section called opshys. 6 The burning of these parts created a fragrant smoke, knise in Greek, with feasted the noses of the gods. The tail when placed in the altar fire would rise and curve due to the heat, while the fat-wrapped thighbones would emit high and shining flames, actions, which were taken as a signs of the gods’ benevolent acceptance of the sacrifice, the hiera kala. 7 That tails actually curve and fat-wrapped thighbones emit spectacular flames when put in a fire has been experimentally demonstrated, confirming both the depictions on the Attic vases and the written sources’ statement concerning what happened at a thysia. 8 The edible intestines, the splanchna, liver, lungs, heart, kidneys and spleen, were also grilled in the altar fire, creating more smoke for the gods, but were then eaten by the human worshippers. 9 After the grilling of the splanchna, the fire on the altar was quenched with a libation, and the rest of the animal divided, prepared, distributed and eaten by the worshippers, but this activity took place away from the altar. At a thysia, burning was the essential means for transferring the offerings from the human to the divine sphere. Greek gods were not perceived as eating the sacrificial animal, only as inhaling the smoke. That burning lies at the core of Greek sacrificial ritual is also evident from the verb thyein, from which thysia derives, which originally meant “to create smoke”, only later to develop the meaning “to sacrifice” in the sense of killing and eating an animal. 10 The division of the animal at a thysia may seem odd to us, the gods receive only a little blood and the smoke from some select bones burnt on the altar, while the worshippers receive everything that could be used or eaten. According to the myth of Prometheus as told by Hesiod, the ritual commemorated the division of an ox between Prometheus and Zeus at Mekone. This event marked the final separation of gods and humans, who previously had used to mingle socially and even eat at the same table and of the same kind of food, and led to the institution of thysia sacrifice. 11 Jean-Pierre Vernant and Marcel Detienne, and their colleagues at the so-called Paris School, have argued that the thysia ritual aimed at bringing

5 6 7 8 9 10 11

kinship in blood and speech, the shrines of the gods and the sacrifices they have in common; cf. Hartog 1988: 173-192; Gould 2003: 367-372. See also the new lex sacra from Marmarini, Thessaly, which stipulates how to worship in the Greek way contrary to the Eastern practices, which were the regular situation at this sanctuary, see Parker, Scullion 2016: 215, lines 35-43, and pp. 242-247. The literature is vast, for an overview, see Hermary 2004; Bremmer 2007; Ekroth 2014a: 324-354. For the blood, see Ekroth 2005. On the parts burnt on the altars, see van Straten 1995: 118-153; Ekroth 2009. Van Straten 1995: 118-131; Gebauer 2002: 354-432. For the experiments, see Jameson 1986: 60-61 and fig. 3. Ekroth 2009: 143; Morton 2015. On the splanchna, see Ar., De part. anim. 665a-672; van Straten 1995: 131-141; Ekroth 2008a: 93-95. The splanchna could also be placed in the hands or in the lap of the god’s statue. For the meaning and development of thyein, see Casabona 1966: 69-154. Hes. Theog. 535-557. For this event marking the institution of thysia, see Rudhardt 1970.

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out the differences between gods and humans, and thereby structuring the world. 12 Gods do not have to eat, smoke is sufficient for the immortals, while humans are mortal and have to consume food or they will die. Apart from the thysia and the holocausts, the Greeks would also perform other sacrificial rituals that involved the use of fire, such as the burning of cakes and incense, which usually was a standard part of most animal sacrifices as well. 13 At some rituals, a larger part of the animal was put into the fire than at a regular thysia. Instead of just the bare thighbones wrapped in fat and the tail section, an entire back leg, meat and all, or a certain quantity of meat could be burnt. There is no ancient term for these modified thysiai or partial holocausts, but the neologism moirocausts is useful. 14 These different kinds of rituals should be kept in mind when exploring the complete burning of the sacrificial victim, both within the historical Greek setting and its wider chronological and geographical context. The frequency of Greek holocausts The first issue to address is the frequency of Greek holocaustic sacrifices. Our evidence suggests that holocausts (and moirocausts) were scarce and that such rituals never seem to have been a common feature of Greek religion. 15 A sacrificial calendar from the deme Erchia in central Attica, dating to the beginning of the 4th century BC, can serve as an illustration. 16 This extensive inscription on a marble stele records the sacrifices that this local community were to perform during one year. For the month Metageitnion, approximately late July to late August, nine sacrifices are listed (Table 1). Date 12

Deity Apollo Lykeios

Location In the city

Victim Sheep

Price 12 dr

12

Hera Telchina

Black lamb

10 dr

12

Demeter

Sheep

10 dr

12

Zeus Polieus

On the hill at Erchia Eleusinion in the city On the acropolis of the city

Sheep

12 dr

12

Athena Polias

Sheep

10 dr

16

Kourotrophos

Piglet

3 dr

16

Artemis Hekate

Goat

10 dr

On the acropolis of the city In Hekate’s sanctuary at Erchia Erchia

Treatment No carrying away of the meat

No carrying away of the meat

12 Detienne, Vernant 1989. For alternative explanations of thysia, see Meuli 1946; Burkert 1966: 104-113; Burkert 1984: 1-29; Naiden 2013: 3-39. 13 For the use of incense at thysia sacrifice, Simon 2004: 256-258. 14 Scullion 2002: 163-171. 15 For an overview, see Ekroth 2002: 217-228; Ekroth 2017. 16 LS 18; Daux 1963; Ekroth 2002: 155-157.

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19

Heroines at the rush-bed

Erchia

25

Zeus Epopeteus On the hill at Erchia

Sheep

10 dr

Piglet

3 dr

No carrying away of the meat The skin to the priestess Burnt whole

Table 1. Sacrifices performed in the month Metageitnion by the deme Erchia, Attica, early 4th century BC.

On the 12th, Apollo, Hera, Demeter, Zeus and Athena all receive a sheep each apart from Hera who is given a black lamb. These sacrifices take place at Erchia but also in Athens. On the 16th, Artemis Hekate and Kourotrophos receive a goat and a piglet, respectively, both at Artemis’ sanctuary at Erchia. On the 19th, the female heroes at a local marsh at Erchai are given a sheep. Finally, on the 25th, also at Erchia, Zeus Epopeteus is given a piglet, which is to be burnt whole, a holocaust. Of the nine sacrifices listed for this month, eight would have been thysiai and resulted in meat for the worshippers to eat. In some instances, the meat had to be consumed at a particular location, but in most cases it could be taken out and presumably eaten at home. Only on one occasion was there no meat to dine on, at the piglet holocaust for Zeus Epopeteus. The ritual variation at Erchia during this month corresponds to that of the entire year in this community. Of the total 46 sacrifices listed, only four are specified as holocausts, and this frequency is representative for Greek religion at large. 17 Rituals at which the animal was completely burnt are visible in the epigraphical and literary sources by the by the sacrifices being marked by a particular terminology, such as holokautos or the verb holokautein – to be burnt whole, 18 or similar words focusing on burning, for example the adjective kautos and the verbs karpoein, kaiein, katakaiein and kathagizein. 19 In the literary texts, other terms also occur, foremost the verb enagizein and its related nouns enagisma and enagismos, which are used for holocausts for recipients who have a connection with the realm of the dead, such as the departed and the heroes. 20 The reason for the claim that holocausts were rare, is the small number of instances evidenced in inscriptions and texts by such a terminology, especially compared to the frequency of thysia and thyein clearly referring to a sacrifice at which the meat was eaten. 21 Apparently, unusual actions had to be marked and a sacrifice not resulting in any meat was clearly such a case. An example from another sacrificial calendar from Attica, from the deme Thorikos also in Attica, from around 440-420 BC, makes this evident. At a sacrifice to Zeus Polieus, at the Proerosia festival, the god was given a sheep and a piglet, and on the same day but at another location, a piglet sacrificed as 17 Erchia: LS 18, col. II, 16-20, col. IV, 20-23 and col. V, 12-15. 18 LS 18, col. II, 16-20, col. IV, 20-23 and col. V, 12-15; LSS 19, 84; SEG 33, line 15; Parker, Scullion 2016: 225-228 and 252-253; Xen. Anab. 7.8.4; Metrodoros, FGrHist 43, F3 (ap. Plut. Quaest. conv. 694a-b); see also Rudhardt 1958: 286-288. For the possibility of “unmarked” holocausts in the epigraphical evidence, see Scullion 2009. 19 LS 151 A, 32-34 and C, 8-15; Jameson, Jordan, Kotansky 1993: lines A 11-12 and 19-20; Sokolowski 1955: 49-50. See also Stengel 1910: 166-168; Casabona 1966: 200-204. 20 Casabona 1966: 200-210; Rudhardt 1958: 236-239; Ekroth 2002: 74-128 and 219-221. 21 Casabona 1966: passim; Rudhardt 1958: 253-271; Ekroth 2002: 287-292; Hermary 2004: 61.

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a holocaust. That this last sacrifice did not involve any consumption of meat from the sacrificial victim is made apparent by the clarification that “the priest is to provide the attendant with lunch”. 22 Apart from a low frequency in the written sources, there seems to be no direct depictions of holocausts. An Attic red-figure oenochoe in Kiel, which shows a low, mound-shaped altar on top of which a bovine skull is visible, could represent a holocausts, according to Folkert van Straten, since the animal’s head is present. 23 The recipient of the sacrifice is Herakles, who is standing to the left in the image, and his presence may have influenced the interpretation of the ritual as a holocaust as Herakles did occasionally receive such sacrifices according to the written evidence. On the other hand, the motif could be a regular thysia sacrifice, with the particular twist of leaving the skull of the sacrificial animal on the fieldstone altar, perhaps to commemorate the ritual in a manner similar to the frequent depictions of bukrania on real stone altars. 24 Herakles also perished by a holocaust, when he immolated himself on Mt. Oita, but the sporadic representations of his pyre only show his cuirass surrounded by flames, while Herakles ascends to the Olympos, transformed into an immortal god. 25 Odysseus’ sacrifice of a ram and a ewe to consult the dead in Hades, described in the Odyssey (10.504-540 and 11.13-50) included the burning of the animals’ bodies after they were bled into a pit in the ground. The few representations of this ritual show the animals intact and bleeding but do not include any fire. 26 This almost complete absence of renderings of holocausts can be compared with the very high frequency of representations of thysia sacrifice found on Attic, Boeotian and South Italian vases, as well as on Attic reliefs; a total of more than 300 depictions of various stages of this type of ritual action. 27 Finally, while thysia sacrifice has been archaeologically attested at almost twenty Greek sanctuaries from the very end of the Bronze Age into the Hellenistic period, and almost each new sanctuary excavation that yields animal bones seems to add to this number, there are very few cases of holocausts demonstrated by the zooarchaeological record. 28 The clearest case is the cult of the hero Palaimon at the sanctuary of Poseidon at Isthmia, where cattle was burnt in stone-lined pits. 29 The material is entirely Roman, representing three phases beginning in ca 50 AD and continuing until the late 2nd century AD and may constitute a kind of interpretatio Romana of a Greek hero-cult rather than reflect earlier sacrificial practices of the Archaic and Classical periods. 30 Instances of archaeologically attested holo22 Daux 1983: 152-154, lines 15-16; SEG 33, line 15. 23 Kiel, Antikensammlung Kunsthalle B 55, ca 425-400 BC; van Straten 1995: 157-158, V382, fig. 168. 24 For stone altars with representations of bukrania, see Yavis 1949: 148-152; Berges 1986: 42–45, 80–81, 91 and 103–104. Theophrastus (Char. 21.7) mocks a man who commemorates a sacrifice by nailing the scull of the ox to his front door. 25 See LIMC V, sv. Herakles, pp. 128-129, nos. 2909, 2910, 2916 and 2917 (Boardman). 26 There are only two such representations, an Attic red-figure pelike in Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 34.79, ca 440 BC; Gebauer 2002: Sv 13, fig. 148; and a Lucanian red-figure kalyx krater in Paris, Cabinet des Médailles 422, ca 400 BC; Gebauer 2002: Sv. 14, fig. 149; ThesCRA I 2004: 109, no. 407. For the burning of the sheep, see Hom. Od. 10.534 and 11.46. 27 Van Straten 1995: passim; Gebauer 2002: passim. 28 For the zooarchaeological evidence for thysia, see Ekroth 2009: 150-151; cf. Leguilloux 2004; Reese 2005. 29 For the bone material, see Broneer 1959: 313; Gebhard 1993b: 85 with n. 26; Gebhard, Reese 2005. On the Palamonion and its development, see Gebhard 1993b: 88-93; Gebhard 1993a: 170-172. 30 See Ekroth 2002: 89-114 and 121-126. A fragment of Pindar has been taken to reflect a Classical cult of Palaimon at Isthmia, but the lack of physical evidence suggests that this rather is a mythic tradition, see

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causts of the Archaic to Hellenistic periods have been found in some cults of Demeter, where piglets were burnt whole. At the sanctuary of Demeter on the island of Mytilene, pits filled with ash and thousands of calcined juvenile piglet remains were recovered, dating to the late Archaic to early Hellenistic periods. 31 Also at Corinth, in the sanctuary of Demeter and Kore, burnt piglet bones have been recovered in connection with a charred pit. 32 The presence of holocausted piglet in pits in the cult of Demeter may represent a variant of a ritual at the Thesmophoria, when piglets were deposited in hollows, megara, at Eleusis and other Demeter sanctuaries, where they were supposed to rot, later to be deposited on the altars and spread in the fields. Holocausts were also practiced in the Hellenistic Sarapeion C on Delos, where the bone material consists almost entirely of roosters, but both the choice of animals and the ritual are to be related to the non-Greek character of the cult. 33 Why and for whom? The infrequency of Greek holocaustic rituals should be related to when and why such rituals were performed. Holocausts were apparently not standard practice; they were marked rituals or so-called helige Handlungen. 34 Often they seem to have been confined to particular contexts when a problem had to be dealt with, a kind of crisis management, contrary to thysia sacrifice, which constituted the fundamental ritual for the daily upkeep of the contact with the gods. For example, at major purifications of sanctuaries, like after the removal of a human corpse, the animals used for the ritual could be burnt whole. 35 In the Anabasis, Xenophon on one occasion runs out of money, a pressing situation when you have a mercenary army to pay. 36 He performs a holocaust of piglets to Zeus Meilichios, which results in the money arriving the same day. Pausanias tells the story of the children lynched by a mob in the city of Kaphyai after they had pretended to hang the statue of Artemis, and whose death caused crop failure and miscarriages. 37 A holocaustic sacrifice was instituted to placate their anger and get rid of the pollution that their murder had caused. The common denominator in these cases seems to be that the burning of the whole animal victim seems to get rid of or solve the difficulties of the situation. Some Greek holocausts and some moirocausts seem to have had a different purpose, more linked to the recipient than the occasion. The action apparently served to evoke or ritually recognize a particular aspect of the deity receiving the sacrifice, foremost his or her link to the realm of the dead and the pollution that death carried with itself in ancient Greek culture. Certain sacrifices to heroes were holocausts, although far from all, but in these specific instances, there was something in the character of the recipient that called for this ritual. 38 The Greeks did as a rule not sacrifice animals to their dead and eat with them in the

Gebhard 1993a: 170-172. 31 Ruscillo 2013: 187-189. The bones stem from all parts of the skeleton and there was some evidence of butchering. 32 Bookidis, Stroud 1997: 243-244. 33 See Leguilloux 2003; Brun, Leguilloux 2013. 34 For the concept heilige Handlungen, see Jameson 1965: 162-163; Nock 1944; Ekroth 2002: 310-330. 35 IG XI:2, 199 A, line 70-72, 274 BC; Clinton 2005: 172. 36 Xen. Anab. 7.8.4. 37 Paus. 8.23.7. 38 For the evidence and discussion, see Ekroth 2002: 74-128 and 219-221.

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historical period, since the dead were impure, and the offerings could therefore be burnt. 39 Some deities apparently had similar connotations, which could be evoked by such rituals. For example, sacrifices to Herakles could occasionally consist of both a thysia, directed to him as a god, where the meat was eaten, and a holocaust, designated by the term enagizein, directed to his heroic and mortal side. 40 According to Metrodoros, a 4th-century historian quoted by Plutarch, the people of Smyrna holocausted a black bull to Boubrostis, “The ravenous appetite”, perhaps to avert famine. 41 What seems to be at play on these occasions, is the fact that the holocaust does not result in a meal, and at sacrifices to some divinities, there was no desire to eat the flesh. To not eat of the meat from an animal sacrificed to deity or demon being the actual “Hunger” seems reasonable. In some cases, we can only speculate why the holocaust was performed and what purpose it fulfilled, such as the burning of a piglet for Zeus Epopeteus in the Erchai calendar. His epithet is not clear but may have a link with the hero Epops, who received two piglet holocausts in the following month Boedromion in same calendar. In fact, this holocaust to Zeus initiates a series of four such sacrifices that the Erchians performed in the end of Metageitnion and beginning of Boedromion: first the one to Zeus Epopeteus, then two burnt piglets for Epops and finally a holocaust of a white lamb to Basile. 42 These sacrifices are concentrated to a period of ten days during which the Erchians performed no other sacrifices. As a group, they may have had a particular purpose, perhaps related to the fact that this was a time of year, at the end of the summer, when the fields lie barren and dry, a kind of “dead” period, when the rains and right wind eventually had to come to make the crops grow again. 43 These examples show that to handle a crisis and appeal to the dangerous and uncanny side of the recipient may often have gone hand in hand. Finally, it should be noted that holocausts could be performed as independent rituals, like the purifications of sanctuaries or the holocausts for Zeus Epopeteus, Epops and Basile at Erchia. In many cases, however, they were combined with thysia sacrifices, the holocaust coming first. When there is more precise information of how the rituals were executed, it is clear that the animals used for holocausts, either as independent or as combined actions, were usually small and cheap ones, like piglets or lambs, and while the thysia victims were sheep or oxen. 44 For example, in an extensive sacrificial calendar from Kos, at a sacrifice to Herakles, he first received a lamb which was burnt whole (arên kautos) followed by the sacrifice of an ox, while Zeus Machaneus on one day had a holocaust of a piglet, while on the next day a sacrifice of an ox and three sheep, from which the meat was distributed. 45 Holocausts of cattle are not evidenced as performed in connection with thysia and there are on the whole few attested cases of the total burning of such large and expensive animals. The Roman cult of Palaimon at Isthmia mentioned earlier made use of cattle and at a major purification of a sanctuary on Delos in the Hellenistic period, a bull, a ram and a boar were 39 On the burning of the offerings to the dead, which was also a means for getting them across to the other side, see Ekroth 2002: 228-233; cf. Vlachou 2012. 40 Hdt. 2.44; Casabona 1966: 337; Ekroth 2002: 219-221. On Herakles and his heroic and divine personae, see Bonnet 1988: 346-371; Verbanck-Piérard 1989; Lévêque, Verbank-Piérard 1992. 41 Metrodoros, FGrHist 43, F3 (ap. Plut. Quaest. conv. 694a-b). 42 LS 18, col. II, 16-20, col. IV, 20-23 and col. V, 12-15. 43 For discussion, see Ekroth 2002: 239-241. 44 For the species and ages of holocaustic victims, see Ekroth 2002: 217-225. 45 Herakles: LS 151 C, 8–15; Zeus Machaneus: LS 151 B, 10–21.

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burnt, three expensive and prestigious victims. 46 Cattle holocausts are more prominent in the literary sources, like the black bull burnt for Boubrostis or Plato’s description of the holocaust of bulls by the kings on Atlantis. 47 To what extent such literary accounts reflect actual ritual practices is far from certain and in the case of Plato unlikely for many reasons. 48 The wider geographical and chronological setting This review of the evidence shows that holocausts were rare in Greek religion, used for particular situations and recipients and that the animal victims were usually small and cheap. Let us now broaden the perspective in time and place. Scholars of ancient religion have noticed that the Greek practice of burning the offerings as the main means for honouring the gods, either as holocausts or thysiai, is a quite rare ritual action within the eastern Mediterranean sphere. In Mesopotamia and Anatolia, the gods would predominantly be given cooked food in the form of proper meals, the same kind of food that was eaten by humans, just as their divine images were woken up in the morning, washed and dressed. 49 The meal placed in front of the god’s statue could later be redistributed as gifts of honour, marking a connection between the god as a consumer of the meal and the humans partaking in the same food. 50 Burnt animal sacrifice did occasionally occur in cultures where the feeding of the gods dominate, but then usually as a means to handle crisis and purifications. 51 A more extensive use of such rituals seems to have existed among the Hurrians in north Syria and in west Semitic cultures, like Ugarit and Phoenicia. 52 The Ugaritic texts clearly speak of burning, but the exact meaning of the terminology related to burnt sacrifices is disputed and it is not evident how and what was burnt, entire animals or parts of them, and in that case, which parts. 53 In the Phoenician sphere, burnt animal sacrifice was practiced, both the burning of parts of the animal and some kind of holocausts, but the reconstruction of the Phoenician rituals has often depended on the texts from Ugarit and the Hebrew Bible. 54 The tophets, sacrificial installations with burnt infants and sometimes also young animals, foremost lambs,

46 For the bone material from the Palaimonion, see Gebhard, Reese 2005. Purification sacrifice on Delos: IG XI:2, 199 A, line 70-72. 47 Metrodoros, FGrHist 43, F3 (ap. Plut. Quaest. conv. 694a-b); Pl. Crit. 119d-120a. 48 The keeping and handling of uncastrated bulls in the manner done on Atlantis is very far removed from how actual uncastrated males have to be treated, see Ekroth 2014b: 153-174. 49 Mesopotamia: Lambert 1993; Oppenheim 1964: 187-193; Joannès 2001: 601-603, s.v. ‘offrandes’, and 717718, s.v. ‘repas’; Glassner 2009 : 41-59. Hittites: Haas 1994: 640-642, 669 and 673; Collins 2007: 164-165. 50 Maul 2008. 51 Haas 1994: 661-664; Collins 2007: 183; Prechel 2008: 241-243; Linssen 2004: 165-166. For the destruction of the offerings as crisis management also in other cultures, see Evans-Pritchard 1956: 219-229; Lienhardt 1961: 285 and 306-307. In Egypt, holocausts seems to have been a late introduction from the Levant and closely linked to the notion the destruction of evil and of enemies, see Quagebeur 1993. 52 For the Hurrians, burnt sacrifice seems mainly to have involved the holocaust of birds, see Wilhelm 1982: 90-91 and 102-103. For Hurrian influence on the Hittites as to rituals involving burning, see Collins 2007: 166 and 183; Bergquist 1993: 40. 53 For Ugarit, see Pardee 2002: 56-65; Nakhai 2001: 41-42. At Ugarit, holocausts were substantially less common than sacrifices, which involved the consumption of the meat of the animal victim, see Pardee 2000: 325-326. 54 See Lipiński 1993.

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have so far only been archaeologically attested in Phoenician colonial settings in the West and not in the Levant. 55 The closest parallels to the Greek sacrificial practices, holocausts as well as thysiai, are found among the Israelites, where the burning of the sacrificial animals, either a part of them or the entire body, was the dominant ritual. 56 Before we proceed with this comparison, the sources used to define and understand sacrificial rituals in the respective regions need to be considered. For ancient Greece, we are fortunate enough to have a range of evidence: literary texts, inscriptions, images on vases and reliefs, and animal bones from sanctuaries. Still there are many aspects of the rituals that the sources do not reveal or comment upon. The situation in the Levant is different and largely the empirical basis for the discussion has been the Hebrew Bible. 57 The dating of the various sections is a disputed issue, so is the question as to what parts of the Bible should be used, only the Pentateuch or any kind of sacrificial information, as well as the value of the Mishna. 58 There is archaeological evidence in the form of sanctuaries and altars, but detailed zooarchaeological material from sacrificial contexts complementing the written sources, as is the case in Greece, is largely lacking in the Levant. 59 The similarities between Greek and Israelite ritual practice have been given various explanations in the history of research on sacrifice, to a large degree depending on the sources available and the choice of how to use them. The earlier 20th-century scholars argued for an early pre-Greek/pre-Israelite sacrificial koine of burnt sacrifice giving rise to both sacrificial systems and their emphasis on burning of the animal partially or completely, while in the 1960s a transferal from the Greeks in the Late Bronze Age to the Canaanites and then onto the Israelites was favoured. 60 This position was refuted in the 1980s, since evidence for burnt animal sacrifice was lacking from the Greek Bronze Age. Therefore, this type of ritual was taken to have entered Greece from the Levant in the Early Iron Age or Orientalizing period, as a part of the influx of eastern gods, notions and traditions. 61 New zooarchaeological finds from Greece in the last twenty years have changed the situation radically and shown that burnt animal sacrifice was performed already in the Late Bronze Age. Among the new important contexts is the huge ash altar of Zeus at Mt Lykaion, which begins in the Mycenaean period (perhaps as early as the 16th century BC) and stays active at least into the Classical period, and which consists almost entirely of burnt sheep and goat thighbones, patellae and 55 On tophets, see Xella 2012-2013, and Xella 2013; Lipiński 1993: 275-281. For the tophet rituals corresponding to religious sentiments in the mother country, see Quinn 2012-2013. 56 On the importance of burnt animal sacrifice and especially holocausts in Israelite cult practise, see de Vaux 1964: 28-48 and 82-100; Eberhart 2004; Marx 2005: 89-142; Watts 2007: 63-78. 57 For the methodological implications, see the discussion in Magness 2016. 58 For a discussion of the evidence for sacrifice in the Hebrew Bible and its date, see Nakhai 2001: 44-74; see also Klawans 2006: 49-73. For the use of the Mishna, see Hultgård 1987. 59 On altars in the Levant for burnt animal sacrifices, see Bergquist 1993: 30-38. For zooarchaeological evidence for ritual practices in Israelite contexts, mainly relating to ritual meals, see Magness 2016; Greer 2013; for a discussion of the archaeological evidence, see also Nakhai 2001: 81-200; Ottosson 1987. For an attempt of bridging the divide from a methodological point of view, see Hesse, Wapnish, Greer 2012. 60 De Vaux 1964: 46-47 (common, pre-Bronze Age origin); Schmidt 1964: 90-99 (transferal from Minoans/Mycenaean to Canaanites at Ugarit, then onto Israelites); Gill 1966: 257-261 (transferal from Mycenaeans to Canaanites of burning of parts as an addition to already existent sacred meals). 61 Bergquist 1993: 41-43; see also Bergquist 1988.

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caudal vertebrae. 62 A burning of select body parts recalling thysiai has also been found at the Myceanean palace at Pylos as well as other sites. 63 Holocausts also seem to be evidenced in the Mycenaean period as well, in the form of completely burnt piglets from the sanctuary of Ag. Konstantinos of Methana and perhaps at Iklaina, while the Linear B tablets mention rituals similar to thysiai as well as animal sacrifices not involving any consumption of the meat, though not necessarily burnt as holocausts. 64 No matter in which direction ritual practices may have moved, or if they moved at all, it is evident that the ancient Israelites, as described in the Hebrew Bible, practiced burnt animal sacrifice that in many ways are similar to Greek practices, both holocausts, olah, and so-called communion or peace offerings, the zebach shelamim, at which a part of the animal was burnt and the rest eaten, recalling the Greek thysiai. These the similarities are definitely worth more profound exploration than what is possible to undertake here, but to problematize any Aegean-Levantine ritual relations I will raise three points to illustrate the complexity of the ritual landscape. These examples aim show that practices that appear similar at first glance may at a closer inspection be dissimilar and, most of all, have different functions and meanings within their own ritual context. The first point regards the importance of holocausts and the role and function of this ritual within each ritual setting. In the Hebrew Bible, the olah is clearly seen as the paradigmatic offering, both mentioned more frequently than any other ritual as well as first, and to be performed on a regular basis with large and prestigious animals like bulls and rams. 65 The holocaust has been taken as a sign of selfless devotion to God, as you actually give more, the entire animal, than at other rituals. 66 A complete burning of the animal victim has also been suggested to aim at attracting the attention of Yahweh and to assure his presence at the sanctuary. 67 This seems to be a different setup than in Greece, both as to occurrence and purpose, as Greek holocausts were marginal features, reserved for particular recipients and context, and performed with small and cheap animals. The Greek use of holocausts for specific situations and deities corresponds more to the occasional occurrence of such rituals in Anatolia and Mesopotamia, as well as in other cultures. 68 On the other hand, to burn an entire animal to attract the deity to the sanctuary may correspond to the use of holocausts to initiate some thysia sacrifices, especially since the aim of the burning at a thysia was to please the noses of the gods. Such holocaust-thysia combinations were far from common, however. Seen within the wider ritual landscape of the Eastern Mediterranean, the Israelite preferences for holocausts is intriguing. 69 A complication in this process is how we are to use the Hebrew Bible as a source for practiced rituals. To what extent Leviticus, which provides 62 Starkovich 2013; Romano, Voyatzis 2014: 614-615; Starkovich 2014. 63 Isaakidou 2002; Halstead, Isaakidou 2004; Cosmopoulos, Ruscillo 2014. 64 Zooarchaeological evidence: Hamilakis, Konsolaki 2004; Cosmopoulos 2015: 45. Linear B evidence: Weilhartner 2008: 815-818 and 823; Weilhartner 2016. 65 For the significance of holocausts, see Marx 2005: 17-21 and references in n. 56. Holocausts seem to have increased in importance over time in Israelite religion, see de Vaux 1964: 35-36. 66 Milgrom 1991: 488; Watts 2007: 70-71. 67 See Levine 2002: 134-135. 68 See above, n. 49, and n. 51. 69 Watts 2007: 72-78, sees the prominence of the olah mainly as a rhetorical devise to mark the selfless devotion to Yahweh and argues that the shelamim must have been the economic backbone of the sacrificial system, or the priests and worshippers would have been lacking in meat.

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the most detailed sacrificial instructions and which calls for innumerable holocaustic sacrifices, reflects real sacrificial practices is a much debated issue, and also the dating of the ritual information is controversial. 70 A possible explanation for the many holocausts may be found in their chronological and geographical context. After the Israelites returned from the Babylonian exile, in the late 6th century BC, animal sacrifice was largely confined to the temple at Jerusalem. If sacrifices are to be performed at one single location only, recurrent holocausts are more understandable, than if sacrifice of this kind was to be practiced by all communities and all sacrificial sites on this scale. A prestigious location like the Jerusalem temple could also account for the investment in victims of the most expensive kind for the holocausts, such as bulls and rams. 71 On the other hand, that the Israelite preference for holocausts differed from Greek practices was in fact remarked upon already in antiquity. Porphyry, referring to Theophrastus, states that if the Greeks were to be ordered to sacrifice like the Jews and the Syrians did, they would stop doing so altogether, since these people do not eat the animals but burn them completely. 72 We can also note that the verb holokautein in Greek texts is mainly used for foreign rituals and particularly common in the Septuaginta. 73 It may be no coincidence that one of the most explicit references to holocaustic sacrifices is found in the new Hellenistic inscription from Marmarini, a the cult directed to an Eastern goddess, in which the sacrifice of pigs and consumption of pork was forbidden. 74 Even if holocausts in practice come across as similar in Greece and among the Israelites, the role and meaning of this ritual differ at a closer look. Secondly, the burning of thighbones and tails at thysia sacrifices has often been compared to Israelite practices and these sacrificial actions do stand out from the surrounding ritual landscape of the eastern Mediterranean. The zebach shelamim focused on the burning of specific parts of the animal on the altar to create a fatty, fragrant smoke for the divine recipient to savour and involved the pouring of blood on or at the altar; this was also done at holocausts. These actions are similar to Greek practices on a general level but a closer examination reveals differences also here. At Israelite sacrifices, all blood was to be discarded on or at the altar, as its consumption was forbidden, while at Greek thysiai, only a little blood was splashed on the altar, while the rest was kept, prepared and eaten. 75 At a Greek thysia sacrifice, thighbones wrapped in fat and tails were placed in the fire. At a zebach shelamim the fat of the intestines, the kidneys and the caudate lobe of the liver were burnt, but also the

70 For the debate and discussion of the evidence, see Watts 2007: 1-36 and 173-192; Ullucci 2015; Nakhai 2001: 44-71; cf. Milgrom 1991; 2000; Douglas 1999. See also Klawans 2006: 49-72, esp. pp. 52-53, quoting J.Z. Smith: “we don’t have ritual texts in the Bible”, and, on a more positive note, Hesse, Wapnish, Greer 2012: 221-222. 71 The preferred species for holocausts among the Greeks, the cheap and easily accessible piglets, were for obvious reason not an option for the Israelites. 72 Porph. Abst. 2.26.1-2; Theophr. fr. 13 (Pötscher). 73 Rudhardt 1958: 286-288. 74 Parker, Scullion 2016: 216, lines B 66-74, pp. 225-228 and 252-253. Also at the “Greek rite” mentioned by the inscription, pigs are excluded as sacrificial animals, see Parker, Scullion 2016: 215, lines B 35-43 and pp. 242-247. 75 For the handling of the blood at Israelite sacrifices, see de Vaux 1964: 32 and 40-41; Ringgren 1982: 154–155 and 157; Marx 2005: 33, 86-87, 93-94 and 102-103; in Greek contexts, see Ekroth 2002: 242-251; Greek sacrifices at which the blood was totally discarded had a different purpose and meaning than thysai, eadem, pp. 251-254.

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tail of sheep could be put in the fire. 76 At sacrifices for the consecration of priests, the entire hind leg, meat as well as bones, was burnt, recalling a Greek moirocaust more than a thysia. 77 Even though select parts of the animal were burnt on the altar in both ritual systems, they were not the same. In the burnt animal deposits in Greece from the Late Bronze Age down into the Archaic period, thighbones clearly dominate and Homer also only mentions the burning of thighbones. In the early Archaic period, tails become more prominent in the zooarchaeological material from Greek sanctuaries, and the importance of this part increases in the Classical period, judging from the written and iconographical record. 78 I have previously suggested that this increased importance of the burning of the tail may be related to Levantine influences, as tails of rams where among the parts burnt at some Israelite communion sacrifices. 79 However, as the Mycenaean ash altar on Mt Lykaion contains caudal vertebrae as well as thighbones and kneecaps, to burn the tail was apparently a feature of the earliest thysia sacrifices. 80 The greatest distinction, however, can be found in the function of the burning of the tail and the fat-wrapped thighbones at a Greek sacrifice. Even though the burning of these parts created a rich and fragrant smoke, at thysiai, the tail rising and curving on the altar was taken as a sign of the gods accepting the sacrifice, the hiera kala, as were the flames from the fat-wrapped thighbones. The burning of the tail at the zebach shelamim did apparently not have any such divinatory purpose. A number of divinatory practices were taken over by the Greeks from the Near East in the Orientalizing and Archaic periods, and if the practice of burning the tail came from the Levant, it was given a new divinatory meaning when practiced at Greek sacrifices. On the other hand, the finding of burnt tails already in the Mycenaean levels on Mt. Lykaion makes this interpretation less likely. The final point regards the role of pigs in Greek sacrificial ritual. Pigs were of course a non-issue in Israelite sacrificial settings, but the uses of pigs in Greek religion are interesting to consider in the light of the Levantine practices. In Greece, piglets seem to have been burnt as holocausts in the Late Bronze Age, as well as in the historical periods. 81 The role of piglets and pigs at thysia sacrifices is another matter. Surprisingly, pig bones are very rarely found among the burnt animal bone material from Greek thysia rituals, which are dominated by thighbones and tails from cattle, sheep and goats. 82 On the other hand, pigs were clearly expensive and prestigious victims, especially the full-grown ones, listed in the sacrificial 76 Exod 29:22; Lev 3:9, 7:3-4; 8:25; 9:18-20; Milgrom 1991: 205-213; de Vaux 1964: 30, 32; Marx 2005: 113-118. 77 For the burning of entire hind legs, see Exod 29:22-23; Lev 8:25-28; Marx 2005: 116-117. The leg could also be given as an honorary share to the priest, see 1 Sam 9:24; Exod 29:26; Lev 7:33 and 8:29; Marx 2005: 98, 114. 78 Ekroth 2009: 127-139. 79 Ekroth 2009: 146-148. Burning of the tail: Lev 3:9; 7:3-4; 8:25; 9:18-20; Exod 29:22. The LXX uses the term osphys for this part. 80 Starkovich 2013: 503; Romano, Voyatzis 2014: 614-615; Starkovich 2014: 645-646. In the zooarchaeological material from the LH III C layers at Kalapodi (12th century BC) the sacrum bones and tails are lacking, which may indicate that these animals may have been sacrificed in a thysia ritual, see Stantzel 1991: 162; Felsch 2001: 196-197. 81 Piglet holocausts: Hamilakis, Konsolaki 2004: 143. The earliest Mycenaean levels of the ash altar on Mt Lykaion contained so-called Features, deposits with less burning and a higher frequency of pigs that the surrounding layers, including possible depositions of piglets, see Starkovich 2014. 82 Ekroth 2007: 261-262; Ekroth 2009: 137-138.

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calendars and depicted in sacrificial scenes, and they were also eaten in sanctuaries. As they were not burnt on the altars in a thysia manner, they may have been sacrificed by a different ritual, which rather emphasized their meat than the burning of particular bones. 83 Is it possible that some of the cautious attitude to pigs found in the eastern Mediterranean made them less suitable also to be burnt on the Greek altars, even if they were still feasible as sacrificial victims by another kind of ritual? Contact zones These examples show that the similarities between Greek and Levantine sacrificial practices are less evident than what appears at first glance. The question of whether there were transferals of rituals, holocausts as well as the burning of select body parts, from the East to the West or in the opposite direction, demands a study, which incorporates also other types of evidence, for example, architecture, sacrificial installations and ritual equipment as well as terminology. Such an undertaking lies outside the scope of this paper, but as a final part, a few words will be said about two locations where the archaeological evidence suggests contacts between Greeks and the Levant as to the sacrificial practices. How these contacts came about, and whether they involved “foreigners” travelling from abroad, bringing rituals with them or “locals” taking such practices back home, cannot be ascertained at this stage. Greek individuals present in the Levant as merchants, mercenaries or artisans, both in the Late Bronze Age and the Early Iron Age, may have participated in rituals, watched them being performed or being told about them, and later brought them back to Greece. 84 Eastern poets and ritual specialist as well as craftsmen resident in the Aegean have been proposed as carriers of ritual practices and beliefs to the West as well. 85 The sanctuary at Kommos on Crete has often been highlighted as one such contact zone between the East and the West. In the period 800-600 BC, the sanctuary consisted of a small building called Temple B, which had three phases of use. 86 Inside this temple, in the first phase, was erected a tripillar structure. Sometime after 750 BC, a Greek bronze horse, on top of which was added an Egyptian faience figurine of the war-goddess Sekhmet, and another Egyptian faience figurine were placed between the other pillars. The installation of the three stone pillars clearly recalls pillar shrines both in the Near East and in the Phoenician colonies to the West. Kommos has also yielded Phoenician pottery, the date of which has been discussed, but according to the latest studies the material seems to begin around the middle of the 9th century and end somewhere between the middle of the 8th to the middle of the 7th century BC. 87 Joseph Shaw, the excavator of Kommos, has convincingly argued that this small sanctuary very close to the sea must have been a stop-over shrine for Phoenician merchants on their way west but also when visiting sites in the inlands of Crete, where Phoenician and Near Eastern goods have been found. However, the sacrificial activity connected to Temple B is 83 For such a pig sacrifice, see Eumaios’ sacrifice of a pig in Hom. Od. 14.414-448; cf. Ekroth 2009: 141, 144; Ekroth 2014a: 343-344. 84 See the discussion in West 1997: 586-630. 85 Burkert 1992: 41-87. See also Bachvarova 2009, who suggests that Anatolian wandering poets may have spread rituals from the East. She also points to a case of the importation of Aegean cults by the Hittites in the late 14th century BC, see Bachvarova 2009: 39. 86 Shaw 1989; 2000a; 2000b: 675-677, 698-700, 711-713. 87 Gilboa, Waiman-Barak, Jones 2015. See also Bikai 2000.

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more complex. In the second phase, around 700 BC, an altar was constructed just in front of the entrance to the building, Altar U, which was in use to around 600 BC, when Temple B also was abandoned. 88 Altar U was found filled with almost 40 kg of heavily burnt cattle, sheep and goat bones, predominantly thighbones and tails, that is, a typical Greek thysia deposit. 89 To the north of Altar U, in the same period, was built a rectangular hearth with two compartments of raised stone slabs. 90 It was filled with ash and burnt bones and an iron knife was recovered there as well. 91 The bones in the double hearth are completely different from those in Altar U and consisted of burnt piglets and a large quantity of fish bones, sea shells and mussels. Here we seem to face a different kind of ritual and different victims than at Altar U. It should also be noted that the double hearth is not oriented to the front of Temple B, but along its side. What kind of sacrificial situation are we to imagine at Kommos in the Early Iron Age? Is this a shrine established by Phoenicians, which after a while also starts to attract the local Greek visitors? Or do the Phoenicians after some time “go native”, picking up Greek ritual customs? The large quantity of bone material in Altar U represents very heavy and intense sacrificial activity of the thysia kind, so the use of this altar must have been of central importance. It is also important to note that it was active at the same time as the tripillar shrine inside Temple B. The function of the double hearth is more difficult to ascertain, as this may not have been an altar for sacrifices but a cooking installation. If we take the double hearth to be an altar as well, the sacrifice of fish and seashells by burning them is very unusual in the contemporary Aegean. It could perhaps also reflect a Levantine presence in the sanctuary, in the light of the importance of fish in the cult of some later Eastern deities, such as Atargatis. 92 If that was the case, were there two groups of worshippers active outside the Temple B at the same time, one at Altar U and one at the double hearth, sacrificing what was characteristic for their own beliefs? Or would they all have performed the rituals together? Perhaps the Greek bronze horse mounted with the Egyptian figurine squeezed in between the pillars inside Temple B in a sense captures the religious ambiance of Kommos in this period, a hybridity of different practices and beliefs. In the final phase of Temple B, ca 650-600, the floor level inside the building was raised and the pillars largely covered and incorporated in the backside of a hearth filled with bones and ash. The tripillar installation was no longer visible. Outside the building, Altar U was still used for animal sacrifice, but the double hearth had also gone out of use. Had the Greek cult taken over or were the Levantine visitors gone, or had they more or less adapted to the Greek sacrificial practices? Another possible contact zone between Greeks and Levantines as to sacrificial practices is the sanctuary of Apollo Hylates at Kourion on Cyrpus. 93 In the Archaic period, animal sacrifice took place on a large, circular fieldstone altar. The calcined bones from this altar come from cattle and sheep, but here the entire back legs (femora and tibiae) were burnt, and Shaw 200a: 28, pl. 1.50-1.52; Shaw 200b: 670-673, 683. Reese, Ruscillo 2000: 422, Table 6.1, and 441, Table 6.2. Shaw 2000a: 27, pl. 1.53-1.54; Shaw 200b: 675-677. Reese, Ruscillo 2000: 420, Table 6.1, and 439, Table 6.2; Reese 2000: 595-596, Table 6.28. See Lefèvre-Novaro 2010, who also takes the double hearth to be an altar (autel double). The excavator considers that the main purpose of the hearth would have been for cooking, see Shaw 2000a: 27, pl. 1.53-1.54; Shaw 2000b: 675-677. 93 Buitron-Oliver 1996: 2-4. 88 89 90 91 92

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not only the thighbones, which makes this ritual highly unusual if seen within the Greek zooarcheological context. 94 This could be taken as a case of a moircaust, a thysia where a larger share of the animal was put in the altar fire, but the closeness of Kourion to the Levant may also account for the ritual, as entire back legs, flesh and bones, were burnt at Israelite sacrifices at the inauguration of priests. 95 Possibly the burning of the entire leg could reflect that some worshippers in the sanctuary performed their sacrifices in a slightly different manner the traditional Greek one. On the other hand, this sanctuary does not demonstrate any particular Levantine presence as to the architecture, sacrificial installations and finds, contrary to Kommos, so this may rather be a case of rituals being picked up from the East by Greek worshippers. That Greek thysiai sacrifices in the eastern Mediterranean could be modified in accordance with regional practices, is further suggested by an interesting series of Roman coins, issued from Hadrian to Caracalla (117-217 AD), which commemorate the foundation of Antioch on Orontes in 301 BC by Seleukos I. 96 According to a speech by Libanios, from the mid-4th century AD (Or. 11.85-88), the king had sacrificed a bull and the usual parts had been placed in the fire, when an eagle suddenly appeared and snatched the burning thighs, meria, from the altar. The coins clearly depict the eagle holding an entire leg, meaty thigh, shank and hoof, and not only the bare thighbones. If the much later coins have a bearing on the situation in the early Hellenistic period, we may here see a sacrifice similar to that at the sanctuary of Apollo Hylates at Kourion. Concluding remarks Holocausts and burning as a ritual action will definitely profit from more study in order to grasp the extent and character of Aegean-Levantine interactions. A prime concern is to tease out the empirical evidence in greater detail; this is a necessity for a better understanding of the role and function of such sacrifices within a religious system. What was burnt, how, when and why? And how do the written sources relate to the archaeological evidence? The similarities between the Greek burnt animal sacrifice, holocausts as well as thysiai, and the practices in the Levant are fascinating, but also pose methodological challenges. Are we to focus on the likenesses or the differences? We are clearly facing ritual actions, which in many ways are similar but which also diverge as to the execution and to the purposes and meanings. A holocaust of a bull in the temple at Jerusalem was undoubtedly something different from the holocaust of a piglet to a local Greek hero. And could there be a greater distinction in the perceptions of the divine, between the Greek gods, anthropomorphic in the full sense of the word, the almighty God of the Hebrew Bible? Even so, they were both really fond of sweet-smelling fatty smoke. Bibliography

Bachvarova 2009 – Bachvarova M.R. 2009: Hittite and Greek Perspectives on Travelling Poets, Texts and Festivals. In R. Hunter, I. Rutherford (eds), Wandering Poets in Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge: 23-45. Berges 1986 – Berges D. 1986: Hellenistische Rundaltäre Kleinasiens. Freiburg.

94 Davis 1996; 2008. 95 Exod 29:22-23; Lev 8:25-28. 96 For the coins, see Berthiaume 2005: esp. 247 and fig. 1. Berthiaume considers the coins as evidence for that the entire hind leg with the meat was regularly burnt at thysia sacrifices.

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Bergquist 1988 – Bergquist B. 1988: The Archaeology of Sacrifice: Minoan-Mycenaean versus Greek: A Breif Query into two Sites with Contrary Evidence. In R. Hägg, N. Marinatos, G.C. Nordquist (eds), Early Greek Cult Practice, Stockholm: 21-34. Bergquist 1993 – Bergquist B. 1993: Bronze Age Sacrificial Koine in the Eastern Mediterranean? A Study of Animal Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East. In J. Quaegebeur (ed.), Ritual and Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East, Leuven: 26-43. Berthiaume 2005 – Berthiaume G. 2005: L’aile ou les mêria. Sur la norriture carnée des dieux grecs. In S. Georgoudi, R. Koch Piettre, F. Schmidt (eds), La cuisine et l’autel, Paris: 241-251. Bikai 2000 – Bikai P.M. 2000: Phoenician Ceramics from the Greek Sanctuary. In J.W. Shaw, M. Shaw (eds), Kommos IV. The Greek Sanctuary, Princeton: 302-312. Bonnet 1988 – Bonnet C. 1988: Melqart. Cultes et mythes de l’Héraclès Tyrien, Leuven. Bookidis, Stroud 1997 – Bookidis N., Stroud R. 1997: Corinth XVIII:3. The Sanctuary of Demeter and Kore, Princeton. Bremmer 2007 – Bremmer J. 2007: Greek Normative Sacrifice. In D. Ogden (ed.), A Companion to Greek Religion, Malden: 132-144. Broneer 1959 – Broneer O. 1959: Excavations at Isthmia. Fourth Campaign, 1957-1958, Hesperia 28: 298-343. Brun, Leguilloux 2013 – Brun H., Leguilloux M. 2013: Rituels sacrificiels et offrandes animales dans le Sarapeion C de Délos. In G. Ekroth, J. Wallensten (eds), Bones, Behaviour and Beliefs, Stockholm: 167-180. Buitron-Oliver 1996 – Buitron-Oliver D. 1996: The Sanctuary of Apollo Hylates at Kourion: Excavations in the Archaic Precinct. Jonsered. Burkert 1966 – Burkert W. 1966: Greek tragedy and sacrificial ritual, GRBS 7: 87-121 Burkert 1984 – Burkert W. 1984: Homo necans, Berkeley. Burkert 1985 – Burkert W. 1985: Greek Religion, London. Burkert 1992 – Burkert W. 1992: The Orientalizing Revolution, Cambridge. Casabona 1966 – Casabona J. 1966: Recherches sur le vocabulaire des sacrifices en grec. Aix-enProvence. Clinton 2005 – Clinton K. 2005: Pigs in Greek Rituals. In R. Hägg, B. Alroth (eds). Greek Sacrificial Ritual, Olympian and Chthonian, Stockholm: 167-179. Collins 2007 – Collins B.J. 2007: The Hittites and their World, Atlanta. Cosmopoulos 2015 – Cosmopoulos M.B. 2015: A Mycenaean Open-Air Cult Place at Iklainai, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 7:3: 41-49. Cosmopoulos, Ruscillo 2014 – Cosmopoulos M.B., Ruscillo D. 2014: Mycenaean Burnt Animal Sacrifice at Eleusis, OJA 33: 257-273. Daux 1963 – Daux G. 1963: La grande démarchie: un nouveau calendrier sacrificiel d’Attique (Erchia), BCH 87: 603–634 Daux 1983 – Daux G. 1983: Le calendrier de Thorikos au Musée J. Paul Getty, AntCl 52: 150-174. Davis 1996 – Davis S.M.J. 1996: Animal Sacrifices. In Buitron-Oliver 1996: 181-182. Davis 2008 – Davis S.M.J. 2008: «Thou shalt take of the ram … the right thigh; for it is a ram of consecration…» Some Zoo-Archaeological Examples of Body-Part Preferences. In F. D’Andria et al., Uomini, piante e animali nella dimensione del sacro, Bari: 63-70. de Vaux 1964 – de Vaux R. 1964: Les sacrifices de l’Ancien Testament, Paris. Detienne, Vernant 1989 – Detienne M., Vernant J.-P. (eds), 1989: The Cuisine of Sacrifice Among the Greeks. Chicago – London. Douglas 1999 – Douglas M. 1999: Leviticus as Literature, Oxford. Eberhart 2004 – Eberhart Ch.A. 2004: A Neglected Feature of Sacrifice in the Hebrew Bible, HThR 97: 485-493. Ekroth 2002 – Ekroth G. 2002: The Sacrificial Rituals of Greek Hero-Cults, Liège. Ekroth 2005 – Ekroth G. 2005: Blood on the Altars?. Antike Kunst 48: 9-29. Ekroth 2007 – Ekroth G. 2007: Meat in Ancient Greece: Sacrificial, Sacred or Secular? Food and History 5: 249-272. Ekroth 2008a – Ekroth G. 2008: Burnt, Cooked or Raw? Divine and Human Culinary Desires at Greek Animal Sacrifice. In E. Stavrianopoulou, A. Michaels, C. Ambos (eds), Transformations in Sacrificial Practices. Berlin: 87-111.

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Ekroth 2008b – Ekroth G. 2008: Meat, Man and God. On the Division of Meat at Greek Animal Sacrifices. In A.P. Matthaiou, I. Polinskaya (eds), Mikron Hieromnemon. Meletes eis Mnemen Michael H. Jameson, Athens : 259-290. Ekroth 2009 – Ekroth G. 2009: Thighs or Tails? The Osteological Evidence as a Source for Greek Ritual Norms. In P. Brulé (ed.), La norme en matière religieuse dans la Grèce ancienne. Liège: 125-151. Ekroth 2014a – Ekroth G. 2014: Animal Sacrifice in Antiquity. In G.L. Campbell (ed.). The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Animals, Oxford: 324-354. Ekroth 2014b – Ekroth G. 2014: Castration, Cult and Agriculture: Perspectives on Greek Animal Sacrifice, Opuscula 7: 153-174. Ekroth 2017 – Ekroth G. 2017: Holocaustic Sacrifices in Ancient Greek Religion: Some Comments on Practice and Theory. In K. Bielawski (ed.), Animal Sacrifice in Ancient Greece. Proceedings of the First International Workshop in Kraków, Warsaw. Evans-Pritchard 1956 – Evans-Pritchard E.E. 1956: Nuer Religion, Oxford. Felsch 2001 – Felsch R.C.S. 2001: Opferhandlungen als Alltagslebens im Heiligtum der Artemis Elaphebolos von Hyampolis in den Phasen SH IIIC – Stätgeometrisch. In R. Lafineur, R. Hägg (eds), POTNIA. Deities and Religion in the Aegean Bronze Age, Liège: 193-199. Gebauer 2002 – Gebauer J. 2002: Pompe und Thysia. Attische Tieropferdarstellungen auf schwarz- und rotfigurigen Vasen, Münster. Gebhard 1993a – Gebhard R. 1993: The Evolution of a Pan-Hellenic Sanctuary. In N. Marinatos, R. Hägg (eds). Greek Sanctuaries, London – New York: 154-177. Gebhard 1993b – Gebhard E.R., The Isthmian Games and the Sanctuary of Poseidon in the Early Empire. In T.E. Gregory (ed.), The Corinthia in the Roman Period, Ann Arbor. Gebhard, Reese 2005 – Gebhard E.R., Reese D.S. 2005: Sacrifices for Poseidon and Melikertes-Palaimon. In R. Hägg, B. Alroth (eds), Greek Sacrificial Ritual, Olympian and Chthonian. Stockholm: 125-154. Gilboa, Waiman-Barak, Jones 2015 – Gilboa A., Waiman-Barak P., Jones R. 2015: On the Origin of Iron Age Phoenician Ceramics at Kommos, Crete. BASOR 374: 75-102. Gill 1966 – Gill D. 1966: Thysia and selamim: Questions to R. Schmid’s Das Bundesopfer in Israel, Biblica 47: 255-262 Glassner 2009 – Glassner J. 2009: De l’invention du sacrifice à l’ecriture du monde. Les repas des dieux en Mesopotamie. In M. Cartry, J.-L. Durand, R. Koch-Piettre (eds), Architecturer l’invisible, Turnhout: 41-59. Gould 2003 – Gould J. 2003: Myth, Ritual, Memory, and Exchange, Oxford. Greer 2013 – Greer J.S. 2013: Dinner at Dan, Leiden – Boston. Haas 1994 – Haas V. 1994: Geschichte der hethitischen Religion, Leiden. Halstead, Isaakidou 2004 – Halstead P., Isaakidou V. 2004: Faunal Evidence for Feasting: Burnt Offerings from the Palace of Nestor at Pylos’. In P. Halstead, J.C. Barrett (eds), Food, Cuisine and Society in Prehistoric Greece, Oxford: 136-154. Hamilakis, Konsolaki 2004 – Hamilakis Y., Konsolaki E. 2004: Pigs for the Gods: Burnt Animal Sacrifices as Embodied Rituals at a Myceanean Sanctuary, OJA 23: 135-151. Hartog 1988 – Hartog F. 1988: The Mirror of Herotodus. Berkeley. Hermary 2004 – Hermary A. et al. 2004: Les sacrifices dans le monde grec, ThesCRA I: 59-134. Hesse, Wapnish, Greer 2012 – Hesse B., Wapnish P., Greer J. 2012: Scripts of Animal Sacrifice in Levantine Culture-History. In A.M. Porter, G.M. Schwartz (eds), Sacred Killing, Winona Lake: 217-235. Hultgård 1987 – Hultgård A. 1987: Burnt-Offering in Early Jewish Religion. In T. Linders, G. Nordquist (eds), Gifts for the Gods, Uppsala: 83-91. Isaakidou 2002 – Isaakidou V. et al. 2002: Burnt Animal Sacrifice at the Mycenaean ‘Palace of Nestor’, Pylos, Antiquity 76: 86-92. Jameson 1965 – Jameson M. 1965: Notes on the Sacrificial Calendar from Erchia, BCH 89: 154-172. Jameson 1986 – Jameson M. 1986: Sophocles, Antigone 1005-1022: An Illustration. In M. Cropp, E. Fantham, S.E. Scully (eds), Greek Tragedy and its Legacy, Calgary: 59-65. Jameson 1991 – Jameson M.H. 1991: Sacrifice Before Battle. In V.D. Hanson (ed.), Hoplites: The Classical Greek Battle Experience. London and New York: 197-227.

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Jameson 1994 – Jameson M.H. 1994: The Ritual of the Athena Nike Parapet. In R. Osborne, S. Hornblower (eds), Ritual, Finance, Politics, Oxford: 307-324. Jameson, Jordan, Kotansky 1993 – Jameson M.H., Jordan D.R., Kotansky R.D. 1993: A Lex Sacra from Selinous, Durham. Joannès 2001 – Joannès F. (ed.) 2001: Dictionnaire de la civilisation mesopotamienne. Paris. Klawans 2006 – Klawans J. 2006: Purity, Sacrifice and the Temple, Oxford. Lambert 1993 – Lambert W.G. 1993: Donations of Food and Drink to the Gods in Ancient Mesopotamia. In J. Quaegebeur (ed.). Ritual and Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East, Leuven: 191-201. Lefèvre-Novaro 2010 – Lefèvre-Novaro D. 2010: Les sacrifices de poissons dans les sanctuaires grecs de l’Âge du Fer, Kernos 23: 37-52. Leguilloux 2003 – Leguilloux M. 2003: Sarapeion C. Étude des restes fauniques, BCH 127: 507-508. Leguilloux 2004 – Leguilloux M. 2004: Bibliographie archéozoologique, ThesCRA I: 64. Lévêque, Verbank-Piérard 1992 – Lévêque P., Verbank-Piérard A. 1992: Héraclès héros ou dieu?. In C. Bonnet, C. Jourdain-Annequin (eds). Héraclès. D’une rive à l’autre de la Méditerranée, Brussels – Rome: 51-64. Levine 2002 – Levine B.A. 2002: Ritual as Symbol. In B.M. Gittlen (ed.), Sacred Time, Sacred Place, Winona Lake: 125-135. Lienhardt 1961 – Lienhardt G. 1961: Divinity and Experience, Oxford. Linssen 2004 – Linssen M.J.H. 2004: The Cults of Uruk and Babylon. Leiden. Lipiński 1993 – Lipiński E. 1993: Rites et sacrifices dans la tradition phénico-punique. In J. Quaegebeur (ed.), Ritual and Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East, Leuven: 257-281. LS – Sokolowski, F. 1969: Lois sacrées des cités grecques, Paris. LSS – Sokolowski, F. 1962. Lois sacrées des cités grecques. Supplément, Paris. Magness 2016 – Magness J. 2016: Were Sacrifices Offered at Qumran? The Animal Bone Deposits Reconsidered, JAJ 7.1: 5-34. Marx 2005 – Marx A. 2005: Systemes sacrificiels de l’Ancien Testament. Leiden. Maul 2008 – Maul S. 2008: Den Gott ernahren. Uberlegungen zum regelmassigen Opfer in altorientalischen Tempel. In E. Stavrianopoulou, A. Michaels, C. Ambos (eds). Transformations in Sacrificial Practices, Berlin: 75-86. Meuli 1946 – Meuli K. 1946: Griechische Opferbräuche. In Phyllobolia für Peter von der Mühll. Basel: 198-288. Milgrom 1991 – Milgrom J. 1991: Leviticus 1-16, New York. Milgrom 2000 – Milgrom J. 2000: Leviticus 23-27. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, New York 2000. Morton 2015 – Morton J. 2015: The Experience of Greek Sacrifice: Investigating Fat-Wrapped Thighbones. In M.M. Miller (ed.), Autopsy in Athens, Oxford – Philadelphia: 66-75. Naiden 2013 – Naiden F. 2013: Smoke Signals for the Gods. Oxford. Nakhai 2001 – Nakhai B.A. 2001: Archaeology and the Religions of Canaan and Israel, Boston. Nock 1944 – Nock A.D. 1944: The Cult of Heroes, HThR 37: 141-173. Oppenheim 1964 – Oppenheim A.L. 1964: Ancient Mesopotamia, Chicago – London. Ottosson 1987 – Ottosson M. 1987: Sacrifice and Sacred Meal in Ancient Israel. In T. Linders, G. Nordquist (eds), Gifts for the Gods, Uppsala: 133-136. Pardee 2000 – Pardee D. 2000: Animal Sacrifice at Ugarit. In Les animaux et les hommes dans le monde syro-mésopotamien aux époques historiques, Lyon: 321-331. Pardee 2002 – Pardee D. 2002: Ritual and Cult at Ugarit. Atlanta. Parker, Scullion 2016 – Parker R., Scullion S. 2016: The Mysteries of the Goddess of Marmarini, Kernos 29: 209-266. Patera 2012 – Patera I. 2012: Offrir en Grèce ancienne. Stuttgart. Prechel 2008 – Prechel D. 2008: Hethitische Ritual in Emar?. In L. d’Alfonso, Y. Cohen, D. Sürenhagen (eds). The City of Emar among the Late Bronze Age Empires, Münster: 241-252. Quagebeur 1993 – Quagebeur J. 1993: L’autel-à-feu et l’abbatoir en Égypte tardive. In J. Quaegebeur (ed.). Ritual and Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East. Leuven: 329-353. Quinn 2012-2013 – Quinn J. 2012-2013: Tophets in the “Punic World”. In P. Xella (ed.), The “Tophet” in the Phoenician Mediterranean (=Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici 29-30). Verona: 23-48.

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Reese 2000 – Reese D. 2000: The Marine Invertebrates. In J.W. Shaw, M. Shaw (eds), Kommos IV. The Greek Sanctuary, Princeton: 571-642. Reese 2005 – Reese D.S. 2005: Faunal Remains from Greek Sanctuaries: A Survey. In R. Hägg, B. Alroth (eds), Greek Sacrificial Ritual, Olympian and Chthonian, Stockholm: 121-123. Reese, Ruscillo 2000 – Reese D.S., Ruscillo D. 2000: The Mammal Remains. In J.W. Shaw, M. Shaw (eds), Kommos IV. The Greek Sanctuary, Princeton: 416-495. Ringgren 1982 – Ringgren H. 1982: Israelitische Religion, Stuttgart. Romano, Voyatzis 2014 – Romano D.G., Voyatzis M.E. 2014: Mt. Lykaion Excavation and Survey Project, Part 1, Hesperia 83: 569-652 Rudhardt 1958 – Rudhardt J. 1958: Notions fondamentales de la pensée religieuse et actes constitutifs du culte dans la Grèce classique, Paris. Rudhardt 1970 – Rudhardt J. 1970: Les mythes grecs relatifs à l’instauration du sacrifice: les rôles corrélatifs de Prométhée et de son fils Deucalion, MH 27: 1-15. Ruscillo 2013 – Ruscillo D. 2013: Thesmophoriazousai: Mytilenean Women and their Secret Rites. In G. Ekroth, J. Wallensten (eds). Bones, Behaviour and Beliefs, Stockholm: 181-195. Schmidt 1964 – Schmidt R. 1964: Das Bundesopfer in Israel. München. Scullion 2002 – Scullion S. 2002: Heroic and Chthonian Sacrifice: New Evidence From Selinous. ZPE 132: 163-171. Scullion 2009 – Scullion S. 2009: Sacrifical Norms, Greek and Semitic: Holocausts and Hides in a Sacred Law of Aixone. In P. Brulé (ed.), La norme en matière religieuse en Grèce ancienne, Liège: 153-169. Shaw 1989 – Shaw J.W. 1989: Phoenicians in Southern Crete, AJA 93: 165-183. Shaw 2000a – Shaw J.W. 2000: The Architecture of the Temples and the Other Buildings. In J.W. Shaw, M. Shaw (eds), Kommos IV. The Greek Sanctuary, Princeton: 14-25. Shaw 2000b – Shaw J.W. 2000: Ritual and Development in the Greek Sanctuary. In J.W. Shaw, M. Shaw (eds), Kommos IV. The Greek Sanctuary, Princeton: 669-731. Simon 2004 – Simon E. 2004: Rauchopfer. ThesCRA I: 255-268. Sokolowski 1955 – Sokolowski F. 1955: Lois sacrées de l’Asie Mineure, Paris. Stantzel 1991 – Stantzel M. 1991: Die Tierreste aus dem Artemis/Apollon-Heiligtum bei Kalapodi, München 1991. Starkovich 2013 – Starkovich B. et al. 2013: Dating Gods: Radiocarbon Dates from the Sanctuary of Zeus on Mt. Lykaion (Arcadia, Greece), Radiocarbon 55: 508-511. Starkovich 2014 – Starkovich B.M. 2014: Appendix 5. Preliminary Faunal Report. In Romano, Voyatzis 2014: 644-648. Stengel 1910 – Stengel P. 1910: Opferbräuche der Griechen, Leipzig – Berlin 1910. Ullucci 2015 – Ullucci D. 2015: Sacrifice in the Ancient Mediterranean: Recent and Current Research, CBR 13: 388-439. van Straten 1995 – van Straten F.T. 1995: Hiera Kala. Images of Animal Sacrifice in Archaic and Classical Greece, Leiden. Verbanck-Piérard 1989 – Verbanck-Piérard A. 1989: Le double culte d’Héraklès: légande ou réalité?. In A.-F. Laurens (ed.). Entre hommes et dieux, Paris: 43-65. Vlachou 2012 – Vlachou V. 2012: Death and Burial in the Greek World, ThesCRA VIII: 363-384. Watts 2007 – Watts J.W. 2007: Ritual and Rhetoric in Leviticus, Cambridge. Weilhartner 2008 – Weilhartner J. 2008: Zu den Opfertieren Innerhalb der Linear B-Texte. In A. Sacconi et al., Colloquium Romanum, Rome: 807-824. Weilhartner 2016 – Weilhartner J. 2016: Textual Evidence for Burnt Animal Sacrifice and Other Rituals Involving the Use of Fire in Mycenaean Greece. In E. Alram-Stern et al. (eds), METAPHYSIS. Ritual, Myth and Symbolism in the Aegean Bronze Age, Leuven 2016: 393-403. West 1997 – West M.L. 1997: The East Face of Helicon Oxford. Wilhelm 1982 – Wilhelm G. 1982: Grundzüge der Geschichte und Kultur der Hurriter. Darmstadt 1982. Xella 2012-2013 – Xella P. 2012-2013: ‘Tophet’. An Overall Interpretation. In P. Xella (ed.), The “Tophet” in the Phoenician Mediterranean (=Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici 29-30). Verona: 259-281. Xella 2013 – Xella et al. 2013: Phoenician Bones of Contention, Antiquity 87: 1199-1207. Yavis 1949 – Yavis C.G. 1949: Greek Altars, St Louis.

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PART III: Linguistic Approaches

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Chronology and dating of linguistic corpora 1 Dariusz R. Piwowarczyk 1. Chronologizing of the linguistic data has always been one of the priorities of historical linguistics and philology. Ever since the beginnings of both disciplines, questions of the dates of attestations of particular words, phrases, texts were among the most important to be answered. In the case of inscriptions or documents preserved from the times they were first recorded archaeological methods enable us to tell the more or less exact dates of their attestations and the linguistic material can be dated accordingly. Problems arise when it comes to ancient texts of which we only have later copies – a case familiar to anyone studying the Latin and Ancient Greek philology but even, for example, Hittite tablets which were also frequently copied throughout the history of the Hittite empire. 2 Here, apart from paleography, historical linguistics can help us to date the texts and the linguistic corpora in general. 2. It has been observed that the overwhelming majority of sound changes occurring in the languages of the world are regular. 3 Due to that fact we can assume that the sound changes which occurred in the development of languages in the past were also regular, unless it can be demonstrated otherwise. This allows us to establish language families based on recurring regular sound correspondences, reconstruct proto-languages and try to explain the development of the particular languages from their linguistic ancestors thus establishing the relative chronology of the changes which occurred. As Campbell and Mixco notice, chronology in the case of linguistics is basically “the order in which language changes occur”. 4 It can be divided into absolute and relative chronology. Absolute chronology, “the assignment of linguistic events to a specific date in the past”, 5 is probably the most difficult aspect of historical linguistics as it needs to combine linguistic data with the dating outside of linguistics (philology, paleography, epigraphy, archaeology etc.). Relative chronology, that is the ordering of the changes which occurred in the development of the language, is much easier to establish. Thus, the relative chronology of the changes has been the main tool used to date certain linguistic corpora. 3. A classic example of establishing the chronology of a sound change is the case of the so-called Latin rhotacism. In this case we are fortunate enough to know the approximate date of the change due to the fact that the Roman statesman Cicero mentions in his writings that the Roman official in the 4th century B.C. changed the spelling of his name from Papisius to Papirius. 6 Therefore we are aware of the probable date of the change. We can 1 The earlier version of this paper was presented at „The Aegean and the Levant at the Turn of the Bronze and Iron Ages Workshop II” organized at Warsaw University on the 11-12 June 2015. I would like to thank Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò (Warsaw) and Rafał Rosół (Poznań) for comments. Needless to add, I am solely responsible for any errors or mistakes. 2 Cf. Kloekhorst 2008: 3-4. 3 Ringe, Eska 2013: 3. 4 Campbell, Mixco 2007: 31. 5 Campbell, Mixco 2007: 2. 6 Weiss 2009: 150-152.

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also place this phenomenon within the sound changes which occurred in the history of the Latin language thus establishing its relative chronology to the other changes. 7 We do find, however, words which seem to have not undergone the change like miser “poor” rosa “rose”, basis “base” or casus “case”. Those can be explained as either words in which there was no condition for the change to occur (the case of casus which was actually *cassus at the time of the rhotacism, without the intervocalic /s/, from earlier *cad-to-s), words in which the /r/ was reversed to /s/ or never changed due to euphonic reasons (miser) or borrowings which came to the Latin lexicon at the time the rhotacism already occurred (rosa and basis). 8 In the case of basis the donor language is known – Ancient Greek. The case is much more complicated in the Latin word rosa for which no viable donor language has ever been identified. We do, however, treat it as a loanword because it did not undergo rhotacism and changed into *rora as we would expect from a native vocabulary item. We can also find borrowings which do show the rhotacism, as in the case of Latin pirum “pear” which goes back to the form *pisom or *h2pisom. 9 This observation enables us to discern between the forms which were in the Latin language already in the 4th century B.C. and those which entered the Latin lexicon later and did not undergo the sound change of rhotacism. Moreover, we can also view morphological innovations as indications of dating of certain forms. In the case of the Latin rhotacism the paradigm of the word honōr in Latin would have been as follows: 10 nom. sg. gen. sg. dat. sg. acc. sg. abl. sg.

pre-rhotacism forms forms after rhotacism forms after the levelling honōs honōs honōr honōsis honōris honōris honōsi honōri honōri honōsem honōrem honōrem honōse honōre honōre

That is, in every form apart from the nom. sg. the /s/, which was intervocalic, changed into /r/. The form in the nom. sg. preserved the /s/ as there were no conditions for this /s/ to change into /r/ through rhotacism (the /s/ was word-final) but underwent levelling and the /r/ from the other forms of the paradigm was in time introduced into the nom. sg. thus making the inflection of the word more regular (eliminating the allomorphy honōs-/honōr-). 11 We can therefore chronologize the forms in the language and state when a certain word entered the lexicon by analyzing which changes it underwent. Thus we can conclude that the method which enables us to chronologize linguistic corpora is the consecutive order of occurring changes. 4. Yet another fact to illustrate this point is the case of the Grassmann’s law, i.e. of the devoicing of voiced aspirates when they occur in one word. 12 The Greek form peúthomai “I hear, I am informed” is related to the Vedic form bódhate “to be awake, observe” and they both go back to the Proto-Indo-European root *bheudh-. 13 In both of those forms the 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Weiss 2009: 191-193. Cf. Weiss 2009: ibid. Sihler 2000: 51; de Vaan 2008: 467. cf. Weiss 2009: 151-152. Cf. Weiss 2009: ibid. Cf. Collinge 1996: 47-61. Beekes 2011: 129.

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aspiration of the initial consonant disappeared in accordance with Grassmann’s law which does not allow the presence of two aspirated stops in a word. Yet, we can say that the relative chronology of the change in both languages is different – in Greek it must have occurred only after the voiced aspirates were devoiced. 14 If it had a different relative chronology we would expect a form *beuthomai in Greek. The relative chronology of the changes would then be as follows: Proto-IE *bheud h- > Proto-Indic *beud h- (Grassmann) > Vedic bodh - (*eu > o) Proto-IE *bheud h- > Proto-Greek *pheuth- (devoicing) > Ancient Greek peuth - (Grassmann)

The devoicing of voiced aspirates did not occur in the history of the Indic branch of IndoEuropean and is thus identified as a Greek innovation just as the change of *eu to /o/ is characteristic of Vedic. If Grassmann’s law was not an independent change in both Vedic and Greek the development would have been as follows: Proto-IE *bheud h- > Proto-Indic *beud h- (Grassmann) > Vedic bodh- (*eu > o) Proto-IE *bheud h- > Proto-Greek *beud h- (Grassmann) > Ancient Greek beuth - (devoicing)

We would then be left with a form *beuthomai because the devoicing only occurred in voiced aspirates and it did not affect the plain voiced stops. But contrary to the case of Latin rhotacism mentioned in the paragraph above, we do not have enough evidence for the absolute chronology of those changes (both phases Proto-Greek and Proto-Indic are reconstructions). 5. Loanwords are an important part of establishing the chronology as they may also preserve ancient features which are no longer presented in the donor language (for example, phonetic archaisms). The widely mentioned example is the Finnish word kuningas “king” which is considered a borrowing from Proto-Germanic. 15 This word exists in the other Germanic languages but it has already changed before the time of their first attestations (compare Old English cyning). In the case of Indo-Iranian languages, our earliest attestations of Indic are the Indic words from the documents of the Mitanni kingdom. 16 Apart from proper names, the famous treatise of Kikkuli (written in Hittite by a Mitannian) 17 on horseback riding gives us the unique view of the ancient forms of Indic as preserved in, for example, the form aika vartanna being the chronologically earlier version of the Vedic form eka-vartana “one lap”. 18 But such cases are very rare. 6. The identification of loanwords is not always easy due to the fact that they may be, in the course of time, accommodated in the language and have the shape of ordinary native words. Yet another point is shown by the word for “white” which is controversial. By comparing the Latin words albus “white” with Greek alphós “white leprosy” and Hittite alpaš “cloud” we could reconstruct the Proto-Indo-European word as *albhos. 19 However, one might point to the fact that the Hittite word does not fit exactly with the semantics of the other cognates (clouds are not always white) but then again the Latin word is used to describe 14 15 16 17 18 19

Beekes 2011: ibid.. Fortson 2010: 338-339. Fortson 2010: 206-207. Cf. Burrow 1955: 28. Fortson 2010: 206-207; Burrow 1955: 28. Cf. De Vaan 2008: 32; Piwowarczyk 2014.

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terms like “dim white”. 20 For some Indo-Europeanists the fact that we have to reconstruct the phoneme */a/ in this word is enough to point out the probable borrowing though the source of this borrowing is unknown. 21 For other Indo-Europeanists 22 the reconstruction *h1albhos would suffice and the word could be part of the Indo-European color names. 23 7. In Greek an interesting case is the presented by the word pélekus „axe” which has a direct cognate in the Vedic form paraśú- „axe” (the only differing thing being the accent) 24. For a long time this has been analyzed as a loanword from Akkadian pilaqqu but recent work has shown that the meaning of the word in Akkadian was „spindle” and not „axe” thus making this explanation less probable. 25 The Greek word is the exact cognate of the Vedic form paraśú- and yet they are not considered to be coming to a viable Proto-Indo-European root because of the disyllabic structure of the root we would have to reconstruct - *pelek’us which violates the general structure of the roots in the Indo-European protolanguage. 26 In other words, it seems the form was borrowed at the time of the unity of the Vedic and Greek languages which brings us at least to their common period of development (near ProtoIndo-European but since the word is absent in Anatolian it is probably not a borrowing into Proto-Indo-European itself). Another possibility is a Wanderwort. 8. The Ancient Greek language itself presents a difficult case when it goes about the analysis of the lexicon because of the wide dialectal variation and the influence of non-Indo-European elements. The most infamous is the case of the Pelasgian language which was supposedly the Indo-European language present in Greece before the arrival of the speakers of Greek itself. 27 This hypothesis was used to explain the origin of such doublets like túmbos “grave mound” and táphos “grave”. 28 Although the theory itself has been generally abandoned, 29 the idea of an Pre-Greek (but non-Indo-European) substrate is still alive. 30 9. These are the cases most difficult to judge and the opinion on the exact standing of the certain form varies among the linguists. Fortunately, in recent years there has been an increased interest in the creation of databases of loanwords and work in the direction of borrowing typology. 31 Among those is the project on the World Loanword Database (WOLD) where the sample of 41 languages (with 1460 lexical meanings for each one) is compared as far as loanwords are concerned 32 in order to judge whether a certain form is likely to have been borrowed or is a native word. Hoping that in time such databases will evolve and consist of large number of languages and data, we will be able to survey the patterns of borrowing, their historical ways, accommodations and the precise mechanism of borrowing. 10. It should also be mentioned that in the course of the 20th century statistical methods were devised to date and chronologize linguistic material. They go back essentially to the 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

Piwowarczyk 2014: 163. Kortlandt 2003-4. Weiss 2009: 74. Cf. Schindler 1978. Cf. Ringe 2008: 247. Beekes 2010: 1166-1167. Cf. Fortson 2010: 75-79; Meier, Brügger 2010: 291-295. Georgiev 1981: 96-107. Hester 1965; Georgiev 1981: ibid. Beekes 2010: viii, xiv. Beekes 2010: xiii-xlii. Cf. Haspelmath, Tadmor 2009. Haspelmath, Tadmor 2009: 1.

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ideas of Morris Swadesh 33 who tried to establish the absolute chronology of lexicon preservation and change with the use of statistical methods, most notably by assuming a general rate of lexicon change in the languages of the world based on the stable rate of radioactive decay 34 and applying it to the 100-200 basic vocabulary of the languages compared (the socalled Swadesh list). His ideas were used by various scholars but they never achieved widespread acceptance among linguists due to the fact that the change of lexicon in languages is never stable and occurs at different speed in the various languages and that the list of basic vocabulary is disputable as well. 35 Thus, at most, it is an estimation. 11. Nowadays, new computational methods are being devised to analyze the relative chronology of changes in the world languages, their typology and classification. 36 Among those one is especially useful for chronologizing of the linguistic corpora, namely that of derivation in computational historical linguistic terms, i.e. generating the later language forms from the earlier ones with the use of a database and set of rules. 37 Most of those programs were used for a limited number of entries (1000 at most) in the Romance languages, checking whether one could generate, with the use of regular rules (mimicking the regular sound changes), the respective forms of the Romance languages from Classical Latin. 38 If we apply databases consisting of most of the available language data to such programs we can then clearly discern between the native vocabulary, borrowings and the irregular forms where morphological change must have occurred (or some other factors such as taboo deformation etc.). Such an approach would enable us to explicitly present the relative chronology of the changes in the language thus making it possible to chronologize the language data. Other computational approaches in historical linguistics include computational reconstruction of the proto-languages, 39 classification of the genetically-related languages 40 or measuring of the distance between the sources of borrowings and their accommodated forms. 41 12. There is hope for the future that the combination of qualitative (philology) and quantitative (statistics) approaches (including typology), the creation of internet databases and the cooperation between the specialists in the respective fields (Indo-European, Greek dialectology, Semitic, archaeologists, historians) should bring further progress in research on establishing the chronology of linguistic corpora thus making it possible to better explain the language contacts between East and West in the ancient times. Bibliography

Beekes 2010 – Beekes R.S.P. 2010: Etymological Dictionary of Greek. 2 vols. Leiden – Boston: Brill. Beekes 2011 – Beekes R.S.P. 2011: Comparative Indo-European Linguistics. Amsterdam – Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Burrow 1955 – Burrow T. 1955: The Sanskrit Language. London: Faber & Faber. Burton-Hunter 1976 – Burton-Hunter S.K. 1976: Romance etymology: a computerized model. Computers and the Humanities 10: 217-220. 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Swadesh 1950; 1952. Cf. Embleton 1986: 43. Cf. Embleton 1986: 44-67. See Kessler 2015 for an overview of the computational methods in historical linguistics. Hartman 2003; see Kondrak 2002: 12-15 for an overview of the earlier programs. E.g. Burton-Hunter 1976. Hewson 1993; Kondrak 2002. Ringe, Warnow, Taylor 2002. Stachowski 2009.

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Campbell, Mixco 2007 – Campbell L., Mixco M. 2007: A Glossary of Historical Linguistics. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Collinge 1996 – Collinge N.E. 1996: The Laws of Indo-European. Amsterdam – Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Embleton 1986 – Embleton S. 1986: Statistics in historical linguistics. Bochum: Studienverlag Dr. N. Brockmeyer. Fortson 2010 – Fortson B. 2010: Indo-European Language and Culture. Malden: Wiley-Blackwell. Georgiev 1981 – Georgiev V. 1981: Introduction to the History of the Indo-European Languages. Sofia: Publishing House of the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences. Hartman 2003 – Hartman S.L. 2003: Phono (Version 4.0): Software for Modeling Regular Historical Sound Change. In Actas [del] VIII Simposio Internacional de Comunicacion Social, Santiago de Cuba, 20-24 de enero del 2003 [Santiago de Cuba, 2003], I: 606-609. Haspelmath, Tadmor 2009 – Haspelmath M., Tadmor U. 2009: Loanwords in the World’s Languages. A Comparative Handbook. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Hester 1965 – Hester D.A. 1965: Pelasgian – A new Indo-European Language?. Lingua 13: 335-384. Hewson 1993 – Hewson J. 1993: A Computer-generated Dictionary of Proto-Algonquian. Canadian Museum of Civilization. Kessler 2015 – Kessler B. 2015: Computational and Quantitative Approaches to Historical Phonology. In P. Honeybone, J. Salmons, The Oxford Handbook of Historical Phonology. Oxford University Press: 133-148. Kloekhorst 2008 – Kloekhorst A. 2008: Etymological Dictionary of the Hittite Inherited Lexicon. Leiden – Boston: Brill. Kondrak 2002 – Kondrak G. 2002: Algorithms for Language Reconstruction. Unpubl. Ph.D. Thesis. University of Toronto. Kortlandt 2003-4 – Kortlandt F. 2003-4: Initial laryngeals in Anatolian. Orpheus 13-14: 9-12. Meier-Brügger 2010 – Meier-Brügger M. 2010: Indogermanische Sprachwissenschaft. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Piwowarczyk 2014 – Piwowarczyk D.R. 2014: The Proto-Indo-European root for ‘apple’ and the problem of comparative reconstruction”. Studia Etymologica Cracoviensia 19: 161-167. Ringe 2008 – Ringe D. 2008: Reconstructed ancient languages. In R. Woodard. The Ancient Languages of Asia and the Americas. Cambridge University Press. Ringe, Eska 2013 – Ringe D., Eska J. 2013: Historical Linguistics. Toward a Twenty-First Century Reintegration. Cambridge: University Press. Ringe, Warnow, Taylor 2002 – Ringe D., Warnow T., Taylor A. 2002: Indo-European and Computional Cladistics. Transactions of the Philological Society 100. Schindler 1978 – Schindler J. 1978: Hittite šalpa-. Die Sprache 24: 45. Sihler 2000 – Sihler A. 2000: Language History. An Introduction. Amsterdam – Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Stachowski 2009 – Stachowski K. 2009: Quantifying Phonetic Adaptations of Russian Loanwords in Dolgan. Studia Linguistica Universitatis Iagellonicae Cracoviensis 127: 101–177. Swadesh 1950 – Swadesh M. 1950: Salish internal relationships. International Journal of American Linguistics 16: 157-167. Swadesh 1952 – Swadesh M. 1952: Lexico-statistic dating of prehistoric ethnic contacts. Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 96: 452-463. De Vaan 2008 – De Vaan M. 2008: Etymological Dictionary of Latin and the other Italic Languages. Leiden – Boston: Brill. Weiss 2009 – Weiss M. 2009: Outline of the Historical and Comparative Grammar of Latin. Ann Arbor – New York: Beech Stave Press. WOLD – World Loanword Database. http://wold.clld.org/

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Early Semitic Loanwords in Greek Rafał Rosół The ancient Greeks knew that many of the words in their language had been borrowed from Oriental sources. There are accounts in the Greek literature that explicitly point to the Semitic origins of chosen words. We can cite examples in the two following statements: To; de; dh; lhvdanon, to; kalevousi jAravbioi lavdanon, e[ti touvtou (scil. tou` kinamwvnou) qwmasiwvteron givgnetai, “But gum-mastich, which Greeks call ledanon and Arabians ladanon, is yet more strangely produced” (Herodotus 3.112; trans. by A.D. Godley) and Livbano~ Suvrion o[noma, kai; ejn o[rei, kai; ejn futw/`, “Libanos is a Syrian name for both a mountain and a plant” (Geoponica 11.15). Within the framework of this paper we will try to answer the question as to, how many Greek common words attested in the sources from the Mycenaean times to the end of the 4th cent. B.C. can be treated as Semitic borrowings. We will start this presentation with the most numerous semantic group of early Semitic loanwords, mamely the names of plants and plant products. In almost all of these cases we are dealing with plants that were imported to Greece from the Near East and, consequently, were traded. The earliest attested names of plants are kuvminon n. ‘cumin (Cuminum cyminum)’ and shvsamon (Doric sa–vsamon) n. ‘seed or fruit of the sesame-plant; sesame plant (Sesamum indicum)’, which occur already in the Linear B tablets in the forms of ku-mi-no (nom. sg.), ku-mi-na (nom. pl.) 1 and sa-sa-ma (nom. pl.). 2 The Greek kuvminon is connected with such words as the Akkadian kamūnu / kammūnu / kamannu ‘cumin’, Ugaritic kmn ‘id.’, Hebrew kammōn ‘id.’, Phoenician kmn ‘id.’, 3 Jewish Aramaic kmwn ‘id.’ etc. (cf. Sumerian gamun ‘id.’). 4 As for shvsamon, it originates from the Ugaritic ššmn ‘sesame’, Hebrew (epigraphic) šmšm ‘id.’, Phoenician ššmn ‘id.’, Official Aramaic šmšm ‘id.’, Jewish Aramaic šumšəmā ‘id.’ and Arabic simsim ‘id.’ (cf. Hurrian šumišumi ‘id.’, Coptic simsim / sms(i)m / semsêm ‘id.’). 5 We can consider two names of different kinds of ‘cinnamon’ to be Semitic borrowings, i.e. kin(n)avmwmon (later also kivn(n)amon) n. ‘a kind of cassia (Cinnamomum cassia)’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.) and kas(s)iva (Ionian kasivh) f. ‘a kind of cassia (Cinnamomum iners)’ (since the 7th/6th cent. B.C.). The Semitic counterparts of the Greek kin(n)avmwmon are attested in Hebrew and Aramaic, i.e. the Hebrew qinnāmôn ‘cinnamon’, Jewish Aramaic qnmwn / qnmn ‘id.’, Samaritan Aramaic qynmwn ‘id.’ and Syriac qūnnāmā ‘id.’. 6 The word kas(s)iva seems to be slightly more problematic because its Semitic equivalent is actually a hapax legomenon, namely the Hebrew qəºîEā ‘cassia, cinnamon flowers’ (Ps 45:9). 7 1 See DMic: I: 401. 2 See DMic: II: 284. 3 Cf. also the form camavn that is, according to Pedanius Dioscorides (3.59 RV), an African (or Punic?) equivalent of the Greek kuvminon h{meron. 4 Lewy 1895: 38; Masson 1967: 51f.; Rosół 2013: 55f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 802. 5 Lewy 1895: 28f.; Masson 1967: 57f.; Beekes 2010: 1325; Rosół 2013: 91-93. 6 Lewy 1895: 37; Masson 1967: 51f.; Beekes 2010: 700f.; Rosół 2013: 49f. 7 Lewy 1895: 37; Masson 1967: 48-50; Rosół 2013: 48f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 653.

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Another Semitic name for spice is u{s(s)wpo~ f (also u{s(s)wpon n.) ‘hyssop (Origanum syriacum or Origanum hirtum)’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.) that is juxtaposed with the Hebrew Dēzôḇ ‘hyssop’, Jewish Aramaic Dēzôḇā ‘id.’, Ge‘ez Dazāb / Dazab / Dazob ‘hyssop, mint’ (cf. also Akkadian (New Babylonian) zūpu ‘a kind of origanum’, Syriac zōpā ‘hyssop’, Arabic zūfāD / zūfā ‘id.’ and Armenian zopay ‘id.’). 8 Among the names of fruit trees and bushes as well as of the fruits themselves we can find davktulo~ m. ‘date’ (since the 4th cent. B.C.) and sukavmino~ f./m. ‘mulberry-tree (Ficus sycomorus)’ with sukavminon n. ‘fruit of the mulberry’ (since the 4th cent. B.C.). The Greek davktulo~ should be juxtaposed with the Aramaic word with the meaning of ‘palm-tree, date-palm’: Official Aramaic dql, Jewish Aramaic dql / dyqlD / dîqlā, Mandaic diqla / ziqla, Syriac deqlā etc. 9 In this case the foreign word was transformed under the influence of the Greek davktulo~ m. ‘finger’ of an unknown etymology (cf. Latin digitus ‘id.’). 10 As for sukavmino~ / sukavminon, it is no doubt a counterpart of the Hebrew šiqəmā ‘mulberry-tree (Ficus sycomorus)’, Jewish Aramaic šqmh / šiqəmā ‘id.’ and Syriac šeqmā ‘id.’ However, it is difficult to explain the element -in- that, according to the most probable hypothesis, can be considered as a Semitic suffix of plural form, e.g. Herbrew -îm or Aramaic -în 11 (cf. kovfino~, tivtano~ and tuv(m)panon below; but note that the Semitic etymologies for these three words are not fully certain). As for plant products, there are several names of resins as used for different reasons, e.g. in medicine, for cosmetics or as incense. The earliest attested ones, namely in Sappho, are livbano~ m. ‘frankincense-tree (Boswellia carterii); frankincense’, libanwtov~ m./f. ‘frankincense; frankincense-tree (Boswellia carterii)’ and muvrra (with the secondary forms smuvrna / smuvrnh / zmuvrna) f. ‘myrrh, a gum of the balsam-tree (Balsamodendron myrrha)’. The Greek livbano~ and libanwtov~ can be considered as independent borrowings from the Akkadian lubbunû ‘incense’, labanātu ‘id.’ (a loanword from West Semitic), Hebrew ləḇōnā / ləḇônā ‘id.’, liḇnē ‘storax-tree’, Punic lbnt ‘incense’, Official Aramaic lbwnh / lbwntD ‘id.’, Jewish Aramaic lbwnh / lbwnth / lbwnD ‘id.’ etc. 12 As regards muvrra and its variants, it suits the Akkadian murru ‘myrrh’, Ugaritic mr ‘id.’, Hebrew mōr / môr ‘id.’, Phoenician mr ‘id.’, Jewish Aramaic mûrā / mr / mwr / mwrh / mwrth ‘id.’ and Syriac mūrā ‘id.’ etc. The initial fricative s- (later also z-) is a prothesis added secondarily before CVr- (cf. e.g. mavragdo~ : smavragdo~ m. ‘emerald’). The forms smuvrna / smuvrnh / zmuvrna with -na / -nh are not easy to explain, although we can notice a similar phenomenon in the word sisuvra : sivsurna f. ‘goat’s-hair cloak’. Perhaps here we are also dealing with the dissimilation of -rr- > -rnunder the influence of the initial s- (of course, one cannot exclude the folk etymological association with the place name Smuvrnh). 13 Three other Semitic names of resin occur in the Greek texts of the Classical period. One of them is lhvdanon / lavdanon n. ‘gum-ladanum’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.) with the later back formation lh`don n. = kivsqo~ (since the 1st cent. A.D.). Closest to the Greek word are Arabic 8 Lewy 1895: 38; Beekes 2010: 1538f.; Rosół 2013: 102-104. 9 Lewy 1895: 38; Beekes 2010: 300; Rosół 2013: 35f. 10 Some scholars believed that davktulo~ ‘date’ evolved from davktulo~ ‘finger’; e.g. Prellwitz 1905: 104; Boisacq 1916: 164. 11 Lewy 1895: 22f.; Beekes 2010: 1420f.; Rosół 2013: 98f. 12 Lewy 1895: 44f.; Masson 1967: 53f; Beekes 2010: 860; Rosół 2013: 63-66. 13 Lewy 1895: 42; Masson 1967: 54-56; Beekes 2010: 983; Rosół 2013: 71f. Cf. Heubeck 1949-50: 272f.

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forms: the Old South Arabic ldn ‘ladanum’ 14 and Arabic lādan / lādin / lāDan ‘ladanum’ (cf. Akkadian ladinnu / ladnu / ladunu ‘ladanum ?’, 15 Hebrew lō³ ‘bark of Pistacia mutica which is rich in resin, mastic’, Jewish Aramaic l³wm / lôDānā ‘id.’ etc.). 16 Another name for resin is stuvrax m./f. ‘storax, a gum produced from the storax-tree; storax-tree (Styrax officinalis)’. This term seems to be connected with the Old Canaanite ºry ‘balm, balsam’, Ugaritic (syllabic) Õurwu or ºurwu ‘(aromatic) gum’, Hebrew ºərî / ºŏrî ‘mastic or balsam’, Syriac ºarwā ‘pine fruit; cedar bark; macir (aromatic bark)’, Old South Arabic ḍrw ‘an aromatic resin’ 17 and Arabic ḍarw ‘a species of tree, of sweet odour, with the wood of which the teeth are rubbed and cleansed, and the leaves of which are put into perfume’. 18 The foreign word was extended by means of the suffix -ak-, which appears in some other plant names, e.g. dovnax (also dw`nax and dou`nax) -ako~ m. ‘pole-reed (Arundo donax)’, smi`lax / mi`lax, -ako~ f. (m.) ‘yew (Taxus baccata)’. The last early Semitic name for resin is calbavnh f. ‘galbanum, i.e. an aromatic gum resin and plant (Ferula galbaniflua)’ (since the 4th/3rd cent. B.C.), whose counterparts in the Semitic languages are the Hebrew ¡elbinā ‘galbanum’, Jewish Aramaic ¡lbnh / ¡albānîTā / ¡lbynD / ¡lbyntD ‘id.’ and Syriac ¡elbānītā ‘id.’ (cf. Egyptian Demotic g orb#no ‘id.’). 19 Moreover, there are three Semitic names of oils and ointments together with plants from which they were produced. These are bavlsamon n. ‘balsam-tree (Balsamodendron opobalsamum); the fragrant oil of the balsam-tree’ (since the 4th cent. B.C.), navrdo~ f. / navrdon n. ‘spikenard (Nardostachys jatamansi); oil of spikenard’ (since the 4th/3rd cent. B.C.; cf. navrdino~ ‘of nard’, since the 5th/4th cent. B.C.) and kuvpro~ f. ‘henna (Lawsonia inermis); oil and unguent produced of henna’ (since the 4th/3rd cent. B.C.). The word bavlsamon is, no doubt, connected with the Hebrew bôśem / beśem ‘balsam-tree (Balsamodendron opobalsamum), balsam-oil, perfume’, Punic bšm ‘perfume, spice’, Jewish Aramaic bûsmā ‘spice, fragrance’ and Syriac besmā ‘scent, perfume; unguent’. 20 In the Greek word, the presence of the non-etymlogical liquid consonant l is surprising, but perhaps it is a kind of prothesis added before a dental stop. 21 The Greek navrdo~ / navrdon correlates to the Hebrew nērd ‘nard’, Jewish Aramaic nardā ‘id.’ and Mandaic nard ‘oil of nard’, 22 but, eventually, it goes back to a Middle Eastern language (cf. Sanskrit nálada- n. ‘spikenard (Nardostachys jatamansi)’ and Pāli narada- ‘id.’). 23 As regards kuvpro~, it finds counterparts in the Ugaritic kpr ‘henna’, Hebrew kō¶er ‘id.’, Syriac kūprā ‘id.’ (cf. Egyptian Demotic kwpr / qwpr ‘id.’, Coptic koupr / kouper / koupre / khouper ‘id.’, Nubian (Kunûzi) kofrê ‘id.’). 24 14 Cf. DOSA: 258 (‘kind of aromatic resin used as incense’); SD: 81 (‘ladanum aromatic’). 15 Cf. AHw: 527 (‘Ladanum-Harz’); CAD IX: 36 (‘an aromatic’); CDA: 175 (‘an aromatic, perhaps ladanum resin’). 16 Lewy 1895: 46; Nielsen 1986: 63f.; Beekes 2010: 855; Rosół 2013: 62f. 17 Cf. DOSA: 436 (‘an aromaic rasin or fruit used as incense; incense-burner’); SD: 42 (‘kind of aromatic’). 18 Lewy 1895: 41f.; Vitestam 1987-88; Rosół 2013: 97f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 1418. 19 Lewy 1895: 45; Masson 1967: 60; Beekes 2010: 1609; Rosół 2013: 104f. 20 Lewy 1895: 41; Steiner 1977: 123-129; Masson 1986: 221-225; Rosół 2013: 28-30. Cf. Masson 1967: 77f.; Beekes 2010: 198. 21 Cf. Steiner 1977: 124-127. 22 Cf. the Akkadian lardu / laradu with an uncertain meaning: AHw: 538 (‘Nardenwurzel, Nardengras’); CAD: IX, 103 (‘a plant with high alkali content, used as soap’); CDA: 178 (‘a grass, Nardus’). 23 Lewy 1895: 40; Masson 1967: 56; Beekes 2010: 996; Rosół 2013: 75f. 24 Lewy 1895: 40; Masson 1967: 52f.; Beekes 2010: 805; Rosół 2013: 56f.

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Furthermore, we should mention two other plant names that also seem to be of Semitic origin. One of them is kavnna / kavnnh f. ‘reed, i.e. giant cane (Arundo donax)’ (since the 4th cent. B.C.), which is connected with the Akkadian qanû ‘reed, cane; musical pipe; part of weighing-scales, measuring instrument’, Ugaritic qn ‘cane, windpipe etc.’, Hebrew qānē ‘reed; spice reed; a reed’s length; stalk; bone of the upper arm; beam of a balance’, Punic qnD / qnh ‘reed’, Jewish Aramaic qənē ‘reed, cane, branch, rod’, qaniyā ‘reed, cane, rod, measuring rod, tube, windpipe’, Syriac qanyā ‘reed; stalk etc.’. 25 What is interesting is that the Semitic words listed above should also be treated as a source of the Greek ka±nwvn, -ovno~ m. ‘straight rod, bar; beam or tongue of the balance; rule, standard’ (since Homer), 26 which was borrowed rather independently from kavnna / kavnnh 27. Another Semitic plant name in Greek is probably kaduvta~ (in Hesychius kasuvta~) m. ‘a parasitic plant (most commonly identified with Cassytha filiformis)’ (hapax legomenon in Theophrastus), which is juxtaposed with the Jewish Aramaic kəšûTā ‘dodder, a parasitic plant (Cuscuta)’, Syriac kšūtā ‘id.’, Middle Hebrew kəšûT ‘id.’, Arabic kašūT ‘species of cuscuta, or dodder’. 28 We also cannot exclude the mediation of a Semitic language in the case of sou`son n. ‘lily’ (since the 4th cent. B.C.). This name is, eventually, of Egyptian origin: Egyptian sššn ‘lotus’, sšn ‘id.’, Egyptian Demotic sšn ‘id.’, Coptic šôšen ‘lily, lotus’ (cf. Hebrew šûšan ‘lily, lotus’, Jewish Aramaic šwšnh ‘lily’). 29 It is worth mentioning such words as kavnnabi~, -io~, -ew~ f. ‘hemp (Cannabis sativa)’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.) and krovko~ m. (f.) ‘saffron (Crocus sativus)’ (since Homer) which are sometimes considered to be Semitic loanwords but, in fact, came into Greek rather from an Oriental language belonging to another group. 30 Contrary to plant names, there are only a few Greek animal names of Semitic origin. Among the mammals we can list, first of all, kavmhlo~ m./f. ‘camel (Camelus bactrianus and Camelus dromedarius)’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.), which has links to the Akkadian (New Assyrian) gammalu ‘camel’ (a loanword from West Semitic), Hebrew gāmāl ‘id.’, Official Aramaic gml ‘id.’, Jewish Aramaic gamlā, gml ‘id.’, Syriac gamlā ‘id.’, Old South Arabic gml ‘id.’, Arabic ğamal ‘id.’ etc. 31 The second possible, but not certain Semitic name for a mammal in Greek is li`~ (also liv~) m. ‘lion’ (since Homer), which seems to have some connections with the Hebrew layiš ‘lion’ and Aramaic (Deir Alla) lyš ‘id.’ (cf. Jewish Aramaic lēyTā ‘id.’, Arabic laiT ‘id.’). 32 In turn, not a Semitic loanword but presumably an Oriental one is levwn, onto~ m. ‘lion’, attested already in the Mycenaean times (instr. pl. re-wo-pi 33). 34 What is surprising is that the Greek name for moth (Tinea pellionella, Atropos pulsataria), i.e. shv~ m. (since the 5th cent. B.C.) seems to be of Semitic origin. This hypothesis can be put forward on the basis of the following forms: Akkadian sāsu ‘moth’, Hebrew sās ‘id.’, 25 Lewy 1895: 99; Masson 1967: 47f.; Rosół 2013: 44f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 636. 26 Cf. the Mycenaean ko-no-ni-pi (instr. pl.) but its connection with kanwvn m. and kanoniv~ f. is problematic; see DMic I: 377f.; Bartoněk 2003: 492; Beekes 2010: 637; Rosół 2013: 46. 27 Lewy 1895: 133; Rosół 2013: 45f. Masson 1967: 48; Beekes 2010: 637. 28 Lewy 1895: 52; Rosół 2013: 42f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 656. 29 Lewy 1895: 48f.; Lambdin 1953: 154; Masson 1967: 58f.; Rosół 2013: 135. 30 On kavnnabi~ see Salonen 1974; Bai 2009: 57f; Rosół 2013: 143f. On krovko~ see Lewy 1895: 48; Masson 1967: 50f.; Rosół 2013: 146. 31 Lewy 1895: 1; Masson 1967: 66f.; Beekes 2010: 630; Rosół 2013: 43f. 32 Lewy 1895: 6f.; Masson 1967: 85-87; Blažek 2005: 85f.; Rosół 2013: 66f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 854; Niesiołowski-Spanò 2016: 237. 33 DMic II: 248f. 34 Masson 1967: 85-87; Blažek 2005: 84, 92; Rosół 2013: 146-148.

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Old Aramaic ss ‘id.’, Official Aramaic ssD ‘id.’, Jewish Aramaic ss ‘moth; worm’, Syriac sāsā ‘grub, worm’ etc. (cf. Sumerian ziz ‘insect’, Armenian cEecE ‘moth, worm, woodworm’). 35 Perhaps, this word was taken over in connection with the Oriental impact on the Greek textile industry. We can also discern Semitic roots in the case of the Greek skorpivo~ m. ‘scorpion’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.), that shares similarities with the Ugaritic ʕqrb ‘scorpion’, Hebrew Eaqrāḇ ‘id.’, Old Aramaic Eqrb ‘id.’, Official Aramaic EqrbD ‘id.’, Jewish Aramaic Eqrb / Eaqrabbā / Eqrbh ‘id.’ ‘scorpion’, Syriac Eeqqarbā ‘id.’, Arabic Eaqrab ‘id.’. 36 The initial fricative s- is probably a secondary prothesis (cf. muvrra / smuvrna / smuvrnh / zmuvrna mentioned above). Much more problematic is the etymology of the animal name shvy m./f. ‘a kind of serpent; a kind of lizard’ (since the 4th/3rd cent. B.C.), which is commonly considered a derivation from the verb shvpw ‘make rotten or putrid’ (cf. shvy f. ‘putrefying sore’ and sh`yi~ f. ‘fermentation, putrefaction, decay’). However, it is also possible that at least the name for a lizard can be related to the Hebrew ºāḇ ‘spiny-tailed lizard (Uromastyx)’, 37 Jewish Aramaic ºabbā / ºb / ºbD ‘a kind of lizard’, Arabic ”abb ‘spiny-tailed lizard (Uromastyx)’. 38 When discussing animals, it is worth mentioning a creature called gruvy m. (later also grubov~ m.) ‘griffin’ (at least since the 5th cent. B.C.). There are quite many supporters of the hypothesis that this name should be linked to the Akkadian kurību ‘an ethereal sprrit’, Hebrew kərûḇ ‘cherub’, Punic krb ‘id.’, Jewish Aramaic krwb / krwbD / krwb ‘id.’, Syriac krōbā ‘id.’ etc. 39 The next semantic group are names of metals, stones and minerals. The earliest attested term for these is crusov~ m. ‘gold’, which appears in the Linear B tablets, i.e. instr. sg. kuru-so, gen. sg. ku-ru-so-jo. 40 The Greek word is connected with the Akkadian Ÿurâºu ‘gold’, Ugaritic Ÿrº ‘id.’, Ugaritic (syllabic) Ÿurâºu ‘id.’, Phoenician and Punic ¡rº ‘id.’, Hebrew ¡ārûº ‘id.’. 41 Among the names of stones, Semitic roots can be traced back for i[aspi~ f. ‘jasper’ (since the 4th cent. B.C.) and probably savpfeiro~ f. ‘lapis lazuli’ (since the 4th/3rd cent. B.C.). The former suits the Akkadian jašpû / ašpû ‘jasper’, Hebrew yāš¶ê ‘id.’, Syriac yašpē / yašpā ‘id.’, Arabic yašb ‘id.’; 42 the latter has its equivalent in the Hebrew sappîr ‘lapis lazuli’ (cf. Syriac sappīlā ‘id.’, Armenian šapEiªa / šapEiªay ‘sapphire’). 43 As for the names of minears, Semitic etymology can be accepted for guvyo~ f. ‘chalk, gypsum, plaster’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.), whose counterparts are the Akkadian gaººu ‘gypsum’, Aramaic (Hatra) gº ‘mortar’, Jewish Aramaic gāººā ‘chalk’, Syriac gaººā ‘id.’, Arabic ğiºº / ğaºº ‘gypsum’ (cf. Egyptian (syllabic) qD ‘gypsum, plaster’ (a Semitic loanword). 44 Perhaps we should also include in this group tivtano~ f. ‘chalk, gypsum, lime’ (since the 6th cent. B.C. 45), i.e. if the connection with the Hebrew śîD ‘chalk’, Jewish Aramaic sîDā 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

Lewy 1895: 17f.; Bai 2009: 95f.; Rosół 2013: 90f. Cf. Masson 1967: 93f.; Beekes 2010: 1325. Bai 2009: 98-100; Rosół 2013: 95-97. Cf. Beekes 2010: 1359. Hapax legomenon in Lev. 11:29. Lewy 1895: 13f.; Rosół 2013: 93. Lewy 1895: 11f.; Bai 2009: 45f.; Rosół 2013: 32-34. Cf. Beekes 2010: 289. DMic I: 409. Lewy 1895: 59f.; Masson 1967: 37f; Beekes 2010: 1652; Rosół 2013: 109-111. Lewy 1895: 56; Rosół 2013: 40. Cf. Beekes 2010: 574. Lewy 1895: 56; Rosół 2013: 87-89. Cf. Masson 1967: 66, note 2; Beekes 2010: 1307. Bai 2009: 46; Rosół 2013: 34f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 293. Attested for the first time in Hesiod’s Scutum. Cf. Hesychius’ glosses tevtano~: koniva. crivsma. a[sbesto~ and kivttano~: hJ koniakh; tivtano~.

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‘lime, plaster’, Syriac saidā ‘chalk’, Arabic šīd ‘plaster, gypsum, mortar’, and the hypothesis assuming assimilation of the initial fricative are correct. 46 Another problematic word is a[sfalto~ f. (m.) ‘asphalt, bitumen’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.) and ‘pitch’ (in the Septuagint), which is commonly considered a native word derived from the verb σφάλλω ‘make to fall, overthrow’. According to this explanation, the original meaning of the word is ‘protecting (the walls) from tumbling down’. However, I tend to compare this word with the Akkadian (New Babylonian) ziptu or zibtu ‘pitch’ (an Aramaic loanword), Hebrew ze¶eT ‘id.’, Jewish Aramaic zpt / zyptD / zi¶tā ‘id.’, Syriac zeptā ‘id.’, Ge‘ez. zəft ‘resin, pitch, asphalt’ and Arabic zift ‘pitch, asphalt’ (presumably an Aramaic loanword). If this comparison is correct, the foreign word underwent a change because of the metathesis zVp- → ajsf- and because of the adding of a prothetic liquid consonant (cf. bavlsamon). 47 A similar metathesis takes place in the case of another name for a mineral, namely ajrsenikovn / ajrrenikovn n. ‘yellow orpiment’ (since the 4th cent. B.C.). We cannot ascertain if this originnally Iranian word came into Greek directly or through the mediation of the Semitic (Aramaic?) language (cf. Official Aramaic zrnyk ‘yellow oripiment’, Syriac zarnīkā ‘id.’, Middle Hebrew zarnîḵ ‘id.’, Armenian za­ik ‘id.’, Modern Persian zarnī / zarnīŸ / zarnīq / zarnīk ‘id.’ and Arabic zirnīŸ ‘id.’. 48 As for Greek words in the field of economy, we can list at least three that have Semitic roots: mna` -a`~, Ionian -h`~ (Ionian nom. pl. mnevai) f. ‘mina (as a weight and monetary unit)’ (since the 6th cent. B.C.), sivglo~ (later also sivklo~) m. ‘shekel (as a weight and monetary unit)’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.) and ajr(r)abwvn m. ‘earnest-money, caution-money, pledge’ (since the 4th cent. B.C.). The Greek mna` originates from the Akkadian manû / manāDu ‘mina (a weighing measure)’, Ugaritic mn ‘id.’, Hebrew mānē ‘id.’, Official Aramaic mnh ‘id.’, Jewish Aramaic manyā ‘id.’ (cf. Sumerian mana ‘id.’, Egyptian (syllabic) mnn ‘id.’, Egyptian Demotic mn# ‘id.’). 49 As regards sivglo~ / sivklo~, it goes back to Akkadian šiqlu ‘shekel’, Hebrew šeqel ‘weihgt, weightiness; a specific weight, a shekel’, Hebrew (epigraphic) šql ‘shekel’, Punic šql ‘id.’, Old Aramaic šql ‘id.’ and Official Aramaic šql / tql ‘id.’ (cf. also Ugaritic Tql ‘id.’ and Biblical Aramaic təqēl ‘id.’). 50 The Greek ajr(r)abwvn comes from the Akkadian erubbātu (plurale tantum) ‘pledge’, Ugaritic ʕrbn ‘guarantor, surety’, Ugaritic (syllabic) Eur(r)Àb(b)ānu ‘id.’, Hebrew Eērāḇôn ‘security, pledge’, Official Aramaic Erbn ‘id.’, Jewish Aramaic Earbônā / Erbw ‘pledge’ etc. (cf. Egyptian Demotic #rb ‘pledge’ (a Semitic loanword), Coptic arêb / (e)rêb ‘id.’). 51 Moreover, two Iranian words, namely ajrtavbh f. ‘artabe (a measure of capacity)’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.) and mavri~ m. ‘maris (a liquid measure)’ (since the 4th cent. B.C.), are noteworthy, for they could have been borrowed not directly from an Iranian language but through a Semitic one. 52 A numerous group of Semitic borrowings are terms related to the textile industry. Among them, the earliest attested term is citwvn (with the dialectal variants kiqwvn and kitwvn) m. ‘garment worn next to the skin, tunic’, which appears already in the Mycenaean tablets in 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

Rosół 2013: 100f. Cf. Bai 2009: 101f. Rosół 2013: 26-28. Cf. Beekes 2010: 159. Brust 2008: 117-122; Rosół 2013: 137f. Lewy 1895: 118; Masson 1967: 32-34; Beekes 2010: 959f.; Rosół 2013: 70f. Lewy 1895: 118f.; Masson 1967: 34-37; Beekes 2010: 1328; Rosół 2013: 94f. Lewy 1895: 120; Masson 1967: 30f.; Rosół 2013: 23f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 139f. Brust 2008: 447-451 (only about mavri~); Rosół 2013: 138, 141f.

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the form ki-to. 53 Its counterparts in the Semitic languages are the Akkadian kitû ‘flax, linen’, Ugaritic ktn ‘a type of tunic’, Hebrew kuttōneT ‘shirt-like tunic’, Phoenician ktn ‘linen or tunic’, 54 Official Aramaic ktn ‘flax, linen; tunic, garment’, Jewish Aramaic kîttān / kîttānā / kytDnD / kytn ‘flax, linen’, kîttûnā ‘linen garment’ etc. 55 From the etymological point of view, the names clai`na f. ‘upper-garment, cloak, wrapper’ (since Homer) and clamuv~ f. ‘short mantle’ (since Sappho) are very intriguing. They were taken over independently in different times (and, supposedly, in different places) from the same group of Semitic names, such as the Akkadian (New Assyrian, New Babylonian) gulēnu / gulānu ‘overcoat’, Hebrew gəlôm ‘cloak, wrap’, Jewish Aramaic glymh / glymth / gəlîmā / glym ‘garment, cloak’ and Syriac glaimā ‘id.’ 56 Another Oriental name for coat is kaunavkh(~) / gaunavkh(~) m./f. ‘covering, coat’ (since the 5th/4th cent. B.C.), which is originally an Iranian word, although Semitic mediation cannot be excluded. 57 As for the names of fabrics, we can mention only one word that is certainly of Semitic origin, i.e. buvsso~ f. ‘byssus, flax’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.), which correlates to the Akkadian bûºu ‘fine linen, byssus’, Hebrew bûº ‘id.’, Phoenician bº ‘id.’, Punic bwº ‘id.’ and Jewish Aramaic bûº / bwº ‘id.’. 58 Worth noting is also ojqovnh f. (usually pl.) ‘fine linen, fine linen cloth’ (since Homer) that seems to have Egyptian roots; although Semitic mediation is not unlikely (cf. Egyptian jdmj ‘linen cloth (perhaps dark red)’, Hebrew Dê³ûn ‘linen’, 59 Jewish Aramaic Dă³ûnā / D³wnD ‘strap, rope’ and Mandaic a³unia ‘thongs, straps’). 60 Furthermore, three other Semitic loanwords belong to the same semantic group, namely savk(k)o~ m. ‘coarse cloth (especially of goat’s hair); sack, bag; coarse garment etc.’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.), kasa`~ m. ‘horsedress, saddle pad’ (since the 4th cent. B.C.) and kivtari~ (with the variants kivdari~ and kivttari~) f. ‘head-dress of Persian kings, turban of a Jewish high priest (later also of Jesus and Christian priests)’ (since the 5th/4th cent. B.C.). The Semitic counterparts of the Greek savk(k)o~ are the Akkadian saqqu ‘sack, sack-cloth’, Hebrew śaq ‘sack; a piece of clothing (worn by people in time of sorrow and mourning); blanket’, Official Aramaic šq ‘sack, sackcloth’, Jewish Aramaic śq / sq / saqqā / śqD / sqD ‘id.’, Syriac saqqā ‘id.’ (cf. Egyptian s#q (also written as sq) ‘sack’ and Coptic sok / sôk / sak ‘sack, sackcloth, bag’). 61 As regards kasa`~, it has connections with the Akkadian kusītu ‘a garment’, Eblaite gu-zi-tum (= kusītum) ‘a garment’, Ugaritic kst / kśt ‘a type of robe or cloak’, Hebrew kәsûT ‘covering, clothing’, Official Aramaic kst ‘garment, clothing’, Jewish Aramaic kisāyā / kisûTā / ksw / kswth ‘covering, clothing’, Jewish Aramaic (epigraphic) kswt ‘id.’, Syriac ksāyā ‘covering’ and Old South Arabic kśw ‘clothing, garment’. 62 The Greek kivtari~ / kivdari~ / kivttari~ originates from the Hebrew keTer ‘high turban (of the Persian

53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62

DMic I: 568. Cf. DNWSI: 547f. (‘linen’); PPD: 246 (‘tunic’). Lewy 1895: 82; Masson 1967: 27-29; Rosół 2013: 105-107. Cf. Beekes 2010: 1635. Szemerényi 1974: 148; Bai 2009: 106-108; Rosół 2013: 107-109. Brust 2008: 200-217; Rosół 2013: 140f. Lewy 1895: 125f.; Masson 1967: 21f.; Beekes 2010: 249; Rosół 2013: 30f. This is a hapax legomenen in the expression Dê³ûn miºrāyim ‘linen from Egypt’ (Prov. 7:16). Lewy 1895: 124f.; Lambdin 1953: 147; Masson 1967: 89f.; Beekes 2010: 1051; Rosół 2013: 134. Lewy 1895: 87; Masson 1967: 24f.; Beekes 2010: 1302; Rosół 2013: 84f. Masson 1967: 22-24; Rosół 2013: 46f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 653.

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king); head-dress (of a horse)’, Jewish Aramaic ktr ‘turban, head-dress’, kiTrā ‘crown’ (cf. Punic ktrt with an uncertain meaning 63). 64 In the field of music, at least one Greek name for an instrument exists that is a Semitic loanword, i.e. navbla~ m. / navbla f. ‘a kind of harp’ (since the 4th/3rd cent. B.C.); it comes from the Hebrew nēḇel / neḇel ‘harp’, Jewish Aramaic niḇlā ‘id.’ and Syriac nablā ‘musical instrument’. 65 Apart from it, there are three other names of instruments, for which noteworthy but not fully convincing Semitic etymologies have been proposed until today, namely sambuvkh f. ‘a kind of harp’ (since the 4th cent. B.C.) that is linked to the Akkadian sammû ‘harp, lyre’ (cf. Sumerian zamin ‘lyre’), 66 savlpigx m. ‘trumpet’ (since Homer), which shares similarities with the Akkadian šulpu ‘stalk, straw; a wind instrument’, Ugaritic Tlb ‘flute’ (cf. Egyptian (syll.) šnb ‘trumpet’) 67 and tuv(m)panon n. ‘frame drum, tambour’ (attested for the first time in the Homeric Hymn 14). The latter, in turn, could have originated from the Ugaritic tp ‘drum or tambourine’, Hebrew tō¶ ‘hand-drum, tambourine’, Jewish Aramaic twp / twpD ‘drum’ and Arabic duff / daff ‘tambourine’. 68 The last more numerous group are the names of various containers. Three of them have more certain etymologies because of suitable equivalents in Semitic languages. First, gaulov~ m. ‘milk-pail; water-bucket; drinking bowl’ (since Homer) that comes from the Akkadian gullu ‘a vessel’, Ugaritic gl ‘cup’ and Hebrew gullā ‘basin, bowl’ (cf. Phoenician gln ‘cup’). 69 Second, kavdo~ m. ‘vessel, jar (for wine or water); a liquid measure’ (since the 7th/6th cent. B.C.), which suits the Ugaritic kd ‘jar, measure of capacity for liquid’, Ugaritic (syllabic) kaddu ‘jar’, Hebrew kaD ‘id.’, Hebrew (epigraphic) kd ‘id.’, Phoenician and Punic kd ‘id.’, Official Aramaic kd ‘id.’, Jewish Aramaic kaD ‘vessel’ and kd / kaddā ‘a storage vessel’. 70 Third, kuvmbh (Cypriot kuvbba–) f. ‘drinking-cup, bowl; boat’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.) that correlates to the Akkadian qabūtu / qabuttu ‘a bowl’, Ugaritic qbʕ ‘goblet’, Hebrew qubbaEaT ‘id.’, Phoenician qbE ‘id.’ and Official Aramaic qbED (emphatic) ‘id.’. 71 The other names of containers raise some difficulties and their Semitic origins are not fully certain, e.g. fakov~ m. ‘hot-water bottle’ (first attested in Corpus Hippocraticum) and kovfino~ m. ‘basket; measure of capacity’ (since the 5th/4th cent. B.C.). The Greek fakov~ can be juxtaposed with the Hebrew paḵ ‘small jar’ that had been translated in the Septuagint through fakov~. 72 As for kovfino~, it shares some similarities with the Akkadian quppu ‘a wicker basket or wooden chest; cage; a box for silver and precious objects’, Ugaritic qpt ‘box, chest, basket’, Official Aramaic qwp ‘chest, large basket’, qph ‘basket’, Jewish Aramaic qwph ‘id.’, quppəTā ‘collection box’, Arabic quffa ‘large basket’; 73 these similarities might, of course, only be purely coincidental. 63 Cf. DNWSI: 548 (‘capital [architectural term]’); PPD: 247 (‘high turban’). 64 Lewy 1895: 90; Szemerényi 1974: 149; Bai 2009: 62f.; Rosół 2013: 50-52. Cf. Brust 2008: 342-347; Beekes 2010: 694. 65 Lewy 1895: 161; Masson 1967: 68f.; Beekes 2010: 993; Rosół 2013: 73f. 66 West 1992: 75 with note 120; Rosół 2013: 86f. 67 Hoch 1994: 282; Rosół 2013: 85f. 68 Lewy 1895: 166; Masson 1967: 94f.; Rosół 2013: 101f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 1518. 69 Lewy 1895: 150f.; Masson 1967: 39-42; Rosół 2013: 31f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 262. 70 Lewy 1895: 102; Masson 1967: 42-44; Rosół 2013: 41f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 614. 71 Rosół 2013: 53-55. 72 Rosół 2013: 104. According to the communis opinio, Greek fakov~ ‘hot-water bottle’ comes from fakov~ ‘lentil’; see e.g. Lewy 1895: 28; Beekes 2010: 1547f. 73 Rosół 2013: 52f.

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As regards words belonging to other semantic groups, we should mention devlto~ f. ‘writing-tablet’ and plivnqo~ f. ‘brick’ (both attested since the 5th century B.C.), which are surely of Semitic origin. The Greek devlto~ has links, first of all, to the Phoenician and Punic dlt ‘door; tablet, plaquette’ and Hebrew deleT ‘door, leaf of door; lid; column (of a scroll)’ (cf. Akkadian daltu ‘door’, Ugaritic dlt ‘id.’, Jewish Aramaic (epigraphic) dlt ‘id.’ etc.). 74 The Greek name for brick originates from the Akkadian libittu / labittu ‘mudbrick; brick of metal, dung; brickwork’, Ugaritic lbnt ‘brick’, Hebrew ləḇēnā ‘sun-baked brick; flagstone, tile’, Official Aramaic lbnh ‘brick’, Jewish Aramaic lbn / lbnD / lybnh / ləḇêntâ / lbytD ‘id.’ etc. 75 In the case of Greek plivnqo~, as we can see, a metathesis took place at the beginning of the word (cf. a[sfalto~ and ajrsenikovn / ajrrenikovn). Another interesting word is gavza f. ‘treasure’ (since the 4th/3rd cent. B.C.) that is, no doubt, an Iranian borrowing, but we cannot, similarly to some of the other examples given above, exclude Semitic mediation. 76 Moreover, there are many other Greek words that share some similarities with Semitic ones, although the etymologies based on these comparisons raise some doubts and have been accepted only by a small group of scholars. In my opinion, the linguistic material and the studies that have been conducted until today give interesting possibilities of Semitic etymology for the following Greek words: ajxivnh f. ‘axe’ (since Homer), ajskov~ m. ‘skin, hide’, usually ‘skin made into a bag, especially wineskin’ (since Homer), eJrmhneuv~ (Doric eJrma–neuv~) m. ‘interpreter, dragoman’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.), levmbo~ m. ‘boat, fishingboat, shallop, fast-sailing galley’ (since the 4th cent. B.C.), mavndalo~ m. ‘bar, bolt’ (since the 5th/4th cent. B.C.), pevlano~ / pelanov~ m. ‘liquid, mixture of meal, honey, and oil (often offered to the gods and the dead)’ (since the 5th cent. B.C.), saghvnh f. ‘large drag-net’ (since LXX; cf. sa±ghneuvw ‘to take fish with a drag-net’, since the 5th cent. B.C.) and semivdali~ f. ‘the finest wheaten flour’ (since the 5th/4th cent. B.C.). 77 Finally, a specific group of words we have to keep in mind are Greek-Hebrew isoglosses. In sum, there are five such pairs of nouns, although it is very difficult to establish their mutual relations; these are lampav~ f. ‘torch’ (since the 6th/5th cent. B.C.) and Hebrew lappîD ‘torch; lightning’ (cf. Greek lavmpw ‘give light, shine’), levsch (Doric levsca–) f. ‘public building or hall, lounging place’ (since Homer) and Hebrew liškā / niškā ‘hall’, ma`za / mavza (Megarian ma`dda) f. ‘barley-cake’ (since Hesiod) and Hebrew maººā ‘matzah’ (cf. Greek mattw / massw ‘knead, press into a mould’), mw`mo~ m. ‘blame, reproach’ (since Homer), ‘blemish’ (LXX) and Hebrew mûm ‘spot, blemish, injury’ and pallakiv~ (later also palla±khv) f. ‘concubine’ (since Homer) and Hebrew pileḡeš / pîleḡeš ‘id.’ (cf. Latin paelex, -icis f. ‘concubine’). 78 Personally, I am more inclined toward the hypothesis that the Greek words are borrowings from West Semitic, particularly in the case of levsch and pallakiv~. The overview presented above points out that there are, depending on the level of certainty of particular etymologies ca. 50 to 80 Semitic loanwords in early Greek. This number can be complemented by the names of the Greek letters, as 17 of them seem to be of Semitic Lewy 1895: 171; Masson 1967: 61-65; Beekes 2010: 313; Rosół 2013: 37f. Szemerényi 1974: 149; Bai 2009: 89-91; Rosół 2013: 81f. Cf. Beekes 2010: 1211. Brust 2008: 173-193; Rosół 2013: 138f. On all these words see Rosół 2013: 21-23, 24-26, 38-40, 59f., 68f., 79-81, 82-84, 89f. (with further literature). 78 On the Greek-Hebrew isoglosses see e.g. Rosół 2013: 57-59; 60-62; 67f.; 72f.; 76-79; NiesiołowskiSpanò 2016: 190-192, 197f., 237, 247f., 258f.

74 75 76 77

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origin: a[lfa, bh`ta, gavmma (gevmma), devlta, ei`, *Ûau`, h\ta, qh`ta; ijw`ta, kavppa, lav(m)bda, nu`, pei`, kovppa, rJw` (not fully certain); savn, and tau`. 79 Bibliography Abbreviations

AHw – W. von Soden 1965-81: Akkadisches Hadnwörterbuch, vol. 1-3. Wiesbaden. CAD – The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the Univeristy of Chicago, vol. 1–21, Chicago 1956–2010. CDA – J. Black, A. George, N. Postgate 2000: A Concise Dictionary of Akkadian. 2nd ed. Wiesbaden. DMic – F. Aura Jorro, F. R. Adrasos (eds), 1985-93: Diccionario Griego-Espanol, Diccionario Micénico, vol. 1–2, Madrid. DNWSI – J. Hoftijzer, K. Jongeling 1995: Dictionary of the North-West Semitic Inscriptions, parts 1-2. Leiden. DOSA – J.C. Biella 1982: Dictionary of Old South Arabic. Sabaean Dialect. Chico. PPD – Ch.R. Krahmalkov 2000: Phoenician-Punic Dictionary. Leuven. SD – A.F.L. Beeston, M.A. Ghul, W.W. Müller, J. Ryckmans 1982: Sabaic Dictionary (English-French-Arabic). Louvain-la-Neuve – Beyrouth. Bai 2009 – Bai G. 2009: Semitische Lehnwörter im Altgriechischen. Hamburg. Bartoněk 2003 – Bartoněk A. 2003: Handbuch des mykenischen Griechisch. Heidelberg. Beekes 2010 – Beekes R. 2010: Etymological Dictionary of Greek. With the assistance of L. van Beek, vol. 1-2. Leiden – Boston. Blažek 2005 – Blažek V. 2005: Hic erant leones. Indo-European “lion” et alii. Journal of Indo-European Studies 33: 63-101. Boisacq 1916 – Boisacq É. 1916: Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque. Heidelberg – Paris. Brust 2008 – Brust M. 2008: Die indischen und iranischen Lehnwörter im Griechischen. 2nd ed. Innsbruck. Heubeck 1949-50 – Heubeck A. 1949-50: Smyrna, Myrina und Verwandtes. Beiträge zur Namenforschung 1: 270-282. Hoch 1994 – Hoch J.E. 1994: Semitic Words in Egyptian Texts of the New Kingdom and the Third Intermediate Period. Princeton. Krebernik 2007 – Krebernik M. 2007: Buchstabennamen, Lautwerte und Alphabetgeschichte, In R. Rollinger et al. (eds), Getrennte Wege? Kommunikation, Raum und Wahrnehmung in der Alten Welt. Frankfurt am Main: 108-175. Lambdin 1953 – Lambdin Th.O. 1953: Egyptian Loan Words in the Old Testamnt. Journal of the American Oriental Society 73: 145-155. Lewy 1895 – Lewy H. 1895: Die semitischen Fremdwörter im Griechischen. Berlin. Masson 1967 – Masson É. 1967: Recherches sur les plus anciens emprunts sémitiques en grec. Paris. Masson 1986 – Masson M. 1986: À propos des critèries permettant d’établir l’origine semitique de certains mots grecs. Comptes Rendus du Groupe Linguistique d’Études Chamito-Sémitiques 24: 199-231. Nielsen 1986 – Nielsen K. 1986: Incense in Ancient Israel. Leiden. Niesiołowski-Spanò 2016 – Niesiołowski-Spanò Ł. 2016: Goliath’s Legacy. Philistines and Hebrews in Biblical Times. Wiesbaden. Nöldeke 1904 – Nöldeke Th. 1904: Die semitischen Buchstabennamen, in: id., Beiträge zur semitischen Sprachwissenschaft. Strassburg: 124-136. Prellwitz 1905 – Prellwitz W. 1905: Etymologisches Wörterbuch der griechischen Sprache. 2nd ed. Göttingen. 79 See e.g. Nöldeke 1904; Krebernik 2007; Willi 2008; Rosół 2013: 113-132.

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Rosół 2013 – Rosół R. 2013: Frühe semitische Lehnwörter im Grechischen. Frankfurt am Main. Salonen 1974 – Salonen E. 1974: Über enige Lehnwörter aus dem Nahen Osten im Griechischen und Lateinischen. Arctos 8: 139-144. Steiner 1977 – Steiner R.C. 1977: The Case for Fricative-Laterals in Proto-Semitic. New Haven. Szemerényi 1974 – Szemerényi O. 1974: The Origins of the Greek Lexicon: Ex oriente lux. Journal of Hellenic Studies 94: 145-157. Vitestam 1987-88 – Vitestam G. 1987-88: Stuvrax and ºŏrî. An Etymological Study, Orientalia Suecana 36-37: 29-37. West 1992 – West M.L. 1992: Ancient Greek Music. Oxford. Willi 2008 – Willi A. 2008: Cows, Houses, Hooks: the Graeco-Semitic Letter Names as a Chapter in the History of the Alphabet. Classical Quarterly 58: 401-423.

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Semitic influences in Anatolian languages Paola Dardano 1. Documentation 1.1. Languages and civilizations of ancient Anatolia Hittite, Palaic, Luwian, Lycian, Lydian, Carian, Pisidian and Sidetic belong to the Anatolian subgroup of Indo-European languages. The Anatolian subgroup is attested in Anatolia and northern Syria in documents dating from the sixteenth century BCE to the first centuries CE in three different writing systems: cuneiform, hieroglyphic and alphabetic. 1 In addition to Indo-European languages, Semitic languages (Akkadian, Ugaritic, Phoenician and Aramaic) are also attested, in addition to other languages such as Sumerian, the language for which the cuneiform script was invented, Hurrian, the language of the Mittani Empire which flourished during the fifteenth and early fourteenth centuries BCE, and Hattic, most probably the language of the pre-Hittite inhabitants of northern Anatolia. 2 Of course, none of the civilizations and languages which developed in the region can be studied in isolation. The Near Eastern world, then as now, was characterized by a high degree of cultural coherence as well as cultural diversity, and by a complex network of political and commercial interrelationships. It is virtually impossible to acquire expertise of a specific Near Eastern language unless one has an understanding of the broad political and cultural context in which it emerged and ran its course. The present investigation focuses on Semitic influences on Anatolian languages. Despite the clear influence of Mesopotamian religion and literature on Anatolian culture, 3 the mechanisms by which Akkadian forms and constructions from Mesopotamia reached Anatolian languages have not been fully investigated. 4 I admit unreservedly that there are some important problems of a general order. First of all, the documentation regarding some Anatolian languages is extremely poor and their meaning is difficult to decipher. Secondly, language contacts are not always direct as an intermediary language sometimes plays an 1 For an overview of the Anatolian languages see Melchert 1995; on Hittite see Watkins 2004; Rieken 2007. The standard reference grammar of the Hittite language is Hoffner, Melchert 2008. On Cuneiform and Hieroglyphic Luwian see Melchert 2003; Melchert 2004. The Hittites borrowed the cuneiform writing system from Mesopotamia (see below, section 2.1.). So-called Hittite hieroglyphs are, however, a native creation of Anatolia. The use of hieroglyphs survives beyond the end of the Hittite empire in some vassal states of northern Syria, where many texts are documented dating from the tenth to the eighth centuries BCE. For an overview of the hieroglyphic script see Hawkins 2003. On Anatolian multiligualism see Justus 1992; Rieken 1999a; Daues 2008; Marazzi 2010; on Luwian influence on Hittite see Melchert 2005. 2 For an overview of the Near Eastern languages see Streck (Hg.) 2007. 3 For the most recent and thorough treatment of Hittite religion and literature see Haas 1994; Haas 2006. 4 Akkadian, the language of the ancient Babylonians and Assyrians, is the most widely attested member of the Eastern branch of the Semitic family; for an overview of Akkadian see Streck 2007. The standard reference grammar is von Soden 1995; on Akkadian from Anatolia see Labat 1932; Durham 1976.

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important role. However, we are fortunate enough to have second-millennium sources in Hittite, Hurrian, and Akkadian from Ḫattuša (Boğazköy, modern day Boğazkale), the capital of the Late Bronze Age Hittites, and it is thus possible to trace how contacts developed between Akkadian and Hittite and to see how they changed over time. It should be stated at the outset, however, that these are not the only contacts between Anatolian and Semitic languages. This paper focuses on Akkadian influences on Hittite and Luwian, while Semitic influences on Lycian, Lydian, Pisidian and Sidetic are not considered. After discussing the influence of Akkadian in Anatolia (section 2), the loanwords, loan shifts and loan translations in Hittite will be illustrated (section 3). Particular attention will be paid to loan translation of entire phrasemes. There then follows a brief discussion of Akkadian influences on Cuneiform and Hieroglyphic Luwian (section 4). Although the purpose of this article is to contribute towards the study of Akkadian influences on second millennium Anatolian languages, not every word of Akkadian origin can be covered, and so my discussion will be based on a restricted, but representative, set of known and new examples. A further aim of this paper is to underline the precarious character of much etymologizing regarding Hittite. By examining some particular cases I hope to show the complexity of the problem; I will also make some suggestions which may lead to a more thorough examination of possible lines of research using the materials available. 1.2. Early scholars When the texts from the archives at Ḫattuša began to come to light early last century, many of them were found to be written in Akkadian, although numerous other tablets were discovered which initially could not be read since they were written in an unintelligible language. This was the language of Neša, the name of the city that became the royal seat of Pitḫana and his son Anitta in the Assyrian colony period. 5 When the Czech Assyriologist Bedřich (Frederick) Hrozný began working on the language in the 1910s, he was facilitated by the fact that Nesite used many of the same logograms, conveying the same meanings, as Sumerian and Akkadian. As his investigations proceeded, Hrozný came to the conclusion that Hittite (Nesite) was an Indo-European language, and thus related to Greek and Latin, and the other languages of the Indo-European family. 6 Once this had been conclusively demonstrated, the deciphering of Nesite proceeded relatively quickly. Another scholar involved in the ongoing decipherment was Emil Forrer, a Swiss Assyriologist in Berlin. 7 By 1919 both Hrozný and Forrer came to realize that the Boğazköy tablets contained more languages than just Hittite and Akkadian. They identified five other languages in the archives and libraries of Ḫattuša, generally designated in the tablets by their adverbial forms – Hurrian (ḫurlili), Hattian (ḫattili), Luwian (luwili), Palaic (palaumnili), and Sumerian. 8 The claim that Hittite was an Indo-European language provoked much debate, because many words lacked any clear etymology, important terms lay behind the logograms, and the writing system was extremely unfamiliar. Earlier claims about heavy non-Indo-European

5 6 7 8

It is important to remember that the Hittites themselves called their language nešili, that is, ‘of Neša’. See Hrozný 1915. See Oberheid 2007. See Hrozný 1917; Forrer 1922.

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“substrate” or “adstrate” effects on Hittite were grossly exaggerated. 9 Even in the case of vocabulary, the borrowing of words is largely limited to expected areas: terms relating to aspects of the cult, items of higher culture, and the names of some flora and fauna. The impression that Hittite replaced most of its inherited vocabulary is not correct. At least 75 percent of its core vocabulary is based on inherited Indo-European material. 10 1.3. The texts More than 30,000 tablet fragments, representing roughly 10,000 individual tablets, have been recovered from the ruins of the Hittite capital at Ḫattuša since excavations began in 1906, as well as from recent excavations at the sites of Maşat-Höyük (ancient Tapikka), Kuşaklı (ancient Šarrišša) and Ortaköy (ancient Šapinuwa). 11 The Hittite library at Ḫattuša housed historical documents, treaties, edicts, instructions, laws, myths and legends, medical, ritual and festival prescriptions, oracle texts, lexical lists, and hymns and prayers (see Haas 2006; Haas 2008). In addition, texts in Hattian, Palaic, Luwian and Hurrian have been recovered, as well as Sumerian and Akkadian compositions. With the exception of a bronze table (see Otten 1988), the cuneiform is inscribed on clay tablets dating from the seventeenth to the twelfth centuries BCE. Recent advances in paleographic studies now allow us to date most texts, and we can distinguish between Old Hittite (1650-1450), Middle Hittite (1450-1380) and Neo-Hittite (1380-1175). 12 2. Akkadian culture in Anatolia 2.1. The writing system Comparative analyses of script and language indicate the early presence (around 2000 BCE) of a group of “Semites” in ancient Anatolia. There are the written remains of an early Assyrian trading colony attached to the city of Kaneš (Neša). 13 Although an Old Assyrian form of cuneiform for writing Old Assyrian was current in Kaneš as early as the third mil 9 Some scholars fail to take into account non-linguistic criteria and are motivated chiefly by a desire to discern the maximum amount of Indo-European lexical material: “daß das Hethitische keine idg. Sprache im landläufigen Sinne, sondern eine Mischsprache von der Art des Albanischen ist, steht fest. Der fremde Einfluß macht sich besonders im Wortschatz geltend. Noch ungelöst ist die Frage, aus welcher Sprache oder welchen Sprachen die unidg. Bestandteile des Wortschatzes entlehnt sind. Möglicherweise werden die übrigen Boghazköisprachen, wenn sie einmal besser erforscht sind, eine Antwort darauf geben” (Friedrich 1931, 39); “l’élément sûrement indo-européen dans le vocabulaire hittite atteint environ 15%” (Couvreur 1943,104); “Das überkommene kh. Schrifttum umfasst etwa 1500 Grundwörter mit z.T. zahlreichen Ableitungen und Weiterbildungen. Sicher idg. sind davon ganz ungefähr 20%” (Kronasser 1956, 219). 10 “Da so das Verhältnis zwischen ererbten und fremden Bestandteilen im hethitischen Grundwortschatz ungefähr 5:3 oder gar 2:1 beträgt, kann keine Rede davon sein, daß der Wortschatz des Hethitischen zum größten Teil fremder Herkunft sei, wie auch heute noch oft behauptet wird” (Tischler 1979, 267). For a modern overview of the Hittite inherited lexicon see EDHIL; see also Neu 1987. 11 Ortaköy boasts approximately 4,000 tablets (see Süel 2009), Maşat only about 116 (see Alp 1991). One should also mention Oymaağaç (perhaps ancient Nerik) and Kayalıpınar (perhaps ancient Šamuḫa; see Rieken 2009). Important finds have been made in Ugarit/Ras Shamra (some 200 pieces). 12 On Hittite palaeography see Weeden 2011a, 42-52 with anterior literature. 13 Old Assyrian is the language of some 15,000 texts, mostly from the site of Kültepe (ancient Kaneš, Neša) in eastern Turkey (Cappadocia), but also from a few other sites in both Anatolia and Assyria. These letters and legal and economic texts document the trading enterprises of Assyrian merchants and

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lennium BCE, the Hittites did not use it. Old Assyrian script is strikingly different in sign shapes and sign values from that used in the documents of the earliest Hittite kings and so it cannot be ancestral to the script of the Old Hittite texts. 14 The Old Hittite cuneiform writing system shows close affinities with some late Old Babylonian cursives of Upper Mesopotamia and Northern Syria. Although Hittite inherited the cuneiform script directly from Mesopotamia, the precise date and the manner of this transfer are essentially unknown. It is a common assumption that cuneiform script may have been introduced from Northern Syria during the conquests of King Ḫattušili I. When it was inherited it was used to write Akkadian: alongside the Akkadian use of the script, Hittite cuneiform was later developed into a means of writing the Hittite language. There was thus a long process of adaptation in the writing of Hittite. 15 Hittite cuneiform distinguished between signs representing syllables and signs representing words. The latter are logograms and their lexical realization might also have occurred in a different language from that for which it was originally designed. We can distinguish between logograms derived from Sumerian, called Sumerograms, and logograms derived from Akkadian, called Akkadograms. 16 2.2. Akkadian as a lingua franca The Hittites used cuneiform not only to write their own language, but also to write in the Akkadian language, which was the lingua franca of international diplomacy and commerce during the second millennium. 17 In that period, diplomatic correspondence – even that of Egypt – was carried out using Akkadian (or more precisely Babylonian, one of the two varieties in which the Akkadian language appears in the Late Bronze Age). Akkadian was a vehicular language, a language which regularly served for interlingual comprehension, just as English and Arabic do today, or Aramaic and Latin once did according to the region. It was a language used in those situations where none of the participants shared a common language. Apart from being the language of diplomacy for over a millennium, it was the language of scholarship in use from Egypt to Ḫattuša, Ugarit, Babylon and beyond. However, it

14

15

16 17

their Anatolian business outposts from the twentieth to the eighteenth centuries BCE. For a general overview see Veenhof 1995. It may be useful to describe the Old Assyrian writing system briefly. As a general rule, the Old Assyrian scribal tradition uses cuneiform signs sparingly which means that only a limited number of different signs is employed. Thus, the same sign indicates voiced, voiceless and emphatic uses. Furthermore, gemination is not expressed in writing. It is important to note that the Cappadocian texts not only document the Old Assyrian dialect of Akkadian, but also contain the earliest attested words in Anatolian languages; see Tischler 1995; Dercksen 2007. Popko (2007) has proposed that there was no Hittite writing before Telipinu. In addition, van den Hout (2009a) stresses that Old Hittite monarchs also used Akkadian in their royal inscriptions. It was Telipinu at the end of the sixteenth century, who began to introduce the Hittite language for official documents, but according to van den Hout, writing in Hittite on a large-scale begins under the reign of Tudḫaliya I/II. For a concise history of Hittite paleography see van den Hout 2009a and 2009b. On the origin of Hittite cuneiform van den Hout 2012. On the paleographic features of the Akkadian texts from Boğazköy see Klinger 2003; Devecchi 2012. This distinction is conventionally marked by writing Sumerian logograms in block capital letters, Akkadian logograms in italic capital letters and Hittite words in lower case italic characters. On the way the Hittites used logograms as a method to illuminate Hittite school practices see Weeden 2011a. See, among recent editions of letters, Edel 1994; Mora, Giorgieri 2004. The fundamental discussion of the international relations of the Late Bronze age remains Liverani 2001.

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was not only the language of Mesopotamia that was exported; its religion and socio-political organization were equally influential. In Ḫattuša some texts were originally drafted in Hittite and then translated into Akkadian. One important text, the Hittite version of the treaty between Ḫattušili III of Ḫatti and Ramesses II of Egypt, was composed in Hittite, drafted in Akkadian, taken to Egypt, translated into Egyptian, and inscribed in hieroglyphs on the walls of the temple of the god Amon at Karnak as well as those of the Ramesseum. The other version, which represents the Egyptian point of view, was translated from the original Egyptian version into Akkadian and taken to the Hittite capital, where several copies of it were found by Hugo Winckler in 1906. 18 2.3. Akkadian as a literary language In the Near East of the second millennium BCE, high culture was Mesopotamian culture. Along with cuneiform script, the Hittites also imported an entire literary tradition from Mesopotamia. 19 During the entire second millennium the Sumero-Akkadian literary tradition exerted a steady influence through the scribal schools and an exchange of citizens. The mastering of cuneiform was accomplished through the copying of texts by students; the copying began with simple syllables, moved on to lexical texts and culminated in literary works. It must be stressed that the adoption of cuneiform in Anatolia implied the borrowing of an entire cultural tradition, and that, conversely, scribal education was the means by which the tradition was transmitted, both to the native Mesopotamian and to the foreigner. Sumero-Akkadian lexical lists, 20 hymns, omens, fragments of the epics of Gilgameš and Atramḫasīs, and legends about Sargon and Narām-Sîn, the great kings of Agade, are among the documents recovered from the libraries at Ḫattuša. In fact, stories about Sargon and Narām-Sîn were already circulating in Anatolia in the nineteenth century BCE. The Hittites preserved the memory of the kings of Agade, especially Sargon and his grandson Narām-Sîn. They appear in various contexts, from historical texts to rituals, and the characteristics associated with them are also wide-ranging. Their names are found in texts written in Hittite and Akkadian, in copies or translations of Mesopotamian texts and in what seem to be local compositions. Sargon’s memory was preserved in the literature of the Hittites in the composition called šar tamḫāri “King of the Battle”. This text, which deals with Sargon’s alleged campaign in Anatolia, is known in Ḫattuša from a Hittite language paraphrase and is found in several very fragmentary copies. 21 Furthermore, the tradition of 18 See Edel 1997. 19 About the problems of contacts with Mesopotamian cultural environment, the transmission, and the presence of Mesopotamian texts in Ḫattuša see Klengel 1998; Richter 2002; Klinger 2005; Schwemer 2013. 20 The lexical lists are written on large multi-column tablets. Civil (1995) is an excellent overview of the principles and contents of Mesopotamian lexical lists. The standard form of a lexical list in Anatolia contained a Sumerian column (with syllabic and phonetic Sumerian in separate columns), an Akkadian column, and a Hittite column; see Weeden 2011a, 91-131. 21 A Hittite translation of the “King of the Battle” legend celebrates Sargon’s defeat of Nur-Dagan, king of Purušḫanda, an important city from the Old Assyrian Colony period. A Hittite language version of the Great Revolt against Narām-Sîn shows that the Hittites freely adapted these stories to reflect their own interests, choosing to focus on events and places in Anatolia, such as adding Pamba, king of Ḫattuša, to the Hittite version of the story. On the reception of the Sargonic sagas in the Hittite world see Van de Mieroop 2000; Beckman 2001; Rieken 2001; Westenholz 2011.

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his grandson Narām-Sîn is present in the Ḫattuša corpus, both in Akkadian and Hittite. 22 All these texts are of a literary nature and demonstrate an interest in the Old Akkadian rulers with scribes translating tales about them into the Hittite language. There is little doubt that the Hittite versions were reworkings or further developments of original texts that had been produced in southern Mesopotamia in the second millennium. The memory of Sargon of Agade was preserved in Hittite written records not only in the translation of the “King of the Battle” text, but also in the mention that Ḫattušili I makes of him in his annals. 23 This important document of Old Hittite history (known both in a Hittite and an Akkadian version) describes the campaigns of the founder of the Hittite state and the extension of his kingdom into northern Syria. He also conquers the city of Ḫaḫḫa (its precise location is not known, but it was situated on the banks of the Euphrates, just before the river enters the northern Syrian plain). In the text, Ḫattušili’s crossing of the Euphrates is compared to one of Sargon’s deeds: “No one had crossed the Euphrates River, but I, the Great King, the Tabarna, crossed it on foot, and my army crossed it on foot behind me. Sargon (of Akkad also) crossed it. [He] fought the troops of Hahha, but [he] did not do anything to Hahha. He did not burn it down; smoke was not visible to the storm-god of Heaven. But, I, the Great King, the Tabarna, destroyed Haššuwa and Hahha, and [burned] them down with fire. I showed smoke to the sun-god of Heaven and the storm-god. I hitched the king of Haššuwa and the king of Hahha to a wagon” (§§ 19-20 A III 29-42; see Beckman 2006: 221).

This text demonstrates the reverence of the Hittite king Ḫattušili for Mesopotamian literary and cultural traditions; what is more, with his interest in local tradition, he linked Anatolian history to that of the wider world, even if it meant perpetuating and enhancing a story in which Anatolian kings were on the losing side. In the Hittite corpus of Akkadian literary works in translation there were not only the Sargon and Narām-Sîn legends, but also the Gurparanzaḫ tale 24 and parts of the Gilgameš epic. 25 It is also recognized that Hittite omen texts, including astrological texts, derive from Mesopotamia and there are moon and solar omens in both Akkadian and Hittite. There are two different opinions among scholars as to how and when these texts reached Ḫattuša: by direct borrowing from Mesopotamia, or through Hurrian mediation. 26 What is also interesting in this context is the appearance of Akkadian-language (URUpabilili) incantations within the body of a series of Hittite rituals for the goddess Ištar-Pirinkir. They may well have been inspired by Mesopotamian incantations, possibly imported to Ḫattuša by foreign experts. 27

22 The most important tales of Narām-Sîn are the “Cuthean Legend” and “The Great Revolt Against Narām-Sîn”; both are also from the capital of the Hittite empire; see Haas 2006: 72-76. 23 See Güterbock 1964; Collins 1998; Devecchi 2005, 56-57. 24 See Haas 2006, 217-220. 25 On the Gilgameš textes found in Ḫattuša see Wilhelm 1988; Beckman 2003; Klinger 2005; Haas 2006, 272-277. 26 See Koch-Westenholz 1993; Riemschneider 2004. 27 See Beckman 2002; Beckman 2014. On Akkadian rituals and magical texts from Ḫattuša see Schwemer 1988; Schwemer 2004. On Akkadian omina from Ḫattuša see Wilhelm 1994; Rutz 2012.

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2.4. Scribal schools The adoption of Akkadian, or more precisely Babylonian, as the language of international communication and diplomacy necessitated the services of bilingual if not tri- or multilingual scribes in the palaces of the Great Kings. 28 One of the most important collections of letters to have come down to us from the Late Bronze Age, the correspondence between the courts of Egypt and Ḫatti during the reigns of Ramesses II and Ḫattušili III, is an exchange of missives between two kings, neither of whom spoke Akkadian. The Akkadian language, which was almost always used for international correspondence, was not the native language of either sender or recipient. 29 Given that Akkadian was the international language of diplomacy, fluency in it may well have been required for many, if not all, scribes. Reading and writing in the ancient Near East was a highly specialized occupation, and literacy may well have been largely confined to a professional scribal class. Training for this occupation was provided by scribal schools and involved learning and mastering the cuneiform script by copying existing texts, progressing from simple to more complex documents. Student scribes must have also learnt at least one, and probably several, foreign languages. 30 Since only a tiny minority of the population was literate, the scribal profession was very select and specialized, membership of it often being passed on within the same families from one generation to the next. 31 Hittite scribes were responsible for drawing up treaties, taking down the letters of the Hittite king to foreign or vassal rulers, recording the important exploits of the king, revising and updating religious, legal, and administrative texts, copying and recopying them whenever necessary, and then storing the tablets away for future generations (it may well be that the kings themselves were illiterate). Scribes from Mesopotamia also went abroad to find positions in local administration: Babylonian scribes worked in Ugarit and in the Hittite capital Ḫattuša, 32 as did a number of Hurrian scribes. 33 The question regarding foreign scribes and foreign language skills among the Hittite scribes is at present open to debate. 34 Numerous scribes, particularly at Maşat-Höyük, have Akkadian names and so we might surmise that they actually came from Akkadian-speaking regions in Syria or Mesopotamia. However, none of the relevant scribes at Maşat-Höyük boasts a cuneiform ductus that resembles Syrian or Babylonian writing, and it is therefore more likely that native Hittites, who devoted themselves to the study and translation of Akkadian literary works, adopted a nom de plume in the Akkadian language. 35 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

The fundamental discussion of these aspects remains Beckman 1983. See Edel 1994. On the Akkadian term targumannu ‘interpreter’ see Starke 1993. On the Hittite scribal circles see van den Hout 2009c; Gordin 2015 with literature. On scribal activity outside of Ḫattuša see Weeden 2011b. Pearce (1995) is an introduction to the scribal profession of ancient Mesopotamia; see also Cavigneaux 1989. See Beckman 1983; Klinger 1998. See Mascheroni 1984. It is well documented that scribes and other experts using the cuneiform script travelled between Syria, Assyria, Babylon and Ḫattuša. On travelling scribes who leave their home to take up their profession elswhere see Weeden 2011c: 602-603. Note also a DUB.SAR pabilili ‘scribe in Babylonian’, mentioned in the fragmentary line IV 12´ (part of the colophon?) of KBo 3.21, a Hymn to the Storm-god translated from Akkadian (CTH 313); see Waal 2015: 267-268.

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Evidence of Hittite scribes writing letters in Akkadian is provided by a piggy-back letter from Maşat-Höyük where we find an explicit request to a Hittite scribe to write back in “Babylonian” (pabilāʾu ). Perhaps the reason for the request for this reply to be given in Akkadian was to keep it confidential: (34) zi-ik-mu m Zu-u-uš ŠEŠ DÙG.GA[-YA] (35) GIŠmuúr-ta-an-za EGIR-pa (36) BÁ-BI-LA-Ú ḫa-at-ra-a-i “You, Zū, my dear brother, write back to me about the murta-wood in Akkadian” (HKM 72, 34-36; see Hoffner 2009, 231). 3. Semitic influences on Hittite 3.1. Typology of linguistic contact This section presents evidence regarding Akkadian linguistic influences on Hittite. Primarily, the focus is on loanwords and calques, though it will also be illustrated how phraseological loan translations testify to close contact between the two languages. This comparative discussion evidences how single words or entire phraseological structures were translated and reworked to create new linguistic material in Hittite. Borrowings were mostly lexical items from other languages which we now know as loanwords (the term itself is a loanword, clearly modelled on the German Lehnwort). While the concept of loanword was soon accepted among scholars, extending this to the borrowing of other linguistic features is still a hotly debated issue. In general, borrowing appears to be a universal feature of language, as maintained by Hugo Schuchardt (1909). No language community is, or generally remains, so isolated as to avoid all contact with the speakers of other languages or dialects; in this, bilingual speakers can be seen as the vehicles of borrowing. Loans are passed from speaker to speaker, although they are probably not identified as such by the uneducated. Uriel Weinreich (1953) brought new terms to the field, including the idea of “contact” for the meeting of two or more languages in one population, and “interference” for the borrowing that resulted. Following the tenets of Prague School structuralism, Weinreich did not see loans as mere additions, but as reorganizations of the system. He classified interference as either phonic, grammatical or lexical. He also carefully examined the problems of the bilingual individual and the socio-cultural circumstances of the language contact. 36 3.2. Loanwords The most obvious reason for borrowing is the need for a term in the recipient language for some previously unknown phenomenon. 37 This, however, is far from being the only reason; words are often borrowed also because they are felt to be prestigious, or simply novel. This is especially true if the speakers feel inferior to speakers of the other language. The loanword may cause native words to seem inadequate, and these gradually to fall into disuse. In studying loans it is therefore important to consider the social relations between the two communities, while loans, in turn, may actually be a key to understanding such relations. What seem to me to be some cogent instances of Akkadian words in Hittite will now be examined 38. One Hittite loanword from Akkadian is LÚšankunni- ‘priest’ (from Akk. 36 A modern overview of this phenomenon is given by Thomason, Kaufman 1988. On bilingualism in corpus languages see Thomason 1997; Langslow 2002. 37 On lexical borrowing see Haspelmath 2009. 38 On Akkadian loanwords in Hittite see Fronzaroli 1956; Mayer 1960; Hoffner 1996; Schwemer 2005/2006; Watson 2008: Watson 2009a; Dardano 2011; Dardano 2014a. On Anatolian loanwords in Semitic lan-

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šangû(m) and Sum. LÚSANGA). It is not a direct import from Mesopotamia, but the suffix -nni proves transmission via Hurrian intermediaries (HEG S 834-836; CHD Š 181a-200b). 39 The form LÚšankunni- is well integrated in Hittite: if we define integration as the degree to which a word is felt to be a full member of the recipient language system, the derivatives with suffixes -atar and ant- *šankunniyatar / LÚSANGAUTTUM ‘priestly status, priestship’ and LÚ šankunniyant- prove a high degree of integration in the recipient language (i.e., it is not merely an Akkadogram with a Hittite phonetic complement). Transmission via Hurrian is also likely for MUNUS entanni-, the name of a priestess, when we assume the following development: Sum. en > Akk. entu > Hurr. enda-n, entanni > Hitt. entanni-. The Hittite priest-name LÚkumra- is also a loanword from Akk. kumru(m), a priest (CAD K 534b-535a). The Hittite word LÚapiši- ‘exorcist’ designates the Babylonian experts and scientists who were employed in the Hittite court (see Otten 1974/1977). This is a loanword from Akk. āšipu ‘exorcist’ (CAD A2 431a-435a), with an i-stem on the base of the Akkadian oblique case (as in tuppi-, see below). From the formal point of view, the latter example also illustrates a š…p > p…š metathesis, showing that loanwords were sometimes adapted to fit the sound patterns of the recipient language (though this often occurred over time or only in part). 40 Confusion with Akk. ēpišu ‘sorcerer’ may also have been a contributing factor in favour of such metathesis. 41 It has long been recognized that religion and religious institutions can significantly influence the linguistic repertoire of multilingual individuals and societies. However, loanwords from Akkadian do not only concern religious terminology; for example, Hitt. tuppi- ‘tablet’ comes from Akk. ṭuppu(m) via the Hurrian intermediate tubbe or tuppi° (HEG D/T 450-452). The loanword Hitt. gurzipant- ‘gorgeted, wearing a hauberk’ is also taken from Akkadian. This is a denominal -ant-formation based on the borrowed Hittite noun *gurzip(p)i- (from Akk. gurpisu- ‘leather hauberk covered with metal scales [as part of armor for soldiers and horses]’; see CAD G 139b-140b). 42 The suffixation proves the high degree of integration of the Akkadian loanword. The Akkadian word is also attested as an Akkadogram in Hittite texts: GUR-ZI-IP (KUB 48.126 I 16, passim). Hitt. TÚG kušiši-/ kušitti- ‘gown, garment of the king’ (HEG A-K 674-675; HED K 295-296) seems to have been borrowed from Semitic when we compare it to Old Assyrian kušītu, Akk. kusītu, an elaborate garment (CAD K 585b-587a). 43 Many similar words in Hittite and in Akkadian are not true loanwords. There are some Kultur- or Wanderwörter, whose origin and source language is unknown. They comprise specialized terminology and in this respect we can mention the names of minerals such as kipriti- ‘sulphur’ (Akk. kibrītu ‘black sulphur’); nitri- ‘natron’ (Akk. nit(i)ru ‘natron’); zapzagi- ‘glass’ (Akk. zabzabgû a glaze, Ugar. spsg, Hebr. spsygym); or the names of plants such as allantaru- ‘allānu-wood’, ‘oak’ (Akk. allānu(m) ‘oak(?)’); kappani- ‘cumin’, Cuminum guages see von Schuler 1969; Tischler 1995; Dercksen 2007; Valério, Yakubovich 2010; Simon 2015a. 39 Sum. sanga > Akk. šangûm > Hurr. šankunni > Hitt. šankunni-. 40 Adaptation is a process by which loanwords are changed to fit the sounds patterns of the language into which they are borrowed. This process is often progressive or is a matter of degree. 41 Akk. āšipu(m) is also used as an Akkadogram in the Akkadian texts from Boğazköy; see HED A, E/I 102; Kümmel 1967: 95-98. An Akkadogram and loanword are sometimes found in the same text: KBo 15.9 rev. III 12 vs. 15; note that the Akkadogram does not show the metathesis. 42 Cf. also Starke 1990: 262: ‘mit Halsberg versehen’ from *gurzipa-. According to J. Puhvel (HED K 287) gurzipant- is a denominative participle based on the same borrowed noun. 43 Cf. Ribichini, Xella 1985: 42 for Ugar. kst (a type of garment) and the root *ksy/h attested in Aramaic, Phoenician, Arabic and Akkadian with the meaning ‘to cover’.

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cyminum (Akk. kamūnu(m) ‘cumin’, Ugar. kmn, Hebr. kammōn, Myc. Gr. ku-mi-no and Gr. κύμινον); šapšama- ‘sesame’ (Akk. šamaššammū ‘sesame’); ḫazzuwani- ‘lettuce’?, Lactuca sativa? (Ugr. ḫswn and ḫśwn, Sum. ḫi-izSAR, Akk. ḫassū, Hebr. ḥassâ, Syr. ḥastā, Arab. ḫassu/ḫassatu, and also Old Assyrian ḫa-zu-a-NUM; see Hoffner 1973; Pelz 1977); Hitt. tiyatia drug plant, ‘asafoetida’, see HEG T 370-371 (Akk. tīyat Ferula asa foetida, see AHw 1357; Ugar. tyt, Aram. tīyyā, tīʼā ‘buttercup’). The cross language borrowing of terms relating to minerals and plants should occasion no surprise. In these cases their Kulturwort designation does not help in unpicking their origins and history. The direction of the borrowing is uncertain for these words and they may even have originated in a (common) substrate language. Whether or not they are loanwords and in which direction any borrowing may have taken place remains uncertain. The base of the agent noun LÚkinirtalla- / LÚkinartalla-, a type of musician (from *kinir-, cf. Akk. kinnāru ‘Lyra’, Hebr. kinnōr, Gr. κινύρα (LXX), Arm. k‘nar, Scr. kiṁnarā, perhaps Myc. Gr. ki-nu-ra) could also derive from a substrate language. While its ultimate origin remains obscure, the form is well integrated in the recipient language (as is testified by the typical Hittite suffix of denominal and deverbal agent nouns -(a)t(t)alla-; see Dardano 2014b). There are also some ad hoc loanwords in texts of translated literature. In the Hittite version of the Gilgameš epic, a sky-bull is called alu-, although this is not actually a loanword from Akk. ālu(m) ‘ram’, but a term that the Hittite scribe misunderstood from the text he was copying from and interpreted as a proper name (HW2 A 63). Additionally, Hitt. ḫuripta‘desert’ (from Akk. ḫuribtu ‘desert, uninhabited place’) is attested only once in a mythological text (the Elkuniršta myth), and so could be considered a direct transfer from the original Akkadian text (HED H 398-399). We will now move from these well-known examples to others which have been brought into the discussion regarding the correspondences between Akkadian and Hittite, but which remain uncertain: Hitt. nāruSAR an herb, perhaps ‘dill’ from Akk. nāru ‘river’ (CHD L-N 396a; HEG N 275-276); Hitt. SÍGēšri ‘fleece’ (EDHIL 261), ‘Wollvlies’ (HW2 E 44a) has “no convincing etymology” according to A. Kloekhorst, but can be compared with Akk. išru ‘a woollen band, sash’ (CDA 134b; AHw 398a). Also the etymology of Hitt. šeppitt- ‘(a kind of) grain’ is uncertain; because of the similarity with militt- ‘honey’ it could be of IndoEuropean origin, but as no suitable comparandum is known, a loanword from Akk. sēpu, a cereal (in akal sēpi, see CDA 320b; CAD S 227a) could be an alternative. Hitt. DUGšapia- ‘a vessel’ made of silver or gold (CHD Š 205b) might also be compared with Akk. šappu- a container (CAD Š/1 479) or ‘bowl’ of clay or metal (CDA 358a). Akk. ṣā’u ‘bowl, basin’ (AHw 1087a: ‘ein großes Gefäß’) occurs in Ugaritic Akkadian and has the determinative GIŠ that shows that such bowls are made of wood. The same determinative is used with Hitt. GIŠzāu ‘container, vessel, plate’. According to A. Kloekhorst it is likely that this word is not of IndoEuropean origin (EDHIL 1033). Some similarities between Hittite and Akkadian are merely fortuitous. The connection once made between Hitt. maši- ‘how many’ and Akk. maṣû ‘to suffice’ which dates back to F. Sommer (1947, 91) must be rejected. There is also no reason to assume any correspondence between Hitt. zupparu/i- ‘torch’ and Akk. dipāru ‘torch’ (CAD D 156b-157b). Akk. samullu(m), samallu(m), sama(n)num a kind of tree (CDA 315b; AHw 1020b) also belongs to this group. The variety of spellings might indicate that it is a loanword, but whether or not

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it is analogous to Hitt. GIŠšam(a)lu- ‘apple(tree)’ is uncertain. According to Tischler (2002), an Indo-European etymology of the Hittite form is possible and resemblance between Hitt. GIŠ šam(a)lu- and Akk. samu/allu(m) might only be casual. When a Hittite word has a convincing Indo-European etymology, there is no possibility of it being a loanword from Akkadian. According to F. Starke (1990: 319, note 1114) arzanala‘Bereiter/Lieferant der Gerstengrütze’ could be a loanword from Akk. arsānu(m) ‘(barley) groats’ / Germ. ‘Gerstengrütze’ (and arzanaš parn- should be interpreted as ‘porridge-house’ (vel sim.) / Germ. ‘Gerstengrützen-Haus’). Also J. Puhvel (HED A, E/I 185-187) suggests that the etymon is to be sought in the aforementioned Akkadian form. It is therefore advisable to be suspicious of the Semitic origin of this word and to consider alternatives. On the basis of the study made by E. Rieken (2004), the first element in the wording arzanaš parn- is comparable with Proto-Germanic *razna- ‘Ruhe, Ruheort’ and arzanaš parn- meaning ‘Haus des Ruhens oder Rastens’. The reconstructed Proto-Germanic base *ras- ‘to rest’ presents a s-enlargement from the root *h1reh1- (from this root derive OHG ruowa, ON rō ‘rest’ etc. on the one hand, and Gr. ἐρωή ‘drawing back from, rest from’ (< *h1roh1-u̯ eh2) on the other). It is therefore conceivable that we are dealing with a word of Indo-European origin. Turning to semantics, E. Rieken has also demonstrated that the meaning of arzanaš parn- is not simply ‘porridge-house’, but a sort of inn or hostel, and so the stock standard connection with Akk. arsānu(m) ‘(barley) groats’ must be rejected. According to J. Weitenberg (1984: 257) Hitt. (NINDA)tappinnu- should be read as a Akkadogram (NINDA)TAP-PÍ-IN-NU (from Akk. tapinnum ‘barley flour’) with the meaning ‘bread made from barley flour’. On the contrary, J. Tischler (HEG D/T 128-129) suggests that the form NINDAtap-pí-in-nu-uš (KUB 32.137 II 16) is a Hittite lexeme with the Hittite ending of the accusative plural -uš, i.e., a loanword with a high degree of adaptation. Sometimes the ultimate origin of a word remains obscure. This is the case with Hitt. (NA4) ḫegur ‘rock-sanctuary’. The almost complete absence of declension points decidedly to a foreignism. The parallel with Sumerian É.GAL ‘big house, palace’, which was borrowed in Akkadian and Hurrian as ekallu ‘royal palace’ (CAD E 52b-61a) and ḫaigalli (BGH 117-118, s.v. haigalli I) respectively, and, via Hurrian in Hittite, is, although in certain respects attractive, incomplete and therefore somewhat misleading (Hurrian intermediation is necessary to explain the ḫ-Prothesis). Attempts to find an Indo-European etymon go back to O. Pedersen, E.H. Sturtevant and C. Melchert, and were confirmed by E. Rieken, who adduces a -u̯ er formation from the Indo-European root *h2ek̂ - ‘sharp, pointed’ (IEW 18-22: ‘scharf, spizig, kantig; Stein’; see Rieken 1999b: 287-289; HEG A-K 235-237; HED H 287-289; for the meaning see van den Hout 2002). A direct connection between Hitt. kalmuš- ‘crook (a hooked staff)’/ Germ. ‘Krummstab’ and Akk. gamlu ‘crook, curved staff’/ Germ. ‘Krummholz’ (also a royal insigne, CAD G 34-35) should be ruled out (contra HED K 29-30). According to E. Rieken (1999b: 211-213) we have a -uš- stem from the Indo-European root *(s)kel(h2)- ‘to split, hew’ (and the postulated form *kalma- is attested in the Hittite cognates GIŠkalmi‘(fire)stick, brand’, kalmar(a)- ‘ray’ and (GIŠ) kalmiš(e/a)na- ‘(fire)brand, (fire)bolt’). The similarity between Hitt. EZEN4 ḫarpi(y)as ‘harvest festival’ (HED H 183-184; Hutter 2002) and Akk. ḫarpū ‘(early) harvest, summer’ (CAD Ḫ 106a-b) is quite convincing, but on the other hand a possible Indo-European cognate is also found in the Hittite verb ḫarpā(i)- ‘heap, pile (up)’ and in the nouns ḫarpa- ‘heap(ing), pile, mound’, ḫarpali- ‘heap, stack, pile’. 44 44 On the cognate verb ḫarp(p)- see Melchert 2010.

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Many loanwords have an Akkadian etymology, but derive via an intermediary, i.e., Hurrian. These often regard technical terms: Hitt. pūḫugari- ‘replacement, substitute’ is a Hurrian name derived by means of the suffix -ugar-, from Akk. pūḫu ‘substitute’ (CAD P 496a-500b; BGH 322a-b; CHD P 370b-371a); Hitt. arni- ‘sin’ is a Hurrian lexeme from Akk. arnu ‘fault’; Hitt. ḫazzizzi- ‘ear; wit(s), wisdom’ (HED H 285-286) comes from Akk. ḫasīsu 1. ‘aperture of the ear, ear’, 2. ‘(faculty) of hearing’, 3. ‘understanding’ (CAD Ḫ 126b-127b). Hitt. ḫuruppi- (a kind of dish or bowl, in plural also a kind of bread) is a loanword from Akk. ḫuruppu (a metal dish; CAD Ḫ 256; AHw 360) via Hurrian; Hitt. laḫanni- a bottle or pitcher often made of gold, silver or copper (HEG L 6-7; CHD L-M 6b-7b) is a Hurrian borrowing of Akk. laḫḫanu ‘a bottle’ (CAD L 39a-40a; BGH 234a), in turn from Sum. DUGLA.ḪA.AM (curiously the DUG determinative is absent in Hittite). Hitt. LÚummiyanni- (a cult functionary) must also be a loanword from Akk. ummiānu(m) (AHw 1415; CAD U-W 108b-115b, s.v. ummânu 1. ‘investor, financier’, 2. ‘craftsman, artisan, expert, scholar’) via Hurrian because of the n-derivation (HEG U 44-45). It seems likely that Hitt. LÚzakkinni- ‘prefect’ is also a borrowing from Akk. šaknu/sākinu (CAD Š1 180a-192a) and Hurrian mediation is probable in this case too (see von Schuler 1971: 224-225). Also Hitt. GIŠeripi-/irimpi-/irippi- ‘cedar(wood)’ is a borrowed hurrianized derivative with the -pi- suffix of Akk. erēnu /erinu ‘cedar’ (CAD E 274a-279a; from Sum. GIŠERIN ‘cedar’). Hitt. GIŠpaini- ‘tamarisk’ or ‘juniper’ appears to be a loanword from Hurr. GIŠpaini- which in turn has links with Akk. bīnu ‘tamarisk’ (CHD P 55a-56b; HEG P 384). We may draw some summary conclusions from the examples presented above. Many loanwords derive from Akkadian, but whether directly or through a Hurrian intermediary remains to be investigated. 45 It must, however, be admitted that many apparent loanwords from Akkadian have an Indo-European etymology. Loanwords are frequently employed where no Hittite equivalent existed, particularly words that refer to aspects of local socio-political or religious organization, such as the names of officers or priests. Other borrowings comprise specialized terminology for vessels, minerals, plants, and technical objects. The majority of the loanwords of Akkadian origin in Hittite texts appear to have been used during all periods of Hittite civilization. 3.3. Beyond loanwords 3.3.1. Calques Calque is a French term signifying a new word modelled on a word in another language. While a foreign word and its meanings are adopted wholesale into the other language in the case of a loanword, a calque arises when the language is adapted to designate new concepts. This can happen in several ways: (a) by way of a borrowed meaning through changing and expanding the meaning of native words, e.g. Eng. write (originally ‘to scratch’) influenced by Lat. scribere; (b) through word-for-word loan translation, e.g. Eng. crispbread from Germ. Knäckebrot, Span. rascacielos for Eng. skyscraper; (c) through a loose loan translation, e.g. Eng. brotherhood for Lat. fraternitas. Loan shifts and loan translations have played a large role in the development of many languages. What follows will explore some features of Akkadian calques in Hittite and will attempt to present a concise comparison of the relevant material. 45 For Akkadian loanwords in Hurrian, see Neu 1997.

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3.3.2. Loan shifts When two distinct sign systems come into contact, there is a whole range of possible semantic effects. Meanings may be transferred from one system to another (i.e. semantic borrowing), with or without concomitant borrowing. A loan shift often implies a semantic extension, i.e., an extension in the use of an indigenous word in conformity with a foreign model. Borrowed meanings are adapted to the semantic system of the recipient language, and this often results in semantic changes in both the original meaning of a borrowed form, and in the system which is accommodating the new meanings. As Hittite scribal education crucially involved not only the repeated copying and memorization of traditional word lists and texts, but also their translation from Akkadian into Hittite, loan shifts could occasionally occur. Here are some instances: Hitt. parkuešš- ‘to be /to become pure’ also takes on the meaning ‘to be innocent (by a process/by a ordeal)’ from Akk. ebēbu(m) ‘to be pure’ and ‘to be innocent’; Hitt. punušš- ‘to ask’ and in legal terminology ‘to investigate, to inquire into (st.)’ from Akk. šâlu(m) ‘to ask’ and ‘to investigate’; Hitt. ḫaštai- ‘bone’ and a measurement of length from Akk. eṣemtu(m) ‘bone, body frame’ which also denotes a fraction of a cubit (approximately one third of a cubit, i.e. about a foot); 46 Hitt. purutt- ‘earth, mud, mud plaster’ and ‘territory’ from Akk. eperu(m), eprum ‘earth, mud’ and (in Mari, Alalaḫ, Boğazköy) ‘territory’ (CHD P 395a-397b). The term antiyant-, literally ‘one who has entered (his wife’s family)’, designates a sonin-law. It is the groom who enters the house of his father-in-law. This type of marriage agreement, which essentially implies the idea of adoption, is attested among many peoples of the Ancient Near East and was known as erēbum marriage in Mesopotamia (CAD E 270b-271a). 3.3.3. Loan translations Uncompounded words offer few obstacles to borrowing as calque; but compounds, if understood as such, may be adapted to native compounds, as when English skyscraper was reproduced in German as Wolkenkratzer, lit. ‘cloud-scratcher’. Loan translations, a type of calque, are literal translations of foreign compounds or idioms. Substitution may extend to whole phrasemes reproduced using native words. Hittite possessed some literal translations of Akkadian compounds: Hitt. anišiwat ‘today’ is formed from Luw. anna/i- ‘this’ and Hitt. šiwatt- ‘day’ and comes from Akk. ūma annīta ‘today’, lit. ‘this day’; Hitt. appašiwatt- ‘future’, with āppa ‘after’ and siwatt- ‘day’, from Akk. arkât ūmi ‘end of the day’, lit. ‘back (site) of the day’ (referring to a future day; see CAD U, W 145a-b); Hitt. šuppiwašḫarSAR ‘onion, shallot’, lit. ‘pure onion’ could be a loan translation of Sum. SUM.SIKILSAR (contra Rieken 1999b: 311-314). However, any similarity between Hitt. pattarpalḫi (CHD P 243b), an oracle bird whose name means ‘broad-winged’ from (UZU)pattar ‘wing’ and palḫi- ‘wide, broad’, and Akk. kappurapšu a designation of a bird, lit. “wide-winged” (CAD K 289a), does not convince. Although the two words correspond to each other both in the meaning of their components and in their sequence, the Akkadian word denotes a bird which does not fly but runs, a kind of poultry.

46 Cf. HW2 Ḫ 428b-429a.

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Loan translations of collocations and phrasemes are frequent 47. The following list provides some examples: Hitt. ēzzan taru ‘bagatelle, the least bit, anything at all’, lit. ‘chaff (and) wood’ from Akk. ḫāmū u ḫuṣābu (see von Schuler 1983; AHw 319a, s.v. ḫāmū; AHw 360b-361a, s.v. ḫuṣābu); 48 Hitt. išḫiul išḫiya- ‘to conclude a treaty’, lit. ‘to bind a binding’ from Akk. riksa rakāsu ‘to conclude a treaty’; Hitt. aššul ḫatrai- ‘to write favour, dispatch greetings, send a letter’, lit. ‘to write someone well-being’ from Akk. šulma šapārum; Hitt. šiyannaš per ‘seal house, magazine’ from Akk. bē/īt kunukkim (also Old Assyrian) and Sum. É NA4KIŠIB (see HEG Š 706-707; CHD P 285a); Hitt. itar da- ‘to strike a (new) path’, palšan epp- ‘to take the road’ from Akk. urḫa, gerra, ḫarrāna ṣabātu (see Starke 1990, 499); Hitt. ḫanza(n) ḫark- ‘to keep front, keep watch (over), watch out (for), have respect (for)’ from Akk. rēšam kullum ‘to hold the head, be ready, look after, care about’ and pūt-ka šullim ‘guard your brow, watch out!’(see Starke 1990, 127 note 376; HED H 91-92; cf. also Hebr. nāśā pānīm). Furthermore, the idiom ḫanza epp- denotes some sort of frontal reception (open welcome?), often preceded by menaḫḫanda ‘facing, towards’. This may derive from Akk. panī ṣabātu (AHw 1067a, s.v. ṣabātum II 7) as a loan translation and probably means ‘to support, aid, assist’ (see Starke 1990: 127, note 378: ‘das Gesicht von jdm. ergreifen’, d.h. ‘sich um jdn. kümmern’). Hittite possesses a small number of calques derived from Akkadian idioms based upon the expression bēl + genitive ‘lord of …’ (see Tischler 1988): Hitt. awariyaš /auriyaš išḫa‘district commander, provincial governor’ (lit. ‘lord of the watch-post’) from Akk. bēl madgalti; Hitt. ešḫanaš išḫa- ‘heir of a murdered man, kinsman avenger of blood’ (lit. ‘lord of the blood-money’) from Akk. bēl dāmi ‘slayer, murderer; avenger’; Hitt. iwaruaš išḫa‘holder of a dowry or inheritance share’ from Akk. bēl šerikti; Hitt. ḫannešnaš išḫa- ‘opponent in court’, lit. ‘lord of the judgment’ from Akk. bēl dīni; Hitt. parnaš išḫa- ‘home owner, householder’ from Akk. bēl / bēlet Étim; Hitt. tuzziyaš išḫa- ‘military commander’ from Sum. EN KARAŠ; Hitt. uddanaš išḫa- ‘opponent in court(?)’ from Akk. bēl awatim; Hitt. waštulaš išḫa- ‘culprit, offender’ from Akk. bēl ḫiṭṭi. Syllabic Hittite writings in similar combinations, such as Akk. bēl DINGIR-lim ‘worshiper’, EN SÍSKUR (Akk. bēl niqê) ‘sacrificer’, EN QĀTI ‘craftsman’, have not yet been found in extant texts. Some of the Hittite idioms with išḫa-, like Hitt. mukišnaš išḫa- ‘person who commissions the m.-ritual’, appear to be calques modelled on Akkadian, but they do not yet have known Akkadian counterparts. 3.4. Phraseological loan translations 3.4.1. “to make the (conquered) countries the borders of the sea” What has been discussed so far is fairly common knowledge. However, I now wish to further the discussion a little by arguing that Hittite may also contain what might be called phraseological loan translations, i.e., literal translations of Akkadian phrasemes into Hittite. 49 In the proclamation of King Telipinu a lengthy historical preamble recounts the early triumphs, and subsequent disasters, of the Hittite monarchy up to the time of Telipinu’s 47 The term “collocation” denotes fixed word connections which show no or only very weak idiomatic transformations of meaning; “phraseme” is the generic term for fixed word complexes whose distinguishing feature is idiomaticity. 48 The Akkadian idiom is also attested as an Akkadogram in Hittite texts: (3´) [n]u-uš-ši ḪA-A-MU [Ù] (4´) ḪU-U-ṢA-BU le-e (5´) [ḫ]ar-ak-zi “and anything at all let him be lost!” (HKM 92). 49 These ideas are expounded in more detail in Dardano 2012.

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accession, c. 1525 BCE. 50 The purpose of the text was to regulate dynastic succession and to establish future jurisdiction over the royal family. It does this by presenting the past history of the monarchy to show that unity and harmony in the royal family led to great success abroad, whereas civil strife led only to disaster (KBo 3.1++ obv. I 2-34). The history is recounted from the time of the first king, Labarna, to Telipinu’s own time, offering an apology for his own actions as a usurper. The beginning of Labarna’s reign at least was propitious; the land was united and the various members of the king’s family were loyal – or so the stock formula used to describe the first three kings’ reigns would have the reader believe. 51 The land Labarna ruled over was limited, but dramatic geo-political change was on the horizon. With his kingdom now united, Labarna embarked on a successful campaign of military conquest, pushing his armies further south. One by one, countries succumbed, and Labarna was finally recognized as overlord of the whole region. When each of these new territories was safely conquered, the king sent in his sons to govern in his name: KBo 3.1++ obv. I 1-9 – CTH 19 “[O]nce, Labarna was Great King. His [son]s, his [brother]s, and also his in-laws, his kin and his troops were united. The country was small but wherever he went on campaign, he held the enemy lands subdued by force. [(nu ut-ne-e ḫar-ni-in-ki-)]┌iš┐-ki-it nu ut-ne-e ar-ḫa tar-ranu-ut (8) [(nu-uš a-ru-na-aš ir-ḫu-u)]š i-e-et He destroyed the lands one by one, he made the lands powerless, and he made them the borders of the sea. And each time he returned from campaign, each of his sons went somewhere to a country” (Hoffmann 1984: 12-13; Goedegebuure 2006: 229-230).

The edict uses almost identical wording to describe the achievements of his alleged successor Ḫattušili: KBo 3.1++ obv. I 13-19 “Afterwards, Ḫattušili was king. Also his sons, brothers, in-laws, and his kin and his troops were united. Wherever he went on campaign, he too held the enemy lands subdued by force. nu ut-ne-e ḫar-ni-in[(-ki-iš-)]ki-it nu ut-ne-e ar-ḫa tar-ra-nu-ut nu-uš a-ru-na-aš (18) ir-ḫu-uš i-e-et He destroyed the lands one by one, he made the lands powerless, and he made them the borders of the sea. And each time he returned from campaign, each of his sons went somewhere to a country. Also under his rule the great cities made progress” (Hoffmann 1984: 14-17; Goedegebuure 2006: 230).

It is, in effect, a formulaic way of highlighting one of the main themes of the text: the close link between periods of peace and stability within the kingdom and the kingdom’s growth and development as a major military and political power. The link is made even more em50 Composed originally in the last quarter of the sixteenth century BCE, this text survives only in late copies – a fragmentary Akkadian version and nine exemplars of a Hittite version; see Hoffmann 1984; Goedegebuure 2006: 228-235. 51 Some scholars are not convinced: can we really believe that Labarna, the so-called founder of the royal Hittite dynasty, is an actual historical figure? These legendary traditions might have simply served as an explanatory prologue to historical narrative. The attempt to use a narrative of previous events to provide the background for a decree appears in many Old Hittite texts, such as in the Political Testament of Ḫattušili I; see Liverani 1973.

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phatic by a description in almost identical terms of the reign of Ḫattušili’s successor Muršili. As with Labarna and Ḫattušili, the new king’s son, his brothers, his marriage relations and his (blood) relations were united. Muršili held the enemy land in subjection by his might, he deprived the lands of power, and he made them border on the sea. He increased the size of his realm, extending his power by military conquest over much of eastern Anatolia, as far south as the Mediterranean: KBo 3.1++ obv. I 24-27 “When Muršili was king in Ḫattuša, then also his sons, brothers, in-laws, and his kin and his troops were united. nu LÚKÚR-an ut-ne-e ku-ut-ta-n[(i-i)]t tar-aḫ-ḫa-an ḫar-ta (27) [n]u ut-ne-e a[r-ḫ]a tar-ra-nu-ut nu-uš a[-ru-n]a-aš ir-ḫu-uš i-└ e┘-et He held the enemy lands subdued by force. He made the lands powerless, and he made them the borders of the sea” (Hoffmann 1984: 18-19; Goedegebuure 2006: 230).

Everything in the kingdom of Muršili was harmonious, and he held enemy land in subjection by (his) strength in every military campaign. Like his predecessor, he controlled lands which extended to the coast, and when he returned from a campaign, one of his sons went to each of the countries. The expression utnē arunaš irḫuš iyet “he made them (i.e. the conquered countries) the borders of the sea” should perhaps be understood as “he made the sea their frontier”. 52 A fairly similar expression to the one used in the Telipinu’s proclamation to describe the highly successful reigns of Labarna, Ḫattušili I and Muršili is found in another Old Hittite text (KUB 26.71 IV). 53 The style of this text is quite similar to the annals: the deeds of the king are organized according to the king’s regnal years and the narration of the king’s exploits is carried out in the third person. 54 The formula reads as follow: [I-NA MU IIIKA]M LUGAL-uš a-ru-na-an ar-ḫa-an IṢ-BAT “in the third year the king took the sea as border” (KUB 26.71 IV 14΄ – CTH 39.6). It must be admitted that elements of this phraseology existed in other texts of the Old Kingdom, but the full and fixed form appears only in Telipinu’s proclamation and in KUB 26.17. Something comparable is found in Akkadian literature where the topos of the sea as the border of the conquered territories is well documented. Reaching the coast and the sea is stereotyped wording to indicate that there is no more land to conquer, i.e., all the dry lands are under the control of a successful conqueror. In the Sargon legend, an upper sea (Sum. a-ab-ba-nim-ma = Akk. tiāmtum alītum, the Mediterranean Sea) and a lower sea (Sum. aab-ba-sig = Akk. tiāmtum sapiltum, the Persian Gulf) are mentioned as the borders of the conquered lands: 55

52 In the Akkadian version I. Hoffmann reads ù KUR.KUR-tim a-na ZAG A.AB.BA e![-pu-uš (KUB 3.85++I 8). I have suggested ù KUR.KUR-tim a-na ZAG A.AB.BA ┌ú┐[-te-er “he made the countries the boundaries of the sea”; see Dardano 2012: 621-622. On târu see AHw 1333b-1334a; CAD T 276a-278a: ‘to turn something into something else’ (with ana). 53 Cf. de Martino 2003: 81-87. 54 The narrative is marked by indication of the time sequence: “in that very same year” (KUB 26.71 IV I 22΄), “in the second year” (IV 10΄) and “in the third year” (IV 14΄). 55 Cf. Edzard, Farber, Sollberger 1977: 203-205; AHw 1174a-b, 1354a.

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Sargon E2.1.1.1 42) 43)

é-dnin-┌mar┐.KI e-ḫul

44) 45)

bàd-bi e-ga-┌sì┐

46)

gú-kalam-bi

47) 48)

lagaš.KI-ta ┌ ┐ a -ab-ba-šè na-x-[n]e-ne e-ḫul GIŠ.tukul-ni a-ab-ba-ka ì-luḫ

49) 50) 51) 52)

44) 45) 46) 47) 48) 49) 50) 51) 52) 53) 54) 55) 56) 57) 58)

é-nin-mar.KI SAG.GIŠ.RA ù BÀD-śu ┌ Ì.GUL.GUL┐ ┌ ┐ ù KALAM.MA.KI-śu ù lagaš (LA.BUR.ŠIR.RI).KI a-dì-ma ti-a-am-tim SAG.GIŠ.RA GIŠ.TUKUL-kí-śu in ti-a-am-tim Ì.LUḪ

“He conquered Eninmar, destroyed its walls, and conquered its district and Lagaš as far as the sea. He washed his weapons in the sea”. 56 ibidem 68) 69) 70) 71) 72) 73) 74) 75) 76) 77) 78) 79) 80)

a-┌ab┐-[ba] ┌ IGI.NIM┐-ma-ta a-ab-basig-┌sig┐-šè ┌d en-líl-le┐ [mu-na-sum] [ù] [a-ab]-ba[sig-sig]-ta [dumu-dum]u [ag-ge-dè.KI] n[am-énsi] mu-┌kin(?)┐-[x]

73) 74) 75) 76) 77) 78) 79) 80) 81) 82) 83) 84) 85)

[ti-a-am-tám] [a-lí-tám] [ù] [śa-pil-]tám ┌d┐ en-líl i-dì-nu-śum6 íś-tum-ma ti-a-am-tim śa-┌pil┐-tim DUMU.DUMU a-┌kà-dè┐.KI ÉNSI-ku8-a-tim [u]-kà-lú

56 Cf. Frayne 1993: 9-12.

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“The god Enlil gave to him [the Upper Sea and] the [Low]er (Sea), so that from the Lower Sea ‹to the Upper Sea›, citizens of Agade [h]eld the governorships (of the land)” (cf. Hirsch 1963: 36, 10). This topos also appears in the inscriptions of two rulers of the Agade tradition, NarāmSîn and Šar-kali-šarrī: Narām-Sîn E2.1.4.29 Obv. 5-15 (5) ì-nu ki-ib-ra-tum8 (6) ar-ba-[u]m íś-ti-ni-[í]ś (7) ì-KIR-‹ni›-su 4 (8) [íś]-tum-ma (9) [a-bar-t]i ti-┌a┐-a[m]-tim (10) [śa-p]íl-tim a-dì-ma (11) [ti-a-a]m-tim a-lí-tam (12) [NI.SI11] ┌ù┐ ŚA.DÚ-e (13) [kà-la]-śu-n[u-ma] (14)[a-na de]n-lí[l] (15) [u-ra-íś] “When the four quarters together revolted against him, [fr]om [bey]ond the [Lo]wer Sea as far as the Upper [S]ea, he [smote the people] and [all] the Mountain Lands [for the god E] nli[l]” (cf. Frayne 1993: 139-140). Šar-kali-šarrī E2.1.5.5: 9-28 (9) [ì]-nu (10) ki-┌ib-ra-tum┐ (11) ar-ba-┌um┐ (12) íś-ti-ni-íś (13) i-┌KIR┐-ni-śu 4 (14) (Traces) (15) [íś]-tum-ma (16) a-bar-ti (17) ti-a-am-tim (18) śa-píl-tim (19) a-dì-ma (20) [t]i-a-am-tim (21) ┌ a-lí┐-tim (22) NI.ŚI11 (23) ù (24) ŚA.DÚ-e (25) kà-la-śu-nu-ma (26) ┌ a-na┐ (27) d en-líl (28) u-ra-íś “[W]hen the four quarters together revolted against him, ... [fr]om beyond the Lower Sea as far as the Upper [S]ea, he smote the people and all the Mountain Lands for the god Enlil” (cf. Frayne 1993: 192-193).

Many texts provide important evidence of the transmission of this tradition from Mesopotamia to Anatolia. The fame of the kings of Agade, especially Sargon and his grandson Narām-Sîn, was known in Anatolia (see above, section 2.3.). In Ḫattuša their names are found in texts written in Hittite and Akkadian, in copies or translations of Mesopotamian texts and in what seem to be local compositions. There is little doubt that the topos of the sea as a border of conquered territories has its origins in Mesopotamia. It would be worthwhile investigating which sea (the Mediterranean, Aegean or Black Sea) the Hittites are referring to in the expression discussed above. In the Hittite texts they are not mentioned by different names and perhaps we should not distinguish any specific sea. Indeed, it could be argued that in the wording of the Telipinu’s proclamation it is the edge of the world that is meant, i.e., there are no more territories to be conquered. 3.4.2. “to see the eyes of the king” In an edict issued by Muršili to prevent offenses against the person of the king, the expression “to see the eyes of the king” appears: 57 KBo 3.28 II 10´-12´ – CTH 9.6 10´ ki-nu-na ma-a-an DUMU-aš A-NA SAG.DU LUGAL ú-wa-aš-ta-i ku-it-ki a-pa-ša-an └A┘[NA dÍD(-) ] 11´ [ḫa]l-za-a-i na-aš pa-it-┌tu┐ ma-a-na-aš pár-ku-eš-zi nu ša-a-ku-wa-at-te-et ú-uš[-ki-id-du] 12´ [t]ák-ku dÍD-└ya-ma?┘ mi-im-ma-i na‹-aš› É-ši-pát e-eš-tu “Now if a prince sins against the person of the king in any way, and he (the king) calls him to the river-ordeal, let him go. If he is innocent, let him see your eyes. But if he refuses (to go) to the river(-ordeal), let him remain in (= be confined to) his house” (CHD L-N 264a).

57 These ideas are expounded in more detail in Dardano 2010.

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The use of the river for trial by ordeal is interesting here, as is the mildness of the punishment meted out to the guilty party. The rebellious prince is not to be put to death but is to be allowed to live in his own house free from the fear of enslavement and merely under observation. However, if he is innocent, he is invited to see the eyes of the king. 58 The same expression, but in negative form, appears above in the same edict. A  rebel prince was defeated by the Hittite king with the help of the gods, and was sentenced to death. His wife and sisters are spared and the king banishes them with the solemn formula “Go, eat and drink, but do not see the eyes of me, the king!”: KBo 3.28 II 6΄-9΄ – CTH 9.6 6΄ šu-mu DINGIR DIDLI DUMU URUPu-r[u-uš-ḫa-an-du-um-na-an] 7΄ ki-iš-ri-mi da-i-ir LUGAL-uš A-NA DAM-ŠU ne-ga-aš-š[a]-aš-ša 8΄ i-it-te-en az-zi-kit9-te-en ak-ku-uš-kit9-te-en LUGAL-wa-ša 9΄ ša-a-┌ku┐-wa-me-et le-e uš-te-ni “The gods put the price of Purušḫanda into my hand and I, the king, said to his wife and his sisters: ‘Go, eat and drink, but do not see the eyes of me, the king!’”

What does the expression “to see the eyes of someone” mean? In this passage, the expression could be read as a formula for banishment: 59 the female members of the family of the rebellious prince are not put to death, but they cannot take part in the life of the court and cannot be admitted into the king’s presence, i.e., they cannot “see the eyes of the king”. The following text adds strength to the present hypothesis. A person known as the daughter of the king (very probably Ḫattušili’s daughter) is banished from the capital Ḫattuša. The king shows his leniency by merely banishing the woman. She is given fields and herds for her support, but she is forbidden to return to the king’s house and the capital: KBo 3.24+KBo 53.275 rev. 10΄-18΄ – CTH 39.1 (10΄) f Ta-wa-n[a-an-na (11΄) at-ta-aš-š[a(-) (12΄) ut-ni-ya-an-d[a- (13΄) ú-ga DUMU.MUNUSTI[ (14΄) da-aḫ-ḫu-un DUMU.M[UNUS? (15΄) ša-na-aš-ta URUḪa-a[t-tu- (16΄) ú-┌e ┐-em!-ya na-at-ta x[ (17΄) az-zi-ki-i ak-ku-uš-ki-ya URUḪa-a[t-tu-ši-ma LUGAL-wa-aš (?)] (18΄) ša-a-ku-wa le-e a-┌ú┐-u[t-ti

58 The text continues with some warnings to the heir to the throne: “You shall attend to (him), and you shall care for him, now care for him! If, however, you do not care for (him), then let him be in his (own) house. You shall not put (him) in prison: moreover you shall not do him evil, you shall not prepare his death, [you shall not] sel[l him]. […] They were guilty toward the head of my father and the river-god; and the father of the king did not cause them to live. Kizzuwa was guilty against the head of my father and the river-god; and my father did not cause him, Kizzuwa, to live” (KBo 3.28 II 12´-19´). 59 The Hittite expression for banishment is arḫa parḫ- ‘to expel, drive out, banish’ (see CHD P 144b-145a). In Telipinu’s proclamation we read that Ḫuzziya became king, but he had a brother-in-law, Telipinu, whom he feared as a rival; hence, once on the throne, he planned to kill this relative. Telipinu learned of the plot, drove off the would-be murderers, and ascended the throne himself. He then felt obliged to remove Ḫuzziya’s five brothers. According to the usual Hittite practice, they were banished (nu-uš m Te-li-pí-nu-uš ar-ḫa pár-aḫ-ta KBo III 1++ Ro II 12) to houses which Telipinu had given them, and it was decreed: pa-a-an-du-wa-az a-ša-an-du (14) nu-wa-[z]a az-zi-ik-kán-du ak-ku-uš-kán-du i-da-alu-ma-aš-ma-aš-kán le-e ku[-iš-ki] (15) tág-ga-aš-ši nu tar-ši-ki-mi a-pé-e-wa-mu i-da-lu i-e-ir ú-gawa-ru-uš ┌ḪUL-lu┐ [Ú-UL i-ya-mi] (ibid. 13-15) “Let them go, let them dwell (in them); let them eat, and let them drink, and no one do not do them any harm. Now I declare they did harm to me, but I [did not] harm them”.

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Paola Dardano “Tawana[nna (11΄) [an]d [the words] of the father (12΄) [the] population [ (13΄) and I (my) daughter [ (14΄) I took. [The dau]ghter [ (15΄) and them [in] Ḫa[ttuša (16΄) find! Not… [ (17΄) ‘Eat and drink! In Ḫa[ttuša (18΄) do not see the eyes of the king!’”

The daughter was banished from the court, but her personal safety and well-being were guaranteed. She was provided with a small estate stocked with cattle and sheep outside the capital, but she was not allowed to return to Ḫattuša. All this was done in the spirit of reconciliation which Ḫattušili was to urge upon every one of his subjects. What is the origin of this Hittite metaphorical expression? One may wonder whether its origin might not be a loan translation from Akk. ēn(ē) X amāru(m) ‘to visit’, lit. ‘to see the eyes of someone’ 60. The Hittite expression should be analysed in conjunction with some Old Assyrian texts, where ēn(ē) X amāru(m) appears: BIN 6, 14, 25-32 (25) ta-ma-lá-ke-en6 ša i-na (26) ma-a[-ar-tim (27) i-ba-ší-ú-ni / a-na (28) Ì-lí-iš-‹ta›-ki-il5 lá tadí-ni (29) šu-ma Pu-šu-ke-en6 (30) e-ri-iš-ki (31) dí-ni /šu-ma / lá ki-a-am / a-dí / e-né-a (32) ta-mì-ri-ni / a-ma-ma-an lá ta-dí-ni “Tu ne dois pas remettre à Iliš-takkil les récipients-tamalakkum qui se trouvent dans le coffrefort. Si Pūšu-kēn te les réclame, donne-(les-lui); sinon jusqu’à ce que tu me voies personnellement, ne les remets à personne!” (Michel 2001, Nr. 370, p. 488); CCT 4. 43a left edge 50 a-lá-kà-ma e-né-kà a-ma-ar “Je partirai et te verrai personnellement” (Michel 1991, vol. II, Nr. 149, p. 202); BIN 6, 20, 12-17 “La femme-ēmiqtum s’est enfuie de chez moi, et du coup j’ai été retardé jusqu’à ce jour. Ainsi que tu l’as certainement attentivement surveillée (jusqu’à présent), je t’en prie continue à la surveiller avec attention a-dí e-ni-e-a ta-mì-ri-ni jusqu’à ce que tu me voies en personne” (Michel 2001, Nr. 334, p. 458) CCT 3, 25: 22-26 ki-ma (23) sup-pá-am ta-áš-me-ú : al-kam-ma (24) e-en6 : A-šùr : DINGIR-kà ù ‹i›-li bi4-/tí-kà (25) a-mu-ur : ú a-dí : ba-al-sá!-ku-ni (26) e-né-kà lá-mu-ur “Je t’en prie, lorsque tu auras entendu (ma) tablette, viens, regarde vers Aššur, ton dieu et le dieu de ta maisonnée, et tant que je vivrai, que je puisse voir tes yeux” (Michel 1991, vol. II, Nr. 4, pp. 16-17; Michel 2001, Nr. 345, p. 467) KTS 1, 1b: 16-21 “Enfin, vends la marchandise de ton père, a-tal-kam-ma e-in (20) A-šùr ù e-in (21) a-bi4-kà / a-mur-ma et prépare-toi à partir pour voir l’œil d’Aššur et l’œil de ton père, et réjouir ton père!” (Michel 2001, Nr. 352, p. 473) KTS 1, 15: 41-44 “Tu (es) le seul, mon dieu, mon confident et mon espoir; que ton père soit heureux, et prie pour moi afin que e-en A-šùr ú e-ni-kà lá-mur je puisse voir l’œil (du dieu) Aššur et le tien!” (Michel 2001, Nr. 161 , p. 247) 60 Cf. AHw 41a, s.v. amāru(m) 6 b) ‘jmd. aufsuchen’; CAD A2 20 ‘to see personally, to visit’. This expression is also attested in a Paleo-Akkadian letter (AO 4419, 11-12).

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TCL 4, 5 [= TC 1, 5]: 12-17 “S’il te plaît, dès que tu auras pris connaissance de (cette) lettre, al-kam-ma (15) e-en A-šùr a-mu-ur-ma (16) na-pá-áš-ta-kà (17) e-ṭí-ir viens, rends visite au dieu Aššur et sauve ta vie!” (Michel 2001, Nr. 348, p. 470).

The original meaning of the Akkadian wording ‘to see the eyes of someone’ would thus be ‘to visit someone’. This assumption now enables us to bring together such hitherto unexplained correspondences as that of Hitt. šakuwa auš- with Akk. ēn(ē) X amāru(m). A passage in a treaty, surviving in fragmentary Akkadian and Hittite versions, which the Hittite king Tudḫaliya II drew up with Šunaššura, the king of Kizzuwatna, is extremely illuminating (see Beckman 1999: 17-26). Šunaššura is clearly a subordinate of the Hittite king and must pay a visit of obeisance to the latter. If we analyse the key expression, Akk. IGIḪI.Ašu ša dUTUši amāru ‘to see the eyes of my Sun, i.e. the king’, we find a plausible parallel to Hitt. šakuwa auš-. The text describes the ceremonial of the audience. When Šunaššura sees the eyes of the king, i.e., visits the king, the noblemen will rise from their seats and no one is allowed to remain seated in front of him: KBo 1.5 I 40-43 – CTH 41.I.A 40 mŠu-na-aš-šu-ra a-na ma-ḫar dUTUŠI il-la-ak IGIḪI.A-šu 41 ša dUTUŠI im-ma-ar ki-me-e a-na ma-ḫar dUTUŠI il-la-ak 42 LÚ.MEŠGAL.GAL ša dUTUŠI iš-tu GIŠŠÚ.A UGU-šu ma-am-ma 43 ú-ul uš-ša-ab .... “Šunaššura will come to the presence of the Sun, he will see the eyes of the Sun. When he will arrive in the presence of the Sun, the Great Ones of the Sun will rise from their chairs, no one shall remain seated facing him” (Liverani 2004: 62).

This attestation from the Šunaššura treaty confirms that the Akkadian wording was widespread in Ḫattuša; indeed, it would be worthwhile investigating when the Hittites imported it (in the Old Assyrian period or later). For the moment, however, I believe that this attestation in the Akkadian version of a Hittite treaty provides important proof of the validity of our interpretation regarding the origin of this Hittite wording. 3.4.3. “to speak before his own heart” Our analysis now turns to a Hittite phraseme referring to a mental activity. In Hittite a verb for ‘to reflect (upon something), to ponder, to consider’ is not found, but the expression karti=° peran mema- ‘to speak before (his own) heart’ (HED M 126: ‘to commune with one’s heart/soul, to say to oneself, to mull over, to bring to mind’) is well documented. The crucial passage occurs in a Old Hittite tale, the Zalpa Text, and reads as follows: “Our queen of Kaneš bore 30 daughters at one time, yet the sons have disappeared. nu-uz-za DUMU.NITA MEŠ kar-ti-iš-mi (14) pé-ra-an me-e-mi-ir ku-in-wa ša-an-ḫi-iš-ki-u-e-ni UMMA-NI- ša-an ú-e-mi-ya-u-en Now the boys spoke to themselves (lit. spoke before their heart): ‘Whom are we seeking? Our mother! We have found her! Come, let us go to Neša’” (KBo 22.2 obv. 12-15; see Holland, Zorman 2007: 39).

Here the thirty sons of the queen of Kaneš are seeking their mother. Stereotypical as the formula obviously is, its importance in providing a correct interpretation is patent. For the

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Hittites the heart was the place of meditation and deliberation. The formula introduces direct speech, as is proved by the particle -wa(r) (l. 14) in the passage quoted, in which the sons of the queen are asking themselves whom are they seeking. The figurative sense of this expression survives in late Hittite, when kard- ‘heart’ is replaced by ištanza(na)- ‘soul’. We thus have -za PANI ZI-ŠU mema- ‘to speak before his own mind’ or -za … ZI-ni EGIR-pa mema- ‘to speak from the bottom of (his own) mind’. The fact that a soliloquy was perceived by the Hittites as a talk “before his own soul/mind” or “from the bottom of his own soul/mind” is testified by many mythological texts. In the Ullikummi myth both these wordings introduce direct speech and they always appear in the ingressive construction meaning ‘to begin to …’ and formed by dai- ‘to put’ plus supine: CTH 345.I.1 III 15΄-19΄ 15΄ dkumarbiš=za PĀNI Z[I-ŠU memi]škiuwan dāiš 16΄ kwit =wa=šši=kan ŠUM-an [teḫḫi?] 17΄ [d]gulšuš=wa=mu DINGIR.MAḪḪI.A-uš kwin DUMU-an SUM-er 18΄ nu=war[=aš=kan] NÍ.TE-az arḫa GIŠšiyatal mān watkut 19΄ paidd[u=wa=šša]n dullikummi ŠUM-an ēšdu “Kumarbi began to say to himself: ‘What name [shall I put on] the child whom the Fate Goddesses and Mother Goddesses have given to me? He sprang forth from the body like a shaft. Henceforth let Ullikummi be his name’” (Hoffner 1998: 58) CTH 345.I.1 IV 13΄-16΄ 13΄ nu=za delliluš PĀNI Z[I-Š]U memiškiuwan dāiš 14΄ kwiš=war=aš aši DUMU-aš 15΄ kw[in] namma šallanuēr dgulšuš DINGIR.MAḪMEŠ-uš 16΄ kwiš=war=aš [namma] uškezzi šallayaš DINGIR MEŠ-aš daššawēš zaḫḫāu[š] “Then Enlil began to say to himself: ‘What child is this whom the Fate Goddesses and Mother Goddesses have raised again? Who can [any longer] bear the intense struggles of the great gods?’” (Hoffner 1998: 59). 61

An example of the expression (-za) …. ZI-ni āppa mema- “to speak from the bottom of (his own) soul/mind” is found in the following text: CTH 345.I.2 40-44 40 nu=za dIŠTAR-iš ZI-ni EGIR-pa memiškezzi 41 kuwapi=war=at andan piddaiškanzi 2 LÚ MEŠ ATḪŪTIM 42 [nu=war=aš p]āimi ūḫḫi 43 n=aš=kan w[alliw]alliyaš tiyat dIŠTAR-iš 44 nu ANA 2 ŠEŠMEŠ-ŠU peran šarā tiyat “Šauška said to herself, ‘Where are my two brothers running to? I’ll go and see’. Bo1d1y(?) Šauška approached. She came up to her brothers” (Hoffner 1998: 60).

Something comparable occurs in Akkadian. No verb for ‘to reflect, to ponder’ exists in Akkadian either, but there are a number of expressions meaning ‘to speak to his own heart’. To indicate a soliloquy, the expression itti libbi dabābu ‘(a) to ponder, think’, (b) to mutter to oneself, (c) to worry’ (CAD D 11, s.v. dabābu 7) is very common, but ana libbi-šu/ša amāta 61 Cf. also CTH 345.I.1 III 27΄-31΄, IV 34΄-36΄.

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zakrum ‘to speak words with his own heart’ and itti libbi-šu qabû ‘to speak with his own heart’ also contain the same motif (see Edzard 1990). Returning to the Hittite wording, it is conceivable that we are dealing with a loan translation from Akkadian to Hittite. There is little doubt that this expression has its origins in Mesopotamia considering the role of Akkadian in ancient Near East, and if we bear in mind that this expression is typical of the Hittite mythological texts, the evidence for a loan translation is further strengthened. 4. Semitic influences on Luwian 4.1. Cuneiform Luwian The cuneiform texts from Ḫattuša include some written in a form of Luwian, called Cuneiform Luwian. These texts are limited to certain rituals. Recent research into the sociolinguistic relationship between Hittite and Luwian indicates that Luwian was well attested in Central Anatolia, was used in addition to Hittite in the Assyrian Colony and Old Hittite periods, and that it even had the status of a prestige language. 62 Hittite remained the language of state in the thirteenth century, even at a time when we now assume that the most widely spoken language of the population was Luwian. There are also some loanwords from Akkadian in Cuneiform Luwian. It has generally been maintained that most borrowings of Mesopotamian culture by Luwian took place through intermediaries, the Hurrians. However, the degree of integration in Luwian is high, as is proved by the Luwian suffix -it- which forms nouns (see Starke 1990: 210). Here are some examples: CLuw. zammitāti- ‘flour’ from Akk. samīdu a type of groats (AHw 1018; CAD S 115b; in the Hittite texts the Akkadogram SÍ-IM-MI-TA-A-TI is also attested); CLuw. adulpit- a type of garment from Akk. atuplu or utuplu (CAD U, W 347b-348b: ‘a fabric of weaving’) via Hurrian *adupli (BGH 69b); see Starke 1990, 208; according to Hoffner (1989: 89) the Akkadian term exists at least as early as Old Babylonian and so it is difficult to see why J. Puhvel (HED A-K 229) is skeptical about its relationship to the Akkadian word; CLuw. ḫazizit- ‘ear; understanding’ from Akk. ḫasīsu(m) ‘ear; understanding’ (AHw 330; CAD Ḫ 126-127), via Hurr. ḫa(z)zi(z)zi (BGH 141a-b; see Starke 1990: 213); CLuw. irimpit-, irippit- ‘cedar’ from Akk. erenu ‘cedar’ (AHw 237), but through Hurrian mediation because of the suffix (*erem-pi >) e/irip(p)i- (BGH 98b-99a; see Starke 1990: 213-214); CLuw. kišḫit‘seat, throne’ from Akk. kussû (from Sum. GU.ZA) via Hurr. ke/išḫe/i (BGH 216a-217b; see Starke 1990: 215); CLuw. pāinit- ‘cedal oil’ from Hurr. pāini- (it is not clear if this form is borrowed from Akk. bīnu(m) ‘tamarisk’; see Starke 1990: 217); CLuw. pinkit- ‘pommel, knob’ from Akk. pinku(m) via Hurrian (see Starke 1990: 217-218); CLuw. ḫamrit- ‘small temple’ from Akk. ḫamru(m) (AHw 318; CAD Ḫ 70a ‘sacred precinct (of Adad)’ via Hurr. (É) ḫamri (BGH 123b-124b: ‘Tempel(model)’; see Starke 1990: 212). 4.2. Hieroglyphic Luwian We now come to the Akkadian loanwords in Hieroglyphic Luwian (see Schwemer 2002: 311; Giusfredi 2012): DOMINUS-nin zalalasin (ASSUR letter d, § 9) ‘master of a chariot, charioteer’ from Akk. bēl narkabti ‘lord of the chariot, charioteer’ (see Starke 1990: 339-340; Hawkins, CHLI I/2, 546a-b); la-hi-na-la-za (KULULU lead strip 2: 10) from Akk. (a)laḫḫinu 62 See Yakubowich 2009.

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an administrative official (CAD A1 294a-296b; Hawkins, CHLI I/2, 513a; see also Laroche, NH Nr. 674 for onomastic); (GAZELLA)i + ra/i-wa/i-ti-i, i + ra/i-wa/i-ti (HİSARCIK 1 § 2, 4) from Akk. arwium, armû ‘buck (of gazelle or mountain goat)’ (CAD A2 293a-b; Hawkins, CHLI I/2, 484a); (LIGNUM)ha-za-ni- (CEKKE § 14) from Akk. ḫazan(n)u- ‘chief magistrate of a town, mayor’ (CAD Ḫ 163b-165b; Hawkins, CHLI I/1, 149b-150a); ki-tara/isa (CEKKE § 16) ‘gift, donation’ from Akk. kitru, kiterru (CAD K 486a-b, s.v. kitru B ‘preferential share (of an estate)’); ku-ru-pi (ASSUR letters b § 5 and f+g § 37) according to Giusfredi (2012: 155) from Akk. kuruppu a basket (CAD K 581a-b; contra Hawkins, CHLI I/2, 544b who identifies ku-ru-pi with “OVIS”-ru-pi, a kind of sacrificial sheep, perhaps ‘lamb’); (*474)sa-ri+i-ia-si- (ANCOZ 4 § 1) a high dignitary from Akk. ša rēši (a title) lit. ‘(he) of the head’, ‘eunuch’ (Hawkins, CHLI I/1, 349b); (“LIGNUM”)su-ka-la- (EĞRİKÖY § 3) from Akk. sukkallu (from Sum. (LÚ)SUKKAL) a court official, ‘vizier’, presumably transmitted via Hurr. šukkalli- (Hawkins, CHLI I/2, 496b; CAD S 354b-360a; BGH 408a). From this Luwian material we may draw some conclusions. The Akkadian loanwords refer chiefly to administration (the names of officials), plants, and technical items; moreover the Hurrian intermediation of Akkadian loanwords in Luwian languages is stronger than in Hittite. 5. Conclusions In Hittite there are many loanwords from Akkadian, but whether they were direct loans or through a Hurrian intermediary remains to be investigated. Because of the obvious “areal” connections between Anatolia and Mesopotamia, comparison with the Hurrian language does more than elucidate Hittite forms through ethnographic comparanda: it offers an important insight into the history and culture of Anatolia. Although some loanwords from Akkadian are present in several texts, others are known from only a few texts or even less. This does not necessarily mean, however, that the rare written loans were equally rare in the spoken language. Close phraseological correspondences such as those mentioned above suggest that there is also indirect evidence of contact between Akkadian and Hittite. Furthermore, some specific examples show that when Akkadian wordings were imported and adapted to new uses, they were translated and modified as necessary in at least some cases. It is hoped that the present paper thus sheds some new light on how single words or phrasemes have been transmitted and translated from the broader Near East context to Anatolia, providing an example of how wider Near Eastern literary and cultural traditions crossed linguistic barriers and were adapted to the particular interests of a new milieu. Early in this paper I touched on the issue of Anatolian multilingualism and multiculturalism. Let us in conclusion briefly consider their causes and effects. As we have seen, there may be various reasons for such cross-linguistic influences (for example, political, cultural, social, or economic development, the importation of new products, prestige, local flavour, or the internationalization of specialized language). However, I hold that the prestige of Akkadian was the principal reason for its success in Anatolia. Prestige, of course, indicates an influence or reputation derived from earlier achievements, associations or successes rather than from any intrinsic linguistic or aesthetic features (i.e., it is based on the social perception of speakers). Without doubt the prestige of Akkadian supported by its literary tradition was an important reason for its circulation throughout the Near East and also in

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Anatolia. Nevertheless, as was remarked in our discussion, two paths must be recognized by which Mesopotamian culture reached Central Anatolia: direct importation from Assyria and Babylonia, and transmission via Hurrian intermediaries. Bibliography Abbreviations

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Anatolian influences on Greek* Zsolt Simon Part A. Discussion 1. State of the research The research of Anatolian influences on Greek has already started in the antiquity when ancient authors pointed out the Anatolian origin of some words and since then it always remained popular to assume Anatolian origin in the case of words with unknown etymology. Since the discovery of the Anatolian languages many papers were devoted to the Anatolian lexical elements in Greek, however, being focused on the etymology of some words only none of them intended to provide a complete and critical overview of all of the alleged Anatolian words. One expects such an overview from the numerous recent handbooks of Greek linguistics and from the most recent etymological dictionary of Greek (Beekes 2010), which, unlike their predecessors, were published late enough to build upon the recent advances in Anatolian linguistics. This is not the case, however. The relevant chapters in Christidis 2007 (Adiego 2007b; 2007c; 2007d) and the papers García Ramón 2011, Sh. Hawkins 2010, Hajnal 2014 and in press are of high quality, but by far not exhaustive (similarly Woodard 1997). The quality of the entries in EAGLL is uneven: some of them do not even discuss the topic indicated in their title (Rose 2014; van den Hout 2014), while others are of high quality, but again not exhaustive (Melchert 2014a; 2014b). Even more disappointing is the etymological dictionary of Beekes 2010 for the following reasons: Beekes (1) does not quote all existing etymologies, i.e. those that have not been rightly refused yet; (2) he does not evaluate many of the quoted etymologies; (3) he frequently uses only negative labelling (type “unconvincing”) instead of arguments; (4) he is biased towards Pre-Greek / Anatolian etymologies based on superficial kling-klangs; (5) he uses “Anatolian” in a geographical and not in a linguistic sense (i.e. one specific branch of the Indo-European languages), although this term is normally used in its linguistic sense in the relevant papers. Thus it is not surprising that there is no scholarly consensus regarding the Anatolian lexical loans in Greek, as perfectly illustrated by the rather different lists of loanwords of the recents summaries of Yakubovich, Sh. Hawkins, Gasbarra and Pozza, and Hajnal (for the detailed discussion of these words see Part B s.vv.): 1) Yakubovich 2010: 113-114, 146-147, 2013: 118-120: βύρσα, δέπας, θύρσος (?), χώρ, κύανος, κύμβαλον, κύμβαχος, μόλυβδος, τολύπη, τύραννος (?); 2) Sh. Hawkins 2010: 224-225: γυγαί, δέπας, ἐλέφᾱς, κύανος, σίλβη, στλεγγίς, σῶρυ/ι, τύβαρις (and perhaps βάκκαρις, ϰαρῡ́ ϰη, ϰαύης, μίνδις, μόλυβδος, οὐδών, πάλμυς); * I am very grateful to Adam Hyllested, David Sasseville and Ilya Yakubovich for providing me with their manuscripts as well as to Gabriella Juhász for correcting my English.

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3) Gasbarra, Pozza 2012: 189-196: ἄρριχος, ἄφενος, ἀχνη, δέπας, ἐλέφᾱς, κύανος, κύμβαλον, κύμβαχος, κύπελλον (?), τολύπη; 4) Hajnal 2014: 110-111 and in press: δέπας, κύμβαλον, κύμβαχος, κύπελλον, μόλυβδος, τολύπη; In other words, a handbook of the Anatolian loanwords in Greek, equivalent to the handbooks of the alleged Semitic or Iranian and Indic loans in Greek (Rosół 2013; Brust 2005, resp.), is still missing. This paper presents a first attempt to fill this gap collecting and critically evaluating all suggestions proposed until now. Needless to say, although all efforts have been made to be exhaustive, due to the largeness of the topic and the dispersed nature of the scholarly papers it is inevitable that some suggestions or references have been unintentionally omitted. Nevertheless, it is the contention of the author that the collected evidence fairly represents the current state of research. The paper is organized as follows: since two types of influences can be assumed theoretically, structural and lexical ones, §2 discusses the alleged Anatolian structural influences and §3 discusses the identified lexical loans with their historical context. The discussion in §3 is based on Part B, the etymology part, where the critical discussion of all proposed loanwords can be found in Greek alphabetical order. 1 2. Structural influences on Greek Unlike the case of lexical loans, structural influences have been critically evaluated recently, thus it is sufficient to summarize the results. Although previous scholarship suggested many structural interferences, recent research demonstrated that none of them can stand up to close scrutiny: (1) The use of the possessive adjectives in -ιο- as patronyms and adjectives of appurtenance in Mycenaean and Aeolic (including Lesbian) allegedly resulting from the areal diffusion of Luwian genitival adjectives in -ašša/i- and/or -iya- (Watkins 1998: 203; 2000a: 1143-114; 2001: 58) – for a detailed refusal see Yakubovich 2010: 148-149; García Ramón 2011: 38-39; Hajnal 2014: 111-112 and in press. (2) The alleged formal and functional similarities of the particles Hom. -ταρ and Cuneiform Luwian -tar /-dar/ (Watkins 1995: 150-151; also 1997: 618; followed by Katz 2007: 69-72; Teffeteller 2011: 457; 2015: 722-723) – neither the formal nor the functional similarities exist, see already Yakubovich 2010: 141-145 (cf. also 2013: 118-119); Hajnal 2014: 112-113 and in press (cf. also Dunkel 2014: 791 n. 64). (3) The East Ionic and Homeric Greek use of the inherited -σκ- suffix in iterative imperfects as a diffusion of Hittite -ške- and Luwian -za- (!) (Puhvel 1991b: 13-20 and Watkins 2000a: 1143-1144; 2001: 58; followed by Högemann 2003: 8, treated positively in Yakubovich 2010: 148 and García Ramón 2011: 37-38), is refuted by Hajnal in press. (4) The East Ionic and Aeolic (Lesbian) psilosis as a convergence with Lydian (Oettinger 2002, followed by Högemann 2003: 8; Yakubovich 2010: 148 [cautiously]; Melchert 2014b: 70) that Dale 2015: 433 n. 28 would extend into a West Anatolian (i.e. here Lydian, Carian, Lycian B) – East Greek areal feature. For a detailed refusal see Hajnal in press.

1 The effect of the Anatolian languages on the Greek dialects intrusive in Anatolia will not be discussed here, since it is a different topic.

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(5) The so-called “accusativus Graecus”, i.e. the accusative to express inalienable possession by Anatolian influence (Högemann 2003: 8-9). For a detailed refusal see Hajnal in press. (6) The so-called “schema Pindaricum” (animate subject in plural with a verb in singular) attributed to Anatolian influence by Watkins 2000a: 1144-1145; 2000b: 14 refuted by García Ramón 2011: 40. 2 This means that the assumption of a Sprachbund between Greek and Anatolian languages based on these proposals cannot be maintained. 3 More recently, Dale 2015: 420-433 argued that the Greek ethnic suffix -ηνος Carian -yn / -ýn. Furthermore, Carian does not need to be a dominant linguistic group for borrowings and in view of the relatively vivid Greek-Carian loan contacts (as per below and Simon forthcoming-a), the linguistic circumstances were favourable. Note also that his dismissal of Yakubovich’s assumption (2010: 86-92, cf. already Schürr 2002) of Proto-Carian as one of the languages of Arzawa (Dale 2015: 432-433 with n. 24-25) is based on his negligance of the onomastic evidence provided by Yakubovich and Schürr on the one hand and on the reviews of Yakubovich’s book (Teffeteller 2011 and Hawkins 2013) on the other hand. Although in Dale’s views these reviews represent a “judicious assessment”, Teffeteller 2011 does not argue against the Proto-Carian hypothesis and J.D. Hawkins 2013: 8-9 rejects it ex cathedra (“entirely speculative”). Note finally that the unidentified Luwic dialect that may be located in Northwest Anatolia (cf. below) can also provide an alternative for the borrowing.

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3. Lexical loans in Greek 3.1. The scope of the discussion The present discussion of the alleged Anatolian loans in Greek does not include the following categories: (1) Onomastic material, including the (in)famous Luwic-looking toponyms (with suffixes -σσ-, -νθ-, etc.) as well as the theonyms and mythical names, since these require a (pre)historic and a religion-oriented discussion, respectively and are not immediately relevant to the language contacts as their incorporation follows different paths. (2) In accordance with n. 1, loanwords attested only in Anatolian Greek dialects, since these belong to the local substrate, despite that these are frequently included in the Greek etymological dictionaries. 6 (3) The transcription of local words and still transparent foreign words since these are not Greek, even if these are included in the Greek etymological dictionaries and even in the discussion of Anatolian loanwords in Greek. These include the Lycian word μίνδις ‘association for the maintenance of tombs’ (miñti [cf. Melchert 2004: 39-40; Neumann 2007: 216] contra Adiego 2007c: 765; Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225); 7 the Cappadocian (and thus presumably Luwian) word μῶλυ ‘unidentified plant’ 8 and the Lydian words ϰάνδαυλος / ϰάνδῡλος ‘a Lydian meal or sauce’ (contra DELG 491; Beekes 2010: 634; cf. Gusmani 1964: 274); ϰαρϰη ‘a Lydian soup of blood and spices’; 9 ϰαύης ‘name of a priest(ess) in Sardes’ (kaveś, Gusmani 1964: 150); 10 and μῶλαξ ‘the Lydian name for wine’. 11 Similar is the case of μάγαδις ‘a Lydian / Thracian string instrument; a Lydian flute’ (cf. Gusmani 1964: 275): although everyone agrees that it is presumably a Lydian foreign word, it is still included in the dictionaries (GEW II/154; DELG 655; Beekes 2010: 887), just like οὐδών ‘kind of felt-shoe made of goathair’, a Fremdwort from Cilicia (GEW II/442; DELG 836; Beekes 2010: 1124; Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225). 12 6 E.g. ναῦσσον ‘name of a tax’ (Cos, Cyzicus) and πέλτον ‘base of an altar, tomb’ (Lycaonia) in GEW, DELG and Beekes 2010; δόλπαι / δολβαί ‘little flat cake (Cos)’ in DELG and Beekes 2010; and γουτάριον ‘tomb’ (Phrygia and perhaps Lydia) and κορκόρας ‘bird’ (Perge) in Beekes 2010. 7 Partly acknowledged by Beekes 2010: 955 (similarly DELG 704) claiming “a local word, perhaps from Lycian miñti”. However, the connection was recognized as early as Hirschfeld 1889: col. 1427. 8 Cf. Neumann 1961: 28; contra GEW II/282; DELG 730; Beekes 2010: 990. 9 With GEW II/794 (“wohl”, cf. also DELG 501: “pourrait être”) contra Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225; cf. Gusmani 1964: 274. There is no reason to assume Pre-Greek origin (contra Beekes 2010: 650-651) based on the variant with -ύϰϰη, since this variation could have been caused by a recent borrowing too, which is expected due to its meaning. 10 Contra Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225 (see, however 2013: 183-187), with GEW I/802: DELG 505-506; Beekes 2010: 658 (all with refs.), see already Buckler, Robinson 1913: 363 n. 1. 11 With Tischler 1990: 89 and Kloekhorst 2008: 539, contra Beekes 2010: 991; cf. Gusmani 1964: 276; 1986: 163. There is no reason to assume a Pre-Greek origin, contra Beekes 2010: 991, whose proposal is based on the kling-klang comparison with βωληνή a ‘kind of vine in Bithynia’. 12 See also the problematic case of ϰόλαβρος ‘name of a song which accompanied the dance ϰολαβρισμός’, which was known in the antiquity as the Thracian (but once also as the Carian) name of this dance, for the texts see Detschew 1957: 251, followed by GEW I/896 and DELG 554 (Beekes 2010: 734 assumes a Pre-Greek origin due to the vowel variation in the spelling, which, however, could have been caused by a recent borrowing too). The single reference to Carian may mean that they also have borrowed it from Thracian. – However, νικύρτας ‘born slave’ does not belong here (contra Lambertz 1914: 5 n. 3;

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(4) Despite the sometimes ill-defined usage of the term “Anatolian” in this context (see also below), “Anatolian” is a linguistic term with a specific meaning (i.e. the Anatolian branch of the Indo-European languages), thus linguistically non-Anatolian languages are not included. In other words, alleged Phrygian, Hattian, Hurrian and Urartian loanwords are not discussed. The problem of the Phrygian loanwords require a separate discussion, proposals for Hattian, 13 Hurrian 14 and Urartian 15 loanwords are very few and untenable anyway. (5) Loanwords based on Anatolian toponyms (γαγάτης ‘lignite’; ἰδάρνας ‘eunuch, barbarian, diviner’). For the critical treatment of all other proposals see Part B. s.vv. 3.2. Summary and geographical-chronological evaluation Based on the critical analysis of the alleged loanwords presented in Part B, the current state of the Anatolian loanwords in Greek can be summarized as follows. Until now almost 160 Greek words were suggested to be of Anatolian origin, a rather high number, but only a fragment of these, less than 30, i.e. less than one-fifth of these proved to be Anatolian. 1. False comparisons: There is a huge number of Greek words of alleged Anatolian origin whose Anatolian etymology is unfounded, either because no Anatolian connection exists at all or because the proposed Anatolian connection is false. 16 These represent the overwhelming majority of the Greek words with alleged Anatolian origin. Members of this category, if they are not shown to be inherited or to be a loanword from another language, may of course turn out to be Anatolian in the future if new evidence is revealed, but currently this is not the case. 2. Hittite loanwords: They are very few and represent typical culture words and Wanderwörter: only κύανος ‘enamel, lapis lazuli, blue copper carbonate’ seems to be as-

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Sayce apud Buckler 1924: 88; Brandenstein 1929: 265; Whatmough 1956: 74 [with a question mark]); cf. O. Masson 1962: 121 n. 1), since it obviously cannot reflect a Lydian *ni-kud-τa- ‘belonging to nowhere’ for phonological reasons (contra Watkins 2007b: 119-120 and Melchert 2014b: 70). Kroonen 2012: 293-297 derives γελγῑς, -ῑθος/-ῑδος ‘garlic’ from Akkadian gidlu ‘dto’ (as well as ἄγλῑς, -ῑθος ‘garlic’ via Pre-Greek *a-gdl- with an alleged prefix *a- of the substrate language) and suggests that these would have been transmitted by Hattian speakers. No evidence exists for this transmission (furthermore, Hattian does not have such a prefix) and Semitic words notably could have reached Greek in a number of ways. See also s.vv. γέφῡρα, ϰέραμος, and πρύτανις. Hurrian ḫuruppi ‘sword’ was used as an etymon both by Furnée 1972: 148 (cautiously, for κρώπιον ‘sickle, scythe’ of unknown origin [GEW II/31; DELG 590; Beekes 2010: 788], assuming, however, also a common substrate, 97 with n. 259) and by Szemerényi 1981: 114 (for ῥομφαία ‘a large broad sword used by the Thracians’ of perhaps Thracian origin [GEW II/662; DELG 978; Beekes 2010: 1291]), but the Hurrian word means ‘Tiergefäß, Rhyton’ (Richter 2012: 172-173 with refs.). See also s.vv. ἀχνη; κύμβαχος; λάγιον / λάγῡνος. Furnée 1972: 130 derived κάρχαρος ‘biting, sharp, raw’ of disputed origin (GEW I/796; DELG 502; Beekes 2010: 652, all with refs.) from Urartian ḥarḥar [sic] ‘heap of stones’, without explaining the semantic, phonological, geographical and historical difficulties (furthermore, the Urartian word, recte ḫarḫar-, means ‘verfallen, schadhaft werden’, Salvini, Wegner 2014: 109). See also s.v. πύργος. It may seem superfluous to emphasize, but in view of the seriousness of this longstanding problem, it must be underlined that by assuming a loan contact from an Anatolian language, at least one allegedly related word must be presented. Furthermore, in absence of such a connection, the usage of the term “Anatolian” in geographical sense must be abandoned, because it is misleading: in this case it means simply that the etymology of the word is unknown and despite the labelling, usually no evidence points to Anatolia (not to mention its hidden but false implication that hardly anything is known about the Anatolian languages and thus everything can be attributed to them).

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sured and the situation does not change even if the dubious cases of ἄρσεα ‘meadows’, ἀχνη ‘name of a measure; chest, box’, σῑγαλóεις ‘brilliant, gleaming vel sim.’ (where a common, third source cannot be excluded), and σόλος ‘iron mass, used as a discus’ (formally problematic) are too taken into account. This fits the the geographical and historical circumstances that Greek speakers and Hittite speakers were not neighbours and maintained only diplomatic contacts (cf. Genz 2011: 303-309). 3. Loanwords from an unidentified Luwic dialect: This is a specific subgroup of loanwords from an unidentified Luwic dialect (identified in Simon 2017) characterised by the retained initial voiced stop (βορβύλα ‘round pastry made of poppy and sesame, of the size of a loaf of bread’; βύρσα ‘skin, hide’; γάγγαμον ‘small round net for catching oysters’; δέπας ‘cup’). These are relatively numerous (but not as many as the Carian and the Lydian loans, cf. below) and represent typical cultural terms. If this dialect is to be located in Northwestern Anatolia (as Simon 2017 argues), it, again, fits the historical evidence well (on the Greek presence in Western Anatolia since Mycenaean times see e.g. the overviews of Mountjoy 1998 and Niemeier 2007). 4. Luwian loanwords: These are very few and all problematic: τολύπη ‘a clew of wool or yarn’ (if not inherited), κάμηλος ‘camel’ (if the Luwian word is indeed attested); θύρσος ‘a wand wreathed in ivy and vine-leaves with a pine-cone at the top’ (but see the problem of the initial consonant); and κυσέρη ‘πυθμήν, χάσμα’ (if not a local word). The rarity of Luwian loanwords in Greek is paralleled by the recent researches regarding the extension of Luwian territories, according to which Luwian was not spoken in Western Anatolia (Yakubovich 2010: 75-160), thus direct contacts between Greek and Luwian speakers were lacking until the arrival of Greeks in Pamphylia and Cilicia. 17 5. Carian loanwords: One of the most substantial groups, consisting of γεῖσον ‘projecting part of the roof, cornice’; ἑρμηνεύς ‘interpreter, translator’; καμάρα ‘vault, vaulted room, wagon and bark with vaulted roof’, κάμαρος ‘ἀσφαλής’; κῶας ‘soft, hairy animal skin; fleece’; μνῴα ‘name of the serfs in Crete’; γυγαί ‘πάπποι’. Considering the continuous presence of Greeks in the region later called Caria since the Late Bronze Age (for refs. see above, cf. also Niemeier 2009), the relatively high number of these loanwords is not surprising. 6. Lydian loanwords: This is the other relatively sizeable group consisting of βάκκαρις ‘unguent from asarum’; βάσανος ‘touchstone, examination, inquiry (by torture), agony’; πάλμυς ‘king’; πλαίσιον ‘long quadrangle, rectangle, rectangular frame’ (and perhaps ϰόθορνος ‘high boot, footwear with high base for actors, tragic cothurn’ and ϰύπασσις ‘a (short) frock, also worn by women’, if latter is not Persian). The relatively high number of these borrowings is again not surprising considering the strong Greek presence in this region (for refs. see above). One may also add σμίνθος ‘mouse’ from Mysian, since it is an Anatolian language, probably closely related to Lydian (Yakubovich 2010: 115-117, 157, contra e.g. Schwertheim 2000: 608). 7. Further loanwords: Finally, there is an isolated loanword from Pre-Lycian (γπη ‘cavity in the earth, den, corner’) as well as one or two words whose source cannot be identified conclusively beyond the observation that they are not Hittite (σϰύβαλον ‘waste, offal, re17 The analysis of Yakubovich was harshly rejected by Teffeteller 2011 and Hawkins 2013, nevertheless none of them could provide solid evidence for Luwian in strict sense as a spoken, vernacular language in Western Anatolia, cf. also Yakubovich 2013: 109-121.

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fuse, muck’ [probably Luwic] and perhaps σίλβη ‘a kind of cake made of barley, sesame and poppy’, if it is not the transcription of a local word), one may also add the dubious ἀστράβη ‘comfortable saddle for an ass or a mule’ and σίδη ‘pomegranate (tree)’. The isolated PreLycian loanword also fits the historical circumstances very well. As for the chronological distribution of these loanwords, in the Late Bronze Age next to the Hittite words one can find only isolated loanwords (δέπας [attested already in Mycenaean] from the unidentified Luwic dialect; γπη from Pre-Lycian; κῶας [attested already in Mycenaean] from Pre-Carian and probably πάλμυς from Lydian [it must have been borrowed before the Greek *k w > p change]) and as the connections become more intensive in the Iron Age, their number also increases, even if on a smaller scale. All in all, one can summarize that the number, the chronology and the geography of the Anatolian loanwords faithfully reflect the known historical, geographical and sociolinguistic conditions. 18 Part B. The alleged Anatolian loanwords in Greek The general structure of the entries is as follows: the Greek word is followed by its meaning and its current etymological status with references to the standard etymological dictionaries as well as to the handbooks of Brust 2005 and Rosół 2013, where further references can be found, thus the phrase “with refs.” will be omitted in these cases. The next part is the discussion, note that these entries are not full etymological treatments, but focus only on the question if the proposed Anatolian derivation can be upheld. Note furthermore that only those cases have been included where a borrowing from Anatolian was explicitly assumed, thus no Wanderwörter with undetermined routes or sheer comparisons (as in e.g. Gusmani 1968b; 1969; Lazzeroni 1969; Furnée 1972). Finally, instead of the label “of Pre-Greek origin” the phrase “of unknown origin” will be used, since “Pre-Greek” practically means ‘unknown’. 19 18 These observations confirm the preliminary classification of Luwic loanwords given by Yakubovich 2013: 118-120, even if his examples turned out to be partly problematic. His classification was as follows: 1) There is a handful of loanwords from local Luwic dialects, transmitted both in the second and the first millennium BC. 2) There are loanwords from Luwian proper in the Eastern Mediterranean contact zone; 3) But there is still no evidence, i.e. loanwords from an alleged Luwian proper in Western Anatolia. 19 It has to be mentioned that the scholarly literature include some false references too: e.g. Beekes 2010: 30 falsely claims that Bănățeanu 1943: 149 calls the word ἄθρας ‘chariot (in Rhodian)’ Anatolian. Similarly he falsely attributes the view to Nehring 1925: 183 and Krause 1942: 214 n. 4 that αἴσακος ‘the branch of the sweet bay’ and /or ‘a bird’ is Pre-Greek or Anatolian (Beekes 2010: 43). DELG 154 mistakenly attributes a Lydian etymology of βαβάκτης ‘epithet of Pan and Dionysus’ to Latte 1953: 501502. 37. GEW I/629; DELG 409; and Beekes 2010: 514 wrongly attribute to von Wilamowitz 1931: 255 a Carian etymology of ἠλέκτωρ ‘name of the sun and adjunct of Hyperion’. Beekes 2010: 684 claims that Neumann 1960-1961: 175-177 suggests, ϰηθίς, -ίδος ‘ballot box, dicebox’ was borrowed from Luwian. In fact Neumann suggested an independent, Greek and Luwian borrowing from a common, Anatolian Pre-Luwian susbtrate. According to GEW II/140; DELG 648; and Beekes 2010: 874 Schulze 1892: 257 n. 4. assumed a Carian origin of λόφος ‘neck of draught animals and men, crest of a helmet, crest of a hill, ridge’, which is not the case. GEW I/143 and DELG 649 attribute a Lydian etymology of λυϰάβας ‘time-indication of uncertain meaning’ to Fraser 1924, but this is a misunderstanding. Finally, according to Beekes 2010: 1635; Furnée 1972: 136 treats χιτών ‘chiton’ as an Anatolian culture word, but this is not the case. Cf. also Grimme 1925: 17, 19 analyzing “καικυλη” (presumably ‘skull’) and “κισις”

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1. ήρ ‘mist, haze, clouds’: Of Indo-European origin (GEW I/27; DELG 27; Beekes 2010: 27). Sayce’s proposal, a derivation from Hittite “wera- ‘heaven’” (1922: 19, not mentioned by the Greek etymological dictionaries), is based on a mistranslation of the Hittite passage (KBo 4.14 ii 4-6), see CHD P 13 and Fuscagni 2012 (both with refs.) on the problems of this sentence. 2. αἴξ, αιγός ‘goat’: Although this word is generally held to be inherited (GEW I/42; DELG 37), Beekes 2010: 40-41 cautiously suggests that Greek together with Armenian (ayc ‘goat’) and Avestan (ĭzaēna- ‘of leather’) borrowed the word from a common, “perhaps” Anatolian source. Put aside that Avestan loans are not possible from Anatolian due to obvious geographical reasons, the word is in fact inherited at least from the Balkan Indo-European level (*h2aiĝ-, Clackson 1994: 88-90; Matzinger 2005: 383, 385, 2006: 25) as shown by its cognates, the Armenian word mentioned above and Albanian dhi ‘(she-)goat’ (Demiraj 1997: 160; Orel 1998: 83; Martirosyan 2010: 58) and edh ‘kid’ 20 not mentioned by Beekes. Although a Balkan Indo-European borrowing from Anatolian is possible in theory, currently there is no hint for any similar word in the Anatolian languages. Furthermore, if the Avestan word is indeed related 21 (although Beekes 2010: 41 rightly points out that it is unknown, which animal’s hide it is), it is a Proto-Indo-European inheritance. 3. αἰρóπινον ‘sieve’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/43: DELG 38; Beekes 2010: 42). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 17) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that (rejected also by DELG). 4. ἀμάμαξυς, -υ(δ)ος ‘vine trained on two poles’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/85; DELG 70). Beekes 2010: 81 treats it as a loanword and cautiously (“better, though still doubtful”) compares it with Hitt. māḫla- ‘branch of a grapevine’, which is formally impossible (although Hittite māḫ- could be reflected as *-mak-, the “prefix(es)” and the “suffix(es)” remain unexplained). 5. ἄμαξα (Att. ἅμαξα) ‘framework, chassis of a four-wheeled wagon, wagon’: Of disputed origin (GEW I/86; DELG 68-69; Beekes 2010: 81-82). Bănățeanu 1943: 136-137 suggested that it is an Anatolian loanword (GEW I/86: “ohne Not”), although no similar word is known from Anatolia (he could cite settlement names only). Note that this suggestion cannot be refused pointing to an Indo-European origin, since the widespread Indo-European etymologies are not valid (GEW I/86 and Beekes 2010: 81-82 with refs.). 6. ἀμάρα ‘trench, channel’: Its similarity to Hitt. amiyar(a)- ‘ditch, canal, channel’ has been noticed long ago (Laroche 1955: xxxiii, 1973: xix; Neumann 1961: 91-92, 100 followed by Silvestri 1975: 402-405) and represents an unsolved problem. 22 Beekes 2010: 82 argues against this relationship for these words would have only the initial am- in common, although it is more precise to say that only the middle syllable is different. While he entertains the possibility of the “Greek – Anatolian substrate” he finds the comparison with Alb. ãmë ‘river-bed, source’ and some European river names (Amantia, Amana, Amara, etc.; Tischler (presumably ‘purse’) as Hittite loanwords (without refs.), but these Greek forms are not included in LSJ or in the etymological dictionaries. 20 Demiraj 1997: 160; Orel 1998: 85; Matzinger 2006: 55, 71; EIEC 229; Mallory, Adams 2006: 141. 21 Accepted by DELG 37; EIEC 229; Mallory, Adams 2006: 141 (falsely translating it as ‘goathide’); and Martirosyan 2010: 58. 22 See GEW I/86: “orientalisches Kulturlehnwort?”; DELG 70: “un terme technique oriental? (...) semble vraisembamble”; Tischler 1977-1983: 22: “wohl Kultur- und Wanderwort”; Puhvel 1984: 48: “Non-IE Anatolian term?”; but common subtrate according to Kammenhuber 1961: 53 and HW2 s.v.

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1977-1983: 22: “abzulehnen”, without arguments) formally more convincing than the Hittite connection. Although the similarity of the Hittite and Greek words is indeed remarkable, the different vocalism of the middle syllable (-iya- vs. -a-) cannot be explained and no similar examples have been adduced. 23 Thus we deal either with incidental similarity of three (Hittite, Greek, Albanian) different words (especially if the Albanian word indeed originates in the metaphoric usage of the word ‘mother’, then a calque from neighbouring Slavic languages [Orel 1998: 4 with refs., cf. also Demiraj 1997: 75-76]) or with a Balkan Indo-European word *ama- ‘river-bed, channel’ (again with incidental similarity to the Hittite lexeme) that might have even been Proto-Indo-European: although this word would not lead to a regularly suffixed Hittite form, formally speaking amiyara- could represent a Luwian loanword in Hittite (Hittite abounds with them, for preliminary lists see Melchert 2005 and van den Hout 2007), regularly suffixed by -iya- and -ra-, for the latter see Melchert 2003: 196). 24 7. ἀξῑ́νη ‘axe’: Probably of Semitic origin. 25 Beekes 2010: 111 proposes that this is a loanword from an Anatolian language together with Akkadian ḫaṣṣinu and Aramaic ḥaṣṣīnā ‘dto’. However, no similar Anatolian word is known. 26 8. ἀπήνη ‘four-wheeled wagon’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/121; DELG 97; Beekes 2010: 116) Bănățeanu 1943: 141-142 suggested that it is an Anatolian loanword (DELG 97: “n’est pas invraisemblable”), although still no similar word is known from Anatolia. Instead, it is probably a loan from Semitic, cf. Ugaritc ảpn, Hebrew ’ōfān ‘wheel’ (Szemerényi 1974: 149-150, but rejected by Rosół 2013: 161). 9. ἄρκυς, -υος ‘net’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/142; DELG 110; Beekes 2010: 133). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 17) does not solve the problem and there is no evidence for that (rejected also by GEW). 10. ἅρπη ‘sickle’: Probably of Indo-European origin (GEW I/150; DELG 114; Beekes 2010: 139). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 17) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 11. ἄρριχος < ἄρσιχος ‘basket’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/152; DELG 115; Beekes 2010: 140). Van Windekens 1989: 142-143 derives it from Hittite ḫarši- ‘storage jar’ with a Greek suffix (accepted by Gasbarra – Pozza 2012: 195; not mentioned by Beekes). Set aside the semantic distance (which may not be decisive, as per Gasbarra – Pozza 2012: 195), this suggestion is excluded by the lack of the reflex of the Hittite laryngeal. 12. ἄρσεα ‘meadows’ (n. pl.): Of unknown origin (GEW I/152; DELG 115; Beekes 2010: 140-141). Szemerényi 1974: 153 derived it from Hittite arši- ‘plantation’ (Tischler 1977-1983: 68: “vielleicht”), which fits formally. The Hittite word is, however, of unknown etymology,

23 The cases with -iya- ~ -a- changes cited by Laroche 1955: xxxiii; Neumann 1961: 92; and Puhvel 1984: 48 as explanations are false since they represent regularly suffixed forms of a-stems with -iya-. 24 The suggestion of Gamkrelidze, Ivanov 1995: 782 (cf. already Silvestri 1975: 402-405), an independent loanword from Egyptian mr ‘canal, irrigation reservoir’ is not possible phonologically (cf. the unexplained initial vowel). The alternative comparison of the Albanian word with Lat. amnis ‘river’ (for refs. see Demiraj 1997: 75-76; Orel 1998: 4) is phonologically not possible since the Lat. word continues *abh-n- (De Vaan 2008: 39). 25 GEW I/115-116; DELG 94; Beekes 2010: 111; Rosół 2013: 21-23. 26 The early attestation of the Akkadian word (since Old Akkadian, CAD s.v.) cannot be used as a counter-argument since Hittite speakers must have been present already at that time in Anatolia, demonstrated by a Hittite and a Luwian loanword in Eblaite (cf. Watson 2008: 96 and Simon 2015a: 105).

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the frequently suggested connection with ārš-/arš- ‘to flow’ 27 does not convince semantically (HW2 s.v.; Kloekhorst 2008 does not consider it as of Indo-European origin either). Thus it is worth considering a common, third source (which, contra HW2 s.v., cannot of course be Hattian alone). 13. ἀσκέρα ‘winter shoe with fur lining’: Lydian origin is cautiously assumed based on its appearance and the fact that it is used by Hipponax too. 28 Beekes 2010: 150, however, is rightly hesitant since it is attested in an Attic inscription too and also used by other authors (cf. DELG 124; GEW I/163), not to mention that there is nothing inherently Anatolian in its form. Nevertheless, currently there is neither any evidence for any similar Anatolian word, nor any hint for Lydian origin (thus rightly rejected by Sh. Hawkins 2013: 151-153). 14. ἀστράβη ‘comfortable saddle for an ass or a mule’: Of unknown origin (DELG 129; Beekes 2010: 157; not included in GEW). Neumann 1974 connects it with Hittite ašatar ‘seat’ and explains ἀστράβη enlarged with the suffix -ba- seen in Hittite wašpa- ‘clothing’ (← Hittite wešš-/wašše/a- ‘to clothe’) from a more precisely not identifiable Anatolian language (he mentions Lydian, with question mark). However, the difference in the phonetic shape (Hittite /asādar/, obl. stem /asann-/) excludes this derivation. Nevertheless, the similarity to the Hittite verbal root eš-/aš- ‘to sit’ (also attested in Luwian) is remarkable, especially if one takes into account that there is one Anatolian language, Luwian, where the cluster *-sr- may receive an epenthetic /t/, thus -str- (Melchert 1994: 272, 2003: 183) and where also the stem with a-vocalism appears in derivatives (Hieroglyphic Luwian ása- ‘seat’, Kloekhorst 2008: 254). One may assume either *as-ra- (a[n substantivized] adjective) or *as-sra/i- (an abstract noun, for both suffixes in Luwian see Melchert 2003: 196), both regularly leading to *astra‘seat’. Alternatively, one may think about an instrumental noun in *-tro-. The problem is the suffix *-ba-, which is rare in Anatolian, as rightly pointed out already by Beekes 2010: 157: it is securely attested only in one single Hittite word (cf. the overview in Hyllested 2014: 30-32), although it must have been transparent, cf. the above mentioned Hittite case (contra Hyllested 2014: 31, Hittite /b/ and thus the presence of this suffix is assured due to its spelling, see Kloekhorst 2008: 985). Thus the productivity of this suffix and its sheer existence in Luwian or in any Anatolian language is doubtful (one can point only to Carian toponyms of unknown meaning and origin, Neumann 1988: 186-187 with n. 4). In other words, ἀστράβη may represent a Luwian (or an Anatolian) loanword, but it cannot be proven yet. 15. ἄττανα ‘frying-pan, flat cake which is prepared on it’ (n. pl.): Of unknown origin (GEW I/182; DELG 136; Beekes 2010: 166). Kretschmer 1921: 282-283 assumes an Anatolian origin since the word was used by Hipponax (cf. also Lambertz 1914: 5 n. 3). In itself, however, it is not conclusive and there is no Anatolian word attested yet to corroborate this hypothesis. 16. ἀτύζομαι ‘to be frightened, amazed, terrified’: Of Indo-European origin (GEW I/183; DELG 137; Beekes 2010: 167). Sapir 1936: 175-176 and (cautiously) Krahe 1939: 184, 1954: 156 treat it as a borrowing from Hittite ḫatuki- ‘terrible, fearsome’ (followed by Brandenstein 1954b: 17; rejected by Pedersen 1938: 189 [with wrong arguments] and Tischler 1977-1983: 228 [without arguments]; not mentioned by the Greek etymological dictionaries), 27 Tischler 1977-1983: 68: “vielleicht” with refs., see also HW2 s.v. and add Szemerényi 1974: 153; Puhvel 1984: 74: “possibly”. 28 Lambertz 1914: 5 n. 3; Sayce apud Buckler 1924: 88 (“possibly”); Jongkees 1935: 80; DELG 124; GEW I/163; Degani 1991: 65; cautiously O. Masson 1962: 125 (“peut-être”).

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but both can be neatly explained as a common Indo-European heritage (as per Beekes, cf. also Kloekhorst 2008: 336-337). 17. ἄφενος ‘wealth’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/195; DELG 146; Beekes 2010: 177). Laroche 1963: 73 (followed by Szemerényi 1964: 146-147 and Gasbarra – Pozza 2012: 194195, who admit the formal difficulties) suggested to derive it from Hitt. ḫappina- ‘rich’ via a “Luwianising” (“louvisant”) language. This was rightly rejected by Beekes 2010: 177 (without mentioning Laroche) pointing out the lack of the reflex of the Hittite laryngeal, the unexplained φ, the s-stem and the different grammatical category. 18. ἀχνη ‘name of a measure; chest, box’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/199; DELG 149; Beekes 2010: 181). Furnée 1972: 138 derived it from Hittite aganni-, accepted by Gasbarra – Pozza 2012: 181 (cf. also Tischler 1977-1983: 10: “möglicherweise”), but rejected by Beekes 2010: 181, because the Hittite word means ‘bowl’, and by HW2 s.v. (without arguments). A measuring device, here a bowl, however, is conducive to become the name of a unit. Since it obviously represents a Wanderwort (the Hittite word is a loanword from Hurrian, cf. also Akkadian agannu ‘bowl’ and Egyptian ỉkn ‘pot’), the question is if it could have been transmitted by Hittite. The phonological differences can be explained (Anatolian voiced stops could have been substituted by their aspirated equivalent in Greek, see the Paradebeispiel Apaša / Ephesos via *-bh - and the simplification of geminates with compensatory lengthening of the preceding vowel [here -annV- > -ānV-] is a cross-linguistically trivial phenomenon), but these explanations may be valid in the case of an Akkadian or Egyptian borrowing too. In other words, currently the exact source of this word cannot be determined. 19. βαβάκινον, -ος ‘kind of earthen pot’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/206: DELG 154; Beekes 2010: 189). According to Latte 1952: 41 it is perhaps of Anatolian origin (cautiously followed by DELG 154), but no similar Anatolian word is attested until now. 20. βάκκαρις ‘unguent from asarum’: It is of Lydian origin according to classical authors, generally followed by the modern ones as well. 29 21. βάκται ‘strong men’: Furnée 1972: 311 explained it from Hittite wakturi- ‘firm, steady’, considered “very uncertain” by Beekes 2010: 194, without arguments (not included in GEW and DELG). The connection is mistaken, since the formation of the Hittite word is unclear (Kloekhorst 2008: 913 with discussion and refs.) and thus the diverging morphologies cannot be explained. Moreover, the correct Hittite form is uktūri-: while it is frequently attested, waktūri- appears only once in a NS text (KUB 33.120 i 6) and thus it is probably a mistake (Kloekhorst 2008: 912-913), or more precisely, a hypercorrect form (contra Furnée 1972: 311, who sees the primary form in wakturi-). 22. βάσανος ‘touchstone, examination, inquiry (by torture), agony’: A loanword from Lydian (known as such already in the antiquity, see the texts compiled in Rosół 2013: 165), assumed to be Egyptian originally. 30 23. βασσάρα ‘fox; dress of a Bacchante; bacchante, impudent woman’: Of unclear origin (GEW I/224; DELG 168; Beekes 2010: 204-205). Szemerényi 1971: 660 suggests distinguishing two or three homonyms based on the attested meanings, especially the ‘fox’ (a Libyan word, confirmed by the similarity with Coptic bašor ‘fox’) and ‘the type of a dress’, where he followed the comparison with Hitt. waššuwar ‘clothing’ by Kretschmer 1950: 54829 Cf. Gusmani 1964: 272, 1986: 160; É. Masson 1967: 101; Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225 (perhaps), 2013: 156-157; DELG 158: “vraisemblable”; O. Masson 1962: 155 and Beekes 2010: 194 are sceptical; GEW I/211 has no opinion. 30 GEW I/222; DELG 166; Beekes 2010: 203, see already Sethe 1933: 908-909.

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550. This latter proposal was rejected by Neumann 1961: 19 (and by Heubeck 1961: 81 with n. 10), followed by Beekes 2010: 205 (“rightly rejected”). However, Neumann’s only reason was that the word is rather Thracian or Libyan, referring to Bertoldi 1937: 144, who quoted Hesychius, who said that the Cyreneans and Libyans use this word for ‘fox’ (which is called by DELG 168 as “n’est guère probable”) and compared it with the quoted Coptic word. The Coptic word and the fact that Herodot 4, 192 used this word in a Libyan context prove that Hesychius was right and this is the word for ‘fox’ in Libyan. In other words, the separation of ‘fox’ and ‘dress (of a Bacchante)’ is still possible, and even probable if we consider, as did Szemerényi, the lack of any contact between the Bacchants and Libya. Thus the question is if the comparison of βασσάρα ‘dress of a Bacchante’ with Hittite waššuwar ‘clothing’ is formally possible. This is not the case, however: it is implausible that the /w/ of the Hittite word /was(s)war/ was partly preserved, partly lost and to assume an assimilation /sw/ > /ss/ (as Kretschmer 1950: 550 did) is petitio principii. Note also the improbability of the sound substitution of /w/ by /b/ (the reason of the rejection by Heubeck 1961: 81 with n. 10). This is in accordance with the scholia who explicitly claim that this word is Thracian (for the details see Detschew 1957: 44, cf. already DELG 168). 31 24. βόμβυξ ‘silk-worm’: It is is generally agreed to be an Oriental Wanderwort (GEW I/251; DELG 185; for the latest critical discussion see Brust 2005: 151-156 suggesting a Greek derivation) but according to Beekes 2010: 226 (who does not quote Brust), the word “must be of Anatolian origin” due to its structure and since silk was also produced on Kos and in Asia Minor before being introduced from the east. However, there is nothing specifically Anatolian in its structure, and currently there is no hint for any related Anatolian word. 25. βόρβορος ‘mire, filth’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/252; DELG 185; Beekes 2010: 227). Sayce 1929: 273 saw a Hittite loanword in it from pūrpura-, pūrpuri- ‘ball, lump; ballshaped breads or cakes’, which however does not fit either semantically or phonologically (initial voiced consonant, vocalism of the second syllable, see also the next entry). Tischler 2001: 663 rather sees only an “Elementarparallele” instead, available in many languages. 26. βορβύλα ‘round pastry made of poppy and sesame, of the size of a loaf of bread’: Szemerényi 1971: 661 compared it with Hittite pūrpura-, pūrpuri- ‘ball, lump; ball-shaped breads or cakes’ (accepted by Beekes 2010: 227; DELG 185 leaves it unexplained, GEW does not even include it). Note that although in case of plene writing the grapheme is consistently (CHD s.v.), thus phonologically speaking we are dealing with /porbura/i-/ (cf. Kloekhorst 2008: 35-60), an immediate borrowing from Hittite is excluded by the initial voiced phoneme and the unexplained l/r-change (a dissimilation, according to Szemerényi 1971: 661). Simon (2017) argues that this change can be explained by Luwian transmission and the initial voiced stop is paralleled by other words too (see s.vv. βύρσα, γάγγαμον, δέπας), pointing to a separate Luwic dialect. 27. βύρσα ‘skin, hide’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/278; DELG 202; Beekes 2010: 249). It has been compared with Hittite kurša- ‘skin bag’ (Tischler 1977-1983: 655-656; Puhvel 1997: 274, both with refs., add also Yakubovich 2010: 147; not mentioned by DELG and Beekes) explaining the phonological difference by the case of Byblos from Gubla. However, as Simon (2017: 247) points out, *gursa- could not have been borrowed from Hittite due to chronological reasons, since initial devoicing of *gu happened well before any Greek – Hittite contact, 31 There is no reason to see a Lydian word in it contra Georgiev 1981: 208 (followed by Gusmani 1986 s.v., but with a question mark).

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in pre-Hittite times (Kloekhorst 2010: 224, 227, 231). Thus, it is proposed to subsume βύρσα to the specific subgroup of Luwic loanwords in Greek characterized by the preserved initial voiced stop. For a full discussion see Simon 2017. 28. γάγγαμον ‘small round net for catching oysters’: Neumann 1961: 100 connected it with Hitt. kānk-/kank- ‘to hang’ as a Luwian participle ‘das (ins Wasser) gehängte’, which is considered as “most uncertain” by Beekes 2010: 254 (of unknown origin according to GEW I/281 and DELG 205). However, Simon (2017: 248) argues that Neumann’s suggestion makes perfect sense both semantically and morphologically (for the semantics see other objects derived from this root in Hittite: gangala- ‘hanger, curtain vel sim.’, gangala- ‘scale?’, kangur ‘(hanging) vessel’). The only problem is the unexpected initial voiced consonant: the same problem appears, however, in other Luwic loanwords in Greek as well (see also βορβύλα, βύρσα, δέπας) and thus Simon (2017) assumes a (perhaps Northwestern Anatolian) Luwic dialect without initial devoicing. 29. γεῖσ(σ)ον ‘projecting part of the roof, cornice’: A Carian word according to Stephen of Byzantium, cf. Furnée 1972: 117 n. 10. (cautiously followed by GEW I/293; DELG 213; Beekes 2010: 264). 30. γέφῡρα (Boeot. βέφυρα, Cret. δέφυρα) ‘bridge’: A highly problematic word as far as its etymology is concerned cf. DELG 218; GEW I/302-303; Beekes 2002, 2010: 269 and also Arm. kamurǰ ‘dto’ (Martirosyan 2010: 351-353), all with detailed discussion and refs. Nevertheless, the suggestion of Beekes 2002: 12, 20, a derivation from Hattian ḫāmuruwaa - ‘beam’ (and not “ḫamuru(wa)” contra Beekes 2002: 12, 20 or “ḫammuruwa” contra Beekes 2010: 269, cf. Simon 2012: 34-41, 214) cannot be upheld due to obvious formal and geographical reasons. It is important to note that the transcription does not mean /uwa/, but /uXa/, where X is a real consonant, not a simple hiatus filler (see the detailed discussion in Simon 2012: 34-41, where a phonetic value [β] is argued). Beekes 2002: 20 suggests a Luwian transmission to explain the /e/ (which would also solve the geographical problem), but it still does not explain the consonantism. 31. γρύψ, -πος ‘griffin’: Of Semitic origin. 32 Grimme 1925: 17 with n. 3 suggested a loan from Akkadian karūbu ‘griffin, cherub’ via Hittite (“ohne Grund”, GEW I/330). Although the current etymology explains the Greek word from Semitic words of the same meaning, the Akkadian word given by Grimme means ‘honoured person’ (CAD s.v.), the assumption of the Hittite transmission does not explain the phonological differences and there is no trace of any Hittite transmission. 32. γυγαί ‘πάμποι’: This is a Hesychian gloss, usually corrected to πάπποι ‘grandfathers’ and thus connected to Hitt. ḫuḫḫa-, CLuwian ḫūḫa-, Lycian xuge- ‘grandfather’, 33 to which add now Carian quq- ‘dto’ (Adiego 2007: 334, 408). Simon (forthcoming-a) points out that the consonants are identical only in Hittite and Carian, but since they are voiceless in Hittite, the gloss can reflect only the Carian word with regular sound substitution or transcription: since it is a gloss only, its Greek and loanword status is not assured, it may simply be a rendering of the Carian word. 33. γπη ‘cavity in the earth, den, corner’: Its traditional connection with Old Nordic kofi ‘convent-cell, hut, shed’, Old English cofa ‘chamber, cave, den’, Middle High German 32 GEW I/329-330; DELG 239; Beekes 2010: 289; Rosół 2013: 32-34. 33 Grošelj 1951: 256 (Anatolian, perhaps Lycian), followed by Brandenstein 1954a: 65; GEW I/331; DELG 239; Beekes 2010: 290; Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225 – Neumann 1961: 71 is, however, cautious (“mag”).

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Koben, etc. 34 is phonologically not possible due to the long vowel in the Greek word (cf. Proto-Germanic *kuban- ‘shed’, Kroonen 2013: 308). Melchert 1994: 303 notes that the resemblance to Lycian xupa- ‘tomb’ is very striking and an earlier borrowing before initial devoicing in Lycian cannot be excluded (Beekes 2010: 292 does not quote this). However, this phonological explanation is false: Melchert needed to assume an early borrowing because he (cautiously) explained xupa ‘tomb’ from PA *gúpā- ‘cave, hole’ (“perhaps”). This explanation was later tacitly withdrawn in favour of a derivation from *kupeh2 - comparing it with Proto-Germanic *xufa- ‘house; hill’ (Melchert 2012: 208), which, however, phonologically, would not be very conducive to a Greek borrowing. Nevertheless, both etymologies are excluded by the fact that Lycian continues a laryngeal (see the detailed discussion by Zinko 2002; Kloekhorst 2006b: 96-105 – none of these papers were taken into account by Melchert 2012: 208, who, however, also assumed this earlier, 1994: 286, 307). This means that the borrowing from Lycian has no phonological obstacles, since an initial laryngeal could theoretically have been substituted as /g/ in Greek. Since, however, Lycian was regularly substituted with /k/ (cf. the list of transcriptions of Lycian names in Zinko 2002: 232), the borrowing must have happened before the > change, the date of which is unknown, but may point to the Late Bronze Age. Nevertheless, since the Lycian word has no etymology, a borrowing from a common, third source is also possible. 34. δᾰΐ ‘in battle’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/339; DELG 246; Beekes 2010: 296). Gusmani 1968a: 14-17 explained it from Hittite lāḫḫ- ‘military campaign’, with sound substitution (-ḫḫ- > *s) and with the Aegean-Anatolian “oscillation” of /d/ and /l/ (rejected by Durante 1970: 44 n. 3 [with wrong arguments] and by Heubeck 1970: 299 [without arguments]; not mentioned by the Greek etymological dictionaries). This type of sound substitution is, however, not supported by the Greek evidence (cf. Simon 2014: 885-886) and /d/ is the starting point and not the result of the assumed “oscillation” (for a more precise analysis of the Greek cases involved see Valério 2017). 35. δέλτος ‘writing tablet’: Of Semitic origin. 35 A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 19) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 36. δέπας, -αος (Myc. di-pa-) ‘goblet’: This word is generally assumed to be a loan from Hieroglyphic Luwian tipas- ‘sky, heaven’. 36 Yakubovich 2010: 146, 2013: 119 however, pointed out that, first, the Luwian word does not mean ‘goblet’, but is assumed to mean ‘bowl’ (which may not be a grave problem), second, the Luwian word is in fact not attested in the meaning ‘bowl’, and, third, the Greek word has an initial voiced and not voiceless consonant (see already Katz 2001: 219). While Yakubovich is right that this Luwian word does not mean ‘bowl’, Simon 2016 demonstrated the existence of a homonymous Luwian word meaning ‘bowl’ and argued in Simon (2017: 248-250) that this word belongs to a specific subgroup of Anatolian loanwords in Greek which preserved their initial voiced consonants (see there for a full discussion of this word). 34 Beekes 2010: 292, cf. also DELG 243 and GEW I/335; for further putative European connections based on sheer kling-klang and semantic similarities see Beekes 1996: 223-227. 35 GEW I/362; DELG 260; Beekes 2010: 313; Rosół 2013: 37-38. 36 See e.g. Neumann 1961: 20; Pisani 1966: 46; Jucquois 1972: 107; Neu 1999: 620; Katz 2001: 219-220; Melchert 2002: 299 n. 9. (cautiously), 2003: 184; Watkins 2007a: 319-321; Sh. Hawkins 2010: 224-225; García Ramón 2011: 29 n. 12, 31; Teffeteller 2011: 457, 2015: 721-722; Gasbarra, Pozza 2012: 190; Hajnal 2014: 110 and in press; but cf. DELG 264; Beekes 2010: 317: “perhaps”, without arguments; for a full list of references see Simon 2017: 248, n. 8.

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37. δοῦλος ‘slave, servant’: Of unknown origin (DELG 295; GEW I/412; Beekes 2010: 350). According to Risch 1984: 97-97 and Beekes 2010: 350, a borrowing from Carian or Lydian as suggested by Lambertz 1914 (followed by Benveniste 1932: 438, cf. also Maaß 1925: 469 [Anatolian]) is chronologically not possible, since the word is attested already in Mycenaean times. Nevertheless, such an early borrowing (from Pre-Carian/Pre-Lydian) is possible in theory and such early borrowings are even attested (see s.vv. κῶας and πάλμυς). The real problem is that there is no attested similar Anatolian word. 38. ἐλέφᾱς, -αντος ‘ivory, elephant tusk’: Of unknown origin (DELG 338; GEW I/493494; Beekes 2010: 410). Laroche 1965: 57-58, 1973: xix derived it from Hittite :lahpa- ‘ivory?’, followed by many scholars (but not even mentioned by Beekes 2010: 410). 37 Nevertheless, set aside the suffix -ant- that can have an inner-Hittite explanation and the substitution of /a/ by /e/ that may be paralleled by some toponyms (see first of all Apaša / Ephesos), Laroche’s suggestions to explain the phonetic differences are either unsubstantiated (the Hittite spelling interpreted as lāb/pa- or la’b/pa-: the Hittite consonant sequence is in fact /γb/ vel sim., for the phonetic value of the Hittite laryngeals see most recently Hoffner – Melchert 2008: 38) or ad hoc (Greek would have added a “banal” prothetic /e/ – we know now that the prothetic /e/ of Greek is in fact the regular reflex of Proto-Indo-European *h1) and thus the formal discrepancies exclude the connection of these words. 38 39. ἕρμα ‘prop, support of the stones or beams put under the ships when drawn ashore; underwater cliff on which a ship gets stuck; stone (or any weight) that can serve as ballast’: Of uncertain origin (GEW I/562-563; DELG 373; Beekes 2010: 461-462). Kretschmer 1927: 4 proposed an Anatolian origin, however, his reasons are mistaken: it is unclear how Hermos, a river in Lydia could have been the source of this word and the Lycian PN “Erm-/Arm-” reflects the name of the pan-Anatolian Moon God, Arma (rightly rejected for this reason also by DELG). 40. ἑρμηνεύς ‘interpreter, translator’: “Probably/wahrscheinlich” of Anatolian origin according to GEW I/563; Beekes 2010: 462 (but without an etymology in DELG 373), following Boßhardt 1942: 37. As Yakubovich 2012: 133, 2013: 119 rightly pointed out, the discovery of Carian armon ‘interpreter’ (Adiego 2007: 355 with refs.) now can provide sufficient support for this view as it continues *armān. Yakubovich explains the Anlaut either with folk etymology (Hermes) or with a third, common source (Szemerényi’s suggestion [1971: 668], the Ancient Near Eastern word targumānu via Hittite transmission is obviously impossible from a phonological point of view). 41. ἐσθλóς ‘good, brave, stout, noble’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/574; DELG 378; Beekes 2010: 470). Szemerényi 1974: 153-154 explains it from Hittite ḫaštili(ya)- ‘stout, brave, heroic; hero’ (not quoted by Beeekes). Nevertheless, the lack of the reflex of the Hittite laryngeal and the unexplained syncope of the second vowel exclude this derivation (rejected also by Tischler 1977-1983: 203-204 and Puhvel 1991a: 237, albeit both without arguments). 42. ἐσσήν, -ῆνος ‘name of the priests of Artemis in Ephesus; prince, king; king-bee’: Of unknown origin, but generally assumed to be Anatolian (GEW I/575; DELG 378 [perhaps Phrygian or Lydian with a question mark]; Beekes 2010: 471: “probably”). Due to its 37 É. Masson 1967: 83; Friedrich 1966: 22; Morpurgo Davies 1986: 106; Woodard 1997: 38; Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225; Gasbarra, Pozza 2012: 200-201; possible according to García Ramón 2011: 31 n. 16. 38 Cf. already Kronasser 1969: 312; Sacconi 1972: 174 (independent borrowings); Hajnal in press (migrant cultural words); cf. also Houwink ten Cate 1974: 143.

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Ephesian context it might originally be a Lydian word, but nothing similar has been attested yet in the admittedly very restricted Lydian corpus. 43. ἠλακάτη ‘(wool on the) distaff’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/628; DELG 409; Beekes 2010: 514). Solmsen 1909: 121 cautiously (“vielleicht”) assumed an Anatolian origin, rejected by DELG 409 (“indémontrable”) and Beekes 2010: 514 (without arguments). There is no Anatolian word attested yet that could support this idea. 44. ἦρα ‘service, favour’ (acc. sg. [or n. pl.?]): Inherited (GEW I/642; DELG 415; Beekes 2010: 524). Gusmani 1968a: 17-22 suggested a derivation from Hittite warri-/warrai- ‘helpful; help’ (not mentioned by Beekes). This hypothesis was rightly rejected by García Ramón 2006, 2011: 40-42, who pointed out the semantic difference of the terms (‘jemandem Gnade erweisen’ vs. ‘(militärisch) helfen’). 45. θεράπων, -οντος / θέραψ, -απος ‘attendant, servant; companion’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/664; DELG 431; Beekes 2010: 541). Van Brock 1959: 125-126, 143 n. 27 derives θεράπων from Hittite *tarpan- ‘(ritual) substitute’ from tarpašša-, which, in turn, would be reflected as θέραψ (accepted by Householder – Nagy 1972: 774-775; Joseph 1982: 231). However, the differences in the vocalism and the stem of θεράπων remain unexplained (not accepted by GEW III/104 and doubts in Tischler 1981: 22 due to the semantics). 46. θίασος ‘Bacchic revel, religious guild’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/674; DELG 437), Beekes 2010: 548 claims it is “probably” of Anatolian origin, but there is no similar Anatolian word attested yet to prove his statement. 47. θύρσος ‘a wand wreathed in ivy and vine-leaves with a pine-cone at the top’: According to the communis opinio it is a loanword from Hieroglyphic Luwian tuwarsa‘vine(yard)’. 39 The -uwa- > -u- contraction is regular in Luwian (cf. e.g. Melchert 2003: 183, pointed out already by Bossert 1952-1953a: 180-181 and Laroche 1955: xxxiii-xxxiv) and the initial might have been rendered by Greek theta, which is, however, contradicted by τολύπη (the unexpected rendering was noted already by Laroche 1955: xxxiii-xxxiv). A solution could be if these were borrowed at different periods (or transmitted by another language, Laroche 1955: xxxiii-xxxiv entertains the possibility of Phrygian or Lydian transmission, with question mark), but in the absence of any further evidence this must remain speculative. There is no problem, however, if τολύπη is inherited, see s.v. 48. θύσθλα ‘the sacred implements of Bacchic orgies’ (n. pl.): Of unknown origin (GEW I/697; DELG 448; Beekes 2010: 567). Beekes 2010: 567 suggests an Anatolian or PreGreek origin, but no similar Anatolian word is attested so far to corroborate this proposal. 49. ἰβύ ‘interjection or adverb’: According to Hesychius, it is either Lydian or Ionian, but it is an onomatopoeic word in either case (GEW I/707; DELG 454; Beekes 2010: 576). 50. ἴλη ‘band, troop’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/722; DELG 462-463; Beekes 2010: 588). Van Windekens 1989: 143-144 suggests a derivation from Hittite ḫila- ‘(court)yard; halo’ (alternatively, both originate in the same substrate; not mentioned by Beekes), which obviously does not fit semantically (note also the lack of the Greek reflex of the laryngeal). 51. ἴξαλος ‘(castrated) he-goat’: Of unknown origin. Solmsen 1909: 141 and Bechtel 1914: 177-178 assumed an Anatolian origin due to spelling variants (-σ(σ)-, -ττ/θ-, -σθ-, -σκ/χ-), accepted by Heubeck 1961: 80; GEW I/728; and also (cautiously) by DELG 465 (“semblent”). 39 Since Hofmann 1949: 120; Bossert 1952-1953a: 180-181; and Laroche 1955: xxxiii-xxxiv (see also 1965: 58), followed by Forbes 1958: 271-272; Heubeck 1961: 80; DELG 447; Beekes 2010: 566; Yakubovich 2010: 147 (or rather borrowing from a common source due to the problem of the initial consonant, see above); but “unbekannt” in GEW I/697.

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Nevertheless, no similar Anatolian word is attested and the spelling variants themselves do not necessarily point to Anatolia. 52. ἴτριον ‘name of a cake made from sesame and honey’. Of unknown origin (GEW I/743; DELG 473; Beekes 2010: 605). Neumann 1961: 84-85 derived it from Hittite iduri- ‘a type of bread or cake’ with syncope (followed by Jucquois 1972: 107; GEW III/113; not mentioned by DELG or Beekes 2010). Set aside the semantic problems (Tischler 1977-1983:447 with ref. points out that iduri- is made with the fat and blood of a sheep) and the ad hoc syncope (Neumann’s analogy, Luwian iššari- > Lycian izre- ‘hand’, was false, since the vowel in the Luwian word is not real, cf. e.g. nom. sg. ˹i-iš-ri-iš˺ [KBo 29.7, 3’] and iš-ri-˹iš˺ [KBo 9.141 iv 3’]), as Gasbarra – Pozza 2012: 192 rightly pointed out, the non-geminated spelling of the Hittite word points to a voiced and not to a voiceless consonant. 53. χώρ, -ῶρος ‘juicy, watery part of blood; blood of the gods, of the giants; blood’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/747; DELG 475; Beekes 2010: 608). A loan from Hitt. ešḫar ‘blood’ was independently suggested by Sayce 1922: 19, 1929: 273 and Kretschmer 1930: 10-11, 1947: 19-20, 1950: 548. 40 The phonological differences were explained by Kretschmer first with an inner-Hittite cluster-simplification šḫ > *ḫ (1930: 10-11), which is ad hoc (see already Friedrich 1928: 317; Neumann 1961: 18), 41 later by inner-Greek assimilation šḫ > *ḫḫ (1947: 19-20), which is again ad hoc. Heubeck 1949-1950: 213 proposed sound substitution in Greek (šḫ → χ, which is implausible, since the loss of the /s/ is unmotivated), who entertains the possibility of a transmitting language, e.g. Lycian (also Kretschmer 1930: 10-11 allowed the possibility of another Anatolian language). While the difference in vocalism could be explained (/i/ may come from the oblique cases of the Hittite word; /ō/ may be analogical [Kretschmer 1947: 19-20 suggested the analogy of ἀχώρ] or just the cross-linguistically frequent substitution of /a/ [note that Kretschmer’s original phonetic interpretation of the Hittite word as [īsḫōr] (1930: 10-11) is unfounded], he later assumed an Anatolian e > i change, 1947: 19-20), the differences in the consonantism exclude this derivation (with Neumann 1961: 18). 42 54. καβάλλης, -ου ‘workhorse, nag’: Of unknown origin (DELG 477; GEW I/749-750), most recently Simon 2005 argued for an Iranian loanword (followed by Hyllested 2014: 9197 with improvements). Beekes 2010: 611 considers the connection with the Anatolian ethnonym Καβαλεῖς / Καβηλέες (suggested by Maaß 1925: 469, followed by Kretschmer 1928: 190, 1932: 248; Beekes does not quote his sources) uncertain. In fact, it was pointed out already by Simon 2005: 407 (not quoted by Beekes 2010: 611; but see already Puhvel 1965: 84; Forlanini 1998: 246) that this ethnonym is the regular transcription of the local toponym Ḫaballa and thus it has nothing to do with this word. 55. κακκάβη (1) ‘three-legged pot’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/757-758; DELG 481; Beekes 2010: 619). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 19) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 40 Followed by Heubeck 1949-1950: 213 (who later rejected it on phonological grounds, 1961: 81 with n. 10); Brandenstein 1954b: 17; Krahe 1939: 184 (“mag”), 1954: 156 (“unsicher”); Yakubovich 2010: 147. 41 Kretschmer’s analogy, the theonym Za(š)ḫapuna does not help, since this is the name of a Hattian god and the reason of its spelling variants is fully obscure. 42 Also rejected by Sturtevant 1928: 121 (due to the semantics, vocalism, and consonantism); Puhvel 1965: 85 (“untenable by any reasonable standards of etymological rigor”); DELG 475 (referring to Heubeck 1961); HW2 s.v. (based on the allegedly missing Hittite – Greek language contacts, which was and is, however, a false argument); Beekes 2010: 608 (without arguments); Gasbarra, Pozza 2012: 195.

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56. κακκάβη (2) ‘partridge’: It is treated either as a Hittite (cf. kakkapa- ‘a small animal, object of hunting’, Cardona 1967 [Hittite or Kartvelian]; Szemerényi 1968: 194; Melchert 1998: 48) or as a Lydian loanword (Neumann 1961: 60-61; Jucquois 1972: 107; since it was used by Alkman from Sardeis; cf. also Dardano 1997: 100: Hittite via Lydian); Beekes 2010: 619 mentions both possibilities and assumes an Anatolian origin. No similar word is attested in Lydian (and its use by Alkman is not conclusive), thus Neumann’s assumption cannot be proven. Although the Hittite derivation is formally impeccable, we are clearly dealing with an onomatopoeic word (GEW I/758; DELG 481, although the latter dictionary finds the Anatolian connection “frappé”; Gasbarra – Pozza 2012: 193-194) and note also that the exact meaning of the Hittite word cannot be given. 57. κάλανδρος ‘kind of lark’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/761;DELG 484; Beekes 2010: 622), Beekes suggests an Anatolian origin, presumably due to its “suffix” (also noted by DELG), which, however, does not necessarily mean an Anatolian origin, and there is no evidence for a similar Anatolian word yet. 58. καμάρα ‘vault, vaulted room, wagon and bark with vaulted roof’; κάμαρος ‘ἀσφαλής’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/770-771; DELG 489; Beekes 2010: 630), but of Carian origin according to the scholia (DELG 489 with a question mark; Beekes 2010: 630: “perhaps”) – however, it is not attested in the admittedly very small Carian corpus. 59. κάμηλος ‘camel’: Undoubtedly of Semitic origin, but the initial consonant remained unexplained. 43 Grimme 1925: 17 suggested a Hittite transmission, which would solve the problem, as well as the Luwian transmission suggested by Yakubovich (2016: 87, n. 30). If Yakubovich’s plausible proposal that Hieroglyphic Luwian kamar(a/i)-, a commodity (ASSUR letter f+g §28, §31) means ‘camel’, turns out to be correct, the Luwian solution is to be preferred. 60. ϰάννα ‘reed, reed-fence, -mat’: The word is clearly of Semitic origin. 44 Beekes’s cautious suggestion of an Anatolian origin (2010: 636) and Neumann’s assumption of an Anatolian transmission (1961: 19 n. 2) are not needed and no local word supports these ideas (the homonymous Lycaonian settlement name quoted by Neumann does not prove anything). 61. ϰαρβάν ‘outlandish, foreign’: Of unknown origin. 45 Neumann 1961: 92-94 explained it from Hittite kurewana- / kuerwana- ‘dependent foreign state/person without formal submission’ (or from an alleged Luwian cognate), but the unexplained formal differences exclude this suggestion. 62. ϰάρδαμον / ϰαρδάνη ‘nose-smart’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/787; DELG 497; Beekes 2010: 643). Furnée 1972: 252 explained it from Hittite kar(a)šani- ‘soapwort’ (followed by Neumann 1974b: 436 and cautiously by Tischler 1977-1983: 521 [“vielleicht”]), but the obvious formal discrepancies exclude this suggestion (and the semantics is also doubtful). 63. ϰάρδοπος ‘kneading-trough’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/788; DELG 498; Beekes 2010: 644). The suggestion of Furnée 1972: 257 n. 38 from Hittite ḫarduppi- ‘furniture’ turned out to be wrong as the correct Hittite form and meaning are ḫa/urduppi- ‘Pflanze, Gras, Kraut’ (HW2 s.v.). 64. ϰάροινον ‘name of a sweet wine’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/790; DELG 499; Beekes 2010: 647). Grimme 1925: 19 suggested a derivation from Akkadian “khurunnu” [sic, 43 GEW I/771-772; DELG 489; Beekes 2010: 630; Rosół 2013: 43-44. 44 GEW I/779; DELG 493; Beekes 2010: 636; Rosół 2013: 44-45. 45 GEW I/786; DELG 497; Beekes 2010: 643; Rosół 2013: 177.

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repeated by GEW and Beekes] ‘sesam wine’, recte kurunnu ‘a choice kind of beer or wine’ (CAD s.v.) via Hittite (considered “doubtful” by Beekes 2010: 647 and “mehr als zweifelhaft” by GEW I/790, both without arguments). However, there is no evidence for Hittite transmission and the formal discrepancies exclude this suggestion. 65. ϰάρπασος ‘a kind of fine flax’: Generally assumed to be a loan from Indic. 46 Porzig 1927: 272-274 assumed an Anatolian origin based on the “suffix” aso-, but there is no evidence for that and no similar Anatolian word has been recognized yet. 66. ϰάστανα ‘sweet chestnuts’ (n. pl.): It is generally assumed to be a loanword from Anatolia based on Καστανὶς αἶα ‘land in Anatolia’ and Armenian kask ‘chestnut’, kaskeni ‘chestnut-tree’ (GEW I/799; DELG 504; Beekes 2010: 655). Set aside the toponym, whose connection cannot be verified, the Armenian form can also reflect *kast- (for different solutions see Martirosyan 2010: 353 [regularly suffixed *kast-uk-eni > *kas(t)keni] and Beekes 2010: 655 [assimilation]), and then there is a common Greek – Armenian isogloss, the origin of which as a loanword thus can be sought on the Balkans as well. In other words, there is no compelling argument for an Anatolian loanword. 67. κασύτας ‘a Syriac plant’: Of Semitic origin. 47 A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 19) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 68. ϰέραμος ‘potter’s earth, tile, earthen vessel, jar, wine-jar, pottery’: Of uncertain origin (GEW I/823-824; DELG 516; Beekes 2010: 674-675). According to GEW and Beekes the theory of Kretschmer 1921: 284 (followed by Bertoldi 1952: 74), who connected it with the Carian settlement name Κέραμος, deserves attention. Needless to say, the etymological connection cannot be verified (cf. already DELG 516). The cautious proposal of Laroche 1955: xxxiv, a derivation from Hattian karam, if its meaning as ‘pottery’ can be verified (GEW I/824: “ganz unsicher”), turned out to be false, since the Hattian word means ‘wine’ (Soysal 2004: 285). 69. ϰέρασος ‘bird cherry’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/828; DELG 518; Beekes 2010: 677). GEW and Beekes suggest that the word is “probably” of Anatolian origin since the “improved cherry” comes from the Pontos area (DELG is more cautious, “peut”, cf. also Neumann 1961: 101: “unentscheidbar”). However, no attested Anatolian word supports this idea as of yet (cf. also Gasbarra – Pozza 2012: 199). 70. κῆβος ‘monkey with a long tail’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/836; DELG 522; Beekes 2010: 684). The assumption of a Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 16) does not help and there is no evidence for that. 71. ϰίδαρις / ϰίτ(τ)αρις ‘name of a turban-like headgear, worn by the Persian kings only; turban of the Jewish high-priest; name of an Arcadian dance’: Probably of Semitic or Iranian origin. 48 Grimme 1925: 16 attributes the variation in the consonantism to the Hittite transmission of a Semitic word. However, whatever the exact synchronic value of the Hittite stops is (for the most recent discussion see Kloekhorst 2016), there is no evidence that precisely the Hittite transmission would lead to variation in consonantism. 72. ϰίϰιννος ‘curly hair, lock of hair’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/851; DELG 530; Beekes 2010: 695). Schrader – Nehring 1917: 420 assume a foreign cultural word (Aegean or 46 GEW I/792; DELG 500; Beekes 2010: 649; Brust 2005: 310-316. 47 GEW I/800; DELG 504; Beekes 2010: 656; Rosół 2013: 42-43. 48 Cf. GEW I/850; DELG 529; Beekes 2010: 694; for the most recent discussions see Brust 2005: 339-345 and Rosół 2013: 50-52.

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Anatolian), but no Anatolian word supports this idea yet (cf. already DELG 530; a question mark in GEW I/851). 73. ϰίνδυνος ‘danger, risk’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/854-855; DELG 532-533; Beekes 2010: 699-700). Kretschmer 1928: 90-91 suggests an Anatolian origin (on the basis of the Carian city name Kindye). Since a toponym of unknown meaning does not prove anything, no Anatolian word supports this idea as yet. 74. κινύρα ‘name of a stringed instrument’: Of Semitic origin (GEW I/856; DELG 533; Beekes 2010: 701). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 19) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 75. ϰιξάλλης, -ου ‘highway robber, pirate, thief’: Of unknown origin. Hoffmann 1898: 612 saw a Carian / Lycian word in it due to the spelling variants (followed by Solmsen 1909: 141; GEW I/857; DELG 534 [Anatolian]), but Beekes 2010: 701 prefers instead a PreGreek solution for the same reason (and for which see the discussion in Neumann 1961: 64). Neumann 1961: 63-64 argued for a nomina actoris in -alla- from the Hittite verb kešk- ‘harrow, despoil’, i.e. Hittite *ke/iškalla- or Luwian / Lydian *kiššalla-, with the equivalent of the -šk-suffix (GEW III/128: “ganz hypothetisch”). This meaning of the Hittite word, however, turned out to be based on a false reading (Puhvel 1997: 159 with ref.). No similar Anatolian (including Carian and Lycian) word has been recognised up to now. 76. κίουρος (Myc. ki-u-ro-?) ‘basket’: Of unknown origin (DELG 534; not included in GEW and Beekes 2010). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 19) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 77. κιττώ ‘kind of cassia’: Of unknown origin (DELG 536; not included in GEW and Beekes 2010). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 17) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 78. κλωβóς ‘bird-cage’: Of Semitic origin (GEW I/878; DELG 545; Beekes 2010: 719). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 19) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 79. ϰόθορνος ‘high boot, footware with high base for actors, tragic cothurn’: Of unknown origin (DELG 551). Jongkees 1935: 80 using literary evidence argues that originally this is a Lydian footwear and word (GEW I/891: “vielleicht”), but this conclusion does not follow from the texts, as Sh. Hawkins 2013: 152 n. 499 rightly pointed out. Beekes 2010: 729 prefers instead a Pre-Greek origin, although, without arguments (“more probably”). 80. κοίης / κοής ‘priest of the Kabeiroi’, ϰοῖον / ϰώϊον ‘pledge’: Of uncertain origin (GEW I/894; DELG 553; Beekes 2010: 732). Grimme 1925: 19 assumed a Hittite transmission for the former word, which is not necessary and practically excluded by its meaning, since the Kabeiroi have nothing to do with Anatolia (see most recently Simon 2015b: 12-13 with refs.). The same applies to the views of Beekes (“this group could well be Anatolian or PreGreek”, citing Lydian kaveś ‘priest’). 81. κομμóς ‘lament’: Of unkown origin (not included in the Greek etymological dictionaries). Ramsay 1917: 270 cautiously suggested an Anatolian origin and Sayce 1922: 19 saw the etymon in the Hittite verb išḫamai- ‘to sing’, but the loss of the initial /s/ of a non-Hittite form required to connect these words cannot be explained (also rejected by Neumann 1961: 19, albeit without arguments).

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82. ϰόνδυ, -υος ‘name of a drinking vessel’: Of unknown origin. 49 Neumann 1961: 29-31 derives it from Hittite kankur- ‘tankard vel sim.’ with a possible loss of the final /r/ and a dissimilation (*kandu). The latter assumption is, however, entirely ad hoc (similarly Szemerényi 1971: 674 [“rather unlikely”] contra Puhvel 1997: 55 [“plausibly”]). 83. κρóκος ‘safran’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/23; DELG 586; Beekes 2010: 782). Grimmed 1925: 19 proposed Hittite transmission and É. Masson 1967: 50-51 suggested Anatolian origin (followed by LfGrE s.v., with a question mark), but there is no evidence for any of that. 84. ϰρωβύλος ‘roll or knot of hair on the crown of the head’: Of unknown origin. 50 Rabin 1963: 123-124 suggested a derivation from Hittite kariulli- ‘hood(ed) gown’, admitting the unexplained problem of the /b/, to which add also that of the Hittite /i/. 85. κύανος ‘enamel, lapis lazuli, blue copper carbonate’ (Myc. ku-wa-no- ‘smalt’): The traditional and widespread assumption of a borrowing from Hittite ku(wa)nnan- ‘copper, ornamental stone’ 51 is both formally and semantically convincing: the Hittite forms with -u- are regular secondary contractions (cf. Rieken 2001) and a misinterpreted nom.-acc. sg. n. kuwannan could have led to the thematic stem in Greek. Kammenhuber 1961: 53 attributes these words to a common substrate (also mentioned as an alternative by Neumann 1961: 19; the origin is an open question according to Halleux 1969: 47-66; cf. also Houwink ten Cate 1974: 143), which is not necessary. The derivation of Danka – Witczak 1997 from Proto-Indo-European *ḱwn̥ Ho- fails to explain the different stems (Beekes 2010: 793 calls their proposal “unlikely”, but without arguments). 86. ϰυδώνια ‘quinces’ (n. pl.) ← κοδυ-μαλον: Although it is generally assumed to be a loanword from Anatolia (GEW II/42; DELG 596; Beekes 2010: 797), there is no evidence for that, Κυτώνιον ‘town on the Lydian border’ of unknown meaning cited by GEW and Beekes following Nehring 1923: 12-13 obviously does not prove anything and it does not even fit phonologically. 87. κύμβαλον ‘cymbal’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/48; DELG 599; Beekes 2010: 801-802). A derivation from Hittite GIŠḫuḫupal- was suggested by Yakubovich 2010: 147; Gasbarra – Pozza 2012: 190-191; and Hajnal 2014: 110 and in press. There are three problems that all exclude this derivation: first, the unexplained dereduplication. Second, the /mb/ instead of the /b/, where Hajnal’s explanation, “(pre)Mycenaean /mb/ for /b/”, is not supported by any other example and it is problematic from the chronological point of view as well: any Greek – Hittite contacts in pre-Mycenaean times are implausible. Third, the meaning of the Hittite word has not been determined clearly yet, there are arguments both for ‘Laute?’ (Schuol 2004: 108-110) and for ‘Klapper?, Trommel?’ (HW2 s.v.), none of them fitting the meaning of the Greek word. 88. κύμβαχος ‘crest of a helmet; falling head-first’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/48; DELG 599; Beekes 2010: 801). The semantics and the formation point to an inner-Greek derivation in case of the meaning ‘falling head-first’, cf. οὐρίαχος ‘end of a spear’, στόμαχος 49 GEW I/911; DELG 561-562; Beekes 2010: 745; Rosół 2013: 183. 50 GEW II/30; DELG 589; Beekes 2010: 788; Rosół 2013: 184. 51 Since Goetze 1947: 307-311; including DELG 594; GEW II/37 (but see Beekes 2010: 793 “perhaps”, although without arguments; also rejected by Hajnal in press [migrant cultural words]), also followed e.g. by Szemerényi 1958: 61, 1974: 153; Mayer 1960: 82 (implicitly); Heubeck 1961: 80; Joseph 1982: 231; Morpurgo Davies 1986: 106; Woodard 1997: 38; Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225; Yakubovich 2010: 147; Gasbarra, Pozza 2012: 197-198; possible according to García Ramón 2011: 31 n. 16.

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‘throat French tête), this does not solve the phonological problem. 94. ϰυρβασία ‘name of a Persian hat with a pointed crown’: Of unknown or of Persian origin. 58 Grošelj 1954: 172 derived it from Hittite kurpiši- ‘(part of a) helmet’ (the possibility of Anatolian transmission from Iranian was acknowledged by Puhvel 1997: 289 too), but the correct form and meaning of the Hittite word is gurz/šip(p)-ant- ‘gorgeted, wearing a hauberk’ (Speiser 1950: 48-49; Puhvel 1997: 287), thus, as Brust 2005: 372 rightly points out, the comparison does not fit either semantically or formally. 95. ϰυρήβια, -ίων ‘husks, bran’ (n. pl.): Of unknown origin (GEW II/53; DELG 601; Beekes 2010: 806). A derivation from Hittite kurimpa- ‘dregs, sediment’ was assumed by Neumann 1974b: 436 (following Furnée 1972: 271, who, however, proposed a common substrate in this case), cautiously followed by Tischler 1977-1983: 647 [“vielleicht”] and Puhvel 1997: 265 [“possible”]), but rejected by Beekes without arguments (“there seems little reaon [sic] for it”). Nevertheless, the connection does not work either semantically or phonologically (note the and the unexplained loss of the /m/). 96. ϰύρτος ‘weel, lobster-pot; bird-cage’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/55-56; DELG 603; Beekes 2010: 808). Furnée 1972: 258 derived this word from Hittite kurtal(li)- ‘container of wood or wicker-work’, which, however, does not fit semantically (“unwahrscheinlich”, according to Tischler 1977-1983: 663, but without arguments). 97. κυσέρη ‘πυθμήν, χάσμα’: Of unknown origin (not included in the Greek etymological dictionaries). Furnée 1972: 252, 257 derived it from Hittite ḫuššelli- ‘pit, dump’. This is possible, but the change /l/ > /r/ requires a Luwian transmission, where this change (the so-called rhotacism) is regular (Melchert 2003: 179-182). However, since this is a Hesychian gloss only, it cannot be excluded that we are dealing with the transcription of a local word and not with borrowing. 98. κῶας ‘soft, hairy animal skin; fleece’ (Myc. ko-wo-): Of unknown origin (GEW II/59; DELG 604; Beekes 2010: 811-812). Sayce 1893: 118 suggested that this is a loanword 56 Heubeck 1961: 81 with n. 10; Neumann 1961: 19 (without arguments, but followed by Szemerényi 1965: 4 n. 15); O. Masson 1962: 125 n. 3 (who still maintains an unidentifiable Anatolian origin); Gasbarra, Pozza 2012: 192, 2013: 186 n. 7; cf. also Tischler 1977-1983: “fraglich”. 57 Also Gasbarra, Pozza 2012: 191 reject this etymology since in their views, a kappa cannot reflect the initial laryngeal, which is, however, not the case, see Simon 2014: 885-886 and here s.v. καβάλλης. 58 GEW II/53 and DELG 601, but Beekes 2010: 806, resp.; for the most recent critical discussion see Brust 2005: 369-373.

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from Carian, which has a similar word preserved in the gloss κοῖον / κόον ‘sheep, (small) cattle’ and the same hypothesis was put forward by Bossert 1952-1953b: 316 (with a question mark, followed by Tischler 1977-1983: 230) as well, not referring to Sayce (the Greek etymological dictionaries do not mention this proposal). This is definitely possible, see the detailed discussion in Simon (forthcoming-a) with refs. 99. ϰώρυϰος ‘leather sack’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/64; DELG 607; Beekes 2010: 816). GEW and DELG entertain the possibility of a loan from Cilicia (with a question mark) based on a homonymous Cilician toponym of unknown meaning (see already Wharton 1882: 77; followed by LEW I/274 [“wohl”]; Bertoldi 1952: 74-75; Tischler 1977-1983: 650: “ansprechend”), which of course does not prove anything. Neumann 1974b: 436 assumed a loanword from Hittite kurk- ‘retain’ (following Furnée 1972: 328 n. 21, who, however, only compared the two words without explaining their relation), but this proposal leaves the formal differences unexplained (especially -ρυϰ- vs. -rk-). 100. λαβύρινθος (Myc. da-pu2-ri-to-) ‘labyrinth’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/67; DELG 610-611; Beekes 2010: 819). As Yakubovich 2002: 107 and Beekes rightly point out that the traditional connection with λάβρυς (Lydian for ‘axe’, see e.g. Kretschmer 1940: 244; Heubeck 1961: 25) is speculative – so is Beekes’s cautious suggestion to connect this word to the Carian god “Δαβραυνδος” (sic, similarly GEW, recte Λάβραυνδος). This Lydian connection is excluded by the /d/ of the Mycenaean form as well. 101. λάγιον ‘kind of cup or vessel’, λάγῡνος ‘flask with a small neck’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/69; DELG 611; Beekes 2010: 820). Mayer 1960: 81; Pisani 1960: 249-250; and Puhvel 2001: 7 derive it from Hittite lāḫanni- ‘a bottle or pitcher’ (“p[eut]-ê[tre]”, according to DELG; Tischler 1990: 7 cautiously [“dürfte”, with question mark] entertains the possibility of a Hittite transmission; Gusmani 1968b: 83-84 treats it both as a Hittite loanword in Greek and as a loanword from a common subtrate). However, the Greek words cannot originate from the Hittite word as their Auslauts are incompatible (thus with Gasbarra – Pozza 2013: 182-185). 102. λέσχη ‘lounge’: Probably of Semitic origin. 59 However, it was explained as an Anatolian loanword by Schrader 1911: 469 (also assumed by Furnée 1972: 257 n. 36; Beekes 2010: 850), but no similar Anatolian word is attested yet. The l/n change observed in the cognate Hebrew word liškāh / niškāh (isolated in the Semitic languages) does not necessarily point to an Anatolian word (contra Beekes 2010: 850), because it may represent Hurrian transmission as well since Hurrian had no liquids in initial position (Giorgieri 2000: 185 n. 42; Wilhelm 2004: 99; Hazenbos 2005: 138) and seems to substitute /l/ regularly with /n/ (Simon forthcoming-b). 103. μαῦλις ‘large knife; procuress’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/186; DELG 672; Beekes 2010: 914-915). Jongkees 1938 derived it from a reconstructed Lydian word *mav-lis ‘belonging to *Mavś [the Lydian mother goddess]’, accepted by GEW and Beekes (cf. also Lambertz 1914: 5 n. 3). Nevertheless, Beekes adds a question mark following the rejection of O. Masson 1962: 179 based on the semantics and because the Lydian word and the theonym (at least in the supposed form) do not exist (followed also by DELG 672 and Sh. Hawkins 2013: 187-188, who still entertain the possibility that this is a Lydian loanword, for which, however, there is no evidence). 59 Rosół 2013: 60-62 contra the Indo-European etymology of GEW II/108 and DELG 632, see also Beekes 2010: 859.

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104. μίμαρϰυς, -υος ‘hare-soup, jugged hare’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/238; DELG 702; Beekes 2010: 953). Neumann 1961: 85-86 suggests a derivation from Hittite mārk-/ mark- ‘to divide, cut up, butcher’ with regular reduplication with the meaning “wiederholt zerschneiden, in kleine Stücke schneiden” (accepted by Tischler 1990: 137 [“könnte”, but also “wahrscheinlich”]). There are both phonological and morphological problems with this suggestion: the Hittite word seems to have a voiced stop (Kloekhorst 2008: 558-559) and the reduplication with -i- requires the zero-grade of the root, whereby it is unclear, what the Greek sound substitution would have been (note also that the exact meaning of this type of reduplication is unclear, although the “iterative” or “intensive” value is indeed attested, for all this see Hoffner – Melchert 2008: 174 with refs.). 105. μίσυ, -υος, -έως ‘copper ore; ruffle’: Of unknown origin (DELG 706; Beekes 2010: 958; not included in GEW). Neumann 1989: 94-95 (who distinguishes two homonyms) derives the word for ‘copper ore’ from a reconstructed Hittite-Luwian (most probably Cilician) *mis-u- ‘glänzend’ from *mis- ‘flimmern, glänzen’ attested in Hittite as miš-ri-want- ‘hell, glänzend’ (accepted by Egetmeyer 2010: 264). Although this is a traditional translation, the Hittite word probably does not mean ‘brilliant, splendid’, but ‘complete, full, perfect’ (CHD M 297-299; see also Kloekhorst 2008: 582) and the Proto-Indo-European root does not mean ‘to shimmer’ – but ‘die Augen aufschlagen’ (LIV2 429), thus this etymology cannot be supported. Note also that this is a Cypriote word and thus a local substrate cannot be excluded. 106. μνῴα (var. μνωΐα, μνοΐα) ‘name of the serfs in Crete’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/403, II/247; DELG 289-290, 707; Beekes 2010: 960). The new definition of the meaning of the Carian word mno- as ‘a person in personal dependency’ by Schürr 2013 allows the possibility of a Carian loanword, see the detailed discussion in Simon (forthcoming-a). 107. μόλυβδος (Myc. mo-ri-wo-do- /moliwdo-/) ‘lead’: Held to be of unknown origin (GEW II/251-252; DELG 710), but nowadays the cautious suggestion of Melchert 2008 (cf. 2014b: 70: “far more speculative”), a derivation from Lydian mariwda- ‘*dark’, is generally accepted. 60 However, Schürr apud Gander 2015: 484 n. 191 rightly pointed out that Mariwdais a theonym and thus it could not have been borrowed in the meaning ‘lead’. 108. νάρδος ‘spikenard’: Of Semitic origin. 61 A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 16) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 109. νίτρον ‘sodium carbonate, soda, natron’: Obviously an Oriental loanword, but its exact source is undetermined. 62 The stem vowel is paralleled only in Akkadian nit(i)ru (which is, however, too late, Standard Babylonian and Neo-Assyrian only, cf. CAD s.v.) and in Hittite nitri- ‘natron’ (derived from this by Grimme 1925: 19: Laroche 1955: xxxii-xxxiii), which, however, shows a different stem. Furthermore, since the vocalism of the Egyptian word ntr( j), from which all these words originate, is unknown, it cannot be excluded either. 63 110. ὄβρυζα / βρύζα ‘assaying of gold’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/346; DELG 772; Beekes 2010: 1043-1044). Benveniste 1953: 125-126, 1962: 130-131; Laroche 1973: xix explained 60 E.g. Beekes 2010: 964-965; Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225; Yakubovich 2010: 113-114; García Ramón 2011: 29 n. 11; Hajnal 2014: 111 and in press. 61 GEW II/289; DELG 735; Beekes 2010: 996; Rosół 2013: 75-76. 62 GEW II/321; DELG 755; Beekes 2010: 1022; Rosół 2013: 133-134. 63 Laroche 1955: xxxiii attributes the Attic form νίτρον to the n > l change observed in “Hittite, Hurrian, etc.”. Although the traditional assumption of dissimilation (Rosół 2013: 134 with refs.) is indeed not plausible phonetically, Hittite and Hurrian influences can also be safely excluded, since there is no synchronic n > l in Hittite and Hurrian does not have initial liquids (see s.v. λέσχη).

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it from Hittite ḫuprušḫi- ‘name of a pot’ (accepted by Householder – Nagy 1972: 774 and positively quoted by Neumann 1961: 20 [“erwägenswert”] and DELG 772 [“plausible”]; Gusmani 1968b: 83-84 treats it both as a Hittite loanword in Greek and as a loanword from a common substrate), but it was rightly rejected by GEW II/346 and Puhvel 1991a: 395-396 on semantic grounds (see the definition by HW2 s.v.: ‘ein Kultgerät (Wohl Räuchergefäß/schale/-pfanne oder Räucherständer/-altar’), to which one should also add the unsolved phonological problems (the unexplained loss of the initial laryngeal and the unparalleled sound substitution of -šḫ-: Benveniste’s solution, a sound substitution ’ubrus’i is clearly ad hoc and does not even solve the problems). 64 111. οἶνος ‘wine’: Inherited (Beekes 2010: 1059 contra GEW II/365; DELG 785). Sayce The Anatolian assumption of Sayce 1922: 19 and Heubeck 1961: 80 (cautiously) is not supported by the formally different Anatolian words (Hittite wiyan- ‘wine, Cuneiform Luwian winiya- ‘of wine’, Hieroglyphic Luwian wi(ya)n(i)- ‘wine’, Kloekhorst 2008: 1012). 112. ὀπήδος ‘attendant, companion’: Greek derivation (GEW I/402; DELG 807; Beekes 2010: 1090). The early derivation from Hittite ḫapati- ‘servant’ 65 is false, since the Hittite word means ‘river land’ (HW2 s.v., cf. already Tischler 1977-1983: 164, Puhvel 1991a: 120; followed by Beekes 2010: 1090). 66 113. παλάθη ‘cake made of preserved fruits’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/464; DELG 851; Beekes 2010: 1144). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 17) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that (rejected also by DELG). 114. παλλακή ‘concubine’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/468-469; DELG 853-854; Beekes 2010: 1147). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 18) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 115. πάλμυς, -υδος, -υν ‘king’: A well-known loanword from Lydian qaλmλu- since Danielsson 1917: 22-23. 67 116. πάρδαλις, -ιος, -εως ‘panther, leopard’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/473; DELG 857; Beekes 2010: 1152). Furnée 1972: 252 suggests Anatolian origin based on Hittite paršana ‘dto’, which, however, does not fit phonologically (Hoffmann 1949: 253 assumes a non-Indo-European Anatolian source, without any details). 117. πέλεκυς ‘axe, double-axe, hatchet’: Inherited (GEW II/497; DELG 875; Beekes 2010: 1167). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 18) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 118. πεσσóς ‘the oval stone in board games’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/519; DELG 890; Beekes 2010: 1180). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 18) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that.

64 Also rejected by Hajnal in press as migrant cultural words. In an earlier article, where Puhvel complained about the lack of “reasonable standards of etymological rigor” (see s.v. χώρ), he accepted this proposal (1965: 86). 65 Sapir 1934 (or from another “Asianic” language); followed by Brandenstein 1954b: 17; cautiously Krahe 1939: 184 (“mag”); rejected by Pedersen 1938: 189 (with wrong arguments). 66 Earlier rejections were based on the assumption that the word can be explained as an internal Greek derivation (for references see Tischler 1977-1983: 183). Cf. also Neumann 1961: 19 (phonologically and semantically problematic). 67 GEW II/470; DELG 854; Beekes 2010: 1148, add now e.g. Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225, 2013: 188-190; Melchert 2014b: 70.

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119. πήρα ‘leather bag, knapsack’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/530; DELG 898; Beekes 2010: 1187). Bertoldi 1952: 75 assumes Anatolian origin based on a homonymous Pisidian toponym (not mentioned by the Greek dictionaries), which, of course, does not prove anything. 120. πλαίσιον ‘long quadrangle, rectangle, rectangular frame’: A loan from Lydian bλaso ‘ein Teil der Grabanlage’ (Gusmani 1964: 83), see Beekes 2010: 1201 for a phonological explanation (of unknown origin according to GEW II/549 and DELG 909). 121. πρατήνιον ‘designation of goats of certain age’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/591; DELG 935; Beekes 2010: 1230). Solmsen 1909: 140-141 assumes an Anatolian origin due to the variant spelling, but there is no evidence for that (DELG adds a question mark). 122. πρῖνος ‘holm-oak, kermes oak’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/595; DELG 938; Beekes 2010: 1234). According to GEW and Beekes the Carian toponym Πρινασσός points to an Anatolian origin (which would fit both semantically and morphologically), but the meaning of the toponym is unknown. 123. πρύτανις ‘title of a leading official’: Of unknown origin (GEW I/607; DELG 944; Beekes 2010: 1243). Heubeck’s comparison with the Lydian personal name Brdun- (1961: 6768, 80) does not prove anything. Linderski 1962: 158-159 explained it from Hattian puri ‘lord’, admittedly without being able to explain the formal differences (as well as the geographical-historical distances). Moreover, such a Hattian word is not attested until now (Linderski did not provide references, thus one can only guess that he meant wuur ‘land’, the only similar word, cf. Soysal 2004: 304, 324-325). Szemerényi 1974: 154 derived it from Hittite ḫuburtan-uri- ‘an official’, whose stem, *ḫuburtan- “seems to have been taken over as οπορταν- / οπροταν- or οπυρταν- / οπρυταν-, and by deglutination the ‘article’ gave” this word (not mentioned by Beekes). The ad hoc nature of this proposal is self-evident. 124. πύργος ‘tower, wall-tower’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/630; DELG 958; Beekes 2012: 1262). The suggested connection with Hittite parku- ‘high, tall, lofty, elevated’ (Heubeck 1961: 63-65) does not fit phonologically (the first vowel), morphologically (stem) and semantically. According to Beekes 2010: 1262, Urartian burgana- ‘palace’ may point to an Anatolian origin, but the different morphology and meanings remain unexplained. 125. σάκκος ‘bag (made of goat hair)’: Of Semitic origin (GEW II/672; DELG 985; Beekes 2010: 1302). Bertoldi 1952 proposes Cilician origin based on its phonetic shape and the alleged origin of ϰώρυϰος ‘leather sack’ and πήρα ‘leather bag, knapsack’, but all of these arguments are mistaken (for these words see s.vv.). 126. σάνδαλον ‘sandal’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/675; DELG 987; Beekes 2010: 1305). Many scholars assume an Anatolian, perhaps Lydian origin, 68 but as Sh. Hawkins 2013: 154-155 rightly points out, no attested Anatolian word supports this idea. Eisler and Kretschmer explain the word as a reference to the shoes of an important local god called Sanda, which is ingenious and formally fitting, but cannot be verified. 127. σαπέρδης, -ου ‘name of a fish from the Nile and the Black Sea (among others)’: Probably a loanword from Egyptian (Beekes 2010: 1307; of unknown origin according to GEW II/677; DELG 987). Grošelj 1957: 43 connected it with the Lydian personal name Sapa-ar-da-a-a, but Beekes 2010: 1307 rightly pointed out that there is no indication for any connection (note that the name is probably to be read as /Spardaya-/, i.e. ‘Sardean’ and thus it has nothing to do with this fish name either semantically or formally). 68 Lambertz 1914: 5 n. 3; Eisler 1910: 166 n. 3; Kretschmer 1927: 270; Broger 1996: 113.

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128. σάφα ‘surely, certainly, definitely’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/684; DELG 991; Beekes 2010: 1314). Szemerényi 1974: 154 derives it from Hittite šuppi- ‘(ritually) clean’ explaining the vocalism with Neo-Hittite Sapalulme instead of Šuppiluliuma and Panyassis from *punV- (Beekes does not quote him). There is, however, in general no evidence for an u > a change in the Anatolian languages. As for Szemerényi’s examples, Sapalulme is the Neo-Assyrian rendering of the Luwian name, where a distortion cannot be excluded and Panyassis shows a stem *panV-, which is not identical with punV- (cf. Adiego 2007: 337-338). 129. σῑγαλóεις ‘brilliant, gleaming vel sim.’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/701-702; DELG 1001; Beekes 2010: 1327-1328). Szemerényi 1969: 243-245, 1974: 153 explains it from Hittite šeḫelli- ‘(ritually) clean’ (DELG: “compliquée”, with question mark; Beekes does not mention it). The idea is definitely possible as far as semantics and the consonants are concerned (for the substitution of the laryngeal see Simon 2014: 885-886), but the inconsequent rendering of the vowels is problematic. Note that the Hittite word is of Hurrian origin (Tischler 2006: 970), which provides another possibility for the origin of the Greek word. 130. σίγλος ‘weight and coin’: Of Semitic origin. 69 A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 16) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 131. σίδη ‘pomegranate (tree)’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/703; DELG 1002; Beekes 2010: 1329). Prellwitz 1892: 284 suggested that this word is of Carian origin, but nothing supports this idea. An Anatolian origin was proposed by Hofmann 1949: 312 (followed by Brandenstein 1958: 86) and Carnoy 1959: 226. Witczak – Zadka 2014a: 118-119 suggest that the Greek word is a borrowing from a non-Hittite Anatolian language: Hittite GIŠšaddu(wa)would be a loanword from Luwian *sadwa- reflecting Anatolian *sedg wa-, whose other reflex, *sedwa- would have been borrowed as *σίδβᾱ or *σίδϝᾱ leading to σίβδᾱ, σίδᾱ (with the well-known /i/ ~ /e/ change in Greek). However, this reconstruction is basically wrong, since the geminate spelling in Hittite points to a voiceless consonant. Nevertheless, their suggestion can be improved: a Proto-Anatolian *sédwa- leads regulary to Luwian *saddu(wa)- by Čop’s Law (see most recently Kloekhorst 2006a, 2014: 567-585), which, then could be the source of the Hittite word and a non-Luwian Anatolian language that preserved *sedwa- or changed to *sidwa- that could indeed lead to σίδη. 70 At this juncture attention must be paid to the Sidetic name of the city of Side preserved on her coins (S 10), i.e. Sidua(cf. Pérez Orozco 2003: 105-106), that shows a perfect formal identity. Thus we have a formally fitting solution, but one must point out that the meaning of the Hittite word cannot be precisely determined (‘a type of tree/woody plant’, CHD s.v.), thus this etymology is only a possibility. 132. σίλβη ‘a kind of cake made of barley, sesame and poppy’: Neumann 1961: 98 cautiously compared it as an “Anklang” to Hittite šiluḫa- ‘a kind of cake’ (“auffallend” according to GEW II/705, but of unknown origin in DELG 1003; accepted by Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225), which is obviously not possible phonologically, thus he (apud Tischler 2006: 1039) later identified the immediate source in šiluwa- / šiliwa- ‘a kind of cake’ (also Beekes 2010: 1330, without quoting this late addition). 71 Nevertheless, Beekes 2010: 1330 comments that the -β- is difficult to reconcile with the Hittite forms. Witczak – Zadka 2014a: 117, however, 69 GEW II/702; DELG 1002; Beekes 2010: 1328; Rosół 2013: 94-95. 70 It remains open if this reconstruction can explain σίβδᾱ. Based on the analogy of /moliwdo-/ > μόλυβδος (see s.v.) one expects *siwda-, but one can only speculate how to explain *siwdo- from *sidwa-. 71 Neumann apud Tischler 2006: 1037, 1039 also suggests that šiluwa- / šiliwa- is the Luwian cognate of Hittite šiluḫa- (and thus the Greek form would reflect a Luwian word), since it shows the loss of the la-

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duly note that it renders the Hittite phoneme /w/, since we are dealing with a late gloss of Hesychius (for the same prolem see s.v. σϰύβαλον). Exactly for the same reason, however, we cannot be sure that we are dealing with a loanword and not with the transcription of a local word. 133. σινδών, -όνος ‘fine woven cloth, fine linen, garment; blanket, etc. made thereof’: Generally held to be of Semitic or of Egyptian origin. 72 There is no evidence for the suggestion of an Anatolian origin by Beekes 2010: 1333-1334 (with question mark). 134. σκελετóς ‘dried up body, mummy, skeleton’: Internally derived (GEW II/722; DELG 1012; Beekes 2010: 1345). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 17) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 135. σϰύβαλον ‘waste, offal, refuse, muck’: Of uncertain origin (GEW II/740; DELG 1022; Beekes 2010: 1360). Neumann 1961: 90-91 compared it to Hittite išḫuwai- ‘to throw, scatter, pour’ (Tichler 1977-1983: 394: “denkbar”), but Beekes 2010: 1360 prefers a Pre-Greek solution comparing it with ϰύπελλα ‘whatever dough and bread is left over on the table’. While ϰύπελλα provides only superficial similarities (note the differences in the consonants), a non-Hittite Anatolian form *šḫuwai- provides a perfect match considering that Anatolian /w/ could have been rendered with beta from the Hellenistic period onwards and this word is attested exactly only from this period onwards (cf. Neumann 1961: 90 n. 1, for the same problem see s.v. σίλβη). The immediate Anatolian source cannot be identified more precisely, since neither the phonology nor the morphology is specific enough: even if Lydian also had a prothetic /i/ in case of *#sC-, which is not clear (see the discussion in Melchert 1994: 371), the Luwic languages (here without Sidetic) and Palaic still remain as candidates. There are several possibilities to explain the morphology of the word in all candidate languages, the semantically most straightforward way is the Luwian (and probably Luwic) suffix -al- forming abstract nouns from verbs (Melchert 2003: 197, note that the -i- disappears in suffixed forms according to the Hittite cognates). Since, however, other Luwic languages (first of all Carian) are by far not that amply attested, the word cannot be attributed unambiguously to Luwian. 136. σμίνθος ‘mouse’: Of Pre-Greek or Anatolian origin (GEW II/750; Beekes 2010: 1369), but there is no reason to doubt the scholiast to Iliad A 39 that this word is Mysian (DELG 1028). 137. σόλος ‘iron mass, used as a discus’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/753; DELG 1030; Beekes 2010: 1372). Laroche 1973: xix suggested a derivation from Hittite šulāi-/šūliya- ‘lead’, which is although plausible, must remain dubious since the vocalism (note the plene spelling with in IBoT 3.98+ 9 and KUB 28.82 i 23 pointing to /u/, cf. most recently Kloekhorst 2008: 35-60, 2014: 510-519) and the different stems also require explanation (Egetmeyer 2010: 301-302 cautiosly (“peut-être”) suggests rather a common borrowing from a third language). 138. σπατάλη ‘lavish, lascivious way of life, debauchery, luxury; adornment, bracelet, anklet’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/759; DELG 1033; Beekes 2010: 1377). Neumann 1961: 88-89 explained it from Hittite *išpatalla- ‘who gladly and often eats to the full’ from the verb išpai-/išpi- ‘to get full, to be satiated’ (followed by Jucquois 1972: 107; rejected by GEW [without arguments] and by Beekes, because the latter prefers the comparison ryngeal before /w/, a typical Luwian trait (accepted by Tischler). Nevertheless, the reconstructed *šilu/ iḫwa- can hardly be reconciled with Hittite šiluḫa- from a morphological point of view. 72 GEW II/708; DELG 1005; Beekes 2010: 1333-1334 (sceptical due to the formal differences); Rosół 2013: 205.

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with βάταλος ‘lascivious man’). Although the lack of prothetic -i- could be explained by a non-Luwian form, the proposed suffix shows voiceless allomorph only after an -šk- suffix (Hoffner – Melchert 2008: 53). 139. στλεγγίς, -ίδος ‘scraper for scraping off oil and dust, curry-comb’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/800; DELG 1057; Beekes 2010: 1407). Neumann 1961: 94-65 cautiously (“vielleicht”) derived it from Hittite ištalk- ‘to level, flatten’ (cautiously followed by Furnée 1972: 331, 351 n. 50; GEW II /800 with question mark; Tischler 1977-1983: 422). He assumes a nomen agentis *ištalkiš and quotes an alleged Lycian sound law (*a > e) to explain the vocalism (the of his examples, however, goes back to *o, Kloekhorst 2008: 191, 198) and entertains the possibility of separate borrowings due to the high number of existing variants (στλι/αγγίς, στελγ(γ)ίς, στελεγγίς etc.). Set aside the prothetic /i/ that can be explained by the borrowing of a non-Hittite (and non-Sidetic and perhaps non-Lydian, as per above) form and the suffix -id- that may reflect the homonymous Luwian or Luwic suffix (cf. Melchert 2003: 198), the phonological differencies are unexplained: although one can see in στελγ(γ)ίς and στελεγγίς (as well as in the obviously later forms στεγγίς, στρεγγίς, στεργίς) solutions to the initial stl-, which is very rare in Greek (LSJ includes only one more word), there is no explanation for the variation of the vowel in the root syllable (στλε/ι/αγγίς) and for the “intrusive” /n/. 140. συλάω ‘to strip off (the armour), take away, rob, plunder, seize’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/820; DELG 1070; Beekes 2010: 1422). Pisani 1959: 145 suggests a Lydian origin, but there is no evidence for a similar word from the admittedly small Lydian corpus. 141. σφενδόνη ‘sling; throw, missile’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/830; DELG 1076; Beekes 2010: 1430). According to Beekes (cf. also Pisani 1959: 146), the comparison with Latin funda ‘leather strap, string’ would point to a Mediterranean or Anatolian loanword (rejected by LEW I/563 arguing for an Indo-European origin, cf. also De Vaan 2008: 249), but there is nothing in the Anatolian languages that would support such a suggestion. 142. σῶρυ/ι ‘name of an ore, perhaps ferrous sulphate, melanterite’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/843; DELG 1084; Beekes 2010: 1440). Neumann 1989: 95 n. 6 cautiously derived it from Hittite (:)šuwaru- ‘schwer’ (followed by Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225; “peut-être”, Egetmeyer 2010: 264-165; not mentioned by Beekes). However, the Hittite word means ‘full, complete’ (Kloekhorst 2008: 796 with ref.). 143. ταρχύω ‘to inter’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/859; DELG 1095; Beekes 2010: 1454). Many scholars compared it with the Lycian and Luwian name of the Storm God, Trqqñt- / Tarḫunt- from the verb tarḫu- ‘to overpower’ (Blümel 1926: 82-84; Kretschmer 1939: 104-105, 1950: 548; Heubeck 1949-1950: 214; 1961: 81; not mentioned by Beekes; for the most recent analysis of the divine name see Kloekhorst 2006b: 98), which obviously does not fit semantically (Puhvel 1965: 85-85 rejected this hypothesis due to semantically and formally similar words, which are, however, formally not compatible, e.g. ταρῑχεύω ‘to embalm’). 144. τευθίς ‘kind of cuttlefish’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/886-887; DELG 1110; Beekes 2010: 1474). A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 17) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 145. τιβήν, -ῆνος ‘tripod’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/896; DELG 1116; Beekes 2010: 1481). In view of Furnée 1972: 189, the suffix -ην- points to an Anatolian origin, but this is not necessarily so and no Anatolian word supports this proposal.

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146. τολύπη ‘a clew of wool or yarn’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/909; DELG 1124; Beekes 2010: 1492). Furnée 1972: 35 n. 33, 340 cautiously derived it from Cuneiform Luwian taluppa/i- ‘lump, clod (of clay and dough)’ so did Melchert 1998: 47-48 (who does not quote Furnée), accepted by Yakubovich 2010: 147; Gasbarra – Pozza 2012: 190; and Hajnal 2014: 111 and in press). 73 The word can be derived directly from Luwian (/o/ ~ /a/ changes are cross-linguistically widespread), there is no need to assume a common substrate contra Beekes 2010: xv-xvi, 1492. However, De Decker 2015: 13 rightly points out that also a common inheritance is possible formally. 147. τραγῳδός ‘singer and dancer in the tragic choir, tragic actor’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/917; DELG 1128; Beekes 2010: 1498). Szemerényi 1975: 319-330 suggested a Hittite loanword from *tarkuwant- ‘dancing > dancer’, with Anatolian / Greek metathesis (tar- > tra-) and Hittite contraction (-uwa- > -u-), among others (DELG 1128: “hardie”; not quoted by Beekes). However, the precise form of the Hittite word turned out to be /targ want-/ or /tarkwant-/, without any possibility for contraction (Kloekhorst 2008: 842), thus this proposal must be abandoned. 148. τύβαρις ‘celery pickled in wine vinegar (a Dorian salad)’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/940; DELG 1142; Beekes 2010: 1515). Neumann 1961: 86-87 explained it from Luwian tuwarsa- ‘vine(yard)’ (followed by Sh. Hawkins 2010: 225; rejected by DELG 1142 and Furnée 1972: 262, albeit both without arguments). He explains the different stems with anaptyxis in -rs- > -ris reanalysed as nominative, a clearly ad hoc suggestion. 149. τύμπανον ‘ketttledrum, hand drum’: Of Semitic origin. 74 Grimme 1925: 19 and Bănăţeanu 1938: 118-119 (cf. also Furnée 1972: 287) assumed a Hittite or Anatolian loanword, but there is no evidence for that. 150. τύραννος ‘absolute ruler, monarch’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/94; DELG 1146; Beekes 2010: 1520). An Anatolian origin has long been assumed connecting it (more recently) to Luwain tarwani- ‘high official, ruler’ 75 (rejected by Beekes, without arguments). However, the difference in the vowel of the first syllable is unexplained (see already Hegyi 1965: 318; Heubeck’s explanation [Hieroglyphic Luwian /trwana-/ ~ Lydian *turwana- → τύραννος, 1961: 68-70] is ad hoc in its all steps). 151. τυρβασία ‘a dance associated with the dithyramb’: Generally derived from τύρβη ‘confusion, noise, tumuli’ (GEW II/947; DELG 1146; Beekes 2010: 1520). However, Szemerényi 1975: 328 explained it from Hittite *tarw-ant- ‘dancing’ or *tarw-at- (recte -att-) ‘dance’ (rejected by DELG 1146 without arguments; not mentioned by Beekes). Set aside the formal implausibility of the reconstructed Hittite words (the stem taru- appears only 73 Joseph 1982 (who also did not quote Furnée) tried to explain the Greek word from Hittite tarupp- ‘to collect, to unite’. He explained the different consonantism with sporadic r ~ l changes in Hittite, but his examples are problematic (cf. Melchert 1998: 50). Furthermore, he suggests (231 n. 2) that either the verb was borrowed and then the noun was back-formed (which, however, leaves the meaning of the Greek word unexplained) or that an unattested Anatolian noun was the source (his final suggestion, a borrowed deverbal adjective or participle, does not fit since deverbal adjectives or participles are not attested in Anatolian). Despite these arguments, Melchert 1998 believes that these explanations are “plausible” and tries to connect the two words, but cf. the cautious remark of Kloekhorst 2008: 852. 74 GEW II/945; DELG 1144; Beekes 2010: 1518; Rosół 2013: 101-102. 75 Sayce apud Buckler 1924: 88 (possibly Lydian); Bossert 1927: 652; Hofmann 1949: 379 (Lydian with question mark); Heubeck 1961: 68-70, 80 (possible); Hegyi 1965: 316-318; GEW II/94 (AegeanAnatolian); Yakubovich 2002: 112; 2010: 147; 2013: 119; Uchitel 2007; Giusfredi 2009: 141; Zukerman 2011: col. 465.

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with endings that start in a consonant, Kloekhorst 2008: 844), the /b/ and the /u/ remained unexplained (Szemerényi’s explanation for the /u/, τύραννος from tarwani-, does not work, as it is not a loan from that Luwian word [see s.v.], and even if it were the case, one would get †τυρασία). 152. τύρσις, -ιος, -ιδος ‘tower, keep, turret; palace, castle, fortified town’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/948-949; DELG 1147; Beekes 2010: 1521). Heubeck 1961: 65-66, 80 suggested Anatolian origin, but nothing supports this assumption except of some similar looking toponyms that do not prove anything. 153. ὕβρις, -ιος, -εος, -εως ‘arrogance, haughtiness, exorbitance, violence, offence, abuse’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/954; DELG 1150; Beekes 2010: 1525). Szemerényi 1974: 154 derives it from a Hittite abstract noun *ḫu(wa)ppar ‘maltreatment, outrage’ to the verb ḫuwapp- ‘to be hostile towards, to do evil against’ and entertains the possibility of a Luwian origin due to the -i-stem (cited with question mark by DELG; not quoted by Beekes). Set aside that there was no similar productive abstract suffix in Hittite, this hypothesis is not possible due to the lack of the reflex of the laryngeal, the voiced consonant of the Greek word, and the unexplained syncope in the last syllable (rejected also by Puhvel 1991a: 482, albeit without arguments). 154. ὑλίμη ‘μάχη τις’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/963; DELG 1155; Beekes 2010: 1530). Kronasser 1960 explained it from Hittite *šullima- ‘fight’, a regular but unattested derivative of šulli- ‘to fight, quarrel’ (negatively cited by DELG 1155 (“compliquée”); positively by Beekes 2010: 1530). However, the verb šullē- means ‘to become arrogant’ (Melchert 2004) and requires a borrowing before the Pre-Greek *s > h /#_ change, when hardly any contact is plausible between Pre-Greek and Hittite speakers. 155. ὑσσός ‘javelin’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/975; DELG 1162; Beekes 2010: 1539). Bechtel 1906: 272 derives it from Carian on the basis of the personal names Ὑσσισις, Υσσωλ(λ/δ)ος, Μαυσσωλλος (followed by Sasseville 2014-2015: 110; DELG 1162: “sans preuve”). These (and many similar) Carian names contain in fact the Carian word uśoλ / wśoλ of unknown meaning, where -oλ- is a suffix (cf. Adiego 2007: 330, 344). The lack of initial /h/ in the Carian form rather points to a Carian borrowing from Greek, if they are connected at all. Since the meaning of the Carian word is unknown, this proposal cannot be proven yet (guesses regarding the meaning of the Carian word are abound: ‘year’ [cf. Adiego 2007: 344 n. 16 with question mark and refs.; ‘±blessed’ [Melchert 2013: 41, 44]). 156. ὕσσωπος ‘hyssop’: Of Semitic origin. 76 A Hittite transmission (suggested by Grimme 1925: 17) is not necessary and there is no evidence for that. 157. φίλος ‘friend, friendly, dear; related, own; reflexive possessive’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/1019-1020; DELG 1206; Beekes 2010: 1574). Kretschmer 1927 derived it from Lydian bili- ‘his/her’, which does not fit semantically (according to Beekes 2010: 1574, the Lydian word must be explained within Anatolian, which is correct, but does not exclude the possibility of a Greek borrowing from Lydian). 158. χαλϰός ‘ore, copper, bronze’: Of unknown origin (GEW II/1070-1071; DELG 1244; Beekes 2010: 1612). Pisani 1966: 46 derived it from Hittite ḫapalki- ‘iron’, assuming “una forma di abbreviazione interna” (?!) or a transmitting languge, where “/p/” (recte /b/) could have diasppeared. This is “sachlich verlockend” / “tempting” according to GEW and Beekes (Tischler 1977-1983: 161: “kann”; Puhvel 1991a: 118: “possibly” as “internally compressed” 76 GEW II/975; DELG 1162; Beekes 2010: 1539; Rosół 2013: 102-104.

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[?!]; but “peu convaincante” according to DELG 1242), and both would explain the differences by the borrowing process. Note, however, that Greek phonotactics do not require the loss of the entire (and from a Greek point of view, entirely regular) syllable / (thus rejected also by Gasbarra – Pozza 2012: 192-193). Also the suggestion of Dussaud 1953: 161-162, a loan from the Urartian theonym Ḫaldi (DELG 1244: “vague”), does not explain the semantic and formal differences. 159. χλαῖνα ‘upper garment, cloak’: from Lycian, see R. Garnier: Étymologie du gr. χλαῖνα: un mot louvite en grec? Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires 2017/2: 9092 (Nr. 51). Bibliography Abbreviations

CAD = Gelb I.J. et al. (eds), (1956-2010): The Assyrian Dictionary of The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Chicago. CHD = Güterbock H.G., Hoffner H.A., van den Hout T.P.J. (eds), (1980–): The Hittite Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Chicago. DELG = Chantraine P. (1968-1980): Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grec. Histoire des mots. Paris. EAGLL = Giannakis G.K. (ed.) (2014): Encyclopedia of Ancient Greek Language and Linguistics I-III. Leiden – Boston. EIEC = Mallory J.P., Adams D.Q. (eds), (1997): Encyclopedia of Indo-European Culture. London – Chicago. GEW = Frisk H. (1960-1972): Griechisches etymologisches Wörterbuch 1–3. Heidelberg. HW2 = Friedrich J. et al. (1975–): Hethitisches Wörterbuch. Zweite, völlig neubearbeitete Auflage auf der Grundlage der edierten hethitischen Texte. Heidelberg. KEWA = Mayrhofer M. (1953-1980): Kurzgefaßtes etymologisches Wörterbuch des Altindischen 1-3. Heidelberg. LEW = Walde A. (1938–1954): Lateinisches etymologisches Wörterbuch. 3. neubearbeitete Auflage von J.B. Hofmann. Heidelberg. LfGrE = Snell B. (ed.) (1955-2010): Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos 1-4. Göttingen. LIV2 = Rix, Helmut et al. (2001): Lexikon der indogermanischen Verben. Die Wurzeln und ihre Primärstammbildungen. 2., erweiterte und verbesserte Auflage, bearbeitet von Martin J. Kümmel und Helmut Rix. Wiesbaden. LSJ = Liddell H.G., Scott R. (1996): A Greek–English Lexicon. 9th edtion. Oxford. Adiego 2007a – Adiego I.-J. 2007: The Carian Language. (HdO 86). Leiden – Boston. Adiego 2007b – Adiego I.-J. 2007: Greek and Carian. In A.-F. Christidis (ed.): A History of Ancient Greek. From the Beginnings to Late Antiquity. Cambridge, 758-762. Adiego 2007c – Adiego I.-J. 2007: Greek and Lycian. In A.-F. Christidis (ed.): A History of Ancient Greek. From the Beginnings to Late Antiquity. Cambridge, 763-767. Adiego 2007d – Adiego I.-J. 2007: Greek and Lydian. In A.-F. Christidis (ed.): A History of Ancient Greek. From the Beginnings to Late Antiquity. Cambridge, 769-772. Bănățeanu 1938 – Bănăţeanu V. 1938: Termes de culture grecs, d’origine égéo-asianique. Revue des études indo-européennes 1: 107-138. Bănățeanu 1943 – Bănățeanu V. 1943: Noten zur griechischen Terminologie des Wagens. Revue des études indo-européennes 3: 132-150. Bechtel 1906 – Bechtel F. 1906: Parerga. Beiträge zur kunde der indogermanischen Sprachen 30: 265272.

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Szemerényi 1969 – Szemerényi O. 1969: Etyma Graeca II (8-15). In Studia Classica et Orientalia Antonino Pagliaro Oblata 3. Roma: 233-250. Szemerényi 1970 – Szemerényi O. 1970: Iranica III (Nos 32-43). In: W.B. Henning Memorial Volume. London: 417-426. Szemerényi 1971 – Szemerényi O. 1971: Review of DELG I-II. Gnomon 43: 641-675. Szemerényi 1974 – Szemerényi O. 1974: The Origins of the Greek Lexicon: Ex Oriente Lux. The Journal of Hellenic Studies 94: 144-157. Szemerényi 1975 – Szemerényi O. 1975: The Origins of Roman Drama and Greek Tragedy. Hermes 103: 300-322. Szemerényi 1981 – Szemerényi O. 1981: Review of DELG IV. Gnomon 53: 113-116. Teffeteller 2011 – Teffeteller A. 2011: Review of Yakubovich 2010. Journal of American Oriental Society 131: 456-459. Teffeteller 2013 – Teffeteller A. 2013: Singers of Lazpa: Reconstructing Identities on Bronze Age Lesbos. In A. Mouton, I. Rutherford, I. Yakubovich (eds), Luwian Identities. Culture, Language and Religion Between Anatolia and the Aegean. Leiden – Boston: 567-589. Teffeteller 2015 – Teffeteller A. 2015: Songs by Land and Sea Descending: Anatolian and Aegean Poetic Tradition. In N.Chr. Stampolidis, Ç. Maner, K. Kopanias (eds), Nostoi. Indigenous Culture, Migration and Integration in the Aegean Islands and Western Anatolia during the Late Bronze and Early Iron Age. Istanbul: 709-735. Tischler 1977-83 – Tischler J. 1977-1983: Hethitisches etymologisches Glossar I. A-K. IBS 20. Innsbruck. Tischler 1981 – Tischler J. 1981: Das hethitische Gebet der Gassulijawija. Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar. IBS 37. Innsbruck. Tischler 1990 – Tischler J. 1990: Hethitisches etymologisches Glossar II. Lieferungen 5-6. L-M. IBS 20. Innsbruck. Tischler 2001 – Tischler J. 2001: Hethitisches etymologisches Glossar II. Lief. 11/12. P. Innsbruck. Tischler 2006 – Tischler J. 2006: Hethitisches etymologisches Glossar II/2. S/2. IBS 20. Innsbruck. Uchitel 2007 – Uchitel A. 2007: The Earliest Tyrants: from Luwian Tarwanis to Greek Τύραννος. In G. Herman, I. Shatzman (eds): Greeks Between East and West: Essays in Greek Literature and History in Memory of David Asheri. Jerusalem: 13-30. Valério 2017 – Valério M. 2017: Λαβύρινθος and Word Initial Lambdacism in Anatolian Greek. Journal of Language Relationship 15: 51-59. Van Brock 1959 – Van Brock N. 1959: Substitution rituelle. Revue Hittite et Asianique 65: 117-139. Van Windekens 1989 – Van Windekens A.J. 1989: Explication de quelques termes de civilisation grecs à la lumière de données hittites. Glotta 67: 142-147. Watkins 1995 – Watkins C. 1995: How to Kill a Dragon. Aspects of Indo-European Poetics. New York – Oxford. Watkins 1997 – Watkins C. 1997: Delbrück and the syntax of Hittite and Luwian: predictive power. In E. Crespo, J.L. García Ramón (eds), Berthold Delbrück y la sintaxis indoeuropea hoy. Actas del Coloquio de la Indogermanische Gesellschaft, Madrid, 21-24 de septiembre de 1994. Madrid – Wiesbaden: 611-630. Watkins 1998 – Watkins C. 1998: Homer and Hittite Revisited. In P. Knox, C. Foss (eds), Style and Tradition. Studies in Honor of Wendell Clausen. Stuttgart – Leipzig : 201-216. Watkins 2000a – Watkins C. 2000a: L’Anatolie et la Grèce. Résonances culturelles, linguistiques et poétiques. Comptes Rendus de l’Academie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 2000: 1143-1158. Watkins 2000b – Watkins C. 2000b: A Distant Anatolian Echo in Pindar: The Origin of the Aegis Again. Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 100: 1-14. Watkins 2001 – Watkins C. 2001: An Indo-European Linguistic Area and Its Characteristics: Ancient Anatolia. Areal Diffusion as a Challenge to Comparative Method? In A.Y. Aikhenvald, R.M.W. Dixon (eds), Areal Diffusion and Genetic Inheritance: Problems in Comparative Linguistics. Oxford: 44-63.

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Watkins 2007a – Watkins C. 2007a: The Golden Bowl. Thoughts on the New Sappho and its Asianic Background. Classical Antiquity 26/2: 305-324. Watkins 2007b – Watkins C. 2007b: Hipponactea quaedam. In P. Finglass et al. (eds), Hesperos. Studies in Ancient Greek poetry presented to M. L. West on his seventieth birthday. Oxford: 118-125. Watson 2008 – Watson, W.G.E. 2008: Some Akkadian and Hittite equivalences. Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires: 95-96. Wharton 1882 – Wharton E.R. 1882: Etyma Graeca. An Etymological Lexicon of Classical Greek. London. Whatmough 1956 – Whatmough J. 1956: Poetic, Scientific and Other Forms of Discourse. A New Approach to Greek and Latin Literature. Berkeley – Los Angeles. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorf 1931 – von Wilamowitz-Moellendorf U. 1931: Der Glaube der Hellenen I. Berlin. Wilhelm 2004 – Wilhelm G. 2004: Hurrian. In R.D. Woodard (ed.): The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the World’s Ancient Languages. Cambridge: 95-118. Witczak, Zadka 2014a – Witczak K.T., Zadka M. 2014a: Ancient Greek ΣΙΔΗ as a Borrowing from a Pre-Greek Substratum. Graeco-Latina Brunensia 19: 113-126. Witczak, Zadka 2014b – Witczak K.T., Zadka M. 2014b: On the Anatolian Origin of Ancient Greek ΣΙΔΗ. Graeco-Latina Brunensia 19: 131-139. Woodard 1997 – Woodard R.D. 1997: Linguistic Connections between Greeks and Non-Greeks. In: J.E. Coleman, C.A. Walz (eds), Greeks and Barbarians. Essays on Interactions between Greeks and Non-Greeks in Antiquity and the Consequences for Eurocentrism. Bethesda: 29-60. Yakubovich 2002 – Yakubovich I. 2002: Labyrinth for Tyrants. Studia Linguarum 3: 93-116. Yakubovich 2010 – Yakubovich I. 2010: Sociolinguistics of the Luvian Language. Leiden – Boston. Yakubovich 2012 – Yakubovich I. 2012: Review of Adiego 2007. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 71: 131-133. Yakubovich 2013 – Yakubovich I. 2013: Anatolian Names in -wiya and the Structure of Empire Luwian Onomastics. In: A. Mouton, I. Rutherford, I. Yakubovich (eds), Luwian Identities. Culture, Language and Religion Between Anatolia and the Aegean. Leiden – Boston: 87-123. Yakubovich 2016 – Yakubovich 2016: Some Transitive Motion Verbs and Related Lexemes in Late Luwian. Indogermanische Forschungen 121: 69-92. Zinko 2002 – Zinko M. 2002: Laryngalvertretungen im Lykischen. Historische Sprachforschung 115: 218-238. Zukerman 2011 – Zukerman A. 2011: Titles of 7th century BCE Philistine Rulers and their Historical-Cultural Background. Bibliotheca Orientalis 68: cols. 465-471.

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Anatolian Influences in Semitic Languages Wilfred G. E. Watson 1. Introductory While this article deals generally with the influence of Anatolian culture and religion on Semitic, the main focus is on language and more specifically, on vocabulary. This is not to say that other aspects, such as calques, grammar and syntax are not important, but within the constraints of a short paper it is necessary to limit the field of study. 1 1.1 Two sets of languages For the period under discussion here (1300-900 BCE) and the geographical area involved, broadly speaking, Anatolia, 2 Mesopotamia and the Levant, 3 there are two sets of languages. One set is “Anatolian”, a catch-all that should include languages such as Carian, 4 Cuneiform Luwian, Hattian or Hattic, Hieroglyphic Hittite and Luwian, Hittite, Hurrian, Luwian, Lycian, Lydian, Milyan, Palaic, Pisidian, Sidetic and Urartian. Here, for practical reasons, only Hittite, Hurrian and Luwian are considered, with some reference to Urartian. The other set is Semitic, taking in Aramaic, Akkadian (including dialects of Assyrian and Babylonian, and Peripheral Akkadian), Hebrew, Phoenician, Syriac and Ugaritic. 5 Also of significance are the interactions within these two sets of languages. 6 1.2 Loanwords: brief notes on theory Indicators of loanwords from one language in another are variant spellings, Glossenkeile 7 and rarity. According to Z. Simon, parallels between two cultures may be due to one of four causes: pure coincidence, loans from each other, loans from a third common source and shared inheritance 8. These have to be differentiated carefully 9. There is always the possibi-

1 I take this opportunity to express my thanks to Professor Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò for inviting me to the Workshop in Warsaw in 2015 and for his generous hospitality. 2 See Marazzi 2002; 2010. Note also Stefanini 2002. 3 For a general introduction to the Hittites, especially in respect of locating place-names, see Alparslan, Doğan-Alparslan 2015. 4 On Carian (or Karian) see especially Herda 2013. 5 Although Syriac and to some extent Phoenician (not to mention Punic), are later than the period under discussion, they may preserve older material, possibly as hibernating words. 6 See, for example, Giusfredi 2012; Görke 2013. 7 However, this is not always the case. According to Zorman 2010: 217: “words were marked with gloss-wedges for ideological purposes, i.e. to share moral identity and enforce a proper code of conduct in the last decades of the Hittite Empire”. 8 Simon 2013: 17. 9 An example may be Ug. škl, “vizir”, “die keilalphabetische Wiedergabe des hurro-hethitischen šukkalli- ist, das aus dem sumero-babylonischen SUKKAL = šu(k)kallu ‘Minister, Wesir’... stammt und Titel eines Würdenträgers am Hof zu Ḫattuša bezeichnet” (Dietrich 2004: 683).

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lity that areal Wanderwörter were transmitted from one language to another 10. In addition, some shared words simply come from infant language, e.g. Hitt. giš ninii̯ al-, “cradle” (HIL, 605) and Syr. nny, D: “to lull to sleep” (SL, 923), and are not really loanwords. Yet another factor to consider is re-borrowing between languages. Generally speaking, loanwords can be either adopted or adapted. Adopted words have been absorbed unchanged into the language and could be called “Fremdwörter”, e.g. Spanish aficionado and French hors d’oeuvre have exactly the same spellings in English. Instead, adapted words have been altered to follow the phonological rules of the host language, usually only slightly. For example, Italian moneta has become Eng. money; likewise, Ital. maccheroni, is adapted as Eng. macaroni, Polish makaron. Examples of adopted Anatolian loanwords in Semitic are Hurrian šiduri, “girl”, which is also šiduri, “girl” (CDA, 371a) in Akkadian and is used unchanged. An adapted loan is Hurrian šarianni, “armour” (BGH, 357-358), which appears in Akkadian as sari(y)am, siri(y)am, siri, še/iryam, sari(y)ānum, sariānu, šir’am, šir’annu, siriyanni etc. (CDA, 318a), as Ugaritic tryn (DUL, 921) and as Heb. s/šrywn, “coat of mail” (HALOT, 769, 1655). As is so often the case, variation in spelling indicates a loanword 11. In addition, some loanwords occur as hybrids, where a word in language A is combined with a word in language B, to form the composite “noun A + noun B”, where A is the source language and B is the host language. An example of a composite noun made up of elements from both Semitic (language A) and Indo-European (language B), is GIŠallantaru, “oak” which is formed from the Semitic word for “oak” (Akk. allānu, Heb. ’allōn) + the IndoEuropean word for “wood” (Hitt. tāru) as allan-taru, “oak” 12. Other hybrids are formed from a noun from the source language with an ending or inflection in the host language, as noun A + ending B. An example is Akk. ḫalṣuḫlu, “district governor” = Akk. ḫalṣu, “fortress, district” + Hurr. -uḫlu 13. Another ending denoting a profession in Hurrian is the affix -tennu 14 that may explain Ug. sbrdn 15 which can be analysed as Semitic sbr, “spear” 16 + the ending -dn, denoting a profession and mean “lancer, spear-bearer”. 17 Whether Ug. llḫ is formed from ll, cognate with Akk. lalû, “to bind” plus a Hurr. ending and means “reins” remains uncertain. Another form of hybrid is a noun from one language combined with a verb from another, which can set out as noun A + verb B. The most widespread type in Akkadian comprises nouns formed by the verb epēšu, “to do”, in combination with Hurrian nouns. An example is šalaššumma epēšu, “to adopt as daughter”. This is formed from the verb epēšu with Hurr. šalašši, “daughterhood”, which in turn derives from Hurr. šala, “daughter” 18. One reason for such hybrids may be the lack of the specific word in the host language. Hybrids can also 10 E.g. Ug. šḥlt, “cress seeds”, Hitt. zaḫḫeli-, “Kresse” (HW, 257); Heb. šḥlym, “cress, pepperwort”, Lepidium sativum (DTT, 1548); Aram. šḥly, “(poss. some type of cress)” (DNWSI, 1121); Akk. saḫlium, phps. “cress”; saḫlûtu, “(single) cress? seed” (CDA, 312a) etc. (cf. DUL, 800-801). See also Rössler 2004. 11 Cf. Patri 2009. 12 See HED 1: 29; HIL, 169; also Sturm 2008. 13 See the list in the Appendix. In Ugaritic, instead, both elements of such words are Hurrian; see Watson 2010a. 14 See Wilhelm 1970; see BGH, 448. 15 KTU 4.337:1; 4.352:6; possibly also in KTU 6.26:1. 16 See Syr. zbrn’, “spears” (SL, 188), cited in Watson 2013a, unless a loan from Akk. azmaru. 17 As shown by Vidal 2007: 10. 18 See the Appendix.

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take the form of personal names, which comprise elements from two languages, e.g. Hurrian and Akkadian or Hurrian and Ugaritic. An example is Ug. tġd (KTU 4.609:9), which means “Addu reared (him)” and can be analysed as Hurr. teḫ-, “to raise, bring up (a child)” (BGH, 457) + -d, a short form of the divine name Addu. Note also the Ugaritic personal name, alphabetic tlmủ (KTU 4.85:4), syllabic Tal-ma-’u, “(The god) is Great” (PRU 6, 86 ii 9), based on Hurrian talm-, “Great” (BGH, 432-435), which is inflected for case in both spellings. These are alphabetic tlmỉ (KTU 4.337:7) and syllabic Tal-ma-’i (PRU 6, 168:12), both in the genitive 19. Possible reasons for such fusion names are fashion or society pressure, syncretism or a mixed marriage 20. 2. Current Work There have been several studies on the interrelationship between Semitic and the Anatolian languages. 21 In 1963, C. Rabin compiled a lengthy annotated list of Hittite words in Classical Hebrew, 22 which now certainly requires updating 23. As I. Singer noted: “A few dozen borrowed Hittite or Luwian words have been suggested, but most are either widely attested “culture words” or Anatolian words that were introduced into Hebrew through Akkadian or other mediators. A direct linguistic influence of Hittite on Hebrew is most unlikely”. 24 Even so, several of these words in Classical Hebrew are not Semitic, however they were transmitted. Several Hittite words in Emar Akkadian have been identified by Pentiuc. 25 There have been a number of discussions of the interrelationship between Hittite and Akkadian, notably by D. Schwemer, 26 J.G. Dercksen 27 and particularly P. Dardano 28 and others. 29 A fairly comprehensive list of the Anatolian (Hittite and Hurrian) loanwords in Ugaritic has been compiled recently 30 as well as a list of the Anatolian words in Phoenician and Punic 31. A

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

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See Huehnergard 1987: 245-246. See Richter 2005. For an overview see Röllig 2004. Rabin 1963; see also Wikander 2013 and Willi-Plein 2002-2003. See the critique and evaluation by Simon 2013. See Appendix. Singer 2006: 745-746. Pentiuc 2001. Schwemer 2005/2006: 231, concludes somewhat negatively: “Die Untersuchung der Lehnbeziehungen zwischen dem Hethitischen und dem Akkadischen zeigt, daß in allen Epochen gegenseitigen Beeinflussungen beider Sprachen auf punktuelle Erscheinungen beschränkt bleiben, die nach der altassyrischen Zeit durchweg auf das Schreibmilieu weisen. Entlehnungen vom Hethitischen ins Akkadische fehlen nach der altassyrischen Zeit weitgehend”. Dercksen 2007; however this relates to the 19th-18th centuries BCE. Dardano 2011; 2012; 2014. I am grateful to Professor Dardano for copies of studies otherwise unavailable to me. Watson 2008; 2009. Watson LSU: 118-135 (§§2.3.01-2.3.02). Watson 2013b. The Hurrrian loanwords are ’gn, “krater”; ’dn, “platform”; ḥrz, “parapet”; mzrḥ, “native”; prmn, “slave” and trtn, “commander” as well as the month names ’tnm, ḥyr and krr (probably via Akkadian or another Semitic language) and brzl, “iron” from Luwian (Valério, Yakubovich 2010). Two additional loanwords are Ph. wlwy, “meadow”, from Hitt. u̯ ellu- “pasture, meadow” (HIL, 998), as proposed by Röllig 2008: 53 and perhaps Punic chirs, ers (i.e. *ḥrś), “potsherd” from Hitt. dugḫarši-, “jar” (HIL, 316), as proposed by Rabin 1963: 118-120; cf. HALOT, 357; DNWSI, 406.

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complete listing of Hurrian loanwords in Akkadian, Hebrew and Ugaritic is now available 32. Luwian loanwords in Semitic have been studied by I. Yakubovich 33. 3. Loanwords in various categories To provide a general overview of the distribution of loanwords, they are grouped here in a selection of semantic categories. The direction of borrowing is, of course, from Anatolian languages to Semitic but the reverse influence, of Semitic on Anatolian religion, can also be documented. 34 3.1 Containers Ug. prpr, “Oil-vessel” (KTU 4.63:44) is possibly equivalent to Hitt. dugpurpuriš, “a ballshaped vessel used in ritual for refined oil and plant-oil” 35. Emar ḫuppar, “a container”, is a loan from Hitt. ḫuppar, “bowl” (HW, 75; cf. HIL 51, 765) just as Emar ḫurtiyallu, “(beer/ wine) container”, is exactly the same in Hittite (HW, 77). Other such terms are Emar laḫḫu, “vessel”, also from Hitt. laḫḫu, “container” (HIL, 512) 36 and Emar tarnannu, tarnaš “vessel” 37, from Hitt. tarna-, “head, skull; small measure” (HIL, 845-846). Akk. agannu, “Schale” (AHw, 15), ultimately derives from Hurr. ag-, “to carry” (BGH, 4-6) and was borrowed by Ug. agn, “cauldron, bowl” (cf. DUL, 26) and Ph. ’gnn, “krater” (DNWSI, 9). Akk. urû, “a bowl”, may come from Hitt. dugurā-, “a vessel” and perhaps Ug. Akk. sā’u, “bowl, basin” (PRU 6,163 r.4’), is from Hitt. zāu, “container, vessel, plate” (HIL, 1033). 3.2 Wool, textiles and clothes Several terms for wool and its derivatives were current in Akkadian. Examples are Akk. išrum, “a woollen band, sash”, from Hittite sígēšri, “fleece” (HIL, 261); Akk. ḫul(l)anu, “garment of wool (or linen)” from Hitt. ḫulana-, “wool” and Akk. mai’šu, “a breed of sheep”, which seems related to Hittite (síg)maišta-, “fibre, flock or strand of wool”. Furthermore, Hitt. kuš/giššarpašši- “drape, chair-cover” (CHD Š/2, 290), also appears in Emar Akkadian as šarbašši-, “cushion” (CDA, 360b). 3.3 Food and foodstuffs “Brewing was evidently not an art that the Hittites had to learn from Mesopotamia” 38. In fact, beer and brewing were imported from Anatolia and with them terms such as Hitt. kaš marnu(w)an-, “(premium) lager beer” – “a genuinely native Hittite vocable” 39 – as Akk. marnua’atum, denoting a beer made from barley. Old Assyrian ḫazuanum, “a vegetable”, is also a loan from Anatolian, probably Luwian, even though its exact meaning is uncertain 40. Several words relating to bread were imported as well. Emar punnigu, “(a type of bread)”, 32 BGH passim. 33 Yakubovich 2008; 2009. 34 For the birth-goddesses, see Archi 2013. For the Heptad in Anatolia as deriving from Akk. ilū sebitti, see Archi 2010. 35 It may have been borrowed as Nuzi Akk. periprušḫu, “a metal utensil” (cf. BGH, 315a). 36 Derived from Hitt. laḫu-, lāḫu-, “to pour” (HIL, 511-513); see also Akk. laḫannum, “a flask” and laḫiānum, “a vessel” (CDA, 175). 37 Pentiuc 2001: 179-180. 38 Puhvel 2011: 104. 39 See Puhvel 2011. 40 Simon 2015a.

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is from Hitt. nindapanku-, “a kind of bread” (HIL, 624-625) and reappears as Akk. pannigu, pinnigu, pinigu, punni/ugu, “a pastry or bread” (CDA, 263a) and Heb. pannag, “biscuit” (HALOT, 937a). Hittite šeppitt- means “(a kind of) grain” (HIL, 744-745) which is reflected in Akk. sēpu, “(a cereal)” (CDA, 320b), especially as akal sēpi, “(a kind of bread)” (CAD S, 227a) and Emar sibu, “(a kind of bread)” 41. 3.4 Warfare and weaponry Since metal-working probably originated in Anatolia, it is not surprising that several terms for weaponry also came from there. For example, Hurr. kurbiši, “piece of armour, helmet” (BGH, 228-229), was borrowed as Hitt. kurpiši-, “Teil des Helmes; Vizier, Halsberge oder Helm” (HW, 118b) and then as Akk. qurpis(s)u(m), qursi(p)pu(m), q/kurpīsu, “helmet” (CDA, 291b) and finally as Ug. grbz, “helmet” (DUL, 303). Hurr. šariyanni, “cuirasse de protection pour hommes, chevaux, chars” (GLH, 215-216), was borrowed as Hitt. šarian(n) i, “Panzerhemd” (HW, 324), “a coat of scale armor” (CHD Š/2, 259), Akk. siriam, “body armour” (CAD S, 313-315), Ug. tryn, “(suit of) armour” (DUL, 921), Heb. siryôn, “coat of mail” (HALOT, 769); śiryôn, “scale armour, coat of armour” (HALOT, 1655); Aram. ši/ îryôn, “(ringed) coat of mail” (DTT, 1631) and Syr. swrny, “lorica” (LS, 808). Hitt. tūru, “spear, lance” (HIL, 899-900; HEG III/10/3, 455-457) may have been borrowed as Akk. dūru, “lance” (CDA, 62b). Hurr. šauri-, “weapon” (BGH, 340), was loaned as Ug. šurt, “dagger, poniard” (DUL, 786-786). It would seem that Hurrian was the source for much military vocabulary. 3.5 Plants and trees As J. Tavernier notes 42, the olive-tree does not feature in Mesopotamian texts before the Neo-Assyrian period, and always in a Levantine or Anatolian context. In fact, in the NeoAssyrian period, the olive (giš serdu) is listed anong other exotic trees planted in the royal gardens 43. Like olive oil in the Old Akkadian period, it too must have been imported from Anatolia 44. Several terms for trees have also been adopted from the same region. Examples are Hurr. taškarḫi, “boxwood”, a loan as Akk. taskarinnu(m), t/diskarinnum, daškarinnum, “box tree, boxwood” (CDA, 401b) 45. Hitt. (giš)leti-, liti- “almond tree”, is a loan as Ug. Lty, “almond” (KTU 1.20 i 9). Hittite ti(y)eššar-, “forest” (HEG III/10/3, 354-355; HIL, 878-879) was borrowed with a slightly different meaning, in both Ugaritic, as tỉšr, “cypress” (DUL, 842-843) and Hebrew, as teaššur, “cypress” (HALOT, 1677) 46. Hitt. giš pain(n)i-, paeni-, “tamarisk” is “an areal tree word (Akk. bīnu < *bainu), in Hittite most immediately of HurroLuwian derivation (Hurr. paini) as shown also by the partial oblique stem painit-” (HED 8, 58). Akk. giš me/iḫru, “pine” or “juniper”, was probably originally Hurr. māḫri, “resinous conifer” (BGH, 238) 47. Pentiuc 2001: 156. Tavernier 2010: 187-188. Although curiously, the name for the tree is a loan from Assyrian. As Tavernier concludes; he notes (2010: 188) that in one text it is connected indirectly with the Land of Ḫatti. 45 Cf. BGH, 450. Note also the Ug. PN tškrġ, “Boxwood” (LSU, 182). 46 See de Moor 1965: 362; LSU, 123 and nn. 465, 466. 47 Balatti 2015, who identifies it either as Pinus brutia Ten. or as Juniperus oxycedrus L.

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4. Use of terms in real life 4.1 Architecture It is well-known that the bīt ḫilāni, a “portico or porticoed building” (CDA, 115) 48, was imported into Assyria from Anatolia 49. This word is glossed bīt appāti in Assyrian texts 50, but most probably appāti is a Semitic form of Hitt. appannu (cf. CDA, 20b) 51. Another term in this category is Heb ’eden, “pedestal, base” (HALOT, 16a), also as Phoenician ’dn, “base, foundation-platform” (DNWSI, 17), both borrowed from Hurrian adani-, “support” (BGH, 65a). Likewise, Hitt. Éḫištā, Éḫištī, “mausoleum” (HIL, 346-347) 52 may have been borrowed as Ug. ḫšt, with the same meaning, as discussed below. 4.2 Casting lots “The technique of the casting of lots among the Hittites, placing lots in a vessel and shaking it to let the chosen one jump out, may have been a common technique throughout the ANE” 53. Whereas the inherited Akk. word for “lot” is isqu – used either with maqātu, “to fall” or with nadû, “to throw” – Akk. pūru, “lot” is used in peripheral Akkadian with ṣalā’u and karāru, “to cast, throw” and may have been borrowed from Hittite pul-, “lot”, which in turn came from the Hurrians 54. Similarly, the Hebrew word for “lot” is gôrāl (used with verbs “to throw, come up”) whereas Heb. pūr, “lot” (only Esther 3:7), was also borrowed, via Babylonian 55. 4.3 Anointing with blood Following a paper by V. Haas, 56 Y. Feder has shown that the Kizzuwatnean birth rituals have strong parallels in the Hebrew purification rituals of Leviticus chapters 12 and 14 as well as in some rituals documented in Emar. “By recognizing the Kizzuwatnean provenance of the relevant Hittite rituals, there remains little doubt that the tradition of the blood rite was introduced to the Hittites by the Hurrian priests of southern Anatolia or Syria” 57. 4.4 Burial rites As shown by H. Niehr, Anatolian burial traditions can explain an enigmatic passage from the Ugaritian Epic of Kirta (KTU 1.16 i 2-3): 48 Note the variant spellings ḫillāni, ḫitlāni and ḫilēni, which are indicative of a loanword. For discussion see HED 3: 312-313; HIL, 343. 49 For the relevant texts see Tavernier 2010: 190. For the Levant see Arav, Bernett 2000. 50 E.g. “in front of their (the palace) gates I had a bīt appāti built, which they call bīt ḫilāni in the language of Amurru”; for the translation see Tavernier 2010: 190. 51 However, cf. CAD A/1: 183b. 52 “The word denotes a cultic building that is connected with death-rituals and ancestor cult, but its exact function is unclear” (HIL, 346); see also Groddek 2001: 217-218, who concludes: “Sollte sich die Bedeutung nicht auf ‘Totentempel’, sondern ‘Grablege’ eingrenzen lassen, verbliebe auch mit akkad. ḫaštu eine attraktive Herleitungsmöglichkeit”. 53 Taggar-Cohen 2002: 103. 54 Note also pulaḫli (< pūlu, “lot”) “caster of lots” (BGH, 324). 55 Taggar-Cohen 2002: 100, 102. 56 Haas 1993. 57 Feder 2010: 110.

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Anatolian Influences in Semitic Languages k klb b btk nctq

Like a dog in your tomb shall we howl?

k ỉnr ảp ḫštk

Like a puppy in the pit of your vault?

425

Here, Ug. ảp is a loan from Hurrian āpi, “burial pit” and Ug. ḫšt corresponds to the Hittite ḫišta-house, “mausoleum”. 58 As H. Niehr reports, there is archaeological evidence for the Hurrian custom of burying puppies alive. 59 He also notes: “In Hittite religion, dogs and puppies, pigs and piglets, had chthonic overtones” which is why such animals were used as substitute offerings to underworld gods and sacrificed in these pits. 60 The Ugaritian poet used strong imagery from the funerary traditions of Anatolia to depict the children of King Kirta bewailing the imminent demise of their father. 4.5 Falconry Falconry was unknown in Mesopotamia but there is evidence for this skill in Anatolia 61 and it may have been imported into Syria from Anatolia. 62 This may be reflected in the Ugaritic Legend of Aqhat, where the goddess Anath says to her henchman Yatipan, who is about to attack the eponymous hero: ảštk knšr bḥbšy

I shall place you like a raptor on my arm,

km. dỉy btcrty.

like a bird on my glove. 63

5. Modes of Transmission It is generally accepted that loanwords are transmitted as the names of foreign commodities or manufactured items. In addition, loanwords arise from the interaction between peoples speaking different languages, by trade 64 and tribute, 65 through warfare, by the exchange of skilled personnel, in correspondence and literary texts and through religious practices. For example, scribes travelled between courts, 66 acquiring new vocabulary and sharing their own language with fellow scribes. 67 Itinerant musicians carried unusual musical instruments, the names of which travelled with them. For instance, Hitt. ḫaskallatum, which became Akk. ḫalḫallatum, the name of a type of drum. 68

58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68

See above. For other explanations see DUL, 85 and 407-408. See the references in Niehr 2007: 229 n. 20. See also Edrey 2008. Niehr 2007: 229. E.g. Canby 2002, who mentions the find of a glove as used in falconry. Burney 2004: 83-84. KTU 1.18 iv 16-17; for translation see Wyatt RTU, 284. However, see Reiter 1988; 1989 and 1990, who is sceptical that this pastime existed. See Hoffner 2002. E.g. Hawkins, Postgate 1988. For example, Radner 2009. See, for example, Campbell 2011. As Miller 2002: 89-90 shows: “this term for a musical instrument was transmitted to Ḫattusa via northern Syria and Kizzuwatna”.

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Through religion and the cult, practices of various kinds were transmitted from one country to another, 69 together with the accompanying vocabulary. 70 A case in point is the practice for divining the future. “Augury was a discipline typical of Northern Syria and Mesopotamia, and the origins of the augurs active in Assyria were often specified. These augurs from Ḫamath, Commagene (Kumuḫḫu) and Šubria are the heirs of a well documented 2nd millennium tradition practiced already by Idrimi of Alalaḫ and the experts in the service of the Hittite kings”. 71 One type of augury was ornithomancy, 72 reflected perhaps in Hitt. ḫusa, which is the name of an ornithomantic bird (HEG III/10/3, 408), and may have been borrowed as Akk. ḫusû, “(a kind of owl)” (CDA, 122a). 73 Its origins may be Luwian: “the predominance of birds in the Arzawa rituals on the one hand, and of Luwian terminology in the bird oracular reports on the other, both seem in our opinion to point towards a Luwian origin for this technique”. 74 The sharing of festivals and calendars spread the names of months. For example, Hurrian month-names are found in the calendars used in Ras Shamra, e.g. ỉttbnm, “(month of) Aštabi” and ḫyr, which also occurs at Emar (ḫiyyāru) and even in Phoenician (ḥyr). 75 The following table shows Hurrian months as loans in Akkadian at Nuzi and Alalakh: Arkuzzi Aštapi Attana Ekkena Ḫūru

Ḫutalše Impurtanni Mitirunnu Pirizzarru Šamme(na)

Šatalši Šeḫali Šeḫli Šumuḫalše Utitḫe

Transmisssion also occurred through literary texts. For example, the mythical motif of the succession of the gods. The sequence of four generations of deities as described in the Kumarbi Cycle – Alalu, Anu, Kumarbi and Teššob – was transmitted to Syria in the Ugaritic Bacal Cycle, where the principal deities El, Dagan and Bacal interact with each other. 76 It would seem that the Hittites, by translating Hurrian mythological texts, acted as a bridge between Syria and both Anatolia and Mesopotamia. 77

69 For example, worship of the goddess Kubaba as documented in a recently deciphered Aramaic text: Lemaire, Sass 2013. 70 See, for example, Prechel 2008; Christiansen 2013. For a semantic explanation for Heb. ‫( תפלה‬tepillāh), “prayer” and related forms from Hitt. arkuwar, “plea” (cf. HIL, 206) see Feder 2013. On Ug. dġt, “incense” see Hoffner 1964. 71 Radner 2009: 226. 72 Archi 1974. See also Mouton, Rutherford 2013. 73 Similarly, Hitt. ḫuwa(r)a- probably corresponds to Akk. ḫū’a/u, “owl” (cf. HED 3: 432). 74 Mouton, Rutherford 2013: 335. 75 Perhaps as Akk. ayyaru; see DUL, 411 for references. For discussion see BGH, 144-145. 76 So Niehr 2002: 352. 77 See especially Campbell 2011 and Bachvarova 2012.

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6. Overall statistics The distribution of Anatolian loanwords in Semitic can be set out as a table, with all the figures approximate and/or rounded up. CDA lists 21,650 words, which minus duplicates = 15,354, while there are 16,576 in all 21 volumes of CAD. This means that there are approximately 16,000 lemmata in the Akkadian dictionaries. There are about 5,700 lemmata in Biblical Hebrew. 78 The Ugaritic dictionary (DUL) contains approximately 2,300 and there are about 1,000 Phoenician or Punic words in DNWSI.

Hurrian Urartian Hittite Luwian

Akkadian

Ugaritic

Hebrew

Phoenician/Punic

16000

2300

530 4 30 4

80 1 30 7

5700 10 0 0 3

1000 10 0 0 1

These figures show just how small a proportion of these languages comprises loanwords, the highest percentages being for Hittite and Hurrian in Ugaritic 79 and for Hurrian in Akkadian. 7. Future research In the near future it is hoped that more research, combined with new discoveries, particularly of epigraphic material, will help to resolve some ambiguous etymologies, samples of which are presented here. 7.1 Ambiguous etymologies Several words seem to have equally plausible Semitic and Anatolian etymologies. Of course, sheer coincidence may be a factor, but these examples certainly merit further consideration. However, before the sample list, at least two apparent examples can be ruled out. One is Akk. pitiltu, “string, cord” (CDA, 276a) which seems to be related to Hitt. (túg)patalla-, “puttee(?), leg wrapping(?)” (HIL, 658), “foot-strip, legging” (HED 8, 200). They appear to be identical, but in fact Hitt. patalla-, “foot-strip, legging derives from ped-, “foot” 80 whereas Sem. pitiltu derives from √PTL, e.g. Akk. patālu, “to twine, wrap around” (CDA, 270a). The other is Akk. targumannu(m), turgumannum, targamannum, “interpreter” (CDA, 400a), which would seem to derive from the verb ragāmu, “to call, to call out etc.” (CAD R, 62-67) and was borrowed as Aram. ta/urgmān, “translator, interpreter” (DJPA, 578) and as the quadriliteral verb trgm, “to translate, act as interpreter”, used in Aramaic (DJBA, 12311232) and Syriac (CSD, 619b). However, it cannot derive from ragāmu because the noun first

78 For some of these figures see Streck 2014: 105–106. 79 See Vita 2009. 80 HED 8: 200.

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appears in Old Assyrian (Kültepe) 81 and its nominal form does not occur in Akkadian 82. It has not gone unnoticed that this is equivalent to Hittite tarkummāi-, “verkünden, melden; deuten, erklären, übersetzen” (HW, 214b), 83 although not all scholars accept this equivalence. 84 In fact, it would seem to be Luwian in origin. 85 (a) It is generally accepted that the Semitic root DBR underlies Old Aram. dbr, “to lead” (DNWSI, 239); Aram. dbr, pa “to lead” and dabbar, “leader” (DTT, 278); Aram. dbr, “to lead, drive etc.” (DJPA, 138b); “to lead” (DJBA, 313); dbwr’, “leadership” (DJBA, 311a) and Syr. dbr, “to lead, guide” (SL, 271). However, there is a similar set in Anatolian: Cuneiform Luwian tapar-, “to rule, govern” and Hitt. tapariye/azi-, “to lead, decide, rule, reign” (HIL, 829-831), 86 which cannot be ignored. (b) The set Ug ḥll, “desacralisation, purification” (DUL, 355); Akk. tēliltu, “purification” (CDA, 403b; CAD T, 28-29); Ug. ḥl, “desacralised” (DUL, 354); Akk. ellu, allu, “pure; clear” (CDA, 70a) and Akk. elēlu(m), “to be(come) pure, free” (CDA, 69a); Aram. ḥll, “to wash” (DJBA, 464-465) seems to range over several Semitic languages. However, note also Luw. ḫalāli-, “pure” (CLL, 46); Hitt. ḫalali-, “reines Opfer” (HW2 III, 18); “clean” (HEG 3, 13). 87 (c) It is uncertain whether Ug. ḫlủ, “a cake”, is an Anatolian loan from Hitt. ḫali, “ein Gebäck” (HW2 III, 32) or whether it is Semitic, corresponding to Heb. ḥlh, “ring-shaped bread” (HALOT, 317); Ph. ḥlh, “cake” (DNWSI, 373-374) and Arab. tiḫlî, “food and drink” (Hava, 179) 88. (d) Ug. ḫp, “shore” 89 may be cognate with Heb. ḥûp, “shore” (HALOT, 298a) and Arab. ḫayf, “side, region, part that slopes down” (AEL, 833). Yet it cannot be excluded that it is from Anatolian, i.e. Hitt. ḫapāti, “river land(?)”, with cognates in Luwian and even Lycian (HIL, 294-295). (e) If Ug. ḫpn is Semitic, it may mean “cover” (for horses), based on Mari Akk. ḫâpu, D: “to wrap up” (CDA, 106) and Heb. ḥāpāh, “to cover” (HALOT, 39a). It is equally possible that it is Anatolian, meaning “strap” or “harness” (for horses), a loan from Luw. ḫap(a)i-, “to bind, attach to” – Hitt. ḫappui-, “to join, attach” with its derivative kušḫapputri-, “leather part of harness” (HIL, 298). (f) The set of words Ug. ḫrd, “(royal) guard, militia, troops” (DUL, 399); Akk. ḫurādu, “soldier; army” (CDA, 121b) and Phoen. ḥrd, “guard” 90 seems to be Semitic in view of Akk. ḫarādu, “to be awake, on guard”; Akk. ḫardūt(t)u, “vigilance, surveillance” and Akk. ḫardu, “watchful, alert” (CDA, 107, 108). However, it is generally accepted that all these terms 81 See Dercksen 2007: 37. 82 See García Trabazo 2014: 297. 83 “Although it is almost certainly foreign, perhaps Hittite, in origin, the word could have entered Aramaic through Akkadian” according to Kaufman 1974: 107. For Hebrew see Rabin 1963. 84 E.g. HALOT, 1787; see the discussion in Starke 1993. 85 García Trabazo 2014 reconstructs it as if from the pre-Luwian verb *ter-/*tṛ- “to speak” + *ĝheu̯ - “to pour out” = “to recite”. 86 Hitt. tapar-, tapar(r)iya-, “leiten, bestimmen; verwalten, regieren” (HEG III/10: 116-119); he notes (p. 118): “Eine überzeugende idg. Deutung ist bisher nicht gefunden”. Considering possible connections with Hitt. tabarna-/labarna- would take us too far afield. See Yakubovich 2002 and Valério 2015. 87 According to Puhvel (HEG III, 13), the loan was from Semitic. 88 See DUL, 384; LSU, 86. 89 With the syllabic spelling ḫu-up-pa-ti; see Huehnergard 1987: 129; DUL, 395. 90 As cited by Stieglitz 1981.

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have been borrowed from Hurr. ḫuradi-, “warrior” (BGH, 169-170). Recently, however, J. Tischler has reminded us of E. Forrer’s proposal to connect Hitt. ḫuratti-, “vigilance, attentiveness” with Akk. ḫurādu. He concludes: “Es mag sein, daß huratti- also ‘Wachsamkeit, Aufmerksamkeit’ bedeutet und daß der Anklang an hurr. ḫurati, urart. ḫuradi- und letztlich an akkad. ḫurādu ‘Wachmann, -soldat’ nicht auf Zufall beruht”. 91 (g) The evidence for the verb ŠKR and its derivatives as Semitic appears to be overwhelming: Akk. šakāru, “betrunken werden” (AHw, 1139); “to become inebriated, drunk” (CAD Š/1, 557); “to be(come) drunk” (CDA, 348b); Ug. škr, “to become intoxicated” (DUL, 804); Heb. škr, “to be, become drunk” (HALOT, 1500-1501); Syr. škr, “to become intoxicated” (SL, 1559); Aram. škr, “to intoxicate” (DJBA, 1145b) and Arab. sakira, “to be, become intoxicated” (AEL, 1390-1392). Note also the nouns Ug. škrn, “intoxication” (DUL, 805); Heb. škrwn, “drunkenness, intoxication” (HALOT, 1501); Aram. šakrûtā’, “intoxication” (DJBA, 1146b); Akk. šakartu, “drunkenness” (CDA, 348b) and Arab. sukur, “intoxication, inebriation” (AEL, 1391). However, these are strikingly similar to Hitt. šakruwai-, šakuruwai-, trans.: “to water (animals)”; intrans.: “to drink, satisfy one’s thirst(?)”, (CHD Š/1, 50-51); Hitt. šakaruu̯ e/a-zi, “to water (animals); to drink” (HIL, 703). 92 Similarly, it is not clear whether either a Semitic or an Anatolian verb underlies the derived family of words denoting a vessel. These are: Ug. škr, “container”, 93 Akk. šakarûm, šagarû, “a metal object” (CDA, 348b) 94 and Hurro-Akk. šekarû, šekaruḫḫu, a metal container from Nuzi. 95 Whether Emar Akk. šikrinnu, “a vessel” filled with beer 96 and Ekalte šikriš(š)e, “fermenting vat(s) 97 are related is uncertain. (h) Ug. tả/ủnt occurs in the Ugaritic “Epic of Baal” in parallel with rgm, “word” and lḫšt, “whisper”: rgm cṣ w lḫšt ảbn

a word of tree and a whisper of stone

tảnt šmm cm ảrṣ

the whisper of the heavens to the earth

thmt cmn kbkbm

of the deep to the stars 98

If Ug. tảnt is Semitic, it may derive from /ʔ-n-y/ as in Heb. taʔanniyyāh, “mourning” (HALOT, 1675). However, it could be better explained by Hurr. ti-e-ni, “word”, which occurs in a trilingual vocabulary from Ugarit. 99 Some confirmation of the second possibility is 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99

Tischler 2010: 313. From PIE *srog wru-i̯ e/o- (?) (HIL, 703). .KTU 9.424:2‘; written šgr in KTU 1.131:13. “In all cited texts, š. is found listed among utensils, weapons, and toiletry items, and š.-s are often described as coming in pairs or sets” (CAD Š/1, 66b) See Schneider-Ludorff 2009: 523 n. 275. It seems to have been borrowed in Hurrian (BGH, 372-373). Akk. šikru + Hurr. morpheme =ni (Emar 393:21, 22; 301:9’), cited in Pentiuc 2001: 172, but with no reference to Ug. škr. Akk. šik(a)ru + Hurr. =šše; see Beckman 2008: 219. KTU 1.1 iii 14 [tủnt] // KTU 1.3 iii 24 [tảnt]. RS 94.2939 ii 20; see André-Salvini, Salvini 1998 (6 and 19, where [KA] = a-ma-tu = ti-e-ni). For the noun in Hurrian see GLH, 267-268 and Giorgieri 1998, who differentiates between Hurr. tije, “speech” and Hurr. tive, “word, thing” (77–79 and n. 21). For te-e-na (tên(i)=a) as a variant (in the essive) of tive, “word” (as proposed by G. Wilhelm), see Wegner 20001: 177 (20072: 200).

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provided by a line from the Hurro-Hittite “Song of Liberation”: eše=ne=ra ḫavurun=ne=ra te(v)e=na kad=i=nna, “With the earth, with the sky are the words spoken”. 100 7.2 Concluding remarks In conclusion, it is clear that what is required is a systematic collection of loanwords and calques in Semitic from the Anatolian languages, arranged by language, area, date and semantics. Evidently, for comparison, there is a need for a similar comprehensive collection of Semitic loanwords in Anatolian. In all these cases, allowance must be made for isolating (areal) Wanderwörter, culture words and borrowings from languages outside these two sets, especially since current trends in scholarly circles seem to favour this approach over identifying actual loanwords. 8. Appendix Hittite loans in Emar Akkadian 101 arawannū, “freeman” < Hitt. āra, “right, properly” (HIL, 1980) arawannatu, “freewoman” < Hitt. āra, “right, properly” (HIL, 1980) ḫuppar-, “a container” < Hitt. ḫuppar, “bowl” (HIL, 51, 765) ḫurtiyallu, “(beer/wine) container” < ḫurtii̯ alla, “Becken” (HW, 77) laḫḫu, “vessel” < √Hitt. laḫu-, lāḫu-, “to pour” (HIL, 511-513) punnigu, “(a type of bread)”