Music in Antiquity: The Near East and the Mediterranean 9783110340297, 9783110340266

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Music in Antiquity

Yuval

Studies of the Jewish Music Research Centre The Hebrew University of Jerusalem ‧ Faculty of Humanities Jewish Music Research Centre In collaboration with the National Library of Israel Academic Board of the Jewish Music Research Centre Chairperson: Shalom Sabar Haggai Ben-Shammai, Ruth HaCohen, Oded Irshai, Eliyahu Schleifer, Rina Talgam, Eitan Wilf Director: Edwin Seroussi

Volume VIII

Music in Antiquity The Near East and the Mediterranean Edited by Joan Goodnick Westenholz, Yossi Maurey and Edwin Seroussi

     MAGNES

ISBN 978-3-11-034026-6 e-ISBN 978-3-11-034029-7 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. 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 http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2014 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston & Hebrew University Magnes Press, Jerusalem Cover image: Female figures with drums. Bichrome ware. Cyprus. Cypro-Archaic I period, 750–600 BCE. Courtesy of the Elie and Batya Borowski Foundation and the Bible Lands Museum Jerusalem. Photographer: Moshe Caine Typesetting: Michael Peschke, Berlin Printing: Hubert & Co. GmbH & Co. KG, Göttingen ♾ Gedruckt auf säurefreiem Papier Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com www.magnespress.co.il

In Memoriam Dr. Joan Goodnick Westenholz (1943–2013) Prof. Roberto Melini (1960–2013)

Contents List of Figures  Preface 

 ix

 1

I Prologue Anne Draffkorn Kilmer A Brief Account of the Development of the Field of Music Archaeology 

 11

II Studies Bathja Bayer The Mesopotamian Theory of Music and the Ugarit Notation — a Reexamination   15 Anne Draffkorn Kilmer Mesopotamian Music Theory since 1977 

 92

Dahlia Shehata Sounds from the Divine: Religious Musical Instruments in the Ancient Near East   102 Uri Gabbay The Balaĝ Instrument and Its Role in the Cult of Ancient Mesopotamia  Sam Mirelman The Ala-Instrument: Its Identification and Role 

 129

 148

Annie Caubet Musical Practices and Instruments in Late Bronze Age Ugarit (Syria)  Ora Brison Nudity and Music in Anatolian Mythological Seduction Scenes and Iconographic Imagery   185

 172

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 Contents

Michael Lesley Illusions of Grandeur: The Instruments of Daniel 3 Reconsidered  John Curtis Franklin Greek Epic and Kypriaka: Why “Cyprus Matters” 

 201

 213

Mariella De Simone Aristophanes’ Phrynichos and the Orientalizing Musical Pattern 

 248

Mira Waner Aspects of Music Culture in the Land of Israel during the Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Periods: Sepphoris as a Case Study   273 Antonietta Provenza Soothing Lyres and epodai: Music Therapy and the Cases of Orpheus, Empedocles and David   298 Roberto Melini Sounds from under the Ashes: The Music of Cults and Mysteries in the Ancient Vesuvian Land   340

III Epilogue Yossi Maurey Ancient Music in the Modern Classroom 

 365

List of Figures Bayer

Fig. 1: Fig. 2: Fig. 3:

String List/Mode List (L-St nabnītu/L-Md nabnītu U.3011)  Song Catalogue (C-Md//KAR 158)   33 Procedure Text (P–MdSt//U.7/80)   41

 31

Gabbay Fig. 1:

Reconstructed evolution from lyre to Early Dynastic III sign BALAĜ: Jestin 1937: no. 45, ix: 2, 5; Deimel 1923: no. 70, i: 8; 1924: no. 138, iii: 5 (after photographs in the Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative: cdli.ucla.edu)   130 Fig. 2: The sign ZATU 47 (Green and Nissen 1987: 179)   130 a: The sign ZATU 47 (Green and Nissen 1987: 179): Englund 1994: Pl. 15, W 6760,b, ii: 1; Pl. 20, W 6882,g, 1’; Pl. 82, W 9655,ac, i: 4; Pl. 89, W 9656,aa, ii: 3’; Pl. 90, W 9656,ao, i: 1 (after photographs in the Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative: cdli.ucla. edu) b: The sign in W 20266, 4, ii: 8’ (after Green and Nissen 1987: Pl. 41)  Fig. 3: Bull-headed lyre sound boxes   131 a: after Hartmann 1960: 323 b: after Hartmann 1960: 324 c: after Boehmer 1965: Pl. XXXII no. 385 d: after Hartmann 1960: 330

Caubet Fig. 1:

Fig. 2: Fig. 3: Fig. 4:

Fig. 5:

Fig. 6:

Fig. 7:

Cuneiform clay tablet inscribed with a hymn in Hurrian language and musical notation. H. 6 cm. Ugarit, royal palace, staircase 53 (RS 15.30 + 15. 49 + 17. 387). National Museum of Damascus.   173 Statuette of a double-pipe player. Limestone. H. 20.2 cm. Ugarit, Acropole, point 36 (RS 4.464). National Museum of Damascus   175 Statuette of a cymbalist. Hippopotamus ivory. H. 9.4 cm. Ugarit, Sud-Acropole, tomb 3464 (RS 24.400). National Museum of Aleppo   176 Left half of a clapper/magic wand. Hippopotamus ivory. L. 9.4 cm. Ugarit, Sud-Acropole, tomb 3552 in the “diviner’s house” (RS 24.423 + 24.441). National Museum of Damascus.   176 Trumpet in the shape of a ram’s horn. Hippopotamus ivory. H. 5.4 cm. Ugarit, Acropole; western extension of the House of the High Priest (RS 3.436). Louvre   178 Oliphant or flask decorated with a naked goddess. Elephant tusk. H. 60 cm. Ugarit, royal palace, portico 86 in courtyard III (RS 16.404). National Museum of Damascus museum   180 X-ray of elephant tusk (Fig. 6) showing that the natural cavity has been reworked and enlarged at the tip   180

x 

 List of Figures

Brison Fig. 1:

Franklin Fig. 1:

The Inandık Vase 

Kouklia Kalathos (warrior-lyrist) by Glynnis Fawkes 

De Simone Fig. 1:

 188

Attic red-figure lekythos, ca. 470–60 BCE 

 216

 255

Waner

Figs. 1–17: Photography by Mira Waner. All artifacts recovered in Sepphoris. Fig. 1: A small bronze bell   277 Fig. 2: A simple bell   277 Fig. 3: Synagogue floor mosaic depicting a small semispherical/copula-shaped bell  Fig. 4: Oil lamp   277 Fig. 5: Synagogue floor mosaic depicting a large pair of cymbals   278 Fig. 6: Triclinium floor mosaic depicting double auloi   278 Fig. 7: Triclinium floor mosaic depicting double auloi   278 Fig. 8: Triclinium floor mosaic depicting double auloi   278 Fig. 9: Triclinium floor mosaic depicting double auloi   278 Fig. 10: Triclinium floor mosaic depicting double auloi and tympanum   278 Fig. 11: A bronze figurine of Pan or of a satyr holding a syrinx   279 Fig. 12: A large syrinx depicted in a medallion on a mosaic floor   279 Fig. 13: Synagogue floor mosaic depicting two slightly curved horns   279 Fig. 14: Panels depicting shofarot   279 Fig. 15: Engraving on a copper seal depicting a shofar, menorah, mahta, lulav and an etrog   280 Fig. 16: A three-stringed lyre depicted on a mosaic   280 Fig. 17: A seven-stringed, square-shaped lyre depicted on a mosaic   280

Melini

 277

Fig. 1: The Vesuvius from the forum of Pompeii   340 Fig. 2: Some tibiae preserved in the Naples National Archaeological Museum   341 Fig. 3: Nine tibiae recovered in the Villa of Fondo Prisco, near Pompeii   341 Fig. 4: Bronze cymbala from Pompeii   342 Fig. 5: Cymbala and other objects related to the cult of Dionysus (wall painting from the Praedia of Julia Felix, Pompeii)   342 Fig. 6: Pan and Daphnis (marble statue in the Naples National Archaeological Museum, Farnese Collection — Sculptures and Baths of Caracalla)   343 Fig. 7: Representation of a sacrifice (marble relief on the altar in the temple of the Genius Augusti, Pompeii; in situ)   344 Fig. 8: Erotes playing a cithara (wall painting from Herculaneum)   345 Fig. 9: Representation of a sacrifice (wall painting in the lararium of a house in Pompeii Regio VIII 2; in situ)   345



List of Figures 

 xi

Fig. 10: Hermes with female figures, one holding a lyra (wall painting from Villa San Marco, Stabiae)   346 Fig. 11: Apollo playing a cithara near an omphalos (wall painting in Casa dei Vetii, Pompeii; in situ)   347 Fig. 12: Apollo Citharoedus (wall painting from Moregine, near Pompeii)   347 Fig. 13: Achilles and Chiron (wall painting from Herculaneum)   348 Fig. 14: Orpheus (wall painting on the façade of the Casa di Orfeo, Pompeii; in situ)   349 Fig. 15: The triumph of Dionysos (wall painting in Casa di M. Lucretius Fronto, Pompeii; in  350 situ)  Fig. 16: Scene of cult for Dionysos (marble relief in the Naples National Archaeological Museum, Farnese Collection)   350 Fig. 17: Flying maenads (wall painting from the so-called Villa di Cicerone, Pompeii)   351 Fig. 18: Silenus playing a lyra, accompanied by a young syrinx player (wall painting in Villa dei Misteri, Pompeii; in situ)   352 Fig. 19: Possessed woman holding cymbala (wall painting in Villa dei Misteri, Pompeii; in situ)   352 Fig. 20: Symbols of the cult of Sabatius (relieves on a fictile vase, from Casa dei Riti magici, Pompeii)   353 Fig. 21: Memento mori (relief on a silver cup, from Villa di P. Fannius Synistor, Boscoreale)   353 Fig. 22: Procession for Cybele (wall painting on the façade of the officina coactiliaria in Via dell’Abbondanza, Pompeii; in situ)   355 Fig. 23: Theatrical scene with street musicians (mosaic from the so-called Villa di Cicerone, Pompeii)   356 Fig. 24: The modern playing of tammorra   356 Fig. 25: An Isiac ceremony (wall painting from Herculaneum)   357 Fig. 26: Bronze sistrum from Pompeii   358 Fig. 27: The ruines of the temple of Isis, Pompeii   359 Fig. 28: Scenography of the first representation in the Teatro alla Scala (Milan, 1816) of Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte   359

Preface This volume constitutes the proceedings of the conference entitled Sounds from the Past: Music in the Ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean Worlds, which was held at the Bible Lands Museum Jerusalem (BLMJ) on 7 and 8 January 2008. The conference and the present volume are the fruits of the collaboration between the Department of Musicology and the Jewish Music Research Centre (JMRC), both at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and the BLMJ. The conference was held in conjunction with the opening of the exhibition Sounds of Ancient Music on Monday, 7 January 2008. This innovative exhibition, curated by Joan Goodnick Westenholz, was the springboard that led to the conference and this subsequent volume. Sounds of Ancient Music was open until December 2008 and viewed by thousands of visitors. We would like to take this opportunity to acknowledge the help and support we received from all members of the museum staff, its founder, Batya Borowski, and its director, Amanda Weiss, in creating this exhibition and initiating the conference. A basic and universal element of human culture, music was one component of the cultural continuum that developed in the contiguous civilizations of the ancient Near East and of Greece and Rome. Along this continuum, musical ideas and systems moved westward, while being reformulated in each culture along the path from the plain of Mesopotamia to the shores of the Aegean and Adriatic Seas. The main objective of the exhibition was to survey the range and gamut of this symbiosis, as well as to scrutinize specific geographical areas along this continuum. The primary importance of ancient Hebrew, Near Eastern, Egyptian, Greek and Roman civilizations to the development of later musical cultures (especially Persian, Arabic and Western European) has been repeatedly acknowledged throughout history from the early Church Fathers, through medieval philosophers and music theorists, to the beginnings of modern music historiography in the eighteenth century. The exhibition had as its goal to present these ancient musical cultures with all their resonances and reverberations in order to provide the public with a vivid impression of the rich soundscapes of ancient civilizations. Sounds of Ancient Music opened with an overview of the typology of musical instruments, inspired by the first reference to music in the Bible in which the invention of musical instruments is placed in the dawn of time, in the antediluvian period: “His brother’s name was Jubal, he was the ancestor of all who play the lyre and the pipe” (Gen. 4:21).1 This was followed by a survey of the place and 1 The translation given here can be found in Tanakh, The Holy Scriptures, The New JPS Translation (The Jewish Publication Society 1998); The Koren Jerusalem Bible (Fisch 1992); and the 1971 Revised Standard Version. The musical instruments, kinnor and uggav were previously identified

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function of music in the royal court. Various ancient kings prided themselves on their musical skills. As the ancient king of Ur from the late third millennium bce proclaims: “I, Šulgi, king of Ur, have also devoted myself to the art of music” (A praise poem of Šulgi, Šulgi B 154f.) and “May my hymns be in everyone’s mouth; let the songs about me not pass from memory” (A praise poem of Šulgi, Šulgi E 240f.). From the royal court, the exhibition looked at various villages and towns of different periods, where music was an essential part of daily life in the home and the workplace, as entertainment and as lamentation. The next subject was music in mythology, for in the ancient pagan world, music was believed to be a gift given by the gods to humanity. This much was acknowledged in numerous accounts, such as in the following Greek Homeric Hymn: “It is through the Muses and Apollo that there are singers upon the earth and players upon the lyre” (Hymn. Hom. 25.2f.). The final section examined the temples of yore. The culmination of the exhibition was to the Second Temple of Jerusalem; here we attempted to evoke the period when the sounding of a trumpet from the Temple Mount ushered in the Sabbath. The goal of the conference was to examine the formation and function of ancient musical instruments, their sounds and their place and purpose in the lives of the diverse peoples in the ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean worlds, including Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece and Rome. It consisted of two days of lectures and presentations by scholars working in the fields of Musicology, Assyriology and Archaeology, and included keynote lectures given by Prof. Anne Kilmer and Prof. John C. Franklin. Several sessions of the conference were devoted to the role that music played in temple cults and in the theology of ancient societies. The power to move the human spirit has always been attributed to music and it was thus of considerable importance in the liturgy of the temple service. In every temple in the ancient world, from Sumer to Jerusalem and beyond, communication with the divine was expressed through music, song and dance. The sacredness of music is exemplified by the deified instruments of the ancient Mesopotamian worship. In the Greek world, the philosophical system built on the music of the spheres, credited to Pythagoras, became the foundation on which most cosmological systems were built for the next two thousand years. One session was devoted to music in ancient Israel, from both an archaeological and a textual perspective. This session bridged the gap between the papers on ancient Near Eastern music and those on the classical world. It was a major as the “harp and the organ” (cf. King James and Douay-Rheims). On the kinnor-lyre, see Braun’s (2007a: 15) discussion in the catalogue Sounds of Ancient Music, and for the uggav-pipe, see Braun 2007b: 17.

Preface 

 3

goal of our conference to compare and contrast the music of the Israelites and the Temple with that of the ancient world. Similarly, the music of the Israelites in their historical context within antiquity has been a priority of the JMRC since its founding in 1964. It was only natural, then, that when the BLMJ approached the JMRC with the idea of sharing the organization of the academic conference associated with the exhibition Sounds of Ancient Music, the response would be a most positive one. Following the conference, the BLMJ and the JMRC agreed on a joint publication of a collection of articles based on the conference. Albeit most studies included in this volume do not offer any direct insights into the music of ancient Israelites/Jews, it was decided that they would be published as a volume of Yuval — Studies of the Jewish Music Research Centre — for they illuminate the background against which Israelite and Jewish musical cultures developed in early and late antiquity. Perceived today from a critical perspective, the inclusion of the music of the ancient Israelites in the original plans of the JMRC can be interpreted as an acceptance of a grand narrative, fueled since the late nineteenth century by modern Jewish nationalism, comprising a unilinear history of “Jewish music.” This narrative endorsed the continuity of transmission of certain musical patterns among Jews from antiquity into the contemporary period, applying this concept mostly to liturgical practices and embodied in the reading patterns of Scripture. An intellectual force behind the study of musical antiquity among the Israelites was Bathja Bayer, one of the first researchers of the JMRC and former Head of the Department of Music of the Jewish National and University Library (JNUL). Bayer envisioned an innovative contextual approach to the study of the music of ancient Israel/Palestine, juxtaposing scholarship on biblical philology with the then-incipient field of musical archaeology. She articulated her ideas in very few publications, of which the most succinct ones are the short articles titled Biblical Period and Second Temple that constitute the first section of the entry “Music” in the 1972 edition of the Encyclopedia Judaica (see also the 2007 edition, volume 14: pp. 640–643, available online). Bayer suggested that all musical data transmitted by the biblical text had to be examined vis-à-vis the non-Israelite cultures in the midst of which the people of Israel resided. Mesopotamian civilization was of particular importance for the understanding of the musical pageantry around the Jerusalem Temple as it provided the context in which biblical texts about music were written. To this topic, Bayer dedicated a full monograph titled Mesopotamian Theory of Music and the Ugarit Notation on which she worked for most of her scholarly career. The monograph was intended to be published as the second volume of JMRC’s monograph series — Yuval, founded by Israel Adler in 1974. After the monograph was completed and as it was being prepared for publication, Bayer withdrew it for further revi-

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sions and updates, which, unfortunately, were never completed when she died in 1995. The whereabouts of her manuscript were unknown, and it was only several years later that it resurfaced at the JNUL in a box containing more of her written materials. Finally, it was the conference Sounds from the Past that provided us with the appropriate opportunity to publish Bayer’s manuscript and do justice to her pioneering contribution while filling a thirty-year-old gap in the inventory of publications of the JMRC. The decision to publish Bayer’s manuscript was not simple. In addition to the problems created by the physical state of a pre-computer era manuscript typewritten on deteriorating paper, there were manifold additions and modifications made by Bayer that were added on manuscript notes, as well as on tiny pieces of paper cut and pasted over the text or stapled to it. We assume that several of these pieces of paper fell off the manuscript once the glue was dry and were lost. In editing this manuscript, there was also the issue of language. Bayer wrote this work in her sophisticated English, which, nevertheless, was heavily influenced by her mother tongue, German. Furthermore, her work became outdated as research in the field of music from ancient Mesopotamia developed impressively in the past two decades. An updated version was needed, and Prof. Anne Kilmer graciously agreed to take on the task of revising the new Assyriological sources and addressing the recent publications on this subject. The result of this editing process is a historiographic summary of the development of the study of musical documentation from ancient Mesopotamia. It presents Bayer’s search to uncover and comprehend the earliest cuneiform sources that reveal an orderly organized system of diatonic scales, depending on the tuning of stringed instruments in alternating fifths and fourths. These sources extend our knowledge of the history of the diatonic scale back over a thousand years. Faithful to Bayer’s contextual and multidisciplinary approach, this volume of Yuval endorses the idea that a better understanding of biblical and post-biblical evidence about the music of the Israelites/Jews of early and late antiquity is possible only by reading it against the music of the surrounding cultures, as suggested by recent research (Braun 2002; Burgh 2006). Thus, while the mandate of the JMRC to investigate the music of the ancient Israelites remained steadfast since the work initiated by Bayer in the mid-1960s, the present publication represents a step forward. The studies included in this volume further clarify the context in which the music of the Israelites in biblical times as well as the emergent post-biblical Jewish music culture in the Greco-Roman milieu of late antiquity were embedded. Attitudes toward music in the Mishnah and later in the Talmud cannot be detached from Greco-Roman (pagan and Christian) and Safavid Persian musical practices. The issue at stake is not always the “influence” of these cultures on the

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music of the Jews but rather the consolidation of various Jewish musical selves in dialogue with and in contrast to the soundscapes of the surrounding societies. Separating the Jewish soundscape from that of the gentiles engendered diverse attitudes in early rabbinical Judaism, ranging from the embracing of the sounds of the other to their flat rejection. For example, Jewish attitudes to instrumental music and to the voice of women in post-biblical rabbinical literature can now be reconsidered against the Greco-Roman musical practices well known to the Jews, and the quest for differentiating the Jewish soundscapes from those of the pagan temples and places of entertainment of the late Roman Empire (Friedheim 2009). The article by Mira Waner included in this volume continues this line of inquiry with special focus on the findings of the impressive excavations in Sepphoris, an article in which she expands earlier discussions in this field by her and other scholars (Waner 2007; see also Weiss 2005). Another objective — also promoted and informed by Bathja Bayer (1968a, 1968b, 1981) — the identification and description of the musical instruments mentioned in biblical and post-biblical texts, finds extensive expression in this volume. Modern studies have been prolific in expanding the study of this subject.2 Bayer’s work on the biblical musical instrumentarium is echoed in several studies included in this volume: Annie Caubet on the musical instruments in Ugaritic culture, Uri Gabbay on the balaĝ in ancient Mesopotamia, Michael Lesley on the instruments of the Persian orchestra mentioned in chapter 3 of Daniel,3 Sam Mirelman on the ala and Dahlia Shehata on musical instruments in ancient Near Eastern religious contexts. Other studies appearing in this volume address a wide spectrum of issues. Ora Brison examines the relation between music and seduction, Mariella de Simone discusses the problem of Orientalism, John Franklin contextualizes the epic in its musical environment, Roberto Melini relates the role of music in religious cults and mysteries, and Antonietta Provenza evaluates music therapy. Finally, the successful realization of this volume is the result of the input of three persons without whom it would not have seen the light of day. We would first like to express our heartfelt indebtedness to Carolyn Budow Ben-David who organized the myriad details of this publication, oversaw all the logistics of the 2 These identifications are based on linking the biblical names to the contemporary musical instruments of the areas in which the scholars lived. See, for example, the identifications of musical instruments by Saadia Gaon in his Judeo-Arabic translation of the Bible (Shiloah 2004), those in a Moroccan Judeo-Arabic translation of the Bible (Bar-Asher 1998) and the identifications in Maimonides’ commentary of the Mishnah (Seroussi 2003). Besides the works by Braun (2002) and Burgh (2006) mentioned above 2, see also Jones 1986, 1987; Mitchell 1992; Škulj1998. 3 Probably one of the most studied biblical texts describing musical instruments. See, for example, Dyer 1990; Avalos 1991; Mitchell 1999.

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communication between authors and editors, kept us all working on schedule and provided unceasingly of her energy to the project. We also must give due credit for the indispensable help provided by Inbal Samet who edited and reviewed all the English text for this volume and whose efficiency and accuracy have been most valuable. Furthermore, we would also like to acknowledge the arduous work of Tali Shach on converting the typed manuscript of Bathja Bayer’s article into a digital article. Work on the editing of this volume started in 2008 in the aftermath of the conference Sounds from the Past: Music in the Ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean Worlds. The process of preparation of the final manuscript was lengthy and complex; for this reason Music in Antiquity reflects the state of scholarship on the pertinent subjects up to 2010. Further bibliographical updates would have delayed the publication unnecessarily. We would like to express our profound appreciation to all those who made the publication of this volume possible. To the staff of the Jewish Music Research Centre of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, the editorial board of Yuval: Studies of the Jewish Music Research Centre and to the staff of Magnes Press we are grateful for their dedication and support. Grants from the Faculty of Humanities of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and from the Cases-Hirsch Fund at the Jewish Music Research Centre facilitated the completion of the editing of this book. Finally, the publication of this volume could not have been possible without the enthusiastic and highly professional support of De Gruyter and its staff, in particular Bettina Neuhoff and Andreas Brandmair. Joan Goodnick Westenholz, Yossi Maurey, Edwin Seroussi, editors

References Avalos, H. I. 1991 The Comedic Function of the Enumerations of Officials and Instruments in Daniel 3. Catholic Biblical Quarterly 53(4): 580–588. Bar-Asher, M. 1998 Notes sur le vocabulaire musical dans le Sharh biblique marocain. Journal Asiatique 286(1): 55–83. Bayer, B. 1968 Neginah ve-zimrah. In: Encyclopedia Miqra’it, vol. 5: 755–782. Jerusalem (Hebrew). 1968 The Biblical ‘Nebel’. In: Yuval: Studies of the Jewish Music Research Centre, vol. 1, ed. I. Adler, H. Avenary and B. Bayer, 89–131. Jerusalem. 1981 Ancient Musical Instruments. Biblical Archaeology Review 8(1): 20–36.

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Braun, J. 2002 Music in Ancient Israel/Palestine: Archaeological, Written, and Comparative Sources. Grand Rapids. 2007a Kinnor. In: Sounds of Ancient Music, ed. J. Goodnick Westenholz, 15. Jerusalem. 2007b Uggav, In: Sounds of Ancient Music, ed. J. Goodnick Westenholz, 17. Jerusalem. Burgh, T. 2006 Listening to the Artifact: Music Culture in Ancient Palestine. London. Dyer, C. H. 1990 The Musical Instruments in Daniel 3. Bibliotheca Sacra 588: 426–436. Fisch, H., ed. 1992 The Koren Jerusalem Bible. Jerusalem. Friedheim, E. 2009 On the Question of the Treatment of Music in the Jewish Society of the Second Temple, Mishnaic and Talmudic Period. Cathedra 132: 55–76 (Hebrew). Goodnick Westenholz, J. ed. 2007 Sounds of Ancient Music. Jerusalem. 1998 Tanakh: The Holy Scriptures, the New JPS Translation. Philadelphia. Jones, I. H. 1986 Musical Instruments in the Bible. Bible Translator 37(1): 101–116. 1987 Musical Instruments in the Bible. Bible Translator 38(1): 129–143. Mitchell, T. C. 1992 The Music of the Old Testament Reconsidered. Palestine Exploration Quarterly 124(2): 124–143. 1999 And the Band Played On… But What Did They Play on? Identifying the Instruments in Nebuchadnezzar’s Orchestra. Bible Review 15(6): 32–39. Seroussi, E. 2003 More on Maimonides on Music. Zutot 2: 126–135. Shiloah, A. 2004 Musical Concepts in the Works of Saadia Gaon. Aleph 4: 265–282. Škulj, E. 1998 Musical Instruments in Psalm 150. In: The Interpretation of the Bible: The International Symposium in Slovenia, ed. J. Krasovec, 1117–1130. Sheffield. Waner, M. 2007 Music Culture in Roman-Byzantine Sepphoris. In: Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity in Ancient Galilee; A Region in Transition, ed. J. Zangenberg, H. W. Attridge and D. B. Martin, 425–447. Tübingen. Weiss, Z. 2005 The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering an Ancient Message through Its Archaeological and Socio-historical Contexts (with contributions by Ehud Netzer et al.). Jerusalem.

 I Prologue

Anne Draffkorn Kilmer

A Brief Account of the Development of the Field of Music Archaeology The Twelfth Congress of the International Musicological Society was held at the University of California in Berkeley in 1977. A round table discussion group had been formed for the occasion on the topic “Music and Archaeology.” The participants in this group were Berkeley Professors Richard L. Crocker (Chair) and Anne D. Kilmer; other members of the group were Bathja Bayer (Jerusalem), Mantle Hood (Los Angeles), Charles Boiles (Mexico), Ellen Hickmann (Germany), Cajsa Lund (Sweden) and Liang Ming-Yueh (China). All the participants were eager to hear the views held by music historians on the values of the recovery of ancient music (including prehistoric music) and on the benefits of recreating ancient musical instruments. Those contributions, presented either in summary form or in full, were published in the reports from the Twelfth Congress.1 The 1977 round table group effectively launched the “Study Group on Music Archaeology,” founded within the International Council for Traditional Music (ICTM) in Seoul (1981), and recognized by ICTM in New York (1983) after its first meeting in Cambridge (1982). The Study Group on Music Archaeology went on to hold international conferences in Stockholm (1984), Hannover/Wolfenbüttel (1986), Saint Germain-en-Laye (1990), Liège (1992), Istanbul (1993), Jerusalem/ Ramat-Gan (1994/1995, together with the ICTM-Study Group for Iconography) and Limassol (1996). Subsequently, the Music Archaeology Bulletin (MAB) was created of which six issues were published (MAB 1–6) between 1984 and 1986. In 1987 it was replaced by a new “magazine” called Archaeologia Musicalis, spearheaded by Ellen Hickmann, Cajsa Lund and Catherine Homo-Lechner (Paris). Six issues of Archaeologia Musicalis were produced between 1987 and 1990, whose contents included scholarly articles on ancient and medieval musical instruments, reports of meetings and conferences, book reviews and reports on the research activities of members of the Study Group. The studies and discussions were international in scope and were in part concerned with the appropriate scholarly affiliation of this developing field of inquiry, e.g., “cultural musicology,” or “historical ethnomusicology.” After the Limassol conference it was decided to open a space for archaeologists to join in and leave the ICTM — an umbrella that was mostly circumscribed to musicologists. The Study Group, renamed the “International 1 Heartz, D. and B. Wade, eds. 1981. International Musical Society Report of the Twelfth Congress: Berkeley 1977. Basel.

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 Anne Draffkorn Kilmer

Study Group on Music Archaeology” (ISGMA), works in cooperation with the Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (Berlin). Between 1998 and 2004 biennial ISGMA conferences were held at the Kloster Michaelstein, Landesmusikakademie (Sachsen-Anhalt), sponsored by the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft. In 2006 and 2008 ISGMA meetings were held in close collaboration with the Abteilung Musikethnologie, Medien-Technik and the Berliner Phonogramm-Archiv at the Ethnologisches Museum in Berlin. In 2010 the ISGMA met for its seventh symposium outside of Europe for the first time. The meeting at the Tianjin Conservatory of Music in China was a landmark in the recognition of the field of music archeology as a global scholarly endeavor. In 2000 ISGMA initiated a new series called Studien zur Musikarchäologie (SM), created as a sub-series of Orient-Archäologie, to publish papers read at the ISGMA meetings, as well as independent monographs. SM I, edited by E. Hickmann and R. Eichmann, included the papers presented at the meetings of the Study Group held in Jerusalem/Ramat-Gan (1994–1995) and those of the meetings in Limassol, Cyprus (1996), in addition to other contributions that were far-ranging geographically and chronologically. The “Introduction” to SM I, by E. Hickmann, presents an illuminating survey of the history and growth of music archaeology, which includes a comprehensive bibliography. Since the advent of SM I in 2000, seven further volumes have been published. They truly represent the current state of the art of the now well-recognized and vibrant field of music archaeology that expands well beyond its initial goals.2 Younger initiatives have further broadened the field of music archeology, also known as archeomusicology, by emphasizing regional studies. Of major relevance to the present volume is ICONEA, the Near and Middle Eastern Archeomusicology initiative of the Institute of Musical Studies at the School of Advanced Studies of the University of London. ICONEA, too, meets regularly and publishes proceedings of its meetings.3 In conclusion, Sounds from the Past, adds an excellent major new body of material for our compelling and exciting area of scholarly inquiry.

2 Details about the SM volumes and about the activities of ISGMA can be found on the website . 3 For details, see .

 II Studies

Bathja Bayer

The Mesopotamian Theory of Music and the Ugarit Notation – A Reexamination Introduction: Discoveries and Problems At the present writing,1 research on the Mesopotamian theory of music has already been going on for more than fifteen years. In 1960 Anne Kilmer published two lists of so-called key-numbers or coefficients for various computations — similar to today’s collections of “useful tables.” In one of these, the tablet known by the siglum CBS 10996, a section appeared that had not been known previously from similar mathematical lists; it presented pairs of numbered entities, each apposed to an entity of another class. Benno Landsberger who had suggested the publication of CBS 10996, noted that these paired entities appear singly in the lexical text U.3011 (still unpublished at that time), where they represented a paradigmatic sequence of strings. In the Key-Number Table, therefore, each pairing of strings denotes “something,” but it was not yet clear what these were (for this first presentation and discussion of CBS 10996, see Kilmer 1960: 274–275, 278, 281, 289–300). It should be mentioned, in parenthesis, that shortly before this time (1959) it had been proved that the “Babylonian notation” presented by Curt Sachs in 1923 had not been a notation at all (see here Appendix A, Excursus 1). The first musicological study of the two new texts was undertaken by Marcelle Duchesne-Guillemin (1963). In 1965, Kilmer and Duchesne-Guillemin published adjoint studies on the same texts (Kilmer 1965; Duchesne-Guillemin 1965). Kilmer introduced a third text, which had already been known for more than forty-five years, but misunderstood; she explained how it related to the Key-Number Table and to the String List. This is a section of the large Song Catalogue from Assur (KAR 158, published in 1919; see Ebeling 1919) that sums up the number of songs in each of the seven categories. Stephen Langdon had interpreted these cat1 This monograph was written by Bayer over a long period of time. The present manuscript dates from 1978 when it was intended for printing as volume II of Yuval — Monograph Series of the JMRC. Few additions and corrections were made by the author from 1978 until her untimely death in 1995. The manuscript was recovered from her estate when it was brought to the National Library of Israel long after 1995. Bibliographical updates and a critique by Ann Kilmer appear at the end of this article. For an update see: J. Rahn, The Hurrian Pieces, ca. 1350 bce: Part One — Notation and Analysis, Analytical Approaches to World Music Journal, vol. 1, no. 1 (2011) http://www.aawmjournal.com/articles/2011a/Rahn_AAWM_Vol_1_1.htm (accessed November 15, 2012).

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 Bathja Bayer

egory terms as instruments (Langdon 1921: 173, 183, 186ff.). In this case, Langdon cannot be blamed: what he did not see was, after all, not visible at that time. Neither was it visible a generation later, when we find Langdon’s interpretations adopted by Farmer in his survey of Mesopotamian music in NOHM 1 (Farmer 1957; note that Galpin 1937 is now totally outdated and of value only to the history of the research). The seven category terms in KAR 158 were now recognized as identical with seven of the fourteen terms that are apposed to the string pairs in the Key-Number Table. A fourth text became available soon afterward, in 1968: U.7/80 (known in literature as the “Tuning Text”), discovered in the British Museum by Edmond Sollberger and published by Oliver R. Gurney with an adjoint musical analysis by David Wulstan (Gurney 1968; Wulstan 1968). Here, the string terms and the seven song-categories are related by the description of a procedure: how to change the “instrument” from one state to another, by doing something to one string (in certain cases to two strings). By that time it had become clear that the categories represent modes, in the sense of scalar constructs. The Key-Number Table, however, seemed to imply that the categories were intervals; these two implications were reconciled and correlated by various explanations — today already in controversy. Further studies, until 1969–1970, were undertaken especially by Duchesne-Guillemin, and also by Wilhelm Stauder (1967, 1970) and Hans Martin Kümmel (1970). These publications mark the end of a period, for reasons that I shall explain presently. Meanwhile, the readings of the texts as such were also improved: the process can be observed most instructively through Kilmer’s survey of 1971. These four texts are all that we have until now from Mesopotamia itself. More precisely: four texts that have been recognized as “theory texts” (see below), have been brought to the attention of musicologists, and are available through publications that included a transcription as well as a hand-drawn facsimile (“autograph”) and sometimes a photograph of the tablet. Since the vocabulary of the theory has been identified, at least in part, more texts of this kind can surely be expected. A fifth text is already being prepared for publication by Kilmer. But the discoveries will continue to come singly and slowly. The theory of music was a part of higher education in Mesopotamia. Yet, as in all other cultures, it was not a core subject in the curriculum: not every scribe would — or indeed could — be trained as a musicus. An avalanche of texts cannot be expected even under the best of circumstances. However, the circumstances themselves have at least improved. The incessant sifting of the huge museum tablet collections, which now come to several hundreds of thousands of specimens (many of them fragmentary), has always had to be governed by known research priorities. Nowadays, a text about music turns on a “red light”; this would not have happened



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prior to approximately 1965. Indeed, I have been told that the Key-Number Table CBS 10996 had already been examined and rejected during the preparation of Neugebauer and Sachs’ Mathematical Cuneiform Texts (1945; note: Abraham Joseph Sachs, not Curt). What still lies below the ground cannot be estimated — only hoped for. At this point it becomes necessary to define what kind of document should be considered as a theory text, but before that, we must agree on a minimal definition of a “theory of music” (the regress stops here — without a definition of “theory” and “music”), I would say that in all cases there must be a highly systemic concept in which (a) abstracted pitch-values are the nuclear entities; (b) further entities, and relationships between them, are postulated at and between several levels, the cardinal relationships being pitch: pitch, scale: pitch and scale: scale; and (c) in at least one domain of musical performance, the performance constructs (“the music”) are being related to (a) and (b), and thus also to each other with respect to this system. The definition thus excludes the two other systems that constrain performance — the technological and the ideological. These two can be seen, each in its own way, as a “science of doing.” A theory of music, as defined here, is no doubt a “doing of science.” A theory text, then, would have to contain terms that are used in the theory. But this is not enough. The statement must also be in itself systemic: it must present at least two entities and one relationship between them, as conceived by the theory. The Key-Number Table and the Procedure Text do so very obviously. In the Song Catalogue (KAR 158), the systemic sequence of the classification is not obvious by itself, but is known to be so once we have the two other texts. The listing of the names of nine strings in their ordinal sequence in the lexical fragment U.3011 is systemic because the sequence is ordinal, and (as we shall see) the scalar points of various modes are mapped on it. Kilmer assembled a rich assortment of Sumerian and Akkadian citations in her studies of 1965 and 1971, but these come from statements that are not theory texts (at least those that I have checked so far). Here it must be mentioned that the probability of finding texts of the treatise type is almost nil. At the most, a didactic-discursive or speculative-discursive text or passage could perhaps be expected in the Seleucid period, in some acculturative context. The Mesopotamian scribal tradition communicates even the “doing of science” only in the form of ready-made lists, tables and exercises (further on this, see below, p. 30). Musicologists must make an adjustment in their conceptions here, and this is not easy. The nontheoretical texts are nevertheless of importance for our work on the theory and its texts. What lexical support they may give to the theory texts is a matter to be handled with caution: it is the theory texts that can explain what happens to the terms in other texts, not vice versa. But a nontheory text may bear

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 Bathja Bayer

witness to the time and place of its composition, within a more-closely circumscribed range than the lexica and tables and exercises; this may help to throw some light on the historical development of the theory. At present, the theory and its texts exist for us almost outside time and place. Such a condition is as intolerable here as it would be for a collection of artifacts. The texts are published with assignments to certain historical periods, mostly by graphic and linguistic criteria. But these date the specimen, i.e., the particular tablet, and not its content. The “scribal-religious complex” of Mesopotamian culture to which these texts belong is founded on continuous copying. If there is no evidence to the contrary, a tablet could be considered a copy. The archaeological data (often unsatisfactory when it comes to the older museum collections — another problem!) and the scribal and other characteristics of the tablet yield only the crudest terminus ante quem. In the present study, I shall not try to solve the chronological problem, but the little information that is available will be used. The central problem has been, and remains the small amount of evidence on which all the reconstructions of the theory have hitherto been based. A pessimist might well conclude that the devoted efforts invested in the task by Assyriologists and musicologists have been in vain. The situation is partly analogous to the decipherment of an unknown language and/or script. And here the experience of the archaeological and military code breakers has yielded some cautionary insights, which may at least moderate an undue optimism. One quotation from a work on this subject will suffice here; a few others from the same author will help us later on: For determining any particular [i.e., specific] linguistic information, of course, larger amounts of text give us more reliable statistics. Anyone who claims to have deciphered a script for which only 241 signs of non-alphabetic text are known must expect his genius to go unrecognized until more texts turn up. Not only is there not enough statistical information for him to prove his claim, but by the same token there is not enough for anyone else to disprove it. [emphasis mine B.B.] (Barber 1974: 19)

In our case, the situation is not quite as hopeless as a purely statistical assessment would imply. Because of the highly systemic character of the theoretical construct, and the formulaic style of the texts, we are able to carry out such consistency checks for every “deciphering” hypothesis as would not be feasible for a similarly limited corpus of texts of another kind. Certain reservations do remain however, and one of the purposes of this study is to define these more clearly. Among those who have followed the publications — and it is to them that I here mainly address myself — the impression may prevail that the Mesopotamian theory of music is now satisfactorily understood. In fact, however, there is no



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true consensus, similar to that which comes about when a certain decipherment hypothesis for a recently discovered script is perceived in current use (ongoing refinements notwithstanding). The situation at present is somewhat unusual, and this has happened not only because no more Mesopotamian texts were added to the corpus after 1968, but also because at that time there occurred what I can only term a “cursed blessing.” 1968/9 was an annus mirablis for our subject, with events treading on each other’s heels: the publication of the fourth Mesopotamian theory text (Gurney 1968; Wulstan 1968); the full publication of the notations from Ugarit, not yet recognized as such (Laroche 1968); and Hans G. Güterbock’s recognition of the transmogrified Mesopotamian terms and of these documents as notations (first noticed by Kümmel 1970: 262–263, followed by Güterbock 1970). Some of the Ugarit notations had indeed already been published by Laroche in 1955, but at that time, and until 1965, a correct identification was simply not possible. The scholars who had been working on the Mesopotamian texts now rushed to the decipherment of these new and truly sensational finds. A new wave of publications soon arose, with about eight different musical transcriptions, published or communicated in scholarly meetings, vying for approval. Each of the proponents brought to the task his own current theory-of-Mesopotamian-music, now combined his own theory-of-the-Ugarit-notation. Some of the scholars published more than one attempt, with changed premises. In my opinion, at least, the problem has not yet been solved. In Part Two, I shall discuss the Ugarit notation, but only in order to suggest another approach, which may lead to a more probable solution. Whatever the outcome may be, one conclusion is patent from the literature: the lure of Ugarit became so overwhelming after 1970, that no one thought it necessary to go back and check whether all was indeed truly well in Mesopotamia. Crocker did take up Procedure Text U.7/80 again, together with the adjacent fragmentary listings of terms, but his study was published at the end of 1978 and only offered certain modification of the basic consensus. In what follows, I shall try to carry out a renewed examination of the Mesopotamian texts, and then explore some related matters, including the Ugarit notations. Since a reexamination should consider the sources and not the commentaries, I shall not take issue at every point with what others have said about it. Moreover, a running discussion is only necessary, and possible at all, if one accepts the basic hypothesis but wishes to improve the deductive superstructure; this is not the case here. A few points will have to be discussed along the way, but these are relegated (with one exception) to Appendix A, as excursuses. Our struggle is not with each other, but with the material and with a challenge that has no precedent in the history of musicology. I know that I stand indebted to all

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 Bathja Bayer

those who have worked on the subject, even where I may disagree with some of their conclusions. In 1977 I had several conversations with Anne Kilmer, during her stay in Jerusalem, and I am grateful to her for giving me of her time and knowledge. I am also obliged to Aaron Shaffer who, as Professor of Assyriology at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, helped his musicologist neighbor to carry out her “Burden of Babylon.” Over and above the tendering of advice on certain points, these meetings also helped me to see more clearly what difficulties must be surmounted when a new bidisciplinary field comes into existence. A minor but not unimportant fact is that the latecomer who has kept back from the first stages of the fray has the unfair benefit of hindsight. Here I shall mention only one of the problems of our bidisciplinary situation, which has already caused some trouble. This is the two-edged sword of traditional philology. The Assyriologist must present the source document with a philological apparatus — the richer the better. But this will very likely generate misdirections for both partners in the enterprise. Verbal connotations and etymologies may not be taken as guides, nor serve as proof, when searching for the functional meaning of a term. And this applies most strongly when the term, or set of terms, is a “professional” one. After the terms have been explained securely through procedures that are not dependent on the lexical element (cf. “Symphony”!), that element can be taken up as well, but “internal analysis comes before external comparisons” (Barber 1974: 323). Our own task is not fully analogous to the decipherment of unknown scripts, but it is sufficiently similar in principle — especially to the decipherment of scripts of the nonalphabetic kind. What happened there proves that the rule of “analysis before comparison” cannot be circumvented. In musicology, some sharp words on this subject have already been said by Husmann (1961: 69). At certain stages in my own research I actually substituted symbols for the Akkadian terms, so as to keep the verbal element from intruding into the structural investigation: S1...S9 for the strings, and MA...MN for the modes. These symbols will not be used here often, except in a few places where they can help to make the reasoning more clear. Within musicology itself, the newly discovered evidence seems indeed to be “à l’aube de la théorie musicale” (thus the apt title of Duchesne-Guillemin’s 1966 paper), and the implications began to be explored almost from the first. But everything depends on a correct understanding of the texts. The four texts are obviously concerned with certain parts of what we would nowadays classify as practical or elementary theory. Their aim is “the proper division of musical space” (Henderson 1957: 340–341, where the phrase is used in the sense of Greek theory at its most mature stage). The question is how this aim was conceived of here and how we can come to understand it.



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For us, to understand what these texts say means to translate them correctly into our own musical language, more precisely: to map their system of musical concepts onto our own standard one. We may not map our own system or any other, such as the Greek, onto theirs. The first way is that “understanding” that we are trying to achieve; the reverse way generates fallacies. This also means that we must recognize which points or areas on our own map have no corresponding elements in the other system. Barber, in his book on archaeological decipherment, states the same principles in different terms (Barber 1974: 15–16). He also emphasizes, as he must, the checking of the decipherment hypothesis, which is equally relevant here. To quote: It is then necessary to test for the empirical validity of each hypothesis by its consistency throughout the data. If the hypothesis is a structural one, formed on theoretical grounds, this will be a matter of testing all the relevant data for agreement with the hypothesis. (Barber 1974: 195; see also 33)

For us this statement is more provocative than the simple methodological precept that its author meant it to be. Our subject is itself “a structural one, formed on theoretical grounds,” and this means that we have to recognize and evade a logical trap that would not exist in the decipherment of a script or the elucidation of a language. If it is true that the Mesopotamian theory is anchored to the heptamodal-diatonic group (for a definition, see §1.23), then several alternative deductions are equally consistent with the relationships obtaining within this group, and, thus, each of them will test out as consistent with the data on the first round of checks! It is therefore necessary to devise such further checks as will eliminate this choice of possibilities, and leave only that probable one that represents what the creators of this particular “incarnation” of the system intended. My reexamination of the Mesopotamian texts, which forms the main part of this study, is based on this approach.

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 Bathja Bayer

Part One: The Mesopotamian System And their appearance and their work was as it were a wheel within a wheel (The first vision of Ezekiel in the land of the Chaldeans by the river Chebar; Ezek. 1:16)

The inventory of the texts and their subsequent presentation are based on the latest published information, as extracted mainly from Kilmer’s survey of 1971. Since that survey was meant to describe the history of the discoveries and studies, and also contains many revisions and addenda to its original 1968 presentation, later readings and translations appear there both in the discourse and in the footnotes. Here I shall use the net result, without recapitulations. Even though there are still so few texts, it seems to me that calling them by their Assyriological sigla is already somewhat inconvenient. It will become more inconvenient as the texts increase, and extremely so when copies are found. One presumed copy has already been cited for no. 3 in the inventory. If a scheme for working sigla can be agreed upon now, we shall save ourselves trouble later on. I have made up such a scheme, and shall use these sigla in the discussion. I shall also use standardized names for the texts, such as “Song Catalogue” alternately with its siglum C-Md. If the text has been identified as part of a standard “book” (“series” in Assyriological parlance), the name will generally be taken over here as well. An explanation of the scheme for making up the working sigla is given in Appendix B. In all that follows, I shall try to preserve a clear distinction between text and document. The term “text” will denote the content, while “document,” or “tablet,” or simply the Assyriological siglum (such as CBS 10996) will denote the particular specimen.

Inventory of the Texts Of the four texts, three are seen to be sections or passages about music that occur within a context of wider scope. For the Procedure Text the context is as yet unknown, since the document is a fragment. The music section may in itself contain statements about different classes of musical constructs (strings only/ strings-and-modes/modes only/terms for instruments, etc.). The distinct names and working sigla must be assigned to what may be termed the “units of concern,” in effect, to paragraphs and not to “texts.” This is not what we would do in the case of a medieval treatise — but then what we have here are not treatises. It is difficult to adjust to a culture in which scientific concerns are not communicated discursively (at least not in written form) but only in the form of tables, prescrip-



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tions, sets of model problems and lists of terms (for discussions of this situation see, e.g., Neugebauer 1934: 202ff.). But the approach must be fitted to the sources, and there seems to be no other way but to regard the information as a collection of “modular packages.” The following inventory is still organized by documentary units, but in the future such a survey will at least need a parallel listing by units of concern. Content: The list contains those texts that have been found in Mesopotamia proper and which contain statements that may be defined as theory texts. The notations from Ugarit will be surveyed in §2.1. Language and script: If not specified otherwise, the language is Akkadian and the script is “mainstream” cuneiform. Provenience: For most of the tablets, only the name of the locality is known, and not always with certainty. To place the theory of music in its social setting, it is necessary to know whether the document was found in a temple, a palace or a private house, and whether in the context of a school, an archive or a private library. It is also important to know with what other kinds of evidence — written and artifact — the tablet was associated. For the greater part of the tablets in the museums such information is not available. Date: The dates given apply to the particular tablet, and not or not necessarily, to its contents. Again, since the excavation data are not sufficiently precise, the dates depend only on the characteristics of script, arrangement and tablet shape, and hence can be defined only by period. At present, none of the tablets have a colophon (the Ugarit tablets have colophons but no dating statements). Order: The order in this list is alphabetical, as generated by the working siglum assigned to the “main text” of each document. Working Sigla: Since the texts, i.e., the content units, are at present documentary unica, the working siglum is given in the short form, without the added numerical specification of the document. Bibliography: In general, only the first publication of the text itself is listed here. For further information, see the studies mentioned in the Introduction above. Supplementary information can be found through Borger 1967–1975. The ongoing Assyriological bibliography is the “Keilschriftbibliographie” in the periodical Orientalia.2 The ongoing musicological bibliography is RILM, abstracts of musical literature (Répertoire International de Littérature Musicale).

2 Editor’s note: Today Bayer’s research would have benefitted from tools such as the Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative (www.cdli.ucla.edu) and the Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature (www.etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk). Her reference to Orientalia appears to be to the journal of the same name published by the Pontifical Biblical Institute in Rome.

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 Bathja Bayer

1) C-Md Song Catalogue KAR 158. From Assur (Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Vorderasiatische Abtlg.; VAT 10101). Middle Assyrian period, second half of fourteenth to end of tenth century bce. The document is an extensive list of songs, apparently both sacred and secular, in eight, not fully intact, columns (4 obverse, 4 reverse), of at least 55 lines each. Cols. i–iv: titles of series of liturgies to various divinities, with totals for each group. Cols. v–vii (as numbered now): titles (= initia) of other kinds of songs, similarly grouped and totaled. Col. viii (previously numbered as v): list of totals, apparently extracted from all the preceding groups. The texts to which this catalogue refers have not yet been identified in other sources (Shaffer, oral communication 1978). The groupings and totaling definitions are by diverse criteria, though often by language only (Sumerian/Akkadian). Some of the classifying terms may refer to musico-poetic genres. In two of the groups (two only, out of several dozens!) the classification is by mode terms. Relevant sections: Cols. vii–viii. In col. vii, 1–5 initia of 23 songs are totaled in line 6 as 23 irātu ša eširte; followed by initia of 17 songs (lines 7–23), totaled in line 24 as 17 irātu ša kitme; followed by initia only, preserved only to line 55. Col. viii (the total–of–totals) provides two totals for šiṭru songs, in embūbu and pītu, respectively, in lines 14–15. After diverse totals by other criteria, the mode terms appear again in lines 45–52, seven totals for irātu songs in the order išartu, kitmu, embūbu, etc. to qablītu, with a grand total for this group. This section almost certainly refers to the songs listed in col. vii, although there only the first two mode groups are set off explicitly. Publication: Ebeling 1919: no. 158, pp. 269–276, autograph (= facsimile drawing) only. Description: Ebeling 1922 (not available to me for the present study). Parallel study with selected transcriptions: Langdon 1921. Although the study of the entire text by the state-of-the-art Assyriological and musicological research is long overdue, Langdon’s interpretations of the musical or presumed musical terms have mostly been disproved in the meantime, most decisively so as regards the mode terms (which he assigned to instruments or etymologized). First correct recognition of the mode terms: Kilmer 1965.

2) K-MdSt Key-Number Table CBS 10996. From Nippur (Philadelphia, University Museum). Neo-Babylonian period, first half of first millennium bce.



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The document is a table of key-numbers (also called coefficients) for diverse calculations, mostly economic ones. Obverse: only a small part of one column is preserved. Reverse: parts varying in lengths of cols. i–iii are preserved; tops and bottoms not preserved. First dated to the Kassite period, now revised to Neo-Babylonian, i.e., about a millennium later (Kilmer 1971: 132, confirmed orally 1977). The content of the list is generally standard, with only a few entries that were not known previously from similar texts. The “table of key-numbers for musical modes” is the only section of which the subject itself has not yet been found in similar lists. Relevant section: Col. i (of the reverse); the 19 lines extant, numbered by estimate as 6’ to 24’. Lines 6’–10’: number pairs apposed to mode terms. In line 11’ a new tabulation begins, in which each entry opens with a string-term pair, followed by the corresponding number pair and the mode term. Lines 21’–24’ are increasingly fragmentary. Publication: Kilmer 1960 (with another list, which has no music section), transcription, translation and brief study, and with a photograph of the tablet appended. Readings of the music-table terms and numbers have been partly revised since then (for survey, see Kilmer 1971).

3) L-St/L-Md or L-St nabnītu/L-Md nabnītu String List/Mode List U.3011. From Ur (London, British Museum). Neo-Babylonian period, as above. The text is part of a standard series: the bilingual (Sumerian vs. Akkadian) encyclopedic vocabulary nabnītu (“creation,” from its opening line). Its divisions are arranged by the parts of the body, from the head to the feet, with the appropriate activities and objects listed for each part. U.3011 represents the thirty-second chapter-tablet, hence its Assyriological designation nabnītu XXXII. The theme is “sinews” (information supplied by Aaron Shaffer). This provides the point of attachment for an entire chapter of terms from the domain of music, opening with the nomenclature of the paradigmatic set of nine strings. Then follows the nomenclature of the modes, fragmentary in U.3011 as is the rest of the chapter (see below Fig. 1). nabnītu XXXII is thus the earliest encyclopedia-lexicon of music known now, and probably the very first. The composition of nabnītu is assigned to the Middle Babylonian period, i.e., the second half of the second millennium bce (for an illuminating description of the Mesopotamian literature-of-lists, see Oppenheim 1977: 244–249). Kilmer (1965: 264, note 25) states that “a duplicate fragment is K.9922, cited in MSL 6, 119.” This is a fragment that links up with the reverse of U.3011 but does not duplicate it precisely, and hence cannot, in any case, help to complete col. i.

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 Bathja Bayer

Relevant sections: Cols. i + ii, Sumerian (i) vs. Akkadian (ii). Lines 1–10: String List, Akkadian qudmû to uḫrû, and totaled by “nine strings.” Line 11ff.: Mode List, truncated by the diagonal break-off and no more than a textual fragment (for a discussion of this part, see here §1.7). Publication: Kilmer 1965: 264ff., transcription, translation and study (contents already utilized in Kilmer 1960). Autograph published in 1974 by Gurney (1974: no. 126, Pl. LX).

4) P-MdSt/X-MdSt Procedure Text/Mode-String fragment U.7/80. From Ur (London, British Museum). Old Babylonian period, second half of eighteenth to end of sixteenth century bce. The document is a fragment, with parts of two columns of text, both pertaining to music. It is unclear whether this is an obverse or reverse and what the full extent of the tablet was. Nineteen lines partially preserved, numbered provisionally as 1–19. In the right-hand column (Procedure Text) at least lines 0 and 20 can be restored by textual extrapolation. Right column: two sets of “procedures” in which relationships between modes are defined by changes to be effected on one or two strings. After the first three (preserved) examples, there is a subscript (line 12), followed by two further examples that present a more complicated case. The text is formulaic, in the “ifthen” form. Since there is a cyclic relationship between the elements, it is theoretically possible to extrapolate the first group upward and the second group downward until the cycle (of seven modes) has run its complete course in each group. However, there are reasons for assuming that the full cycle was not gone through (see discussion in §1.43). Left column: lines 2–13. All truncated at their beginnings. Mode terms, and at least two string terms are legible. The sequence of terms is presumably systematic, given the nature of what is done in the right-hand column, but the contents do not seem to be an actual part of the Procedure Text. The latter is a fragmentary text, while this is a textual fragment. For its discussion, see §1.6. Publication: Gurney 1968, autograph, transcription, translation and study, with supplement by Wulstan (1968). Gurney proposes two emendations in the Procedure Text, which have been accepted tacitly in all subsequent studies. Here the text will be taken as it appears in the tablet. For discussion, see §1.4. Crocker (1978) explores the textual fragment of the left-hand column. The fragment K. 9922 has already been mentioned above in connection with item no. 3. An autograph was published by Meek (1920: 165; correct “obverse” there to “reverse”) and reference was made to it in MSL 6, 119. It is part of a lexical



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list, again Sumerian vs. Akkadian, apparently related to nabnītu but not identical with it (information supplied by Aaron Shaffer). No analytical publication seems to have been undertaken as yet. A further text (BM 65217) is being prepared for publication by Kilmer. As I have been informed by her, it raises considerable difficulties.

1.2 Some Methodological Considerations 1.21 Are the texts co-systemic? Hitherto it has been assumed that the texts are co-systemic, i.e., predicated upon identical theoretical concepts. Some changes could be expected to occur in time and in different locations, but it was not assumed that these could amount to a full paradigmatic shift. Such a shift, or even switch, has been suspected — but not fully reconstructed — in the transfer of ancient Greek theory to medieval Europe. The Mesopotamian texts are spread over a considerable range in time and space, and one must at least pose the question whether a paradigmatic shift, or even shifts, could not have occurred along the way. The Assyriological answers, at least, are largely reassuring. The four texts on which we depend at present are in the same script and in the same language — the most obvious sign of a cultural comity. For this period and area, at least, everything that we know about the Mesopotamian intellectual tradition — the “scribal-religious complex” — makes it reasonably certain that the paradigm has not shifted and that the formulations that we have belong to one “coherent and continuous stream.” (This expression is taken from Oppenheim 1977: 16; for the background, see there, especially p. 14ff. and Chapter 1). Within that mainstream, one can perhaps already glimpse some signs of development and change in time: the mainstream is also fed by a few tributaries on its way. In principle, though, the texts are sufficiently compatible to allow the kind of inquiry that has been carried out on them until now, and will also be carried out here. There is, however, one exception, and that, I hold, is the notation found at Ugarit. To continue with the metaphor used just now, this is not a further station along the mainstream, after the entry of some new ethnic tributary. On the contrary, a new channel is here drawn from the mainstream, to wend its way elsewhere. The fact that there is a difference in language and ethnicity (Hurrians!) cannot be disregarded, in spite of the overt “Mesopotamization.” But this subject will be discussed in Part Two. For the material from Mesopotamia proper, the evidence from Ugarit will therefore be used only for what it can yield on the general chronological problem.

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1.22 The order of investigation The order in which our texts were discovered, or rather rediscovered, has had an obvious influence on their analysis. Situations of this kind are only natural at the early stage of research. An interpretation of the Key-Number Table will come first, with the help of the String List (Figure 1); this will be applied to the Song Catalogue (Figure 2) and the Procedure Text (Figure 3). It is now possible to look at the four texts in a more detached way and to plan the approach; then it becomes apparent that the Key-Number Table should be taken up only at the last stage, not the first. The Key-Number Table is a table, nothing more. Being a Mesopotamian table it is even more bare that a European one, say a table of logarithms. Because of the nature of the subject, it is possible to flesh out the bones in several ways, which will all be “true.” The Procedure Text, however, assumes the table and goes beyond it. It therefore has more inbuilt constraints, in other words — more information. The text that has more information must be applied to the one that has less — not the other way around. For a theoretical discussion of the same problem in language decipherment, see Barber 1974: index, s.v. level. We shall therefore take up the Procedure Text first, necessarily together with the String List and the Song Catalogue. The results will then be applied to the Key-Number table. That application will of course be valid only if the decision of what the terms signify has not in fact been read earlier out of the table and into the Procedure Text. Data from the table can therefore be used at the initial stage only if they do not cause our reasoning to bend itself into a circle. In the table there are fourteen terms that we assume to stand for modes. Seven of these also appear in the Procedure Text and in the Song Catalogue. By the principle just argued, it follows that the seven other terms must be taken up at the very last stage.

1.23 Working Terminology In the discussion we must use the terms of our own mainstream or school doctrine of music theory. Some of these are essential tools for the task, but they are also the most loaded ones, with a burden of diverse historical and musicological usages. The writer must decide, and the reader must be informed, in which sense such a term is used here. Neologisms may also become necessary. Therefore, in the following, I define my terms. Each definition serves as a premise for its successor(s).



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–– scale: any stock of pitch norms, arranged as an ordered sequence. Specific constraints are not implied. –– diatonic: used by extension, for the scalar series of the class Tone-ToneSemitone-Tone-Tone-Tone-Semitone and the relationships obtained therein. Values of tuning and intonation are not implied. –– mode: used solely in the meaning of octave species. None of the other uses of the term (historical or musicological) are implied. If not explicitly stated otherwise, the octave species indicated is understood to be diatonic. –– D-mode, E-mode and similar: used solely to symbolize a diatonic octave species as a “white-key mapping.” Fixed pitch concerns, absolute or relative, are not implied. –– H-mode: used instead of a B-mode. Because of the ambiguity of B (si/si-bemol). The b flat will be written as B♭. –– Heptamodal-diatonic group: denotes the cyclic group of seven diatonic modes. Notwithstanding definition (c) above, “diatonic” is included in the expression because of certain problems that will be raised in the discussion of the Key-Number Table. –– para-mode: denotes any scalar construct that does not belong to the heptamodal-diatonic group as defined above. –– “Dorian,” “Phrygian,” and similar: when in quotation marks, used solely as supplements to the “white-key” definitions of the heptamodal-diatonic group. Hence “Dorian” = E-mode, “Phrygian” = D-mode, etc. No other implications are assumed.

The matter of scalar direction (upward/downward) will be discussed in §1.42, and there it will be proved that the Mesopotamian reckoning is upward. No inquiry can be undertaken here whether the Greek reckoning was indeed downward. As used here, both the “Greek” analogue names and the letter names refer to the scale as reckoned upward. It goes without saying (but must be said) that the medieval European use of the Greek terms is to be disregarded.

1.3 String List and Song Catalogue These two texts furnish the starting information. Both documents are fairly intact in the areas concerned, and their reading presents no particular difficulties.

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1.31 The String List The list is the opening section of the thirty-second chapter tablet of the “encyclopedia” nabnītu. The composition nabnītu has been assigned an approximate terminus post quem in the Middle Babylonian period (second half of the second millennium bce). As in practically all of the literature-of-lists, Sumerian equivalents are apposed to the Akkadian terms. Naturally, it must be asked whether the Sumerian terms can contribute to the operative understanding of the theory, which is our concern here. The answer seems to be negative, since we are trying to avoid going by verbal connotations. As I have been enlightened by Aaron Shaffer, the active part of the text is the Akkadian. Moreover, the Sumerian part cannot be considered as a “Sumerian source”: these terms are largely artificial ones and not real historical relics. Of course, there are often differences between the Sumerian and the Akkadian terms in the lists, but the relationship between the Akkadian and the Sumerian terminology in nabnītu must be examined by comparison with such phenomena in other lists, and this is a task to be undertaken on its own. As far as I have been able to judge from examining the material published in MSL, this confirms the decision to disregard the Sumerian side of the String List in nabnītu, as concerns the present task. We need only note that the four “back” strings are also “back” in the Sumerian definitions here. To avoid distraction, the Sumerian side is not even included in the presentation of the text; it can be found in the previous publications, such as Kilmer 1965 and 1971. The text of the String List will be presented as established by Kilmer (1965: 264; also 1971: 133). Since our concern is functional and the reading does not seem to raise any particular problems, we can abandon the strict method of trans-“literation” and give the text in a straightforward transcription. The restorations are also so few and so obvious that there was no need to perpetuate them here by square brackets. In the specimen, i.e., the tablet U.3011, the Akkadian term for the fourth string is written A-ba-nu-[ú]. The reason is not important to us here (for discussion, see Kilmer 1965 ad loc.) We shall use the standard form and transcription dEA bānû, so as to keep visible the special nature of this term (“god Ea the creator”). The choice of terms in the translation given here is partly my own.



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Fig. 1: String List/Mode List (L-St, nabnītu XXXII//U.3011). col.

line

i

1

5

10

qudmûm šamūšum šalšu qatnu d Ea-bānû ḫamšu ribi uḫrîm šalši uḫrîm šini uḫrîm uḫrûm 9 pitnū

fore (string) next (string) third (string) god Ea the creator (string) fifth (string) fourth of the rear (string) third of the rear (string) second of the rear (string) rear (string) nine strings

[followed by Mode List]

That the nine entries are music strings is confirmed by the context. The Sumerian column prefixes sa to each string term. In the literary sources there is much and varied evidence on pitnu = music string, although not always clear in detail (see Kilmer 1965; supplement in Kilmer 1971: 133, note 16). The “first forward then backward” sequence of the string terms might call up a surmise that the accordatura is nonscalar, and such of course are known to exist. However, the Key-Number Table features a parallel double nomenclature: the strings are first named as in L-St, but then indicated by numbers that together yield a straightforward ordinal sequence (there from 1 to 7 only, but that šini uḫrîm = 8 and uḫrûm = 9 can easily be proved). In the case of the four “back strings,” then, the names of the components do not accord with their function in the system as we have it. They are an intrusion from another domain, and here this most probably means an earlier stage. The string paradigm as we have it here, in the theory as it stands, is scalar: the set will be tuned to a scale or to various scales from qudmû to uḫrû (in the discussion we use the basic forms of the words). The third string is called šalšu qatnu.3 Hence, it has been assumed that this was somehow equivalent to what Western theory terms a “minor” third, and that the set of strings was therefore already predicated on a specific scale, which would thus be the basic Mesopotamian scale. The nine string terms would thus be the stations of a little systema, analogous to the Greek method. I am unable to accept this interpretation, for a number of reasons that are set out in Appendix 3 Editor’s note: Literally, šalšu qatnu means “third, thin.”

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A, Excursus 2. In all that follows the assumption will be that the string terms are neutral, i.e., purely ordinal. If various tunings can be projected on the set of strings, and these are to be scalar, what is the direction? Does qudmû have the highest pitch or the lowest? The problem is twofold. For obvious mechanical reasons, the qudmû string can only be one or the other: a treble cannot be turned into a bass. Still, it might be possible that in the modal systematization one group of modes will be reckoned to run “upward” and the other, “downward.” The Key-Number Table has been interpreted to demonstrate that this is the case here, but another interpretation of the reversal of the numbers in that table is also possible. Iconographic evidence seems to favor qudmû = lowest, as the longest string that is “in front,” with uḫrû being “in back,” since it is the closest to the player’s chest. But here we also involve a verbal connotation, and, as agreed, this may not be used as a guide or as a proof. I hope that both questions, on the relative pitch of qudmû and on the scalar direction, will be resolved by the purely structural analysis of the data as we proceed. Last, why nine strings? This will also find its explanation, through the Procedure Text. The Key-Number Table, it will be remembered, uses only seven strings, but there will be a proposal, when we come to this text, to account for the limitation — which is peculiar to the “mentality” of that table.

1.32 The Song Catalogue Our text is part of a catalogue of hymns and songs (see general description in the inventory above, no. 1 = C-Md). The terms that are now known to stand for modes are used to characterize certain groups of songs, but these are the minority in the catalogue: two such groups, against dozens that are totaled and thus classified by quite different criteria. A new and thorough survey of the entire catalogue is certainly needed. At present, there is only Langdon 1921, which can nowadays at best serve for general orientation, and the nearly unobtainable report by Ebeling (1922). Like the String List, the Song Catalogue (Figure 2) is given here in transcription and not in transliteration. The source is Kilmer 1971: 138 and 147, revised by the remarks and footnotes there. For the restoration of the totaling formula in line 52, see Kilmer 1965: 268, note 59.



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Fig. 2: Song Catalogue (C-Md//KAR 158). Glossary Akkadî/ Akkadî KI irātu KIMIN napḫar ša šiṭru

col. viii

line 14 15 45

50

in Akkadian breast songs/poems, love songs ditto total of/pertaining to song category, meaning of the word in this context unknown (√šṭr = write)

13? šiṭru ša ebbūbe Akkadî(1) 2 KIMIN ša pīte Akkadî 23 irātu ša eširte Akkadî KI(2) 17 irātu ša kitme(3) 24 irātu ša ebbūbe (4) 4 irātu ša pīte ] irātu ša nīd qabli ] irātu ša nīš GAB.RI ] irātu ša qablīte [ napḫar x irātu Akkad]û

(1) Respective entries in the body of the catalogue cannot be located. (2) Carried from vii, 1–6: initia of 23 songs and total napḫar 23 irātu ša eširte. (3) Carried from vii, 7–24: initia of 17 songs and total napḫar 17 irātu ša kitme. (4) vii, 25 to extant 55: initia only, not interrupted by expected rest of mode-totals.

In the literature, the standardized forms of the terms have already come to be used, irrespective of the local peculiarities of each document. They will be used here as well (except when presenting a source), thus: išartu, kitmu, embūbu, pītu, nīd qabli, nīš GAB.RI, qablītu. For reasons that will be explained later on, the transliteration nīš GAB.RI is kept in this form. In lines 14–15 there is an incomplete group of embūbu and pītu only (the context is intact). The number in line 14 is unclear, being either 3 or 13 (according to Kilmer 1971: 147). In Ebeling’s autograph (1919: 271) the number is seen to be at a break, but seems an intact 3. Since the next line says “5 pāru Akkadû,” 5 pāru in Akkadian, it may be the interim total for these two entries. Lines 17 and 18 list 1 + 10 totals, summed up in line 19 as “11 zamar šēri” (on the very complicated problem of šēru, see Kilmer 1971: 143–144, note 62). The group of seven mode categories that appears in lines 45–51 is, as we know, a complete and canonical set. A complete collection for only two modes is highly improbable. Moreover, the

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context of these two isolated entries in lines 14–15 gives the impression of a very mixed lot. The section in the main catalogue, from which these entries have been carried, cannot be located, because the tablet is not sufficiently preserved. We notice, however, that the order embūbu–pītu is the same as in the complete set of line 45ff. Further on I shall offer a hypothesis about the “Sitz im Katalog” of the two mode groups, the incomplete and the complete one. A complete set of seven mode categories is presented in lines 45–51, clearly distinct from the preceding entries and closed off by a total. Unfortunately, the three last totals and the overall total of the set have not been preserved: the number comes to 68 + ? and there is no support for making any estimate. At most, one might venture to continue the sequence on the same pattern as the first four entries: so-and-so much (around 20?) for nīd qabli, but less than this for nīš GAB. RI. The pattern will not help for qablītu, the last. We notice that, whatever the numbers may be for the incomplete group of lines 14–15, there, too, embūbu has more than pītu, just as in the complete group. This proposal is not as fanciful as it may seem at first glance. To anticipate: the Procedure Text will yield the conclusion that the modes that have the larger number of songs here have another common characteristic — they are the authentics, and those with the smaller number are their plagals (qablītu is the “maverick” H-mode = mixolydian). But we do not know why there “must” be more songs in the authentic mode than in its plagal. As we know, the seven categories used here also appear in the Procedure Text and in the Key-Number Table. Here, in C-Md, they classify songs. In P-MdSt they are constructs that form a cyclic group, obtained by the systematic modification of the state of one or two strings. All the historical and ethnomusical data point to the conclusion that these terms must therefore stand for scales. The Procedure Text supplies enough information to peg down the assumption that these scales are octave species and that they are diatonic. Since the Catalogue is not an exercise but rather a classification of actual songs, we might well ask whether here, at least, the terms stand for something more than scalarity. But there is no documentary evidence for this, and there can thus be no hypothesis. We may assume that the sequence in which the seven terms appear in the Catalogue is not haphazard. The incomplete group in lines 14–15 has pītu after embūbu, just as in the complete group in lines 45–51. This is no proof in itself, but for the musicologist it would be surprising if the order were haphazard. We also find the same order in the second part of the Procedure Text, and its reverse in the first part. For the heptamodal-diatonic group three orderings are possible: two are cyclic — by fourths or by fifths — and the third is by scalar steps. The Procedure Text “works” most simply if we assume that its ordering is cyclic. When we come to the Key-Number Table, we shall see that it comports very well with



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the assumption that there the ordering is scalar, because the table has a pedagogical purpose of its own. In the earlier publications our Assyriological colleagues always considered the differences of sequence as something very troubling, but this is actually a nonproblem. It must be said that the musicologists have also raised some nonproblems on which the Assyriologists found it difficult to allay their colleagues’ fears.

1.4 The Procedure Text 1.41 Analogous Textual Formats Our text is a highly formulaic sequence of statements in the “if-then” form. Five of these statements have survived, fully or in part. Each opens with the term šumma (“in case/given that”), which signals that what follows is a protasis (the “if” clause). There are always four lines to the statement, before šumma appears again to open a new protasis. Somewhere within these four lines the protasis ends and the apodosis (the “then” clause) begins. But this apodosis is not introduced by a signaling term of its own. In the first section of the text (lines [0] to 11), the lack of such a signal is not too important, because the statement is relatively simple. The second section after the subscript 12 [x?] NU.SU [y] is another matter. It is obviously a more complicated case, one step further along the way to proficiency. Some additional components appear in the second line of each statement, and here the lack of an explicit apodosis signal causes trouble, because it leaves the interpretation open to several alternatives. This becomes especially obvious if we take the text as it stands, without the two emendations that were introduced when the tablet was first published (for discussion, see §1.42). The precise role of several elements that do appear in the text is also obscured, because of the highly formulaic shaping of the statements. To solve this problem, we must draw upon texts of a similar form, for which there is already a more secure interpretation of the components and their relationships. Such texts are indeed plentiful, and the opening term šumma is their identifying mark and symbol. They are the analogues and the congeners of our music text, whose formal pattern is not at all an original creation, devised for the domain of musical theory. It can be said — and now with more certainty than ever before — that no formulation of a musico-theoretical statement is ever “original” in its pattern. The theoretical approach to music is not among the first concerns of Man the Classifier. When music comes to be taken over into the province of the intellect, certain molds of inquiry and discourse are already at hand, and the new lore is cast into

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one of these molds. When a new musical theory is promulgated, it will also be cast in a mold taken from the intellectual environment. It is, of course, significant to note which mold the musical theorist will chose in each period — be he Franco of Cologne or Allen Forte of Yale. The recognition of the mold gives the phenomenon its “Sitz im Leben.” Moreover, especially as we go further back in time, these analogues and congeners can help solve textual cruxes that cannot be solved by applying only internal criteria. In the Mesopotamian record we find the pattern “if-then” as a standard vehicle for expressing normative decisions, chiefly in the domain of divination, medicine and law. The key term that signals the protasis is šumma, in the sense of “given the initial situation that...,” just as in our text; however, the situation is not always a simple one, and the full statement can be rather involved. Struggles with the interpretation of such complex statements are evident in the study of every domain of what I call the “province of šumma.” The most detailed and most acerb discussions appear in the literature on Mesopotamian law. The jurist will not be satisfied when the Assyriologist has reached the limit of philological certainty and must pepper his translation with bracketed additions, alternatives and question marks. The original mechanism must be made to work again, and open alternatives will not do. The same goes for the mathematician, and for the musicologist. Thus, the complex šumma statements, in law and elsewhere, enable us to recognize that we have a problem in certain parts of our text or texts, and the kind of a problem it is.

(a) Divination Omen texts form the largest part of the Mesopotamian “stream of tradition.” To quote again from our guide: Such omen collections consist of endless, systematically arranged, one-line entries, each describing a specific act, a well-defined event, the behaviour or feature of an animal, a specific part of its body, or that of a plant or of a human being, or the movements of the stars, the moon and the sun, atmospheric events, and other observable details, of unbelievable variety. Each case is provided with a prediction that refers to the welfare of the country or to that of the individual with respect to whom — such is the basic assumption — the event happened, if it was not purposely provoked to obtain information about the future. (Oppenheim 1977: 16; see also his chapter on divination, pp. 206–227 and its bibliography)

There is a strong probability that the šumma formulation was first established in the omen texts, and transferred from there to other domains. “Given that (šumma) this-and-that has occurred, [it follows that] such-and-such will occur.” Here reasoning was first formulated, in both senses of the word. There is an early stage, the



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collection and accumulation of occurrences considered ominous, during which the pattern becomes established, and the division into subject groups that will later become the standard series. At this stage, this is still a “science of doing,” alias folklore. After all, formula is also the most important tool of oral tradition. But then a process of theorizing sets in: the lists of omina become omen tables, exercises in extrapolatory, combinatory and permutatory virtuosity, to leave no possibility unregistered. For the apodoses, the predicated results, there is a kind of stabilization (“stock apodoses”), and the parallel collections of apotropaic and expiatory rituals also do not grow to infinite complexity. The theoretical expansion takes place in the protases “given that this-and-that has happened” becomes, in effect, “given that this-and-this exists.” Formula has become a tool of creation, not only a tool of preservation and transmission, and with this, the fateful step has been taken, from a “science of doing” to the “doing of science.” Let us say, “doing science — Act One.” The view of divination as “la discipline reine, et probablement mère de toutes les autres,” (Nougayrol 1966: 10) is no doubt justified. The rise of theoretical divination seems to have occurred sometime during the Old Babylonian period (very roughly between 1800–1600 bce, with Hammurapi, ruling ca. 1792–1750, as the focal figure). This is also the period to which our musical Procedure Text is assigned. Its document (U.7/80) was a lucky find: if the text had been discovered in a later copy we could not have learned from it what can be learned now. To whatever domain of intellectual achievement one turns, the Old Babylonian period is defined again and again as a kind of watershed situation, or creative spurt. The first stage of mathematical achievement in its proper sense also occurred at this time. A survey of one particular branch of divination will yield a further insight into our own subject. It concerns teratological omens — the implications of extraordinary births, human and animal, that came to be collected and developed in the series šumma izbu (“Given that a newborn animal”). This change [to the theoretical approach] had two aspects. First, the existing omens were systematically ordered. The omens were arranged by subject matter in a sequence based on the protasis and running, as far as possible, from the head to the feet. Secondly, new omens were added in an attempt to make the series all-inclusive. The series consistently gives one omen derived from the left side of the body, followed by an identical omen from the right side of the body, followed by the identical omen from both sides of the body. This consistency and the general all inclusiveness of the series virtually guarantees us that the majority of the omens in the standardised series were systematically added rather than observed. (Leichty 1966: 132)

We may substitute for “omens” the musical constructs defined by a theoretical system, whether expressed through a Procedure Text or, even more patently, in

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the perfect “wheel within a wheel” of the Key-Number Table. The problem of musical theory and musical reality arises, as it must, as soon as there is a theory, in the sense of a “doing of science.” In the above quotation, the entities of a theoretical system were defined as being of two kinds: observed and contrived. It would be better to divide them into three kinds: the observed (real, though pared down by formalization), the contrived (unreal) and the semicontrived (realia distorted by contrivance to fit the system). The three kinds can, of course, be discerned only if the realia have also survived. For the musical reality of ancient Mesopotamia (or Greece, or India or China) this does not seem possible. We can be sure that the “perfect” theory comprises all three kinds — but what is which? Moreover, in the arts it may happen that a branch of practice comes to obey theory, so that the initially contrived becomes the real.

(b) Medicine The domain of medicine uses the pattern of the omen texts for its pairing of illness and cure. There is a large area of activities in which divination and medicine operate together, and the picture is rather complex. Particularly interesting for us is what Oppenheim calls “theoretical medicine,” in which the building of tabulations for the so-called prognostic omina shows the same unrestricted growth as the systematic omen tables (see Oppenheim 1977: 289ff.). In “practical medicine” the cure will also have a mixture of spiritual and physical technology, as expected. It is the textual form that interests us here. For my example I chose the case and cure of the common hangover. Conjunctions have not been added, but I have marked the boundaries of the clauses. šumma amēlu šikara ištīma (in case that a man, having drunk strong drink) / his head pinches him / his words he forgets / in his speech he slurs them / his understanding does not hold / that man’s eyes izzaza (are fixed = glare?) // ana balāṭišu (for his well-being) / herb A, herb B...[11 herbs listed] macerated / in oil and strong drink / before the divine Gula (goddess of healing) / in the morning before the divine sun shines / before anyone has kissed him (in salutation) / išattima (he will have imbibed) // iballuṭ (he shall be well). (Küchler 1904: 32–33, there with German translation)

In the medical procedure texts the apodosis is introduced explicitly, by the stock expression ana balāṭišu, which is then echoed in the equally standard iballuṭ at the end. Such a clear pivoting point in the middle is not found in all statements on the šumma pattern, and indeed it does not appear — regrettably — in our musical Procedure Text. In the medical text we note the distinction between the initial ištīma (preterite = having previously drunk) and the final išattima (present



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= having now drunk). Both are given the enclitic particle –ma, which articulates the structure in a particularly subtle way. The more complex the statement, the more such devices are needed to assure that the mechanism will indeed work as required. However, if the statement is not preserved intact and the subject matter is not self-explanatory, the complexity of the mechanism will make it more difficult to find out what was intended. This is the problem that we face in our musical Procedure Text.

(c) Law The domain of law takes over the šumma pattern, to pair what must be paired here: crime and punishment or other situations of imbalance and restitution. In the Neo-Babylonian period, by the way, the šumma opening is discarded; if more musical texts from this period are found, it will be interesting to see whether this has also happened there. It is in the study of Mesopotamian law that the workings of complex šumma statements have been most thoroughly investigated, both by historians of law and by the grammarians. The legal statements also have the most involuted realizations of the pattern — as legal statements do until the present day. Their interpretation often raises problems that are very similar to those of our Procedure Text. We shall therefore apply them directly to our task. Metaphorically speaking, at this point our patient has been “prepped” and is already on the operating table. We now proceed in two stages. In the first stage (§ 1.42) the text will be established as it stands, with only those restitutions that may be accepted as self-evident. From this we shall already be able to find out the scalar identities of the mode terms. In the second stage (§ 1.43) we shall try to complete the more problematical missing parts of the clauses, with the help of what can be learned from a selection of legal statements.

1.42 The text and the modal values From the String List comes the nomenclature of a set of nine strings, in a “first forward then backward” order. A cursory check of the Procedure Text and the Key-Number Table assures us that the strings are nevertheless to be tuned in a straightforward scalar sequence. There is, however, no overt indication whether the sequence is low-to-high or high-to-low — whether qudmû is the lowest or the highest in pitch. We assume that only one scalar direction obtains throughout the theory (as the most economical hypothesis). The Procedure Text must be made to

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yield one of the two alternatives, qudmû-high or qudmû-low, and also to eliminate the other beyond doubt. The Procedure Text assumes the full gamut of nine strings, but the Key-Number Table only uses strings 1 to 7. Now, an overview of the music texts in themselves and against their background (including the mathematical texts of all kinds) gives a very strong impression of a striving for minimal redundancy. How efficiently this was achieved for the basic computational tools — the multiplication table and the tables of reciprocals — is described con gusto by Neugebauer (1969: 30–34). If the Procedure Text has the full gamut, there will probably have been a need for this. We should thus not only ask why the Key-Number Table makes do with “less,” but why the Procedure Text has “more,” and why nine. From the Song Catalogue comes a group of seven terms that classify songs. A superficial reading of the Procedure Text offers the hypothesis that the two texts, taken together, are consistent with the assumption that the terms stand for the heptamodal-diatonic group. But since we have also assumed that the string terms are neutral, there are still several alternatives for the assignment of a specific value to each of the seven mode terms. The Procedure Text must not only be made to yield a plausible set of values, but also to eliminate all other candidates. But first the text itself must be established. For the text, I shall generally follow its first publication by Gurney (1968). However, that “authorized version” also included two emendations, one of addition and one of substitution. I have come to conclude that these emendations are not necessary. The text will be presented here as found and the matter of the emendations will be discussed afterward. Gurney also reconstructed the missing endings for the clauses. I shall leave these out for the present and discuss the possibilities later. Completions that seem beyond doubt are included, but printed in smaller letters so that the reader will again see what portions of the text are actually preserved in this specimen. A translation will not be attempted at this first stage, because it depends on the outcome of the structural analysis. The glossary is also provisional. As in the two texts presented previously, transcription is used instead of syllabic transliteration.



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Fig. 3: Procedure Text (P–MdSt//U.7/80). Glossary ZÀ.MÍ

giš

Šumma Talput Tennīma Lā zak-[...] iz-za-[...] [l.4 & 8]

Sumerogram for noun sammû, an open-stringed instrument. Here probably used generically for the set of nine open strings. As the clauses are not sufficiently intact, the case-form of the word cannot be inferred. “If ”/“Given that” (initially) vb. lapātu: grip/encompass/play? 2. masc. preterite vb. enûm: change/modify. 2. masc. present with enclitic particle –ma “not” vb. zakû: be pure/clear/free/absolved/perfect etc. vb. zakû or izuzzum: stand/be stable etc.

Line [0 1. 2. 3.

šumma gišZÀ.MÍ pit[] embūbu[m] šalša[m qatnam] embūbum izza[] / izā[]

4. 5. 6. 7.

šumma gišZÀ.MÍ embūb[] kitmum ribi uḫrîm kitmum izza[] / izā[]

8. 9. 10. 11.

šumma giš ZÀ.MÍ kitm[] išartum la zak[] šamūšam u uḫriam išartum izza[] / izā[]

12.

[x?] NU.SU [y]

13. 14. 15. 16.

šumma gišZÀ.MÍ išart[] qablītam talput šamušam u uḫriam tennīma giš ZÀ.MÍ kitmu[]

17. 18. 19. [20.

šumma gišZÀ.MÍ kitm[] qablītam la zakūtam talput ribi uḫrîm tennīma ?gišZÀ.MÍ embūb[]

Section

]

I

II

III

Clause a b c d a b c d

Restored through C-Md L-St l. 7 & 11 Pattern

l. 11

a b c d

subscript

IV

V ]

a b c d a b c d

Spacing between sections and dashed lines are added here. The top and bottom of tablet were not preserved in the fragment.

Unemended! l. 19

Unemended! l. 6 & L-St C-Md & II here

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(1) The b-clauses of sections IV and V In the first publication of the text (Gurney 1968) two emendations were made. IV-b (line 14 was expanded to qablītam talput, analogous to V-b (line 18). To quote: “It is difficult to see how this can be anything but a mistake on the part of the scribe” (ibid.: 230–231; seconded by Kümmel 1970: 256, note 1). In line 18, however, the possible reading qablītam was emended to išartam. To quote: “The traces in line 18 would allow the reading [qá-ab-l]i-ta-am instead of [i-ša]r-ta-am, but the latter is required here by the sense...” (loc. cit., adopted without comment by Kümmel). These emendations stem directly or indirectly from certain interpretations of the Key-Number Table. We may not apply such interpretations here, and at this point must somehow bring ourselves to act as if K-MdSt were still buried in the tell of Nippur. The fragment is carefully written. Syntactic assonance might have caused a slip in line 14, if the scribe already had the next section ringing in his head. But the mistake assumed in line 18 is less likely: there is no phonetic assonance between the two words. Since texts of musical theory were not copied very frequently (otherwise we would already have a larger corpus and the subject would have been recognized much earlier), the probability of an ignorant and/or sloppy copyist is low. I find it very difficult to accept the co-occurrence of these two lapses in this copy and in a text of this kind. The proof would be if the text could be shown not to work at all, or with great difficulty, unless these two emendations are put in. I have tried to take the text as it stands and to follow where this may lead. As will be shown, the text works very well thus, and also does more than was expected of it until now.

(2) The c-clauses In sections I–III the operational term is not preserved. Until now, Gurney’s reconstruction has been accepted — to have tennīma here, as in IV–V. But this raises several problems. IV is the reverse process of III, and V, of II etc. If the same tennīma is indeed used here and there, it implies ♭ in the first part and sharp in the second part (or vice versa). A pedagogical paradigm cannot be effective in this way (“modify, as the case requires, either by flat or by sharp”). Since –ma ends the clause, there could not have been something like “modify by tightening/sharpening,” and then “modify by loosening/flattening,” (or vice versa). Moreover, there is a crucial difference between the two, in the paradigmatic situation that we assume here — an open-stringed instrument, tuned to a diatonic scale, with no chromatic “spares.” One can sharpen any string temporarily and instantly by finger stopping it near the end with a slight pressure. (The tone quality will be slightly different from that of the free strings, but this will not be decisive under all musical circum-



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stances, especially when the instrument does not give a solo performance but rather accompanies a singer/singers and/or is part of a mixed ensemble.) One can also sharpen the string permanently, through whatever mechanism is available. Flattening, however, always involves a mechanical readjustment. As every string player knows, you have a fair chance of getting close to the desired higher tone when you twist the peg upward, but if you have to flatten, the tension of the string will pull you downward beyond your target. If there is a modal metabole within the piece that is being played on the open-stringed instrument, this difference between sharpening and flattening becomes crucial. You can sharpen temporarily by finger pressure, but you cannot flatten temporarily. Lastly, we know now that the terminology had separate terms for tightening (“up tuning”) and loosening (“down tuning”) the strings, as expected. These terms are discussed in Kilmer 1965: 263–264, supplemented ead. 1971: 139, note 43. The proposals are tightening nasāḫu (sum. gíd.i) or loosening nê’u (sum. tu.lu), with a synonym, rabābu. Remembering the Arab rabbāba (instrument and congeners in the domain of bow and bow-string), the “synonym” requires a question mark. The terms need a separate inquiry under musicological control. In any case, we may not etymologize at this stage. The meaning of tenni-ma in sections IV–V must be recovered by structural analysis. We may note, though, that the tenni-ma is not derived from nê’um (loosen) but from enûm (change, general), even if both verbs belong to the same semantic field. For sections I–III the operative verb will be left unrestored at present. The only assumption is that if the second part is about sharpening the first part is about flattening, and vice versa.

(3) The d-clauses It is still a moot point whether iz-za...in section III should be restored as izzaz (stands/is stable) or as izzaku (is made pure/perfect). The first was proposed by Gurney (1968: 230) and the second by Kümmel (1970: 255, note 3). We may risk the assumption that the difference is not significant. Of course, as in European theory, what is imperfect is not necessarily stable. In the second part (IV–V) the d-clauses are formulated in a different way. Gurney assumed that the d-clauses in the second part would end like the a-clauses in the first part, to make the presumed mirror relationship even stronger. Section V would thus be as follows: šumma sammû kitm[umma] qablīltam [unemended!] la zakūtam ta[lput] [ribi] uḫrîm tennīma [sammû embūbumma]

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Similarly, section IV would begin with …išart[umma] and end with …kitm[umma]. Later on I shall propose a slightly different reconstruction, but this does not involve the mode terms as such.

(4) Space allowances for restorations On the tablet, there are no spaces between the words in the longer clauses, and the signs are slightly squeezed together. The longest line that can be reconstructed is line 18, comprising 14 signs (including t[a-al-pu-ut] with no spacing between the words. The minimal width of the column can thus be assessed at about 13 “average” sign spaces. This minimum could probably be increased, since in those lines that have word spacing the spacings are quite wide. The left-hand column is too fragmentary to allow the reconstruction of even one full line. As the specimen is a fragment and the subject is not a common one, it seems too risky to make more precise extrapolations, even though much is known about the standards of tablet and column sizes in various periods. At any rate, the suggestions that will be made in the following, such as putting an additional word in the a-clauses, have been tested by the above assumption of column width, and they do not seem to strain the limit of possibility. For the first structural analysis, we shall take up sections I to III. Each section says that if the initial state (= S) (of the instrument, i.e., of the strings) is thus-andthus, and a certain operation is performed on a specific string (or string pair), the resulting state will be so-and-so. To obtain a clearer view, we reduce the three statements to formula. The sign ʘ will stand for “unspecified operation” and the sign ^ will stand for “conjunction,” i.e., co-occurrence, with no further implication. I II III

S pītu, S embūbu S kitmu

ʘ S3 ʘ S6 ʘ S2^S9

→ → →

S embūbu S kitmu S išartu

Assuming that pītu, embūbu, kitmu and išartu stand for members of the heptamodal-diatonic group, which value is to be assigned to each? The testing has to consider four alternative conditions in which the unspecified operation is either flatten or sharpen and S1 (qudmû) is either the lowest or the highest: –– qudmû is lowest and the operation is “flatten.” Then pītu is an ascending mode with a major third: either the C-, F- or G-mode.



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If pītu is the C-mode, embūbu is the ascending melodic minor — intrinsically not a member of the heptamodal-diatonic group. This is not decisive in itself, but kitmu would then have an augmented second, and two such compromises are not acceptable. If pītu is the F-mode, embūbu has two consecutive semitones S4–S5–S6.; negative again. If pītu is the G-mode, we obtain that embūbu is the D-mode, kitmu, the A-mode and išartu, the E-mode. By extrapolation (reversing the sequence of terms in the Catalogue) we obtain that qablītu is the H-mode, nīš GAB.RI, the F-mode and nīd qabli, the C-mode. Needless to say, the fact that the group comprises two tritonal modes (F and H) is a nonproblem in the present context. We have one plausible result, but the other alternatives must be tested as well. –– qudmû is lowest and the operation is “sharpen.” Then pītu is an ascending mode with a minor third: either the D-, E-, A- or H-mode. Results: all tests lead immediately or ultimately to constructs outside the heptamodal-diatonic group. –– qudmû is highest and the operation is “flatten.” Then pītu is a descending mode with a minor third: either the C-, D-, F- or G-mode (the minor third being here “on top”). Results are as in b. –– qudmû is highest and the operation is “sharpen.” Then pītu is a descending mode with a major third “on top”: the E-, H- or A-mode. For pītu = E-mode or H-mode all tests come out negative, as in (b) and (c). For pītu = A-mode we obtain that embūbu is the D-mode, kitmu, the G-mode and išartu, the C-mode. By extrapolation, as in (a), we further obtain that qablītu is the F-mode, niš GAB.RI, the H-mode and nīd qabli, the E-mode. The tests assumed that the scalar direction is uniform, i.e., that there is no coexistence of ascending and descending scalar paradigms. Such coexistence within one theoretical framework (predicated upon one kind of instrument) is not plausible. Moreover, the text could not be formulated uniformly, as it is, if its task was to be a “Schule der Geläufigkeit” for the inculcation of the modes by solfège-ing or playing them up and down. Neither is the šumma pattern suited for such a task. The bidirectionality was proposed because the Key-Number Table has number pairs that “go up” or “go down” (such as 2–6 as against 7–4). Since the table was the first text to arrive on the musicological scene proper, that interpretation has continued to influence the later studies. When we come to the table here — last, not first — we shall see that there is a simpler explanation. We face two alternatives, and there must be a deciding factor to eliminate one of them. The deduction “qudmû = front = lowest string of the lyre/harp” cannot be decisive, since we may not depend on verbal connotations.

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The decision depends therefore upon our interpretation of the second procedure, i.e., the two surviving sections that come after the subscript …NU.SU…. One of the alternatives must comport better with the second part. The criteria are economy and plausible relationships with the comity of traditional theory systems that we already know. The latter criterion is ultimately also one of economy. On these counts, the most satisfactory result is achieved when we adopt alternative (a). There qudmû is indeed the lowest string/note and pītu is the G-mode. The operation in the first part would thus have to be “flatten.” The only reservation against this would be that Greek theory is supposed to have reckoned the direction of the scale downward. But this supposed rule actually does not exist (there is no need to survey that imbroglio here). In what follows I shall proceed by alternative (a). The testing of alternative (d) will not be carried out here, but as the conditions have been described the readers can do the test by themselves. One internal test of the first part may nevertheless be mentioned. If we take section III, for instance — kitmu to išartu — alternative (d) makes this G-mode (“Hypophrygian”) to C-mode (“Lydian”), but alternative (a) makes it A-mode (“Hypodorian”) to E-mode (“Dorian”). The Greek analogue seems to favor (a), but of course this cannot decide the issue without other supporting evidence. The working hypothesis is thus as follows, with four modes extrapolated: Sequence as in the first part of the Procedure Text: [qablītu [nīš GAB.RI [nīd qabli [pītu Embūbu Kitmu Išartu

H-mode F-mode C-mode G-mode D-mode A-mode E-mode

“Mixolydian”] “Hypolydian”] “Lydian”] “Hypophrygian”] “Phrygian” “Hypodorian” “Dorian”

Sequence as in the Song Catalogue: Išartu Kitmu Embūbu Pītu [nīd qabli [nīš GAB.RI Qablītu

E-mode A-mode D-mode G-mode C-mode F-mode H-mode

“Dorian” “Hypodorian” “Phrygian” “Hypophrygian” “Lydian” “Hypolydian” “Mixolydian”



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In the second part of the Procedure Text the terms appear in triplets: išartu — qablītu — kitmu, and then kitmu — qablītu — [embūbu]. The extremes of each (surviving) triplet are thus in the same sequence as the Song Catalogue. At this stage we cannot know if the subsequent statements will also have qablītu in the middle each time, because we do not as yet know why they are formulated the way they are. It is therefore preferable not to extrapolate the text downward, except for [embūbu] to complete section V. In the first part, the statements are straightforward enchained pairs, and an extrapolation upward is not overly risky. It is preferable to consider what we have done here as an extrapolation to complete the paradigm, but not necessarily the column on this particular document. For the procedure in the first part it is not important whether each section is to be taken by itself, or whether the student is asked to carry out a “run” through the sections. In both cases flattening must be done, i.e., the string or strings must actually be loosened — tuned down by a semitone. If there is to be a “run,” the risk of a growing distortion seems to be too great. In any case, we feel the need for a countervailing device to true the tuning to itself, not only in relation to its “plagal” or “authentic” parallel. Moreover, this Procedure Text teaches how to turn one mode into another, but not how to tune the strings to the initial mode. It is not a Tuning Text, as it is called in the literature but a Retuning text. We have already seen, and shall see further as we go on, that we are in an environment where all norms that can be measured are put into tables and exercises (and the other norms are also treated as if they were of this kind). The texts that have been discussed up to this stage — String List, Song Catalogue and Procedure Text — make it highly probable that a Tuning Text proper must also exist. To anticipate, the interpretation that will be proposed here, the Key-Number Table is precisely that Tuning Text.

1.43 Explorations The working hypothesis of the modal values has been set up without a precise translation of the text, and without any assumption of what the second part (sections IV, V etc.) is about. In the literature, the consensus is that the second part is simply the first part performed in reverse: “down by flattening” there, “up by sharpening” here. Our Mesopotamia colleagues of the “scribal-religious complex” were not in the habit of writing out twice what could be written out once — especially not for subjects involving inversion and reciprocity. Here another part of the environment must be drawn into our field of view: the domain of mathematics, with its procedure texts and their various strata of supporting tables [!!], the numerical place-value

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notation that underlies them and the fundament of the two numerical systems (decimal and sexagesimal). Although the domains of the šumma pattern are the formal analogues of our text, the domain of mathematics is the technical analogues of both this and the Key-Number Table. And here economy reigns supreme. (For the background, see Neugebauer 1969: Chapters 2–3, with pp. 31–34 on “saving tricks” in the organization of the network of multiplication tables and tables of reciprocals; a longer survey is Neugebauer 1934–1969.) The general impression one gains from these texts is: reduction to essentials and shortcuts and making one tool do for several. This speaks strongly against the assumption that the second part of our Procedure Text is nothing but the mechanical inversion of the first. We are not in our own environment of paper, print and the premise of the idiot infant. Moreover, the statements in the second part are formulated differently from those in the first part. In both, a section consists of four clauses, each of which is given one line. They have been marked as a, b, c and d in our presentation of the text (see p. 51ff.). The a-clause is the “source,” the c-clause is the operation, and the d-clause is the “sink.” The difference is in the b-clause. In the second part (sections IV–V) the b-clause posits an additional mode term between the “source” and the operation. Gurney (1968) emended IV-b and V-b. We must find out under what condition these b-clauses become necessary at all, and one should first try to see whether there could be a condition in which the b-clauses make sense if they are not emended. The emendations were as follows: in IV-b qablītam talput and in V-b išartam [instead of qablītam] la zakūtam talput. At this stage, a precise translation of the text still confronts an overly large number of branching choices: but, and, initially, concurrently, consequently and subsequently will each lead to a different outcome. The information that we already have eliminates some alternatives, but still leaves too many others, and a mechanical exhaustion of alternatives is not possible here. The solution must be found through a structural approach, with the help of similar texts whose workings are already understood. It is here that the legal statements in the šumma pattern come to our aid, and they will serve us a so-called toy. To quote (the emphasis is mine): Much of the time the decipherer finds himself chasing structural features of an unknown nature. A useful device in these cases is external comparison — not of two hypotheses within the corpus, but of structurally similar hypotheses in two different corpuses, the second of which is of a known nature. This other corpus is the cryptanalyst’s “toy” or model. (Barber 1974: 77; see also index s.v. toy)

The “toy” will be five legal statements from the Old Babylonian period to which our document is also assigned. At the very least, the composition of the text is in reasonable chronological proximity. Two of the ordinances are taken from the



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Laws of Hammurapi and three, from legal formulary ana ittišu. The latter would seem to confirm the existence of strict rules for the formulation of legal statements. Even though we have but this one Procedure Text for music at present, it seems that the same rules were also applied quite deliberately here. This is not surprising: the situation is related to the reasoning of imbalance-and-redress with which the domain of law is concerned, and the scriptores of musical theory belong to the same overall professional environment. The texts will be presented in transcription and not in the trans-“literation.” The Sumerograms have been left in place, with their readings added in brackets. This is because there is also a Sumerogram in our Tuning Text — the writing gišZÀ.MÍ for sammû (stringed instrument or body of strings). It appears within clauses that are not intact enough to supply clear information about the case of the noun (see discussion above). The intact legal texts will demonstrate how the cases are assigned there. My retranslations are literal as to the lexical elements, and largely congruent as to word order. The grammatical forms have been translated “functionally” and not literally. The result is obviously not a translation for reading. For the difficulties, see Driver and Miles 1955: 360–361 and the entire chapter. No conjunctions have been added, because there are none in the text and thus we become more conscious of the fact that the conjunctive functions are carried out by other means — which is the basic problem that we face in our music text. The clauses and subclauses have been numbered so as to set out their relationship. (1) governs the protasis and (2), the apodosis. (1) ana ittišu VII, iv 1–7 (MSL 1, 103) 11 12 13 23

šumma aššatu mussa izīrma ul mutī atta iqtabi ana nāri inaddûšu

In case a wife her husband she disliked “Not my husband are you,” she has declared Into the river canal they shall cast her.

(2) Codex Hammurapi §229 (Driver and Miles 1955: 82–83) 11 12

13 14

šumma ŠITIM [= itinnum] ana awīlim E[= bītam] īpušma šipiršu la udanninma É[= bīt] īpušu imqutma bēl E[= bītim] uštamīt ŠITIM[= itinnum] šû iddâk

In case a builder for a man a house made his work he did not strengthen the house he made collapsed the householder it has killed — That builder shall be put to death.

*uštamīt = properly “has caused the death of”

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(3) Codex Hammurapi §21 (Driver and Miles 1955: 20–21) 11 13 21 23

šumma awīlum bītam ipluš ina pāni pilšim šuāti idukkūšuma iḫallalūšu

In case a man into a house broke In front of that breach they shall kill him and shall hang him.

(4) ana ittišu VII, iii 29–33 (MSL 1, 101-102) 11 13 21 22 23

šumma māru ana ummišu ul ummī atta iqtabi muttassu ugallabūma ālam ussaḫḫarūšu u ina É[= bītim] ušeṣûšu

In case a son to his mother “Not my mother are you,” he has declared They may (first) shave his half [= of his head] and lead him around the town And (lastly) throw him out of the house.

The formally present tense of ugallabū etc. could serve in the apodosis to say what shall be done, as in all the preceding examples. Here, though, the use is permissive: the punishment may be carried out. No internal or external coercion is implied. The family can just as well decide to give the naughty son a good beating and the “authorities” will not force them to obey the letter of the law or carry out the formal punishment on their own. This use of the present tense can also be applied to the other nuances of permission: “choose to do,” “wish to” and “be able to.” The available information decides which sense probably applies in each case. This grammatical possibility exists in a certain place within our text and it will be explored later in this study. (5) ana ittišu VII, iii 23–28 11 13 21 21 23

šumma māru ana abišu ul abī atta iqtabi ugallabšu abbuttam išakkanšu u ana KÙ.BABBAR[= kaspim] inaddiššu

In case a son to his father “Not my father are you,” he has declared — He may shave him, The slave-hairlock he may put on him, and for silver he may give [= sell] him.

For the slaves’ coiffure, see CAD A/1: s.v. abbuttum. The intention is again that this is what the father may do if he wants. The u “and,” in the final clause here and in the preceding, also functions as the rhetorical hinge for the final and most grave declaration. These two paragraphs have a distinct “swing,” much more so than in the cases of the builder and the housebreaker. Because of their content they stand



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midway between a legal ordinance and a moral adage, and hence partake of the nature of poetry. When a group of texts evinces strong patterning, a fragmentary text that clearly belongs to the same group can be filled in, on whatever level of information the pattern provides. In a specimen of European poetry, for instance, only the time element and perhaps the rhyming syllable could be filled in (u—u—u—u-ose). In an optimal case, such as a numerical table, extrapolation can fill in the precise individual values (but only if one is sure that no “saving tricks” were employed, as in certain Mesopotamian tables — see Neugebauer 1969: 30–31). Where our own case is analogous to the mathematical tabulation, we have already been able to fill in values. But in all other respects we are midway between a minimal and an optimal level of information. The “toy” cannot provide individual values, except for the opening šumma (which is mostly preserved in any case), but it does provide the next-best information. –– Every clause concludes with a verbal element, throughout the sections. –– The a-clause has at least four beats (or rather accentual peaks). Hence, the accepted reconstruction as, e.g., šumma gišZÀ.MÍ kitm[umma], is less probable than šumma gišZÀ.MÍ kitm[—](verb). The sammû may thus be in the accusative, sammûm (as the CAD indeed puts it; see CAD L: 89, s.v. lapātu).4 But the vagaries of musical terminology recommend that we leave the forms unrestored. –– The protasis and the apodosis can both be subdivided in themselves into antecedent and consequent parts. For this, the medical text quoted previously (see p. 38) also furnishes a good example: drinking implies consequent hangover symptoms; cure implies iballuṭ “he shall revive.” –– The present tense can also indicate feasibility (“may,” “can”). Circumstantial information must be adduced in each case to decide what is intended. The proposed reconstructions of the forms of our statements are, thus as follows: Section III šumma gišZÀ.MÍ kitm[..] {verb/verb-ma} išartum la zak[ât?] šamušam u uḫriam {verb-ma} išartum izzakū/izzaz 4 Editor’s note: Bayer apparently did not understand the Akkadian nominal sentence; sammûm (gišZÀ.MÍ ) is in the nominative in the CAD transcription. Although the CAD reference in L is not translated, it is translated as: “if the sammûm is tuned to the išartum mode,” in CAD S: 119, s.v. sammû mng. 1.

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The b-clause probably ends on la zakât: it is not a verb but a verbal adjective, and there are sufficient precedents that a verbal adjective can play the role of a verb. The other points have already been discussed. In the a-clause, the ending on –ma is not absolutely necessary. As for kitm— there, musicological experience warns that one cannot fill it out just by choosing one of the grammatically correct possibilities, because professional idiomatics are involved. Section IV (unemended!) šumma gišZÀ.MÍ išart[..] {verb/verb-ma} qablītam talput šamušam u uḫriam tennima giš ZÀ.MÍ kitm[..] {verb} Section V (unemended!) šumma gišZÀ.MÍ kitm[..] {verb/verb-ma} qabīltam la zakūtam talput ribi uḫrîm tennima giš ZÀ.MÍ embūb[..] {verb} A functional translation of IV and V can now be attempted, with due consideration of the “toy.” Instead of “In case” it will be more convenient to translate šumma here as “Given that.” Section IV Given that: the sammû in/for išartu (vb. you having it set/it having been set), [thus] qablītu you have [also!] (vb. lapātu). [Next] S2 and S9 you having [first] changed/modified — the sammû in/for kitmu (vb. shall be set/be able to play?). Section V Given that: the sammû in/for kitmu (vb. you having it/it having been set), (thus) an imperfect qablītu you have [also!] (vb. lapātu). [Next] S6 you having [first] changed/modified — the sammû in/for embūbu (vb. shall be set/be able to play). To achieve a more specific translation, the lexical meanings of lapātu, enûm and zakû must be checked.



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The verb lapātu belongs to the class of “touching.” But this can be delimited further by excluding the “punctive touch,”5 either a single touch or several in succession. lapātu implies the combination of touch, coverage and adherence. Hence “encompass” is perhaps more suitable in this context than “play” even though there are descriptions of music scenes that do use lapātu in the latter sense (see Kilmer 1965: 263; CAD L: 91). The implication of enûm (tennī-ma) has already been discussed (p. @@). Its result is sharpening. But the act is probably finger stopping. The basic state of the string would then be left as it was; the string would only be “modified” temporarily. In IV qablītu is posited without qualification. In V it is la zakû — imperfect in some way. As noted (p. 43) one need not assume that what is designated as imperfect is therefore unusable or even impossible. Only the context of usage will supply what is meant. A provisional rephrasing in normal English will thus be as follows: Section IV If the tuning is in išartu, then qablītu is also possible; by finger-sharpening S2 and S9 — you can also play kitmu. Section V If the tuning is in kitmu, then imperfect qablītu is also possible; by finger-sharpening S6 — you can also play embūbu. With this reconstruction, the b-clauses in IV and V are no longer senseless. The statements posit a relationship of three scalar constructs. Such a relationship is entirely feasible under a certain condition, which we do not have to invent: the heirs of the Mesopotamian achievement described it, each in his way, and it still exists today, for the ear of the listener and for the hands of the player, as it existed then. The label we use for it has been taken from the terminology of one of the heirs: Byzantium, which assigned it two terms: plagality versus authenticity. Earlier, Aristides Quintilianus (second or third century ce) recognized that melodies that share the same scalar base can be allocated to three rather than to two subgroups. As an epigone of the Hellenistic tradition, he characterized them as hypatoïd, mesoïd and netoïd (cf. Sachs 1943: 249). 5 Editor’s Note: By “punctive touch” Bayer apparently refers to the “plucking” of a string.

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We already have the values of the octave species as such, and the implication of tennī-ma as an act that results in sharpening. For the second part of the text (sections IV–V) to make sense as it stands, the octave species must be juxtaposed as in the adjacent Table 1 and assigned differing regions of primary and secondary melodic activity. As purely notational convenience on our part, the mode of the a-clause is notated each time as its white-key mapping. If the situation represented in Table 1 is indeed the true explanation of what sections IV and V “mean,” a veritable host of interlocking conclusions is generated thereby. –– The E-mode išartu and the D-mode embūbu, to which the Greeks assigned presumably the straight ethnic names “Dorian” and “Phrygian,” belong to the same class as regards the region of primary melodic activity. The A-mode kitmu, which would thus correspond to the presumed Greek “Hypodorian,” has its region of primary activity on the opposite side. –– The H-mode qablītu, which would thus correspond to the presumed Greek “Mixolydian,” represents the case of a melodic occupancy of the middle area. Its lower region is more important, as regards the melodic activity. The Greek name is anomalous; a satisfactory explanation of the “Mixolydian” is not available, but obviously some close relationship to “Lydian” was expressed thereby. In our reconstruction the same terminology sharing is apparent. “Mixolydian” : “Lydian” = qablītu : nīd qabli. This correspondence also lends additional support to our scalar identification of the two Mesopotamian names: a similarity of relationship weighs more than just a similarity of components. The above statement of equivalence would seem to imply that something is not quite right: the compound term “Mixolydian” is qablītu, while the simple term “Lydian” is nīd qabli. But this will find its explanation when we come to the Key-Number Table. –– The disposition of qablītu in the middle of the nine-string systema, with its “finalis” on the midpoint, has been arrived at through a purely structural hypothesis. But the result is also a terminological fit: qablitum means “the middle” (cf. Aramaic and Arabic). At this stage, however, I still avoid any use of the verbal elements. The data are noted, but not adduced as proofs of anything. –– In section V it would ostensibly be possible to emplace qablītu within the kitmu tuning as a simple H-mode between SI and si (from S2 to S9). But the perfect qablītu, as emplaced in section IV, needs at least four tones below its “finalis.” Thus, it can be played when the tuning is kitmu, but imperfectly. Apparently, the main melodic activity is in a small range around the middle tone, so that the “imperfect” extremes do not make for an absolute impossibility. The imperfection could, of course, be removed here by setting the

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offending intervals right, but this demands flattening. If flattening is not allowed here, since the player cannot pause for retuning a string, it leaves qablītu imperfect. This means that our hypothesis about finger sharpening being involved has a good chance of being right. A perfect qablītu is achieved under these circumstances by the same action that turns kitmu into embūbu: the sharpening of S6. The d-clause of section V is not sufficiently preserved to show whether this was also said there explicitly. It may well have been. In the d-clause of section IV no other mode can be added. The emplacements notated in the table imply that the ninth string and the first string can both play three roles: nonpertinent, pertinent or significant. The first string can also be “strongly significant.” Hence, the ninth string is no longer the puzzling addition that the String List, as such, did not explain. If the ninth string is functional, a simpler scheme could also be invented. Each nine-string stretch in a certain tuning yields two octave species: a tuning from D to e, for instance, would present embūbu D-d and išartu E-e. As we have so few texts, it would be imprudent to decide that such a scheme cannot have existed, but the probability is low: If plagality is taken into account in this text, it strengthens the impression that this musical culture behaves like all the other theory-governed cultures we know: one does not “modulate” between a D-mode and an E-mode. They have no relationship within the actual melodic occurrence. Shock effect changes are always possible, but these will not be demonstrated in a basic training text such as the one we seem to have here. The complex workings of sections IV and V make it less easy to extrapolate sections VI, VII etc. One possibility would set up a section VI as embūbu-topītu, via šalšam qatnam tennīma (the mirror of section I). Between this pair, a perfect qablītu again becomes possible. In this case, section V would not end with the double statement “you can then play kitmu and qablītu”; that would be the job of section VI. There are some other possibilities as well: the statement may not be concerned exclusively with the relationship X: qablītu: Y. We simply do not have enough information to decide what is supposed to happen next and for how long it goes on. The very fragmentary titling statement in line 12 has not been investigated up to this point. Anne Kilmer was the first scholar who tried to establish a reading and propose an explanation (1971: 140, note 47). As this was done solely on palaeographical and philological grounds, and as I did not want to be guided by any of the existing interpretations, I did not take it up during the working out of the present hypothesis. A later check, however, showed that Kilmer’s proposal fitted very well into the result achieved here.



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To quote: Provisional translation [“Not augmented (??)”] of [x?] NU.SU [y] based on NU = la “not,” and SU = riābu “to augment, increase, replace,” and assuming that this line is a sub-label describing the preceding “Section I” [our I–III, B.B.] Perhaps to be restored as [SA] NU. SU.S[U] “string(s) not augmented.” Another possibility: NU.SU (for SÙ) .U[D] “not embellished” (= ulluḫu, see CAD E: p. 79, sub elēḫu). (Kilmer 1971: 140, note 47)

The second possibility does not seem to fit, but the first certainly does. The sublabel, i.e., subscript, says that something is “not augmented”; what follows is therefore probably “augmented.” A reminder to non-Assyriologists: in the cuneiform tradition, the titling statements are generally at the end, not at the head, of the text to which they refer. The first part (I–III) somehow makes do with less of something than the second part (IV–V). To put it even more generally, something is done in the second part that is deliberately not done in the first part. We do not know what the proposed riābu would mean in a musical context, but, in any case, there is a negative here, which further strengthens the contention that the second part is not simply an exercise in reverse. One possibility could be “Strings not in full range,” i.e., only to the octave, or even only in a heptatonic gamut. The latter is particularly tempting, because the Key-Number Table also names only strings one to seven. But section III seems to contradict this, as it indicates the ninth string as well. Another possibility would be nine strings in the first part and more in the second (together with a more involved paradigm, in accordance with the principle of economy). Many of the instruments in the iconographic and archaeological record have more than nine strings, but the quantity of pitch units on the instrument does not imply anything about the gamut with which the theory operates. Moreover, once we go beyond nine strings as the theory gamut or systema (which is the optimal number, capable of doing “the mostest with the leastest!”) — we land in the same theoretical bog in which the Greeks and the Indians landed. I suggest that for the present, there is not enough information to assign a precise meaning to the subscript. Its general sense is understood. In his new study of this text, Crocker proposes to interpret NU.SU as “stop here; for if you go further you merely duplicate what you have already done at a higher pitch” (Crocker 1978: 100–101). He reaches this conclusion through the accepted assumption that the two parts are mirror exercises and also does not consider the import of SU = riābu (to augment). Since my own argument follows a different path from the outset, my conclusions are necessarily different. –– The cycle that ends with section III can be traced backward and thus would begin with qablītu (H-mode), to continue with nīš GAB.RI, nīd qabli, pītu, embūbu, kitmu and išartu. Crocker indeed proposes this (1978: 101). However, qablītu to nīš GAB.RI and nīš GAB.RI to nīd qabli involve the sharpening of

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the fourth string. The fact that two tritonal modes are involved (H and F) is not a hindrance, but the fourth string is the string that the god Ea created or instituted — dEa-bānû. In the Greek analogue, the mese (of the “Dorian” mode projected on the systema) may not be modified. Could the Ea-string also have been such an immovable point? The analysis of the Key-Number Table will again give rise to this question. I thus suggest that we do not restore the first part of the Procedure Text beyond one preceding section, namely nīd qablito-pītu. A caution against the mechanical extrapolation of the second part has already been put forward. –– The second part proceeds in the same order as the listing in the Song Catalogue. išartu stands at the head of the group when an actual “Diwan” of songs is organized. One cannot ask why this should be so, but only note the datum. Also, this need not mean that the majority of the repertoire was in this mode. For example, the modern Arabic modal system usually puts Rast at the top of the list of modes (and calls it “First”), but the mode Rast does not dominate the repertoire. The Greeks attributed various good qualities to their “Dorian,” which is the presumed scalar equivalent of išartu, but since they had nothing that corresponds to a “Diwan,” a comparison must look to other paths. It is the “Diwan” concept itself that is far more interesting here. I use the Arabic term to denote any written collection of texts for singing that is organized according to a fixed sequence of the modes of the melodies. That the principle has survived, with its core area stretching from the Bosphorus to the Indus, is another datum to note. –– The “Diwan” concept has its parallel in the religious domain. In the Christian Near East this is assumed to be governed by the term Oktoëchos. This presumes eight modes. The Mesopotamian system has seven modes (in the Key-Number Table, seven plus seven). A tie in with any Oktoëchos tradition does not seem to be possible at present, and this is puzzling.6

6 Editor’s note: Surprisingly, Bayer fails to cite Eric Werner’s important study of the Oktoëchos in which he advanced the idea of its possible Mesopotamian origins. See: Eric Werner, “The Origins of the Eight Modes of Music (Octoechos),” Hebrew Union College Annual 21 (1948), pp. 211–255. See now: Elias Kesrouani, “L’octoéchos syriaque,” in: Aspects de la musique liturgique au Moyen Âge, ed. Christian Meyer, Paris: Éditions Créaphis, 1991, pp. 77–91 and the pathbreaking study by Peter Jeffery, “The Earliest Oktōēchoi: The Role of Jerusalem and Palestine in the Beginnings of Modal Ordering,” in: The Study of Medieval Chant: Paths and Bridges, East and West: In Honor of Kenneth Levy, ed. Peter Jeffery. Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell Press, 2001, pp. 147–209. Jeffery does not address at all Mesopotamian antecends and focus on the earliest tangible evidence from eighth-century Jerusalem



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However, one area of the Oktoëchos tradition has also recently been shown to be more problematical than was thought hitherto. This is the area of the Syriac Orthodox Church, whose liturgical language is Syriac (a dialect of Aramaic), and it extends grosso modo over Syria and northwestern Mesopotamia (with sectarian divisions within the area and offshoots outside it).7 For a relevant study, see Husmann 1971: Chapter 3 “Der ‘Oktoëchos’ des Severus von Antiochien” (pp. 46–58).

1.5 The Key-Number Table 1.51 Analogues That text that we call the Key-Number Table is actually one section of a list of key-numbers, i.e., coefficients, for computations of the most diverse kinds. It is necessary to understand the nature of these lists, so as to enable us to approach our table through its own context and culture. A key-number list is the equivalent of our modern vademecum of formulae and tables. It is a dispenser of concise numerical information for instant use. Several such lists have been published, and the general principle is understood. But many of the entries have not yet been explained, because corroborative texts are needed to flesh out the extreme “reductionism” of the statement. Here is an example, from the list that has been given the siglum Ud (YBC 5022, text and explanation from Neugebauer and Sachs 1945: 132–134). Line 17 18 19

3, 45 15 30

“Of the wall of rammed earth” (?) “Of asphalt” (?) “Of the triangle”

The numbers are probably to be read in the sexagesimal or mixed sexagesimal-decimal notation. The first number (3,45) is found in other lists in connection with the daily work assignment of manual laborers, but the application here is not yet understood. The second number (15) may be “the coefficient by which one must multiply the area expressed in units of square kuš [square cubits] in order to find the number of sìla [a liquid measure] of asphalt to cover the area in question” (Neugebauer and Sachs 1945: 133). The third number (30) is probably “the

7 Editor’s note: Only the Melkite and the Jacobite liturgies use the Oktōēchoi. See Jeffery, “The Easliest Oktōēchoi,” p. 156, note 29 and the extensive bibliography there on Syriac chant.

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constant by which the product of the length and width of a right triangle must be multiplied in order to get the area” (Neugebauer and Sachs 1945: 133f.). The Akkadian term for such a key-number is igigubbû(m) (derived from the Sumerian). Its literal meaning is “fixed/established fraction.” Here it was used in the more general sense of a standard “coefficient.” The idea was applied not only to absolute coefficients such as geometric ones, but also to empirical constants such as, here, work assignments or pots of asphalt for surfacing. There are also simple standards, such as “30 quarts of barley, load of the wagon,” or “1 double bushel of litter, load of the wagon” (on the tablet that has our musical table, col. iii, 29 and 30; see Kilmer 1960: 283). Since our table has number pairs, connected by ù (and), one should look for similar examples. These appear very rarely. Text A 3553 (Kilmer 1960: loc. cit.) line 1 2

30 ù 1 5ù6

“coefficient: triangle” “coefficient: circle”

Text Ud (see above) line 21 44

45(?) ù 10 “of the segment of a circle” 1,20 ù 15 “nazbalum of water”

The meaning of these numbers is not yet known, but obviously the task had to be defined in terms of two numbers, but not one. The key-number lists are thus the acme of terseness, even more so than their modern descendants are. As this entry does not say “For X — to get R, take N and perform O,” but rather “N [is for] X.,” our understanding is blocked because the operation (O) is never specified. However, these lists do not stand alone. There is another group of texts, the so-called problem texts, in which the operations are actually demonstrated. By correlating the information, it has become possible nowadays to explain some of the obscure numbers. Our own Procedure Text is largely similar to the problem texts (though these are not in the šumma form), and will serve us in the same way. A direct parallel to the musical table, i.e., a sequence of numbers within an overall systemic pattern, does not appear in the key-number repertoire. The reason is that the usual subjects of these lists simply do not have such a pattern. Patterned configurations are found in a different domain: the multiplication



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tables, tables of reciprocals, of squares, of roots and of “logarithms.” The metrological tables have a pattern of their own. Thus, the key-number lists and each entry or group of related entries there presume the substratum of number tables. All the strata are held together by the word lists and “encyclopedias” and bilingual “dictionaries.” “…and their appearance and their work was as it were a wheel within a wheel” (Ezekiel 1:16). Behind this giant system of interlocking norms, there is nothing. Among the hundreds of thousands of tablets recovered, there seems to be nothing that resembles a “treatise,” neither didactic nor philosophical-speculative. The system develops but after the early (and naturally nebulous) stage it remains essentially the same, an Accountant’s Paradise that was never breached from without nor ever questioned from within. It is important to remember this for our own subject as well, because the circle of fifths also bears within itself the seed of its own destruction, so to speak, since it does not lead back to its beginning. We also know that this opens the way to speculative theory. But it is a matter of cultural climate if that breach is taken as a challenge — or as a threat and therefore patched over and disregarded. Greece chose one way, but Mesopotamia chose another. This must caution us against reading into the texts what their originators very probably did not think of, and if they thought of it — never pursued. Yet one must not overestimate these achievements. In spite of the numerical and algebraic skills and in spite of the abstract interest which is conspicuous in so many examples, the content of Babylonian mathematics remained profoundly elementary. In the utterly primitive framework of Egyptian mathematics the discovery of the irrationality of √2 would be a strange miracle. But all the foundations were laid which could have given this result to a Babylonian mathematician, exactly in the same arithmetical form in which it was obviously discovered much later by the Greeks....In other words, Babylonian Mathematics never transgressed the threshold of prescientific thought. It is only in the last three centuries of Babylonian history and in the field of mathematical astronomy that the Babylonian mathematicians or astronomers reached parity with their Greek contemporaries. (Neugebauer 1969: 48)

This leads us to another domain of ancestry for our table. Cyclic phenomena do not occur naturally in key-number listings for wagonloads, work assignments and even elementary geometry. Their natural habitat is astronomy. An extended discussion of Mesopotamian astronomical techniques is not necessary here (consult Neugebauer 1934/1969, 1955, 1969). A structural analogy to our Key-Number Table indeed appears as expected, and it is most instructive. These are the ephemerides — tables that give the calculated locations of a heavenly body, day by day or month by month for one year (mostly), and thus serve various calendrical needs. In our musical table there appear two sequences of string-number pairs. One is

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1^5, 2^6, 3^7, 4^1, 5^2, 6^3, 7^4. The other, intercalculated with the first, is 7^5, 1^6, 2^7, 1^3, 2^4, 3^5, 4^6. A cyclic concept is described linearly, and the same is done in the ephemerides: “The main tool for the computation of the ephemerides is arithmetic progressions, increasing and decreasing with constant differences, between fixed limits…we call such sequences ‘linear zigzag functions’” (Neugebauer 1969: 110). Now an ephemeris is set out line by line, one for each month. The sequence is naturally unalterable, and the complete table thus describes the apparent motion of that heavenly body through a circle of “stations,” generally with respect to the zodiac. The user of the table will read off that month line which concerns him at the moment. He will not run through the entire table from top to bottom. The same holds for all the other tables in his library. It stands to reason that our table is similar. It is ordered so as to be mnemotechnically efficient, but the line-by-line definitions are not to be run through except for mnemonic purposes. In other words, the analogues and congeners of the Key-Number Table make it virtually certain that this is not an exercise to be played through from A to Z. It is a table, and just what this term implies. The present consensus in the literature takes the table for an exercise, and its “realizations” therefore lead to difficulties. The main difficulty arises because the base is the cycle of fifths, and a run through leads to painting oneself into a corner — or out into “the land where the (Chinese) lü and the commata play.” To save the situation, further assumptions are brought in, but these have no parallels in any known traditional melodic theory. This does not seem plausible. Especially doubtful is the assumption of the “desire to avoid the tritone”; the tritone is a diabolus in musica only in European harmonic theory! Another difficulty arose directly through the fact that the table was the first theory text proper to become known. The Catalogue was already accessible, but had been misunderstood until then. Since the table apposes a set of number pairs to a set of nouns, and these number pairs were soon after identified as denoting pairs of strings — the nouns were taken to stand for intervals. There were controversies about details, but the basic premise was not questioned. The Song Catalogue should have precluded such a hypothesis from the start. Instead, it was forced to yield a saving hypothesis. Thus, kitmu, for instance, would still be primarily an interval, but also “the mode called thus because it is characterized by the kitmu-interval”; characterization here being taken not in the sense of prominence in a maqam, but as an interval in the scale as such — this notwithstanding the fact that if kitmu is, say, the interval of the fourth, then fourths are after all found in every scale. What further assumptions this had to involve can be traced through the literature. It seems that there just had to be a conceptualization and naming of the interval, because the Greeks, and European theory as their heir, indeed “had a word for it.” But it is possible to do without interval names (in a



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melodic culture), and say instead “from string X to string Y,” as the Greeks indeed also did. Moreover, the Greek interval names, like the ones used subsequently in the European languages, were numerical definitions (diapente, diatessaron etc.). The proposal that in Mesopotamia the intervals were called by non-numerical names should at least have caused some eyebrow raising among the musicologists, as should have the assumption that the double-duty relationship is between the interval and the scale. The comity of traditional theories indeed has this phenomenon of double-duty terms. But care is taken not to cause misunderstanding, and the linkage is never of the kind that has been argued here. We also say “C” for the note and “C” for the scale, but by the scale we mean key, and we take care to say “C major” or, as I do here, “the C-mode” (in the sense of scale, not key). In the present inquiry the Key-Number Table was not taken as the point of departure. Up to this stage in our “code breaking” the analyses have not produced any names for intervals. There is only a set of diverse nominal forms that are used to label modes (presumably octave species); a set of ordinal names for strings; and a small collection of verbs, adjectives etc. for operations and assessments. As interpreted here, all this fits together quite normally, by all we know of the basic concepts and terminological ways of the comity of traditional theories; and thus it also fits into that comity. Since it is the “Ancestor of them all,” directly or indirectly (as already surmised by the first researchers) the wonder would be if it were otherwise.

1.52 The text The text is a section of a table of key-numbers (for details, see §1.1). Its writing is difficult to read and the tablet may be the practice copy of an apprentice scribe (information from Anne Kilmer). The source for the presentation of the text here is the “Revised Version” in Kilmer 1971: 134–135 and further passim. As was done with the String List and Song Catalogue, the original transliterations have been turned into transcriptions. Except for lines 6 to 10, the components of the lines are not spaced in the original to form internal columns. Spacing has been added here to clarify the structure. The meanings of the terms will be discussed subsequently.

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Key-Number Table K-MdSt // CBS 10996 obverse, col. i line (at least 5 lines broken off) 6 [2 4 SA titur qablītu]m 7 6 3 SA kitmu 8 3 5 SA titur išartum 9 7 4 SA pītum 10 4 6 SA ṣerdû 11 SA qudmû ù SA 5-šú 12 SA 3 uḫri ù SA 5-šú 13 SA šamūšu ù SA 4 uḫri 14 SA qudmû ù 4 uḫri 15 SA 3-šú qatnu ù SA 3-šú[!] uḫri 16 SA šamūūšu ù SA 3-šú[!] uḫri 17 SA dEa-bānû ù SA qudmû 18 SA qudmû ù 3-šú qatnu 19 SA 5-šú ù SA šamūšu 20 SA šamūšu ù SA dEa-bānû 21 SA 4 uḫri ù 3-šú qatnu 22 SA 3-šú qatnu ù SA 5-šú 23 SA 3-šú uḫri ù [SA dEa-bānû 24 SA dEa-bānû [ù SA 4 uḫri (Remainder broken off)

1 7 2 1 3 2 4 1 5 2 6 3 7 4

5 5 6 6 7 7 1 3 2 4 3 [5 4 6

SA nīš GAB.RI SA šēru SA išartum SA šalšatum SA embūbu SA rebūtu SA nīd qabli SA isqu SA qablītu SA titur qablītu S[A kitmu] SA titur išartum] SA pītum] SA ṣerdû]

Remarks (by lines): 6) Partially legible. 7) Number pair unclear, first read as 4 3, emended by line 21. 8) Number pair unclear, first read as 3 6, emended by line 22. 11) 5-šú = ḫamšu. 13) 4 uḫri  =  ribi uḫri. 15) 3-šú = šalšu; properly šalši uḫri; number pair unclear, first read as 3 4, emended by pattern. 16) Number pair unclear, first read as 2 4, emended by pattern; rebūtu written 4-tu. 21) kitmu restored by pattern (relative to other texts), confirmed by line 7 although number pair unclear or wrong there. 22) titur išartu restored by line 8, although number pair unclear or wrong there; placement of term problematical, to be discussed. 23) Restored by pattern, confirmed by line 9. 24) Restored by line 10. We thus seem to have the end of one terse formulation, and most of another, less terse one. The scribe (apprentice?) apparently had difficulties with the terse formulation, and the reason is obvious. In the String List and Procedure Text, and here as well, the strings are named according to the “first forward then backward” convention. But the table also uses another convention — the simple linear sequence (here up to šalši uḫri = 7). That simpler convention is obvious better suited to the terseness of the key-number concept.



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Deductions as to a “development” are not possible at the moment, although the tablet is from the Neo-Babylonian period (mid-first millennium bce); any text must be taken as a copy in a chain of unknown length, if evidence for a terminus is not yet available. The terms for strings are already known at this stage, and so are seven of the fourteen nominal forms. In the Song Catalogue and in the Procedure Test these stand for modes, i.e., the octave species of the heptamodal-diatonic group. Sumerian SA = Akkadian pitnu, “string, interval; scale.” The conjunctive ù has been encountered in the Procedure Text, where it stands for the simple “and”/“and also,” i.e., with no obligation except co-occurrence. An ù may also stand for “or”/“either,” but within the present context — however it is interpreted — this is not possible. Because of the redundancies, vertically and (in the second formulation) also horizontally, the text is self-checking and can therefore be restored. We may thus deduce that the table was indeed one of fourteen entries.

1.53 The interpretation The table dovetails two groups of seven entries each: the group for which we already have the mode values, and another one. A schematic representation follows, similar to the “terse version” in the upper part of the original. As in our analysis of the Procedure Text, Sn will stand for the n-th string (in the simple ordinal numeration). ^ will stand for “conjunction” (cf. p. 44 above). Properly, the entries should thus be expressed as for instance, Sx ʘ (S2 ^ S6) → S išartu. But since the table itself does not do this — it mentions neither the initial state nor the operation — we shall also leave these components unstated. S1 ^ S5 S7 ^ S5 S2 ^ S6 S1 ^ S6 S3 ^ S7 S2 ^ S7 S4 ^ S1 S1 ^ S3 S5 ^ S2 S2 ^ S4 S6 ^ S3 S3 ^ S5 S7 ^ S4 S4 ^ S6

nīš GAB.RI šēru išartu šalšatu embūbu rebūtu nīd qabli isqu qablītu titur qablītu kitmu titur išartu pītu, ṣerdû

F-mode “Hypolydian” ? E-mode “Dorian” ? D-mode “Phrygian” ? C-mode “Lydian” ? H-mode “Mixolydian” ? A-mode “Hypodorian” ? G-mode “Hypophrygian” ?

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The two sets must obviously be analyzed separately, starting with the one for which we already have the values. Its sequence is different from the circle-of-fifths (and “authentic” – “plagal”) ordering encountered in the Song Catalogue and in the Procedure Text, but this is a nonproblem. Here the intention is to obtain an ordering that is mnemotechnically efficient “by the numbers,” and hence 1^5 comes first, 2^6, next etc. From the musical point of view, the scheme is turned from a sequence of most related modes to one of least related. Punningly apt: what you win on the swings you lose on the roundabouts. Disregarding the as yet unknown group, we have the following: S1 ^ S5 S2 ^ S6 S3 ^ S7 S4 ^ S1 S5 ^ S2 S6 ^ S3 S7 ^ S4

nīš GAB.RI išartu embūbu nīd qabli qablītu kitmu pītu

The general statement for this group is: Any pair of integers, minimum 1 maximum 7, with a constant difference of +4 or -3, is necessary and sufficient for the exclusive definition of a scalar constant. Question: What are the simplest limiting conditions under which this is possible? Answer: There are three limiting conditions: –– The scalar construct is a diatonic octave species. –– The pair of integers stands for the pair of incidences of the semitone, one for each semitone, when the scale is stepped off from “1” upward. All the other steps are assumed as nonsemitones and (pragmatically) equal, hence (pragmatical) whole tones. Since the step is from one point to the next, but signalized by only one number, the agreement is “The number is that of the upper point.” –– Since a mnemotechnically efficient formulation is desired, the actual “8” (for the semitone 7–8) is exchanged for its octaval equivalent “1.” The table can thus begin with 1^5. When it reaches what should be 4^8, this is expressed as 4^1. The next terms in the mnemotechnic will have to be 5^2, 6^3, 7^4. Hence, there is no need to use any number beyond 7. The “trick” of condition (c) agreed very well with the environment. Repeatedly, the tables and computations make use of reciprocals, zigzag functions (basically the same concept) and many other devices of shortcut and reduction. The numerical notation is itself based on such a device — the “floating place value,” like



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the floating decimal point we use today (for details, see Neugebauer 1969: 15ff.). The substitution of “1” for “8” is therefore something that ties in organically with what the Mesopotamian student has already been accustomed to, when he was learning his arithmetic. The Key-Number Table is thus a “Plaine and Easie” way of learning and remembering how to tune one’s lyre or harp to any desired mode. It is also an abstract description, but the actual approach is practical. The modes are simply predicated on the set of strings. Of course the set of strings is not pretuned (as the interpretations of the table have argued hitherto, looking for the Mesopotamian scale). The table says how to tune whenever you need, and similarly, one does not, on the actual instrument, do a run through from the first to the last tuning. Under extra-classroom circumstances, with professional musicians, the tunings were surely made by ear and melodic memory, but our table belongs to the classroom. The method will only work when the strings, i.e., “tones,” are named by ordinal numbers. If a similar table-cum-memorizing-jingle is made up where the “tones” do not have numerical names, one might still learn it by heart, but with much greater difficulty. Here we do have a lost tradition whose loss should be bemoaned by everyone who has had to struggle with the “teaching of the modes.” The Greeks could not adopt it, because they used letters for numeration, and so did their European successors, until the arabic numerals came into use in the Middle Ages. But by then ut-re-mi and A-B-C were already entrenched. The Romans, even though they had I-II-III as numerals, ran into difficulties with the following ones, and, in any case, for musical theory they depended on the Greek tradition. Nowadays, to make matters still worse, scalar theory is inculcated on the piano with its black keys. And the “inculcantees” mostly have to learn the “modes” as a dead lore, which does not link up with the musical environment in which they have been raised. The reference here is of course to Western or Westernized musical environment. Where Westernization is not absolute, such as in Israel where this is written, the ancient key-number system can still work — if one can get one’s students to disregard the actual or imagined picture of the keyboard. The author has already carried out such an experiment once, and it worked. To return to Mesopotamia, the step-by-step tuning method would thus be, for instance, for embūbu = 3^7: 1–2 Tone, 2–3 Semitone, 3–4 Tone, 4–5 Tone, 5–6 Tone, 6–7 Semitone, and implicitly 7–8 Tone. If the instrument has more than eight strings, “8” becomes “upper 1” automatically, and so forth. Two musical difficulties have still to be resolved. A step-by-step procedure will soon lead to distortion. There must be a truing device to prevent this. Also, if one begins from the lowest string (qudmû) and that is set first, the high region of

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the string body might turn out to be too high in pitch: the strings would tear, and perhaps the instrument itself would not be able to bear the tension. The truing device that prevents the scale getting out of joint has already been identified in Greek theory, although there it has been held to be a device for setting up the scale itself. This is the “up and down principle” (Sachs 1943: 229). One starts with the central string, goes down by a fourth, and thence it is possible to go upward by an octave and also to check the central string again with reference to the upper octave point. Here that central string/note is “the Ea-creator” string, most understandably so. No absolute pitch norm needs to be demanded. The Ea-string itself is tuned by experience and for convenience (of the instrument and of the singer whom it accompanies). If several instruments play together, they will accord themselves by agreement (with the “Chief Musician”). The practice can still be found in the Near East. One might still ask whether the god Ea did not also ordain that his string be not only a relative norm but an absolute one. In other words, the Ea-string would itself be set according to a pitch norm, and that pitch norm would only be the note given by a pipe of which the length was in itself a normative unit, presumably the cubit. (Pipe diameter considerations can be considered as irrelevant in the present context.) The Old Babylonian cubit (kùš) measured ca. 20 inches/50 centimeters. A pipe of this length would sound a tone somewhere around the (present day) F below middle C. The replica of one of the large lyres from Ur, made by Robert Brown in Berkeley, was indeed found to be conveniently tunable in the range implied by this hypothesis (the height of the instrument is about one meter). To confirm such a proposal, definite textual evidence is required. So far I have found only one datum that could be relevant — if more such can be identified. This is not enough, and I prefer leaving the matter for the present as a suggestion that seems to be worth pursuing. If the Ea-string is set immutably (with or without a normed pitch), then a difficulty would arise when the instrument has to make a “metabole” from nīd qabli (C-mode) to nīš GAB.RI (F-mode; its plagal). The fourth has to be sharpened. But we need not assume that the fourth string with its Ea-given stability was forbidden to be finger sharpened during playing.

1.54 The seven para-modes In the Key-Number Table, the second group of seven entries must also refer to modes, and the same method must also apply to these. But a difficulty (for our hypothesis) looms up immediately.



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The group is defined as follows: S7 ^ S5 S1 ^ S6 S2 ^ S7

šēru šalšatu rebūtu

S1 ^ S3 S2 ^ S4 S3 ^ S5 S4 ^ S6

isqu titur qablītu titur išartu ṣerdû

The heptamodal-diatonic group has already been exhausted. If the same method is applied here, the result is not impossible, but difficult to understand. To present it for analysis, it is advisable to begin the sequence with ṣerdû, because here philology must be called in. šalšatu and rebūtu are “the third” and “the fourth” ones (feminine gender). Accordingly, ṣerdû would be in the first place, šēru, in the second etc. One lexical possibility for ṣerdû is indeed ṣīrtu “first rank” (as remarked by Kilmer 1971: 144 footnote 69), but we know that groups of mode names can be a very mixed bag, because earlier systematizations of varying age and provenience may lurk below. A similar situation has been argued for the nomenclature of the Chinese Lü’s (Küttner 1965). Equally mixed is the collection of Arabic mode names. In the following notational description (Table 2), the scales have not been pegged to the same initial note because the pitch is immaterial here, and the emplacements chosen make the situation more obvious. Since qablītu is the H-mode (purely as a white-key mapping, of course), titur qablītu has been pegged to H. and the others let fall into their (pseudo-) place. The table should be understood as a temporary heuristic device. Most of these scales call up strong “Balkanic” associations. The actual melodies do not always span the full octave, especially when they belong to a vocal repertoire. It would not be difficult to set up a collection of specimens from the ethnomusicological literature for each scale. If this is mapped geographically, strong clusterings would appear in Yugoslavia, the Caucusus (Armenia, Georgia), and probably also in the region of Turkish and Syrian Kurdistan. It is also possible that at least some of the constructs in the scheme are in reality scales with augmented seconds, which the table has forced to be described by the two-semitone method. All this is a surmise, which cannot as yet be proved. The main difficulty would seem to be this: the heptamodal-diatonic group is a recognized theoretical concept, as a group, in the traditional theories from Greece to India, but the “group” set up here has no equivalent as a group elsewhere. At the most, it is a

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secondary or parallel group created by the overall application of some external rule, such as the concept of “genus” (nondiatonic, here “diatonicized” forcibly).

At any rate, this smoothly mechanical scheme of fourteen modes altogether is surely a smoothed-over synthesis of several ethnically diverse repertoires. These must have been known, and synthesized thus, much earlier than the Neo-Babylonian period in which this particular table (CBS 10996) was written. As we know, twelve of the fourteen mode terms appear as the notational units of the Ugarit “score.” And these “scores” date to the fourteenth century bce.

1.6 The Textual Fragments As I define it, a fragmentary text is one that can be largely completed, out of itself and/or through another copy (or several others) of the same text. A textual fragment, on the other hand, is a true fragment. Information may be available for



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going a little beyond the edges of the specimen, but that is all. Two such fragments are included in the material that has been published in transcription until now: the seven or eight lines that follow upon the String List in U.3011, and the remnant of the column to the left of the Procedure Test in U.7/80. The transcription of this part of U.3011 was published by Kilmer (1965: 264; 1971: 133–134). The autograph copy of the entire tablet is available in UET 7, 126 (Gurney 1974) (Fig. 1). As the text is Chapter 32 of the series nabnītu, further copies will surely appear before long as “museum finds,” now that its importance is known. It is therefore not urgent to attempt a reconstruction from the single fragmentary specimen that is available at present. The second fragment appears to the left of the Procedure Text and is clearly not part of that unit though obviously related to it. The transcription was given in Gurney’s (1968) publication of the tablet, but not taken up for analysis until recently. Crocker has now attempted a partial reconstruction, by the premises of the consensus — that the mode terms stand primarily for intervals (Crocker 1978: 102–104). As he recognized, the variation of the grammatical endings is significant (nominative –um against the genitive –im). But it seems to me that the extent of loss for the beginnings of the lines is too great. Out of the eleven partially readable terms, five or perhaps even six allow alternatives. In several there is more than one alternative that would fit into the space and comport with what is left. The resulting uncertainty seems to be extremely high, much beyond the danger line. What is already known through the other texts (by any interpretation) is not enough to reduce this uncertainty. I prefer therefore not to attempt this fragment either, as long as no further texts are available.

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Part Two: Notation in Ugarit Schüler

Das sieht schon besser aus! Man sieht doch wo und wie?

Mephistopheles

Grau, teurer Freund, ist alle Theorie,



Und grün des Lebens goldner Baum.

Schüler

Ich schwör’ Euch zu, mir ist’s als wie ein Traum… (Goethe, Faust 1, 2037–2040)

2.1 The Problems Theory texts are grey, but the hope of being able to hear melodies that were notated three millennia ago is green and golden. In the Introduction I have already described the general scene of the discovery and study of the Ugarit scores. I also stated there that, in my opinion, the true decipherment of the notation has not yet been achieved, and that I was not about to offer an additional decipherment. The task was to go back to the Mesopotamian theory texts and work out their interpretation anew. Since the Ugarit scores are rooted somehow in the Mesopotamian theory, and since there is actually no real consensus on the specifics of that theory, we may be initially skeptical of any decipherment that is offered in such a situation. Moreover, the literature now contains about half a dozen proposed decipherments. Each differs from the other, and none seems to be acceptable to any but its own proponent. Anyone who has some knowledge of the history of the decipherment of ancient scripts and the elucidation of ancient languages will probably conclude that the symptoms are familiar: the redemption has not yet dawned. It is rather cruel, but salutary, to compare our own predicament with what Chadwick described under the chapter heading “Hopes and Failures” in his book on the decipherment of the Linear B script (Chadwick 1960: Chapter 3). Our own situation is perhaps even more difficult, since the object is not a verbal script, and since the work is beset by the troubles of a new bidisciplinary liaison. When the breakthrough will have been achieved, the scholarly scene will look and “feel” quite different. It is only after such a breakthrough that one can properly analyze the various earlier attempts and see what went wrong where and why and who contributed at least a pointer in the right direction. Further on I shall make one critical reference to a particular publication, but this will be in connection with a more general methodological problem. The relevant publications to date have been included in the list of references. Not all of them contain actual [musical] transcriptions. They range from Laro-



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che’s first publication of some of the tablets in 1955 to the latest attempt at decipherment (Thiel 1977).8 The contribution that I offer here is of a different kind. During my own struggles with the material from Ugarit, I came to certain conclusions about the need for a largely new approach, based on certain aspects that were not considered in the existing publications. These will be set out in the following.

2.2 An Approach to the Decipherment The coexistence of civilizations of a status equal to that of Mesopotamia was quite rare, but Ugarit seems to have been such a case. There, the technology of the Mesopotamian system of writing (cuneiform signs on clay) was applied to a system that represents a revolutionary advance: an alphabetic script, the sequence of whose letters is already much the same as that of our alphabet. This script was used to record a native literature, to administer a complex bureaucracy, and to write down legal transactions, but at the same time there were scribes well-trained in the Mesopotamian way of writing in Akkadian; in addition, Hurrian was written in Ugarit in both the Ugaritic alphabet and the Mesopotamian cuneiform system. In Ugarit, we also encounter Hittite documents in cuneiform as well as art objects bearing dedications in Egyptian hieroglyphs. It must have been a truly international center, a clearing house for both ideas and merchandise. (Oppenheim 1977: 72)

The Ugarit scores present a mixture of elements from several distinct cultures. Mesopotamia contributes the cuneiform writing system, the quasi-Akkadian formulation of the subscripts, the (surviving) names of the scribes and the mode terms that are the basic components of the notation. The Hurrian elements are the language of the poems (a stylistic analysis is not yet feasible), the (surviving) names of the authors and/or composers, a sizable number of additional components of the notation and perhaps also the genre term saluzi in the subscripts. The forms of the number signs in the notation are those used within the alphabetic cuneiform of Ugarit (Laroche 1955: 334). In this context, as well as in many others, “Mesopotamian” and “Hurrian” are general terms that cover a situation that is actually far more complex, but need not be described here (see, e.g., Kammenhuber 1968: 61ff.; on the problem of Sumerian and Akkadian terms borrowed into Hurrian, and vice versa(?), see there: 121ff.). The picture of the theory texts is wholly different. Whatever diversity of origins may have contributed to the formation of the system is no longer noticeable overtly. The theory evolved where the theory texts themselves were written — in the Land between the Two Rivers. Until now, no musical notation of the 8 For an updated bibliography, see Ann Kilmer’s article, p. 92 below.

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Ugaritic kind, or of any other kind, has been identified in documents that come from Mesopotamia proper (see Appendix A, Excursus 1). In the Ugarit scores the Mesopotamian theory is clearly the foundation on which the notation has been built. But it seems that certain factors of non-Mesopotamian origin have also been at work here, and that the external situation of a different (and multiplex) culture is paralleled by an internal difference as well. The Mesopotamian system actually offers a ready-made notation, in the form of a solfège of string names or numbers. This would have to be “pretuned” by stating the mode, whereupon the melody could be spelled out by the strings. We still use the same principle in our own staff notation, where we “pretune” the staff by clef and accidentals. Certain supplementary devices would probably be needed for such a string notation, but it would not be difficult to see that the string names are the basic notational components. In the Ugarit scores, however, this obvious way was not adopted. The basic notational components are the terms that stand for the octave species in Mesopotamia. To these are added a number of Hurrian terms, some of which are compounded with the Mesopotamian terms and some of which seem to stand by themselves. There is some similarity here with the case of a new script being made up partly out of graphic elements borrowed from another culture and partly of newly invented ones. What this means for linguistic decipherment is discussed by Barber (1974: mainly 97–98). The case is not wholly analogous, because a musical “statement” belongs to an entirely different communicatory dimension. As yet, we do not have such unequivocal paradigms of grammar and syntax for melody as the decipherers of unknown languages and/or scripts can use to puzzle out the written reflection of speech. That is the main reason why I doubt the feasibility of what Duchesne-Guillemin attempted in her 1975 study (further on this, see Appendix A, Excursus 3). In summary, there is a strong probability that the Mesopotamian theory texts and the Ugarit scores are not truly co-systemic. If this was so originally, an attempt at the decipherment of the notation nowadays will also not be viable if it goes directly from the theory to the notation. A transformational mechanism seems to intervene and must therefore be sought out. In the following, I shall propose a hypothesis as to why such a mechanism would be necessary and what this implies for the decipherment of the notation. The Mesopotamian system is predicated on the set of strings of an openstringed and multistringed instrument. This could be a large lyre or a large harp in any of the diverse shapes that these instruments assumed in Mesopotamia (see Spycket 1972; for the [presently] earliest known depiction of a large harp, see there: 158, and Kantor and Delougaz 1969). The principle is also applicable to a zither, but at this period there were no zithers in the Near East. (Note to nonmusicologists: the terms are used as taxonomical norms; for an explanation, see



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Sachs 1940: “Terminology”; 454–467.) The open-and-many stringed combination is thus the “instrumental premise” of the theory. A solfège-by-strings notation can be derived from the theory as long as this instrumental premise obtains. But such a notation cannot be derived from the theory, if the culture that wished to have a notation, and use the theory, has a wholly different instrumental premise as the foundation of its art-music practice. What was possible for lyres and harps (and zithers) is not possible for members of the fourth class of chordophones — the lutes. If a culture has its art-music tradition based on the lute, it will need a transforming mechanism if it sets about to create a notation out of a theoretical system that is predicated on lyres and harps. There are indications that the Hurrians were indeed a “lute people.” Specifically, the lute in question is the so-called long-necked lute. Short-necked lutes (as exemplified nowadays in the Near East by the ‘ud) apparently did not come into the region until well after the beginning of the first millennium ce. A brief discussion of the problem of the “northern” provenience of the lute will be found in Appendix A, Excursus 4. No iconographical documentation for Hurrian music making in Ugarit is as yet available. Nor can we adduce something from Alalakh, its neighbor to the North, which was even more strongly “Hurrianized” for a time. From the materials published so far, it is clear that the two sites have not been exhausted by the spade, and also that such materials that were found have not yet been made public. For an interim illustration we can use some finds that do not coincide precisely in their location and/or period with the Ugarit scores but that do fit mutatis mutandis as to details, into the presumed ethnocultural image. A thorough discussion would have to go into the complicated problem of Hurrian settlements in Syria and Mesopotamia, and the history and post-history of the (mainly) Hurrian kingdom of Mitanni (for introductory information, see Oppenheim 1977: 61, 71 and see index). For the task at hand we shall limit ourselves to a first exploration of the musical data by the hypothesis that is offered here. That hypothesis can now be stated as follows: the Ugarit scores seem to be written in a lute-based notation; this notation “maps the lyre into the lute,” and this mapping involves a transformation, which must be reconstructed. Theoretically, one can turn the group of modes very easily into a linear systema. The names of the modes would then stand for the points on the line, and thus be double-duty terms for modes and notes (as the standard Arabic system indeed does). But the heptamodal-diatonic group would then yield only seven such points. If the seven para-modes are dovetailed into these to yield — somehow — the semitonal filler notes, there is still the same range. If the terms repeat at the octave, they would have to be qualified by something like “lower X” as against “upper X.” Such compound terms with “lower” and “upper” (Hurrian turi and ašḫu) do indeed appear in the notation (see the useful list of terms in

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Kilmer 1971: 143–145), but they might as well stand for adjacent frets or even a grouping of three close frets (lower X / X / upper X). There is a further obstacle. The little systema notation just described is linear. It will do as a tablature (fingering notation) for a lyre or for a one-stringed lute with frets. But one-stringed lutes are folk instruments, nowadays often bowed (such as the Bedouin rabāb), and have no frets. Lutes that are used for art-music proper have at least two strings. The iconographical, historical and ethnomusical record seems to favor the assumption that the “Hurrian lute” was indeed a twostringed instrument. The strings are tuned to a certain interval apart. One finds tunings from a major second to a fifth, with tunings of a third (minor or major) or of a fourth in the majority. Most of the notes can therefore be played on either string. If the frets are simply named from the lowest to the highest, “(fret) X” can mean either of two notes. It does not seem plausible that the system was of this kind. Lute tablatures can and do make use of still another element that is denumerable: the four fingers of the hand that presses on the string. Indeed, the scores (i.e., fragments) generally show the number signs 1, 2 or 3, with 4 much rarer. The appearance of 5 is still more rare, and its reading is not assured. In h.6, line 5, the last term is — according to Dietrich and Loretz (1975) — kablite 2 and not 5; Laroche (1968) reads “5” only there, in h.16 line 12, in h.19 line 7 and, with a question mark, in h.30 line 3. The numbers 6 to 9 do not seem to appear at all, and there are just three appearances of a “10” that is somewhat problematical (h.6 line 5; h.8. line 10?; h.10 line 7). But our grouping (and anyone else’s) cannot be continued in this way. The historical and ethnomusical record must be called in and used with the proper tools — and with the greatest caution. It can be used because the domain of the long-necked lutes is an eminently tradition-preserving one, especially for the two-stringed instruments, notwithstanding regional and historical modifications (see, e.g., Gerson-Kiwi 1973; Baily 1976). An approach-by-structure is demanded here no less than it was demanded for the theory texts. Here, however, it needs two separate steps: from the general theoretical framework (the Mesopotamian theory) to the theory of notation, and then from that theory to the decipherment of the notational data. There would be the usual going to and fro on the way, as one must do when a hypothesis is worked out, but the three stations and the two steps are still the basic path by which the inquiry must follow. We have the point of departure (the Mesopotamian theory as such), but the step from this to the (unwritten) theory of the notation has still to be taken. As I have argued here, this demands the reconstruction of the transforming principle. This reconstruction must be made with the help of the historical and ethnomusical record. The record is not easy to interpret, since



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it has a millennial depth by now: each stage is influenced by what came before it, and also “edited” by what came after it. The task demands a separate research effort. I have already made a beginning at this, but a solution is not yet in sight. Actually, the decipherment of the notation is at every instant but one part of a wider inquiry. The following are, in brief, the directions that I think should be explored (and have already begun to explore): (a) the domain of the long-necked lutes (for a direct bearing on the decipherment of the notation); (b) the background of the Greek instrumental notation; (c) the “Early Arabic” theory of the Finger Modes (aîabi‘), which now begins to look as if it should be more properly called “Late Mesopotamian”; (d) the earliest stages of Indian theory, which also seem to hint at a lute-versus-lyre situation; and (e) the background of the modal systems of Persia. The order in which these have been listed is also the ascending order of difficulty of their investigation, from the merely sticky to the almost certainly impossible. Since 1960, when the field began to be explored, the musicologists who entered it have recognized its wider import. What should become possible from now on, gradually and by the efforts of many scholars, is an understanding of the outline — no more but hopefully no less — of what I have here called the comity of traditional theories. Another name for it now seems even more apt, both as a model and as a metaphor: the Tree of Theory.

Appendix A Excursus 1 (to Part One): The hypothesis of the “Babylonian notation” Musicology accepted the rise of the hypothesis, but has not become properly cognizant of its fall. The mysterious arrays of syllables are nothing but another kind of analytical vocabulary for scribal training (though with a curious “prehistory” of its own). Its usual designation in Assyriological research is “Silbenvokabular.” It would be useful to have a resumé of the matter formulated for musicologists and published in a musicological venue. As an interim aid I list the basic bibliography here. –– Proposal, defense and modifications of the “notation” hypothesis: Sachs 1924, 1925, 1941, 1943: 85–87; Galpin 1937: 38–43, 99–104. –– Appearances in standard surveys: Farmer 1957: 248–250. MGG-Not: cols. 1600–1601. –– Recent utilization: Katz 1974.

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–– Rebuttals, further studies of the “Silbenvokabular”: Landsberger 1933, 1959 (the year of Curt Sachs’ death!); Çiğ and Kızılyay 1959; Sollberger 1965; Nougayrol 1965; Çiğ and Kızılyay 1965 (all in Landsberger Fs.). See also in Borger 1967–1975: vol.1: 52 (entry Çiğ-Schulbücher). Among the studies of the Mesopotamian theory proper, Güterbock (1970) opens with a summary of the “affair” (p. 45), as does Kilmer (1971: 131).

Excursus 2 (to p. 31): The “third-thin” string Duchesne-Guillemin proposed a certain basic scale for the set of strings, based on her interpretation of šalšu qatnu (Duchesne-Guillemin 1966: 150ff.). Wulstan (1968) proposed a different one. Kümmel (1970) doubts both, and attempts a solution of his own. All agree that there is one basic scale. Each such proposal will, of course, influence the interpretation of the other texts, and thus ultimately also the decipherment of the Ugarit notation. The strings will here be denoted by the ordinal abbreviations, i.e., S1 = first string (qudmû), S2 = second string etc. We need not decide at this point if the scale runs upward or downward. The assumption is then that šalšu qatnu implies that S2–S3 is a “thin” interval. Since it is also assumed that the scales are all diatonic, then S1–S3 must always be a minor third. As argued in the following, this raises more problems than it solves. –– A diatonic scale cannot be specified by one semitone only. Such a “cavalier” attitude is unthinkable for Mesopotamia, if we assume that the complete heptamodal-diatonic group is a musical reality in the culture. Four of the seven modes have the minor third between S1 and S3. Two of these have the semitone between S2 and S3. If the basic scale exists, this is surely not the way to characterize it. –– On the Sumerian side of the String List, S4 is called “string-fourth small” and S3 is “string-third thin” as on the Akkadian side. This would imply, by the same reasoning, a scale with two adjacent semitones! Otherwise, are we to assume that the Sumerian and Akkadian side of the list were not meant to correspond? –– As will be shown in the course of the present inquiry, the Procedure Text and the Key-Number Table can be “worked” without difficulty if we assume that the string names are intrinsically neutral, i.e., that the nine-string set is not in itself predicated upon a particular mode. Entities are not to be multiplied except when necessary. If a simpler hypothesis works as well, yields results that are compatible with what we know about scalar theory in other ancient



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cultures, and needs less extraneous suppositions than the more complicated hypothesis — the simpler one is to be preferred. –– Verbal connotations should not be taken as guides and not adduced as proofs when searching for the functional meaning of a term. The only verbal connotations that we can use in the present inquiry are the ordinal designations of the strings, taken as simple ordinals of position in a body of strings on the lyre or harp equally. At present, as I see it, we can only affirm what the “third-thin,” and “fourthsmall” and the backward numbering of the sixth-to-last strings do not imply. We do need to know how these designations came about, but there is simply not enough information available as yet. I have at least three alternative hypotheses. All of them are possible, all are plausible — and none of them is more probable than the others. For this reason I shall not even set them out here.

Excursus 3 (to p. 74): Ethnomusical analogues In Duchesne-Guillemin’s 1975 study, some specimens of ethnomusical materials from the Near East are used as possible structural analogues to the Ugarit melody. The basic idea is that of the cryptanalytic “toy”, and the basic assumption is that of ethnomusical survival. I agree with both, but find some disturbing methodological problems in the way in which the study was carried out. There is no need for a detailed argument here, but our common interest demands the correction of one factual error. The clue specimen of the undertaking is a rendition of Ps. 137 (By the rivers of Babylon) in the “Babylonian,” i.e., Iraqi Jewish tradition. It was taken from vol. 2 of A. Z. Idelsohn’s Thesaurus of Hebrew Oriental Melodies (1922), where it appears as no. 95. Actually, however, this is not at all “une pièce”...“un chant,” in the sense of a specific “tune,” as Duchesne-Guillemin terms it. It is the rendition of the psalm text by a psalmodic formula. That formula happens to be the one known to Western Christianity as the Tonus peregrinus. In most Jewish traditions of psalmody, the pattern is realized in a melismatic and rather free way. This is very different from the largely syllabic and extremely schematic form in which the same patterns were notated and are sung in Western Christianity. A Western musicologist might well recognize the pattern underneath an elaborate Eastern rendition when hearing a live performance (if he knows what to expect). But if one only sees a transcription, where the “flesh” has obtained equal visual weight with the “skeleton,” it needs a specialist’s familiarization to recognize the pattern.

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For a thorough study of the Tonus peregrinus in Jewish tradition, see Herzog and Hajdu 1968. For Jewish practices of Psalmody, see Herzog 1972.9 Where a psalmodic formula exists, in a culture in which the use of such a device is part of its own musical heritage, there would seem to be no need to notate it expressly: at the most, a verbal or numerical tag could be added to the text. If the psalmodic formula is a new invention or an import from another culture its notation would surely be much shorter that what we see in the Ugarit score; its nature would also become immediately apparent, even when the specific note values are not yet known. Conversely, if the Ugarit score is basically a “tune” — and this is the impression it gives — an ethnomusical specimen of psalmody is not the proper “toy” for its decipherment. That the melody will proceed both here and there largely stepwise (i.e., by tones or semitones) is highly probable; even then, that it might very well not be stepwise is highly probable, But even in that case, it might very well not be stepwise throughout. In any case, this characteristic (if it is indeed found in the Ugarit score) is too general to warrant the specific conclusions that it has been made to produce or to prove.

Excursus 4 (to p. 75): Were the Hurrians a lute people? In his 1961 study and subsequently, Stauder advanced the claim that the lute originated among the “Bergvölker,” i.e., in the area comprising eastern Anatolia, the southern Caucasus and northeastern Mesopotamia. This would also include the presumed homeland of the Hurrians and their later state of Mitanni. Lately, this has been contested by Rashid in two studies (1970, 1973) with further arguments promised. Rashid contends that the lute already appeared in Mesopotamia in the Akkad period (approximately 2300–2100 bce), and that it is indigenous to Mesopotamia. His richly documented arguments must certainly be weighed very seriously. It would seem to me, however, that, in the end, the true historical development will turn out to be neither as “pure Northern” as Stauder would have it, nor as “pure(?) Mesopotamian” as Rashid insists. The appearance of lutes in the monumental art of the Hurro-Hittite area in the period with which we are concerned here (fourteenth century bce) does not give the impression of a Mesopotamian import. The Ugarit notations have so far been found only with Hurrian texts. The notation seems to be lute based, as I argue here, while the Mesopotamian theory as such is lyre/harp based. This is as far as I can take the argument at present, as a working hypothesis. 9 Editor’s Note: Indispensable now is: Reinhard Flender, Hebrew Psalmody: A Structural Investigation, Jerusalem, 1992 (Yuval Monograph Series 9).



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The early appearances of the lute in Mesopotamia might help to solve the problem that I have already hinted at in §1.54 — the origin of the seven paramodes. Nondiatonic modes seem to be strongly linked with lutes, because of their intrinsic intervallic freedom. An instructive inquiry on what seems to be a similar case of a synthesis from different periods and with a different instrumental base was undertaken by Kuttner for the Chinese system of the Lü’s (Kuttner 1965).

Appendix B A Scheme for Working sigla Within the cuneiform record, a subject corpus is now being formed by those texts that are primarily concerned with music. As the size of the corpus increases, the texts come to be tagged by improvised names and working sigla; and after a time the need is felt to standardize these tags through some kind of overall scheme. Such a scheme is, in effect, a model of the subject. There are a number of technical precepts for the making of an efficient model, but there is also one condition that goes beyond the technical. The model should not only describe the material that is already available, but should also be predictive in order to accommodate what will be added to the corpus by future discoveries. –– In its full form, the siglum consists of two parts, separated by a double oblique: TEXTS//DOCUMENTS. Thus, C–Md//KAR 158 P-MdSt//U.7/80

Song Catalogue Procedure Text

For the text part, letter symbols are taken from the list of abbreviations that I created (see below) and combined in a fixed sequence. The document is indicated by its conventional siglum, i.e., C = Catalogue, Md = #Mode, P = Procedure, St = String. Obviously, an item need not always be cited by its full double definition. –– The unit for this subject corpus is that extent of statement that represents one entity of musical concern. A “music text” or “music chapter,” even a “music passage,” may contain several such units. For instance, in nabnītu XXXII, which is a “music chapter,” the String List forms one unit. The Mode List that follows it in the same column is already a different unit (see discussion in §1.1, Introduction).

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–– The unit of musical concern is defined through the class or classes of music terms with which the statement operates, such as “mode term” or “string term,” or both together. The table of siglum components lists those classes of terms that are sufficient for such a definition, for the purposes of the working siglum. This is a definition by extension (the field of applicability) and not by intension (a complete description of the contents). Hence, the definition also does not say how the term functions in a particular statement. Function is indicated only in the case of a notation (and there, too, without specifying how the notational result is brought about); this will create an immediately visible distinction between “scores” and “literature.” –– For the classes of music terms, the siglum uses two-letter symbols (Md, St etc.). The definition of the unit is complete by a prefixed one-letter symbol, which stands for the context category (such as L- = List, C- = Catalogue etc.). In the following list the texts known at present are assembled by their full sigla, thus creating a self-classifying inventory. Some predicted cases are also included. At this stage the scheme is applied to the theory texts proper. C-Md//KAR 158 C-Md, a//KAR 158 C-Md, b//.... H-Md (Nt), e//RS h.6 H-MdSt (Nt)//… H-Md//… H-Md//... K- MdSt//CBS 10996 K- MdSt//… K- MdSt, a//CBS 10996 K- MdSt, b//… L-St, nabnītu XXXII//U.3011 L-Md, nabnītu XXXII//U.3011 L-Xx//K.9922 P-MdSt//U.7/80 X-MdSt//U.7/80 X-MdSt, a//U.7/80 X-MdSt, b…

Song Catalogue, featuring mode terms Different catalogues of the same kind Hymn, with mode terms used as notation Hymn, with string terms used as notation, through qualification by mode term Hymn, with colophon giving mode term indication of tune (≠ notation!) Hymn, mentioning mode terms (same definition as above!) Key-Number Table (implicit: music part only) Another copy of the same table Different formulations of a Key-Number Table String List, in series nabnītu tablet XXXII Mode List, in same Fragmentary tablet, not yet divided into units Procedure Text, featuring mode terms and string terms Left-hand column of above tablet, textual fragment, not yet classifiable Different fragments, not yet classifiable



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Notes to theory texts H-Md (Nt), e: The special numeration for Hurrian texts from Ugarit (Laroche 1968) is used in preference to the general excavation numbers of the tablets. It is shorter, and accommodates joins that have already been made. Some changes are expected with further joins. The most intact “score,” h.6, is RS 15.30+15.49+17.387 (second join made several years after the first!). On a further problem of Ugarit sigla, see below. H-Md: The two cases would appear as H-Md, a //...and H-Md, b//…, perhaps with a conventional name already available for some hymnal compositions (cf. Kilmer 1971: 147–148, note 77). If a colophon is considered as a separate content unit in all cases, the Ugarit scores would have to be split into “notations” and “colophons,” which is factually incorrect. Apart from the notations proper, a hymnal text might appear with a colophon (scribal, and, hopefully, musical) in one copy and without one in another copy. Instead of setting up a Procedure Text of our own for all such alternatives, we cut the Gordian knot by deciding that the position of the term within the text is irrelevant to the siglum, including cases of colophon position. The information about colophons will be taken care of by an index. A crux is at present posed by the Sumerian texts that describe a musical ambience and feature something termed “7 tigi.” This term cannot as yet be assigned to any class, even though there is a strong probability that it is a theory term. Such texts must therefore remain under reserve, and the siglum scheme cannot accommodate them for lack of minimal information. We dare not even describe the text as H-Xx…, because “7 tigi” might still turn out to be a set of seven instruments, or a suite of seven hymns. P-MdSt//U.7/80: The two sections of this text, separated by the subscript … NU.SU…, come out as one content unit by definition, which is factually correct. Terms such as sammû and tennīma, which are also featured in this text, need not be taken into account for the siglum. There is a siglum element either for the mention of a specific instrument or several instruments, but the present text seems to use sammû as a generic term for “any stringed (open-stringed?) instrument,” or even for “the set of strings,” which thus coalesces with “St.” Two texts in alphabetic cuneiform from Ugarit have been proposed tentatively as featuring “Canaanized” theory terms (for details, see Kilmer 1971: 14). Such texts, which are in the Ugaritic language and script, have no less than five alternative identification numbers. Taking one of the texts as an example, we face a choice of RS 5.213 = UT 104 = quondam UM 104 = CTC 163 = 93 (Eissfeldt!). It would seem advisable, in such a situation, to keep to the one constant — the excavation number RS 5.213 — and take care of the other numerations by a reference note. At present, the language of the text is not indicated by the siglum. An expansion might become necessary in the future. We already have one Akkadian-Sume-

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rian bilingual (nabnītu), with others from the “library of lists” in the offing (see p. 25). There will also be monolingual Sumerian texts. The Ugarit “scores” are a mixed phenomenon, Hurrian hymns with a Hurrianized Akkadian notation and an Akkadian colophon. A similar phenomenon would appear in Ugaritic texts proper. It seems advisable not to put the language criterion at the head of the siglum, at any rate. Since the record leads us to expect trilingual lists (Sumerian-Akkadian-X), translations and adaptations, it might even be necessary to put the language indication at the very tail of the siglum, after the documentary part; however, we will cross that bridge when we get to it. The following table lists the elements for composing the text identification part of a working siglum. Elements for Working Siglum Note: If the musical content involves more than one element, these are to be put in alphabetical sequence, irrespective of their position in the text itself. A– Astronomy (for ritual calendars, see R) B– “Biography,” all evidence on personalities10 C– Catalogue D– “Didactic”/ é dub.ba texts (“Literature of the Tablet House”)11 E– Epic, including mythology (for Hymns, see H) F–, G– not assigned –Gn tentative: “General music,” no theory terms/not theory text?12 H– Hymnic forms, including all non-epic poetry –It Interval term(s), other than Md or St –Ir Interval ratio(s), explicitly numeric K– Key-Number Table L– List (vocabularies and all similar) –Md Mode terms (Nt) Notation, in case of explicit “score” –Or Organological term(s), if specific13 P– Procedure Text Q– Administrative, Legal, Diplomatic, Inscriptions R– Ritual (≠ texts used in ritual), Omina, Medicine, Magic)14 10 Personality named, as involved in music making or theory; otherwise assign to Q–; treatment of colophons, see above (p. 83). 11 Literary category ≠ curricular materials as such. 12 To cover all nontheory passages, after context-category designation; standard names for literary texts may be available to be added after the “Gn.” To qualify for inclusion, a text must at least be descriptive of a musical action, and not only furnish a terminological datum. 13 Instrument(s) mentioned by specific name(s). 14 “Ritual” = nominative; prescription text, generally giving only the agenda and not the legenda (and cantanda). The two aspects will often coalesce in omina, medical and magical texts.



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String term(s) tentative: “Treatise on music,” in discursive form ( ≠P–) not assigned (“Varia” — category inadmissible!) Context category not yet discernible Text not yet divided into units of musical concern not assigned

References and Additional Bibliography Baily, J. 1976 Recent Changes in the Dutār of Heart. Asian Music 8(1): 29–64. Barber, E. J. W. 1974 Archaeological Decipherment: A Handbook. Princeton. Boissier, A. 1905–1906 Choix de texts relatifs à la divination assyro-babylonienne, 2 vols. Geneva. Borger, R. 1967–1975 Handbuch der Keilschriftliteratur, vol. 1: Repertorium der sumerischen und akkadischen Texte (1967); vol. 2: Supplement zu Bd. 1; Anhang: Zur Kuyunjik-Sammlung (1975); vol. 3: Inhaltliche Ordnung der sumerischen und akkadischen Texte; Anhang: Sekundärliteratur in Auswahl (1975). Berlin. Bruins, E. M. and M. Rutten 1961 Textes mathématiques de Suse, Mémoires de la mission archéologique en Iran, 34: Mission de Susiane. Paris. CAD The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago Chadwick, J. 1960 The Decipherment of Linear B, reprint with corrections and a postscript. Cambridge. Chailley, J. 1960a Le mythe des modes grecs. Acta Musicologica 25: 137–163. 1960b L’Imbroglio des Modes. Paris. Çiğ, M. and H. Kızılyay 1959 Zwei altbabylonische Schulbücher aus Nippur; mit einem Beitrage von B. Landsberger, Türk Tarih Kurümu Yayinlarindan, VII, 35. Ankara. 1965 Additions to Series B and C of Personal Names from Old Babylonian Nippur. In: Landsberger Fs.: 41–56. Crocker, R. L. 1978 Remarks on the Tuning Text UET VII 74 (U.7/80). Orientalia 47: 90–104. Dietrich, M. and O. Loretz 1975 Kollationen zum Musiktext aus Ugarit. Ugarit-Forschungen 7: 521–526. Driver, G. R. and J. C. Miles 1955 The Babylonian Laws, vol. 2: Transliterated Text, Translation, Philological Notes, Glossary. Oxford.

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Duchesne-Guillemin, M. 1964 Découverte d’une gamme babylonienne Revue de musicologie 49: 3–17. Published also in Syria 41: 184. 1965 Note complémentaire sur la découverte de la gamme babylonienne. In: Landsberger Fs., 268–272. 1966 À l’aube de la théorie musicale: concordance de trios tablettes babyloniennes Revue de musicologie 52: 147–162. 1975 Les problèmes de la notation hourrite. Revue d’Assyriologie 69: 159–173. Ebeling, R. 1919 Keilschrifttexte aus Assur religiösen Inhalts, Band 1 (nos. 1–175), Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 28. Leipzig. 1922 Ein Hymnenkatalog aus Assur, Berliner Beiträge zur Keilschriftforschung, I/3. Berlin (not available for this study). Eggebrecht, H. H. and M. Lütolf eds. 1973 Studien zur Tradition in der Musik; Kurt von Fischer zum 60. Geburtstag. München. Farmer, H. G. 1957 The Music of Ancient Mesopotamia. In: NOHM 1, 228–254. Galpin, F. W. 1937 The Music of the Sumerians and Their Immediate Successors the Babylonians and Assyrians. Cambridge (reprint, Strasbourg, 1955). Gerson-Kiwi, E. 1973 Harfen- und Lautentypen aus Mittelasien und ihre topographischen Abwandlungen. In: Eggebrecht and Lütolf 1973, 217–225. Güterbock, H. G. 1970  Musical Notation in Ugarit. Revue d’Assyriologie 64: 45–52. Gurney, O. R. 1968 An Old Babylonian Treatise on the Tuning of the Harp. Iraq 30: 229–233. 1974 Middle Babylonian Legal Documents and other Texts, Ur Excavation Texts 7. London. Henderson, I. 1957 Ancient Greek Music. In: NOHM 1: 336–403. Herzog, A. 1972 Psalms, Book of: Rendition in Jewish Tradition. In: Encyclopaedia Judaica, vol. 13: cols. 1328–1334. Jerusalem. Herzog, A. and A. Hajdu 1968 À la recherché du Tonus peregrins dan la tradition musicale juive. In: Yuval: Studies of the Jewish Music Research Centre, vol. 1, ed. I. Adler, H. Avenary and B. Bayer, 194–203, attached musical example booklet 1–15. Jerusalem. Hickmann, H. and W. Stauder eds. 1970 Orientalische Musik, Handbuch der Orientalistik. Erste Abtlg.: Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten, Ergänzungsband 4. Leiden. Husmann, H. 1961 Grundlagen der Antiken und Orientalischen Musikkultur. Berlin.



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1971 Hymnus und Troparion; Studien zur Geschichte de musikalischen Gattungen von Horologion und Tropologion. Jahrbuch des Staatlichen Instituts für Musikforschung Preussischer Kulturbesitz 1971: 7–86. Kammenhuber, A. 1968 Die Arier im Vorderen Orient. Heidelberg. Kantor, H. J. and P. Delougaz 1969 New Light on the Emergence of Civilization in the Near East: Revelations of the 5000 Year Old City of Choga Mish, Iran. In: UNESCO Courier 22: 22–25, 28 (only report with illustrations of music find; full report printed in 1978). Katz, R. 1974 On ‘Nonsense’ Syllables as Oral Group Notation. Musical Quarterly 60: 187–194. Kilmer, A. D. 1960 Two New Lists of Key Numbers for Mathematical Operations. Orientalia 29: 273–308. 1965 The Strings of Musical Instruments: Their Names, Numbers and Significance. In: Landsberger Fs., 261–268. 1971 The Discovery of an Ancient Mesopotamian Theory of Music. Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 115: 131–149. Küchler, F. 1904 Beiträge zur Kenntnis der assyrisch-babylonischen Medizin, Assyriologische Bibliotek 18. Leipzig. Kümmel, H. M. 1970 Zur Stimmung der babylonischen Harfe. Orientalia 39: 252–263. Kuttner, F. 1965 A Musicological Interpretation of the Twelve Lü’s in China’s Traditional Tone System. Ethnomusicology 9: 22–38. Landsberger, B. 1933 Die angebliche babylonische Notenschrift. In: Oppenheim Fs.: 170–178. 1959 Zum ‘Silbenalphabet B’. In: Çiğ and Kızılyay 1959: 97–116. Landsberger Fs. Güterbock, H. G. and Th. Jacobsen eds. Studies in Honor of Benno Landsberger on His Seventy-Fifth Birthday, Assyriological Studies 16. Chicago, 1965. Langdon, S. 1921 Babylonian and Hebrew Musical Terms. Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 1921: 169–191. Laroche, E. 1955 Textes hourrites. In: PRU 3: 327–335. 1968 Textes hourrites en cunéiforms syllabiques. In: Nougayrol and Laroche 1968: 447–544. Leichty, E. V. 1966 Teratological Omens. In: Rencontre 16: 131–139. Meek, Th. J. 1920 Some Explanatory Lists and Grammatical Texts. Revue d’Assyriologie 17: 118–126. MGG Blume, F. ed. Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart, 14 vols. Kassel, 1949–1968; supplements 1968–.

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MGG-Not Notation; A. Notationen für einstimmige Musik, I: Die Notationen der Antike und der aussereuropäischen Völker. In: MGG 9 (1961): cols. 1595–1611 (single or several subsections by H. Hickmann, W. Vetter and M. Stöhr, F. Zagiba). MSL Materialien zum sumerischen Lexikon; Materials for the Sumerian Lexicon. Roma. Neugebauer, O. 1955 Astronomical Cuneiform Texts: Babylonian Ephemerides of the Seleucid Period for the Motion of the Sun, the Moon and the Planets, vol. 1: Introduction: The Moon. London and Princeton. [1934] 1969 Vorlesungen über Geschichte der antiken mathematischen Wissenschaften, Erster Band: Vorgriechische Mathematik. Berlin (zweite unveränderte Auflage). [1957] 1969 The Exact Sciences in Antiquity. New York. Slightly corrected re-issue, Providence, R. I. Neugebauer, O. and A. Sachs 1945 Mathematical Cuneiform Texts, American Oriental Series 29. New Haven, Conn. NOHM 1 Wellesz, E. ed. The New Oxford History of Music, vol. 1: Ancient and Oriental Music. London, 1957. Nougayrol, J. 1965 Vocalises’ et ‘syllables en liberté’ à Ugarit. In: Landsberger Fs., 29–39. 1966 Trente ans de recherches sur la divination babylonienne (1935–1965). In: Rencontre 16: 5–19. Nougayrol, J., E. Laroche et al. 1968 Ugaritica V: noveaux texts accadiens, hourrites et ugaritiques des archives et bibliothèques privées d’Ugarit: commentaires des textes historiques, Mission de Ras Shamra 16. Paris. Oppenheim, A. L. 1977 Ancient Mesopotamia: Portrait of a Dead Civilization. Rev. ed. (completed by E. Reiner). Chicago. Oppenheim Fs. Aus fünf Jahrtausenden morgenländischer Kultur: Festschrift Max Freiherrn von Oppenheim zum 70. Geburtstag…, Archiv für Orientforschung 1. Berlin, 1933. Osthoff Fs. Hoffmann-Erbrecht, L. and H. Hucke eds. Festschrift Helmuth Osthoff zum 65. Geburtstage. Tutzing, 1961. PRU 3 Nougayrol, J. ed. Le Palais Royal d’Ugarit, 3: Textes accadiens et hourrites des archives est, ouest et centrales, Mission de Ras Shamra 6 (vol. of transcriptions carries identical title and numeration). Paris, 1955. Rashid, S. A. 1970 Das Auftreten der Laute und die Bergvölker Vorder-asiens. In: Hundert Jahre Berliner Gesellschaft für Anthropologie, Ethnologie und Urgeschichte, Zweiter Teil: Fachwissenschaftliche Beiträge, 207–219. Berlin (not available for present study). 1973 Umdatierung einiger Terrakottareliefs mit Lautendarstellung. Baghdader Mitteilungen 6: 87–97. Rencontre 16 La divination en Mésopotamie ancienne et dans les régions voisines: XVIe rencontre assyriologique internationale (Strasbourg, 2–6 Juillet 1965). Paris, 1966. Sachs, C. 1923 Die Musikinstrumente. Breslau.



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1924 Die Entzifferung einer babylonischen Notenschrift. Sitzungsberichte der Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, philologisch-historische Klasse 18: 120–123. 1925 Ein babylonischer Hymnus. Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 7: 1–22 (detailed exposition of Sachs 1924). 1940 The History of Musical Instruments. New York. 1941 The Mystery of the Babylonian Notation. Musical Quarterly 27: 62–69. 1943 The Rise of Music in the Ancient World — East and West. New York. Sollberger, E. 1965 A Three-Column Silbenvokabular A. In: Landsberger Fs., 21–28. Spycket, A. 1972 La musique instrumentale mésopotamienne. Journal des Savants 3: 153–209. Stauder, W. 1957 Die Harfen und Leiern der Sumerer. Frankfurt am Main. 1961 Die Harfen und Leiern Vorderasiens in babylonischer und assyrischer Zeit. Frankfurt am Main. 1961 Zur Frühgeschichte der Laute. In: Osthoff Fs., 15–25. 1965 Sumerisch-babylonische Musik. In: MGG 12: cols. 1737–1752. 1967 Ein Musiktraktat aus dem zweiten vorchristlichen Jahrtausend. In: Wiora Fs.: 157–163. 1970 Die Musik der Sumerer, Babylonier und Assyrer. In: Hickmann and Stauder 1970: 171–243. Thiel, H.-J. 1977 Der Text und die Notenfolgen des Musiktextes aus Ugarit. Studi micenei ed egeo-anatolici 18: 109–136. Thureau-Dangin, F. 1938 Textes mathématiques babyloniens. Leiden. Wiora Fs. Finscher, Ludwig und Christoph-Hellmut Mahling, eds. Festschrift für Walter Wiora zum 30. Dezember 1966. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1967. Wulstan, D. 1968 The Tuning of the Babylonian Harp. Iraq 30: 215–228. 1971 The Earliest Musical Notation. Music and Letters 52: 365–382. 1974 Music from Ancient Ugarit. Revue d’Assyriologie 68: 125–128.

Supplementary Bibliography The following list is of those publications that were of direct aid during the inquiry, but have not been involved explicitly in the argument as it is set out here. The list therefore contains most of the “see also” and “cf. also” references that would ordinarily have been added by means of a footnote. Duchesne-Guillemin, M. J. 1935 Sur l’origine asiatique de la cithare grecque. Antiquité classique 4: 117–124.

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1967 Survivance orientale dans la designation des cordes de la lyre en Grèce? Syria 44: 233–246. 1969 La théorie babylonienne des métaboles musicales. Revue de musicologie 55: 3–11. 1977 Les origins mésopotamiennes de la musique. Revue de musicologie 63: 190–191. Ellermeier, F. 1970 Beiträge zur Frühgeschichte altorientalischer Saiteninstrumente. In: Galling Fs.: 77–90. Falkenstein, A. 1953 Zur Chronologie des sumerischen Literature. Mitteilungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 85: 1–13. Frankfort, H., H. A. Frankfort, J. A. Wilson and Th. Jacobsen 1946 Before Philosophy: The Intellectual Adventure of Ancient Man — an Essay on Speculative Thought in the Ancient Near East. Chicago. Galling Fs. 1970 Kuschke, A. and E. Kutsch eds. Archäologie und Altes Testament: Festschrift für Kurt Galling zum 8. Januar 1970. Tübingen. Gombosi, O. J. 1939 Tonarten und Stimmungen der antiken Musik. Copenhagen. Hartmann, H. 1960 Die Musik der Sumerischen Kultur. Frankfurt am Main. Kammenhuber, A. 1970 Die neuen Hurrischen Texte aus Ugarit. Ugarit-Forschungen 2: 295–302 (review of Laroche 1968). Kilmer, A. D. 1974 The Cult Song with Music from Ugarit — another Interpretation. Revue d’Assyriologie 68: 69–82. Kilmer, A., R. L. Crocker and R. R. Brown 1976 Sounds from Silence: Recent Discoveries in Ancient Near Eastern Music. 12” stereo phono-record, 24 pp. brochure. Berkeley. Kinnier Wilson, J. V. 1956 Two Medical Texts from Nimrud. Iraq 18: 130–146. 1962 The Nimrud Catalogue of Medical and Physiological Omina. Iraq 24: 52–62. Knuth, D. E. 1972 Ancient Babylonian Algorithms. Communications of the ACM (= Association for Computing Machinery) 15: 671–677. Landsberger, B. 1926 Die Eigenbegrifflichkeit der babylonischen Welt. Islamica 2: 355–372 (Reprinted with postscript by B. Landsberger, Darmstadt, 1965). Laroche, E. 1973 Études hourrites. Revue d’Assyriologie 67: 119–130 (“Notation musicale” on pp. 124–129). Leichty, E. V. 1970 The Omen Series ‘šumma izbu,’ Texts from Cuneiform Sources 4. Locust Valley, NY.



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Mendenhall, G. 1970 Ancient Oriental and Biblical Law. In: The Biblical Archaeologist Reader, vol. 3. ed. E. F. Campbell, Jr. and D. N. Freedman, 3–24. New York. First published in The Biblical Archaeologist 17/2 (1954): 26–46. Neugebauer, O. [1937] 1973 Mathematische Keilschrift-Texte: Mathematical Cuneiform Texts, 3 vols., Quellen und Studien zur Geschichte der Mathematik, Astronomie and Physik, Abtg. A. Bd. 3. Berlin. Reprint, Berlin. Parrot, A. 1961 Mesopotamian music. Nineveh and Babylon, London: 296–312. [Assur. Paris, 1961; French version: 295–312, English version]. Rashid, S. A. 1967 Neue Akkadische Leierdarstellungen und ihre Bedeutung für die Mesopotamische Musikgeschichte. Sumer 23: 144–149. Rimmer, J. 1969 Ancient Musical Instruments of Western Asia in the British Museum. London. Sachs, C. 1962 The Wellsprings of Music, edited by J. Kunst. The Hague. 1959 Vergleichende Musikwissenschaft, 3rd ed., Musikpädagogische Bibliothek 2. Wilhelmshaven. von Soden, W. 1953 Das Problem der zeitlichen Einordnung akkadischer Literaturwerke. Mitteilungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 85: 14–26. 1936 Leistung und Grenze sumerischer und babylonischer Wissenschaft. Die Welt als Geschichte 2: 411–464, 509–557 (Reprinted with Nachträge und Berichtigungen by von Soden, Darmstadt, 1965: 21–124).

Anne Draffkorn Kilmer

Mesopotamian Music Theory Since 1977 Bathja Bayer’s survey, as presented in this volume, discusses the first five Mesopotamian music theory texts that had been published by 1977, including the Hurrian hymn from Ras Shamra/Ugarit.1 Since that time, seven more pertinent cuneiform texts have been brought to bear on the subject, and several new interpretations of the materials have had a significant impact on our understanding of ancient Near Eastern music theory and practice. I discussed the first five texts, as well as one other (Kilmer 1984). In order to keep the texts straight in the order of their discovery, I numbered them as follows (note that Bayer labels them differently): –– The Neo-Babylonian (NB) mathematical text, CBS 10996 [Bayer’s text no. 2: K-MdSt Key-Number Table] –– The NB lexical text, UET 7, 126 (one of the sources for Nabnitu Tablet 32) [Bayer’s text no. 3: L-St/L-Md, or L-St nabnītu/L-Md nabnītu String List/Mode List, U.3011] –– The Middle Assyrian (MA) song catalogue, VAT 10101 (KAR 158) [Bayer’s text no. 1: C-Md Song Catalogue] –– The Old Babylonian (OB) retuning text, UET 7, 74 [Bayer’s text no. 4: P-MdSt/X-MdSt Procedure Text/Mode-String Fragment, U.7/80] –– The Hurrian cult hymn, h.6, from Ras Shamra, ca. 1400 bce [Bayer’s text no. 5: H-Md (Nt), e//RS h.6] –– The Neo-Assyrian (NA) music instruction text for performing gesture prayers, BM 65217 + 66616

1 I am pleased to have had the opportunity to read Dr. Bayer’s manuscript; it had been long awaited by the many scholars concerned with the cuneiform texts that deal with ancient Near Eastern music theory and practice. My disappointment is that Bayer never concluded her observations of the Hurrian hymn “notation” with an attempt to show just how those musical instructions would have been applied to the lute. In 1976 I heard Bayer’s presentation (in Jerusalem) of a paper on that subject, and I had the good fortune in 1977 to discuss the matter with her once again. I take the liberty of recalling her main points here. The music terms developed for the tuning of lyres or harps were transferred to the long-necked lute as fretting instructions. She found this convincing because the number signs used in the Hurrian hymns are normally not more than four, thus appropriate for the fingers of one hand. She assumed, in 1976, that String 1, Akkadian qudmu, was the highest pitch, thus the lute’s sound box is drawn at the head/front of the lyre. By 1977, however, she had changed her opinion: qudmu should be the lowest pitch. Unfortunately for us, she seems never to have worked out these ideas in detail.



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After 1984, six more music texts came to light: –– The MB lexical text, N 4782 (one of the sources for Nabnitu 32) –– The OB hymnody text, N 3354 + 3355 + 7679 + 7745 –– The OB/MB fragmentary song catalogue, BM 59484 –– The OB hymnody text UM 29-15-357 + N 2030 –– The OB/MB retuning text fragment, UET 6/3, 899 –– The NB star-diagram tuning text, CBS 1766 In 1981, Aaron Shaffer published Text 7. This fragment, from Nippur, whose obverse parallels Text 2 from Ur, provides the names of the nine musical strings, permitting us to extend the list in Text 2 to add the seven standard Akkadian scale names (known from the other texts) alternating with their sihpu-forms. While Shaffer suggested that Akkadian sihpu referred to the scales’ “inversions,” Crocker and Kilmer (1984) argued that the term should refer rather to the “plagal” forms of the seven “authentic” scales. Shaffer’s small Nippur fragment made it possible to restore the entire set of seven scale names, both “authentic” and “plagal,” in the NB source of Nabnitu 32. (For a completely different interpretation of sihpu as representing the interval of a second [two adjacent strings], see Jerome Colburn’s (2009) contribution.) As noted by Bayer and others, it is Text 4, the OB retuning text from Ur, that was crucial for our understanding, because it provides the step-by-step tuning procedures for the strings of a lyre (or harp). From this text, as demonstrated by Wulstan (1968), we learn that the tritone in each of the seven scales was called the “unclear” (Akkadian la zakû) interval. In Gurney’s and Wulstan’s 1968 publications it was assumed correctly that in Text 4 the tuning was carried out in two different tuning cycles: the first would have been accomplished by lowering (or loosening) the string pitches by a semitone, followed by an instruction described in a partially broken line that separated the two sections (the broken line had been read as NU.SU.U[D?] ‘no further’[?]). It was assumed that the second section would have given the procedures for raising (or tightening) the strings. These interpretations were based on the assumption that the nine strings or notes moved upward or ascended in pitch. R. Vitale, in 1982, questioned that assumption primarily based on the name of the third string, “third, thin” (Akkadian šalšu qatnu), and also on the Sumerian description of the fourth string as “small.” He reasoned that if the third string were “thin“ and the fourth “small,” they would have been the highest pitches; therefore, the tuned set of strings, i.e., the scale, should be moved downward. That observation, however, was not convincing in and of itself at that time. By 1990, T. Krispijn had solved the dilemma by re-reading the partially broken line of the retuning text as Akkadian nu-su-h[u-um] ‘to tighten’ (instead of the

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earlier attempt at NU.SU.U[D?] ‘no further’[?]). Thus, the first tuning section was the tightening of the strings by semitones. This reinterpretation led Krispijn to additional new readings of the text, notably of line 19: instead of understanding te-n[i]-m[a] as “you alter” (from the verb enû), he now read te-ni-e! ‘you loosen’ (from the verb nê’um). The resulting changes in translation of a generalized tuning procedure of the first section turned Gurney’s (1968) “If the harp is (tuned as) X, and the interval Y is not clear; you alter the (string) N, and then Y will be…)” into his new (Gurney 1994) rendering (lines 1–12), “If the instrument is (tuned as) X, and the (interval) Y is not clear, you tighten the (string) N, and then Y will be clear.” The preceding procedures were summed up as “tightening.” The second tuning section of the same text is now translated as follows: (lines 13–20) “If the instrument is (tuned as) X, and you have played an (unclear) interval Y, you loosen the string N and the instrument will be (in the tuning) Z.” The second section was presumably and logically summed up as: “[loosening”]. This newer interpretation is generally accepted today. That the seven Mesopotamian musical scales (at least as early as ca. 1800 bce) were heptatonic-diatonic scales has been proven to the satisfaction of cuneiformists and musicologists alike. It should be noted here that, thanks to the observations of Wulstan (1968) and Kümmel (1970), it was recognized that the ancient Mesopotamian musicians/“musicologists” knew what we call today the Pythagorean series of fifths, and that the series could be accomplished within a single octave by means of “inversion.” Kümmel taught us that the names given to the seven tunings/scales were derived from the specific intervals on which the tuning procedure started. For example, if the tuning procedure started with the interval išartu ‘normal’, the resulting scale was called išartu. However, the change in our recognizing of the scales as moving downward rather than upward means that išartu 2–6 was no longer string 2 (RE) up to string 6 (LA), but rather 2–6 as 2 (TI) down to 6 (MI). As Crocker (1997: 195) emphasized, “The principal difference brought about by Krispijn’s restoration (of nu-suh[u-um]) is that the seven octave segments (or intervals) receive different names” (than those they bore earlier). Thus, nīd qabli “fall from the middle” was, before Krispijn (1990), the scale from C-C (ascending). After 1990, it is E-E (descending). As a result, all the pre-1990 ancient Near Eastern music texts (e.g., the Hurrian hymn) could now be revised using descending scales (see West 1993–1994; Hagel 2005; Dumbrill 2005; Colburn 2009).



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As it stands now, the names of the nine strings are as follows: Sumerian Names

Akkadian Names

Translation

1.

sa-di

qudmû

fore

2.

sa-ús

samuššu

next

3.

sa-3-sa-sig

šalšu qatnu

third, thin

4.

sa-4-tur

Ea-bānû

Ea-creator

5.

sa-di-5

hamšu

fifth

6.

sa-4-a-ga-gul

ribi uhrî

fourth from end

7.

sa-3-a-ga-gul

šalši uhrî

third from end

8.

sa-2-a-ga-gul

šini uhrî

second from end

9.

[sa-1]-a-ga-gul

uhrû

end

(It should be noted that R. Dumbrill [2005: Book 1, 19] believes that, in view of the fact that there are nine strings, we should refer to this set of nine strings/ notes as an “enneachord” (or as an “enneatonic” system, like “pentatonic” or “heptatonic”). The following table gives the names of string pairs or intervals of fourths and fifths that gave their names to the scales whose tuning procedure started on that interval: 1–5 2–6 3–7 4–1 5–2 6–3 7–4

Akkadian Names nīš tuhri išartu embūbu nīd qabli qablītu kitmu pītu

Translation ‘rise of the Achilles tendon’ ‘normal’ ‘reed pipe’ ‘fall of the middle’ ‘middle’ ‘closed’ ‘open’

Corresponding Greek Name Mixolydian Lydian Phrygian Dorian Hypolydian Hypophrygian Hypodorian

The name of the string pair 1–5 had been hitherto read as ni-iš GABA-ri/nīš gabarî ‘rise of the duplicate’. Our new reading comes from Text 11, recently published in the journal Iraq by S. Mirelman and T. Krispijn (2009; see below). The intervals of thirds and sixths that were used in tuning and performing, but which were not used to denote scales, are named as follows:

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šēru šalšatu rebūtu isqu titur qablītu titur išartu serdû

‘song’ ‘third’ ‘fourth’ ‘throwstick’ ‘bridge of the middle’ ‘bridge of the normal’ ‘lament’

The seven musical scales/tunings are presented here (note that, in the exhibition catalogue, Sounds of Ancient Music p. 26, one of the seven scales, the second from the bottom of the list, was inadvertently left out): E F G A B C D E F# G A B C D E F# G A B C# D E F# G# A B C# D E F# G# A B C# D# E F# G# A# B C# D# E# F# G# A# B C# D#

The remarks that follow concern the newer texts, not known to Bayer. Text 6: This NA text, probably from Sippar, presents instructions for the musical performance of gesture prayers (Akkadian ikribū) “for the king”; the prayers are listed by their opening lines and are preceded by the string/note on which to start (or end) the piece. The text ends with further instructions that are not yet understood, but which contain the known interval/scale name išartu ‘normal’, the term piz/smu, which occurs only in this text and in Text 7, and an otherwise unknown term, maZrūtu. These three terms are followed by instructions for the hands and fingers, perhaps relating to fingering techniques on a stringed instrument. These terms may refer, if not to scales, to hymn “types” (Kilmer 1984, 1997). Text 7: This is the fragmentary MB text from Nippur, mentioned above, that parallels the lexical text Nabnitu 32. Text 7 permits us to restore the list of “authentic” and “plagal” (Akkadian sihpu?) scale names that follows the names of the nine musical strings in Nabnitu 32. It also introduces the new term, pis/zmu, perhaps another scale name, which is also found in Text 6. Texts 8 and 10: OB Nippur gives us several joinable fragments of musical instructions for performing royal hymns (Kilmer and Tinney 1996, 1997; Kilmer and Peterson 2009). These texts use the standard scale and string names, but add the Akkadian terms zennum and gennum, which may mean “tune” and “test.” Any “notation” that may be derived from or assumed for these instructions is



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“skeletal” at best or may be a form of instrumental “tablature” (Kilmer 1992; cf. Colburn 2009). Text 9: While this fragmentary OB song catalogue may originally have included scale names or other useful information connected with certain songs (as is true of Text 3), this fragment contains only five titles of irtu ‘breast/love’ songs and a two-line mehrum ‘antiphon’ belonging to them (Finkel 1988). Text 11: Although fragmentary, this second OB retuning text from Ur has given us a new reading for the interval/scale name previously read as nīš gabarî (or GABA-ri) ‘rise of the duplicate’. In this text, which closely parallels Text 4, where nīš GABA-ri is expected, the text writes instead nīš tu-uh-ri ‘rise of the Achilles tendon (referring to heel of the foot?)’ [the cuneiform sign GABA also has the syllabic value -tuh-] (Mirelman 2008; Mirelman and Krispijn 2009).2 Text 12: An incompletely inscribed NB(?) tablet of uncertain provenience, previously thought to be an astronomical text, turns out to be a music theory text, which, illustrated with a seven-pointed star, has been dubbed a “visual tuning chart.” While not all the cuneiform signs are clearly drawn (probably the work of an ancient student), it is obvious that the text uses the well-known string names of the seven-note musical scale. This tablet represents the earliest ancient example thus far of a circular chart with star points used to illustrate tuning procedures (Horowitz 2006; Waerzeggers and Siebes 2007; Horowitz and Shnider 2009; Friberg 2011). Text 5, the Hurrian hymn from ancient Ugarit, modern Ras Shamra, has received a great deal of attention over the years and has been interpreted in many different ways (at least fifteen) by scholars (musicians, musicologists and Assyriologists) around the world. It would require too much space here to review those many interpretations (not all of them have been published) in detail. Suffice it to say that the different interpretations center on the function of the Akkadian interval names (plus the relatively few Hurrian terms that occur among the music instructions) and the number signs in the music instructions that form the second part of the text, following the Hurrian words of the song. The instructions consist of an interval name followed by a number sign: for example, “Middle (strings 5–2), 3.” Some scholars believe that only one member of the two-string-pair names would relate to the melody (or the accompaniment) of the piece; some believe that both members would have been used while others suggest that the octave of one of the strings/notes would have been tacitly included. As for the numbers themselves, they have been interpreted as a reference to the selected number of notes from the interval that is named; some have suggested that the 2 Kilmer (2000: 116) misprinted tuhāru (‘ibex’) in reference to decorative animal heads for a sammû ‘lyre’. The correct Akkadian translation of ibex is turāhu.

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numbers express melismatic decorations around the last note of the interval; others suggest that the numbers refer to musical measures; while still others believe that the numbers indicate the number of times to repeat the interval. Concerning any musical movement suggested by the instructions, some see it as a purely melodic stepwise motion, one note at a time; some suggest that both members/notes of the named intervals could have been played simultaneously (see Kilmer 1997; Dumbrill 2005, for more detailed discussions). Another debated feature of the Hurrian hymn(s) is the relation/coordination of the instructions to/ with the lyrics. The most recent audio recording (that I am aware of) that demonstrates the Hurrian hymn in both its ascending and descending renderings may be found in Smith 2003. An additional text, not appearing on the text list above can be found in R. Dumbrill’s (2005) comprehensive collection and review of all subjects and evidence relating to ancient Mesopotamian music. There is a partially broken cuneiform tablet of uncertain provenience from a private collection (the Schøyen Collection MS 5105), which Dumbrill labels as “an anonymous O.B. Music Text.” It contains two signs that have been read as PA and TU and number signs ranging from 1 to 14. Dumbrill’s analysis argues for a musical interpretation of the numbers. I leave it to others to follow his discussion and interpretation. Several of the newer studies deserve special mention: West’s (1993–1994) analysis of all the Hurrian hymns from Ugarit, even the most fragmentary; Hagel’s (2005) detailed examination of the frequency of all the musical intervals used in the Hurrian Hymns, and Dumbrill’s (2005) re-renderings of them. It is true that new readings and interpretations of all the evidence, not only the Hurrian hymns, are generally welcomed by all, even when there are conflicting views. After Gurney’s (1994) restudy of Text 4, based on Krispijn’s re-reading of NU.SU.U(D) ‘no farther’ as nu-su-h[u-um] ‘tightening’, two musicologists, Crocker and West, approached the evidence and the problems quite differently, as may be seen in their thoughtful and lively (if sometimes contentious) contributions on Mesopotamian Tonal Systems (Crocker 1997; Gurney and West 1998). Many of us, Assyriologists not trained in music, find some of the musicological arguments difficult to digest. Any and all new information concerning ancient Near Eastern music theory and practice is not only welcome, but also continues to generate a certain excitement among cuneiformists, music historians and the general public, as has been the case since the 1970s when our evidence from cuneiform tablets first became known worldwide.



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References A more complete bibliography for ancient Mesopotamian music is to be found in the Reallexikon der Assyrologie und Vorderasiatischen Archaeologie 1997 under the entry “Musik.” The following list includes pertinent studies since 1997 that may be added to that selection, as well as those earlier studies that are cited in this article. Titles that are not referred to in this paper are marked with an asterisk. Bielitz, M. *2000 Über die babylonischen theoretischen Texte zur Musik. Neckargemund. Colburn, J. 2009 A New Interpretation of the Nippur Music Instruction Fragments. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 61: 97–107. Crickmore, L. *2007 A New Hypothesis for the Construction and Tuning of Babylonian Musical Scales. Journal of Ancient Civilizations 22: 35–67. Crocker, R. 1997 Mesopotamian Tonal Systems. Iraq 59: 189–202. Crocker, R. and A. Kilmer 1984 The Fragmentary Music Text from Nippur. Iraq 46: 81–85. Dumbrill, R. J. 2005 The Archaeomusicology of the Ancient Near East. Oxford and Victoria. *2007 Babylonian Theonumerics and Scale Systems. Journal of Ancient Civilizations 22: 23–34. Finkel, I. 1988 A Fragmentary Catalogue of Lovesongs. Acta Sumerologica 10: 17–18. Friberg, J. 2011 Seven-Sided Star Figures and Tuning Algorithms in Mesopotamian, Greek, and Islamic Texts. Archiv für Orientforschung 52: 121–155. Gurney, O. 1968 An Old Babylonian Treatise on the Tuning of the Harp. Iraq 30: 229–233. 1994 Babylonian Music Again. Iraq 56: 101–106. Gurney, O. and M. West 1998 Mesopotamian Tonal Systems: A Reply. Iraq 60: 223–227. Hagel, S. 2005 Is nīd qabli Dorian? Tuning and Modality in Greek and Hurrian Music. Baghdader Mitteilungen 36: 287–348. Halperin, D. *2010 Musical Reconstruction of Hurrian Material by Statistical Analysis. In: Proceedings of the International Conference of Near Eastern Archaeomusicology, ICONEA 2008 (ICONEA Publications), 29–32. London.

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Horowitz, W. 2006 A Late Babylonian Tablet with Concentric Circles from the University Museum (CBS 1766), Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society 30: 37–53. Horowitz, W. and S. Shnider 2009 Return to CBS 1766. Nouvelles Assyriologiques Bréves et Utilitaires 7: 7–9. Journeau, V. *2007 L’antique cithara chinoise qin, un heptachorde pentatonique, est un archétype de la musique de l’antiquité. Akkadica 128: 117–134. Kilmer, A. 1984 A Music Tablet from Sippar(?): BM 65217 + 66616. Iraq 46: 69–80. 1992 Musical Practice in Nippur. In: Nippur at the Centennial, ed. M. de Jong Ellis, 101–112. Philadelphia. 1997 Musik. A. In Mesopotamien. In: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 8, 463–482. Berlin and New York. 2000 Continuity and Change in the Ancient Mesopotamian Terminology for Music and Musical Instruments. In: Musikarchäologie früher Metallzeiten: Vortrage des 1. Symposiums der International Study Group on Music Archaeology (ICTM), im Kloster Michaelstein, 18.–24. Mai 1998, ed. Hickmann, E., I. Laufs and R. Eichmann, Studien zur Musikarchäologie 2, Orient Archäologie 7, 113–119. Rahden. Kilmer, A. and S. Tinney 1996 Old Babylonian Music Instruction Texts. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 48: 49–56. 1997 Correction to Kilmer/Tinney “Old Babylonian Music Instruction Texts” JCS 48 (1996). Journal of Cuneiform Studies 49: 118. Kilmer, A. and J. Peterson 2009 More Old Babylonian Music-Instruction Fragments from Nippur. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 61: 93–96. Krispijn, Th. 1990 Beiträge zur altorientalischen Musikforschung 1. Šulgi und Musik. Akkadica 70: 1–27. Kümmel, H. M. 1970 Zur Stimmung der babylonischen Harfe. Orientalia 39: 252–263. Mirelman, S. 2008 Tuhru “Achilles Tendon”? Nouvelles Assyriologiques Bréves et Utilitaires 4: 89–90. Mirelman, S. and T. J. H. Krispijn 2009 The Old Babylonian Tuning Text UET VI/3 899. Iraq 71: 43–52. Rahn, J. *2011 The Hurrian Pieces, ca. 1350 bce: Part One — Notation and Analysis. Analytical Approaches to World Music Journal 1(1) Shaffer, A. 1981 A New Musical Term in Ancient Mesopotamia. Iraq 43: 79–83. Smith, J. 2003 Seven Modes for an Ancient Lyre. Bella Roma Music (BRM) 101. Compact disk.



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Smith, J. and A. Kilmer *2000 Laying the Rough, Testing the Fine. In: Saiteninstrumente im archäologischen Kontext : Vortrage des 8. Symposiums der International Study Group on Music Archaeology (ICTM), Limassol, 26.–30. August 1996 und andere Beiträge, ed. Hickmann, E. and R. Eichmann, Studien zur Musikarchäologie 1, Orient Archäologie 6, 127–140. Rahden. Staubli, T. 2007 Musik in biblischer Zeit, Bible + Orient Museum, Fribourg, Switzerland. Vitale, R. *1982 La musique suméro-accadienne: Gamme et notation Musicale. Ugarit-Forschungen 14: 241–263. Waerzeggers, C. and R. Siebes 2007 An Alternative Interpretation of the Seven-Pointed Star on CBS 1766. Nouvelles Assyriologiques Bréves et Utilitaires 2: 43–45. West, M. 1993–1994 The Babylonian Musical Notation and the Hurrian Melodic Texts. Music and Letters 75: 161–179. Wulstan, D. 1968 The Tuning of the Babylonian Harp. Iraq 30: 215–228.

Dahlia Shehata

Sounds from the Divine: Religious Musical Instruments in the Ancient Near East1 Introduction Music is an indispensable part of religious acts in most, if not all, known cultures of the ancient as well as the modern world. Musical sounds — whether created by human voice or instruments — occupy the integral function of a communication medium. As for general religious beliefs, communication through music was not restricted to human society but could also cross barriers to reach transcendental spheres. Music is a language understood by all beings, gods as well as demons and other creatures of intermediate worlds. Besides its function as a conveyer of information like regular speech, music also has a psychological value, as it is able to affect deepest moods and emotions. By using this tool in communicating with the divine, mankind increases its abilities to influence transcendental beings. Ancient Near Eastern research on Mesopotamian musical instruments is generally directed toward their correct identification. The special interest of Assyriologists, as well as Musicologists, lies in the assignment of the many names known from written material to the images of musical instruments on stone reliefs, clay terracotta and other media.2 Unfortunately, written information on shape, sound and material of musical instruments is scarce and ambiguous. Further, there are many more attested names for musical instruments in texts than there are images differentiating types and versions of musical instruments. A fundamental reason leading to diverse modern interpretations is inherent in the ancient system of music terminology itself. A single musical term could have several meanings referring to a musical instrument, a type of song or a musician. In addition, most terms appear in written sources spanning more than two millennia. There is no question that the meaning of single words is not consistent by reason of permanent cultural changes and alternating language and writing traditions. This article deals with the question of whether it is possible to determine specific areas for the ancient music terminology referring to music in practice. Instead of revisiting the problem of the identification of single musical instru1 I dedicate this article to Joan Goodnick-Westenholz, whom I only had the opportunity to know for a short but still for me very inspiring time. 2 Illustrations in Rashid 1984.



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ments, I will define several groups according to the content of the music they play, their position in ensembles and their function in religious contexts. All musical instruments treated here have one aspect in common: they are signified as holy or divine objects. Further their selection basically relies on the evidence taken from literary and administrative sources from the third and second millennia bce. The religious status of a musical instrument is apparent through its occurrences in the written evidence, consisting of literary texts, lexical lists and administrative documents. Most obvious is marking an object with the determinative diĝir in order to designate it as divine. Further markers are adjectives like ku3/kug ‘holy; pure’ or maḫ ‘great’; however, such classifiers and attributes are not regularly used. Information on the religious status of a musical instrument is more easily inferred from the context in which it appears, whether it is mentioned in mythology, kept in a temple, or worshipped in ways of regular offerings and tended to through special rituals.

Divine Musical Instruments as Seen in Mythology My investigation will start by differentiating two groups of musical instruments according to the context in which they are played: The first group is related to the religious context of praising and laudatory occasions. It consists of the instruments Šem (writings: šem3, šem5), Ala (writing: a2-la2) and Tigi (writings: tigi, tigi2) and is referred to throughout this article as the »Tigi-Šem-Ala« ensemble. The second group is known as the lamentation priest’s (gala) instrumental repertoire, comprising the Lilis (writings: lilis/z, li-li-is3), the Ub (writing: ub3, ub5), the Šem, the Meze (writings: me-ze2, meze) and the Balaĝ. The Šem plays a role in both groups, since the character of its music depends on whether it is played solo or in an ensemble. A nearly complete list of these musical instruments is presented in a passage from Inana and Enki. This myth tells about Inana taking over mankind’s cultural norms, the Sumerian me, from her father Enki in order to bring them to her own cultic centre of Uruk for the benefit of its inhabitants:3 Inana and Enki 99 You (Inana) have brought with you the holy ⌐Tigi¬, holy Lilis, Ub, Meze and Ala4

3 First edition by Farber-Flügge 1973; for interpretation, see Alster 1974: 23–28. 4 Inana and Enki 99. ⌐tigi¬ kug li-li-is3 kug ub3(AB2׊A3) me-ze2 kuša2-la2 ba-; in accordance with Farber-Flügge 1973: 60: 24.

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The musical instruments enumerated in this verse are all part of religious music: the Tigi, the Lilis, the Ub or Šem,5 the Meze and the Ala. Surprisingly, only the Balaĝ is missing here and is, in fact, not mentioned among the me in the whole composition.6

Instruments of Praise and Sacrifice: Tigi-Šem-Ala Regarding mythology, Šem as well as Ala were originally installed by Enki in every Mesopotamian temple referred to in the composition Enki’s Journey to Nibru: Enki’s Journey to Nibru 93–95 Enki had oxen slaughtered, and had sheep offered there lavishly. Where there was no Ala, he installed it in its place; where there was no bronze Šem, he dispatched it to its place.7

The combination of the Šem and Ala is mentioned in several literary compositions with a seemingly traditional position in Mesopotamian temples.8 The Tigi, on the other hand, is not referred to in any similar mythological context. In Šulgi A the king praises himself for having presented offerings and music of this ensemble to Nanna/Suen in his temple at Ur:

5 Both terms ub3 and šem3 are written with the same sign AB׊A3; see here, under Music of Prayer and Lamentation. 6 The beginning of the verse is reconstructed after Farber-Flügge 1973: 60. According to the copy in PBS 5 Pl. xv no. 25 vi 24 and the photograph in ibid.: Pl. 96 the reading is doubtful, since the last sign with a vertical wedge does not seem to be LUL; compare with ibid.: Pl. 15 and 96 v 50. Perhaps we have to read BALAĜ for tigi2([NAR].BALAĜ) or only BALAĜ, without any sign proceeding it (personal communication with U. Gabbay). See, for example, a parallel enumeration supporting this assumption in Iddin-Dagan A 41 balaĝ kug li-li-is3 kug šu mu-na-da-re; according to ETSCL 2.5. 7 Enki’s Journey to Nibru (ETCSL 1.1.4 ) 93. den-ki-ke4 gud im-ma-ab-gaz-e udu im-ma-ab-šar2-re 94. kuša2-la2 nu-ĝal2-la ki-bi-še3 sa2 im-dug4 95. ub3 zabar nu-ĝal2-la ki-bi-še3 im-mi-in-e3; see also Al-Fouadi 1969: 82. 8 Gudea Cyl. B (ETCSL 2.1.7) xv 20 joining balaĝ; The Lament for Nibru (ETCSL 2.2.4) 38; in the twelfth Kirugu of The Lament for Unug 16–17 (ETCSL 2.2.5 Segment H) and in The Debate between Winter and Summer (ETCSL 5.3.3) 236 followed by Tigi and Zamzam; the third Kirugu of The Lament for Eridug (ETCSL 2.2.6) 62; The Temple Hymns (ETCSL 4.80.1) 107 following the recital of Adab-songs; in The Debate between Hoe und Plough (ETCSL 5.3.1) 28 and in the SB bilingual Ninurta hymn (BWL 118–120) rev. 2–3, where AB2׊A3 is to be read as šem3 and not ub3, since it is equated to ḫalḫallatu(m).



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Šulgi A 53–54 (Šulgi): “I filled with abundance the temple of Suen, a cow-pen which yields plenty of fat. I had oxen slaughtered there; I had sheep offered there lavishly. I had Šem and Ala resound there and caused Tigi play there sweetly.”9

In Inana and Enki the same ensemble plays on the arrival of the goddess in her city Uruk. For this occasion, the king was to prepare a great feast including the recitation of prayers, animal sacrifices, libation and music: Inana and Enki 243–246 (Inana): “He shall recite great prayers. The king shall slaughter bulls, shall sacrifice sheep. He shall pour beer from a bowl. He shall have the Šem and Ala, and have the sweet-sounding Tigi play.”10

In a hymn of Iddin-Dagan again the same ensemble accompanies animal sacrifices, poetically alluded to through the image of streaming blood. Here, Tigi is mentioned first: Iddin-Dagan A 80–81 Blood is poured on the dais standing in the guena hall, as Tigi, Šem and Ala are made to sound loudly.11

The close connection of these three musical instruments is best documented in The Marriage of Martu.12 In this composition introducing the god Martu to the Sumerian pantheon, the ruler of the precious and foremost city Inab is named Tigi-Šem-Ala and his wife, Šage-gur, literally “Desired by heart.”13 The names 9 Šulgi A 51. e2 dsuen-na tur3 i3 gal-gal-la ḫe2-ĝal2-la ḫe2-bi2-du8 52. gud ḫa-ba-ni-gaz udu ḫa-bani-šar2 (Var. ḫa-ba-ni-šum) 53. šem5 a2-la2-e šeg11 ḫa-ba-gi4 54. tigi niĝ2 dug3-ge si ḫa-ba-ni-sa2; according to ETCSL 2.4.2.01 and Klein 1981: 194–195; for variants in the text, see ibid.: 195 nos. 53–54. 10 Inana and Enki (ETCSL 1.3.1) 243. lugal-e gud ḫe2-em-ma-ab-gaz-e ⌐udu¬ ḫe2-em-ma-ab-šar2re 244. kaš bur-ra ḫe2-em-⌐de2¬-[e] 245. šem3 kuša2-la2-e šeg11 ḫa-ba-[gi4-gi4] 246. tigi niĝ2 dug3-ge si ḫe2-em-mi-[ib-sa2-sa2]; according to Farber-Flügge 1973: 52 and ETSCL 2.5.3.1. 11 Iddin-Dagan A 80. barag gu2-en-na-ka uš2 i3-bal-bal-e 81. tigi šem3 kuša2-la2-e gu3 nun mu-ni-ibbe2; Reisman 1973: 188: 78–79. 12 Römer 1989; ETCSL 1.7.1. for discussion, see, Vanstiphout 1999: 461–474. 13 The Marriage of Martu “The ruler of Inab was Tigi-šem-ala. Now, he had a wife, whose name was Šage-gur” 11. ensi2 i3-na-abki-a tigi-šem5-kuša2-la2-a 12. dam-a-ni ⌐šag4-ge-guru7¬ ⌐mu¬-ni ḫe2en-na-nam; Vanstiphout 1999: 461 translates the ruler’s name as “Sir Lyre-Drum-Tamburine”; Römer 1993: 323 presents a different translation “Der Stadtfürst von Inab, (der(=?) mit(?)) tigi-, ùb?- (und) á-lá-Trommeln-.”

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given in this context – transferred into english as “Mr. Prawe-music” and “Mme Loveliness” – surely refer to the wellbeing of the city and its special care for religious festivities and the joy and happiness of all its inhabitants and gods. In summary, the trio Tigi-Šem-Ala was a standard instrumental ensemble that belonged to every Mesopotamian temple. It was played on festive occasions and devoted to the praise of the gods. Its music primarily accompanied ritual offerings — in particular animal sacrifice. However, each of these musical instruments, when regarded separately, presents its own characteristics, which are to be presented in the following.

3.1 Tigi and šem The Tigi is documented in literary compositions as a solo or choral instrument.14 Šulgi A 81 as well as Enki’s Journey to Nibru 125 both refer to groups of seven Tigi-instruments. As in the combination with the šem3 and a2-la2 the occasions that it accompanied were of festive character associated with joy and the wellbeing of the land.15 It was kept in special rooms of the temple and affiliated with the gods.16 Representing praise and hymnic music the Tigi is opposed to lamenting and to the music made by instruments accompanying it: Enki and the World Order 446–448 Inana, you destroy what should not be destroyed; you create what should not be created. You remove the cover from the Šem of lamentations, Maiden Inana, while shutting up the Tigi and Adab in their homes.17 14 Gudea Cyl. B (ETCSL 2.1.7) xviii 22–23; Nanše A 40–41; The Lament for Sumer and Urim (ETCSL 2.2.3) 437; The Temple Hymns 6–7; The Lament for Nibru 83; The Cursing of Agade (ETCSL 2.1.5) 36; Enki’s Journey to Nibru 125; Nanna N 22–27; Šulgi A 81; Išbi-Erra E 34; Šu-Suen Inscription (RIME 3/2.1.4.9) xii 14–15; see Sallaberger 1993: 142 n. 668 for reading tigiy for NAR.E2.BALAĜ. 15 In literature, the Tigi is referred to as maḫ (The Lament for Sumer and Urim 437) and niĝ2dug3/ni5 du-ge or as niĝ2…ša3 ḫul-la (Išbi-Erra E 34; Nanna N 22–27; Winter and Summer 237); also next to Zamzam, a type of hymn and a musical instrument; Wilcke 1975: 255–257; Shehata 2009: 257–259. It is further often accompanied by si—sa2 ‘to arrange, to set right; to tune(?)’; Gudea Cyl. B x 9 as ti-gi4; Šulgi A 54; Inanna und Enki 246; Šu-Suen Inscription (RIME 3/2.1.4.9) xii 14–15; The Keš Temple Hymn 119; Enki’s Journey to Nibru 125; see further Krispijn 1990: 3–4. 16 Šulgi E (ETCSL 2.4.2.05) 160. e2 tigi diĝir-re-e-ne-ke4 NE […] “In the house of the Tigi of the gods.”; 255. ĝa2 tigi den-lil2 dnin-lil2-la2-ke4 “In the house of the Tigi of Enki and Ninlil”; translated differently in ETCSL as “music-rooms”. 17 Enki and the World Order (ETCSL 1.1.3) 446. dinana niĝ2 nu-gul-u3 ḫe2-mu-e-gul niĝ2 nu-sig10ge5 ḫe2-mu-e-sig10 447. šem3 a-nir-ra-da tug2 ḫe2-em-mi-si-ig 448. ki-sikil dinana tigi a-da-ab e2-ba ḫe2-em-mi-gi4; see also Benito 1969: 112–113, 441–443.



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The connection of the Tigi with the Adab in this passage results from their secondary meaning as two similar genres of hymns.18 From several original tablets of the song types Tigi and Adab that have survived, we learn that their content is devoted to the praise of single gods which is sometimes associated with individual kings.19 Nevertheless, the ambiguity of these words indicating either musical instruments or song types may hinder a correct interpretation for each of their attestations.20 The Adab is never considered a holy or divine object, and is therefore not included in the current investigation. Contrarily, the Šem is mentioned in the above-cited passage as a characteristic solo instrument for lamenting. The goddess Inana uncovers it in order to initiate mourning ceremonies. The Šem, Akkadian ḫalḫallatu(m), generally belongs to the musical instruments of the gala, the lamentation priest. With this instrument he accompanies the Eršema ‘the lament of the šem3/5-drum’.21 A passage from the literary composition Inana’s Descent to the Nether World further connects this musical instrument to the performance of death rituals: Inana’s Descent to the Nether World 34–35 (Inana): “On this day I will descend to the underworld. When I have arrived in the underworld, make a lament for me on the ruin mounds. Beat the Šem for me in the sanctuary. Make the rounds of the houses of the gods for me.”22

Regarding their identification, neither the Tigi nor the Šem are enumerated among the list of wooden musical instruments of the Old Babylonian (OB) lexical Ur5-ra list.23 Only in three instances is Šem preceded by the determinative kuš

18 See, in general, Wilcke 1975: 254–260, 266–273, 290–292; Shehata 2009: 251–257. 19 For example, Gudea Cyl. A: a Tigi-song to Bau; Ur-Namma B: a Tigi-song to Enlil; Ibbi-Suen A: a Tigi-song to Suen; Lipit-Eštar C: an Adab-song to An. 20 See, for instance, The Lament for Sumer and Urim 436–437, with tigi2 appearing twice, but only once with the determinative ĝiš. In Gudea Cyl. A xviii, 17–18, Tigi is replaced by Adab. 21 The earliest attestation is an OB one, from the Mari Ištar ritual; Durand and Guichard 1997: 55 iii 16–18. 22 Inana’s Descent to the Nether World (ETCSL 1.4.1) 32. ud-da kur-še3 ed3-de3-en 33. ud-da kurše3 ĝen-na-ĝu10-ne 34. er2 du6-du6-dam mar-mar-ma-ni-ib 35. šem3 gu2-en-na du12-du12-a-ma-ni-ib 36. [e2] diĝir-re-e-ne niĝin2-niĝin2-na-ma-ni-ib; Sladek 1974: 107, 15–156: 32–36. The acts described here, playing the Šem and “making the rounds” are further actions undertaken by the gala in his rituals, aimed at avoiding misfortune. 23 Veldhuis 1997: 250–251: 597–619.

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‘hide; leather’.24 In most cases bronze or copper are referred to as its material.25 Ur III and OB documents from Ur and Uruk mention Šem-instruments made of or decorated with silver and gold.26 In the first-millennium commentary list Mur-gud again both Tigi and Šem are enumerated among other metal musical instruments.27 They are likely to be identified as cymbals, sistrums or other sorts of metallic idiophones, though the animal’s hide (kuš) with Šem obviously refers to a membranophone.28 The same commentary further equates Tigi with Akkadian ḫalḫallatu(m), which is normally the translation for Šem.29 Though this equation might identify both musical instruments, Šem and Tigi, as the same in shape and form, it is more likely to be a reference to an instrumental family that is distinguished by a common sound or function. In any case, a special connection between both musical instruments is objectively demonstrated. The tendency to relate the Tigi with musical instruments of the gala — i.e., ḫalḫallatu(m) ‘šem3’ — is further observed in the Seleucid version of the Balaĝ-song Uruama’irabi. At the end of the text the gala-priests are described sitting by the Tigi.30 This connotation surely results from the decrease of knowledge about this instrument’s original character in music performance. Remarkable, this misleading connection found its way into the abovementioned early first-millennium commentary Mur-gud. Finally, the Tigi may also be related to the Balaĝ-instrument, since its logographic writing is a combination of the signs BALAĜ and NAR.31 The Balaĝ was the main musical instrument played by the gala-priest for accompanying Balaĝ-lamentations. Tigi, therefore, obviously refers to a musical instrument similar in form or status, which was played by the nar, “musician” in a more common sense, to accompany occasions of joyful character.

24 The Debate between Hoe and Plough 28; The Lament for Nibru 38; OB Ur5-ra 11 (MSL 7, 222) 139. kuš-sim 140. kuš-bar!-sim; see also Gabbay 2007: 79–80 with note 161. The variant writing sim/si-im further appears in Gudea Cyl. A xviii, 18; B xv, 20, Šulgi D 366 and in SLB 1/1, 30: 32. 2 urudu si-im 33. ki-la2-bi 2/3 ma-na 5 gin2; Römer 1965: 167. 25 For lexical evidence in OB Ur5-ra from Nippur, see here footnote 64 and, further, Gabbay 2007: 70 with note 158. 26 For references from Ur, see Gabbay 2007: 70 note 160, though in these instances the word may also refer to a vessel; see Civil 1965: 111. For Uruk: Baghdader Mitteilungen 21, 164: 113 (Ilum-gamil year 15) 1. 2 AB2׊A3 ⌐AGA/nimgir¬ ku3-sig17 “Two golden šem3 for the herald(?)” read šem3 instead of ub3. 27 Mg A II (MSL 7, 153) 194–196. 28 Kilmer (2003–2005: 368) identifies it as a “metal drum with a skin drumhead”; see, recently, Gabbay 2010 and Mirelman 2010. 29 Mg A II (MSL 7, 153) 194. urudubalaĝ.ti-ginar = ti-ig-gu-ú = ḫal-ḫal-la-tum. 30 Volk 1989: 202: 91. 31 BALAĜ.NAR for tigi and NAR.BALAĜ for tigi2.



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The Ala-drum The third musical instrument in the Tigi-Šem-Ala group is the most intriguing one:32 The following excerpt repeatedly attested in a group of administrative texts hints to the Ala’s religious status. This group of 29 texts from Ur, dating to the time of the Larsa kings from Abīsarē to Rīm-Sîn, affords information on expenditures of amounts of oil for Ala-instruments. The expended oil was dedicated to the Ala of the temple of Ningal:33 UET 5, 787 (AbS ii) 13–16 (list of expenditures) For the elūnum-festival of Ningal. From the Ganunmaḫ of Ningal. 1/4 litres of oil for the hide of the Ala of Ningal. Son of Nadi (i.e., Ku-Lugalbanda) has received it.34

From the time of Rīm-Sîn on, texts from the same corpus record two Alas receiving a double amount of oil. Altogether, the expenditure was registered as a monthly offering.35 OB documents from Mari with similar contents further note that the oil was used for rubbing into the Ala’s hide.36 This hide was obviously the Ala drumhead, which was being kept from drying out.

32 A detailed discussion of the a2-la2 and its identification is presented in this volume by S. Mirelman. 33 In UET 3 and 5; see PSD A/1: 81; Figulla 1953: 91–121; Charpin 1986: 208. Only once in UET 5, 752: 9 (Sel 4) ghee (i3-nun) is expended instead of oil. Although only in UET 5, 785: 16 (Sel 23?) and UET 5, 787: 14 (AbS ii) the instrument is clearly attributed to Ningal, it is the same instrument referred to in all other 27 texts. For similar expenditures in Ur III times, see ITT 2, 833 rev. 6. 1/2 sila3 ub3 kug 7. 1/2 sila3 a2-la2. 34 UET 5, 787 (AbS ii) 13. niĝ2-dab5 e-lu-nu-um dnin-gal 14. 15 gin2 i3-ĝiš kuš a2-la2 dnin-gal 15. ĝa2nun-maḫ dnin-gal-ta 16. dumu na-di šu-ba-an-ti. 35 UET 5, 777 (RS 9) 16. niĝ2-dab5 iti-da 17. 1/2 sila3 i3-ĝiš 18. kuša2-la2 2-bi. 36 ARM 23, 424: 482 8. 1 sila3 i3-ĝiš 9. a-na pa-ša-aš 5 kuš a-li-i 10. šu-ti-a na-ra-am-ì-lí-šu “1 liter of oil for rubbing five hides of the alûm, received by Naram-ilīšu.”

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The identification of the Ala, Akkadian alû, as a giant drum, already supposed by Galpin,37 is further supported by several OB letters from Mari.38 Literary texts further describe its sound as rumbling and loud as a storm.39 The construction and dedication of the Ala is documented in two OB year names belonging to local North Babylonian rulers of Kish and Sippar: Kiš: Yawium (g) Year: Yawium has fashioned a leather Ala for the temple of Zababa.40

Sippar: Mananâ (e) and (f) Year: Mananâ has fashioned a (leather) Ala for the temple of Nanna.41

The mention of the Ala in year names demonstrates the high religious status of this musical instrument, being dedicated to a god and set up in his temple.42 There are only two other musical instruments that appear in year names: the Lilis and the Balaĝ, which belonged to the musical instruments of the gala-priest. Notably, only once in Late Babylonian versions of the Balaĝ-song Uruama’irabi is the Ala attributed to this same priest, who plays it as a solo instrument.43 This connection is probably a later tradition that developed because of the similarity in form between the Ala and the Balaĝ and Lilis. In third- and second-millennium texts only nar musicians appear singing or proclaiming to the sound of the Ala.44

37 Galpin (1955: 6–7) identifies it with the giant drums represented on the Ur-Namma stele (Rashid 1984: 70–73). This identification is followed by S. Mirelman in this volume. 38 Durand 1988: 119–121; Villard 1989. 39 Gudea Cyl. B xviii, 22. ušum-gal-kalam-ma ti-gi4-a mu-gub xix 1. a2-la2 ud-dam šeg12 mu-naab-gi4 “Ušumgal-kalama was accompanied by Tigi, and the Ala roared for him (Ninĝirsu) like a storm”; BWL 204 (Column B): 9…]-li tirik a-le-e ra-mi-mi PSD A/2: 82b “the beating of the alû-instrument (is my dog’s) sound”; CAD R: 126b translates differently: “…the beat of the rumbling drum” see also (ibid.) the equation dra-mi-mu = MIN (= dAdad) in the gods list CT 25, 16. 40 mu kuša2-la2 Ia-wi-u2-um e2 dza-ba4-ba4-ra mu-na-an-dim2; Simmons 1960: 83 (ii). 41 mu kuša2-la2 e2 dnanna Mananâ mu-na-an-dim2; Charpin 1978: 28. The following year (f) mu us2-sa has the variant ĝiša2-la2 differently Gabbay in this volume. 42 See also MVN 10, 200: obv. 4. mu kuša2-la2-še3. 43 Volk 1989: 83: 48–50. 44 The Keš Temple Hymn 118; Gudea Statue L (RIME 3/1.1.7) obv. iv’ 6–7.



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Music of Prayer and Lamentation A single passage from The Cursing of Agade assembles all known musical instruments from Babylonia in the gala’s repertoire: The Cursing of Agade 193–208 At that time, Enlil rebuilt his great sanctuaries into small reed (?) sanctuaries and from east to west he reduced their storehouses. The old women who survived those days, the old men who survived those days and the chief lamentation singer (gala-maḫ) who survived those years, for seven days and seven nights, he set up seven Balaĝs, as if they stood at the horizon, and together with Ub, Meze, and Lilis (Var. Ub, Šem, and Lilis // Ub and bronze Šem) made them resound for him (Enlil) like Iškur. The old women did not restrain the cry “Alas my city!” The old men did not restrain the cry “Alas its people!” The gala-priests did not restrain the cry “Alas the Ekur!” Its young women did not restrain from tearing their hair. Its young men did not restrain from sharpening their knives.45 Their laments were (like) the lament Enlil’s ancestors were performing in the awe-inspiring Holy Mound by the holy knees of Enlil.46 Line 201 score transliteration for the variants of the text’s duplicates:47 (1) ub3 me-ze2 li-li-is3

iškur-gin7 šag4-ba mu-na-an-du12

d

(2) ub3 šem3 li-li-is3

”

”

(3) ub3 šem3 zabar

”

”

The musical instruments enumerated in this passage are seven Balaĝs opposed to each of one Ub, Šem, Meze and Lilis. Except for the Balaĝ, the combination of all other musical instruments appears in three different variants, as may be seen in the score transliteration for line 201. The text describes the performance of an extensive ritual lamentation as a reaction to the cursing and destruction that befell the city of Agade, because of Enlil’s decision. The duty of the gala-maḫ playing his instruments is to sooth the god’s heart. His orchestra is accompanied by choral singing of old men and

45 The tearing out of the hair is a typical gesture of mourning women; Fritz 2003: 344; see also The Lament for Urim (ETCSL 2.2.2) 299–300. The young men with their knives were also part of the lamenting and mourning ritual. 46 According to The Cursing of Agade and Cooper 1983: 59, 61. 47 Variant (1) in E1/Q2/Y2/G3; variant (2) in O/S/W and variant (3) in D4; see Cooper 1983: 201. Note that none of the OB manuscripts (D4 from Ur and W of unknown provenance) writes me-ze2.

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women as well as gala-priests.48 Except for this single literary passage, the gala’s instruments were always played solo. The Balaĝ occupies a special position in the repertoire of the gala, apart from the other musical instruments. The Lilis, Ub, Šem and the Meze are grouped together not only according to their contextual setting but also based on the shape of the cuneiform signs denoting them. In logographic terms, each of these terms are composites of the sign AB2 ‘cow’, with varying inscribed signs: Lilis AB2×BALAĜ

𒀗

šem3

ub3

AB2׊A3

𒀚

šem5 AB2×KAR2

𒀘

ub5

šem6

AB2–KID2

𒀖𒆑

ub6

meze šem4

AB2×ME-EN

𒀙

Only the logogram for Lilis is distinct. The graphemes for the musical instruments Šem, Ub and Meze are written in several ways, which makes them difficult to differentiate. They might have all referred to one generic family of musical instruments distinguished in shape, sound or position in a music ensemble.49 According to the OB Balaĝ-lamentation ša3-zu ta-am3-ir, which integrates a mythical narration about the creation of the gala, the Ub and the Lilis were given to the gala by his god Enki.50

Ub, Šem and Meze Whether AB2׊A3 is to be read as ub3 or šem3 is determined mostly by consulting the context. When appearing next to Ala the reading šem3 is preferred, but next to Lilis, the same sign, AB2׊A3, is read as ub3,51 and when appearing alone, the differentiation between these musical instruments remains ambivalent and has to be determined separately for each passage.52 48 For further discussion on this passage, see Cooper 2006. 49 According to Kilmer 1977: 133, AB2 may have been a phonetic sign referring to drums; according to Heimpel 1998: 15 ab2 “cow” refers to the animal whose hide was used for the drumhead; see, further, Gabbay 2007: 71 with all the evidence for names of musical instruments that are written with ab2. Alternativly, ab2 ‘cow’, as opposed to gu4 ‘bull’ appearing with balaĝ or ub5, may reflect a concept for differentiating instrumental groups based on sex — distinguishing between feminine and masculine musical instruments. 50 Kramer 1981. 51 Hartmann 1960: 103–107; Römer 1965: 167; and, now, Gabbay 2007: 68 regarding the connection and equation of Ub and Lilis. 52 A differentiation regarding the determinatives (kuš ‘hide’ for ub3 and zabar ‘bronze’ for šem3) is equally difficult, since ub3 is also attested with urudu ‘copper’; see Civil 1965: 108–113, in detail.



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The variant ub5 as an older writing of ub3 is only attested in the third millenni53 um. Early Dynastic (ED) administrative documents from Lagaš provide evidence for a divine or holy ub5 receiving offerings.54 According to texts from Ĝirsu, this holy instrument was played or tended by maids and a special functionary probably acting as their foreman.55 For the Ur III period there is a single text from Ĝirsu that mentions seven holy Ubs associated with six different gods and goddesses, each receiving a bull’s hide.56 Similar to Šem, OB literature presents the Ub as an instrument of lamentation mostly played on its own: The Lament for Urim 299–302 The woman (Ningal) tears at her hair as if it were rushes. She beats the holy Ub at her chest, she cries “Alas, my city.” Her eyes well with tears, she weeps bitterly: “Woe is me, my city which no longer exists — I am not its queen.”57

Reading the sign AB2׊A3 as ub3 in this passage is supported by a bilingual liturgical text where the instrument’s name is rendered uppu in Akkadian.58 The beating of the chest is a typical gesture of lamenting and mourning. Kilmer 1977: 134–135, 138 Figs. 9–10, in my opinion, rightly identifies this musical instrument with the small frame drum played by women and several men, held in front of their chest, in many OB terracotta reliefs.59 Interestingly, first-millennium rituals refer to the lamentation priest (gala) as beating his chest while uttering “Woe” sounds and

53 Selz 1997: 195 n. 154. 54 In Lagaš the ub5 kug was associated with Nanše; Selz 1995: 200: 61, 359; Selz 1997: 172–173. 55 For example DP 134 obv. ii, 6. geme2-ub5-ku3-ga, rev. i, 2. lu2 ub5 ku3-ga-me and RTC 61 obv. ii, 8. geme2-ub5-ku3-ga, obv. vii, 15. lu2 geme2-ub5 ku3-ga-me as “person in charge of the (maids of the) holy ub5”; with Selz 1997: 176, 198 n. 187; contra Selz 1989: 236 “Männer (und) Mägde der heiligen Trommel sind sie”. 56 HSS 4, 52 obv. 5. 2 kuš gu4 ub5-kug dba-ba6 min-a-bi 6. 1 kuš gu4 ub5-kug dnanše 7. 1 kuš gu4 ub5-kug dnin-dar-a 8. 1 kuš gu4 ub5-kug ddumu-zi 9. 1 kuš gu4 ub5-kug dnin-marki 10. 1 kuš gu4 ub5kug dinana. 57 The Lament for Urim 299. lu2 siki-ni numun2-bur-gin7 šu mu-ni-in-dub2-dub2 300. gaba-ni ub3 kug-ga-am3 i3-sag3-ge a uru2-ĝu10 im-me 301. igi-ni er2-ra mi-ni-ib-zi-zi-i-zi er2 gig i3-še8-še8 302. me-li-e-a uru2-ĝu10 nu-me-a me-e ga-ša-an-bi nu-ĝen; following Römer 1965: 157; see also Römer 2004: 66 reading šem3 instead. 58 CT 42 Pl. 30b rev. 7. gaba-a-ni kuš-ub3 […]; 8. i-rat-su ki-ma up-[pi…] “[He beats] his breast like an uppu”; Kilmer 1977: 133. 59 Kilmer 1977: 133; CAD S: 150–151 for sapādu; bilingual parallels to this passage are in Balaĝsongs: E Turgin Niginam (OB version) in Cohen 1988: 77, 85: a + 42 and Enzu Samarmar in Cohen 1988: 408, 412: g + 114.

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singing an Eršema.60 The Eršema though is known to be accompanied by the šem3 ḫalḫallatu(m). From this intermingled usage we may assume that Šem and Ub are names of two similar instruments used in similar contexts. Finally, the Akkadian myth of Atramḫasīs refers to the Akkadian uppu and to its sound as standing for the introduction of death among mankind: Atramḫasīs 214 And we may hear the uppu till the end of times. aḫ-ri-a-ti-iš u4-mi up-pa i ni-iš-me61

As suggested by Moran, to the ancient listener, the sound of the uppu was closely associated with mourning rituals.62 Kilmer, on the other hand, interprets this occurrence of the uppu — also regarding the aforementioned passages — as the sound of the heartbeat.63 Both connotations were probably intended here, since mourning and beating the drum are also linked to the beating of the chest. As opposed to third-millennium evidence for the ub5, there is no second- and first-millennia attestation of a special cult of the ub3 as a divine object. It therefore might have been replaced by other similar musical instruments. Mentions of the Meze are very scarce, the earliest coming from OB lexical and literary sources.64 Similar to the Šem, the Meze is also defined as a metal object made of zabar ‘bronze’.65 In first-millennium literary transcriptions of older texts it replaces Šem.66 In most texts it is written syllabically, me-ze2; the logograph MEZE is only known from first-millennium texts, where it is rendered Akkadian manzû.67 According to its documentation, the Meze appears to be of a late musical 60 Farber 2003: 209–212: 8–9 [ira]ssu isappid u ū’a iqabbi uru2.a.še.er.ra iz[ammur] “He beats his [bre]ast and says ‘Woe!’ He si[ngs] Uru’ašerra (an Eršema to Enlil)”; see also Walker and Dick 2001: 231. 61 See Lambert and Millard 1969: 58. 62 Moran 1970: 45–46. 63 Kilmer 1977: 133. 64 Lexical: OB Ur5-ra from Nippur 12 (MSL 7, 234: 32ff.) 565. šem5zabar 566. me-ze2zabar 567. li-li-is3zabar; see also BM 85983 rev. ii 31 and Isin IB 1612b rev. 1 7. mezexzabar again next to šem3/5 and li-li-is3 (N. Veldhuis in CDLI P247861 ); Inana and Enki 99; Cohen 1981: 104: 20 (Eršema to Gula). 65 For its identification, see Volk 1989: 101: 17 “Klangstab(?)” and Selz 1997: 192 Anm. 90 “a sort of sistrum(?)”; for a different view, see Kilmer 2003–2005: 369 interpreting it as a membranophone. 66 The Cursing of Agade 201; Balaĝ-song Uruamma’irabi Volk 1989: 29: 16/17. 67 CAD M/1: 239; see recently Gabbay 2010: 25–26 for the word’s etymology and its identification as sistrum.



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tradition which was integrated to the original Sumerian music no earlier than the second millennium onward. At the same time, it shares similarities with the Šem either in shape or sound.68

The Kettledrum Lilis The Lilis is the only instrument from Mesopotamia identified through an image representation. It is depicted on a Seleucid ritual tablet describing the cultic acts that accompany the covering of its bronze sound box.69 Just as presented for the Ala from OB Mari evidence, the Lilis was also covered with red-dyed bull skin. The logographic writing AB2×BALAĜ for its name further demonstrates its special religious position. Like the Ala, the Lilis too was constructed and dedicated to a god or goddess, as documented in OB year names of local dynasties in Babylonia: Isin: Itēr-pīša A Year: Itēr-pīša the king made a copper Lilis for Šamaš.70 Year: Itēr-pīša the king made a bronze Lilis for Inana of Zabalam.71

Kiš: Mananâ Year: Mananâ has fashioned a bronze Lilis for the temple of Nanna.72

Kisurra: Itūr-Šamaš Year: Itūr-Šamaš has fashioned the bronze Lilis for Annunītum.73

68 See Hartmann 1960: 101; Gabbay 2007: 72, for an Akkadian origin. 69 Text TU 47, see Rashid 1984: 140 text illustration; Linssen 2004: 92–100. 70 mu I-te-er-pi4-ša lugal-e ⌐li¬-li-is3 zabar dutu-ra mu-na-dim2; Sigrist 1988: 36. 71 mu dI-te-er-pi4-ša ⌐lugal¬-[e] [li]- ⌐li¬-is3 zabar ⌐dinana¬ zabalamki-ra mu-na-dim2; Sigrist 1988: 36. 72 mu li-li-is3 zabar e2 dnanna Mananâ mu-na-an-dim2; Charpin 1978: 28 (e). 73 lilisx ⌐zabar¬ (li-li-is3/li-li-sa-am a-na an-nu-ni-tum) I-tur2-dšamaš mu-na-du3; for variants, see Kienast 1978 vol.1: 22 and copy Taf. 15, 32: 14; (e) mu li-⌐li-sa-am¬ and Itūr-Šamaš e: mu us2-sa-abi li-li-is3 zabar (BM 28454).

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Kisurra: Unknown ruler: Year: The copper Lilis for Nininsina.74

Sippar: Buntaḫtun-ila Year in which he installed the Lilis in the temple of Ninkarrak.75

Holy Lilis-drums were dedicated to many different gods and were brought into their temples by the ruling kings. Notably, this is only attested from middle and north Babylonian dynasties and never from Sumerian rulers. This fact might be a hint to the regional origin of the Lilis, be it as a word or as the musical instrument itself.76 Beside the Seleucid ritual mentioned above, information on its material and weight is given in Ur III and OB texts.77 In Mari this instrument was used in a ritual next to the Balaĝ of Ištar named Ninigizibara.78 Unfortunately, the passage is badly destroyed and no further contextual information is available. Most evidence for the Lilis comes from the first millennium. Much information is gained about its cultic usage from Neo-Assyrian scholarly letters addressed to the king, as well as from Seleucid rituals. It was installed in front of deities, stars and planets; took part in circumambulation rites around temples; and accompanied lamentation prayers.79 Personified as the god dlilis its sound was used to prevent misfortune and negative prediction.

Balaĝ It is not the aim of this article to present this musical instrument and the difficulties that its identification poses in its whole complexity; Uri Gabbay’s article 74 uruduli-li-is3 dnin-in-si-in-⌐na¬-ra; Kienast 1978: vol. 1: 25: Ac). 75 CT 48, 42: l.e. mu li-li-sa-am a-na e2 dnin-kar-ra-ak ⌐u3¬-še!-ri-bu; see Harris 1970: 316; Charpin 1978: 28 note 55; Westenholz 2010: 385. 76 See further Sumula’ēl (CT 4, 50a) mu balaĝ li-li-is3 2-a-bi utu-ra mu-na-an-dim2 (Horsnell 1999: vol. 2: 63; contra Charpin 1978: 28 n. 55 Immērum). Here balaĝ seems to act as a classifier or determinative for /lilis/, as it does in the Warad-Sîn Inscription (RIME 4.2.13.1002) 260 iii 8’; more on this in Gabbay’s article in this volume. 77 TCL 5, 6055 (AS 3) ii 9. 1 urudu li-li-is3 10. ki-la2-bi 20 ma-na “One copper Lilis; its weight 20 minas (≈10 kg)”; ARM 24, 105: 1. 2 gun2 urudu 2. a-na li-li-si-[i]m) “Two talents (≈60 kg) copper; for the Lilis”; note the differences in the amounts expended. 78 Durand and Guichard 1997: 59: 21’–22’. 79 Linssen 2004: 92–94.



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in this volume is dedicated to these matters. Nevertheless, since the Balaĝ — in regard to its religious status — enjoys the highest position among other musical instruments presented here, a short summary of its characteristics is necessary. The Balaĝ belongs to the instrumental repertoire of the lamentation priest, and was put under the special care and protection of the gala-maḫ, the chief lamentation priest.80 It was connected to the well-known genre of lamentation songs of the same name — Balaĝ. These liturgical songs were performed in Emesal Sumerian, as all other music of the gala-priest, to soothe the gods’ raging hearts and to forestall danger for mankind. Evidence for ritual offerings presented to the Balaĝ comes from administrative documents dating to the ED times until the OB period.81 The most comprehensive material dates to the Ur III period. Holy and divine Balaĝ-objects received all sorts of offerings, animal sacrifice, as well as herbal products and libations, and participated in circumambulation rites.82 Other texts mention offerings to groups of seven divine Balaĝ-instruments.83 This seemingly consistent group may be connected to the seven Balaĝs mentioned in the passage from The Cursing of Agade, cited above. The word “Balaĝ” was determined either through ĝiš ‘wood’ or kuš ‘hide; leather’.84 An OB reference from Ur mentions a bronze Balaĝ.85 Another OB administrative text from the leather archive of Isin lists different expenditures for the restoration of a Balaĝ of Inana, probably dedicated by the deified king Išbi-Erra:86 BIN 9, 445 (IšEr 25) 1–7 (For) [x] old Balaĝ of dInana, dIšbi-Erra Its red bull’s hide 1/3 tanned?

80 ED: Volk 1988; Ur III: Sallaberger 1993: 298; OB: BIN 9, 445 (IšEr 25). 81 PSD B: 75–76; see, for example, ED: Nik 1, 148 ii 3 (Selz 1989: 369) and DP 167 iii–iv for the dedication of a balaĝ by Šaša, wife of Uru-KA-gina (Krecher 1988: 260); for Lagaš, see Selz 1995: 103–104; OB: UET 3, 282: 18–21 (RS?). 82 Sallaberger 1993: 297–298; Heimpel 1998. 83 ED: Selz 1995: 103; Ur III: N(S)ATN 824 (2N-T592); see PSD B: 75a. 84 OB Ur5-ra from Nippur 2 597–599 (Veldhuis 1997: 250–251) and first millennium Ur5-ra 11 (MSL 7, 136: 265, 221: 135). 85 UET 3, 282: 17–21 (broken date [RS?]), where it received several natural (raw) products as offering and is mentioned directly after the monthly oil expenditure for the Ala of Ningal. 86 This Balaĝ is not known to me from any other source. It is surely a different one than the Balaĝ dedicated to Enlil in RIME 4.1.1 with the name “Išbi-Erra trusts in the god Enlil” (dIš-bi-er3ra den-lil2-da ⌐nir¬-ĝal2).

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Its black billy-goat hide one half; its lime 1/3 litre; Deliverer: Lu-igi.KU, the gala-maḫ87

Among all other musical instruments referred to in the several documents of this same archive, only the Balaĝ received a red-dyed bull skin, doubtless to be used as its drumhead.88 The chief lamentation priest Lu-igi.KU who received the materials was responsible for this musical instrument. The Balaĝ, like the Ala and the Lilis, also was dedicated to a god or goddess, as documented in year names as early as Gudea’s times. Apart from being affiliated with a god and the household of his temple, the Balaĝ was given a proper name. It was personified and worshipped as an individual deity. Two such deities will be presented here briefly: Ur: Ibbi-Suen, year 21 Year: Ibbi-Suen, the king of Ur, built the Balaĝ Ninigizibara for Inana.89

The Balaĝ-goddess Ninigizibara of Inana is mentioned for the first time in the reign of King Šulgi.90 Ur III period offerings for this goddess are documented in administrative texts from Umma and Uruk.91 During the OB period there is evidence of a regular cult for Ninigizibara in Larsa, Isin, Sippar, Mari and Tuttul.92 Hitherto unique is this Balaĝ’s mention in two OB Mari rituals, where it functioned as a cultic and divine object in the course of ritual performance.93 It was set up in front of the image of Ištar, with gala-priests and an orchestra to its left and right. In the second ritual it was positioned close to the king.94 In another 87 1. [x] ĝišbalaĝ sumun 2. ⌐dinana¬ diš-bi-er3-ra 3. ⌐kuš¬ gu4 u2-ḫab2-bi 1/3 4. ba-a-si 5. kuš maš2gal gi6-bi 6. še-gin2-bi 5 gin2 7. gir3 lu2-igi-KU ⌐gala-maḫ¬; for u2-ḫab2 (Akk. ḫūratu) used for dying or tanning leather red, see Van de Mieroop 1987: 153–154; Stol 1980–1983: 532–535; for si as “tanning,” see Stol 1980–1983: 529. 88 All other musical instruments mostly received black billy goat hides; see BIN 9, 444 (ŠuIl 3) and BIN 10, 104 (IšEr 13) for ĝišša3-tar and ĝišza3-mi. 89 mu dI-bi2-den.zu lugal uri2ki-ma-ke4 dnin-igi-zi-bar-ra balaĝ dinana-ra mu-na-dim2; Sigrist and Gomi 1991: 329. 90 See all evidence in Heimpel 1998–2001a: 382–383. 91 Sallaberger 1993: 220 and Table 72. 92 Walker and Wilcke 1981: 96: D 11; Heimpel 1998–2001a: 384; Richter 2004: 212–213, 373–374; MHET I/1 63: 8 (Ad 2); ARM 25, 566; for god lists, see Wilcke 1987: 94: A II + 11 (Isin); Lambert 1985: 183: 94 (Mari). 93 Durand and Guichard 1997: 46–63 nos. 2–3. 94 Durand and Guichard 1997: 52–54 i 8’–12’ and ibid.: 59 i 19’–22’.



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document from Mari Ninigizibara is said to have been decorated with silver and gold.95 This goddess is finally referred to in first-millennium god lists as a gu4balaĝ “bull-balaĝ” of Inana.96 The second famous Balaĝ-god to be presented here is known only from the third millennium. Its construction and dedication is documented for Gudea’s third regnal year: Lagash: Gudea, year 3 Year: The Balaĝ Ušumgalkalama was fashioned.97

Ušumgalkalama, literally the “Great Dragon of the Land,” was associated with the god Ninĝirsu and is referred to in Gudea’s expanded temple-building hymns.98 Offerings for this same Balaĝ are registered in an Ur III document from the time of Šulgi, where it received beer, bread and oil rations.99 Seemingly, the cult for this divine object outlived the reign of Gudea and continued into Ur III times. Nevertheless, we lose track of this instrument from OB times onward. Note that AN = d Anum refers to this god as an-gub-ba “tutelary deity” of the Eninnu.100 Many more Balaĝ-gods are known by name from inscriptions, administrative texts or god lists.101 Most of them are enumerated in the first-millennium god list AN = dAnum, where they are subordinated to superior gods and referred to as “bull(gu4)-Balaĝ of the god/goddess NN.” Each major god of the pantheon could have several gu4-balaĝs attributed to him, when the highest number is observed for the god Nanna with eight gu4-balaĝs.102 Here are a few examples: Ninĝirsu (Litke 1998: 177) 104. ddu11-ga-lugal-a-ni-ša3-ḫun-ĝa2

“The king's word is heart-soothing”

105. dnitani-ta-zi

“Righteous man”103

95 ARM 25, 566. 96 AN = dAnum IV 74 (Litke 1998: 153); Emesal god list MSL 4, 9: 87. 97 mu balaĝ ušum-gal-kalam-ma ba-dim2-ma; Sigrist and Gomi 1991: 317. 98 Gudea Cyl. A vi, 24–25; vii, 24–25; Gudea Cyl. B xv, 21. 99 Amherst 17 (Š 25) ii, 18. 100 Litke 1998: 177: 97. 101 Some examples: Balaĝ Ninḫinuna of Gula or Nini(n)sina; see Cavigneaux and Krebernik 1998–2001: 378; two Balaĝs for Enlil, otherwise mentioned in SAT I 198: 6–9; Balaĝ Ninildagaldi of Baba mentioned in Gudea Statue D (RIME 3/1.1.7) 44 iv 12–14; see Heimpel 1998–2001b: 461. 102 AN = dAnum III 49–57; Litke 1998: 123. 103 Cavigneaux and Krebernik 1998–2001: 590.

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106. ddug4-a-ni-si

“His word is fulfilling”

107. [7 gu4]-balaĝ Nin-ĝir2-su-˹ke4˺

“(In sum:) Seven bull-Balaĝs of Ninĝirsu”

Diĝirmaḫ (Litke 1998: 77) 94. dad-gi4-gi4 “Counsellor” 95. dad-gi4-gi4 gu4-balaĝ

“Counsellor, bull-Balaĝ”

… 98. 6 gu4-balaĝ dDiĝir-maḫ-ke4

“(In sum:) Six bull-Balaĝs of Diĝirmaḫ”

Ningal (Litke 1998: 123) 59. dnin-da-gal-zu

“Killing with the Lady”104

60. dnin-da-maḫ-⌐di¬(-e)

“Sounding greatly with the Lady”105

61. 2 gu4-balaĝ dNin-gal-ke4

“(In sum:) Two bull-Balaĝs of Ningal”

The names of these Balaĝ-gods are constructed in several different ways referring to different attributes. In Akkadian they are referred to as muntalku or mumdalku, which is to be translated as counsellor or advisor.106 Similarly, literary passages describe the divine Balaĝ-instruments Ninigizibara and Ušumgalkalama in Sumerian as ad-gi4-gi4 ‘counsellor’ and ‘advisor’.107 Last, there is yet a third appearance or concept of a divine Balaĝ, which must be mentioned here: the individual deity dBalaĝ. Ur III documents mention it among deities of the divine circle of Ninlil in Nippur, receiving animal sacri-

104 Cavigneaux and Krebernik 1998–2001: 337; “die mit der Herrin tötet.” 105 Cavigneaux and Krebernik 1998–2001: 338; “die mit der Herrin laut tönt.” 106 KAV 64 ii 16f.; iii 21f.: gu4-balaĝ // mu-un-tal-ku as Gt participle of malāku with a reciprocal meaning; CAD M/2: 207 sub. lex. 2; see also Gabbay in this volume. 107 PSD A/3: 18; Volk 1989: Tafel Ia and II (BM 38593) i 15–16 and rev. iii 14 (PSD A/3: 18b); Gudea Cyl. A vi, 24–25 // vii, 24. balaĝ ki aĝ2-ni ušumgal kalam-ma 25. ĝiš-gu3-di mu tuku niĝ2 ad gi4-gi4ni; see above also the gu4-balaĝ of Diĝirmaḫ named Ad-gi4-gi4. According to Inana and Enki Seg. I 91–92, the concept of ad-gi4-gi4 belongs to the me, followed by ša3 kuš2-u3 with a similar meaning “to counsel; to comfort.” For the Akkadian equivalent, māliku, see CAD M/1: 162; Cohen 1988: 54–55: 86. balaĝ-e ad-gi4-gi4-zu la-ba-gub en3-zu: ba-lag-gu ma-li-ki-ka ul iz[zaz…].



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fice.108 In first-millennium god lists this deity appears in Akkadian as Lumḫa and is referred to as “Enki of the gala-priests.”109

Conclusion It must be pointed out initially that all musical instruments discussed here and qualified as cultic, “holy” or even divine were percussion instruments, either membranophones or idiophones. This is an important observation on the character of religious music, especially regarding the late third and second millennium bce. To be sure, there were other musical instruments, drums, strings and pipes that played a role in cultic festivities. Nevertheless, to my knowledge they never gained a comparable religious status, receiving offerings in a temple, being dedicated to the gods and even worshipped as individual deities.110 From the above overview I further deduce several groups of religious musical instruments regarding (a) their context and function and (b) their religious status: (a) First, concerning context and function, there is a clear differentiation between praise music and music accompanying lamenting and praying. Regarding the former, the trio ensemble Tigi-Šem-Ala was obviously the main music accompaniment for cultic festivities in the third and second millennia bce. It especially served to initiate ritual offerings like animal sacrifices and libations to the gods. Its music had a joyful character, the ensemble played loudly in open-air spaces, probably mainly by nar-musicians. The music of lamentation and liturgical prayer on the other hand, was a solo instrumental performance in most instances. Here, a single lamentation priest — probably supported by several vocal choruses — accompanied his prayer playing on a single percussion instrument. Although based on speculation, I assume his cultic laments were either accompanied by rather large membranophones like the Balaĝ or the Lilis while other prayers, for instance, the Eršema, were performed to the sound of smaller percussion instruments, be them frame drums, sistrums, rattles or the like (Šem, Ub, Meze).111 The purpose of this music was to influence the gods’ moods and to ward off evil from mankind. Altogether, there is 108 Sallaberger 1993: 100–101. 109 AN = dAnum II (Litke 1998: 104) 307. d(lum-ḫa)BALAĜ // diĝir gala-ke4; AN = Anu ša amēli (Litke 1998: 239) 131. dlum-ḫa // de2-a // ša2 lu2ka-le-e 132. dBALAĜ // de2-a // ša2 lu2gala. 110 The ĝišalĝar is the only musical instrument comparable to the group discussed above, since it was connected to gods and goddesses, designated as “holy” (see Enki’s Journey to Nibru 66–67) and held in temples (UET 5, 550 [AbS 6]). Nevertheless, it never received cultic attention. 111 See recent discussion in Gabbay 2010.

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the music for offerings and sacrifices with an extrovert character opposed to the introvert performance of the gala’s liturgy. This being said, the role definitions for each musical instrument still appear to be inconsistent. The foremost example is the Šem, which demonstrates a positive festive character only when it joins the Ala and Tigi, but is an instrument for lamenting when played solo and as part of the gala’s instrumental repertoire. From this it may be concluded that the character and the function of a musical instrument strongly depended on the ensemble to which it belonged. As part of the gala’s instrumental repertoire, the Šem, again, is occasionally replaced by Ub and Meze. It may be assumed that all these terms referred to similar musical instruments, on the basis of the writing of their names. Other similarities may be connected to the sound they made, for example a common metallic clattering, their shape or their role within a musical context. Last, there are the Tigi and the Ala, originally musical instruments of praise, which in first-millennium texts are associated with the gala. In my opinion, these ostensible discrepancies are attributed to cross-cultural influences and to the overlapping of different music traditions with terminology that constantly changed over a time span of more than two millennia. They are manifested in different phonetic, as well as logographic values, used to describe similar musical objects in different religious contexts. The scribes of later texts obviously reused old terms like Tigi and Ala, disregarding their original meanings and musical context. (b) Regarding the issue of religious status of the musical instruments discussed here, a third group may be distinguished, comprising the Ala, the Lilis and the Balaĝ that have several characteristics in common. First of all, they were built of similar material: The Ala and the Lilis, both big membranophones, had a sound box generally made of bronze or copper; they were covered with red-dyed bull skins, same as the Balaĝ. The color red, as well as the bull hide, probably symbolizes an extraordinary divine status for these instruments.112 Second, all three musical instruments were specially built and dedicated to a single god or goddess. This act is referred to in several year names or inscriptions. Last, they were all ritually tended to through regular offerings and sacrifice. The third-millennium ub5 may be included in this group of high-ranking religious instruments. It was similarly deified and kept in a temple associated with a god or goddess; its drumhead was also made of bull hide and it received offerings. Again, the different position of the ub5 in comparison to the later ub3 is an example of how music terminology and names for musical instruments undergo changes through cultural influences in the course of time. The ub5 was most obvi112 The bull and especially its horns are general symbols for deities also in iconography. The color red is connected to the divine, e.g., in physiognomic omina; Böck 2000: 78–79: 75, 80–81: 95.



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ously replaced in its special religious status by Lilis and Balaĝ from the second millennium on.113 Further attention must again be drawn to the Tigi, which, like the Balaĝ, appears in a group of seven. Furthermore, its writing NAR.BALAĜ or BALAĜ.NAR associates it with the former, though linked to the nar and not to the gala. Since the meaning of Balaĝ is ambiguous, either referring to an actual musical instrument or to a religious concept, I forbear from relating this observation to any specific meaning, which, relying on the currently available evidence, would be highly speculative. The Balaĝ, again, may be excluded from the aforementioned group, as I believe it does not only represent a specific musical instrument, but also a religious concept of its own. Balaĝ-instruments were personified, given their own name and cult. They served as a cultic image and were worshipped as an individual deity. Such deities were listed among gods and goddesses in first-millennium god lists. The attribute “bull” in gu4-balaĝ seemingly refers to the divine status of the object and not only to its shape or material. The function of such a Balaĝ-god lies in mediating, advising and counseling either to superior deities or humans. The word “balaĝ” therefore did not refer to a special instrument with a specific shape and sound, but rather to a concept describing transcendental communication by means of musical instruments. This concept of communication was personified and worshipped as the god dBalaĝ, a specific manifestation of the god Enki, which is connected to the skills of lamentation priests. Enki is the first initiator of musical communication. He is the former holder of the holy me, including all musical instruments discussed in this paper. He installed Ala and Šem in every Mesopotamian temple. He also put Ub and Lilis into the gala’s hands in order to enable him to affect the gods’ moods and thereby influence the future existence of humanity.

References Al-Fouadi, A. 1969 Enki’s Journey to Nippur: The Journeys of the Gods. Ann Arbor. Alster, B. 1974 On the Interpretation of the Sumerian Myth ‘Inanna and Enki.’ Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und verwandte Gebiete 64: 20–34. Benito, C. A. 1969 “Enki and Ninmah” and “Enki and the World Order.” Ann Arbor.

113 See also Gabbay 2007: 71–72.

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Böck, B. 2000 Die Babylonisch-Assyrische Morphoskopie, Archiv für Orientforschung Beiheft 27. Vienna. Cavigneaux, A. and M. Krebernik 1998–2001 Nin-ḫinuna. In: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 9, 378. Berlin and New York. Charpin, D. 1978 Recherches sur la «dynastie de Mananâ» (I): Essai de localisation et de chronologie. Revue d’Assyriologie et d’Archéologie Orientale 72: 13–40. 1986  Le clergé d’Ur au siècle d’Hammurabi (XIXe–XVIIIe siècles av. J.-C.), Hautes Etudes Otientales 22. Geneva and Paris. Civil, M. 1965 Le débat sumérien entre la houe et l’araire. Edition critique, traduction et commentaire. Paris. Cohen, M. E. 1981 Sumerian Hymnology: The Eršemma, Hebrew Union College Annnual (HUCA) Supplements Number 2. Cincinnati. 1988 The Canonical Lamentations of Ancient Mesopotamia, 2 vols. Potomac, Md. Cooper, J. S. 1983 The Curse of Agade. London. 2006 Genre, Gender, and the Sumerian Lamentation, Journal of Cuneiform Studies 58: 39–47. Durand, J.-M. 1988 Missions diverses sur l’Euphrate, Archives royales de Mari 26/1: 119–138. Durand, J.-M. and M. Guichard 1997 Les rituels de Mari. In: FM 3. Recueil d’études à la mémoire de Marie-Thérèse Barrelet, ed. J.-M. Durand and D. Charpin, Mémoires de Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires (NABU), 419–78. Paris. ETCSL Black, J.A., Cunningham, G., Ebeling, J., Flückiger-Hawker, E., Robson, E., Taylor, J., and Zólyomi, G., The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature (http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac. uk/), Oxford 1998–2006. Farber, W. Singing an eršemma for the Damaged Statue of a God. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 93: 208–213. Farber-Flügge, G. 1973 Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki“ unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Liste der me, Studia Pohl 10. Rome. Figulla, H. H. 1953 Accounts Concerning Allocations of Provisions for Offerings in the Ningal-Temple at Ur. Iraq 15: 88–122, 171–192. Fritz, M. M. 2003 “…und weinten um Tammuz”. Die Götter Dumuzi-Ama’ušumgal’anna und Damu, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 307. Münster.



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Gabbay, U. 2007 The Sumero-Akkadian Prayer “Eršema”: A Philological and Religious Analysis, Ph.D. dissertation, The Hebrew University. Jerusalem. 2010 The Ancient Mesopotamian Sistrum and Its References in Cuneiform Literature: The Identification of the šem and meze. In: eds. R. Dumbrill and I. Finkel, Proceedings of the International Conference of Near Eastern Archaeomusicology (ICONEA 2008), 23–28. Galpin, F. W. 1955 The Music of the Sumerians and Their Immediate Successors the Babylonians and Assyrians, 2nd ed. London. Harris, R. 1970 Review of: “Cuneiform Texts from Babylonian Tablets in The British Museum”; part XLVIII: “Old Babylonian Legal Documents.” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 13: 315–318. Hartmann, H. 1960 Die Musik der sumerischen Kultur. Frankfurt am Main. Heimpel, W. 1998 A Circumambulation Rite. Acta Sumerologica 20: 13–16. 1998–2001a Ninigizibara I und II. In: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 9, 382–384. Berlin and New York. 1998–2001b Ninilda-gal-di. In: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 9, 461. Berlin and New York. Horsnell, M. J. A. 1999 The Year Names of the First Dynasty of Babylonia, vol. 1: Chronological Matters: The Year-Name System and the Date Lists; vol. 2: The Year-Names Reconstructed and Critically Annotated in Light of Their Exemplars. Hamilton, Ontario. Kienast, B. 1978 Die altbabylonischen Briefe und Urkunden aus Kisurra, 2 vols., Freiburger Altorientalische Studien 2. Wiesbaden. Kilmer, A. D. 1977 Notes on Akkadian uppu. In: Essays on the Ancient Near East in Memory of Jacob Joel Finkelstein, ed. M. de Jong Ellis, Memoirs of the Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences 19, 129–138. Hamden, Conn. 2003–2005 Pauke und Trommel. A. In Mesopotamian. In: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 10, 367–371. Berlin and New York. Klein, J. 1981 Three Šulgi Hymns: Sumerian Royal Hymns Glorifying King Šulgi of Ur, Bar-Ilan Studies in Near Eastern Languages and Culture. Ramat-Gan. Kramer, S. N. 1981 BM 29616: The Fashioning of the Gala. Acta Sumerologica 3: 1–11. Krecher, J. 1988 Der erste Band des Pennsylvania Sumerian Dictionary und der Stand der Sumerologie heute. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 78: 241–275. Krispijn, T. J. H. 1990 Beiträge zur altorientalischen Musikforschung. 1. Šulgi und die Musik. Akkadica 70: 1–27.

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Lambert, W. G. 1985 A List of Gods’ Names found at Mari. In: Miscellanea Babylonica: Mélanges offerts à Maurice Birot, eds. J.-M. Durand and J.-R. Kupper, 181–190. Paris. Lambert, W. G. and A. R. Millard 1969 Atra-ḫasīs: The Babylonian Story of the Flood: With the Sumerian Flood Story by M. Civil. Oxford. Linssen, M. J. H. 2004 The Cults of Uruk and Babylon: The Temple Ritual Texts as Evidence for Hellenistic Cult Practices, Cuneiform Monographs 25. Leiden and Boston. Litke, R. L. 1998, A Reconstruction of the Assyro-Babylonian God-Lists, AN: dA-nu-um and AN: Anu šá amēli, ed. W. W. Hallo, Texts from the Babylonian Collection (TBC), vol. 3. New Haven. Mirelman, S. 2010 The gala Musician Dada and the si-im Instrument. Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires 2010/2. Moran, W. L. 1970 The Creation of Man in Atrahasis I 192–248. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 200: 48–56. Rashid, S. A. 1984 Musikgeschichte in Bildern. Mesopotamien. Band 2. Musik des Altertums, Lfg. 2. Leipzig. Reisman, D. 1973 Iddin-Dagan’s Sacred Marriage Hymn. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 25: 185–202. Renger, J. 1969 Untersuchungen zum Priestertum der altbabylonischen Zeit. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 59: 104–230. Richter, T. 2004  Untersuchungen zu den lokalen Panthea Süd- und Mittelbabyloniens in altbabylonischer Zeit. (2. verbesserte und erweiterte Auflage), Alter Orient und Altes Testament 257. Münster. Römer, W. H. Ph. 1965 Sumerische ‘Königshymnen’ der Isin-Zeit, Documenta et Monumenta Orientis Antiqui 13. Leiden. 1989 Miscellanea Sumerologica I: Zur sumerischen Dichtung “Heirat des Gottes Mardu.” Ugarit-Forschungen 21: 319–334. 1993 Mythen und Epen in sumerischer Sprache. In: Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen: Mythen und Epen 1, Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments 3,3, 351–506. Gütersloh. 2004 Die Klage über die Zerstörung von Ur, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 309. Münster. Rubio, G. 2001 Review of V. Haas, Babylonischer Liebesgarten: Erotik und Sexualität im Alten Orient. München: 1999. Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 91: 408–411. Sallaberger, W. 1993 Der kultische Kalender der Ur III-Zeit, 2 vols., Untersuchungen zur Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie. Ergänzungsbände zu ZA 7/1–2. Berlin and New York.



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Sanati-Müller, S. 1990 Texte aus dem Sînkāšid-Palast. Dritter Teil. Metalltexte. Baghdader Mitteilungen 21: 131–213. Schuol, M. 2004 Hethitische Kultmusik. Eine Untersuchung der Instrumental- und Vokalmusik anhand hethitischer Ritualtexte und von archäologischen Quellen, Orbis Antiquus 14. Berlin. Selz, G. J. 1989 Altsumerische Wirtschaftstexte aus Lagaš, Teil 1: Die Altsumerischen Wirtschaftsurkunden der Eremitage zu Leningrad, Freiburger Altorientalische Studien 15/1, Stuttgart. 1995 Untersuchungen zur Götterwelt des altsumerischen Stadtstaates von Lagaš, Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund 13. Philadelphia. 1997 ‘The Holy Drum, the Spear and the Harp’: Towards an Understanding of the Problems of Deification in Third Millennium Mesopotamia. In: Sumerian Gods and Their Representations, eds. I. L. Finkel and M. J. Geller, Cuneiform Monographs 7, 167–213. Groningen. Shehata, D. 2009 Musiker und ihr vokales Repertoire. Untersuchungen zu Inhalt und Organisation von Musikerberufen und Liedgattungen in altbabylonischer Zeit, Göttinger Schriften zum Alten Orient — Band 3. Göttingen. Sigrist, M. 1988 Isin Year Names, Institute of Archaeology Publications Assyriological Series 2. Berrien Springs, Mich. Sigrist, M. and T. Gomi 1991 The Comprehensive Catalogue of Published Ur III Tablets. Bethesda. Simmons, S. D. 1960 Early Old Babylonian Tablets from Harmal and Elsewhere. Continued. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 14: 49–55. Sladek, W. R. 1974 Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld. Ann Arbor, Mich. Stol, M. 1980–1983: Leder(industrie). In: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 6, 527–543. Berlin and New York. Van de Mieroop, M. 1987 Crafts in the Early Isin Period: A Study of the Isin Craft Archive from the Reign of Išbi-Erra and Šū-Ilišu, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 24. Leuven. Vanstiphout, H. 1999 A Meeting of Cultures? Rethinking the ‘Marriage of Martu.’ In: Languages and Cultures in Contact. At the Crossroads of Civilizations in the Syro-Mesopotamian Realm, Proceedings of the 42th RAI, eds. K. van Lerberghe and G. Voet, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 96, 461–474. Leuven. Veldhuis, N. C. 1997 Elementary Education at Nippur: The List of Trees and Wooden Objects. Groningen.

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Villard, P. 1989 ARMT XXVI/2 no 268: Une nouvelle attestation de l’alûm à Mari. Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires. 92: 65–66. Volk, K. 1988 Eine bemerkenswerte nach-Fāra-zeitliche Urkunde. Orientalia 57: 206–209. 1989 Die Balag-Komposition úru àm-ma ir-ra-bi, Freiburger Altorientalische Studien 18. Stuttgart. Walker, C. and M. B. Dick 2001 The Induction of the Cult Image in Ancient Mesopotamia: The Mesopotamian mīs pî Ritual, State Archives of Assyria Literary Texts 1. Helsinki. Walker, C. B. F. and C. Wilcke 1981 Preliminary Report on the Inscriptions, Autumn 1975, Spring 1977, Autumn 1978. In: Isin-Išān Bahrīyāt 2: Die Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen 1975–1978, ed. B. Hrouda, Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-Historische Klasse, Abhandlungen, Neue Folge, Heft 87, 91–102. Munich. Westenholz, J. G. 2010 Ninkarrak, an Akkadian Goddess in Sumerian Guise. In: Von Göttern und Menschen, Beiträge zu Literatur und Geschichte des Alten Orients, Festschrift für Brigitte Groneberg, eds. D. Shehata, F. Weiershäuser and K. V. Zand, Cuneiform Monographs 41, 377–405. Leiden and Boston. Wilcke, C. 1975 Formale Gesichtspunkte in der sumerischen Literatur. In: Sumerological Studies in Honor of Thorkild Jacobsen on His Seventieth Birthday June 7, ed. S. J. Lieberman, Assyriological Studies 20, 205–292. Chicago. 1987 Die Inschriftenfunde der 7. und 8. Campagne. In: Isin-Išān Bahrīyāt 3: Die Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen 1983–1984, ed. B. Hrouda, Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-Historische Klasse, Abhandlungen, Neue Folge, Heft 94, 83–120. Munich.

Uri Gabbay

The Balaĝ Instrument and Its Role in the Cult of Ancient Mesopotamia §1. The balaĝ instrument played an important part in ancient Mesopotamian religion, but its identification has been disputed for many years.1 There is some evidence that the balaĝ was a stringed instrument and other evidence that it was a drum. Anne Kilmer tried to integrate the evidence by hypothesizing that originally it was a stringed instrument whose sound box could have been used as a drummable resonator as well, and that eventually its name became associated with the percussion instrument alone (Kilmer 1995: 465). Other scholars understood the term balaĝ as a general word for musical instruments (Hartmann 1960: 57) or for stringed instruments (Krispijn 1990: 6–7; 2002: 468). Similarly to Kilmer, my understanding is that the textual and iconographical evidence demonstrate that originally the balaĝ was a stringed instrument, and that with time the term began to include a drum as well.2 However, I believe that this process did not occur because of the use of the resonator also as a drum, but rather due to the cultic environment and circumstances in which the balaĝ instrument was played. §2. In my opinion, the following evidence would seem to point to an identification of the balaĝ as a stringed instrument in the third millennium bce:

1 Some of the subjects dealt with in this article are elaborations of various points discussed in Gabbay 2007: 53–99. W. Heimpel’s unpublished paper “Harp Gods,” which deals with similar issues to those dealt with in the present article, was brought to my knowledge too late to be included here. Methodological remark: In this article I make use of sources from different periods, localities and genres. I am aware that the compilation of such sources may be at times misleading, but the lack of a significant volume of clear evidence for the balaĝ instrument deriving from a single period, locality or genre makes it difficult to draw conclusions that are supported by enough textual and iconographical evidence. In addition, this article demonstrates the changes that the balaĝ instrument went through during the period of over 2000 years in which it is attested. 2 In any case, in my opinion, the large drums depicted on the Ur-Namma and Gudea Stelae are not balaĝs, as was supposed by some scholars (cf. Black 1991: 28), but are rather to be identified as the á-lá drums (see the article by Sam Mirelman in this volume).

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Fig. 1: Reconstructed evolution from lyre to Early Dynastic III sign BALAĜ: Jestin 1937: no. 45, ix: 2, 5; Deimel 1923: no. 70, i: 8; 1924: no. 138, iii: 5 (after photo graphs in the Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative: cdli.ucla.edu).

Fig. 2: The sign ZATU 47 (Green and Nissen 1987: 179).

a: The sign ZATU 47 (Green and Nissen 1987: 179): Englund 1994: Pl. 15, W 6760,b, ii: 1; Pl. 20, W 6882,g, 1’; Pl. 82, W 9655,ac, i: 4; Pl. 89, W 9656,aa, ii: 3’; Pl. 90, W 9656,ao, i: 1 (after photographs in the Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative: cdli.ucla.edu).

b: The sign in W 20266, 4, ii: 8’ (after Green and Nissen 1987: Pl. 41).



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Fig. 3: Bull-headed lyre sound boxes.

a: after Hartmann 1960: 323.

c: after Boehmer 1965: Pl. XXXII no. 385.

d: after Hartmann 1960: 330.

b: after Hartmann 1960: 324.

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–– (a) The sign BALAG resembles a stringed instrument already in the Early Dynastic III period (although its identification in archaic texts is not certain),3 possibly even a lyre (Fig. 1).4 –– (b) The Ebla vocabulary equates BALAG with kinnārum, a (West-?) Semitic word that is usually understood to designate the lyre (as in Hebrew kinnōr) (Conti 1990: 160).5 –– (c) In my opinion, the many third-millennium iconographical representations of lyres with bull-headed sound boxes (Fig. 3a–d) fit the terms ad-gi4-gi4 and GU4.BALAG known from later periods (see §§9–14 below). In addition, the bull-headed lyres from the Royal Cemetery of Ur are in keeping with the cultic participation of the balaĝ in funerals.6 3 Cf. Volk 1994, 170f. It has been argued that the archaic sign ZATU 47 (Green and Nissen 1987: 179), depicting a stringed instrument (Fig. 2a), is the archaic form of BALAG, but it is very different from the later forms of this sign (Fig. 1), and, so, it is difficult to assume that the these are actually two phases of the same sign. Therefore, it has been suggested that these signs should probably not be connected (Black 1991: 28 n. 39; Steinkeller 1995: 698). Steinkeller refers to the sign ZATU 775 (Green and Nissen 1987: 374), which resembles a stringed instrument, as a possible candidate for the early BALAG sign (Steinkeller 1995: 698), but this is not certain either. However, even though the form of the sign ZATU 47 significantly differs from the later BALAG sign, its appearance in W 20266, 4, ii: 8’ (where the sign BALAG would be expected, according to the same sequence found in a later period), may indicate that the sign ZATU 47 is the predecessor of BALAG after all (cf. Cooper 2006: 41–42 n. 6). It should be noted that there is a slight possibility that the sign appearing in the tablet W 20266, 4, ii: 8’ is actually not ZATU 47. The latter usually depicts a curved frame of the instrument, whereas the sign in this tablet contains straight lines and right angles, shaped as a square (Fig. 2b; Green and Nissen 1987: Pl. 21; photograph in Englund and Nissen 1993: Pl. 41). 4 When the Early Dynastic III sign is turned 90º it possibly depicts an instrument consisting of two parts separated by ca. 3–5 horizontal lines (Fig. 1). The bottom part may represent the lyre’s sound box, and the top part, the frame and yoke of the lyre. The vertical or slanted lines running from top to bottom may be interpreted as the lyre’s strings attached to the yoke on one side and to the sound box on the other. The characteristic extra wedge or curved line at the upper righthand side (after the 90º turn) may represent the part joining the frame and yoke, which, as seen in iconographical representations of lyres, is often located before the edge of the yoke, leaving a few centimeters of the yoke protruding beyond the joined parts, which occasionally curves upward (cf. Figs. 3a–d). 5 For attestations of kinnārum in Mari (and Ugarit), cf. CAD K: 387b, and references in Ziegler 2007: 50 n. 200. For etymology and discussion, cf. von Soden 1988; Koehler and Baumgartner 1994–2000: vol. 2: 484; del Olmo Lete and Sanmartín 2004: 450–451. Note that the Ugaritic dictionary is hesitant regarding the translation; see del Olmo Lete and Sanmartín 2004: 450: “harp, lyre.” Note also the Hebrew dictionary: “zither” (Koehler and Baumgartner 1994–2000: vol. 2: 484). 6 For the funerary use of the balaĝ, cf. Gudea, Statue B, v: 1–4: “The hoe was not used at the city cemetery, bodies were not buried, the gala priest did not place the balaĝ and did not recite



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Thus,7 I assume that originally the term balaĝ referred to a stringed instrument,8 quite possibly a lyre.9 §3. The balaĝ stringed instrument was the main instrument to accompany a genre of Sumerian prayers. These prayers were so strongly and closely identified with the stringed instrument that participated in their cultic performance that they themselves were called Balaĝ as well. However, other instruments were also used to accompany them. By the beginning of the second millennium bce, Balaĝ prayers were associated more and more with other instruments, especially with a lament, and the wailing woman did not utter a lament” (Edzard 1997: 32). Note also the lexical equation: lú-balaĝ-ĝá (he of the balaĝ) = mušēlû eṭemmī, (raiser of spirits, i.e., necromancer) (cf. references in CAD M/II: 265). 7 In addition to these arguments, the etymology of the word “balaĝ” may be an onomatopoeic one, pointing to its identification as a stringed instrument; “balaĝ” could represent the resounding of the plucking of a stringed instrument (*blang) (Volk 1994: 171 n. 22; Selz 1997: 195 n. 153). 8 The only significant argument for the balaĝ being a drum already in the third millennium bce is that Ur III administrative texts distinguish between the nar-sa-me and the nar-balaĝ-me, sometimes appearing in the same text. Since (Sum.) sa means string, this distinction was understood as referring to two categories of nar musicians, namely, “players of stringed instruments (Sum. sa)” as opposed to “players of percussion instruments (Sum. balaĝ)” (Gelb 1975: 57–58). However, sa does not necessarily refer to the general category of stringed instruments, but may define a specific group within them. Thus, the terms sa and balaĝ here may refer to two different categories of musical instruments, such as harps and lyres, or lutes and lyres/harps. Supporting this is the Akkadian term pitnu, equated with Sumerian sa, which may refer to both a string and (a group of) stringed instruments (CAD P: 439–440; Ziegler 2007: 7677). The same distinction between the groups of sa and balaĝ (and in the context of the nar, tigi) players is probably reflected in the Akkadian terms MUNUS.NAR pí-it-nim and ša pí-it-ni, “players of the pitnu” (Ziegler 2007: 76 n. 266) and tigû, tigītu, “players of the tigû instrument” (CAD T: 398b). 9 The two main reasons why balaĝ is often understood as “harp” and not “lyre” are that the archaic sign that presumably represents BALAG looks like a harp, and that the lyre is supposedly represented by a different Sumerian word: zà-mí. However, as noted above (footnote 3), the identification of the archaic sign ZATU 47 as BALAG is uncertain. Regarding zà-mí, in my view, it is more likely that this is the term for “harp” rather than “lyre.” Thus, Akkadian sammû (< Sum. zà-mí) is quite often attested in the first millennium bce (cf. references in CAD S: 119), but representations of lyres in the art of this period are quite rare. Additionally, if Steinkeller’s suggestion that the parašītum instrument is to be identified as a horizontal harp is correct (Steinkeller 2006: 7–10), its designation as a type of zà-mí in two texts (cf. Steinkeller 2006: 7) would seem to refer to zà-mí as a word generally designating “harp” instruments, and to the parašītum as a specific harp in this group. Admittedly, the evidence is not certain for the identification of balaĝ as originally designating “lyre” and zà-mí as “harp” (and vice versa). The interpretation of balaĝ as a general word for “stringed instrument” (cf. §1 above) would solve some of the problems of the conflicting evidence, but, in my opinion, this may be a modern compromise, while the ancient terminology designated specific instruments or groups of specific instruments and not general musicological terms.

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the lilissu,10 a drum that can be identified according to an iconographical representation from the Seleucid period of a kettledrum with the label dLILIZ ‘divine lilissu’ (Thureau-Dangin 1922: Pl. 91).11 The result of this process was that the balaĝ stringed instrument itself was no longer the main instrument that accompanied these prayers. In fact, there is no evidence for the playing of this instrument even in texts mentioning the balaĝ stringed instrument in the same context of Balaĝ prayers, and these prayers may have been chanted in front of the (deified) balaĝ instrument rather than accompanied by it. §4. The replacement of the balaĝ stringed instrument by the lilissu drum in the performance of Balaĝ prayers is seen in Old Babylonian dedicatory inscriptions. During the third millennium bce, especially in the period of the Third Dynasty of Ur, kings are known to have dedicated balaĝ instruments to the temple. This is seen in royal inscriptions and year names, such as in a year name of Gudea, ruler of Lagaš: “The year in which the balaĝ Ušumgalkalama was fashioned” (Falkenstein 1966: 8), or in a year name of king Ibbi-Sin: “The year (in which) Ibbi-Sin, king of Ur, fashioned the balaĝ, (the divine) Ninigizibara, for the goddess Inana” (Sigrist and Gomi 1991: 329). However, from the beginning of the second millennium bce, lilissu drums appear to have been donated rather than balaĝs, as seen, e.g., in a year name of king Iter-piša of Isin: “The year (in which) Iter-piša the king fashioned a bronze lilissu for the god Utu” (Sigrist 1988: 36).12 Interestingly, a variant of this year name, appearing in the date formula of one Old Babylonian legal tablet from Nippur, seems to have the sign BALAG before the word li-li-ìs, probably to be understood as a determinative (balaĝli-li-ìs), indicating the li-li-ìs instrument which belongs to the category of balaĝ, i.e., serving in ritual as the balaĝ instrument and accompanying the Balaĝ prayers.13 10 Thus, probably already in a ritual from Mari, where the mention of the lilissu with Ninigizibara (cf. below, §§10–11), may refer to a performance of Emesal prayers (cf. reference in Ziegler 2007: 63, with n. 221). 11 I know of only three third-millennium-bce attestations of the lilissu instrument: the first probably appears in a lexical list from Fara, written li-li (Civil 1987: 137), and the second and third in Ur III documents from Umma, written uruduli-li-ís in an Ur III document from Umma (de Genouillac 1922: no. 6055, ii: 9–10) and li-li-ís (Sigrist and Ozaki 2009: no. 1559: 11). 12 For other references to dedications of lilissu instruments in the Old Babylonian period, cf. Charpin 1978: 28 with n. 55. 13 See Stone 1976: no. 5, A 6 (N 1064) (according to transliteration in the electronic publication of the Pennsylvania Sumerian Dictionary: psd.museum.upenn.edu). However, from my own reading of the microfiche photograph, one cannot exclude the possibility that the sign is URUDU! (the determinative for “copper”) and not BALAG. The same phenomenon probably occurs in an Old Babylonian copy of a liturgical text, which laments the change of cult in the temple; see,



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Two other Old Babylonian dedication inscriptions combine the sign BALAG with the syllabic spelling li-li-ìs. The first is a year name of Immerum of Sippar: “The year (in which) he fashioned two BALAG li-li-ìs” (Pinches 1898: Pl. 50, Bu. 91–5–9, 318, rev. 32).14 The second is in a Sumerian inscription of Warad-Sin of Larsa, describing the fashioning of “BALAG [l]i-li-ìs zabar,” dedicated for his own life and for the life of his father Kudur-Mabuk (Frayne 1990: 260, iii: 4’–9’). The first occurrence deals with the fashioning of two instruments and the second occurrence mentions two dedications (for Warad-Sin and for Kudur-Mabuk), which probably implies that two instruments were fashioned. It is possible that in both instances the sign BALAG should be understood as a determinative (cf. above), indicating that two lilissu drums that served as balaĝs were fashioned. Another possibility is that the sequence balaĝ li-li-ìs (zabar) is to be understood as “balaĝ and (bronze) lilissu drum,” perhaps indicating that in this period the balaĝ stringed instrument was still used in cult together with the lilissu drum. A somewhat similar case occurs in an Old Babylonian year name from the city of Kisurra, where the sign BALAG seems to stand for the lilissu drum in two tablets: “The year (in which) Itur-Šamaš built a bronze lilissu (written: BALAG ˹zabar˺) for (Annunītum)” (Kienast 1978: vol. 1: 22; Goddeeris 2009: 17). Kienast correctly read the sign BALAG (misread by Goddeeris as ùb) as lilisx here, since ZABAR ‘bronze’, is the regular designation for the lilissu drum (cf. references in CAD L: 186–187) and never occurs with the balaĝ stringed instrument (cf. also §6 below). In fact, the same year name also appears with the syllabic writing li-li-ìs zabar (Goddeeris 2009: 17). This year name may be identical to two other shortened date formulas from Kisurra, which have syllabic writings for the lilissu drum (Kienast 1978: vol. 1: 22; Goddeeris 2009: 17).15 The religious-political significance of these votive acts was identical: by donating the main instrument that accompanied one of the most important prayers of the temple cult, the king could be involved in the ritual and not only

“my lady’s (leather) ùb instrument is (now) a (balaĝ-type) lilissu drum” (ga-ša-an-ĝá kušùb-a-ni balaĝ? li-li-ìs-àm) (Radau 1909: Pl. 16 and photographic plate X, no. 13, rev. v: 15’). This reading is probably reflected in Falkenstein’s transliteration: lilisli-li-ìs (Falkenstein 1939: 171 n. 1). 14 mu BALAG li-li-ìs min!-a-bi dutu-ra mu-na-an-dím. Charpin read the second sign as egir (i.e., “the year after…”) (Charpin 1978: 28 n. 55), but it seems more like BALAG. 15 mu li-˹li-sa-am˺ a-na an-nu-ni-tum and mu li-li-ìs zabar. Note also another year name from Kisurra: mu uruduli-li-ìs dnin-ì-si-in-˹na˺-ra (Kienast 1978: vol. 1: 25; Goddeeris 2009: 16). In light of the survey of year names discussed above, one wonders whether the dedication of a balaĝ in a Sumerian inscription of Išbi-Erra of Isin (Frayne 1990: 6–7) refers to the balaĝ stringed instrument or that the sign BALAG stands here for the lilissu drum.

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the temple and its personnel. This is true whether this instrument was a balaĝ stringed instrument or a lilissu drum.16 §5. I do not know what caused the change from stringed instrument, balaĝ, to kettledrum, lilissu, in the cultic performance of the Balaĝ prayers, but this change in cult probably also led to a change in the meaning of the word “balaĝ.” As mentioned above, balaĝ is both the name of an instrument, a stringed instrument in the third millennium bce, and a genre of prayers. The shared name points to the close association between the two. This relationship seems to have given rise to a new association: since the prayers, now associated with the lilissu instrument, were still called Balaĝ, the term “balaĝ” began to designate the kettledrum that accompanied them, in addition to its common name — lilissu. The exact context of the word’s new meaning is not certain: was it a literary word, or was it understood as the Sumerian counterpart to the Akkadian word lilissu? In any case, the word “balaĝ” now referred to the kettledrum, lilissu, the main instrument associated with the Balaĝ prayers (which was still also designated by the word lilissu). §6. This is supported by second-millennium-bce writings of the sign BALAG with the determinative KUŠ ‘leather’, usually used for drums, as opposed to the regular determinative GIŠ ‘wood’, found in administrative third-millennium- bce texts and in lexical texts (cf. references in PSD B: 75, 78). The writing kušbalaĝ is found in second-millennium-bce Sumerian lexical texts (cf. references in PSD B: 78), as well as in texts relating to the genre of Balaĝ prayers, as seen in an Old Babylonian catalogue of Balaĝ and other prayers.17 These texts suggest that the instrument accompanying the Balaĝ prayers was the leather balaĝ, i.e, the lilissu kettledrum (known from later sources to have had a bull-hide drumhead), and not the wooden, stringed balaĝ. This process is clearly seen in first-millennium-bce sources. Many ritual instruction texts connect the singing of the Balaĝ prayers to the playing of the lilissu drum (e.g., Maul 1999: 292). According to a Late Babylonian ritual text, the genre of prayers known as Balaĝ may have even been called Lilissu in the first mil-

16 Apparently, not only the balaĝ and lilissu instruments were donated: two Old Babylonian year names mention the donations of á-lá drums (cf. Charpin 1978: 28 with n. 56). 17 See Zimmern 1913: 56 no. 206: 8 (Löhnert 2009: 16). The determinative KUŠ is probably also found with BALAG in the subscript of an unpublished Old Babylonian Eršema prayer (BM 23696), where it stands for the Balaĝ genre as well, referring to the two Balaĝ prayers with which the Eršema on the tablet may be paired. Note also kušbalaĝ appearing a few times in an Old Babylonian ritual text from Larsa (Goodnick Westenholz and Westenholz 2007: no. 1; see W. Sallaberger apud Löhnert 2009: 68 with n. 312).



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lennium (among other names). Thus, in a Late Babylonian ritual, a Balaĝ prayer is denoted Lilis (Çağirgan and Lambert 1991–1993: 100: 158). This association is also reflected in the first–millennium-bce writing of the sign LILIZ (standing for lilissu), which is a combination of the signs ÁB (used in several other signs designating percussion instruments) and BALAG.18 Another reflection of this change is seen in a ritual act that was connected to the chanting of Balaĝ prayers and their musical accompaniment: ritual circumambulations were connected to the balaĝ stringed instrument in the third millennium bce as seen in administrative documents dating to the Third Dynasty of Ur, which mention the balaĝ in the context of the Sumerian verb niĝin ‘to turn around, circumambulate’, especially in the phrase balaĝ u4-da é iri niĝin-na, “the balaĝ of the day which circumambulates the temple and city” (Heimpel 1998 with reference to previous studies). Cultic circumambulations are connected to the lilissu drum in first-millennium sources, as seen in the use of the verb lawû, the Akkadian equivalent of Sumerian niĝin, in a Neo-Assyrian letter: “Only one copper lilissu will circumambulate (i-lab-bi-a) the temples” (Cole and Machinist 1998: 15, no. 12, rev. 13–14). The evolution of the word “balaĝ” from the third-millennium-bce stringed instrument to its association with the lilissu drum in the second and first millennia bce is demonstrated by a mythological pseudo-historical description from Seleucid Uruk, where Nungalpiriĝgal, the apkallu scholar of Enmerkar, is said to have made a bronze balaĝ for the god An: “During the reign of Enmerkar, Nungalpiriĝgal was the apkallu…[He fashioned(?)] a bronze balaĝ…They set the balaĝ before An” (van Dijk 1962: 44–45, Pl. 27: 8–11). This Seleucid text continues the long tradition of the dedication of balaĝ and lilissu instruments mentioned earlier. However, while after the third millennium bce it was the lilissu drum and not the balaĝ stringed instrument which was dedicated, the scribe of this text uses the word “balaĝ” (or at least the sign BALAG) for this mythological dedication. But bronze, ZABAR, is very often associated with the lilissu drum and never with the balaĝ instrument. Therefore, the concrete object the scribe had in mind was the lilissu drum, although he used the word “balaĝ” or the sign BALAG — perhaps as an archaism — since this drum was so closely related to the Balaĝ compositions (cf. also §4 above). §7. In the second and first millennia bce, the word balaĝ, or Akkadian balaggu, was still used (although quite rarely) in nonliterary and nonlexical contexts 18 There is no evidence that the sign ÁB (which can stand for “cow” in other contexts) in these instruments refers to the skin of a cow that covered the instruments (contra Heimpel 1998: 15). See also D. Shehata, this volume.

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alongside lilissu for the instrument that accompanied the Balaĝ prayers (and other Emesal prayers), but it now probably referred to the lilissu drum and not understood in its original sense — the stringed instrument. This is reflected also by the Syriac word plaga’, an Aramaic loanword from Akkadian balaggu, which refers to a type of drum (Brockelmann 1928: 571). §8. To sum up, and before continuing, the balaĝ was originally a stringed instrument that accompanied the Balaĝ prayers. Other instruments played at these prayers as well, especially the lilissu drum, which eventually replaced the stringed instrument. The Balaĝ prayers continued to be associated with an instrument bearing the same name, and since the lilissu had become so closely connected to them, the word “balaĝ” became to be understood as a secondary name of the lilissu instrument. §9. I would now like to relate to the theology of the balaĝ instrument, and by doing so to connect it again to its third-millennium identification as a stringed instrument, specifically a lyre (at least at some point of time). Many minor gods are listed in god lists from the first millennium bce as GU4.BALAG, the signs indicating “balaĝ-bull.” This is a logogram for Akkadian mundalku, that is, counselor or advisor (CAD M/II: 206–227; Litke 1998: 7 n. 49, 78 n. 100), or, more accurately in this context, minor gods who participate in the deliberations of the great gods, representing humanity. Some of the names of these deities are connected to their function as counselors. Thus, names that are constructed in the formula “divine name/epithet + da + gal/maḫ + di” (e.g., dNinlíl-da-gal-di, dNin-da-gal-di, dNin-da-maḫ-di) refer to the grand or mighty (Sum. gal/maḫ) speaking (Sum. di) of the counselor deity with (Sum. -da) the main deity (Heimpel 2001). Other names contain the element šà-kúš-ù (dKalam-šà-kúš-ù, d Šà-kúš-ù-kalam-ma),19 which also stands for counselor and is often paired with the phrase ad-gi4-gi4 (cf. §§11–13) (PSD A/III: 18). Other names of the GU4.BALAG deities clearly refer to their physical form as musical instruments. Thus, some names of these deities contain the element balaĝ itself (Balaĝ-dEn-líl, dBalaĝ-e-si!-a!, dNin-šìr?-balaĝ?, dBalaĝ-ĝá),20 while others refer to musical instruments that are possibly related to lyres or to the balaĝ instrument (dSur9-gal, dU4-sur9-ra, dUr-dZa-ba-ba).21 Other names of these deities 19 Litke 1998: 134, III: 157–158. 20 Litke 1998: 51, I: 264; 52, I: 272; 105, II: 311, 313; for dbalaĝ-ĝá, cf. also Jursa 2001–2002: 78, iii: 7’. 21 Litke 1998: 51, I: 268; 144, III: 260–261; for the sur9 instrument, see Veldhuis 1997–1998 (note also Volk 2006: 95: 15, cited below, §11); for the urzababa instrument (Akk. urzababītum), see Ziegler 2007: 72, 222 (with references).



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refer to the sound (Sum. gù, ad, šeg10) of the instrument (dGù!-du10-ga, dPiriĝ-gùdu10-ga, dAd-du10-nun, dU4-gù!-nun-DI, dŠeg10-mu-un-gi-gi).22 §10. Some of the divine advisors listed in the god lists are actually known from other genres, where they are connected to Balaĝ prayers or to their performers: the gala/kalû priests. These attestations often refer to a physical object, implying that these deities were represented by the balaĝ instruments, as was seen in the year name cited earlier: “The year (in which) Ibbi-Sin, king of Ur, fashioned the balaĝ, (the divine) Ninigizibara, for the goddess Inana” (see §4 above). Here, Ninigizibara refers to the concrete balaĝ instrument that was fashioned (Sum. dím).23 But the same Ninigizibara is also known from god lists as the GU4.BALAG advisor of Inana. Thus, in the An = Anum god list and in the Emesal vocabulary we find the following entry: “Ninigizibara (and) Ninsiĝarana — two advisors (written: GU4.BALAG ‘balaĝ-bull’) of Inana” (Litke 1998: 153–154, IV: 73–75; Landsberger et al. 1956: 9, I: 87–88).24 §11. The main theological purpose of the musical instruments used in the performance of the Balaĝ prayers was to soothe the angry heart of the deity,25 in correspondence to the purpose of the prayers themselves.26 Besides the natural soothing quality of music, the balaĝ instrument had the ability to calm the heart of the god, since it served in the role of an “advisor” deity in the gods’ deliberations, as mentioned above. This purpose is also mirrored in the term ad-gi4-gi4, which, like GU4.BALAG, is also paired with Akkadian mundalku (and māliku) ‘counselor, 22 Litke 1998: 51, I: 267; 52, I: 270, 273; 144, III: 262, 264; for dAd-du10-nun, cf. also n. 32 below. 23 Ninigizibara also refers to a concrete object in a ritual from Mari, where it is said to be placed (but not necessarily played) for a ritual performance involving music (Ziegler 2007: 57, i: 8’, 10’, 60). An administrative text from Mari mentions a delivery to Tuttul of four minas of silver and five shekels of gold for plating(?) Ninigizibara (Joannès 1985: 111); see also Heimpel 2000. In two cultic texts from Late Babylonian Uruk, Ninigizibara is mentioned, with other cultic images, in context of rituals involving Ištar (Linssen 2004: 201, i: 27–ii: 9, 238–239: 25’, r.10’–14’), but there is no evidence that Ninigizibara refers to a deity in the image of a musical instrument in these late texts. 24 A similar situation occurs with the deity Ninhinuna, who is known both from god lists as a GU4.BALAG deity, and from administrative texts as a concrete object; cf. Cavigneaux and Krebernik 2000. 25 Gabbay 2007: 95; cf. especially the name of a GU4.BALAG deity of Ninĝirsu: ddu11-ga-lugal-ani-šà-ḫuĝ-ĝe26, “He appeases his master with speech” (Litke 1998: 177, V: 104). Note also Gudea Cylinder A, vi: 24–vii: 6 and Cylinder B, x: 14–xi: 2, where the balaĝ is associated with calming the heart (šà—huĝ) (Edzard 1997: 73, 94). 26 For the purpose of the Balaĝ prayers (and Emesal prayers in general) as calming the heart of the gods, see Gabbay 2007: 145–148.

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advisor’, in the Mesopotamian lexical tradition.27 In fact, some of the gods known as GU4.BALAG in the god lists are entitled ad-gi4-gi4 in other contexts; for example, d En-nun-daĝal-la, GU4.BALAG of Marduk according to the god list An = Anum,28 is said to dwell in é-ad-gi4-gi4 ‘ad-gi4-gi4 temple’, according to a “Kedorlaomer text”: “(The enemy) entered the ad-gi4-gi4 temple and ripped out the portal, the enemy approached En-nun-daĝal-la with evil intent” (Lambert 1994: 68: 20–21).29 dEnnun-daĝal-la and dGašan-šùd(-dè)-an-na, the GU4.BALAG of the goddess Zarpanītum in the god list An = Anum,30 both bear the title ad-gi4-gi4 in Balaĝ prayers (Cohen 1988: 492: f + 241–242). The term ad-gi4-gi4 is also used in reference to the balaĝ instrument itself. On Gudea Cylinder A (vi: 24–25), the god Ninĝirsu’s balaĝ Ušumgalkalama is called níĝ-ad-gi4-gi4 ‘ad-gi4-gi4 object’: “His (= Ninĝirsu’s) beloved balaĝ Ušumgalkalama, the famous ĝiš-gù-di, his ad-gi4-gi4 object” (Edzard 1997: 73).31 The term ad-gi4-gi4 is also an epithet of the balaĝ instrument in a Balaĝ prayer: “The balaĝ, your ad-gi4-gi4, is not present…” (Cohen 1988: 54: 86). Finally, a connection between the term ad-gi4-gi4, the actual balaĝ instrument, and the deities dSur9-gal and Ninigizibara, known as GU4.BALAG deities in god lists (see §§9–10 above), is found in a Balaĝ prayer: “My small balaĝ, my roaring wild bull! My holy balaĝ, my spouse, my lapis-lazuli (instrument)! My ad-gi4-gi4, my sur9-gal instrument! My ad-gi4-gi4, Gašanibizibara (= Ninigizibara)!” (Volk 2006: 94–95: 13–16).32 27 Cf. PSD A/III: 19. 28 Litke 1998: 98, II: 257. 29 Note, however, that in this late text, En-nun-daĝal-la was not necessarily understood as a deified musical instrument, but perhaps as an anthropomorphic cult image (cf. the mention of his tiara in line 28). 30 Litke 1998: 98, II: 259. 31 balaĝ ki-áĝ-ni ušumgal kalam-ma ĝiš-gù-di mu-TUK níĝ-ad-gi4-gi4-ni. It should be noted that Ušumgalkalama is not the balaĝ instrument usually associated with the gala (which in the inscriptions of Gudea may be the instrument called lugal-igi-huš-àm; Gudea Cylinder B, xi: 1, see Edzard 1997: 94), but rather the balaĝ instrument, which is usually associated with the nar and is often referred to as tigi(2) (written NAR.BALAG or BALAG.NAR). This is demonstrated by the association of Ušumgalkalama with nar, nam-nar and /tigi/ (written: ti-gi4) (Cylinder B, x: 9–14, xv: 20–21, xviii: 22; see Edzard 1997: 94, 97, 98). Whether Ušumgalkalama was a lyre or a different instrument is not certain, but it is unlikely that it was a giant drum as supposed by some scholars (cf. n. 2 above). Its designation as ĝiš-gù-di, (literally “voice-making wood”) seems to indicate that it was a stringed instrument (note the use of sa ‘sinew, strings’, for the ĝiš-gù-di instrument in Ur III documents; cf. Michalowski 2006: 50 n. 8), but it is also possible that this is a general word for instruments with wooden sound boxes (I find the identification of ĝiš-gù-di as “lute” by some scholars uncertain; cf. Krispijn 1990: 13–14 with references). 32 Note also the following three personal names of gala priests: (1) Ur-ad-gi4-gi4, chief gala (gala-mah) of the city Urusaĝrig in the Ur III period (Buccellati 1966: Pl. VIII no. 18, r.viii: 14’; Owen



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§12. Adgigi is also the name of a deity, written with the divine determinative DINGIR (dAd-gi4-gi4). According to the god list An = Anum dAd-gi4-gi4 is one of the GU4.BALAG deities of the mother goddess Diĝirmaḫ (Litke 1988: 77, II: 94–95). In an Old Babylonian Balaĝ prayer to the mother goddess Aruru (who is identified with Diĝirmaḫ in the Mesopotamian tradition), Adgigi is mentioned as the actual balaĝ instrument: “May Adgigi, the balaĝ…” (Kramer 1971: 169, ii: 31).33 Another reference to the deity Adgigi as an actual musical (stringed) instrument is in an Old Babylonian Akkadian lament to the mother goddess Mama (who is also identified with Diĝirmaḫ in the Mesopotamian tradition): “Adgigi! They (= the enemies) cut off its/his strings!”34 §13. The theological image manifested by these references is of the main deities sharing their deliberations with their beloved counselors, the ad-gi4-gi4 deities, also known as GU4.BALAG. As counselors (mundalku) they are asked for their opinion on different matters, and they answer (Sum. gi4-gi4) with their voice (Sum. ad).35 However, these counselors, with their voices, exist not only in the mythological realm, but are also manifested in a concrete image: the balaĝ lyre, or more specifically, the bull of the balaĝ (GU4.BALAG). In my opinion, this refers to the lyre’s bull-shaped sound box, found in many third-millennium iconographical representations,36 which resounds (Sum. gi4-gi4) with the voice (Sum. ad) produced by the balaĝ.37 1991: no. 192: 4!); (2) Ur-dIgi-zi-bar-ra (the divine name short for Ninigizibara), a gala mentioned in an Ur III document from Ĝirsu (Calvot et al. 1979: no. 179, i: 12–13); Ur-dIgi-zi-bar-ra is also the name of a person who was in charge (ĝìr) of copying an Old Babylonian Eršema tablet (and likely to have been a kalû) (Limet 2000: 5: r.17); (3) Ur-ad-du10-nun, a gala mentioned in an Ur III document from Ĝirsu (Barton 1909: no. 92, r.xii: 8’–9’). These personal names reflect the close affiliation between the gala/kalû and the balaĝ instrument (Ninigizibara and ad-gi4-gi4; cf. §10–11, and ad-du10-nun; cf. Litke 1998: 52, I: 273 and §9 above). 33 dad-gi4-gi4 balaĝ-e? ba-si? ḫu-mu-ra-ab-du7. 34 dad-gi4-gi4 ú-pa-ar-ri-ú pi-it-ni-šu? (BM 29624: r. 6, unpublished. Note that the next line deals with the al-ĝar musical instrument). 35 Cf. Landsberger et al. 1956: 127: 7: ad gi4-gi4 = ri-ig-ma ip-pa-lu, “they answer a voice (or: claim)” (not in a religious or musical context). 36 Cf. Figs. 3a–d and examples in Hartmann 1960: 314–330. Despite the identification of these instruments as zà-mí by some scholars, I understand them to represent balaĝ instruments, cf. n. 9 above. 37 The mention of the balaĝ as a bull is also found in Gudea Cylinder A, xxviii: 17: a-ga balaĝ-a-bi gu4 gù nun di, “its (= the temple’s) chamber of the balaĝ, the bull making a lofty sound” (Edzard 1997: 87); cf. the following almost identical phrase from an Emesal prayer: ma balaĝ-ĝá gu4 gù di nun-n[a] // É ba-la-áĝ-ĝá al-pu [ ], “the chamber of the balaĝ, the bull making a lofty sound” (Reisner 1896: 92a no. 50a: 18–19). Note also Volk 2006: 94: 13 cited above, §11 ([balaĝ bàn]-da am [u]r5-˹ša4˺-ĝu10, “my small balaĝ, my roaring wild bull”).

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The use of the same verb for the resounding of the balaĝ lyre and the divine counseling of the balaĝ lyre-gods can be explained by the original meaning of the verb ad—gi4(-gi4) ‘to return a sound’, that is, ‘to echo’. This fits the concept of musical resounding, but can also be used as a metaphor for counseling, where the advisor echoes the god’s speech through his counseling, subsequently calming him.38 Thus, it is not surprising that both ad-gi4-gi4 and GU4.BALAG serve as designations for the balaĝ mundalku counselor deities: both terms are used to describe the sound box that resounds with the voice of the lyre (ad-gi4-gi4) and is shaped as a bull (GU4.BALAG). The cultic playing of the balaĝ instrument, accompanying the Balaĝ prayers, connects the mythological and the concrete realms. The mythological counseling is induced by the player (usually the gala), who produces soothing sounds by playing the balaĝ that accompanies the prayers. These sounds, played before the statue of the main deity, are the counsel in favor of humanity, asking for the appeasement of the god. §14. This religious aspect of the balaĝ instrument is important not only for understanding the theology of the cult in which it participated. The terms describing it (ad-gi4-gi4 and GU4.BALAG) fit the physical identification of the balaĝ as a lyre in the third millennium bce. The identification of the third-millennium balaĝ instrument as a lyre with a bovine-headed sound box, along with the shift in sense of the term “balaĝ” from lyre to kettledrum at the turn of the second millennium bce, can explain the virtual absence of iconographical representations of lyres with bovine-shaped sound boxes from the end of the third millennium bce onward.

References Barton, G. A. 1909 Documents from the Temple Archives of Telloh, Haverford Library Collection of Cuneiform Tablets, part 2. Philadelphia and London. Black, J. A. 1991 Eme-sal Cult Songs and Prayers. Aula Orientalis 9: 23–36.

38 Another verb that uses a nominal element for “sound” and the verb gi4, ‘to return’, is šeg10/11— gi4. This refers to a loud thundering echo (šagāmu; CAD Š/I: 63), while ad—gi4 refers to the echoing of a regular or soft voice (Sum. ad) (cf. Krispijn 1990: 14–15).



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Boehmer, R. M. 1965 Die Entwicklung der Glyptik während der Akkad-Zeit, Untersuchungen zur Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 4. Berlin. Brockelmann, C. 1928 Lexicon Syriacum. Halle. Buccellati, G. 1966 The Amorites of the Ur III Period, Pubblicazioni del seminario di semitistica: Ricerche 1. Naples. CAD The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago Çağirgan, G. and W. G. Lambert. 1991–1993 The Late Babylonian Kislīmu Ritual for Esagil. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 43–45: 89–106. Calvot, D., G. Pettinato, S. A. Picchioni and F. Reshid (with H. Waetzoldt). 1979 Textes économiques de Selluš-Dagan du Musée du Louvre et du Collège de France/Testi Economici dell’Iraq Museum-Baghdad, Materiali per il vocabolario neosumerico, vol. 8. Rome. Cavigneaux, A. and M. Krebernik. 2000 Nin-hinuna. In: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 9(5–6), 378. Berlin and New York. Charpin, D. 1978 Recherches sur la ‘dynastie de Mananâ’ (I): Essai de localisation et de chronologie. Revue d’Assyriologie 72: 13–40. Civil, M. 1987 The Early History of HAR-ra: The Ebla Link. In: Ebla 1975–1985: Dieci anni di studi linguistici e filologici. Atti del convegno internazionale (Napoli, 9–11 ottobre 1985), ed. L. Cagni, Instituto universitario orientale, dipartimento di studi asiatici: Series Minor 27, 131–158. Naples. Cohen, M. E. 1988 The Canonical Lamentations of Ancient Mesopotamia. Potomac, Md. Cole, S. W. and P. Machinist. 1998 Letters from Priests to the Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal, State Archives of Assyria 13, Helsinki. Conti, G. 1990. Il sillabario della quarta fonte della lista lessicale bilingue eblaita, Miscellanea Eblaitica 3, Quaderni di semitistica 17. Florence. Cooper, J. S. 2006 Genre, Gender, and the Sumerian Lamentation. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 58: 39–47. Deimel, A. 1923 Die Inschriften von Fara, 2, Schultexte aus Fara, Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 43. Leipzig. 1924 Die Inschriften von Fara, 3, Wirtschaftstexte aus Fara, Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 45. Leipzig.

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van Dijk, J. J. A. 1962 Die Inschriftenfunde. In: Deutschen Archäologisches Institut. Abteilung Baghdad: XVIII. vorläufiger Bericht über die von dem Deutschen Archäologischen Institut und der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft aus Mitteln der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft unternommenen Ausgrabungen in Uruk-Warka, Winter 1959/60, ed. H. J. Lenzen, 39–62, Pls. 20, 27–28. Berlin. Edzard, D. O. 1997 Gudea and His Dynasty, The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia: Early Periods 3(1). Toronto. Englund, R. K. (with a contribution by R. M. Boehmer). 1994 Archaic Administrative Texts from Uruk: The Early Campaigns. Ausgrabungen der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft in Uruk-Warka 15, Archaische Texte aus Uruk 5. Berlin. Englund, R. K. and H. J. Nissen (with P. Damerow). 1993 Die Lexikalischen Listen der Archaischen Texte aus Uruk. Ausgrabungen der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft in Uruk-Warka 13, Archaische Texte aus Uruk 3. Berlin. Falkenstein, A. 1939 Untersuchungen zur sumerischen Grammatik. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 45: 169–194. 1966 Die Inschriften Gudeas von Lagaš, 1, Einleitung, Analecta Orientalia 30. Rome. Frayne, D. R. 1990 Old Babylonian Period (2003–1595 BC), The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia: Early Periods 4. Toronto, Buffalo and London. Gabbay, U. 2007 The Sumero-Akkadian Prayer “Eršema”: A Philological and Religious Analysis, Ph.D. dissertation, The Hebrew University. Jerusalem. Gelb, I. J. 1975 Homo Ludens in Early Mesopotamia. Studia Orientalia 46: 43–75. de Genouillac, H. 1922 Textes économiques d’Oumma de l’époque d’Our, Musée du Louvre, Département des antiquités orientales, textes cunéiformes 5, Paris. Goddeeris, A. 2009 Tablets from Kisurra in the Collections of the British Museum, SANTAG 9. Wiesbaden. Goodnick Westenholz, J. and A. Westenholz 2006 Cuneiform Inscriptions in the Collection of the Bible Lands Museum Jerusalem: The Old Babylonian Inscriptions, Cuneiform Monographs 33. Leiden and Boston. Green, M. W. and H. J. Nissen (with P. Damerow and R. K. Englund). 1987 Zeichenliste der Archaischen Texte aus Uruk, Ausgrabungen der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft in Uruk-Warka 11, Archaische Texte aus Uruk 2. Berlin. Hartmann, H. 1960 Die Musik der sumerischen Kultur. Frankfurt am Main. Heimpel, W. 1998 A Circumambulation Rite. Acta Sumerologica 20: 13–16. 2000 Ninigizibara I und II. In: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 9(5–6), 382–384. Berlin and New York.



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2001 Ninlilda-gal-di. In: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 9(7–8), 461. Berlin and New York. Jestin, R. R. 1937 Tablettes sumériennes de Šuruppak à Musée de Stamboul. Paris. Joannès, F. 1985 Nouveaux mémorandums. In: Miscellanea Babylonica: Mélanges offerts à Maurice Birot, ed. J.-M. Durand and J.-R. Kupper, Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations, 97–113. Paris. Jursa, M. 2001–2002 Göttliche Gärtner? Eine bemerkenswerte Liste. Archiv für Orientforschung 48–49: 76–89. Kienast, B. 1978 Die Altbabylonischen Briefe und Urkunden aus Kisurra, Freiburger Altorientalische Studien 2(1–2). Wiesbaden. Kilmer, A. D. 1995 Musik. A.I. In Mesopotamien. In: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 8(5–6), 463–482. Berlin and New York. Koehler, L. and W. Baumgartner (subsequently revised by W. Baumgartner and J. Stamm; trans. and ed. under the supervision of M. E. J. Richardson). 1994–2000 The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament. Leiden, Boston and Cologne. Kramer, S. N. 1971 Keš and Its Fate: Laments, Blessings, Omens. In: Gratz Anniversary Volume on the Occasion of the Seventy-Fifth Anniversary of the Founding of the College 1895–1970, ed. I. D. Passow and S. T. Lachs, 165–175. Philadelphia. Krispijn, T. J. H. 1990 Beiträge zur altorientalischen Musikforschung 1. Šulgi und die Musik. Akkadica 70: 1–27. 2002 Musik in Keilschrift: Beiträge zur altorientalischen Musikforschung 2. In: Studien zur Musikarchäologie 3, ed. E. Hickmann, A. D. Kilmer and R. Eichmann, Orient Archäologie 10, 465–479. Rahden. Lambert, W. G. 1994 The Fall of the Cassite Dynasty to the Elamites. In: Cinquante-deux reflexions sur le Proche-Orient ancien offertes en hommage à Léon De Meyer, ed. H. Gasche, M. Tanret, C. Janssen and A. Degraeve, Mesopotamian History and Environment Occasional Publications 2, 67–72. Leuven. Landsberger, B., R. Hallock, Th. Jacobsen and A. Falkenstein 1956 Materialen zum Sumerischen Lexikon 4. Rome. Limet, H. 2000 Documents sumériens des Musées Royaux d’Art et d’Histoire Bruxelles. Akkadica 117: 1–20. Linssen, M. J. H. 2004 The Cults of Uruk and Babylon: The Temple Ritual Texts as Evidence for Hellenistic Cult Practices, Cuneiform Monographs 25. Leiden and Boston.

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Litke, R. L. 1998 A Reconstruction of the Assyro-Babylonian God-Lists, AN: dA-nu-um and AN: Anu šá Amēli, Texts from the Babylonian Collection 3. New Haven. Löhnert, A. 2009 “Wie die Sonne tritt heraus!” Eine Klage zum Auszug Enlils mit einer Untersuchung zu Komposition und Tradition sumerischer Klagelieder in altbabylonischer Zeit, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 365. Münster. Maul, S. M. 1999 Gottesdienst im Sonnenheiligtum zu Sippar. In: Munuscula Mesopotamica: Festschrift für Johannes Renger, ed. B. Böck, E. Cancik-Kirschbaum and T. Richter, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 267, 285–316. Münster. Michalowski, P. 2006  Love or Death? Observations on the Role of the gala in Ur III Ceremonial Life. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 58: 49–61. del Olmo Lete, G. and J. Sanmartín 2004 A Dictionary of the Ugaritic Language in the Alphabetic Tradition, trans. W. G. E. Watson, Handbuch der Orientalistik 1(67). Leiden and Boston. Owen, D. I. 1991 Neo-Sumerian Texts from American Collections, Materiali per il vocabolario neosumerico, vol. 15. Rome. Pinches, T. G. 1898 Cuneiform Texts from Babylonian Tablets in the British Museum, vol. 4. London. PSD The Sumerian Dictionary of the University Museum of the University of Pennsylvania Radau, H. 1909 Miscellaneous Sumerian Texts. In: Hilprecht Anniversary Volume: Studies in Assyriology and Archaeology Dedicated to Hermann V. Hilprecht upon the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of His Doctorate and His Fiftieth Birthday (July 28) by His Colleagues, Friends and Admirers, 374–457, Pls. 1–13. Leipzig. Reisner, G. 1896 Sumerisch-babylonische Hymnen nach Thontafeln griechischer Zeit, Königliche Museen zu Berlin: Mittheilungen aus den Orientalischen Sammlungen 10. Berlin. Selz, G. J. 1997 ‘The Holy Drum, the Spear, and the Harp’: Towards an Understanding of the Problems of Deification in Third Millennium Mesopotamia. In: Sumerian Gods and Their Representations, ed. I. J. Finkel and M. J. Geller, Cuneiform Monographs 7, 167–213. Groningen. Sigrist, M. 1988 Isin Year Names, Institute of Archaeology Publications Assyriological Series 3. Berrien Springs, Mich. Sigrist, M. and T. Gomi. 1991 The Comprehensive Catalogue of Published Ur III Tablets. Bethesda, Md. Sigrist, M. and T. Ozaki 2009 Neo-Sumerian Administrative Tablets from the Yale Babylonian Collection: Part Two, Bibliotheca del Próximo Oriente Antiguo 7. Madrid.



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von Soden, W. 1988 Musikinstrumente in Māri. Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires (NABU) 59: 42–43. Steinkeller, P. 1995 Review of Green and Nissen 1987. Bibliotheca Orientalis 52: 690–713 2006 New Light on Marhaši and Its Contacts with Makkan and Babylonia. Journal of Magan Studies 1: 1–17 Stone, E. (with photos by P. E. Zimansky). 1976 Old Babylonian Contracts from Nippur I: Selected Texts from the University Museum of Pennsylvania, The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, Microfiche Archives, vol. 1. Chicago and London. Thureau-Dangin, F. 1922 Tablettes d’Uruk à l’usage des prêtres du temple d’Anu au temps des Séleucides, Musée du Louvre, Département des antiquités orientales, textes cunéiformes 6. Paris. Veldhuis, N. C. 1997–1998 The Sur9-Priest, the Instrument gišAl-gar-sur9, and the Forms and Uses of a Rare Sign. Archiv für Orientforschung 44–45: 115–128. Volk, K. 1994 Improvisierte Musik im alten Mesopotamien? In: Improvisation 2, ed. W. Fähndrich, 160–202. Winterthur. 2006 Inannas ‘Tischlein Deck’ Dich’: Vorläufiger Bericht zur Rekonstruktion der 17. Tafel von úru àm-ma-ir-ra-bi. Baghdader Mitteilungen 37: 91–116 Ziegler, N. 2007 Les Musiciens et la musique d’apres les archives de Mari, Florilegium marianum 9, Mémoires de Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires (NABU) 10. Paris. Zimmern, H. 1913 Sumerische Kultlieder aus altbabylonischer Zeit 2, Vorderasiatische Schriftdenkmäler der Königlichen Museen zu Berlin 10. Leipzig.

Sam Mirelman

The Ala-Instrument: Its Identification and Role 1 Introduction Concerning musical instruments, we are fortunate to have many terms, many visual representations and a handful of material remains from ancient Mesopotamia. However, a precise identification or matching between text and image (or material source) has remained elusive. The one clear exception is the lilissu, which can safely be identified as a kettledrum in the Seleucid period, due to the presence of text and image on the same physical object (Rashid 1984: 140). A further methodological problem lies in the fact that names of instruments change over time. However, although the identity of an instrument might change, it usually retains familial characteristics with its predecessor of the same name. For example, Anglo-Saxon hearpe, from which the word “harp” is derived, originally denoted a Teutonic lyre (De Vale 2008: V: 1). In the following, it is argued that, at least originally, Sumerian á-lá or Akkadian alû referred to a giant, double-membraned, cylindrical, struck drum (as opposed to a friction drum), as depicted on several third-millennium-bce iconographic sources. The giant drum that is depicted on the Gudea and Urnamma Stelae (Rashid 1984: 70–73, Ill. 51–55) has been identified as the ala-drum by Galpin. Although I agree with Galpin, his reasoning was based on weak evidence, largely the descriptions of the instrument’s sound as “thunder” (Galpin 1937: 6–7). Galpin’s view has been followed by Sachs 1940: 74ff.; Hartmann 1960: 79–82; Spycket 1972: 179–180; Marcuse 1975: 131; Picken 1975: 103; Shehata 2006: 369; Gabbay 2007: 59 and Ziegler 2007: 74. The purpose of this article is to confirm this identification with a more detailed consideration of the sources, to show that the ala-instrument is, along with the lilissu, one of the few securely identifiable instruments in ancient Mesopotamia. Secondly, an attempt will be made to examine the instrument in its cultic role. My methodology is philological, iconographic and ethnographic. Examples of drum-making from various parts of the world are relevant, although no direct link is claimed. The giant cylindrical drum has died out in contemporary Iraq; thus comparisons with other musical cultures from around the world must be made. In making such comparisons, no historical links are implied. 1 I would like to express my thanks to Walther Sallaberger for his comments. Of course, I remain responsible for errors.



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The Term á-lá = alû Lieberman treats á-lá as a Sumerian loanword in Akkadian, resulting in alû (SLOB: 145, no. 41). It is also possible that the Akkadian or Semitic form is a loanword in Sumerian, as there is a form of Semitic loanwords in Sumerian which feature -a, such as mātu > ma-da, manû > ma-na (see Gelb 1961: 5–6, 141). A possible etymology of á-lá is “stretched on the side,” which might describe the membrane stretched across the side of the drum. Besides a musical instrument, á-lá can signify at least four other objects, including a type of vessel (maybe a cauldron),2 perhaps a leather strap or part of a door, a part of the donkey or ox harness or a part of the arm of the scales. In addition, a general meaning of “sin” has been tentatively put forward (for these suggested definitions, see PSD A/II: 83). In Akkadian, the meaning of alû as “demon” (see CAD A/I: 375, s.v. alû A) further complicates the semantic field, especially if we consider the Akkadian form as a loanword in Sumerian. The Sumerian form of this word, meaning “demon,” is usually written a-lá, although it is occasionally written á-lá (PSD A/I: 101–103). It is likely that there is an association between the two meanings of alû as “drum” and “demon,” at least in the first millennium. An Akkadian hymn to Ninurta suggests the alû was performed in a festival for Ninurta (BWL: 120, see below). An epithet of Ninurta is dud-u18-lu “thunder”, for which Caplice has suggested that u18-lu “storm” (meḫû) may be personified in the demon u18-lu = alû “demon” (Caplice 1971: 161; see CAD A/I: 375, s.v. alû A for u18-lu as a rare writing of alû “demon”). The association of Ninurta as a warrior-god (see Streck 1998–2001: 517) with cultic fighting matches accompanied by the alû is considered below. The association between the alû-drum and thunder or storms is confirmed below. The same is true for the a-lá “device for hoisting water”, which is sometimes written á-lá (PSD A/I: 103–104).3 In Akkadian there are further meanings, including a mythological bull and other uncertain realia, which from their context are unlikely to be musical instruments. A multiplicity of meanings is also apparent in the term uppu, which may signify type/s of realia, as well as a musical instru2 In PSD A/II: á-lá A “(a percussion instrument),” item no. 6 of the lexical section is misplaced, as it refers to a metal object, perhaps a cauldron: uruda-šen-á-lá = nap-ru-ú (ïḫ XI 396; MSL 7, 145; see Attinger 1997: 117). Similarly, Limet 1960: 200 mistakenly identifies the šen-á-lá zabar in Nik 2, 528: 3 as a musical instrument, as opposed to a vessel. This is caused by a confusion between Á and DA in šen-da-lá “cauldron.” 3 The reference to lú á-lá in UET 3, 1265 has been interpreted as “ala-man/men,” although with reservations (PSD A/II: 82). This attestation is excluded here as, given the context, á-lá here probably refers to a hoisting device or harness. lú á-lá also appears in an inscription of Sîn-iddinam where it is used in apposition to lú á-daḫ, and has nothing to do with a musical instrument (Frayne, RIME 4, E4.2.9.2, 60’).

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ment, probably a drum (Kilmer 1977). Reiner’s idea that KUŠ.GU4.GÁL, followed by the phonetic complement -ú or -e, is a logogram for alû “drum”, is possible, although we have no firm evidence (see Reiner 1969; CAD K: 598, s.v. *kušgugalû). The ala-drum is associated lexically with the algar(sur) (see PSD A/II: 82, sub. lex.; Veldhuis 1997–1998: 120; Shehata 2006: 369–371). However, the usefulness of this information is dependent on an identification of the algarsur, which remains tenuous.

Iconographic Evidence for Large Cylindrical Drums Images of large cylindrical4 drums dating to the third millennium come from the Mesopotamian heartland, or its near-periphery. These are the Gudea, Urnamma and Bedreh Stelae, the fragment of a vase from Tello (Rashid 1984: 68–73, Ill. 49–56) and the Scarlet-Ware vase from Khafajah (Delougaz 1952: 70–71, Pls. 62, 138).5 Later examples are from early second-millennium Ebla (see Matthiae 1987) and early first-millennium Carchemish (Stauder 1970: 185; Sabatini 1974: 41–43, Figs. 15, 16; Schmidt-Colinet 1981: 17, Ill. 75). These iconographic examples are relevant to the following discussion in terms of both structure/materials and performance contexts.

Materials and Construction In Sumerian the á-lá may be written with determinatives (which are sometimes omitted) for wood (giš) or skin (kuš).6 These determinatives should not lead to 4 Such drums are sometimes described as “frame drums.” Although such a description is technically correct, the term “frame drum” is usually reserved for single- or double-membraned, handheld drums. 5 I do not accept Rashid’s interpretation of the cylinder seal IM 60313 as the representation of a large drum (Rashid 1971: 101–102., Ill. 12a, b; Rashid 1984: 50–51, Ill. 26; this interpretation is followed in Amiet 1980: 208 (Pl. 131) and Schmidt-Colinet 1981: 17). The lower register shows an agricultural scene, where bulls are used as draft animals. The left upper register shows a seated figure and a standing figure, who seem to be compiling strands of an agricultural produce. The standing man’s raised arm is less likely to be a greeting gesture, as advocated by Rashid (see Rashid 1984: 50). The right upper register shows two figures who are holding a round bundle of some agricultural produce. It is unlikely to be a drum. The object is above the ground, and no means of support by base or strap is shown. 6 In PSD A/II: 80 a determinative for bronze (zabar) is included amongst the writings of the ala-instrument. This is based on a variant manuscript of one line in Šulgi A (Klein 1981: 194 n.



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confusion, as they refer to different parts of the instrument. In the third millennium at least, it is proposed that the skin refers to the membrane, and the wood is the body or “frame” of the drum. There are various ways in which a membrane on a drum can be secured to its body. The membrane can be glued, fastened with a hoop, lacing, wedges, nails or pegs. Any combination of these methods is also possible. These are universal features of drums around the world. Indeed, methods of fastening the membrane have become a means of classifying drums, together with the drum’s overall shape, such as conical, cylindrical, hourglass etc. (for example, see Wieschhoff 1933: Pl. 1). In a substantial study of drums from the Belgian Congo, types are classified according to their means of fastening the membrane — firstly, nails and pegs; secondly, straps and strings; lastly, combinations of the first two methods (Boone 1951). Several subcategories of attachment are also possible; there are, for example, at least six lacing methods (see Norborg 1982: 27). We have no remains of drums from ancient Mesopotamia. However, remains do survive from ancient Egypt. There are actual examples of gut straps, attached to drum membranes, from the Egyptian Middle Kingdom (Hickmann 1949: 109, Pls. LXXVII, LXVIII). Kilmer has argued that both the á-lá = alû and the balag = balaggu exhibit features of both harps and drums; it is suggested that they were drummable resonators and stringed instruments at the same time (see Kilmer 1995–1997: 465; Kilmer 2004: 369; for the balag only, see Kilmer 2000: 115; for this interpretation, also see Stauder 1970: 215). The perceived “hybrid” nature of the ala-instrument is based on an association of “strings” or “cords” of animal gut/tendon/sinew with harps and lyres. However, such materials are common means of fastening drum membranes, and they serve this purpose as materials of the ala-instrument, along with wool. The ala, balag and balag-di feature a gúr = kippatu “hoop” (Ḫḫ VI 105–107, MSL 6, 60). For this reason, all three of these instruments are, in my opinion, types of drums. A hoop is visible on the depictions of large cylindrical drums on the Gudea and Urnamma Stelae and the Tello vase fragment. On the same iconographic sources, ridges are visible on the drum’s circumference. Stauder interprets these ridges as “Pflöcke” (pegs) (Stauder 1970: 185). Schmidt-Colinet sees ca. 60 nails, making a “jangling” noise (Schmidt-Colinet 1981: 16). That type of effect is not improbable. For example, the rebana-frame-drum from Sumatra features a nailed membrane, and a single “bell-plate,” which produces such a jangling sound (Collaer 1979: Abb. 99, 100). The rebana-drum’s side profile looks strikingly similar to the large drums on the Gudea and Urnamma Stelae. Nixdorff 53). zabar here most likely refers to the directly preceding šem5 (cf. šem5 zabar in the passage from The Marriage of Martu in this article).

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has suggested that this drum was brought to Indonesia by either the Portuguese or the Arabs (Nixdorff 1971: 147). A historical link with Mesopotamia is possible, but probably impossible to prove. Stauder has argued that the giant drums seen on the Gudea and Urnamma Stelae are definitely double-membraned, as the men are shown with one hand behind the drum (Stauder 1970: 185). In the Gudea and Urnamma Stelae, this question is unclear, as the players’ arms on the other side of the drum could, for example, be used for dampening the instrument. On the Tello vase fragment, it is clear that this is a double-membraned instrument. To the right of the drum, the player strikes the membrane with the left hand, with the right hand raised, ready to strike the other side.7 There is an Ur III text that supports this conclusion: 2 giš á-lá 4 kuš gu4 pú-bi Two ala-instruments, their sound box (consists of) four ox skins (BIN 5, 130: 1–2)

Here, I follow PSD’s translation of pú or ub4 “hole, well, pit” as “sound box” (PSD A/II: 80). If this translation is accepted, two ox skins are used for each ala-instrument, one for each of the instrument’s two membranes. The skin of an ox would be more likely than goatskin for such a large drum, as an ox skin would be significantly larger. The membrane would be made out of a single skin, as sewn or glued-together skins will not form a durable membrane. The preparation of hides for drumskins takes place worldwide. For example, the membrane of the Japanese dadaiko-drum measures 210–240 cm in diameter, which in view of the depiction of human proportions in the visual sources, is comparable to the large drums on the Gudea and Urnamma Stelae. The membrane of the dadaiko is made from the whole skin of a cow, consisting mainly of the stomach side, but also the skin of the limbs, which are used to cover the drum body beyond the rim (Tukitani and Ochi 1996: 285). In one example of drum construction in Scandinavia, the hides are left to rot in water or urine; they are then stretched on a wooden frame, followed by scraping of the skin. Preparation of the membrane is the first step in drum construction, along with manufacture of the frame (Alebo 1986: 41–45). Thus, it is logical that hides appear first in BIN 5, 130. This text continues as follows: 2 kuš gu4-gi6 ḪAR-bi (BIN 5, 130: 3). Here, I follow Molina’s (2002) transliteration, against PSD A/II: 80: 2 kuš gu4 MI.ḪAR-bi. PSD’s reading of MI.ḪAR and its tentative equation with Akkadian pukku (Erimḫuš 7 Incidentally, there is no evidence for the playing of this drum with a stick. The identification of such a stick (Rashid 1984: 72) is based on a misleading early reconstruction of the Urnamma Stele (Börker-Klähn 1975: 236 n. 7).



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II 60; MSL 17, 29) is less likely than a reading of gu4-gi6 as simply “dark skin,”8 followed by ḪAR, Sumerian ḫar “ring” of leather might refer to the decoration of the circumference of the drum with dark skin. The rest of the text is mostly fragmented, and sometimes obscure. However, the following lines demonstrate the use of sa and še-gín in the construction of the ala-instrument: BIN 5, 130: obv. 4–7: 1 kuš udu giš-e ˹x˺ 4 bi [x] ˹ma˺-na sa bi [x x] ˹x˺ KAL-šè […] še-˹gín˺ rev. 8–9: ˹x˺ ma-na še-gín [x] bi

PSD suggests še-gín may be translated here as “dye-stuff” (PSD A/II: 80). It is almost certain that this is in fact glue, which is traditionally made with animal skin (see Sigrist 1981: 157), the principal concern of this text. Glue is also one of the most common means of attaching the membrane of a drum. The use of plaited wool as a means of fastening the membrane is known, for example, in a davul (bass drum) from Urfa, southeastern Turkey (Picken 1975: 108). The following two passages specify two minas of uli-gi wool for fastening the membranes of ala-instruments: 2 ma-na síg-GI ga-dù kuš-a bí-du11-ga-šè (BIN 5, 130: rev. 10–11)9 2 ma-na síg-GI kušá-lá-e šu du7-a “2 minas of ‘uli-gi wool’ to make an ala-instrument complete.” (AAICAB 1/1, Ashm. 1924-0666, lines 18–19; my translation)

BIN 5, 130 lists amounts of flour and oil which may be used as adhesive or to treat the membrane, respectively.10 The text is sealed by Šeš-kal-la of Umma, who cannot be assumed to be the same Šeš-kal-la who acquired ox tendon/sinew/gut for making an ala-instrument in MVN 10, 200 (provenance Umma, see below). The connection of the ala-instrument with Umma is confirmed by the mention of the instrument in the account of cattle hides of herders connected to the temple household of Šara, the tutelary god of Umma: […] kuš gu4 á-lá dŠára. x ox hide(s)

8 PSD’s reading MI.ḪAR = pukku is probably influenced by the suggested definition of pukku as a drum (for a review of the arguments, see Edzard 1993). It is more likely that pukku is a ball (see George 2003: 898–900). 9 For siki-GI as “wool of uli-gi-sheep,” see UNT 73. 10 Rev. 14 and 15. The suggestion in PSD A/II: 80 of a “kind of cover” is based on an erroneous transliteration of line 15, which should read: 1 (bán) zì-bi, “1 bán is its (amount of) flour,” not: bar!-dul5-bi. The second sign has three horizontals, which generally differentiates it from dul5 in the third millennium.

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for the ala-instrument of Šara. (WorAM 2000.47, obv. i 31 [CDLI P218067]; see Englund 2003). A large amount of wool cord may be used to secure the membrane before the nails/pegs are fastened. Alternatively, these cords are not part of the finished product, but they are used in order to stretch the membrane over the frame, during which nails or pegs are driven into the frame’s circumference (for an illustration, see Tukitani and Ochi 1996: 286, Figs. 11, 12): Obv. 2/12011 éš-maḫ12 síg ud5 á-lá-a lá-dè ki-lá-bi 31 ma-na (Nik 2, 506: 1–2) 2/120 cords, (made of) goat wool, to be “stretched” over an ala-instrument/over ala-instruments; their weight is 31 minas [ca. 16.5 kilos]

In Ur III Drehem, the provision of wool for making an ala-instrument during the akītu month may imply that the drum was used during the New-Year festival (Nik 2, 506). The provision of five shekels of silver for a “small” ala-instrument in Ur (Ur III period), for the festival of Mekigal may have similar implications (UET 3, 0643). In Old Babylonian Ur, issues of oil appear together with references to particular festivals, which may imply that the ala-instrument was used during these occasions: šu-eš-ša (UET 5, 745; 785), akītu (UET 5, 752; 779), elūnum festival of Ningal (UET 5, 781; 78713), elūnum and akītu (UET 5, 786; see Figulla 1953 for editions). This oil may have been used to treat the membrane. The distinction between materials used for offerings, and materials used for instrument construction, treatment and preservation is sometimes unclear. The body of the ala was made from a wood called ḫalub = ḫa/uluppu. An inventory list of objects belonging to the temple includes 1 á-lá gišḫalub (see Limet RA 62, 11, line 17). This wood has tentatively been identified as an eastern species of oak. It was normally used for furniture and vessels (Moorey 1994: 353). If the drum was constructed from a cross-section of the tree, which was then hollowed out (a traditional method, ensuring the strength and integrity of the frame), it

11 This number is ambiguous. Molina 2002: 2; PSD A/II: 80: 120. 12 PSD A/II: 80 reads éš-maḫ as ébiḫ. The reading ébiḫ is based on slim evidence, from a variant in Inana and Ebiḫ (see Farber 1991). Indeed, it is not adopted in the transliteration of Molina 2002. This passage may support the reading of Nabnītu 32, ii 16 (MSL 16, 252): éš-á-˹lá˺= ṣi-˹rit˺ [alê], although the two texts are completely unrelated in period and genre. I am unclear whether Kilmer’s suggestion that this reading should probably be given up in favor of the “new collated reading éš-á-˹dù (?)˺” (Kilmer 2004: 369) is based on a collation of the tablet, or of MSL 16, 252. UET 7, 126 has been sent back to Iraq, and it was not collated for MSL 16. 13 UET 5, 781 indicates the “elūnum (festival) of Ningal.” UET 5, 787 specifies the elūnum festival and the kuš-á-lá Ningal “ala of Ningal.”



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would have had a wide trunk. Alternatively, the frame could have been made from narrow boards which are attached together (for illustrations of such methods, see Tukitani and Ochi 1996). In the text which deals with the delivery of tendon, sinew or gut (sa)14 of an ox (gu4) from lú-banda3 to Šeš-kal-la for making an á-lá (MVN 10, 200), Grégoire (in the commentary to the text in MVN 10) has interpreted the á-lá as “courroies” (straps), contra PSD A/II: 80, which treats it as a musical instrument: 2 1/3 ma-na sa-gu4…mu-kuš-á-lá-šè “2 1/3 minas of ox sinew…for (making) an ala-instrument” (MVN 10, 200: 1–4)

The mina averages at 1/2 a kilo, making this about 1 1/6 kilos of tendon/gut/ sinew. Although it is theoretically possible to make a strap with this amount of sinew, it would not seem worth the effort. Animal skin would be much more efficient. Tendon/gut/sinew is commonly used in the construction of drums, for the purpose of securing the membrane. Such a material may also be used as snares, suspended on the back of the membrane, to create a rattling effect (e.g., the North African bendir). This type of material may also be used for the strings of a harp or lyre, which has led to confusion regarding the identity of the ala-instrument as a drum or harp/lyre. In fact, materials of this nature are used in a wide variety of musical instruments throughout the world; tendons are commonly dried, softened with water and then twined for added strength (see Alebo 1986: 46-48). 1 1/6 kilos of this material is a large amount for a single drum, making it likely that we are dealing with a huge instrument. From Old Babylonian Mari, we have detailed information concerning the use of hides, bronze, alum and oil in the manufacture of the alû-instrument. These sources suggest that the instrument was very large and heavy. Ziegler’s identification of the instrument at Mari agrees with mine (Ziegler 2007: 74–76). As with the use of noncontemporaneous sources in Mesopotamia, we should, of course, not assume that we are dealing with exactly the same instrument as in Mesopotamia. However, it is highly likely that we are dealing with an instrument which 14 The distinction between tendon, sinew and gut does not seem to be clearly delineated in Sumerian. The word refers to cord-like parts of the anatomy, as opposed to the soft parts, which are usually called šīru. See CAD Š/II: 308, s.v. šer’ānu. Here, Grégoire translates sa as “nerfs.” I have examined various drums first hand at the Horniman Museum in London (November/December 2007). What has been identified as sinew is commonly used to secure the membranes of drums in various parts of the world. At least one drum uses Buffalo gut lacing, according to its maker (north Indian pakhāvaj; Horniman Museum 2006: 478). Sinew is used to fasten membranes in frame drums from North America and North Asia (Nixdorff 1971: Katalog: 19, 21, 27, 56, 57, 72, 75, 81, 90, 122, 127, 128, 133).

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is at least generically related to that which is known from the Mesopotamian heartland. One qa (ca. 1 litre) of vegetable oil is used to treat (pašāšum; literally “anoint, smear”) five alû instruments (ARM 23, 482: 8–9). Four minas of alum (gabû) is used to tan hides of the alû (ARM 23, 136: 1–3; this line is partly restored). Forty minas of bronze and four bull hides (kuš rīmi) are used (ARM 26/2, 286: rev. 4, 16).15 In a broken context, we may deduce that 17 1/3 minas of bronze were used to make “stars” (MUL) for an alû in Terqa (ARM 22/2, 204: rev. 2: 36–45; Kilmer 2004: 371). These may be the rivets which appear on the Gudea and Urnamma Stelae, which serve to fasten the drum’s membrane. Five talents of bronze is the weight of pitqu “casts” of the alû (ARM 21, 258: 38–39). As five talents are approximately equal to 150 kilos, these “casts” may refer to the drum frames. It is also possible that some of these attestations refer to the alû with a meaning other than “drum” (cf. note to ARM 23, 136). However, the attestations of alû in letters concerning the transportation of the object leave us in little doubt that at least in these contexts, we are dealing with the drum. Letters concerning the transportation of an alû to Aleppo indicate that this object had a cultic function. These letters also confirm that we are dealing with a large, heavy object. One letter says that 16 people are needed to carry it, and another specifies 30 at least (ARM 26/1, 119–133; texts 18 and 20). If the alû is the type of drum shown on the Gudea and Urnamma Stelae, so many men may be required to carry the object over long distances. This would imply that the men alternated in groups of, perhaps four, due to fatigue. Despite the completely different context, we are reminded of the mukīl [alê] “holder of the [alû]” (MSL 12, 165: 248; PSD A/3: 148, sub. lex. 2; see also CAD M/II: 183).16 The text referred to above, mentioning oil to “anoint” alû-drums (ARM 23, 482: 8–9), could also be interpreted as evidence for the use of leather, tanned or treated with oil, for the membrane of alû-drums. Oil was one of the substances used for tanning of hides in Mesopotamia (see Stol 1981: 535). In Old Babylonian Ur, the issues of oil to ala-instruments have usually been interpreted as offerings (see Figulla 1953 for editions of UET 5, 739; 742; 744; 745; 752; 756; 761; 765; 767; 768; 777; 779; 780; 781; 783–787;17 PSD A/II: 81; Van de Mieroop 1992: 99). Here,

15 If we consider a-li-im (rev. 5) to refer to alû “drum”, not ālum “city”, which was convincingly argued in Villard 1989, contra the translation in ARM 26/2. For the delivery of hides for the alû, see also A.471 (unedited, ref. Ziegler 2007: 74, n. 255). There is also a text that refers to a leather worker who is an alû maker (A.4340 + unedited, ref. Ziegler 2007: 75, n. 256). 16 Admittedly, the reconstruction of this line is tentative. Note the suggested reading as mukīl algarsurrû/algušurru (Shehata 2006: 371). 17 Figulla translates kuš-á-lá as “leather door-hinges,” which was corrected to “ala-instrument” in Loding 1976: 236.



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the issues are consistently of 1/2 qa or 15 shekels of oil.18 On the other hand, it is possible that these issues of oil are indeed offerings. Such an interpretation is clear from many other “minor” issues to instruments in the third millennium, such as those (of an unknown substance) to the šèm and ala in ITT 2, 833, rev. 15, 16 (for other minor offerings to musical instruments, see Selz 1997: especially 175).

Sound and Character The sound of the ala is described in various contexts and periods as formidable and comparable to storms and thunder. In Gudea Cyl. B, the sound of the ala is compared to a storm: á-lá u4-dam sig4 mu-na-ab-gi4 “and the ala-instruments sounded for him like a storm” (Edzard, RIME 3/1, 98 xix 1). The ala “roars” (šeg11…gi4) in The Keš Temple Hymn (Geller 1996: 72, line 116a) and The Marriage of Martu (Klein 1997: 111, line 61). The šem and ala “roar” (šeg11…gi4) in The Debate between Hoe and Plough (Civil 1965: line 28), Inana and Enki (Farber-Flügge 1973: 52, line 47), Šulgi A (Klein 1981: 194, line 53) and Šulgi D (sig4…gi4, Klein 1981: line 366). The šem and ala “resound” (gù nun…dug4) in The Lament for Unug (Green 1984: 276, 12: 16)19 and Iddin-Dagan A (Reisman 1970: 153, line 79). The following passage from the Gudea Cylinders is of particular interest for our understanding of the role of the ala within an ensemble of instruments: si-im-da á-lá balag nam-nar šu-du7-a “together with the sim, the ala and balag might sound in perfect concert” (Edzard, RIME 3/1, 97 xv 20). Here, the verb šu… du7 could also be translated as “to make perfect.” nam-nar in this context seems to be the closest we might get to a word corresponding to our “music.” Thus, this line could either be an indication of “sounding together” or “musical perfection.” The latter is preferred, taking into consideration the use of this compound verb in the context of an ala-instrument in AAICAB 1/1, Ashm. 1924-0666, lines 18–19 (see below). In the following bilingual incantation, Sumerian ka-kù-gál = āšipu “incantation priest” is written syllabically. In the Akkadian translation, ka is interpreted as “voice” and the phonetic /ala/ element in ku-gal-la is interpreted as the alû-in-

18 UET 5, 783 specifies 1 qa of oil for kuš-á-lá 2-bi, which must indicate 1 qa for 2 ala-instruments, resulting in 1/2 each. UET 5, 742 specifies 1/2 qa of oil for kuš-á-lá 2-a-bi, which must indicate 1/2 qa for each ala. 19 Green translates this verb as “to sing in fine voice” (together with the instruments). I think it unlikely that the ala was performed simultaneously with the voice, due to its volume.

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strument. Although this passage evidently displays mistranslation, it displays the fact that the “voice” of the alû-instrument was not insignificant: nam-erím igi-bi-šè ka-ku-GAL-la-gin7 // ma-mit ina maḫ-ri-šú ri-gim-šá GIM a-le-e The oath (stands) before it [the river] as (before) an incantation priest (Sumerian) // The oath before it [the river], its cry like (that of) an alû-instrument (Akkadian) (Reiner 1958: 52, lines 24–25)

This impression is confirmed by the following: […]-li ti-rik a-le-e ra-mi-mi “the beating of the alû-drum is my (the dog’s) sound” (BWL 204, KAR 48, frag.3, col. A, 9). The verb raṣānu “to roar, thunder”, in the Dt stem, is probably used to describe the sound of the alû-drum in the SB Gilgameš epic: a-ša[r ur-t]a-aṣṣ[a-n]u a-lu-ú “where alû-drums resound” (George 2003: 552, line 229: “where the alû-drums are perpetually beaten”).20 In an astrological context, the sound of the alû-drum is compared to thunder, along with the ḫalḫallatu and the lilissu: dAdad rigimšu kīma a-li-e iddi “(if) Adad thunders like an alû-drum” (parallel: ḫalḫallatu/lilissu; ACh Adad 11: 15). Similarly, the following passage supports the image of the “roaring alû-drum” (ki-ma a-li-e ta-šag-gu-ma eli-ia) (Meier 1937–1939: 143, line 14). Meier read alû here as “Dämon”; in CAD A/I: 378, s.v. alû C it is read as “drum.” Although both are possible, the latter is preferred, due to the fact that šagāmu = šeg11/12…gi4 is the compound verb which is used to depict the ala-drum in Sumerian contexts (see above).

Performance Contexts The sources we have for the performance context of the ala-instrument are, as for most instruments in Mesopotamia, almost exclusively cultic. Three attestations of the instrument in Old Babylonian year names refer to the construction of an ala-instrument for the temples of Zababa and Nanna (Simmons 1960: 83; Charpin 1978: 28 e). However, there are implications that the ala was not exclusively cultic. In Šulgi A, Šulgi sails to Nippur after a military success, during which the šem, ala and tigi are played for him (Klein 1981: 194, lines 53–54). However, it may be that this is indeed “cultic,” as the king may have considered himself as a worthy recipient of offerings, such as musical performances. There is no doubt that the ala-instrument was among the most important cultic instruments. In Inana and 20 George follows AHw 959, contra CAD A/I: 378, s.v. alû C: ašar [it-t]a-az-z[a-ma-ru pit]-nu a-lu-ú, “where pitnu-instruments and alû-drums are played.”



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Enki, the ala-drum is included toward the end of the long list of me “properties/ powers” that Inana took from Enki, along with the (tigi), lilis, ub and meze (all translated as “Trommel” by Farber-Flügge 1973: 60–61, II, vi, 24).

Building Rituals The evidence for performance of the ala-instrument during building rituals comes from the Gudea Cylinders, which, together with the Gudea Stele, form an unusually complementary picture. The following example demonstrates such a performance during the libations which accompanied the initial preparation of the brick-mold from which the bricks of the Eninnu temple would be made: gá-ùšub-ka a-sa-ga ì-a5 énsi-ra a-dab6 si-im á-lá mu-na-tuku-àm “He libated propitious water in the shed of the brick-mould while sim and ala accompanied an adab song21 for the ruler” (Edzard, RIME 3/1, 80 xviii 17–18). Following the construction of the Eninnu, animal sacrifice and libation accompany the ala, amongst other instruments (Edzard, RIME 3/1, 98 xvii 18–22; xix 1). The sim and ala, sometimes with the balag, are played in the courtyard of the Eninnu (Edzard, RIME 3/1, 87 xxviii 18; 97 xv 19–22).22

Wrestling/Boxing Matches The use of šem- and ala-instruments, accompanying wrestling or boxing, and sometimes animal sacrifice, is clear from both textual and visual evidence. This is a rare instance where textual and visual sources complement each other in such a transparent fashion. The following passage from The Marriage of Martu describes such a performance during a festival for Numušda in the city of Inab: uru-a šem5 zabar zi-ig-za-ag […-za] kušá-lá ˹7˺-e šeg11 mu-da-an-[gi4] nitaḫ [x]-ne en íb-lá-[ne] é-gešpú-šè mu-na-da-an-kur9-kur9

21 ETCSL 2.1.7.500 treats adab here as an instrument, not a song genre. 22 Black claims that the large drums on the Gudea Stele are “balag-drums” (Black 1991: 28f. n. 41). C.E. Suter follows Black, adding that the identification is strengthened by the relatively frequent attestations of the balag-instrument in Gudea’s Cylinder Inscriptions and other contemporaneous texts (Suter 2000: 193). Although I agree that the balag was a drum, as it has a hoop (see above) it is an instrument which was primarily used for ritual lamentations. Such a huge, overpowering instrument would drown out the voices of even a small choir.

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In the city, bronze šem-instruments were clanging, and ala-instruments were resounding, as strong men, girdled champions, entered the wrestling house.23

The association between wrestling/boxing and music on a professional level in the third millennium is confirmed by the following: 1 ḫar kù-babbar 10 gín dŠulgi-gal-zu dumu Al-la nar-ke4 mu gešbá in-TAG.TAG-a-šè in-ba… “Šulgigalzu, the son of Ala the nar-musician, received a 10 shekel silver ring as payment for wrestling/boxing” (PDT 1, 456, lines 1-4). The Bedre Stele (Börker-Klähn 1982: no.12) is the principal iconographic evidence for the large drum, which is performed during wrestling. The upper register of 12d shows a bearded man in a skirt, who strikes a drum with his bare left hand. A figure plays clappers in the background. A diminutive figure stands on top of the drum. The direct continuation of the upper register (12c), on the stele’s broad side, represents what is clearly a wrestling match. The upper register is continued on the thin side (12b), which shows two men, one of which holds a long stick. I follow Rashid’s interpretation of these men as referees, not musicians (Rashid 1984: 68). The lower register of 12b shows sheep being carried as an offering. Similarly, in Canby’s recent reconstruction of the Urnamma Stele, figures next to the drum on register 4 of the “poor face” are likely to represent wrestlers (Canby 2001: Pl. 11, p. 24–25). Other depictions of music and fighting include the lowest register of an Early Dynastic wall plaque, depicting a harp player and a fighting match (if we accept the proposed join; see Boese 1968–1969: Ill. 7; 1971: CS 7/K7, pp. 106–107, Pl. IX), and the relief depicting a boxing match accompanied by a kettledrum and cymbals (Rashid 1984: 79, Ill. 60). The “Ištar ritual” from Mari mentions a wrestler (ša ḫumūšim) in the same context as the performance of an eršemma-lamentation by a kalû-singer, to the accompaniment of a ḫalḫallatu-(Sumerian šèm) instrument (Ziegler 2007: 59, rev. 3, 16–22). The following passage from a bilingual hymn to Ninurta suggests that the ala and šèm were performed during boxing/wrestling matches, accompanied

23 The transliteration and translation is adapted from Klein 1997: 111, lines 60–63, which is followed by ETCSL 1.7.1 The translation of íb-lá-[ne] as “wrestling belt/girdle” is based partly on the observance of wrestling belts in iconography (Klein 1993: 98). gešpú may also be translated as “boxing” (see Sallaberger 1993: 178 n. 838; for a detailed discussion, see Rollinger 1994). Note Römer’s more tentative interpretation of this passage (Römer 1989: 322, II, 24–27), which sees a change of narrator at this point. However, this is not directly relevant for our interpretation of the function of musical instruments here. This text features a further attestation of the ala, as part of the ensi of Ninab’s personal name: tigi-ùb(or šèm)-kušá-lá (Kramer 1990: 14, line 11; Klein 1997: 110, line 11). Whether these three instruments do indeed constitute a personal name is however unclear (see Römer 1989: I, 11).



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by animal sacrifice, during the entrance of Ninurta’s cult statue into the Ešumeša temple in Nippur: šèm á-lá x […mu-r]a-an-tuku-[ne] sizkur-sizkur-lugal-la gu4-niga ud[u-niga] mu-ra-angaz-[gaz-e-ne] guruš á-tuku-bi gešpú lirum-ma mu-ra-an-ra-r[a-e-ne] dumu nibruki ildúildú-ba ḫé-gál-ta u4 mu-[x x] šèr-zu un-sag-ge6-ga me-téš im-i-i-[(x)]. // ḫ[a-a]l-ḫal-la-tu a-lu[ú…]x –tu iz-za-am-mu-[ru-ku] ni-iq šar-rim alpīmeš marûtimeš i[mmerimeš marûtimeš] up-tálla-k[u-ku] eṭ-lu-tu be-el e-mu-qi ina ú-ma-ši u a-ba-ri im-taḫ-ḫa-ṣ[ú x x]x mārūmeš ni-ip-pu-ru ina il-la-ti-šu-nu ḫi-in-gál-la uš-[x x (x)] zi-im-ri-ka ni-šu ṣal-mat qaq-qa-di ut-ta-ʼ-a-d[u]. urudu

šem and ala […] are performed for you, fat oxen and [fat] sheep are slaughtered for you as the king’s offering, strong young men box and wrestle for you, the people of Nippur by families…[…] prosperity, the dark-headed people sing your songs of praise (adapted from BWL 120, 2–10).

The relevance of fighting, accompanied by animal sacrifice and instrumental performance involving the ala-instrument, is also clear in the following passage:24 udu-as-lum šum…gišgù-dé tag-tag…gala-maḫ nam-[maḫ-zu]…á-lá zà-mí-zu ḫ[é]…lú lirum gu4-ud… // as-lum ṭu-ub-b[u-uḫ]…i-nu lap-tu-ka… gal-ma-ḫu nar-bi-ki…i-na a-le-e t[a-nitta-ki]…šá a-ba-ri i-n[a šitaḫḫuti (?)…] Slaughter of the aslu-sheep…the plucked inu-instrument…the galamaḫ shall sing praise about your greatness[…]with the ala…the wrestlers/ boxers…[with acrobatic feats?]… (OECT 6, Pl. 16 K. 3228, rev. 1–11).

Other Festivals Gudea Statue L, obv. 4’ é-˹maḫ˺-bi kar-ká-sur-ra-ka i7-da a-a-su-su-da-bé nar-á-lá igi-šè ba-DU 1 gu4 4 udu 1 máš ba-ša6 mí ì-e bur-gi4-a-bé 1 gu4 4 udu 1 máš má-GÍN-ga[l?-x(?)] (Steible 1991: part 2: 226–229). “…am Kai von Kasurra tritt zu des Flusses bewässernden Fluten der Musikant der ala-Trommel hervor. 1 Rind, 4 Schafe (und) 1 Zicklein wurden geschlachtet, wobei man peinlich acht gab. Beim Burgia (-Opfer) ([haben]) 1 Rind, 4 Schafe (und) 1 Zicklein die (/der) Oberschiffverpicher (?)” (Steible 1991: part 2: 226–229).

24 The translation of lines 6–9 in PSD A/II: 82: “the galamaḫ shall sing praise about your greatness to (the accompaniment) of the ala-instrument,” is misleading. There is no indication in the text that the instrument accompanied the galamaḫ, as this passage is broken and separated over two lines (I thank U. Gabbay for this observation).

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Jacobsen translates this passage as follows: “When the exalted cabin (of the boat) was to be lowered into the water in the river at the Kasurra quay, a Lyre-singer walked in front, he offered up to it 1 ox, 4 sheep, and 1 kid and sang the praise hymn. This burgû-offering, 1 ox, 4 sheep, and 1 kid, the…” (Jacobsen 1957: 135, n. 100). It seems fairly clear that this passage describes the inauguration of a boat, during which animals are sacrificed and music is played by the “ala-man.” In general, I follow Steible’s translation. In particular, Jacobsen’s translation of the verb mí…dug4 as “to sing” seems to be based on the mention of an á-lá, which Jacobsen assumes is a lyre, and which he therefore associates with singing. In fact, there is no direct evidence for the performance of the á-lá during songs. If I am correct in my identification of the instrument, this would not make sense. A large drum would drown out the voice/s of anything except a huge choir. mí… dug4, which is conventionally “to pay attention, praise,” might here be interpreted as “to play, perform (the á-lá),” during animal slaughter.25 The performance of the ala-instrument during animal slaughter is confirmed by Enki’s Journey to Nibru. In the following passage, the reference to the slaughter of oxen may indicate the use of those ox hides for the construction of the ala. The sheep, however, are clearly an offering: dEn-ki-ke4 gud im-ma-ab-gaz-e udu im-ma-ab-šár-re kušá-lá nu-gál-la ki-bi-šè sá im-dug4 “Enki had oxen slaughtered, and had sheep offered there lavishly. Where there were no ala drums, he installed some in their places” (al-Fouadi 1969: 74, lines 93–94). The performance of the ala-instrument during animal sacrifice is also clear in Inanna and Enki, when Inanna makes a procession into Uruk with the “Boat of Heaven,” having obtained the me from Enki: lugal-e gud ḫé-em-ma-ab-gaz-e ˹udu˺ [ḫé-em-ma-ab-šár-re] kaš bur-ra ḫé-em-˹dé˺-[e] šèm kuš á-lá-e šeg11 ḫa-ba-[gi4-gi4]. The king shall slaughter bulls, shall sacrifice sheep. He shall pour beer from a bowl. He shall have the šem and ala instruments resound. (Farber-Flügge 1973: 52, lines 45–47)

Almost the same passage occurs in Šulgi A (Klein 1981:194, lines 51–53). Such a description of animal sacrifice, libation and performance of the šem and ala occurs in The Debate between Hoe and Plough (Civil 1965: lines 25–28). The function of these instruments to accompany a cultic banquet is also apparent in The Debate between Winter and Summer (Vanstiphout 1997: 587, lines 230–240) and The Lament for Unug (Green 1984: 276, 12 lines 11–16).

25 This meaning is suggested in Sumerian literary texts; see Attinger 1993: 609.



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The ala-instrument was performed by the nar, which is implied by the following line of The Keš Temple Hymn: nar kušá-lá-e šeg11 mu-ni-ib-gi4 “the musician “roars” with the ala-instrument” (Geller 1996: 72, line 116a).26 The Lament for Urim implies that the šem and ala were performed by the aua-priest, during certain rituals which no longer take place in Ur: a-ù-a é ezem-ma-za ezen nu-muni-in-dùg-ge-eš šèm27 kušá-lá-e níg šag4 ḫúl-le-da tigi-a nu-mu-ra-an-du12-uš “the aua priests do not celebrate the festivals in your house of festivals. They do not play for you the šem and ala instruments…”28 The Lament for Sumer and Urim similarly names the šem and ala, together with the tigi, as instruments which are no longer played, thus, symbolizing the breakdown of cultic routine (Michalowski 1989: 64, line 436). The same function is apparent in The Lament for Nibru, where the šem and ala are again paired, this time without the tigi (Tinney 1996: 98, line 38), and in the broken context of The Lament for Eridug (Green 1978: 134– 135, 3, esp. line 11). Iddin-Dagan A implies that the place in which the tigi, šem and ala were performed during a ritual which has been interpreted as a “sacred marriage” (Reisman 1973) was the dais (barag) of the gú-en-na (gú-en-na: Reisman 1973: 188: “throne-room”; ETCSL 2.5.3.1, 80: “guena hall”), during libations of blood. The temple hymns imply that the šem and ala29 were performed in the place where food offerings were made: unú gal-zu kug šem5 kušá-lá “your great, holy place of food offerings with šem and ala instruments” (my translation).30

26 This line is clear only from the manuscript published in Geller 1996. Gragg 1969 (TCS III) refers to part of the line on p. 174, s.v.-line 115. ETCSL translates nar here as “singer” (ETCSL 4.80.2, line 118); “musician” is preferable, as vocal performance with the ala is unlikely. 27 PSD A/II: 81, s.v. á-lá reads this sign as šem5, although it is unclear whether this is a collated reading. The reading šèm vs. ùb is clear in the frequent instances where the instrument is paired with the ala, due to the writing si-im, when paired with the ala in some of these attestations (see Römer, SKIZ 167, s.v.-line 79; Klein 1981: 212, s.v.-line 53). 28 Römer 2004 does not take the aua priests as the subject here: “šèm Trommeln (und) á-láInstrumente, die Dinge um das Herz zu erfreuen, und (?/mit?) tígi-Trommeln hat man dir nicht (mehr) spielen lassen” (Römer 2004: 102). The translation of ETCSL is more plausible, as we know that lexically the aua was associated with the nar musician (PSD A/I: 199, s.v. a-ù-a). For further discussion of this rarely attested cultic official, see Sigrist, BiMesop. 11, 169. 29 Possibly, this also includes the adab, which ETCSL 4.80.1 takes as a song genre, but could equally well be read as an adab-instrument. 30 unú has been translated as “holy banqueting hall” (ETCSL 4.80.1, line 107), or as “holy of holies” (Sjöberg 1969: 23, line 107). A translation as “place of food offering” is more appropriate. Firstly, due to the lexical equivalence of unú with mākālu “food, meal, food offering to gods” (CAD M/I: 123, s.v. mākālu), secondly, due to the many attestations of performance of the šem and ala together with sacrificial offerings of animals.

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 Sam Mirelman

The following inscription of Nebuchadnezzar I describes the return of Marduk’s statue from Elam, and the subsequent celebrations. Offerings were made and animal sacrifice took place, accompanied by alû- and lilissu-drums: […še]n (?)-šen-na ˹šen-(erasure)-ḫur˺-[s]ag-gá a-lá-e // […] ú-nam-ma-ru a-˹lu˺-ú ˹u˺ [l]i-li-si. [praise of Marduk] makes brilliant the alû-drum and the lilissu-drum (Frame, RIMB 2, 31, lines 38-39).

In a Late Babylonian ritual, playing of the alû-instruments seems to take place at the gate of a cella in the Esagil temple at Babylon. The alû-instruments are “arranged” there (ta-ra-ṣu šá a-le-e; see Çağirgan and Lambert 1991–1993: 95, line 57). This “arrangement” implies that the drums are large objects which are difficult to move. It seems certain that these drums had fixed physical positions, as the text describes activities which take place “between” or “behind” the alû-instruments (Çağirgan and Lambert 1991–1993: 95-97, lines 59, 80, 82), and that they are not instruments which can be held. However, in lines 102 and 103 of the same text, Çağirgan and Lambert’s translation implies that the alû-instrument is portable: ù áš-bat E-le-e ina muḫ-ḫi KAŠ-ŠE-BAR ta-nam-di 7 ši-ṭir ta-šaṭ-ṭár ši-ṭir ina šumēlī(150)-šú tu-kal-la ù á-lu-ú KAŠ-ŠE-BAR ina imittī(15)-šú ina pānatat And seated…she [the nadītu-priestess] will put the alû-drum by the barley beer, she will write seven inscriptions, she will hold the inscriptions in her left hand and the alû-drum by (?) the barley beer in her right hand (Çağirgan and Lambert 1991–1993: 98, lines 102–103).

As Çağirgan and Lambert remark in the notes, there seems to be some corruption here. Firstly, alû is spelled two alternative ways in consecutive lines: E-le-e and á-lu-ú. Secondly, if the alû-drum is meant here, it is clearly a portable instrument, which could be moved while seated. It is possible that the alû-vessel is meant here. The vessel is placed next to the barley beer (and it is filled with beer), then the nadītu holds a vessel of beer in her right hand, and the inscriptions in her left. In this ritual, there is no explicit indication that singing takes place at the same time as the alû-instrument is played. However, both nāru and kalû singers take part in the ritual. OECT 6, Pl. 16 K. 3228 rev. 1–11 (see above) also suggests that the kalû performs before, after or during sounding of the alû-drum. The association between the alû-instrument and the kalû is apparently a phenomenon of the first millennium, although there is an attestation in the Old Babylonian “forerunner” to the following Balag –lamentation, which seems to refer to the absence of the ala-instrument and, consequently, the absence of joy:



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ta-a ù-li mu-˹ni-íb-DU˺ kušá-lá-a mu-ni-íb-DU kušá-lá-a-ta mu-un-da-dúr-ru-ne-eš // lalla-ra-a-ti mi-nam i-r[e-e]d-di-a-am a-le-e i-red-di-a-˹am˺ ina a-le-e aš-bu-˹šim˺. Was, oh weh, führt sie mit sich? Die ala-Trommel führt sie mit sich. Mit der ala-Trommel sitzen sie [die gala-Priester(schaft)] bei ihr.31

By the Neo-Babylonian period, the associations of the alû-drum have changed. For example, the inscription of Marduk-apla iddina II demonstrates an association with the sammû (gišZÀ-MÍ), and possibly the inu (gišGÙ-DÉ): [ina…GIŠ.GÙ].DÉ gišZÀ-MÍ gišÁ-LÁ G[IŠ x x ina za]-ma-ru rīšāti u taknê…ú-šar-ra-ḫu […u]na’adu ušarbû bēl bēlē. They glorify, praise and extol the lord of lords (i.e., Ea) with songs of joy and homage to the accompaniment of the [in]u, sammû and alû (BBst. no. 35 rev. 2–4).

Generally, the ala-instrument is associated with the balag and balag-di, as all three instruments feature a hoop (Ḫḫ VI : 105–107; MSL 6 : 60); hoops which are fitted around the drum’s circumference are common means of securing the membrane, often together with other means, such as lacing and/or pegs/nails. Furthermore, the close association of these instruments is confirmed by the following line of a bilingual incantation: ma-mit a-le-e pa-lag-gi ù tim-bu-ti “the ‘oath’ of alû, b/palangu and timbutu instruments” (Reiner 1958: 21, line 90). In Sumerian literary texts, the ala is usually associated with the šèm/sim = ḫalḫallatu. This association is not entirely lost later on. The alû appears next to the ḫalḫallatu in a further Neo-Babylonian royal inscription (VAT 2199 i; cited in AHw s.v. alû). The cymbals pictured next to the giant drum in the Gudea and Urnamma Stelae may be šem-instruments by association with the ala-drum, due to the common pairing of these instrument-terms (as suggested already in Gabbay 2007: 81).

References AAICAB. Grégoire, J.-P., Archives Administratives et Inscriptions Cunéiformes: Ashmolean Museum, Bodleian Collection, Oxford.

31 This transliteration and translation is from Volk 1989: 49, lines 49-50. The transliteration of these two lines is a composite of the two first-millennium manuscripts (83, 49–50). See Volk 1989: 32 for the Old Babylonian “forerunner.”

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Annie Caubet

Musical Practices and Instruments in Late Bronze Age Ugarit (Syria) The Levantine kingdom of Ugarit, destroyed by the Sea Peoples ca. 1185, provides a wide range of evidence for the reconstruction of musical practice during the Late Bronze Age, at the time of New Kingdom Egypt, the Hittite Empire, Kassite Babylonia and the Amorite kingdoms of Syria and Palestine. Cultural associations with the eastern Mediterranean world may also be derived from it. Dated to the last centuries of the second millennium bce, the evidence from Ugarit casts some light upon the poorly known history of ancient Near Eastern music in the span of time between third-millennium Sumer and the world of the Bible in the first millennium. The temptation to look for continuity or rupture over such a long period and across such a large geographic space, while difficult to resist, is open to frustration.1 Excavations at the seat of the capital, Ras Shamra, have been taking place for more than 75 years, yielding a rich crop of material remains and cuneiform texts written in the two main languages used at Ugarit: Akkadian, the international lingua franca of the time and Ugaritic, the West Semitic language spoken in the kingdom of Ugarit (see Yon 1997, 2006; Michaud 2005; Galliano and Calvet 2004). Other sites have been excavated within the territory, such as Ras Ibn Hani (Lagarce and Lagarce 1987; Bounni et al. 1998) and the harbor town at Minet el-Beida, the material from which is included in this survey. It was not until 1976 that the finds from Ugarit began to play an important part in the study of ancient music. In that year, Anne Draffkorn Kilmer published her interpretation of a musical tablet (Fig.1) found during the campaigns of 1953 and 1955.2 From the ongoing excavations at the site, a number of new texts and musical instruments have been discovered since then, and earlier evidence have been reanalyzed or published. I have, on several occasions, assembled the evidence that can help to reconstruct the repertoire of instruments and identify the professionals associated with the performance of music, such as dancers, acrobats and jugglers; material from the palace has been paralleled with that from the 1 I would like to thank Marguerite Yon, Dennis Pardee and Robert Merrillees for their help. This paper was written in 2008. 2 Kilmer et al. 1976; Vitale 1982; Galliano and Calvet 2004: no. 338. No other written notation for music has been found since that time; one wonders if it was really a common practice at Ugarit. The fact that the tablet records a “foreign,” Hurrian hymn may account for the necessity of keeping a written record of it.



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houses of specialists, such as a diviner (Caubet 1987, 1994, 1996, 1999; Caubet and Poplin 1987). In this paper, I would like to revisit some of these issues in the light of recent publications.3

Fig. 1: Cuneiform clay tablet inscribed with a hymn in Hurrian language and musical notation. H. 6 cm. Ugarit, royal palace, staircase 53 (RS 15.30 + 15. 49 + 17. 387). National Museum of Damascus.

The Repertoire of Instruments To reconstruct the repertoire of musical instruments in use at Ugarit, one may tap different types of sources, ranging from the few actual musical instruments that have been preserved to figural representations and to written sources. Each source does not give exactly the same type of information; thus, the vocabulary for the names of instruments that appear in the texts does not exactly match the list of instruments attested as depictions or actual objects. There are instruments the names of which we do not know, and ancient names to which we can match no instruments or images (at least not at Ugarit). There are also artifacts whose identification as musical instruments is debated. Lastly, although this issue is outside my own field of expertise, it must be stressed that the etymological kinship between terms in use at Ugarit and the corresponding Hebrew words may be misleading owing to the differences across time and space. Several instruments are mentioned in the Ugaritic language, four of which are listed in an Ugaritic poem (Pardee 1988: II, lines 3–5 (in French); Pardee 1997b): 3 Gachet-Bizollon 2007; Ziegler 2007 on the archives from the official musicians of the palace of Mari. I am also indebted to Dennis Pardee for early communications of his 2007 paper and fruitful discussions.

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May Rapi’u king of eternity drink […] Who sings and gives voice With the cithar and the flute With the tambourine and cymbals With ivory castanets Among Kutaru’s boon companions.

This is one of a group of texts known as “para-myths”or “historiolae” excavated in a private house, interpreted as a diviner’s house because the texts were found in relation with terracotta liver and lung models, incense burners, musical instruments, an ivory magic wand/clapper and several vases with symbolic decorations.4 The poem describes a banquet, a symposium with musical accompaniment in honor of Rapi’u, who may have been a deified royal ancestor connected with the Underworld, as were the Hebrew Rephaim. The whole ceremony may have been funerary in function. The term for cithar, kinnaru, appears in many textual sources at Ugarit. It is similar to the Hebrew term (kinnor) and is commonly identified as a “thin” lyre known from many depictions on painted vases, terracotta and ivory statuettes and cylinder seals (Lawergren 1998). This lyre, distinct from the third-millennium “thick” lyre, made its appearance in the Levant roughly at the same time as the Ugaritic poems were composed, and is distinguished by a small sound box, arms slightly curved outwards and an angle of play that varies with the string from 0° to 90 °. A variant is rectangular instead of circular. Thulbu ‘flute’, is possibly a generic term; there probably existed several types of reed or metal instruments — none of which were preserved — but a stone figure from Ugarit (Fig. 2) shows a double-piped instrument (Caubet 1987: Fig. 6), of a type popular on figurines and painted vases from the southern Levant (Braun 2002: Fig. IV: 13–20). The next word, tuppu, is onomatopoeic and may refer to a large class of drums and tambourines, the shape and size of which we do not know. No clay drum of the type found at Tell Abu Hawam (Herrera 1990; Caubet 1996: Fig. 6) was found at Ugarit, and images of circular artifacts on figural representations tend to be ambiguous.5 4 The archaeological context presented by Courtois in Pardee 1988 was limited to the room where the texts were found. See Caubet 1999 for the finds from the rest of the diviner’s house. 5 The flat discus held by an ivory figurine (Gachet-Bizollon 2007: no. 409) may be a tambourine or a pair of cymbals (infra).



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Fig. 2: Statuette of a double-pipe player. Limestone. H. 20.2 cm. Ugarit, Acropole, point 36 (RS 4.464). National Museum of Damascus.

The term for cymbals, masiltama, is similar to the Hebrew one, and designates the metal instruments commonly in use in the Levant and on Cyprus, several of which have been found at Ugarit (Caubet 1987: Fig. 5; Galliano and Calvet 2004: no. 263). Cymbalists seem to have been important personages at Ugarit. They were the only professional musicians, apart from singers, to have been specifically listed in the written sources from Ugarit,6 and images of cymbal players (Fig. 3) may have served as offerings (Braun 2002; Gachet-Bizollon 2007: no. 409). The last instrument listed in the poem, the ivory marqadima, had long baffled commentators until it was plausibly identified with a type of clappers in the shape of human hands and forearms (Fig. 4), several of which have been found at Ugarit (Gachet-Bizollon 2007: nos. 392–394). Clappers (a translation preferable to that of castanets) existed in wood, as well as ivory, and possibly bone.

6 Virolleaud 1957: text no. 26, from courtyard I: list of professions or corporations; the names are followed by an indication of their city. Cymbalists are listed just after marianu, a famous charioteer elite.

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Fig. 3: Statuette of a cymbalist. Hippopotamus ivory. H. 9.4 cm. Ugarit, Sud-Acropole, tomb 3464 (RS 24.400). National Museum of Aleppo.

Fig. 4: Left half of a clapper/magic wand. Hippopotamus ivory. L. 9.4 cm. Ugarit, Sud-Acropole, tomb 3552 in the “diviner’s house” (RS 24.423 + 24.441). National Museum of Damascus.

Apart from this poem, there is little evidence, textual or other, of musical ensembles or instruments. No material or iconographic remains of a harp have so far been found at Ugarit. The term niblu, comparable to the Hebrew nevel, appears in a song to Astarte discovered at Ras Ibn Hani (Pardee 2007), where the bellicose goddess, “the lioness,” is honored to the sound of the harp. This instrument has a long history dating back to the third millennium and there are many images of harps from the Late Bronze Age Levant; it would not be surprising that it was in



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use at Ugarit. In the new text, the association with the goddess Astarte denotes a ritual context other than that of the ensemble of four instruments related to Rapi’u and the Underworld. The rimt is an instrument played by the goddess Anat in honor of the god Baal. The following passage appears several times in Ugaritic texts, including in another poem from the diviner’s house: She [Anat] takes cithar/lyre in hand Pulls the harp to her breast Sings the love of Mighty Baal.7

Pardee’s translation is based on a similarity of the words for “harp” and “wild bull.” I suggest that it is a lyre with outward-curved arms resembling the horns of a bull.8 While it is clear that this musical instrument was used to accompany a song, it is not clear whether the poet is referring to a single instrument, using poetic repetition with a synonymous word for cithar, as is often the case in lyrical compositions from Ugarit, or if it is a second, different instrument, perhaps played at a different moment of the event. The case of the lute is puzzling. While images of a stringed instrument made of a small ovoid sound box and a long neck are fairly common in the Levant and Mesopotamia (Lawergren 1997: Figs. 22–23; Braun 2002: Fig. III, 4–6), none has been found at Ugarit so far. In early translations of the Ugaritic poem Dawn and Dusk, a term was identified as the ancestor of the Arabic oud, itself the origin of the modern, Western word “lute” (French luth) (Caquot et al. 1974: 370, line 12; taken as such in Caubet 1987, 1996). However, a recent study of the poem rejects the identification,9 leaving the archaeologists without a term to designate this instrument.

7 Pardee (1997a: 251) suggests that the word rimt, formally similar to the word for “wild bull,” might designate a harp of which the leading arm would have been in the shape of a bull’s head; Pardee 1988: III, lines 17–18, translated as “Harpe à tête de taureau,” a well-known Sumerian instrument and, in this case, an anachronism. 8 See Lawergren 1987, for a discussion of previous attempts at identifying lyres and harps in Mesopotamian lexicographic texts. 9 According to Pardee (1997b: 278), other occurrences of the term c D = ud designate a room in the palace or in the temple of Baal.

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Both locally produced and imported terracotta rattles and whistles may have been fairly common at Ugarit; their corpus has not yet been assembled.10 Whether these were used as toys or for the accompaniment of music is also open to question.11 Engraved scapulae appear regularly in excavations on Cyprus and in the Levant at the end of the Late Bronze Age, often in cultic contexts (Caubet 1987: Figs. 1–2; from Israel, see Braun 2002: Fig. IV 35–37). The fragments from Ugarit add no new arguments for their interpretation. However, even if they were not primarily designed as musical instruments, the possibility remains that they could have been used to produce rhythmical sounds for the accompaniment of ceremonies.

Fig. 5: Trumpet in the shape of a ram’s horn. Hippopotamus ivory. H. 5.4 cm. Ugarit, Acropole; western extension of the House of the High Priest (RS 3.436). Louvre.

The question of horns remains open. While there is no philological evidence for the use of horns or trumpets by musicians at Ugarit, the existence of actual instruments cannot be denied. One is the fragment of a small twisted horn (Fig. 10 See Schaeffer 1949: 198–199, 6 for a bull-shaped rattle; Matoïan 2003 for an owl-shaped example in Cypriot pottery. 11 See Braun 2002: 98 sqq. for a discussion of “mass music, mass cults, mass culture.”



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5) carved out of a hippopotamus incisor, which was discovered in the cella of the temple of Dagan (Gachet-Bizollon 2007: no. 388 with previous bibliography). It has been safely identified as a trumpet by comparison with a complete piece discovered in the Uluburun shipwreck.12 The fragment from Ugarit has lost its pavilion and mouthpiece but it displays the same distinctive engraved design of spirals; both instruments may have been produced by the same craftsman. The second case for horns/trumpets at Ugarit is still hotly debated. I refer to a masterpiece of ancient Near Eastern ivory sculpture: an elephant tusk carved as the figure of a naked goddess with flowing hair, standing above a hunting scene, flanked by sphinxes (Fig. 6) (Gachet-Bizollon 2007: no. 386). The top of the goddess’s head is cut away, forming a surface of ca. 5 cm in diameter, perforated by a central 2 cm diameter channel. The upper surface of the head was left unpolished, suggesting that originally another piece covered it, of ivory or of another material. In her recent corpus of ivories from Ugarit, Gachet-Bizollon fairly states two opinions:13 One, forwarded by the excavator and supported here, takes it as an oliphant, a musical instrument in the shape of a horn.14 According to the second opinion, the carved tusk belonged to a series of bottles or flasks ending in the shape of a female head and designed to contain precious oils. The latter assumption has been supported by Fischer in a comprehensive study of the ivories from Megiddo and Lachish, where the argument for the Late Bronze Age pieces is based on Egyptian iconography.15 It is unfortunate that Gachet-Bizollon’s and Fischer’s studies appeared almost simultaneously and could not benefit from each other’s arguments. Fischer’s study of the Megiddo and Lachish examples presents them in photographs, but without a section drawing to aid in advancing the discussion.16 The elephant tusk from Ugarit, now housed in the National Museum of Damascus, was recently removed for X-ray examination (Fig. 7). It was shown thereby that there was a natural cavity at the tip of the naked goddess’s head that was reworked and 12 A 24 cm long trumpet in the shape of a ram’s horn: Pulak 1997: 245, Fig. 14; Lawergren 1997: Fig. 8, c. 13 Gachet-Bizollon 2007: 183–186. 14 A drawing of the section explaining how the artifact had been carved out of a large elephant tusk was published after examination of the piece by Poplin in 1985 (Caubet and Poplin 1987: Fig. 3). The upper part being much restored with plaster, Poplin expressed the wish that the piece be submitted to X-ray examination, which was made possible in 2006, with the help of the Italian Hospital in Damascus. 15 Fischer 2007. The flask interpretation for the Bronze Age artifact is based on the Egyptian iconography assembled by Lagarce 1983. 16 Fischer 2007: Pls. 51, 54–55, 58. Fischer was given access to the identifications of the material made by Poplin in The Israel Museum.

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slightly enlarged to form a short cylindrical channel. Such a channel is compatible with the hypothesis of a musical instrument: the addition of a mouthpiece would reduce the width of the blowing table, rendering it more manageable. Whether such a large channel would be appropriate for the pouring of precious oils will remain open to question until section drawings of the comparable material from Israel are made available.

Fig. 6: Oliphant or flask decorated with a naked goddess. Elephant tusk. H. 60 cm. Ugarit, royal palace, portico 86 in courtyard III (RS 16.404). National Museum of Damascus museum.

Fig. 7: X-ray of elephant tusk (Fig. 6) showing that the natural cavity has been reworked and enlarged at the tip.



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Vocal Music Vocal music was important at Ugarit. Indeed, singers are the only professional musicians recorded (with the exception of cymbalists) (Caubet 1987: Fig. 5; Galliano and Calvet 2004: no. 263). As in Hebrew, there are two distinct terms in Ugaritic expressing the action of singing, shara and dhamara. In the Ugaritic poems, are these verbs synonymous, allowing for the poetical device of repetition of sentences in a slightly different wording, or do they allude to different musical modes? Were they performed by different musicians? Tablets from the royal palace inscribed with lists of corporations or professions refer to singers using both terms interchangeably, but so far never in the same list, so there is no way to be sure whether the two terms represent two distinct categories of professionals.17 Singing was no mean performance and could be carried out by the gods themselves, as did Anat or Rapi’u. In the case of Rapi’u, both terms were used to describe the action, possibly referring to two musical modes(?) (Gachet-Bizollon 2007; Ziegler 2007). Mortals sang hymns in honor of the gods: May the name of Astarte be sung Let me sing the name of the lioness18

Here, the anonymous singer is possibly also the composer of the song. The identity of the singer-composer is rarely provided; a Hurrian hymn in honor of the goddess Nikkal composed by no less than king Ammurapi himself is a rare exception.19 Singers (male or female) are usually listed as an undifferentiated group; very few singers are listed individually. Thus, they may have belonged to a regular body of musicians working and, in some cases, living in the palace, where they slept and received garments or cloth.20 In the lists of professions, the term for “singer” and “singers” is normally marked with a masculine determinative, though the masculine plural is used for groups that included females as well. There are, however, exceptions for both rules: A female singer is attested in a list that mentions a man “whose sister is among the singers” (of the palace) (Virol17 Summary in Caubet 1999: no. 10; Virolleaud 1957: texts nos. 24, 39, 107, from staircase 53 (tablets fallen from the upper story). 18 Braun 2002; Gachet-Bizollon 2007: no. 409; Pardee 2007. 19 On the musical tablet discussed by Dr Kilmer, see Lagarce and Lagarce 1987; Bounni et al. 1998. 20 Virolleaud 1957: text no. 24: 15 singers; text no. 107: distribution of garments for the singers who sleep in the house of the king.

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leaud 1965: text no. 80). A man, Mnn, listed together with other “king’s men,” bears the title of “singer of Ugarit” (Virolleaud 1965: text no. 11 from room 81). This title may be compared with the role of the “head of musicians” in the palace of Mari several centuries earlier, ca. 1900–1750 bce (Ziegler 2007). In Mari, one such senior official was appointed for each reign. He enjoyed a fair amount of wealth, was responsible for the training of young musicians of the palace and was in charge of the performance of various ceremonies. He was even, in some cases, entrusted with diplomatic missions. Textual evidence from Ugarit is by far not as informative as that from Mari, but perhaps the groups of anonymous singers were placed under the responsibility of a higher official answering to the king, perhaps the “singer of Ugarit.” Some musicians may have been specifically appointed to a deity, a cult or a temple. This is suggested by the title “singer (or singers) of Astarte.”21 Singular or plural — the text is, unfortunately, ambiguous.22 It is not clear whether this is another group of anonymous musicians attached to the cult of Astarte within the palace or if it is a single “singer of Astarte” that was entitled to a generous allotment of wool. Is he the same official who sings in honor of Astarte in the poem from Ras Ibn Hani? (Braun 2002; Gachet-Bizollon 2007: no. 409; Pardee 2007). Is he a high-ranking official like the “singer of Ugarit”? What may have been their respective roles and responsibilities, one toward the goddess (at least within the palace) and one toward the kingdom or the town, we are left to speculate.

References Bounni, A., E. Lagarce and J. Lagarce 1998 Ras Ibn Hani I. Le Palais Nord du Bronze récent. Fouilles 1979–1995, synthèse préliminaire, Bibliothèque Archéologique et Historique 101. Beirut. Braun, J. 2002 Music in Ancient Israel/Palestine: Archaeological, Written and Comparative Sources, trans. D. W. Stott, Grand Rapids, Mich. and Cambridge, England. Caquot, A., M. Sznycer and A. Herdner 1974 Textes Ougaritiques, 1: Mythes et légendes. Paris. Caubet, A. 1987 La musique à Ougarit. Comptes Rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres 1987: 731–754.

21 Virolleaud 1957: text no. 107: distribution of 130 shekels of wool to the singer (or singers) of Astarte. 22 The term for “singer” is not marked for singular or plural in the Ugaritic consonantal writing.



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1994 La musique du Levant au Bronze récent. In: La pluridisciplinarité en archéologie musicale: Actes des IVe rencontres internationales d’ArchéologiemMusicale de l’ICTM, Saint-Germain en Laye 9–13 octobre 1990, ed. C. Homo-Lechner, 129–135. Paris. 1996 La musique à Ougarit: Nouveaux témoignages matériels In: Ugarit: Religion and Culture, Essays in Honour of Prof. John C. L. Gibson, ed. N. Wyatt, W. G. E. Watson and J. B. Lloyd, 9–31. Münster. 1999 Chantres et devins: deux cas de pratiques de la musique à Ougarit. In: ‘Schnittpunkt’ Ugarit, ed. M. Kropp and A. Wagner, 9–29. Mainz. Caubet. A. and F. Poplin 1987 Les objets en matière dure animale. Étude du matériau. In: Le centre de la ville: 38e–44e campagnes (1978–1984) sous la direction de Marguerite Yon, ed. M. Yon, Ras ShamraOugarit 3: 273–306. Paris. Fischer, E. 2007 Ägyptische und ägyptisierende Elfenbeine aus Megiddo und Lachish, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 47. Münster. Gachet-Bizollon, J. 2007 Les ivoires d’Ougarit et l’art des ivoiriers du Levant au Bronze récent, Ras ShamraOugarit 15, ser. ed. M. Yon. Paris. Galliano, G. and Y. Calvet 2004 Aux origines de l’alphabet. Le royaume d’Ougarit. Lyon and Paris. Herrera, M. D. 1990 Las excavaciones de R. W. Hamilton en Tell Abu Hawan, Haifa, Universidad de Cantabria, 1989, PhD microfiches. Kilmer, A. D., R. L. Crocker and R. R. Brown 1976 Sounds from Silence: Recent Discoveries in Ancient Near Eastern Music, Bit Enki Records, BTNK 101, LP Record. Berkeley. Lagarce, E. 1983 Le rôle d’Ugarit dans l’élaboration du répertoire iconographique syro-phénicien du Ier millénaire avant J.-C. In: Atti I Congresso di Studi Fenici e Punici, ed. Universita di Roma La Sapienza, 547–561. Rome. Lagarce, E. and J. Lagarce 1987 Ras Ibn Hani, archéologie et histoire. Damascus. Lawergren, B. 1987 Sound Holes and Geometrical Figures, Clues to the Terminology of Ancient Mesopotamian Harps. Iraq 49: 37–52, Pl. X–XII. 1997 Mesopotamien (Musikinstrumente). In: Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart, 6, ed. L. Finscher, 143–174. Kassel. 1998 Distinction among Canaanite, Philistine, and Israelite Lyres and Their Global Lyrical Contexts. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 309: 41–68. 2003 Review of J. Braun, Music in Ancient Israel and Palestine. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 332: 100–102. Matoïan, V. 2003 Un hochet en céramique White Painted à Ougarit (Syrie). Report of the Department of Antiquities of Cyprus: 105–110.

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Michaud, J.-M. ed. 2005 Le royaume d’Ougarit de la Crète à l’Euphrate: Nouveaux axes de recherche, actes colloque Sherbrooke 2005. Montreal. Pardee, D. 1988 Les textes paramythologiques de la 24e campagne (1961), Ras Shamra-Ougarit 4, ser. ed. M. Yon. Paris. 1997a The Ba’alu Myth. In: The Context of Scripture, 1: Canonical Compositions of the Biblical World, ed. W. Hallo and K. L. Younger, 241–274. Leiden. 1997b Dawn and Dusk. In: The Context of Scripture, 1: Canonical Compositions of the Biblical World, ed. W. Hallo and K. L. Younger, 274–283. Leiden. 2007 Preliminary Presentation of a New Ugaritic Song to ‘Attartu (RIH 98/02). In: Ugarit at Seventy-Five, ed. K. L. Younger, 27–39. Winona Lake, Ind. Pulak, C. 1997 The Uluburun Shipwreck. In: Res Maritimae: Cyprus and the Eastern Mediterranean from Prehistory of Late Antiquity, ed. S. Swiny, R. Hohlfelder, and H. W. Swiny, Cyprus American Archaeological Research Institute Monograph Series 1, 233–262. Atlanta. Schaeffer, C. 1949 Ugaritica 2. Paris. Virolleaud, Ch. 1957 Textes en cunéiformes alphabétiques des archives est, ouest et centrales, Palais Royal d’Ugarit 2, ser. ed. C. Schaeffer. Paris. 1965 Textes en cunéiforme alphabétique des archives sud, sud-ouest et du petit palais, Palais Royal d’Ugarit 5, ser. ed. C. Schaeffer. Paris. Vitale, R. 1982 La musique suméro-accadienne. Ugarit-Forschungen 14: 241–263. Yon, M. 1997 La cité d’Ougarit sur le tell de Ras Shamra, Guides archéologiques de l’Institut français d’archéologie du proche-Orient 2. Paris. 2006 The City of Ugarit at Tell Ras Shamra. Winona Lake, Ind. Ziegler, N. 2007 Les Musiciens et la musique d’après les archives de Mari. Florilegium Marianum 9, Mémoires de Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires (NABU) 10. Paris.

Ora Brison

Nudity and Music in Anatolian Mythological Seduction Scenes and Iconographic Imagery This essay focuses on the role of Anatolian music in erotic and sexual contexts — especially of its function in mythological seduction scenes. In these scenes, music is employed as a means of enhancing erotic seduction. A number of cultic, sexual iconographic representations associated with musical instruments and performers of music will also be discussed.

Historical Background Most of the data on the music culture of the Anatolian civilizations comes from the Old Hittite and Hittite Imperial periods, dating from 1750 to 1200 bce, though some data comes from the Neo-Hittite period, namely 1200 to 800 bce.1 The textual sources relate mainly to religious state festivals, ceremonies and rituals. It is likely that Hittite music culture reflected the musical traditions of the native Anatolian cultures — the Hattians2 — as well as the influences of other migrating ethnic groups, such as the Hurrians3 or the Luwians,4 who settled in Anatolia. Hittite music culture also shows the musical influence of and fusion with the neighboring major civilizations: Mesopotamia, Egypt and the Aegean (Schuol 2004: 260). Our knowledge of Anatolian music, musical instruments, musicians, singers and performers is based on extensive archaeological evidence, textual and visual, as well as on recovered pieces of musical artifacts. Much of the data has been collected from the corpus of religious texts and cultic iconographic representations. Nevertheless, we can assume that music, song and dance played a significant role not only in religious practices, but also in many aspects of daily life (de Martino 1995: 2661). It is difficult to identify the musical instruments mentioned in the texts because we lack documentation of their technical character (ibid.). One of the challenges in the study of Hittite music culture has been to match terms appearing in the text with the musical instruments portrayed in iconographic form and imagery. 1 On the Hittites, see Gurney 1990. 2 On the influence of pre-Hittite Anatolian traditions on the Hittites, see: Haas 1994; McMahon 1991. 3 On the Hurrians, see Wilhelm 1989. 4 On the Luwians, see Melchert 1993.

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Hittite Music in Religious Festivals and Rituals The extensive descriptions of music in religious texts show that music and song had an essential function in Hittite ceremonies and rituals (de Martino 1988: 5; 1997: 483). Special emphasis is put on the role of music in religious state festivals, such as the hišuwa festival,5 the AN.TAH.SUMsar festival,6 the KI.LAM festival,7 as well as in other celebrations that were usually celebrated for several days. In the various festivals, the Hittite king and queen, with other members of the royal family and high officials, played a significant and active role (Alp 2000: 1). The king’s responsibility for performing prescribed religious rituals was, perhaps, the most important duty of kingship (McMahon 1995: 1990). The king and queen, as well as other members of the royal family, participated in the various rituals conducted during the celebrations, such as libation, offerings and drinking in honor of the deities. They are frequently described in connection with the musical performances that took place during the ceremonies (de Martino 1995: 2664). The king, who held the position of the high priest, or a different high official granted the musicians and performers authorization to enter the temple and play music (Alp 2000: 59–60). Performers playing musical instruments accompanied each of the different stages of the ceremony (Gurney 1977: 31–33; Schuol 2004: 204). Furthermore, the queen herself, accompanied by musicians, danced before the statues of the deities (Haas 1994: 686; Alp 2000: 61). In addition, textual evidence frequently mentions musical instruments as part of cult inventories (KBo 13, 235). Song and music accompanied cult practices, prayers (KUB 11, 25; CTH 7168), sacrificial, funerary and ancestors cult rites (KUB 30, 25) and libation and drinking rituals (KBo 20, 61 + 185). Song and music are also mentioned accompanying warriors during military campaigns (KUB 31, 4 + KBo 3, 41 + 40), as well as in weddings and erotic cultic ceremonies (CTH 345; CTH 348). Music is mentioned in magic rite texts and is employed as a dramatic medium in invocations and offering rituals for communicating with deities and drawing them to participate in cultic activities (KBo 5, 1). According to Schuol (2004: 205), oracular inquiries are also associated with music (KBo 25, 31).

5 On the hišuwa festival, see Haas 1994: 848–875. 6 On the AN.TAH.SUMsar festival, see Güterbock 1960; Haas 1994: 772–826; Houwink ten Cate 2003. 7 On the KI.LAM festival, see Singer 1983, 1984. 8 Collins 1997a.



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It is notable that during the various state celebrations and festivals, music was used not only for religious purposes, but was also played for entertainment and accompanied dancing, performing acrobats, sports and war games (KBo 15, 52 + KUB 34, 116; KBo 23, 55) (de Martino 1995: 2663–2669; McMahon 1995: 1993; Schuol 2004: 203–209). Vocal and instrumental musicians attested to in the texts are of two categories: The first includes professional singers and musicians, the LÚNAR-zammaru, the LÚhallijari, or the LÚišhamatalla and the female singer MUNUSSÌR. The second includes temple and palace personnel, such as the LÚSANGA and LÚ.MEŠGALA priests, although having other cultic functions, they participated in religious ceremonies also when no special “technical” talent was required (de Martino 1997: 483–484). The musicians, both men and women, performed alone or with a group, such as the fourteen women singers from Kartapaha (KBo 2, 31). The singers described in the texts are usually classified according to the language in which they specialized: a singer of Hattic, a singer of Luwian, Hurrian, Akkadian and so on (de Martino 1995: 2664).

Musical Instruments and Performers The assemblage of Anatolian musical instruments is categorized in groups consisting of stringed instruments (chordophones), such as harps and lyres; wind instruments (aerophones), such as flutes, pipes and horns and percussion instruments (membranophones and ideophones), such as drums, tambourines, cymbals and sistrums (de Martino 1997: 484–487; Schuol 2004: 53–77). Musical instruments, musicians and performers are portrayed in Anatolian art, on cultic artifacts such as the Inandık Vase (Özgüç 1988: 84–104) and libation vessels, such as the silver fist-shaped drinking vessel (Güterbock and Kendall 1995: 46–50; Alp 2000: 28–29), and on pottery, such as the lute player from Samsat (Özgüç 1992: 419–423) or the upper part of a lute from Alişar (Boehmer 1983: 22). Portrayals are also seen in glyptic art, such as the cylinder seal from Konya-Karahöyük, on which the goddess Ištar is shown playing the harp before the god Ea, the god of wisdom and magic (Alp 2000: 4). Musical Instruments, musicians and performers are also depicted on monumental orthostats and wall reliefs from Alaça Hüyük, Zincirli and Karatepe (Akurgal 1962: Pls. 12, 19, 93; Alp 2000: 32–36).9

9 On Anatolian art, see Akurgal 1962.

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Fig. 1: The Inandık Vase.

Although the Hittite texts do not provide any data on the musical scales, musical notation system, harmonic system or rhythms used, one may assume that these resembled the musical systems of the Hittites’ neighboring cultures. There is strong evidence pointing to the exportability, diffusion and transmission of Mesopotamian musical instruments and technique across the cultures of the ancient Near East and beyond them (Franklin 2007).



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A detailed description of the various musical instruments in the mythological seduction scenes and in the iconographic imagery follows.

The Role of Music in Hittite Mythological Seduction Scenes The significant role played by music is clearly shown in seduction scenes described in the Anatolian myths the “Song of Hedammu” (CTH 348) and the “Song of Ullikummi” (CTH 345) discussed in this essay. These two mythological narratives were known as songs and their titles were written using the Sumerogram SÌR and Hittite ishamai/ishamija ‘to sing a song’ or, simply, ‘song’ (Friedrich 1952: 85, 292; de Martino 1997: 484; Alp 2000: 2). In both myths the goddess Ištar/Šauška plays the part of the seductress (Siegelová 1971: 83). The stereotyped representation of a deceitful temptress — mortal or divine — characterized by utilizing beguilement and trickery as a strategy, is a well-known literary theme in the literature of ancient Near Eastern cultures. Despite the variations among different narratives, they all present an image of a manipulative seductress, and although a number of narratives of male personae with similar characteristics do exist, the common representation of the deceitful character is generally that of the female. The literary model presented is of a cunning seductress who employs an array of “feminine weapons” to neutralize her male enemies’ suspicions by feasting, drinking, music and song, with the motif of erotic sexual exchange also frequently present. Among knwon examples of this model are biblical Yael and Sisera (Judges 4; 5) and Delilah and Samson (Judges 16), as well as the apocryphal narrative of Judith and Holofernes (Judith). We find similar examples also in the Ugaritic literature: in the epic of Aqhat– Pugatu and Yatpan (Parker 1997), and in the Ba’al Cycle — the encounter between the goddess Anat and the sea monster Yamm (Haas 1994: 357). The corpus of Anatolian mythological texts includes several narratives of goddesses who achieve their objectives through trickery, deception and seduction. Ištar/Šauška is depicted in the myths mentioned above, Inara in “Illuyanka” (CTH 321) (Beckman 1982), and Ašertu in “Elkunirša and Ašertu” (CTH 342) (Hoffner 1998: 90–92), where the portrayed images are of beautiful, divine females who deploy trickery and erotic allure to achieve their goals.10 10 Pecchioli Daddi and Polvani find Inara and Ašertu to be female temptresses: “Both goddesses resort to their feminine charms in order to entice the male enemies” (1990: 42). Hoffner also maintains that there is a sexual motive in the description of the goddess Inara preparing herself

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The cult of the Hurrian goddess Šauška/ga was introduced into Anatolia by the Hurrians. The main constellation of Hurrian deities comprised the triad of the storm-god Teššub, his consort, the goddess Hebat, and his sister Šauška (Popko 1995: 97). The Hurrians identified Šauška with her counterpart, the Mesopotamian goddess of love and war, Inanna/Ištar. Šauška was syncretized with the goddess Ištar of Nineveh and with other local Hittite female deities that had similar attributes, thus becoming a prominent Hittite goddess. Like her Mesopotamian counterpart, Ištar/Šauška is described as beautiful and erotic and is renowned for cruelty to her lovers. She was also characterized as a fierce and merciless warrior and often depicted in a state of gender role change, as a female with male characteristics and behavior. The high status of Ištar/Šauška in the hierarchy of the Hittite pantheon is evident from more than 25 local female deities named Ištar or Šauška and from the numerous cult centers erected in her honor. Some of her known cult centers were at Šamuha, Hattarina and Tameninga (Wegner 1981: 36–37). Her prominence is emphasized in a rock-cut relief carved in the rock sanctuary of Yazilikaya (near Hattuša/ Boğazköy) showing a procession of the Hittite gods. Ištar/Šauška appears not only in the procession line of female deities (no. 56), but is also the only goddess in the procession line of male deities (no. 38), accompanied by her attendants, the goddesses Ninatta and Kulitta (Wegner 1981: 36; Wilhelm 1989: 51–52; Haas 1994: 354). The two mythical narratives the “Song of Hedammu” and the “Song of Ullikummi” are often considered a part of the important group of Hittite-Hurrian myths named the “Kumarbi Cycle” (CTH 344) (Hoffner 1998: 41–65).11 The cycle features the god Kumarbi, the “father of the gods” and representative of the older generation, and his competition and struggle for supremacy with the representative of the younger generation of gods, the storm-god Teššub. The “Song of Hedammu” recounts how Kumarbi marries the daughter of the sea-god and sires Hedammu, a dragon-like monster that lives in the sea. The “Song of Ullikummi” describes how Kumarbi mates with a great rock12 (conceived as a female in this myth) and how Ullikummi, the stone monster, results from this union. The monsters were to be Kumarbi’s secret weapons against his son and usurper Teššub (Puhvel 1987: 25). After several confrontations in which Teššub is unsuccessful in overcoming Kumarbi and his offspring, Teššub turns to his sister, the goddess Ištar/Šauška,

[z unuttat- ‘adorned herself’ (line 5)] for the banquet with Illuyanka. “The serpent is attracted to the feast not just by the lavish food but by the sexual charms of Inara” (Hoffner 2007: 123, 133). 11 See Hoffner 1998: 50–55; Güterbock 1997a; Pecchioli Daddi and Polvani 1990: 115–162. 12 On the theme of the “great rock,” see Singer 2002: 128–132.



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queen of Nineveh, who agrees to help him defeat his enemies. The goddess employs song, dance, music and her feminine charms to trap the monsters. The goddess Šauška goes to the bathhouse, where she washes and prepares herself for the encounter with the monster. She anoints herself with perfumed oils and adorns herself with seashell beads, enhancing her already-seductive qualities. She turns to her attendants, the goddesses Ninatta and Kulitta, instructs them to accompany her with music and then goes down to the sea to entice Hedammu (Hoffner 1998: 51): [Šauška] began to say [to Ninatta and] Kulitta: Take [an arkammi instrument], take a galgalturi-instrument. At the sea on the right play the arkammi, on the left play the galgalturi (Hoffner 1998: 54).

Šauška asks her attendants to take the arkammi instrument — the drum, and the galgalturi instrument — the cymbals. When they reach the sea she asks them to play the drum on her right side and the cymbals on her left. When Hedammu, the sea monster, hears the sounds of the musical instruments, he raises his head from the deep water and sees the goddess presenting her naked body before him. Šauška lures Hedammu out of the sea onto the dry land where it will be easier to defeat him and where she has set the scene for another seduction scheme, including aphrodisiacs, such as scented leaves, love potions and beer. The goddess succeeds in luring Hedammu out of the water using her nudity, music, song and dance. The monster is lulled into a false sense of comfort and security,13 and has sex with the goddess. The rest of the text is fragmented. However, as Teššub eventually achieves supremacy and kingship, it might be assumed that Šauška killed Hedammu. In the parallel seduction scene from the “Song of Ullikummi”: The goddess Šauška dresses and ornaments herself for the encounter with the monster Ullikummi. She goes to the sea and uses scented cedar to attract Ullikummi. She took(?)] the BALAG.DI and galgalturi-instruments in her hand…She struck the BALAG.DI and the galgalturi, and she took up a song, and heaven and earth echoed it back (Hoffner 1998: 60–61).

She continues singing for a long time, but gets no response from Ullikummi until the god Tašmišu comes along and tells her that the monster is deaf and blind.

13 In the similar Ugaritic myth mentioned above, the goddess Anat helps her brother, the storm god Ba’al, and lures his enemy, the sea monster Yamm, out of the sea. In a version of this myth found in Egypt, it is the goddess Astarte who lures Yamm out of the sea and entraps him (Popko 1995: 127). However, no music is mentioned in these texts.

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Frustrated, the goddess throws away the musical instruments and leaves. After further confrontations, Teššub finally defeats Kumarbi and his offspring. The literary conventions describing the female seductress who uses various means of temptation to entice and to stimulate the senses, subsequently entrapping her victims, is demonstrated in these seduction scenes. The authors of the “Song of Ullikummi” and the “Song of Hedammu” provide a detailed description of the goddess’s preparations. She bathes, anoints her body with perfume, adorns herself with shell beads and presents the monsters with her naked body. After that, music takes over. First, the goddess plays the drum and the cymbals and uses the sounds of the musical instruments to entice the monsters to emerge from the sea and face her. Then, the playing of the music contributes to the enchanting atmosphere the goddess wishes to create. In addition to the role of music described in myths, we know that song, music and musical instruments played an important part in non-religious sexual encounters as described in Sumerian love songs.14

Musical Instruments Described in the Seduction Scenes The musical instruments described in the mythological seduction scene are the drum (arkammi), the cymbals (galgalturi) and the tambourine (GIŠ BALAG.DI), all classified as percussion instruments (membranophones, ideophones). These musical instruments together with the huhupal, a kind of drum,15 likely a tambourine, are part of the Hittite percussion assemblage, and are the most attested percussion instruments known to be played in religious ceremonies and rituals. The arkammi, the huhupal and the galgalturi often appear together as a triad in Hittite texts. One such example appears in an offerings list for the ritual “Establishing a New Temple for the Goddess of the Night” (KUB 30.64/CTH 282): “…one set of bronze cymbals(?), one set of tambourines(?) either of boxwood or ivory, one drum” (Collins 1997b: 173). The arkammi, huhupal and galgalturi are often used in accompaniment with the BALAG or the GIŠ BALAG.DI tambourine in the texts (Güterbock 1995: 57–60). The arkammi was initially thought to be a string instrument, a harp, much the same as the BALAG.DI (Puhvel 1984: 146–147). Currently, most scholars agree 14 On love lyrics and songs from the ancient Near East, see Westenholz 1995; Sefati 1998. 15 Polvani suggests understanding the huhupal as cymbals. She points out that both verbs, walh- and hazzik- refer to a light striking or rubbing of the cymbals (1988a: 171–174).



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that the arkammi was a drum (de Martino 1988: 6; 1995: 2662; Polvani 1988b; Güterbock 1995: 58; Schuol 2004: 112–119). Hittite drums came in different shapes and sizes and were made entirely or partially of wood — as demonstrated by the determinative GIŠ ‘wood’ — and other materials, such as animal hides and metal. Women playing the drum are depicted on seal impressions from the ancient Near East (Collon 1988: 151–153). According to Kilmer, women usually, but not exclusively, played the smaller drums. She maintains that because of the frequency of metal and wood percussion instruments in cult activities and rituals it can be assumed that Hittite music was strongly rhythmic (Kilmer 2006). The arkammi appears mostly together with another musical instrument, the galgalturi, which probably refers to a cymbal, as suggested by Kümmel (1973: 174– 176), Gurney (1977: 34), Polvani (1988a) and Güterbock (1995: 58). Unlike arkammi and huhupal, the word “galgalturi” has no classifier GIŠ ‘wood’ and was often written with the determinative URUDU ‘copper’; it is described as being made of ZABAR ‘bronze’ (Siegelová 1971: 38–39; Güterbock 1995: 59; Puhvel 1997: 26) and appears in some texts as “a pair” of galgalturi. The occurrences of the arkammi and the galgalturi in ritual descriptions of the Old Hittite period may point to their Hattic origin (Puhvel 1984: 146–147). Two pairs of objects resembling cymbals and depicted on various cultic artifacts were found in Kanish-Kültepe16 (the center of the Assyrian merchant colonies in Anatolia at the beginning of the second millennium bce) (Güterbock 1995: 61–62; Alp 2000: 10). Another important percussion instrument played by the goddess Ištar is the BALAG.DI. Although the Sumerogram BALAG originally represented a harp, it is now generally agreed that this meaning changed over the course of time and was used for a kind of drum (Gurney 1977: 35; Güterbock 1995: 58, 8f.; Gurney 1977: 34–35). Polvani and other scholars propose that arkammi was the Hittite reading of the logograms GIŠ. BALAG.DI (1988b). It was probably a frame drum or a tambourine, as it is usually accompanied by the Hittite verb walh ‘to beat/to strike’ (Friedrich 1952: 242). Güterbock suggests that it was rather a small musical instrument, as the text of the “Song of Ullikummi” describes the goddess holding both instruments in her hands in order to accompany her singing by the seashore: Ištar/Šauška beats the BALAG.DI and the galgalturi. Later when she gets angry she throws both instruments away. Since she alone has to handle two instruments, each of them must be small (Güterbock 1995: 58–60).

16 See Yakar 2000: 22–26, 253–256; Veenhof 1995.

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De Martino, on the other hand, assumes that it could still be a string instrument, and that the use of the Hittite term hazzik ‘plucking/picking’, might refer to striking the sound-box for percussion effect, as is still done today by classical guitar players (1995: 2662; 1997: 486). Alp suggests another interpretation for the BALAG.DI, and says that huhupal might possibly be the Hittite word for BALAG.DI, as huhupal is not mentioned in any of the above mentioned seduction scenes (2000: 11). Goddesses in the literature of the ancient Near East — Sumerian, Akkadian, Babylonian, Egyptian, Anatolian and Canaanite — are often described playing the drum in religious texts and iconography. As we have seen, the Anatolian mythological seduction scenes portray the goddess of love and war, Ištar/Šauška singing and playing the drum. As early as the third millennium bce, the Sumerian goddess Inanna was described as the creator of the BALAG, frame drum, along with other musical instruments (Collon 1988: 151–153).

Music and Sexual Imagery on Hittite Cultic Vases It is evident from Hittite iconography and artifacts of musical instruments, musicians and performers that music frequently accompanied cultic sex, fertility and marriage ceremonies (Collon 1993: 491).17 Some famous examples of music being played in such events can be seen on the Inandık Vase, the Bitik Vase (Özgüç 1957) and the Hüseindede Vase (Yildirim 2002; Schuol 2004: 58–59). The vase from Inandıktepe (near Ankara), dating to circa 1600 bce, is decorated with four registers of painted relief, the general subject of which seems to be a celebration or a feast. The bottom-most register depicts preparation of food and drink for a feast and several musicians are shown carrying musical instruments. The register above it portrays cult libation scenes honoring a deity. The libation takes place before a statue of a sacred bull (the symbol of the storm-god), a wellknown fertility symbol, and is accompanied by a group of performing musicians. The third register represents some cult scenes also accompanied by musicians, in which offerings, seemingly bull horns, are brought before an altar. Behind the alter, two figures — one probably a veiled woman — are shown kneeling on a large stroll or bed. The uppermost register shows scenes of a feast with music and dancing or athletic activities, including bull jumping.18 The ceremony reaches 17 Mesopotamian textual and iconographic sources also show that “music and song were part of the festivities at weddings…and in sexually explicit scenes that included (most commonly) lutanists and framedrum players.” (Kilmer 1997: 467). 18 On bull jumping, see Güterbock 2003.



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its climax in an explicit erotic scene of a man and a woman engaged in coitus a tergo and attended by musicians and acrobats (Pinnock 1995: 2522). There are numerous interpretations to that scene; some scholars conceive it as a graphic illustration of the Hieros Gamos (sacred marriage) ritual.19 This ritual was probably practiced in Mesopotamia in several periods. By marrying the goddess in the sacred marriage ritual, the king was established as the legitimate ruler. “The Mesopotamian love lyrics extolling the king and Inanna are embedded in “sacred marriage” texts such as the Iddin-Dagan Hymn which describes the mythical union of the king and goddess as a festive occasion during the New Year’s holiday to renew the harmony of the world, to determine the fates of the king, the people, and the land for the coming year” (Westenholz 1995: 2474). Scholars assume that the sacred marriage ritual (actual or symbolic) was practiced also in other ancient Near Eastern civilizations, as part of the kingship ideology. Since no textual evidence attests to an Anatolian tradition of the sacred marriage ritual, Popko (1995: 80) and others suggest that there might be other interpretations for the imagery on the vase. Alp proposes that the celebration depicted might be associated with the procreation festival “EZEN4 haššumas” (CTH 633) and with initiation rites (Alp 2000: 19–20). In this “festival of procreating,” eating and feasting ceremonies accompanied by music are predominant throughout the text. On the fourth day of the celebration, the prince goes into the arzana house (explained as an inn), where twelve prostitutes (written using the Sumerograms SAL.MEŠKAR.KID), initiate him into adulthood (Güterbock 1997b: 111–113). The ceremonies portrayed on the vase may thus be the imagery presentation of procreation and initiation rites. A parallel scene is depicted on a vase (albeit fragmentary) from Bitik near Ankara. The lowest preserved register of the vase shows two men attacking each other, or wrestling, in what may have been a sporting event taking place during the feast; in the middle register men carrying food and drink are represented; the uppermost register depicts a tall figure standing on the roof of a building with a portico. A scene very likely representing the sacred marriage ritual takes place inside a room. In this scene, a man wearing a robe offers a drink to a seated woman as he unveils her. This part of the Anatolian wedding ceremony probably culminated in the removal of the veil20 (van Loon 1985: 11). Alp suggests that the fragmentary scene on the second frieze of the Inandık Vase portraying a figure of a man seated on the sacred bed, lifting the veil of a 19 On the sacred marriage ritual, see Kramer 1969; Jacobsen 1976: 36–47; Regner and Cooper 1972–1975: 251–252; Frymer-Kenski 1992: 50–57; Westenholz 2000. 20 Depictions of woman being unveiled can also be seen on cylinder seals dated to circa 1800– 1750 bce from Kanish-Kültepe and Konya-Karahöyük (Alp 2000: 57–58).

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woman facing him, can be completed according to the scene on the Bitik Vase. These artistic models of the “unveiling of the bride” are the first iconographic evidence of an ancient marriage custom that is still part of Jewish and Christian wedding ceremonies today.21

Musical Instruments Portrayed on the Inandık Vase The ceremonies and feasts portrayed on the Inandık Vase are accompanied by different instruments played by musicians; among them are several types of lyres. Stringed instruments (chordophones), especially lyres, were most prominent cultic instruments of the Hittites (as was the case in Mesopotamia), and were treated as sacred cult objects (Kilmer 2006: 669). The musical instrument most commonly referred to in Hittite texts is “the instrument of the goddess Inanna,” (GIŠ. DINANNA), often occurs with the determinative GIŠ, implying that it was at least partly made of wood. This instrument was almost always used in song accompaniment. Most scholars are fairly certain that it was a stringed instrument, mainly because of the context in which the term appears. It is widely agreed that it was a lyre (Kilmer 1983; de Martino 1995: 2661–2662; Puhvel 1997: 26; Alp 2000: 8; Schuol 2004: 102–106). The Hittite word for “lyre,” zinar, derives from Hattic (Franklin 2007: 33) and has two forms: the ippizinar was a small, portable lyre and the hunzinar was a larger, free-standing lyre, carried and played by two musicians (as can be seen on the vase) (Gurney 1977: 34). Some of the lyres were symmetrically shaped and others were asymmetrical, and the number of strings on the various instruments varied. The lyres were sometimes decorated with precious stones and small metal animal figures (de Martino 1995: 2661–2662). According to Alp, the depiction of the six different lyres on the vase “indicates the existence of at least six different themes” (2000: 13). Another stringed instrument depicted on the Inandık Vase is the GIŠ TIBULA (ŠÀ.A.TAR), which was probably a lute. It is usually described in the texts as a small instrument with a circular body and elongated neck (de Martino 1995: 2662). A different type of lute is represented on one of the Alaça Hüyük orthostats and has a violin-shaped body and a shorter neck (Alp 2000: 11). The GIŠ TIBULA accompanied song and dance, including funerary ritual dances (KUB 30, 23; KUB 30, 25) (Schuol 2004: 206). 21 On the veiling and unveiling of the bride in Anatolia, see Tsevat 1975.



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Conclusion Our knowledge of the Anatolian music culture relates mainly to ancient state ceremonies and cultic rituals. The role of music in erotic and sexual contexts is a lesser-researched aspect of the music culture of Anatolian civilizations. It is, nevertheless, an aspect that has significant sociological implications. The mythological seduction tales coupled with the iconographic art (containing sexual and erotic imagery) presented in this essay are linked directly to music and to its performers, human or divine. Illuminating this rarely studied cultural element provides new insight into some of the social functions associated with sex and marriage in the life of the Anatolians.

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2006 Review of Hethitische Kultmusik. Ein Untersuchung der Instrumental-und Vokalmusik anhand hethitischer Ritualtexte und von archäologischen Zeugnissen, by Monika Schuol. American Journal of Archaeology 110(4): 669–670. Kramer, N. S. 1969 The Sacred Marriage Rite. Bloomington, Ind. Kümmel, H. M. 1973 Gesang und Gesanglosigkeit in der hethitischen Kultmusik. In: Festschrift Heinrich Otten, ed. E. Neu and C. Ruster, 169–178. Wiesbaden. van Loon, M. N. 1985 Anatolia in the Second Millennium BC. Leiden. de Martino, S. 1988 Il lessico musicale ittita: usi e valori di alcuni verbi. Hethitica 9: 5–16. Louvain-La-Neuve. 1995 Music, Dance, and Processions in Hittite Anatolia. In: Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, vol. 4, ed. J. M. Sasson, 2661–2669. New York. 1997 Musik. A.III. bei den Hethitern. In: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 8: 483–488. Berlin. McMahon, G. 1991 The Hittite State Cult of the Tutelary Deities. Chicago. 1995 Theology, Priests, and Worship in Hittite Anatolia. In: Civilizations of the Ancient Near East vol. 3, ed. J. M. Sasson, 1981–1995. New York. Melchert, H. C., ed. 1993 The Luwians, Handbook of Oriental Studies, part 1: The Near East and the Middle East, vol. 68. Leiden and Boston. Özgüç, N. 1992 A Lute Player from Samsat. In: Hittite and Other Anatolian and Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Sedat Alp, ed. H. Otten and E. Akurgal et al., 419–423. Ankara. Özgüç, T. 1957 The Bitik Vase. Anatolia 2: 57–78. 1988 Inandıktepe: An Important Cult Center in the Old Hittite Period. Ankara. Parker, S. B. 1997 Aqhat. In: Ugaritic Narrative Poetry, ed. S. B. Parker, 49–80. Atlanta. Pecchioli Daddi, F. and A. M. Polvani 1990 La mitologia ittita. Brescia. Pinnock, F. 1995 Erotic Art in the Ancient Near East. In: Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, vol. 4, ed. J. M. Sasson, 2521–2531. New York. Polvani, A. M. 1988a Appunti per una storia della musica cultuale ittita: lo strumento huhupal. Hethitica 9: 171–179. 1988b Osservazioni sul termine ittita (giš)arkammi. Oriens Antiquus 27: 211–219. Popko, M. 1995 Religions of Asia Minor. Warsaw.

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Puhvel, J. 1984 arkam(m)i-, argami-. In: Hittite Etymological Dictionary 1: 146–147. New York. 1987 Comparative Mythology. Baltimore. 1997 Kalgalinai-. In: Hittite Etymological Dictionary 4: 25–26. New York. Regner, C. and J. S. Cooper 1972–1975 Hieros Gamos: The Sacred Marriage. In: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 4: 251–269. Berlin. Schuol, M. 2004 Hethitische Kultmusik. Ein Untersuchung der Instrumental- und Vokalmusik anhand hethitischer Ritualtexte und von archäologischen Zeugnissen, Orient-Archäologie 14. Rahden/Westf. Sefati, Y. 1998 Love Songs in Sumerian Literature. Ramat-Gan. Siegelová, J. 1971 Appu-Märchen und Hedammu-Mythus, Studien zu den Boğazköy-Texten 14. Wiesbaden. Singer, I. 1983–1984 The Hittite KI.LAM Festival, parts 1–2, Studien zu den Bogazköy-Texten 27, 28. Wiesbaden. 2002 The Cold Lake and Its Great Rock. In: Sprache und Kultur, Staatliche Ilia Tschawtschawadse Universität Tbilisi für Sprache und Kultur. Institut Zur Erforschung des westlichen Denkens, 128–132. Tbilisi. Tsevat, M. 1975 The Husband Veils a Wife (Hittite Laws, §197–198). Journal of Cuneiform Studies 27/4: 235–240. Veenhof, K. R. 1995 Kanesh: An Assyrian Colony in Anatolia. In: Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, vol. 2, ed. J. M. Sasson, 859–871. New York. Wegner, I. 1981 Gestalt und Kult der Ištar-Šawuška in Kleinasien. Neukirchen-Vluyn. Westenholz, J. G. 1995 Love Lyrics from the Ancient Near East. In: Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, vol. 4, ed. J. M. Sasson, 2471–2484. New York. 2000 King by Love of Inanna — An Image of Female Empowerment? NIN — Journal of Gender Studies in Antiquity 1: 75–89. Wilhelm, G. 2000 The Hurrians. Warminster. Yakar, J. 2000 Ethnoarchaeology of Anatolia. Tel Aviv. Yildirim, T. 2002 Music in Hüseyindede/Yörüklü: Some New Musical Scenes on the Second Hittite Relief Vase, Andalu Araştirmalari 16: 591–603.

Michael Lesley

Illusions of Grandeur: The Instruments of Daniel 3 Reconsidered1 This essay began simply as an attempt to identify the enigmatic instruments in Nebuchadnezzar’s orchestra. Along the way it became apparent that the study of these instruments was firmly attached to certain entrenched assumptions of biblical interpretation. While these assumptions await future investigation, my hope here is primarily to help the reader hear Nebuchadnezzar’s orchestra as its first audience did.

I Chapter 3 of the book of Daniel revolves around a strange religious ceremony that involved no priests, prayers or sacrifices: You are commanded, O peoples, nations, and languages, that when you hear the sound of the horn, pipe, lyre, trigon, harp, drum, and entire musical ensemble, you are to fall down and worship the golden statue that King Nebuchadnezzar has set up. (Dan 3:4b–5 NRSV)2

The only liturgy is the sound of the great orchestra, a signal to the whole empire to bow and venerate a gargantuan golden statue. This musical ensemble has always intrigued interpreters, not only because of its uniqueness in the biblical canon, but because the instruments are as enigmatic as they are unique. The names of the instruments — qarna, mashroqita, qatros, sabbecha, psanterin and sumponia (‫ ק ְַרנָא‬,‫ ַמׁשְרֹוקִיתָ א‬,‫( קִיתָ רֹוס‬K) ‫( קַתְ רֹוס‬Q) ,‫ ַס ְּבכָא‬,‫ פ ַסנְּתֵ ִרין‬,‫ — )סּומְּפֹנְי ָה‬are mostly Aramaicized versions of Greek instrument names. Although an ample corpus of Greek music literature survives, these instruments still remain a great puzzle; indeed, it is only because of the wealth of information about them that the depth of the problem becomes clear.3 1 The idea for this paper originated in a class at the Catholic University of America with Professor Douglas Gropp, whom I would like to thank for his kind help and encouragement. I would also like to thank my professors at the University of Maryland, particularly Dr. Adele Berlin, for their unfailing support and guidance. 2 ‫ְּתֵרין סּומְּפֹנְי ָה וְכ ֹל זְנֵי זְמ ָָרא ּתִ ּפְלּון‬ ִ ‫ׁשמְעּון קָל ק ְַרנָא ַמׁשְרֹוקִיתָא קִיתָרֹוס ַס ְּבכָא ְּפ ַסנ‬ ְ ִ‫ּׁשנַ ָּי ֽא׃ ְּבעִּדָ נָא ּדִ ֽי ת‬ ָ ‫לְכֹון אָ ֽמ ְִרין ַעֽ ְמ ַמּי ָא ֻא ַּמּי ָא ְו ִל‬ :‫וְתִ ְסּגְדּון ְל ֶצלֶם ּדַ ֲהבָא ּדִ י ֲהקֵים נְבּוכַדְ נֶּצַר ַמלְּכָ ֽא‬ 3 Since it is impossible to give a thorough history of the interpretation of these instruments in a paper of this scope, these summaries will be restricted for the most part to the difficulties in

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The first instrument, the qarna,4 is the only one attested in other Semitic texts. Translating the name is simple enough, since the English word, “horn,” is etymologically connected to the Aramaic qarna (from Hebrew qeren) via Latin cornu (Montagu 2002: 97). The difficulty lies in identifying the instrument more precisely: What type of horn was it? Was the author imagining a curved horn or a trumpet? Was it made of wood, or bronze, or brass? These questions are archeological rather than etymological and lead to a central difficulty in the study of Dan 3: determining the date of composition of the text. Though the story is set in the court of Nebuchadnezzar II, scholars have convincingly argued that the text was composed in the Hellenistic period, five hundred years after Nebuchadnezzar’s reign. If so, should we search in the Neo-Babylonian assemblage of musical instruments or among Hellenistic instruments? The correct horn for this ensemble is presumably the one that would have been used in cultic worship and played alongside the other instruments in one of these periods. The name of the second instrument, mashroqita, is found nowhere else, so its identity can only be speculated.5 It is most likely derived from the onomatopoeic root s-r-q, meaning “hiss” or “whistle.” The Septuagint translates it into syrinx, also from an onomatopoeic word, syrigmos, which also means “hiss” or “whistle.” Even if the words are analogous, it does not necessarily follow that the instruments are, too. According to Pierre Grelot, if the mashroqita is the same instrument as the syrinx, the instrument in the ceremony in Dan 3 would have been a pan pipe, a shepherd’s instrument, which is entirely unattested in ancient Near Eastern cultic practice (see Grelot 1979: 27). The qatros appears to be the Greeks’ kithara. As we will see, in transliteration the Greek symphonia retained the vocalization and became the Aramaic symponia, and the sambyka became the sabbecha; why then did the kithara become the qatros?6 Most scholars presume that qatros derives from the word “kitharis,” a name used by Homer for the same instrument, which was later replaced by the word “kithara” (Maas 2010). It is odd that this antiquated name should be used for such a common instrument, since many of the Greek instruments on the list identifying them without considering the legions of solutions that have been proposed, none of which, I believe, have adequately dealt with the problems considered below. The most recent summary of research on these words can be found in Koch 2005 and Braun 2002. The most thorough and oft-cited study to date remains Pierre Grelot’s 1979 article “L’orchestre de Daniel III 5, 7, 10, 15.” See esp. Montagu 2002 on the problem of identifying the instruments. 4 ‫ ;ק ְַרנָא‬OG, θ΄: Σάλπιγγος. 5 ‫ ַמׁשְרֹוקִיתָ א‬vv 5, 7, 15 ‫ ַמׁשְרֹקִיתָ א‬v 10; OG, θ΄: σύριγγος. 6 ‫( קִיתָרֹוס‬K) ‫( קַתְרֹוס‬Q) 1x; ‫( קִיתָר ֹס‬K) ‫( קַתְרֹוס‬Q) 3x; OG, θ΄: κιθαρα(ς). In the former examples the Greek “M” assimilates into the following consonant; Koch (248) also notes that it is curious that the name is “not…the Attic kithara commonly used in the Hellenistic period” (all translations mine).



Illusions of Grandeur: The Instruments of Daniel 3 Reconsidered 

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(most notably the psanterin and the symponia) are attested, at the earliest, five centuries after Homer, by which time kitharis had long been replaced by kithara. The sabbecha appears to be the sambyka, an instrument which the Greeks ascribed to barbaric origin. Scholars of ancient Greek music have concluded that the sambyka is similar to a curved harp still found in Ethiopia and Uganda.7 Because there is no evidence for such an instrument in Babylonia in either of these periods, most biblical scholars equate the sabbecha with an instrument that is found in these times and at those places — a small, triangular harp. This identification is entirely speculative, though, and is, in my opinion, implausible. Regardless of what it looked like, Greek texts portray the sambyka as an instrument of adulterers and prostitutes, which makes it seem an inappropriate instrument for a solemn religious ceremony.8 The psanterin is assumed to correspond to the Greek psalterion.9 In Greek texts, the only evidence for the instrument outside Dan 3, psalterion does not designate a specific instrument, but refers to the class of plucked chordophones (stringed instruments), of which, at the time, there was an enormous variety. It should also be noted that the word psalterion is only found from the fourth century bce, arguably a terminus post quem for the passage in Daniel (West 1992: 74). The sumponia has proved by far the most difficult to identify, and it has not even been established conclusively that it is an instrument at all. In Greek texts again the only external evidence to the term sumponia seems to refer to a harmony or unison of sounds.10 Its first occurrence that could arguably be interpreted as referring to an instrument is in the second century bce, and even then it might still be interpreted as music, harmony or even a group of musicians. All of the instruments, then, seem to defy identification to a greater or lesser extent: the qarna could be any number of horns; the mashroqita is entirely unknown, although, if it is the same instrument as the one in the Septuagint, it would seem an odd choice for such a ceremony. As for the names with Greek origins: The qatros is an anachronistic term for a most common Greek instrument; the sabbecha is difficult to identify, and perhaps also inappropriate for a cultic event; the psanterin is not any particular instrument while the sumponia may not be an instrument at all. The most recent archeological and textual evi-

7 ‫ ַס ְּבכָא‬v 5 ‫ׂש ְּבכָא‬ ַ vv 7, 10, 15; OG, θ΄: σαμβύκης. Montagu 2002: 98–99. 8 E.g., Eupolis, frag. 148.4 in Maas and Snyder 1989: 150. While it might be argued that the barbaric origin of the instrument presumes a different cultural context, its position in the middle of a list of comparatively late Greek instruments, like the psalterion and symphonia, points to a thoroughly Greek musical culture. See also West 1992: 76–77. 9 ‫ ְּפ ַסנְּתֵ ִרין‬: vv 5, 10, 15; ‫ ְּפ ַסנְט ִֵרין‬: v 7; OG, θ΄: ψαλτηριον. 10 ‫סּומְּפֹנְי ָה‬: vv 5, 15; v 7 omits; ‫( סִיּפֹנְי ָה‬K) ‫( סּוּפֹנְי ָה‬Q) v 10; OG, θ΄: Συμφωνία. Polybius, Histories XXVI 1a.

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dence makes the orchestra appear more puzzling than ever, as neither the dates and the uses nor the social settings of these instruments seem to correspond with one another, or with the purported dates of corporation of the text. These instruments do share two things, however: First, despite an abundance of evidence, they are extremely difficult to identify with any precision, and second, put together as an ensemble they are anachronistic in relation to one another and do not belong to one historical era. This conclusion is not helpful from a historical perspective, but it serves as one possible basis for considering these terms as a unified group. On its own, “Nebuchadnezzar’s orchestra” is a group of five or six curious instruments; in the context of the whole chapter, the ensemble is one of a number of groups of mostly foreign terms that include also a list of bureaucratic titles (vv 2–3), the names of the young men in the story and a list of the garments they wore (v 21). These lists are a fundamental, if not the fundamental structural feature in vv 1–15, the first half of the chapter. I have included this well-known section to allow the reader to consider these lists as they are used in the story: King Nebuchadnezzar made a golden statue whose height was sixty cubits and whose width was six cubits; he set it up on the plain of Dura in the province of Babylon. 2 Then King Nebuchadnezzar sent for the satraps, the prefects, and the governors, the counselors, the treasurers, the justices, the magistrates, and all the officials of the provinces,11 to assemble and come to the dedication of the statue that King Nebuchadnezzar had set up. 3 So the satraps, the prefects, and the governors, the counselors, the treasurers, the justices, the magistrates, and all the officials of the provinces, assembled for the dedication of the statue that King Nebuchadnezzar had set up. When they were standing before the statue that Nebuchadnezzar had set up, 4 the herald proclaimed aloud, “You are commanded, O peoples, nations, and languages, 5 that when you hear the sound of the horn, pipe, lyre, trigon, harp, drum, and entire musical ensemble, you are to fall down and worship the golden statue that King Nebuchadnezzar has set up. 6 Whoever does not fall down and worship shall immediately be thrown into a furnace of blazing fire.” 7 Therefore, as soon as all the peoples heard the sound of the horn, pipe, lyre, trigon, harp, drum, and entire musical ensemble, all the peoples, nations, and languages fell down and worshiped the golden statue that King Nebuchadnezzar had set up. 8 Accordingly, at this time certain Chaldeans came forward and denounced the Jews. 9 They said to King Nebuchadnezzar, “O king, live forever! 10 You, O king, have made a decree, that everyone who hears the sound of the horn, pipe, lyre, trigon, harp, drum, and entire musical ensemble, shall fall down and worship the golden statue, 11 and whoever does not fall down and worship shall be thrown into a furnace of blazing fire. 12 There are certain Jews whom you have appointed over the affairs of the province of Babylon: Shadrach, Meshach,

11 ‫ׁשלְטֹנֵי מְדִ ינָתָ א‬ ִ ‫ֲא ַחׁשְּדַ ְר ְּפנַּי ָא ִסגְנַּי ָא ּֽו ַפ ֲחוָתָ א אֲדַ ְר ָּגז ְַרּי ָא גְדָ ב ְַרּי ָא ּדְ תָ ב ְַרּי ָא ּתִ פְּתָ י ֵא וְכ ֹל‬



Illusions of Grandeur: The Instruments of Daniel 3 Reconsidered 

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and Abednego. These pay no heed to you, O king. They do not serve your gods and they do not worship the golden statue that you have set up.” 13 Then Nebuchadnezzar in furious rage commanded that Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego be brought in; so they brought those men before the king. 14 Nebuchadnezzar said to them, “Is it true, O Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, that you do not serve my gods and you do not worship the golden statue that I have set up? 15 Now if you are ready when you hear the sound of the horn, pipe, lyre, trigon, harp, drum, and entire musical ensemble to fall down and worship the statue that I have made, well and good. But if you do not worship, you shall immediately be thrown into a furnace of blazing fire, and who is the god that will deliver you out of my hands?” (Dan 3:1–15 NRSV).

While the lists in Dan 3 are similar to lists commonly employed in ancient Near Eastern literature, here they are used in a noticeably different way (see especially Coxon 1986). In his book on ancient Jewish court legends, for instance, Wills notes that while in long stories repetitions are needed to remind the audience of the plot, in Dan 3 — a story of a mere thirty verses — the constant repetition of lists makes no sense (Wills 1990). For example, the repetition in v 3 of the impossibly long list of officials appearing in v 2 — the two lists separated only by the word ‫‘ ּבֵאדַ י ִן‬so’ — is clearly not necessary to remind us of the officials, and must instead have another purpose. As Avalos puts it: “the immediate and mechanical reproduction of the enumeration of v 2 in v 3 is an effective reflection of the immediate and mechanistic acceptance of the king’s request by the entire pagan bureaucracy” (Avalos 1991: 585). In v 5 “the peoples of all nations and languages” are told that when they “hear the horn, pipe, lyre, trigon, harp, drum, and entire musical ensemble,” they are to “fall down and worship the golden statue that King Nebuchadnezzar has set up…at the sound of the horn, pipe, lyre, trigon, harp, drum, and entire musical ensemble all the peoples, nations, and languages fell down and worshiped the golden statue that King Nebuchadnezzar had set up.”12 When the officials accuse Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego of disobeying this command, they do so by repeating the royal decree verbatim. Even more tellingly, the king — the author of the law — also appears to be compelled by it: when he turns to Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego he, too, recites it almost verbatim, barely changing “Nebuchadnezzar” to “I.”13 Verbatim repetition is so central to vv 1–15 that more than three quarters of the verses consist entirely of it, an active illustration of the blind and thoughtless submission of everyone in the kingdom, 12 Coxon has pointed out that the phrase “that Nebuchadnezzar the king set up” is found seven times (with slight variations), while the phrase “burning fiery furnace” is repeated eight times, reinforcing the threat that appears so powerful, though the flames prove harmless against the divine protection of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, (Coxon 1986: 109). 13 See Dan 6:14–15, where the king admits to being under the force of his own law.

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 Michael Lesley

including the king himself, to the power of the great king.14 The power is entirely of human construction: one human rules over other humans, all of who thoughtlessly obey orders of human creation and repeat laws of human invention, as if these somehow had power in and of themselves. But this power — and the submission to it expressed in the repetitions — could only exist as long as everyone believed they really were powerful; but as we know, of course, not everyone did. Exactly halfway through the story, things take an abrupt turn: Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego refuse to bow, an act that reveals the king’s power to be an illusion, only real insofar as people are willing to act upon it. The king’s power is shaken, and from this point until the end of the story there are no more repetitions.15 The king, shocked with the challenge to his power “was so filled with rage against Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego that his face was distorted. He ordered the furnace heated up seven times more than was customary and ordered some of the strongest guards in his army to bind Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego to throw them into the furnace of blazing fire” (Dan 3:19). In his madness Nebuchadnezzar orders the fire heated so high it incinerates the guards as they cast Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego into the furnace. Enraged, the king jumps up from his throne to watch the three burn, only to find four men — the fourth man having “the appearance of a god” — walking in the midst of the fire unbound and unharmed. After Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego emerge from the fire, a group of officials gathers (‫ׁשין‬ ִ ְ‫) ִמתְ ַּכּנ‬, as in v 3, but now at their own initiative, without the king’s command. The list of officials who gather is much shorter than that found in v 3, and noticeably lacks the concluding phrase all the officials of the provinces (‫ׁשלְטֹנֵי‬ ִ ‫ )מְדִ ינָתָ א כ ֹל‬found in vv 2–3. The officials look at Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego and discover that the fire had not had any power over the bodies of those men (‫ׁשמְהֹון‬ ְ ֶ‫נּורא ְּבג‬ ָ ‫ׁשלֵט‬ ְ ‫)לָא‬. That even the fire does not have power over them (‫ׁשלֵט‬ ְ ‫ )לָא‬is the clearest sign that the king, and, by extension, the officials, the so-called ‫ׁשלְטֹנֵי מְדִ ֽינָתָ א‬ ִ , have no real power either. Their power is only as real as the artificially ordained “province” they rule. The wordplay in these penultimate 14 The numbers in normal sized type show the verses and those in parentheses represent the verses that repeat them. Thus numbers in superscript represent verses not constructed of previously found: 1, 2 (= 3); 4; 5 (= 7, 10, 15); 6 (= 11); 8; 9; 12 (= 14); 13. 15 With the notable exception of the foreign names of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, which are repeated nine more times (for a total of 18 times over 13 verses), while their Hebrew names, Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah, are never mentioned. On this, see also Montgomery 1927: 201; Collins 1993: 184; Coxon 1986: 104 n. 31. The list of officials is referred to again (v 27), but only in a short form. The same occurs with the list of clothing (ibid.) of which only the first word,‫ס ְַר ָּבלֵיהֹון‬ ‘their belts’, is given. The list of clothing, which occurs in the second half, can be read as part of their assimilation in the empire, wearing the empire’s formal (?) garments.



Illusions of Grandeur: The Instruments of Daniel 3 Reconsidered 

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verses of mockingly mirrors, and dispels the pompous artifice of the first half of the story. The king acts quickly to avert political catastrophe: knowing he has no power over Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, he makes a regal display of magnanimity, blessing their god, outlawing blasphemy against this god and giving them the right to worship their god (vv 28–29). In a deft, rhetorical riposte he differentiates between the power of gods (as in v 29, there is no other god who is able to deliver in this way) and the power of men, promoting Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. Letting their god into the pantheon, but not accepting him as his own, Nebuchadnezzar officially concedes only the smallest amount of power, presumably to avoid a similar threat in the future, while ostensibly retaining control. The audience, meanwhile, knows that despite the appearance of human rule, God is the real power behind any throne. The story is an expression for a new generation of the view that God uses foreign powers as his actors in the world, while still being retaining the power himself.

II The story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in Dan 3 is strikingly similar to Dan 6, the story of Daniel in the lions’ den: in both stories, officials of Judean descent (‫ ; ִמ ְּבנֵי י ְהּודָ ה‬Dan 1:6) in a foreign court are denounced for disobeying a royal decree demanding idolatrous worship — an offense punishable by death. The officials remain faithful to their God, and are consequently sent to die: Daniel in the lions’ den and Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in a furnace. With divine help they survive, precipitating the king to outlaw blasphemy against their God. The two stories are essentially similar, but they are told in fundamentally different ways. The story of Daniel in the lions’ den is a court intrigue with very plausibly human characters and human actions, while the story of three young men in the fire is a magical tale told in a broad, caricatured style.16 The exaggeration in Dan 3 magnifies the foreign power and contrasts it with God to show that while the empire appears omnipotent, the real power belongs to God. More importantly, Dan 3 contrasts human actions and attitudes: the Babylonians’ thoughtless servitude to the visually astonishing statue — an image of purely human power — against Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego’s decisive faith in the invisible, yet real (and really omnipotent) God. Dan 3 tries to teach the listener to differentiate between the material and the real, and its lessons are found not only in the 16 Collins (1993: 181) calls it “hyperbolic style.”

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dénouement, but throughout the narrative. Every image of the empire’s power is nothing but an illusion waiting to be dispelled. The first illusion appears in the first verse of the chapter, in the form of Nebuchadnezzar’s colossal gold statue.17 The deception is in the details: according to Koch, the proportions of the statue are “surprising…unheard of elsewhere in the art of the ancient world” (Koch 2005: 274). At 60 cubits by 6 cubits (about 100 feet tall and 10 feet wide, or 30 meters by 3 meters), it is less a colossus than an impossibly enormous gold totem pole (Koch 2005: 274).18 So although the first impression is of an incredibly grand statue, closer consideration reveals its proportions to be entirely preposterous (see, e.g., Collins 1993: 183). The apparent symbol of power represents instead the instability and the vanity of the empire that would build it. Like the golden statue, the lists of foreign bureaucrats, instruments and apparel are also powerful illusions, symbols of the empire’s place as the political and cultural center of the world. All three lists are very similar in content and construction, and this similarity provides the key to understanding them, and dispelling them. The two Aramaic names that begin the list of instruments would have been clearly identifiable as instruments by an Aramaic-speaking audience, even if they could not be distinctly imagined. These two are followed by four foreign names that could have been more difficult to identify. The list ends with the phrase ‫‘ וְכ ֹל זְנֵי זְ ָמ ָרא‬and all kinds of instruments’. The list of officials (vv 2–3) similarly opens with three common titles (see Collins 1993: 182–183), followed by three much more obscure, anachronistic ones, and closes with a similar phrase: ‫ׁשלְטֹנֵי מְדִ ֽינָתָ א‬ ִ ‫‘ וְכ ֹל‬and all the officials of the provinces’.19 The list of the garments worn by Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego follows the same pattern, though more briefly, beginning with one plausibly familiar term followed by two unknown ones, and ending with the word ‫‘ ּו ְל ֻבׁשֵיהֹון‬and [the rest of] their clothing’ (see Koch 2005: 253). These final phrases appear to serve two functions: to explain in simple terms the nature of the foreign items on the lists (“and all the [other] 17 It is not without some irony that it begins with this description: in Dan 2 Nebuchadnezzar dreams of a gold-headed statue that is destroyed, which Daniel ominously interprets for the king, saying: “you are the head of gold.” Cf. v 1, ‫‘ ְצלֵם ּדִ ֽי־דְ הַב‬a golden image’; with v 19, ‫ ְצלֵם ַאנְּפֹוהִי‬, Nebuchadnezzar’s face, which is filled with rage when Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego refuse to bow to the statue; see Coxon 1986: 112. 18 Montgomery (1927: 196) denotes the proportions of the statue “grotesque.” These proportions would make it almost the same height as the Colossus of Rhodes (perhaps not coincidentally) and near that of the Statue of Liberty, both of which were very wide at the base. 19 “Largely incomprehensible titles…” three of which are hapax legomena, (Koch 2005: 245); “Anachronistic…Persian titles” (Collins 1993: 183).



Illusions of Grandeur: The Instruments of Daniel 3 Reconsidered 

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instruments/officials/clothing”), and to magnify the already extensive enumeration into even grander terms. The lists also share a rhetorical purpose: the foreign content gives the immediate impression of a powerful, universal empire, while the concluding phrase trails off into vague, immeasurable greatness. As the already-numerous officials become innumerable, an enormous orchestra plays in a ceremony, attended by the whole known world to which men are wearing what appears to be rather complicated and formal clothing. Montgomery (1927: 201) famously denoted Nebuchadnezzar’s orchestra “very cosmopolitan,” a statement Collins (1993: 184) repeated approvingly; Coxon writes (1986: 104) wrote that “the precise cataloguing which characterizes the formal lists…leave[s] us in no doubt of the writer’s antiquarian interest and inclination to provide an authentic setting to stories set in the Babylonian exile.” The exoticism of these lists is perhaps too easily accepted as confirmation of the historical authenticity of these terms, or at least the author’s attempt to recreate it. Why should these instruments be regarded as a unique bubble of historical fact in a sea of hyperbole? Most scholars agree that Dan 3 is not an objective historical account: The plain of Dura is apparently not a real place (Collins 1993: 182); no colossal gold statue of such absurd proportions has ever been found, or is ever mentioned in any other ancient Near Eastern text — a corpus not known for understatement. There is no evidence for a Babylonian edict requiring a religious ceremony that requires the presence of all the empire’s officials and subjects in one place and at one time (e.g., Collins 1993: 184). Neither is there evidence for Babylonian use of incineration in a furnace as a means of capital punishment (Koch 2005: 269). Given all of this, it would seem natural to subject the instruments to an equal level of scrutiny and suspicion, but, surprisingly, no one has done so.

III At a recent conference about music in the ancient Mediterranean, Professor Joachim Braun argued passionately and convincingly that a new historiography of biblical music is needed. While scholars have long since cast doubt on the historicity of large swaths of biblical “history,” no similar skepticism has been aimed at other aspects of the Bible, particularly music and musical instruments appearing in it. One of the reasons that the historicity of biblical music has remained unchallenged, Braun argued, is that scholars find comfort in believing that some things in the Bible are true, must be true — that some things can be dug up and held (and held up as evidence for this truth), and heard, presumably as they once sounded.

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While this is difficult to confirm, it is true that no commentary I have come across has done more than try to identify these instruments. None has ever suggested that the historicity of these instruments, like that of other objects in the story, might be questioned or questionable, and perhaps entirely beside the point. It is entirely appropriate to try to identify the instruments mentioned in Dan 3, but, when attempts fail or require so many convolutions as to become unproductive, it is necessary to take a new approach. In this case, a hyperbolic story full of incredible details and in which the only similarities among the instruments (and among the other lists, too) is apparently irreconcilable inconsistency, it is worth asking if they were ever intended to represent a real orchestra. The names of the instruments, like those of the officials and their apparel, appear to have eluded identification for so long because, I suggest, they were intended to be imaginary — part of a carefully crafted illusion. Nebuchadnezzar’s orchestra undoubtedly appears “cosmopolitan,” as it was supposed to. Closer inspection, however, shows that it was only a mock regal orchestra, just as the empire was only a charade of power. Perhaps in the future the terms psanterin or symponia will be accurately, historically identified. For now, though, it appears that Dan 3 asked — and asks — that the audience recognizes the difference between illusion and reality, just as Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego did. For those Jews living under foreign rule who listened carefully to the story of the three faithful young men, the qarna, mashroqita, qatros, sabbecha, psanterin and symphonia, and all the other instruments made no sound at all.

References Avalos, H. I. 1991 The Comedic Function of the Enumerations of Officials and Instruments in Daniel 3. Catholic Biblical Quarterly 53: 580–588. Barker, A. ed. 1984 Greek Musical Writings, vol. 1: The Musician and His Art. Cambridge, England. Barry, P. 1905 Daniel 3:5, Sumponya. Journal of Biblical Literature 27(2): 99–127. Braun, J. 2002 Music in Ancient Israel/Palestine: Archaeological, Written, and Comparative Sources, trans. D. Stott. Grand Rapids, Mich. 2008 Ancient Israel/Palestine (AIP) and New Archaeo-Musicology: Some Unanswered Questions (paper presented at conference, Sounds from the Past: Music in the Ancient Near East and Mediterranean Worlds, 8 January 2008).



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Brenner, A. 1994 Who’s Afraid of Feminist Criticism? Who’s Afraid of Biblical Humor? The Case of the Obtuse Foreign Ruler in the Hebrew Bible. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 63(1): 38–55. Collins, J. J. 1984 Daniel: With an Introduction to Apocalyptic Literature, The Forms of the Old Testament Literature, vol. 20. Grand Rapids, Mich. 1993 Daniel: A Commentary of the Book of Daniel, ed. F. M. Cross, Hermeneia — a Critical and Historical Commentary on the Bible. Minneapolis. Coxon, P. 1986 The ‘List’ Genre and Narrative Style in the Court Tales of Daniel. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 35: 95–121. Dyer, C. H. 1990 The Musical Instruments in Daniel 3. Bibliotheca Sacra 147: 426–436. Gammie, J. J. 1976 The Classification, Stages of Growth, and Changing Intentions in the Book of Daniel. Journal of Biblical Literature 95(2): 191–204. Grelot, P. 1979 L’orchestre de Daniel III 5, 7, 10, 15. Vetus Testamentum 29: 23–38. Koch, K. 2005 Daniel, Biblischer Kommentar Altes Testament 22(1). Neukirchen-Vluyn. Landels, J. G. 1999 Music in Ancient Greece and Rome. London. Maas, M. 2010 Kithara. Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Accessed 23 April 2010. Maas, M. and J. McIntosh-Snyder 1989 Stringed Instruments of Ancient Greece. New Haven. Mitchell, T. C. 1965 The Musical Instruments in Nebuchadnezzar’s Orchestra. In: Notes on Some Problems in the Book of Daniel, ed. D. J. Wiseman, 19–27. London. 1999 And the Band Played On…But What Did They Play On? Bible Review 14: 32–39. Montagu, J. 2002 Musical Instruments of the Bible. Lanham, Md. Montgomery, J. A. 1927 A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Daniel, The International Critical Commentary. New York. Moore, G. F. 1905 Συμφωνία Not a Bagpipe. Journal of Biblical Literature 24(2): 166–175. Vorreiter, L. 1983 Die schönsten Musikinstrumente des Altertums. Frakfurt am Main. Weisman, Z. 1998 Political Satire in the Bible, Society of Biblical Literature Semeia Studies 32. Atlanta.

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West, M. L. 1992 Ancient Greek Music. New York. Whedbee, W.J. 1998 The Bible and the Comic Vision. Cambridge, England. Wills, L. M. 1990 Jew in the Court of the Foreign King: Ancient Jewish Court Legends. Minneapolis. Wulstan, D. 1973 The Sounding of the Shofar. The Galpin Society Journal 26: 29–46. Yamauchi, E. M. 1980 Archaeological Backgrounds of the Exilic and Postexilic Era Part I: The Archaeological Background of Daniel. Bibliotheca Sacra 137(545): 3–13.

John Curtis Franklin

Greek Epic and Kypriaka: Why “Cyprus Matters” Mycenaean Greeks migrated to Cyprus at the end of the Late Bronze Age.1 Did they bring with them a tradition of oral heroic poetry, cognate to that which eventually culminated in Homer and his colleagues in the eighth and seventh centuries? Cyprus seems as likely an environment for its survival and evolution as the Aeolic-Ionic world. Recent postcolonial scholarship has stressed the rapid “hybridity” of Cypriot material culture in the Iron Age; immigrants included Minoan and probably Anatolian groups, and naturally the Eteocypriot and Levantine contributions must not be underestimated (Sherratt 1992; Knapp 2008). Mycenaean cultural features did however endure and evolve within this receptive matrix: literacy, chariot warfare, sanctuaries with temenos or altar-court plans, kings with religious duties, and the ancient title of wanax (e.g., Snodgrass 1988).2 Furthermore, the scale and staying power of the island’s “Hellenic” element is clear enough from the situation in the early Archaic period, when documents become available in quantity. By then, the Cypriot dialect of Greek, already attested at an early stage near eleventh-century Paphos (the famous Opheltas obelos), was widely spoken. Of the ten kings named in the Esarhaddon prism-inscription of 673/2 bce, three have transparently Greek names; the same is probably true of others, although the syllabic writing system hinders precise identification.3 Even the kings of Classical Amathus, apparently the island’s stronghold of Eteocypriot culture, bore Greek names (Gjerstad 1948: 430, 475 n. 5).4 The idea of a Cypriot epic tradition is therefore inherently plausible (Allen 1924: 62; Hill 1940–1952: 90; Jouan 1966: 24; Huxley 1967: 26 n. 4; cf. Huxley 1969: 1 Abbreviations of ancient authors follow, where available, those in Hornblower and Spawforth 1999; otherwise those of Liddell, Scott and Jones 1940 or the online Thesaurus Linguae Graecae. 2 Because of the marked aristocratic cast of emigrants to Cyprus, the apparent lack of an epic tradition in Arcadia (cf. West 1988: 161) is not problematic. 3 Opheltas obelos: Karageorghis 1980; Masson and Masson 1983; Karageorghis 1982a. Esarhaddon prism-inscription (673/2 bce): Luckenbill 1926–1927: 2 § 690. For this and related texts (including the Sargon stele from Kition, ca. 707 bce, with its mythical “seven kings of Iatnana”) and the Assyrian-tribute period, generally, see Hill 1940–1952: 104–108; Gjerstad 1948: 449f.; Braun 1982: 19f.; Karageorghis 1982a: 533; 1982b: 57–59; Reyes 1994: 49–68. 4 Syllabic inscriptions in the Eteocypriot language persisted at Amathus until the third century. For the city’s antiquity and indigenous character, cf. Theopompus FGrH 115 F 103 (cited below); ps.-Scylax 103 GGM; Hdn. Gramm. Gr. 3.1 p.242.34 (Ἀμαθοῦς· πόλις Κύπρου ἀρχαιοτάτη); Stephanus of Byzantium, s.v. Ἀμαθοῦς. Cf. Karageorghis 1982a: 516f. Reyes (1994: 13–17) treats this evidence with undue skepticism.

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134f.; Karageorghis 1988: 197), but how can this be proven in the absence of a corpus of songs comparable to Homer and his successors? It is made possible, in the first instance, by the Arcado-Cypriot linguistic forms “buried” in the earliest stratum of the Homeric Kunstsprache.5 As M. Parry has demonstrated, and R. Janko confirmed statistically, the Greek singers, while their tradition was living, continuously updated their poetic diction as their “vernacular” also evolved — except where this would disrupt the rhythm of the poetic formulae upon which they relied, in which case older forms were retained. “Excavating” according to this principle reveals that Homer’s language derives from a relatively late Ionicization of an earlier Aeolic poetic tradition, a development requiring an unusually intensive cultural interface of the two dialect groups (Parry 1932: 22–47; Durante 1971: 1.17–62, 38–40; Janko 1982: 89–93, 176–179; 1992: 8–19; West 1988: 159–165).6 Smyrna, one of Homer’s traditional homes, is an attractive locus geniorum.7 Yet the Arcado-Cypriot elements show that the Aeolic art had itself developed at an earlier stage from, or alongside, one native to the Peloponnese, the area whence many migrants came to Cyprus.

Warrior-Poets and the Kouklia Kalathos Crucially important here is an early eleventh-century kalathos, discovered in Kouklia (old Paphos), where later tradition placed the arrival of Agapenor, the king of Tegea in Arcadia (ps.-Arist. frag. 640 no. 30 Rose; (ps.?)-Lycoph. Alex. 5 “Arcado-Cypriot” is potentially confusing in the current context. The historical dialects of Arcadia and Cyprus were closely related, despite their considerable geographical separation. This must be because the heaviest concentration of immigrants came from the Peloponnese, with its political epicenter at Mycenae. 6 Thus, for example, in the Ionic dialect, inherited genitive singulars in -αο became -ηο (where both α and η are long vowels), and then developed into -εω, exchanging long and short vowels (quantitative metathesis). Yet forms in -αο abound in Homer. Since Homeric musical rhythm was based on syllable length, these forms could theoretically have been updated to their Ionic equivalents in -ηο without disrupting the formular systems. That they were not shows that the system (as purveyed by Homer and other proponents of this school) was not inherited independently in the Ionic sphere, and that its adoption from Aeolic singers took place after the Ionic development -εω, which (in many cases) could not be incorporated for metrical reasons. 7 An originally Aeolic foundation, Smyrna was saturated by refugees from Ionian Colophon during an unknown period before 688 bce. Whereas Hdt. 1.149–150 describes an eventual takeover and expulsion of the original inhabitants, “vestiges of Aeolic speech and institutions proves that the process was not always violent, and did not involve a total replacement of the population” (Janko 1982: 178). West 1988: 165–172 argued for an Euboean epicenter, though more recently he has placed the composition of the Iliad itself in the Troad: West 2001: 6f.



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479–493; Str. 14.6.3; Paus. 8.5.2; cf. Hdt. 7.90). On it is figurative painting alternating with geometric decoration in a typically Submycenaean, Cypriot style. In one frame a warrior is shown, armed with a sword and playing a lyre of Aegean type; he is either walking or dancing (Fig. 1).8 Another frame probably shows a man sacrificing a goat or ram on an altar placed next to a tree. A sacral context seems clear enough; royal significance is less so, but not improbable.9 Perfectly obvious, however, and important here, is the embodiment of musical and martial qualities in a single figure. This already suggests an allegorical composition. For in the Greek tradition of praise poetry, the work of the aoidos (‘lyrist-singer’) was to commemorate the heroic deeds of warriors, while the warriors’ work was to perform deeds worthy of such commemoration: patron and singer enjoyed a symbiotic relationship. Yet there are many examples in early Greek poetry, both in Homer and elsewhere, where the two functions are conflated into ambivalent images.10 Most precise and potent is perhaps Homer’s angry Achilles, “cheering his heart” by singing himself the “deeds of men” (klea andrôn) to a daedalic phorminx of royal worth (Hom. Il. 9.185–9). This vignette is hardly idle, for the Iliad’s central crisis is Achilles’ choice between a long life of relative obscurity, and the youthful self-sacrifice that will buy him “imperishable fame” (kleos aphthiton) — that most-ancient crown bestowed by the praise singers of certain Indo-European traditions.11 Odysseus is given comparable treatment: his riveting tale of adventure, delivered at a royal banquet as epic song would be, prompts Alcinous to compare him to an aoidos.12 When later the hero easily strings his bow, he is likened to an 8 Aegean lyres are distinguished by their symmetrical arms and rounded, “phorminx” base, versus the flat bottom and usually asymmetrical arms of the West Semitic kinnârum macrofamily. See Lawergren 1998. 9 Drawing by Anne Glynnis Fawkes. Nicosia, Kouklia T.9: 7, proto-bichrome kalathos: Karageorghis 1967: 17f.; 1968, 24, Pl. XVI; Karageorghis and des Gagniers 1974: 1.5, 2.1ff., 33. For a general discussion of Cypriot lyre players and the suggestion that they owe more to Aegean than to Near Eastern tradition; Karageorghis 1977: 166f. (profane); Maier and Karageorghis 1984: 122; Coldstream 1986: 13 (“Kinyras himself”); Maas and Snyder 1989: 8, 19 Fig. 4; Sherratt 1992: 336f.; Iakovou 1997: Pl. XVb; Palaeocosta 1998: 56 (religious, Kinyras-like). 10 Besides the passages to be discussed, note especially Hom. Il. 9.186 (with ps.-Plut. De mus. 1145f.), cf. 13.730f.; Terp. (?) frag. 5 (Gostoli); Archil. frag. 1 IEG2; Alcm. 41 PMGF; Pind. Ol. 1.1–12; Eur. frag. 759a, 1622f.; cf. Pl. Leg. 804d; Plut. Lyc. 53b–c; Mor. 238b, etc. 11 First noticed by Kuhn (1853) and long controversial (cf. Finkelberg 1986), the formulaic status of these phrases now seems well established (Watkins 1995: 173–178). For a concise synopsis of Indo-European praise poetry and its development in and beyond Mycenaean Greece, see West 1988: 152–156. 12 Hom. Od. 11.367–369; cf. 17.518–521 (Odysseus compared to singer by Eumaeus). For the “singing” in Phaeacia, see Goldhill 1991: 95–97; Ford 1999 (Od. 9.2–11 read against the poetics of the

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“expert of the phorminx and heroic song” stringing his instrument.13 In making these comparisons the poet insinuates himself among his valorous heroes, wielding his lyre like a bow to shoot verbal arrows and winged words.14 Conversely, all Homeric heroes are singers, because they can only express themselves, through the poet, in perfect epic diction.





Fig. 1: Kouklia Kalathos (warrior-lyrist) by Glynnis Fawkes.

The wide and early distribution of such ideas in Greek poetry, along with the known Mycenaean antecedents of the Aeolic-Ionic epic tradition, compels us to view the Kouklia kalathos as a cognate poetic image. This alone lets us posit with considerable confidence a Submycenaean song tradition on Cyprus. There is in fact some limited linguistic confirmation of this.

Archaic symposium). 13 Hom. Od. 21.406–411 (ἀνὴρ φόρμιγγος ἐπιστάμενος καὶ ἀοιδῆς). For hero as singer, see further Moulton 1977: 145–153; Thalmann 1984: 170–184; Goldhill 1991: 1–68; Franklin 2003: 297–301. 14 Bow and lyre in early Greek poetics: Hom. Od. 21.406–411; Hymn. Hom. Ap. 131; Hymn. Hom. Merc. 515; Heraclit. 22B51; Pl. Cra. 404e–405d; cf. Pi. Pyth. 8.67f.; Callim. Ap. 42–46. See further Franklin 2002: 2–5; 2003: 297–301.



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Linguistic Evidence for Cypriot Poetry O. Masson has called attention to inis, meaning both “son” and “daughter,” which is found several times in Aeschylus, Euripides, and the Hellenistic poets, who applied it to the gods’ children (Masson 1975). The word was alien to Attic, however, and indeed to all other Greek dialects except Cypriot; there it was used of human progeny in royal inscriptions going back to the Archaic period. Masson attractively hypothesizes that Aeschylus adopted the word as a colorful gloss in his poetic language, whence it was perpetuated in Attic drama and by later, learned imitators. His source, Masson suggests (cf. Jouan 1966: 404–409; Chatzêstephanou 1972), was the lost Kypria, a sort of prequel to the Iliad, which dealt with events leading up to the Trojan War, with its Cyprus-friendly title and ancient traditions of Cypriot authorship (discussed further below). It is an awkward fact, however, that the Kypria whose fragments we have was composed in conformity to the Homeric idiom — although it does have some unusual features (Janko 1982: 152, 176; see further below). Yet, one need not insist on the Kypria per se: if Athenians could hear one Cypriot poem, they might hear others; it was in Aeschylus’s generation that Athens became quite closely involved with Cyprus and Grecophone cities like Salamis and Soloi, from their joint rebellion against Persia in 499/8 down to 449/8, when Cimon died during the siege of Kition (Hill 1940–1952: 111–143). It may be that of the thousands of Athenians who campaigned in Cyprus some were struck by this public but peculiar element of Cypriot royal titulary. Of course, this need not mean that the word was not also used poetically. More far reaching are four glosses recorded by Hesychius, which the lexicographer found in the oracles of Euklous.15 This early Cypriot prophet is probably semi-legendary at best, as such figures tend to be. That he is more obscure than (say) Musaeus or Orpheus is simply due to the general marginality of Cyprus to the Aegean Greeks (and to ourselves, to judge from the apparent lack of scholarly interest in him).16 Pausanias, however, had access to an anthology that included allegedly Euklan verses. One was a prediction of the Persian Wars; the Cypro-Athenian alliance comes to mind again. Pausanias’s wording implies that this oracle was composed in epic hexameters (Paus. 10.14.3: Εὔκλῳ τὰ πεποιημένα; cf. Schol. 15 Hesych., s.v. κακόρας· κατακόψας. παρὰ Εὔκλῳ; s.v. καπατάς· καθορῶν παρὰ Εὔκλῳ; s.v. σκυδά· σκιά. Εὖκλος; s.v. Πελάνα· ἡ Σαλαμίς. ἐν τοῖς Εὔκλου χρησμοῖς. See the various entries in Chatzêiôannou 1971–2001: 3.2. Other Cypriot glosses not specifically associated by Hesychius with Euklous may nevertheless come from the same source: see Karageorghis 1988. The Cypriot glosses as a whole are collected by Chatzêiôannou 1971–2001: 3.2. 16 For Euklous, RE VI (1907), 1055; cf. Hill 1940–1952: 90; Chatzêiôannou 1971–2001: 3.1.2f.; Masson 1980: 184 (non vidi); Karageorghis 1988: 182f. For other such figures (but not Euklous): Allen 1924: 130–139; West 1983: 353–367.

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Pl. Hp. mai. 295a17: ἐν Εὔκλου τοῦ χρησμολόγου ποιήμασιν). This is confirmed by the one specimen that the geographer thankfully reproduced: a prediction that Homer himself would be born on Cyprus (Paus. 10.24.3; see below). Here again is the conundrum of the Kypria: seemingly Cyprocentric poetry composed in the Homeric idiom — which in Greece served not only for heroic poetry, but also for oracular responses (at Delphi for instance: Fontenrose 1978).17 The implications of this, and of the specific prophecy, will be considered further below. First, we must appreciate the utter preciousness of the four Hesychian glosses. Two clearly display genuine Cypriot morphology and phonology, and a good case can be made for a third; the fourth, Pelana, is an obscure and perhaps riddling name for Salamis (Chatzêiôannou 1971–2001: 3.2.103f., §212, comparing Pellênê in Achaea; Masson 1980: 184 [non vidi]; Karageorghis 1988: 182f.). This tiny corpus is clear evidence that there once existed a body of oracular Cypriot literature, composed not entirely in Homeric diction, but at least partially in the island’s own dialect.18 More precisely, this implies a distinctive Cypriot Kunstsprache, since prophecy, like poetry, requires language removed from normal speech to create the requisite air of mystery. There is no reason to suppose that this was not drawn from a larger matrix also used for other poetic forms (as in Greece). The name Euklous itself, deriving from eu + kle(w)–, would be quite appropriate for a singer or doer of heroic deeds: he enjoys and/or bestows “good heroic reputation.” One may thus connect the Hesychian glosses, however indirectly, with the Kouklia lyrist. One can only speculate on the metrical form(s) such music night have taken. Whether it was already hexametric, or some variety of proto-hexameter, or something else altogether, will depend on one’s view of Greek metrical history.19 Here it is enough to consider it a sort of great-uncle to Homer, genetically compatible with the Aeolic-Ionic diction to the extent that the latter embraced 17 Compare perhaps the statement of Hesychius that Euklous was also known as “firewalker” (Hesych., s.v. ἐμπυριβήτης· οὕτως Εὖκλος χρησμολόγος ἐκαλεῖτο), a Homeric epithet for tripod. 18 Thus, they are above the suspicions of Leumann 1950: 270–274, who warned that some glosses described as “Κυπρίων” have been misunderstood as dialectal forms but actually come from the Kypria (“from the Cypriots” vs. “from the Cypriot verses”). This idea has been well criticized elsewhere (Jouan 1966: 24 n. 3 with further references; Karageorghis 1988: 197), and at any rate, begs the question of the Kypria’s own dialect: our fragments represent a very small fraction of an eleven-book poem, which, if by a Cypriot poet, might have included at least a small number of peculiar forms, even if he were consciously Homerizing. 19 That is, did the hexameter develop from the regularization and combination of some “Aeolic” units, as many believe? If so, had this occurred already by the Late Bronze Age? (see, inter al., Gentili and Giannini 1977; West 1988: 158; 1997a: 233–236; Haug and Welo 2001). Even if it had, the older “epicolyric” forms seem to have continued in use, e.g., Terpander, Stesichorus: cf. Russo 1999.



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an ancient nucleus of Arcado-Cypriot lexical-metrical fragments. One naturally supposes that the cognate traditions of Cyprus and the Aegean would be progressively divergent. Yet continuous cultural contact between the two areas (see below) may have counteracted this to some degree. Moreover, one should not ignore the possibility of a hybrid Greco-Eteocypriot idiom. Important here is the figure of Kinyras, legendary priest-king of Aphrodite at Paphos, whose origin in the divinized lyre of Syro-Canaanite tradition is reflected in his persistent associations with music and divination. Although he came to symbolize the island’s pre-Greek population, he was adopted as a maternal ancestor by the Grecophone dynasties of both Paphos and Salamis (Franklin 2006: 44–50 with further references, and below). Relevant to this may be the eccentric treatment of Aphrodite as a source of musical inspiration in several poems for which a Cypriot origin is plausible (see further below).

Heroic Poetry and the Cypriot Migration Legends: The Case of Salamis Aegean settlement in Cilicia, Philistia and Cyprus is reflected in a rich body of migration and foundation legends, which are on the whole corroborated by the archaeological record (Gjerstad 1944, 1948: 428f.; Fortin 1980; Maier 1986; Loucas-Durie 1989: 124f. and n. 43). In Greek epic these were typically connected to the Trojan War through the nostoi (‘homecoming exploits’) of the Achaean heroes. Such tales, like those of the Ionic and Aeolic migrations, must be handled lightly. They were formed and reformed by subsequent generations to meet changing tastes and political needs. They are not factual accounts, as Malkin (1998) has demonstrated for the manipulation of Western nostoi during ninth-century “proto-colonization”. But they are not complete fiction either. Indeed, the case of Mopsus, whom legend places in Pamphylia, Cilicia and Ascalon, suggests, most strikingly, the power of traditional memory.20 The purposeful use of an Aegean lyre in the famous Karatepe reliefs (c. 700), which celebrate the restoration of the “House of Mopsus” in Cilicia, is powerful evidence of what one would predict anyway: migration deeds were sung not just in Greece, but where done by migrants. The most obvious environment for the Cypriot legends is thus an insular tradition of heroic poetry, cultivated in various great houses on the basis of clan or 20 The bibliography on this issue is now enormous: see, recently, Finkelberg 2005: 150–152; primary sources are collected in Houwink ten Cate 1961: 44–50.

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family traditions, and no doubt continuously manipulated as local conditions evolved. This deep-rooted yet fluid process is most easily exemplified by Salamis, whose kings in the Classical period claimed descent from Teucer.21 That this tradition was already known to Theban Pindar shows that it was no mere derivative of fifth-century Athenian-Cypriot relations, although it may have been exploited to good effect at that time, or again some generations later under Euagoras (for whom, see generally Hill 1940–1952: 125–143). An early “epic” environment is often seen in the city’s richly appointed graves — some doubtless royal — which go back to the eighth century. Details such as cremation, burial in tumuli and horse sacrifice find sporadic parallels on Cyprus and may well derive from the island’s Submycenaean tradition (Karageorghis 1967: 117–124; 1982b: 60–62; 1999). Yet, leaving aside Iron Age Anatolian parallels (tumuli and horse burials), there are striking coincidences with the funeral of Patroclus in the Iliad, including one case at Salamis of human sacrifice. This has suggested to many that the Salaminian burials were influenced by the current popularity of recently imported “Homeric” poetry (Karageorghis 1969: 27, 31f., 71; Coldstream 1972: 20–22; Rupp 1988; Richardson 1991; Burkert 1992: 103; now de-emphasized by Karageorghis 2006b). The tombs do clearly reflect the intensive “Ionian” commercial activity, which is well documented at this time elsewhere in the eastern Mediterranean, with large quantities of Attic and especially Euboean pottery (Boardman 1980; Karageorghis 1982b). Therefore, at Salamis one cannot confidently discriminate between Submycenaean survival, artificial epic revival and local innovation. Given this situation, a skeptic might dismiss the Teucrid legend and its synchronization with the Trojan War as a relatively late, epichoric response to the stimulus of “Homeric” epic. Even if this were right, the Salamis tombs are too early to appeal to a textualized Homer per se. This was living epic in action; its vibrancy and originality is suggested by a remarkable local — probably Greco-Eteocypriot — version of the Ariadne myth, an aeitiology for an Aphrodite sanctuary at Amathus.22 Still, the foundation level of Salamis, dating to c. 1100, shows that the Teucer tradition was “right” in some essential respect (Kara21 Pind. Nem. 4.46f. with Schol.; Aesch. Pers. 895; Eur. Hel. 144–150; Isoc. 9.18; ps.-Arist. Pepl. (frag. 640 Rose no. 8); Clearch. frag. 19 (= Ath. 256b); (ps.?)-Lycoph. Alex. 450–478; Verg. Aen. 1.619–622; Str. 14.6.3 (with “beach of Achaea”); Tac. Ann. 3.62; Paus. 1.3.2; Nonnus Dion. 13.461f.; cf. Hdt. 7.90. 22 Paion of Amathus FGrH 757 F 2 (= Plut. Thes. 20), who describes it as “a certain peculiar tale” (ἴδιον δέ τινα…λόγον). Pregnant and abandoned on Cyprus, Ariadne languishes in grief among the women of Amathus; when a remorseful Theseus returns to find her dead, he founds an annual cult sacrifice for her in the grove of “Ariadne Aphrodite.” The detail of the Amathusian women trying to cheer Ariadne with forged love letters sounds Hellenistic, but the myth will have an older core. Cf. Farnell 1896–1909: 634.



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georghis 1969: 21). Of comparable accuracy is the legend of Arcadian Agapenor at Paphos (see above). It approaches special pleading to suggest that these ancient memories were retained, in the centuries before the Salamis tombs, by popular memory, without also being elaborated through poetic mnêmosynê. This is not to deny their possible modulation by “Homer,” nor even insist that Teucer himself was always part of the Salaminian tradition, much less the historical personage that Mopsus is approaching. Nonetheless, given the city’s antiquity and the circumstances of its founding in the sub-palatial population movements, one is still drawn to an eponymous relationship between Teucer and the Tjeker who feature in the Sea Peoples inscriptions of Merneptah and Ramses III (sources and issues: Sandars 1978). The identification of these groups has long been highly controversial, but some have achieved a respectable degree of validation thanks to excavations in Philistia by the Dothans and others (Dothan and Dothan 1992).

Kypriaka between Greece and Cyprus Besides the Kypria, the three Homeric hymns to Aphrodite have also been attributed to Cyprus. They variously celebrate the goddess as “the Cypriot” or “Cyprus-born” (Kypris, Kyprogenês), describe her fragrant temple and altar at Paphos, and present detailed images of her being anointed and dressed by the Graces; there was such a scene in the Kypria too (Hymn. Hom. 5.2, 58–67, 292f.; 6.1–15; 10.1, 4f.; Cypria frags. 4–5 Davies EGF, frags. 4–5 Bernabé PEG). It has been well objected, however, that an Aegean singer had every reason of his own to celebrate Aphrodite, who by the eighth century was comfortably seated among the Olympians (Allen et al. 1936 ad loc.). The epithet Kypris is regularly used by Homer, while the Odyssey shows that the decking-out of Aphrodite was a traditional type-scene (Hom. Il. 5.330, 422, 458, 760, 883; Od. 8.362–366, cf. 18.193f.; Aphrodite is also implicated in the similar scene involving Hera at Il. 14.166–186; for Pandora, see Hes. Erg. 60ff.). As to Cyprus itself, while Paris and Helen dallied there en route to Troy in at least one version of the Kypria (see below), the island was equally a part of Homer’s heroic geography, a regular stop in epic wandering tales like those of Odysseus and Menelaus in the Odyssey.23 23 “Odysseus” on Cyprus in his “lying tale” to Antinous: Hom. Od. 17.424–444, cf. 453; Tamassos may also be the lying destination of Athena/Mentes at Hom. Od. 1.182–184: Hill 1940–1952: 9; Braun 1982: 12f.; Karageorghis 1982b: 531 (the nostos of Menelaus in (ps.?)-Lycophr. Alex. includes a stop at “Tamassion,” where he acquires a kratêr, 854). Menelaus in Cyprus, Phoenicia, Egypt, Libya and elsewhere: Od. 3.276–312, 4.81–85 (with scholia to 84), 351–586, 617–619; Hecataeus FGrH 1 F 307–309; Hdt. 2.114–116; Eur. Hel. 400, cf. 766–769; Hellanicus FGrH 4 F 153;

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So Aegean poets made free use of “Cypriot details.” It must be stressed, however, that such kypriaka presuppose sustained cultural contact between Cyprus and the Aegean throughout the Iron Age. The material evidence for this is predictably most abundant for the prosperous ninth and eighth centuries, the period of escalating Ionian and Cypro-Phoenician commerce (Coldstream 1972; Karageorghis 1982b: 57–64), but for the darker eleventh and tenth centuries there is the vital fact that Cyprus shared in a number of post-palatial linguistic innovations common to the other Greek dialects.24 This can only be explained by the ongoing participation of Greek-Cypriots in a larger Hellenophone continuum. Any parallel implications for the evolution of poetic diction on the island must remain speculative. Certainly it suggests a fertile environment for the growth of a shared poetics, developing precisely around the position of Cyprus on the eastern edge of the “Hellenic” world.25 This too is well illustrated by the Cypriot migration legends. The islanders had no monopoly over these tales. As usual, our earliest evidence comes from the poets of the Aegean. This is hardly surprising: emigration, involving the division of one group into two (or more), produces divergent, yet complementary, perspectives — the emigrants’ and that of the population that stayed behind. A second duality, a negative impression of the first, obtains between the homebound origin’s population and the destination’s indigenous inhabitants; to these groups the migrants are emigrants and immigrants, respectively. The settlement of Cyprus was a meaningful event for all sides, and would have remained potent in the Aegean for as long as there were meaningful relations with the island. One would predict, therefore, a dual aspect to the treatment of Cyprus and Cypriot themes, one Aegeocentric, the other Cyprocentric; but these poles will also be linked by a continuum of more moderate perspectives. Toward the Aegeocentric end of the spectrum one may place Cyprus as it figures in the Homeric wandering

ps.-Apollod. Epit. 6.29–30; Proclan summary of nostoi by Agias of Troezen: see Davies EGF 67, Bernabé PEG 94; Tac. Ann. 2.60; Clem. Alex. Strom. 1.21.114; Eust. ad. Dionys. Per. 11; cf. Anticleides FGrH 140 F 18 (mentions Helen only); further sources for the death in Egypt of Canopus, Menelaus’ helmsman, and the “harbor of Menelaus” in Libya, see Stiehle 1853: 58f. 24 Loss of labiovelars, development of definite article, merging of instrumental into a five-case system (although, e.g., Arcado-Cypriot ἀπύ/ἐξ + dative is eccentric), and eventual weakening or loss of digamma (quite late on Cyprus); see Risch 1988: 71–73, cf. 76: “Le phénomène le plus remarquable est que le chypriote participe aux innovations panhelléniques mais postmycéniennes.” 25 The conditions of immigration and settlement probably induced a sense of shared “Greekness.” In both Cyprus and Philistia, Mycenaean elements in pottery can often not be traced clearly to any one Aegean tradition; rather, a new “pan-Aegean” mélange emerged (within the respective local matrices). See, e.g., Dothan and Dothan 1992: 29–42; Dickinson 2006: 62–67.



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tales mentioned above: somewhat remote, but a known last stop en route to the more exotic locales of Phoenicia, Egypt and eventually (semi-)mythical regions (see below). There is also the famous breastplate, described in the Iliad, sent as a guest-friendship gift to Agamemnon by Kinyras, the legendary king of Cyprus.26 It is highly probable that this literary cameo presupposes a more extended tradition of relations between the two Great Kings (see below). Very striking is the Song of Demodocus in the Odyssey, in which Aphrodite, after being caught with Ares in Hephaestus’s net, quickly decamps to Cyprus (8.359–366). It is most amusing that Aphrodite’s disgrace ends in being re-dressed by the Graces. Thus, the irrepressible goddess is instantly poised for further escapades from her jealous husband. It is unclear whether the type-scene of Aphrodite’s dressing reflects some liturgical reality, or is merely a literary trope. The contest between Hephaestus and his rival, however, does have a special Cypro-Aegean religious dimension. In Greece itself, while Aphrodite has no special cultic connection with Hephaestus, she is sometimes paired with Ares; this, like the various forms of the armed goddess, reflects the ancient martial character of Astarte (Farnell 1896–1909: 622f., 653–655, 700–703). On Cyprus, however, although there too the goddess was known as a warrior (Aphrodite Encheios), her partnership with a metalworking deity (the “Ingot God”) was very ancient — indeed, this avatar played a conspicuous role in Alashiyan state ideology (V. Karageorghis 1976: 57, 73–76; J. Karageorghis 1977: 97–117; Burkert 1985: 47, 153). At the same time, Hephaestus per se is conspicuously absent from pre-Hellenistic Cyprus (Borgeaud 1975). Homer’s comedic digression constitutes a poetic commentary on Aphrodite’s gyrating position between Cypriot- and Aegean-Greeks. “Hephaestus,” as a virtual “Ingot God,” fetches his wife home, hoping to seclude her from the advances of his Greek rival. Aphrodite, however, in keeping with her essential Inanna-like promiscuity, is anything but chastened and determined not to be confined to the women’s quarters. Thus, while the Aegean singers made Aphrodite their own, they consistently acknowledged her preeminently Cypriot character and “origin.” They could hardly do otherwise, as this was embedded in the formulaic sub-repertoire that allowed them to sing of her in the first place. (The circular logic is intentional). Although her investment was a type-scene known to Homer, it clearly comes from the “trousseau” of Astarte/Inanna (West 26 Hom. Il. 11.19–28; note esp. the “pregnant expression” (Leaf 1900: ad 11.20) πεύθετο γὰρ Κύπρονδε μέγα κλέος (20): although logically Kinyras is the one who hears the report from Cyprus, the directional particle shows that the kleos is imagined from the Greek perspective as traveling toward Cyprus. For the breastplate, cf. also Alcidamas Od. 20–21; Str. 1.2.32; Them. Or. 4.54a, 16.201c; Eust. ad Hom. Il. 11.20, 18.613; Theodorus Hyrtacenus, Anecdota Graeca, Boissonade 1.263.

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1997b: 203–205). It is most economical to suppose that the theme entered Greek tradition via Cyprus, Aphrodite’s island-home. The theme of the overpopulated earth that must be purged by a chief god, the basic motivation of the Kypria, is also generally considered a borrowing from Near Eastern tradition (Atrahasis is often cited as a parallel: cf. West 1988: 170; 1997b: 480–482; Richardson 1991; Burkert 1992: 100–106; Davies 2001: 32; Marks 2002: 19–22). Here, too, one thinks of Cyprus (for the issue of locating the poem’s composition there, see below). Throughout the early Iron Age there must have been many Cypriots who were bi- or even trilingual, even if by the Classical period Eteocypriot appears somewhat isolated at Amathus. The gradual consolidation of Greek as the island’s majority language should not obscure the reciprocal impact of the Eteocypriot culture, which must have been substantially “internalized.” In part this may be due to the “mother tongue” effect: significant here are the heroic traditions of Teucer and the anachronistic Arcadian Elatus, said to have married daughters of Kinyras (Elatus: ps.-Apollod. Bibl. 3.102; Teucer: Theopompus FGrH 115 F 103), while Didorus Siculus alludes to a more general mingling with Cypriot women (4.37.2). Such an environment would account very well for the entry of Cyprosyrian thematic elements into the wider Hellenic consciousness. It is probably this which explains, for instance, the word kinurizôn (‘playing the kinura’), which appears as a rhapsodic variant championed by Zenodotus for one verse of the Iliad, where it introduces a most interesting wrinkle.27

Aphrodite the Muse So there is good evidence that Cyprus made a sustained thematic contribution to the mainstream Aegean epic tradition. One may formulate the general principle that, whether or not a given poet or poem may be traced to Cyprus, all kypriaka in Grecophone poetry are ultimately “from Cyprus.” But it remains nearly impossible to move beyond that theoretical position and identify a truly Cyprocentric perspective in poetry composed in the “Homeric” idiom. I have already mentioned the three hymns to Aphrodite above, and the reasonable objections to seeing such generic kypriaka as evidence of immediate Cypriot authorship. Yet fleeting details of the two lesser hymns may indeed constitute epichoric evidence.

27 Hom. Il. 9.612. The scholia preserve an entry from the commentary of Aristonicus, a grammarian of the Augustan age, who recorded the divergent preferences here of Zenodotus and Aristarchus: Aristonicus Gramm. De signis Iliadis, p. 168 Friedländer. I shall discuss this issue elsewhere.



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It was conventional for the epic singer, beginning with Homer and Hesiod, to invoke the Muse, Muses and/or Apollo for musical inspiration. The various Homeric hymns, by contrast, focus upon a specific deity, from whom the singer promises to begin and end his song, and whose favor he requests on the occasion — typically a festival competition.28 Thus, the activity properly governed by the Muse(s) is given as an offering to the god to whom the larger event was devoted. That god, consequently, was in a position to affect the outcome of the singer’s song. By “delighting” in the performance, the god would bestow “delight” on the song itself — “gracing” it with his or her divine presence. Thus, in Hymn 24 to Hestia, the singer asks that the goddess “make grace follow together with my song.”29 By a similar conceit the god from whom the singer took his “beginning” (archê) could “be first” or “command” (archein) the song; Demeter is so invoked in Hymn 24.30 It may be that in these two cases the god in question had some epichoric, Muse-like function. The poet carefully associates Hestia with the hearth spirit of Pythian Apollo; at the intersection of these gods’ spheres is perhaps the oracular tripod, Homer’s “firewalker.”31 Similarly, the invocation of Demeter might be appropriate to a Eumolpid context at Eleusis. Yet in both cases one could readily see the gods’ “musical” treatment as merely conventional. The two lesser Aphrodite hymns, however, are more explicit in their summoning of the goddess specifically for musical inspiration: Hail goddess, ruler of well-founded Salamis and Cyprus in the sea, and grant me delightful song!32 Awesome gold-crowned beauty, Aphrodite, I shall Sing, her share the citadels of all of Cyprus in the / Sea… Hail lash-batting, sweetly-soft, arrange aright my song and Grant that I take victory in this contest!33

28 Naturally Hymn. Hom. 25 (to the Muses and Apollo) follows the usual pattern. 29 Hymn. Hom. 24.5 (Hestia): χάριν δ’ἅμ’ ὄπασσον ἀοιδῇ. 30 Hymn. Hom 13.3 (Demeter): χαῖρε θεὰ καὶ τήνδε σάου πόλιν,ἄρχε δ’ἀοιδῆς. 31 For Euklous as ἐμπυριβήτης, see above, n. 17. 32 Hymn. Hom. 10.4f.: χαῖρε θεὰ Σαλαμῖνος ἐϋκτιμένης μεδέουσα / εἰναλίης τε Κύπρου· δὸς δ' ἱμερόεσσαν ἀοιδήν. The isolated variant Κυθήρης εὐκτιμένης in M (on the problematic nature of this source, see Janko 1982: 254 n. 22 with references) does not undermine the following arguments about Salamis, not merely because that city is the majority reading, but because any mention would require explanation. 33 Hymn. Hom. 6.1–3, 19f.: Αἰδοίην χρυσοστέφανον καλὴν Ἀφροδίτην / ᾄσομαι, ἣ πάσης Κύπρου κρήδεμνα λέλογχεν / εἰναλίης…χαῖρ' ἑλικοβλέφαρε γλυκυμείλιχε, δὸς δ' ἐν ἀγῶνι / νίκην τῷδε φέρεσθαι, ἐμὴν δ' ἔντυνον ἀοιδήν.

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This clear treatment of Aphrodite as a Muse strongly encourages one to place these hymns in a true epichoric context (Huxley 1969: 135; cf. Georgiadis 1973; Nagy 1990: 77 n. 121). This is corroborated by the invocation of Aphrodite as “ruling over Salamis.” Such geographical specificity, contrasting with Homer’s more generic portraits of Cyprus and the world-famous sanctuary of Paphos, is best explained in local terms; Salamis, we have seen, is a probable locus for heroic poetry from the earliest times. The image of Cypriot singers appealing to Aphrodite in what is essentially a sacral setting calls to mind Kinyras, the personified lyre who in Cypriot mythology was the goddess’s priest and lover, as well as the island’s legendary king and symbol of the pre-Greek population (Franklin 2006: 44–50). One should also recall that one of Hesiod’s Muses was Ourania (Theog. 78) — more commonly found as an epiclesis of Aphrodite, reflecting her (ultimately Mesopotamian) aspect as Queen of Heaven. It is symptomatic, however, that while one may hope that Cypriot singers have been identified here, the “delightful song” (ἱμερόεσσαν ἀοιδήν) that the poet seeks is a formulaic expression, occurring twice in Homer in the same metrical position (Od. 1.421, 18.304). Similarly, the request that the goddess “grant” victory and song simply reuses a common divine request formula; but while the “gifts of Aphrodite” are well known from nonmusical contexts, in the present hymns they equally recall the more familiar musical “gifts of the Muses.”34 Thus, the singer, having mastered the Aeolic-Ionic system of expressions, can manipulate its diction to formulate the “novel” prayer required by his own convictions. This reveals a rather different side of pan-Hellenization: local traditions are not necessarily effaced, but stimulated and validated by the regional adoption of a more global idiom (see Nettl 1985 for recent analogies). With these two brief musical invocations of Aphrodite, one may reverse the skeptics’ argument: good Homeric diction does not disprove a poem’s Cypriot origin.

34 Gifts of Aphrodite: Hom. Il. 3.54, 64–67; Hes. frag. 76.6, 10 M-W (?); ps-Hes. Scut. 47; Hymn. Hom. Cer. 102; Hymn. Hom. 10.1f.; etc. Gifts of the Muses: Hes. Theog. 103; Archil. frag. 1 IEG2; Alcm. 59(b).1f. PMGF; Sol. 13.51 IEG; etc. Of special interest is the first Iliadic passage, where the poet juxtaposes “kithara-playing and the gifts of Aphrodite” (κίθαρις τά τε δῶρ’ Ἀφροδίτης) in Hector’s description of Paris’s virtues. That κίθαρις is to be included here among Aphrodite’s gifts is asserted by Ptol. Heph. ap. Phot. Bibl. 153a.1–4: Aphrodite, winning the lyre from Apollo in a contest against Hermes, gives it in turn to Paris (ἣν καὶ ἐδωρήσατο Ἀλεξάνδρῳ). For the lyre of Paris, see also Plut. Alex. 15, Mor. 331d; Ael. VH 9.38; Stob. Flor. 3.7.52; Eust. ad Hom. Il. 3.24, 54. Paris, like Kinyras, is a favorite of the goddess, and also a musician from the periphery of the Greek world. The two figures are virtually conflated by Lucian, who has Kinyras abduct Helen in a bizarre underworld adventure (Ver. hist. 2.25–26).



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Cyprus and the “Homeric Mode” Why should a poem be composed in the “Homeric mode” at all? From time out of mind, Greek singers had formulated and reformulated their mythological tradition. An important family of themes covered all phases of the Trojan War, from its origin in the apple of discord thrown by Eris at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis, to its aftermath in the nostoi of the Achaean heroes. Such songs, conventionally termed “cyclic,” were endlessly recomposed-in-performance by an incalculable number of singers.35 The Iliad and Odyssey are merely two great instantiations of this tradition; I shall refer to them as, and them to, Homer.36 Yet Homer grew in authority only gradually (see below), and it was not due to his triumphant example that the “Homeric” — that is, Aeolic-Ionic — mode of epic song became widely established outside of its home sphere by the mid- or late eighth century. It reflects a more general musical trend of which Homer was merely an outstanding exponent. Hesiod represents the art’s popularity in Boeotia by the early seventh century, his very passable Ionic diction not quite obscuring a life lived in the Aeolic world (Hes. Erg. 1.635–640), despite the Aeolic substratum of “Homeric” diction itself (Hesiodic Aeolicisms: Janko 1982: 168, 197; West 1988: 167). This and other such parallels (West 1988: 172) demonstrate the potential for the same phenomenon occurring on Cyprus. As suggested above, many scholars believe that such a fashion is made quite probable by the eighth-century Salamis burials and Euboean trade contacts. This scenario helps explain later traditions which, now assuming the supremacy of Homer, made him a native of Cyprus; here, too, Salamis is often named.37 Such bogus claims are widely attested elsewhere, and can be used to track the diffusion of the Aeolic-Ionic style (cf. Nagy 1990: 52–81; Foley 1999a: 105f.). Yet their local importance should not be undervalued. For Cyprus this is perhaps best appreciated from the hexametric oracle purporting to predict Homer’s birth, attributed to Euklous (see above): And then on Cyprus in the sea will be a singer great A very-famous one whom Themisto, a god among women, will bear

35 Foley (1999a) rejects the term “cycle” in favor of “tradition” because of the former’s connotation of inferiority to ancient critics, and of segregation from Homer for modern. 36 For present purposes one may sidestep the questions of separate authorship and a historical versus mythological reading of Homer’s name; for the latter issue, see Nagy 1979: 197–200; Foley 1999a: 105f.; Foley 1999b: 49–61. 37 Certamen 30 (227.30 Allen); Vit. Hom. 2 (244.12); 5 (247.9); 6 (251.17) = Callicles, FGrH 758 F 13; Anth. Pal. 7.5.3 [Adesp.], 16.295.3 [Adesp.], 16.296.3 [Antipater], 16.299.3 [Adesp.]; Suda, s.v. Ὅμηρος; Paus. 10.24.3; Epiph. Adv. haeres. GCS 31, p. 129.3; Eust. ad Hom. Il. 21.12f.

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In a field afar from very-wealthy Salamis. And going forth from Cyprus, drenched and lifted on the waves, Alone the first to sing the misfortunes of far-stretched Hellas, He will be forever more immortal and unaging.38

This Cypriot proclamation, with its solemn, sacred overtones, was surely not concerned exclusively with naturalizing the imported Aeolic-Ionic art. With Euklous’s putative pre-Homeric antiquity, the verses equally insist on the island’s own immemorial contribution to “Homer.” To have a Cypriot poet as a first inventor who leaves the island implies that he took with him what the islanders held to be the true art of mythological narrative song. Here again one appreciates the remarkable Hesychian glosses, which attest an authentically Cypriot “Euklous” and suggest an indigenous poetic tradition predating the arrival of “Homeric” singing to Cyprus. It is most interesting that oracles continued to be attributed to Euklous even in the fifth century when the local idiom was, it seems, completely eclipsed. It may be, in fact, that the Hesychian glosses represent an intermediate stage between an insular tradition and its progressive “Homerization” in the Archaic period. Their limited number could imply that the verses from which they derive were otherwise mostly intelligible, with only occasional words alien enough to need defining for curious scholars of later centuries. This could suggest a Cypriot-inflected version of the Aeolic-Ionic Kunstsprache, just as other regional Aegean traditions, like Hesiod’s, would lead one to predict. We thus return to the apparent lack of dialectal traces on poetry alleged to be of Cypriot origin. An interesting coincidence should be mentioned here: Janko has argued that the major hymn to Aphrodite (5), the lesser hymn, just considered (6), and the Kypria fragments all share two peculiar linguistic features that set them apart from pure Homeric diction.39 They seem to represent a distinct regional tradition, although it is not readily located; Janko suggested the northern stretch of the Aeolis based on certain Aeolicisms and knowledge of the Troad in the major hymn to Aphrodite, but admitted the tentative basis of this hypothesis (Janko 1982: 176). It is most striking, however, that all three poems have at least

38 Paus. 10.24.3 (for Euklous, cf. 10.12.11, 10.14.6): καὶ τότ' ἐν εἰναλίῃ Κύπρῳ μέγας ἔσσετ' ἀοιδός, / ὅν τε Θεμιστὼ τέξει ἐπ' ἀγροῦ δῖα γυναικῶν / νόσφι πολυκτεάνοιο πολύκλειτον Σαλαμῖνος. / Κύπρον δὲ προλιπὼν διερός θ' ὑπὸ κύμασιν ἀρθείς, / Ἑλλάδος εὐρυχόρου μοῦνος κακὰ πρῶτος ἀείσας / ἔσσεται ἀθάνατος καὶ ἀγήραος ἤματα πάντα. 39 Digamma observed at higher (i.e., more archaic) levels than Homer, but a surprisingly advanced treatment of ο-stem genitive singulars (-οιο largely contracted to irresolvable -ου): see Janko 1982: 176, 186 and Table 32, 273 n. 160.



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a prima facie affiliation with Cyprus; with the lesser hymn and its companion, as argued above, there is good reason to support a deeper connection. So a Cypriot origin for all three is worth reconsidering. Admittedly, this is not straightforward linguistically: the treatment of digamma would accord with Cyprus, but why then were other features not Cypriotized? Yet after all, as pointed out by Janko, what really matters “is where the poets learnt their diction, not where they were born” (loc. cit.). This principle should be expanded: where a singer’s teacher learned his diction becomes vital for areas not contiguous with the tradition’s home territory. Sparta is a good case in point; note the tale that the Lesbian poet Terpander, from the Aeolic-Ionic interface, established the first “school” (katastasis) in Sparta in the early seventh century (ps.-Plut. De mus. 1134b). A comparable tradition made the legendary lawgiver Lycurgus first to bring the poetry of Homer to the Peloponnese, receiving it from the descendents of Kreophylos following a visit to Samos (Arist. frag. 611 Rose). The theory of “Homeric” singing at Salamis, often put forward, should presuppose some such scenario.

“Battles according to Homer”: Stasandros versus Stesandros Of course, the reciprocal action of Cypriot poets traveling from periphery to center is equally likely, and, as it happens, there is a notable record of one such case. Euklous’ Homer migrating to Greece finds a historical parallel in the curious figure of Stesandros. This citharode was known to Timomachus, a pre-Aristotelian collector of Cypriot lore, published as a kypriaka.40 Athenaeus digested a passage of this work for his catalogue of developments in the history of kithara music.41 According to Timomachus, Stesandros “was first to sing battles accord40 That Timomachus predated or was a contemporary of Aristotle is based on Vit. Hom. 6 (251.13 Allen) = FGrH 754 F 2 = Arist. frag. 76 Rose: see RE viA (1937), 1292 (4). 41 The phrase ἐπὶ πλεῖον αὐξῆσαι τὴν τέχνην is only slightly awkward (for text see next note). Jacoby tentatively took ψιλοκιθαριστική as the antecedent of τὴν τέχνην, since Stesandros has been preceded by Dion of Chios and Lysander of Sicyon (Philochorus FGrH 328 F 23), both practitioners of instrumental kithara music (for Lysander’s innovations and his probable late Archaic date, see Barker 1982, 1984–1989: 1.300 n. 205; West 1992: 341; Franklin 2005: 12, 23 n. 46). τὴν τέχνην must be understood more broadly, since Stesandros and his innovations are explicitly citharodic. In fact, Dion’s activity differs significantly from Lysander’s: libation music was traditionally auletic, so he is an early example of those who brought the aulos and kithara traditions together (for the larger history of which see Franklin 2005: 13–22; forthcoming b). The awkward-

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ing to Homer (kath’ Homêron) at Delphi, beginning from The Odyssey.”42 Athenaeus’s text makes Stesandros a native of Samos (Samion), but given that this was a work of Cypriot lore, Wilamowitz’s emendation to Salaminion seems certain.43 This derives overpowering support from a well-attested pattern of Cypriot names beginning with “Stas-.”44 These show that “Stesandros” will really have been “Stasandros.” It is remarkable how many such names were borne by Cypriot kings and other high-ranking nobles, including some called Stasandros or Stasanor. The element Stas- (‘cause to stand’) has an appropriately valorous ring. A singer so named embodied the same fusion of music and martial prowess seen in the Kouklia kalathos and other warrior-poets. Stasandros even finds a specifically Cypriot musical parallel in the Stasinos to whom many sources attribute the Kypria. Yet the Ionicization of “Stasandros” to “Stesandros” is probably more than a mere scribal lapse, or a trivial dialectal normalization (conscious or unconscious) by Timomachus or Athenaeus. It echoes the singer’s hybrid professional identity — a career spent outside Cyprus, performing Greek epic before mainstream audiences. What exactly did Stasandros do? In the original context of a kypriaka, the report probably means that Stasandros was not the first to do what he did, but only the first Cypriot to do it. Regardless, the implied harmonization of Cypriot and Aeolic-Ionic singing is striking, especially given the pan-Hellenic environment of Delphi; but this was living epic, not rhapsodic recitation, for “Battles according to Homer” cannot mean those which were found in Homer himself. This would not ness is rather that the “innovation” of Stesandros was less musical than cultural, a point that is obscured by Athenaeus’s “laundry list” method. 42 Ath. 638a = FGrH 754 F 1: Τιμόμαχος δ' ἐν τοῖς Κυπριακοῖς Στήσανδρον λέγει τὸν Σαλαμίνιον (Wilamowitz: Σάμιον codd., v. infra) ἐπὶ πλεῖον αὐξῆσαι τὴν τέχνην καὶ πρῶτον ἐν Δελφοῖς κιθαρῳδῆσαι τὰς καθ' Ὅμηρον μάχας, ἀρξάμενον ἀπὸ τῆς Ὀδυσσείας. 43 Cf. RE iiiA (1929), 2457, viA (1937), 1292 (4). 44 For the heavy concentration of these names on Cyprus, see indices to Masson 1961 (henceforth ICS); Masson 1975: 12; Mitford and Masson 1983; Masson and Mitford 1986; etc.; cf. Jouan 1966: 23f. and n.1; Karageorghis 1988: 182. Some royal and aristocratic examples: Stasis, king of Paphos before Persian invasion (Masson and Mitford 1986: no. 2); Stasanor, king of Kourion during the invasion (Hdt. 5.113); deceased King of Kourion with a name beginning Sta[si _ _ _, fragmentary inscription, first half of fifth century (Mitford 1971: no. 218); king Stasandros of Paphos c. 460 (?) (ICS: 21) (another Stasandros is known from Archaic Paphos; see Mitford and Masson 1983: no. 33); king Stasicypros of Idalion, first half of fifth century (Idalion tablet; ICS: 217); two kings of Marion named Stasi(w)oikos (ICS: 169, 171) (fifth- and later fourth-century coins); king Stasicrates of Soloi and his son Stasias (ICS: 211–212, late fourth century); Stasikrates, “high priest of the divine Augustus Caesar” (18/19 ce, Kouklia Museum R.R.126; Nicolaou 1964: 211– 216). There is some confusion between the names Stasandros and Stasanor, both called satrap of Areia and Drangiane; see Hill 1940–1952: 151 n. 2.



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account for the narrowing of focus implied by the phrase “beginning from The Odyssey,” where “from” (apo) should mean “after” (Liddell et al. 1940: s.v. ἀπό, section 2). So Stasandros, beginning where the Odyssey left off, must have sung the returns of other Greek heroes (even if Odysseus was the last hero to return to his home according to Homer’s own chronology: Hom. Od. 1.12).45 Suddenly, Stasandros’s Cypriot origin becomes more intelligible, since the island features prominently in the tales of return (see above). Menelaus’s seven-year voyage in the Odyssey included a stop on the island, and the nostoi of Agias, faithful to Homer, probably adopted this theme (Hom. Od. 4.81–85; ps.-Apollod. Epit. 6.29–30). The Cypriot migration legends considered above show the rich treasury of material available to a poet who wished to “dwell on” Cyprus. One may form a vague impression of what such a poem might have looked like from the Alexandra of (ps.?)-Lycophron. This monstrous display of Hellenistic learning is a miniature epic cycle masquerading as the ominous ravings of Cassandra. First among her numerous nostoi are the five to Cyprus of Teucer, Agapenor, Akamas, Praxander and Kepheus.46 That of Menelaus also involves a stay on Cyprus, including the non-Homeric detail of a “Tamassian bowl” which he got as a friendship gift ((ps.?)-Lycoph. Alex. 854, presumably not the Sidonian krêtêr of Hom. Od. 4.613–619 since Menelaus devotes that to Athena in line 853). Stasandros may therefore be connected with the conscious development of a post-Homeric epic cycle, and a sixth-century date accords well with the other examples in Athenaeus’s catalogue of lyrists. That Stasandros’s own work did not become canonical, so far as we know, is insignificant here. Indeed, it opens an illuminating window on the earlier stages of the process of canon formation. Regardless, Stasandros, like Euklous’ Homer, represents the Cypriot singers’ mobility and integration in a larger pan-Hellenic musical world.

45 Important here is both the systematic exclusion of Odysseus from the fragments of that nostoi (the returns poem, attributed by Proclus to Agias of Troezen [Davies EGF 67, Bernabé PEG 94f.]), which eventually joined the canonical Epic Cycle, and their detailed conformity to the Homeric Odyssey. See Huxley 1969: 162–167, pointing out that the one mention of Odysseus in the Proclean summary can be accounted for as a development of Odyssey 9.196–198. The Suda, s.v. νόστος states that the nostoi-poets followed Homer as far as they were able. 46 (Ps.?)-Lycoph. Alex. 447–534, 586–591 (Cyprus); 594–647 (western returns); 648–819 (Odysseus in Libya and the West); 820–876 (Menelaus in Cilicia, Cyprus, Aethiopia, Byblos, Egypt and Italy); 877–910 (Libyan nostoi); 911–1086 (Italian and other western). For date and attribution of this work, see, recently, Hornblower and Spawforth 1999: s.v. Lycophron.

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The Kypria Against this background, one should reconsider the Kypria, our knowledge of which, like the other poems of the Epic Cycle, comes from actual quotations and later epitomes. Only Proclus (as relayed by Photius) declares openly that he is summarizing the Epic Cycle.47 The Bibliotheca of ps.-Apollodorus, parts of which survive only in two epitomes of its own from the Byzantine period, covers much the same territory within a larger mythological collection (Wagner 1891, 1894; Frazer 1921). His account agrees with Proclus in so many details that it must incorporate substantially the same source, and some scholars freely combine the two to reconstruct the Epic Cycle. It is probable, however, that some details that are not paralleled in Proclus come from cognate traditions, which ps.-Apollodorus culled for his master “library.” Furthermore, we cannot be certain whether either author had access to the original poems, or rather to prose summaries only. And since neither account is comprehensive, details from other sources may be relevant. Defining the Epic Cycle itself is not completely straightforward. It is clear that the Iliad and the Odyssey were somehow textualized at a relatively early date, as the position of their diction in the living diachronic continuum shows; a conventional date of c. 725 may be adopted for the sake of argument (Janko 1982). These poems can only have been preserved in their “early” linguistic state by being written down. It is sometimes claimed that such a monumental use of writing at this early date is unthinkable, but a plausible and realistic motivation may be found by appeal to the Homeridae, a pseudo-hereditary tribe of singers claiming descent from the master (see West 2001: 3–32 for a good overview; also Allen 1924: 42–50; cf. Janko 1982: 114f.). Thus, Homer was recognized as a surpassing master singer, and the newly available technology of writing, combined with an esoteric concern for professional self-perpetuation, suggested capturing his inspired versions of one or two traditional themes. Thence the poems’ popularization in fixed form will have been through the continuing oral tradition, propagated largely verbatim through festival and other performances. Despite Homer’s probable influence already on some seventh-century poetry (Janko 1982: 225–8), his authority emerged only gradually. This is shown by abundant epic scenes on eighth- and seventh-century vases that reflect not Homer per se but the broader and multiform tradition (Kannicht 1982; Scaife 1995; Mackay 1995; Burgess 1996: 79 and n. 11; Snodgrass 1998: 127–150; Marks 2002: 21 n. 56; multiformity of the 47 Proclus: Severyns 1938–1963. Broken into relevant sections by Davies EGF and Bernabé PEG; Allen 1912: 5.102–105. It is not clear whether this Proclus was the fifth-century-ce Neo-Platonist or an earlier Antonine grammarian: see Bernabé PEG 5 with references.



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early tradition: Nagy 1990: 70–79; Foley 1999a; Burgess 2001). Only in the early sixth century, the monuments suggest, was Homer’s renown great enough to spur singers to adapt themselves somewhat to the Iliad and Odyssey (Snodgrass 1998: 164f.). This Homerizing phase of the tradition increasingly involved a self-conscious refusal to modernize diction and the cultivation of an old-fashioned flavor. This resulted in “false archaisms,” which may be detected by unconscious deviations from the organic linguistic matrix of the earlier period. Here one already sees the impact of literacy and its disruption of living traditional processes (Janko 1982: 78, 132, 190f., passim). At this point, traditional cyclic themes probably did begin to “crystallize” around Homer (adapting the term from Nagy 1990: 52–81 [Epic Cycle specifically], 1995, cf. 2001 [the useful “Panathenaic bottleneck”], 2003: 49–71), but for the sixth century one should not exaggerate this relationship, nor press the idea of canonicity.48 Homer himself was re-exposed to the mythological fluidity and shifting narrative boundaries of the bardic environment, as shown by the numerous rhapsodic variants attested in Hellenistic papyri or deducible from stylistic considerations (cf. West 2001: 11–15).49 The fragments we have of the cyclic poems usually do not allow one to distinguish between a poet paying homage to Homer himself, and a case where both poets were assuming a common traditional background (cf. Huxley 1969: 128, on the Kypria specifically). J. Burgess has argued convincingly that the Epic Cycle, in Proclus’s narrow sense of a continuous narrative built around Homer, was a relatively late phenomenon, an editorial concoction of the Hellenistic period.50 The not-infrequent conflicts and duplications of detail strongly suggest that a number of — sometimes quite independent — poems, not all originally intended to match Homer in every particular, were roughly truncated and chronologically sequenced (Burgess 1996, 2001). That they were compatible enough to allow this at all is simply because the poets, including Homer, shared the Trojan War tradition, and borrowed from a generally accepted repertoire of major characters and episodes, which could be elaborated quite differently from one poet to the next, even long after Homer. The Kypria represented by Proclus was a sprawling work of eleven books — lacking the unity that Aristotle saw in Homer (Po. 1495b2–4) — with episodes including the marriage of Peleus to Thetis, the Judgment of Paris, the abduction 48 See the wise cautions of Foley (1999a) against an overly text-oriented definition of “cycle,” which he prefers to substitute with “tradition.” 49 The papyrological variants are being collected in a hypertext directed by G. Nagy (). 50 If Hellenistic scholarly activity was decisive in this process, it cannot account for all Homerizing facets of the cyclic fragments; see below.

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of Helen, the gathering of the Achaean fleet, the sacrifice of Iphigenia and the expedition to Troy. The title itself, known in several variants, has been taken by some to derive from Aphrodite.51 It is true that the goddess is prominent in the action, from her victory in the Judgment to her supervision of Paris’s voyage, his accompaniment by Aeneas, and the fateful tryst with Helen.52 Quite probably, she took further actions that Proclus and ps.-Apollodorus fail to report.53 Clearly this was Aphrodite’s traditional role, to judge from the Iliad, where she subjects Helen and Paris to ruthless micromanagement (3.390–420; cf. Od. 4.261– 264, 23.218–224; Ibyc. frag. 1.9 PMG; etc.). Yet a direct reference to the goddess is excluded. Abundant parallels in other epic titles show that Kypria is the neuter plural of kyprios (‘Cypriot’), and presupposes epê (‘epic verses’): the poem was “the Cypriot verses” or “the Cypriot epic” (cf. Burkert 1992: 207 n. 10; Davies 2001: 32; West 2003: 13). Modern scholars usually explain this clear reference to Cyprus biographically: the poet came from the island (Huxley 1969: 134f.; Lloyd-Jones 1972; West 1988: 172; 2003: 13; Nagy 1990: 77; Davies 2001: 32). Several ancient sources do indeed attribute the poem to a Cypriot singer, either Stasinos or Hegesias/Hegesinos of Salamis (Cypria TT 3–4, 7–9, 11 Davies EGF, TT 1, 3, 7–9, 11 Bernabé PEG with further sources). For a skeptic, the title alone might have begotten false Cypriot attributions (Lloyd-Jones 1972: 117f.). Yet the very obscurity of these names, including the typically Cypriot and aristocratic “Stasinos,” inspires confidence that the traditions have some historical basis; this impression is corroborated by the geographical specificity and relevance of Salamis.54 Predictably the poem was also attributed to Homer himself, but this is a recur51 Cf. Aphrodite as Κυπρία, Pind. Ol. 1.75. For the ancient dispute over accentuation, see below. Aphrodite: Huxley 1969: 132; Scaife 1995: 173; references in Davies EGF 33, Bernabé PEG 38. 52 Procl. Chrest. 80 (Severyns) = Davies EGF 31.10–15, 22f., Bernabé PEG 39.7–11, 16f. Cf. Ghali-Kalil 1955: 1.29–31: “C’est Zeus et plus directement Aphrodite qui dirigent le drame” (31). 53 Cf. Praefatio Borbonica ad Homeri Iliadem (Wagner 1891: 297.14f.): συμπραττούσης τῆς θεοῦ. In the account of Dares Phrygius (9, pp. 11.19–12.8 Meister), Paris stops at the temple of “Venus” on Kythera, and sacrifices to the goddess (the text’s Diana must be an error arising from a reference to Venus as Diônaia; see Frazer 1966: ad loc., adding that a temple to Diana and Apollo is mentioned shortly afterward [10, p. 12.12]); because Helen immediately conceives a desire to go to the shore where she and Paris will fall in love at first sight (10, p. 12.9–20), one may assume the agency of a gratified “Venus.” Dares Phrygius is a late, perhaps sixth-century-ce, “eyewitness” account from the Trojan perspective, probably based on an earlier Greek original (see Frazer 1966: 11–15). It is comparable to the narrative of Dictys Cretensis (for which see below). Both were widely read in the Middle Ages, and the antiquity of their traditions are uncertain; Dictys, at least, seems to have used Archaic material; see further below. 54 Cf. Masson 1975: 12, citing the only other known example of the name Stasinos, in a fifth- or fourth-century-bce syllabic Cypriot inscription from Egypt (ICS: 371); cf. n. 45: “La rareté même du nom est un indice en faveur de l’authenticité de la tradition, un sorte de lectio difficilior.”



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rent phenomenon with the cyclic poems, and here leads back to Cyprus via the legend that Homer composed the poem as a dowry for his daughter’s marriage to Stasinos.55 There is no reason why this tale should not already have been known (as Aelian asserts) to Pindar, whose poetry gives abundant evidence of his interest in musical history.56 It would fit very well with the convergence of epichoric and pan-Hellenic tradition which was a living concern in the generations before Pindar (see, generally, Nagy 1990). What of the Kypria’s content? The Naupaktia and Phokais are sometimes offered as comparanda, titles that indicate a poet’s place of origin without entailing any treatment of local traditions in the poem itself (Davies 2001: 32; West 2001: 6f.). Yet these putative parallels are neither numerous nor crystal clear.57 Naturally, Cypriot poets would not have been required to sing about Cyprus: consider the obscure Kleon of Kourion, whose Argonautika was apparently an important source for Apollonius of Rhodes.58 Yet it is equally likely that they would have been drawn to Cypriot traditions. Such title variants as Ta Kypriaka or Kypriakai Historiai would certainly have had an ethnographic flavor to the later Greeks who

55 Homer’s dowry (Cypria TT 1, 3–4, 7–8 Davies EGF, TT 1–3, 7 Bernabé PEG); Lloyd-Jones 1972: 118 plausibly suggests that the tale originated as a bid for greater prestige by a school of epic poetry located on Cyprus, and perhaps specifically at Salamis. 56 Ael VH 9.15 = Pind. frag. 265 S-M = Cypria T 1 Davies EGF, T 2 Bernabé PEG. Cf. Lloyd-Jones 1972: 116f. (optimistic); Davies 2001: 32 (dubious). Pindar on music: Ol. 9.1–4 (the καλλίνικος attributed to Archilochus, cf. IEG 324); Athena and the aulos: Pyth. 12 (addressed to the aulete Midas of Acragas); Polymnestus, frag. 188 (cf. ps.-Plut. De mus. 1133a); Olympus, frag. 157; for the prooimion to Sakadas, frag. 282 (Paus. 9.30.2; ps.-Plut. De mus. 1134a); history of the dithyramb, frags. 70b + 81 + 346. 57 The Naupactia, attributed to Carcinus of Naupactus by Charon of Lampsacus (Paus. 10.38.11 = FGrH 262 F 4 = Naupactia T 1 Davies EGF 145f., Bernabé PEG 123), is of uncertain value. This was besides an eccentric attribution, since most Greeks believed it to be by a Milesian poet (cf. Janko 1982: 273 n. 163); still Pausanias’s reasoning, a priori though it be (so Janko), is good: there is no other apparent link between this poem and Naupactus. The Phokais was presumably by the Thestorides of Phocis whom a Phocaean popular tradition accused of stealing the work from Homer: ps.-Hdt. Vit. Hom. 15–17 (Davies EGF 153, Bernabé PEG 117); cf. Allen 1924: 62; West 2003: 33. Yet this parallel is also weak, since we know nothing of the poem’s content. 58 Schol. Ap. Rhod. 1.77, 587, 624 (παρὰ Κλέωνος τὰ πάντα μετήνεγκεν Ἀπολλώνιος); see RE xi (1922), 719 (9). This Kleon has been tentatively identified with the elegeiopoios of Et. Mag., s.v. Εὐβύριον and dated to the fourth century (Chatzêiôannou 1971–2001: 3.1.38). It is not impossible that the poem included an eastern wandering, part of Jason’s initial evasion of pursuit: cf. the Argo’s excursion through Libya in Pind. Pyth. 4.13–56 (cf. Preller and Robert 1894–1926: 859– 861); Libya belongs to the geography of eastern wandering in Hom. Od. 4.81–85 (Menelaus) and elsewhere. Note also the comparison of Jason and Paris as exemplars of evasion voyages (Schol. Hom. Il. 6.291; Eust. ad Hom. Il. 6.289–292), and the storm that brings Thesus and Ariadne to Cyprus in Paion of Amathus; see above, n. 22.

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so blithely cited them.59 The Cyprosyrian cast of Aphrodite’s dressing scene and the theme of the overpopulated earth have already been mentioned; but these facts merely recall the conclusions above: “Cypriot details,” though essentially Cypriot, were also a part of the repertoire of Aegean singers. So while the majority of the Kypria’s episodes were obviously not set on Cyprus, it would not be surprising if the island did feature in the poem (so already Wagner 1891: 182; cf. Burkert 1992: 103: “The remarkable title Cypria can only be understood as a reference to the island of Cyprus”). Thus, one may account indirectly for the prominence of Aphrodite in the poem’s action (see above). The Kypria would also provide a good home for the storm that blew Paris and Helen to Sidon, attested by both Proclus and ps.-Apollodorus, as well as the dalliance in Phoenicia and Cyprus, to evade any pursuit (Apollodoran epitome).60 If this were extended to a honeymoon of nine months or more, Helen could indeed have come to the island with a son by Paris prior to returning to Troy, as one source seems to relate.61 It is also in Cyprus that Paris, according to Dictys of Crete, acquired further ships with which to sack Sidon.62 There are also various Kinyras episodes to consider. Several sources, including the Apollodoran epitome, mention an Achaean embassy that elicited a promise of fifty ships from the Cypriot king, who in the end sent only one carrying clay models of forty-nine others, or cast them into the sea (a bizarre detail apparently derived from an Eteocypriot mariners’ ritual).63 For his infidelity Agamem-

59 Kypriakai Historiai: Schol. Eur. Andr. 898 (see below). We know of Kypriaka by Hellanicus (FGrH 4 F 57, 756 F 1); Palaiphatos of Abydos (FGrH 44 T 3), Kreon (FGrH 753) — that of Timomachus (FGrH 754) has been discussed above — not to mention Peri Kyprou by Alexander Polyhistor (FGrH 273 F 31) and Androcles (FGrH 751). 60 Procl. Chrest. 80 (Severyns) = Davies EGF 31.25f., Bernabé PEG 39.18f.; ps.-Apollod. Epit. 3.4–5. For the problem of the Herodotean Kypria, see below. The dalliance is probably also implied by Dict. Cret. Bell. Tro. 1.5. It may be presupposed by Homer himself, who knew a hodos that included a stop at Sidon: Hom. Il. 6.289–292 with comments of Eust. and scholia; cf. Hdt. 2.114–116 (for which see below). 61 Apparently attributed to the Kypria by Schol. Eur. Andr. 898 (= Lysimachus FGrH 382 F 12 = FGrH 758 F 6 = Cypria frag. 10 Davies EGF, frag. 12 Bernabé PEG): ὁ δὲ τὰς Κυπριακὰς ἱστορίας συντάξας Πλεισθένην φησì μεθ' οὗ εἰς Κύπρον ἀφῖχθαι καὶ τὸν ἐξ αὐτῆς τεχθέντα Ἀλεξάνδρῳ Ἄγανον. 62 Dict. Cret. Bell. Tro. 1.5. For Dictys, see Allen 1924: 146–169, arguing that his narrative, despite its excision of divine agents, rests securely upon an early cyclic foundation. 63 See with variants: Alcidamas Od. 20f. (here Palamedes deceives both Kinyras and Agamemnon); ps.-Apollod. Epit. 3.9 (Menelaus, Odysseus and Talthybius); scholia, Eust. ad Hom. Il. 11.17–20 (Menelaus). Many terracotta ship-models have been found at Amathus, mostly from the Archaic period but with prototypes in the Middle Bronze Age. Many are from the necropolis, attributed by Karageorghis to mariners’ graves; others have been found in the harbor at Amathus.



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non cursed Kinyras; after the Trojan War he was ousted from his throne by “the men with Agamemnon,” who drove his followers to Amathus.64 This episode, and the remarkable alternative homecoming route of Agamemnon, cannot belong to a Kypria focused on preliminaries, but it fits very well into the Cypriot foundation legends and general category of nostoi, and indicates that an overarching Cyprus narrative was available to interested singers — doubtless including Cypriot poets. One may speculate about the further implications of these attested traditions. If Hera sent the storm against the hated Paris, Aphrodite, a mariners’ goddess like Astarte, may have rescued him. One may also reasonably suppose that Kinyras hosted Paris and Helen on Cyprus. This would accord with the usual rules of philoxenia, at the very least, but as Aphrodite’s “darling priest” (Pind. Pyth. 2.16: ἱερέα κτίλον Ἀφροδίτας), Kinyras would be a likely agent of the goddess’s protection. Kinyras’s breach of faith with Agamemnon could then be explained as a conflict of interests. Indeed, his withholding of ships may be mirrored in the account of Dictys of Crete, who relates that Paris acquired ships on Cyprus with which to sack Sidon.65 Who but a king would have such resources? That any of these further episodes were incorporated in the Kypria itself cannot be proved, although its eleven books would have given ample scope, and the embassy to Kinyras and a dalliance on Cyprus are at least likely, given Proclus’s claim to epitomize the poem, and the sympathies between his account and the Apollodoran. Regardless, the various traditions, taken together, demonstrate that Cyprus constituted a rich theatre of action within the multiform tradition from which the Epic Cycle emerged, including the Kypria.

The Old and New Kypria This leads to a well-known problem raised by Herodotus. The historian calls attention to a discrepancy between the Kypria, as he knew it, and the Iliad. In the former, Paris and Helen proceeded directly to Troy, arriving after only three days. A slightly jumbled hexametric fragment is embedded in his narrative; this has been variously reconstructed, but certainly specified that the lovers had a See, e.g., Karageorghis 2006a: 185–189, nos. 176–181. For possible relevance to the Kinyras episode, see Kapera 1969. 64 Theopompus FGrH 115 F 103 (= Phot. Bibl. 176): τίνα τε τρόπον Ἕλληνες οἱ σὺν Ἀγαμέμνονι τὴν Κύπρον κατέσχον ἀπελάσαντες τοὺς μετὰ Κινύρου, ὧν εἰσιν ὑπολιπεῖς Ἀμαθούσιοι (it is not clear whether this implies an alternative nostos for Agamemnon himself); Eust. ad Hom. Il. 11.20–23. 65 Dict. Cret. Bell. Tro. 1.5: Cyprum…unde sumptis aliquot navibus Phoenicem delapsus Sidoniorum regem…necat, etc. (p. 6.6–8 Eisenhut).

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calm sea and clear skies.66 By contrast, the Iliad refers to a journey (hodos), which included a stop at Sidon, where Paris acquired the skilled women who now work for the Trojan queen as weavers.67 Herodotus reasonably concluded that Homer could not have composed the Kypria. Yet his account conflicts with the Kypria known to Proclus, just discussed, with Hera’s storm and the sack of Sidon. Many scholars believe that an older Kypria, represented by Herodotus, was modified to bring it into alignment with the Iliad.68 The Iliadic passage, however, is a quite pregnant allusion. Homer refers to a journey (hodos), and there is no reason to limit this to Sidon (he also knew the lovers’ steamy pit-stop on an unnamed “rocky island”).69 Moreover the Sidonian weavers surely presuppose the sack of Sidon; skilled women were not generally given as hospitality gifts (compare the Laconian companions of Helen whom Paris also took: Hom. Il. 3.385–388). So Homer knew what the kypriaka discussed above imply: a tradition of eventful eastward wandering by Paris and Helen. Because of this, the Herodotean Kypria may rather have omitted such an episode from an earlier version. One might appeal only to the historian’s antiquity relative to the other sources; yet this is a weak argument, given his own lateness compared to the tradition, which anyway variously survived into much later sources. In fact, there is good new evidence that the Herodotean version was indeed a later revision. Besides the Kypria’s more realistic attributions to Stasinos and Hegesias/Hegesinos, a certain Kyprias was proposed as its author. This is clearly

66 Hdt. 2.117: ἐν μὲν γὰρ τοῖσι Κυπρίοισι εἴρηται ὡς τριταῖος ἐκ Σπάρτης Ἀλέξανδρος ἀπίκετο ἐς τὸ Ἴλιον ἄγων Ἑλένην, εὐαέϊ τε πνεύματι χρησάμενος καὶ θαλάσσῃ λείῃ (reprised by Eust. ad Hom. Il. 6.289–292). The various reconstructions (after Welcker 1849: 2.515) are collected in the apparatus to Cypria frag. 14 Bernabé PEG; add West 2003: 92f. 67 Hom. Il. 6.288–292. The tradition’s τάς is correct: it was known to the scholia and Eustathius, and elicited no Aristarchan objection: Kirk 1990: 199, noting too that ἄγειν normally refers to hauling off people (cf., e.g., Hom. Il. 1.346 of Briseis; but the cup of Nestor a counterexample). Welcker’s conjecture τούς makes Paris bring back only Sidonian clothes, but has not been widely adopted (but note Gantz 1993: 571). 68 So Allen 1924: 158f. (hence Dictys followed the revised, Proclean Kypria); Ghali-Kalil 1955: 1.37 and n. 7; Preller and Robert 1894–1926: 1083–1085. The older view that it was Proclus’s own effort was disproved by the discovery of the Apollodoran Epitome (cf. Huxley 1967: 26; RE XVIII.2 (1949), 1504–1506; Preller and Robert 1894–1926: loc. cit.). 69 Hom. Il. 3.444 f: ἔπλεον ἁρπάξας ἐν ποντοπόροισι νέεσσι, / νήσῳ δ' ἐν Κραναῇ ἐμίγην φιλότητι καὶ εὐνῇ. Kirk 1985 ad loc. rightly rejects ancient conjectures (collected RE XVIII.2 [1949], 1505f.; cf. Gantz 1993: 571f.). A generic, middle-of-nowhere location best negates normal nuptial procedure. Sources and variations on the journey: RE XVIII.2 (1949), 1504–1506.



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a secondary construction from the poem itself, meaning simply “Mr. Kypria.”70 Yet this Kyprias appears in a recently discovered second-century-bce inscription from Halicarnassus, the hometown of Herodotus himself. It is a public encomium of the city’s achievements, including a catalogue of its famous literary sons.71 These facts make it very likely that the Herodotean Kypria, and not the Proclean, was the derivative work. J. Burgess has attractively explained its modification as a pan-Hellenizing revision that eliminated details of epichoric, eastern Mediterranean interest.72 (Recall “Stesandros” at Delphi.) How this would accord with the poem’s own localization at Halicarnassus is not clear. Against such a background, Herodotus’s latent epic fragment takes on striking new emphasis; indeed the historian himself underscores the point through the quotation. That the poet bothered to specify smooth seas presupposes a Paris-Helen voyage interrupted by a storm, that traditional and most useful motif for taking characters out of their way. The Herodotean Kypria effectively corrected this by insisting that the voyage of Paris and Helen was short, and that the weather just fine. Because Proclus expressly states that his narrative was that of the Kypria, it can hardly be doubted that the Herodotean version was repudiating an older poem of the same name. Indeed, given its title, as explicated above, the later Kypria is remarkable precisely for its omission of any scene set on Cyprus, or elsewhere in the eastern Mediterranean. The ample traces of the wandering motif, given above, show that such “kypria tales” were traditional and regularly treated, not least on Cyprus, and this impression of multiformity is confirmed by the very ambivalence of the Kypria’s authorial traditions, with its many title variations.73

70 See already Huxley 1967, 1969: 134. “Kyprias” was already known from Ath. 682de (= Demodamas FGrH 428 F 1, also emended from kyprios in 334b by M.L. West ap. Cypria frag. 7 Davies EGF), and indirectly by Procl. ap. Phot. Bibl. 319a34 (Cypria T 11 and p. 33 Davies EGF, T 7 Bernabé PEG), where the argument from accentuation shows how the Halicarnassians justified their claim: by making the title not proparoxytone (Κύπρια) but paroxytone (Κυπρία) they palmed it off as a genitive, “of Kyprias”: see Huxley 1967: 26 n. 6; West 2003: 66f. n. 1. 71 “Pride of Halicarnassus” inscription: Isager 1998 (editio princeps, 16f. for Kyprias); LloydJones 1999a: esp. 11; 1999b; Merkelbach and Stauber 1998: 39–45 (no. 01/12/02), esp. 44; West 2003: 64f. 72 Burgess 2002 as a whole; p. 240 for cyclic poems being “crowded out” of pan-Hellenic performances by the increasing popularity of the Homeric epics, whose “stabilization” had a “deadening” effect on the cyclic poems; cf. Burgess 2001: 14f. 73 Note especially Schol. Hom. Il. 16.57: οἱ τῶν Κυπρίων ποιηταί (= Cypria frag. 21 Davies EGF, frag. 27 Bernabé PEG). Thus, I sympathize with Finkelberg 2000, who argues for multiple written versions of the Kypria. Others stress a multiform tradition variously surfacing in poems not called Kypria (e.g., Homer’s own mention of Sidon): see Nagy 2001; Marks 2002: 4; Burgess 2002: 239

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We may conclude with a tentative sketch of the relationship between the “old Kypria,” its revision and Homer. If the poet was a Cypriot, nevertheless his diction was thoroughly assimilated to the Aeolic-Ionic mode, if not Homer himself. Janko’s mid-seventh-century dating of the fragments is based on linguistic features shared with the major hymn to Aphrodite, which would locate it relatively early in the pan-Hellenic continuum. This would accord well with the Herodotean Kypria, since it leaves time enough for the revision, including perhaps further modernization of diction.74 It is somewhat jarring that the new Kypria retained its title while omitting any Cypriot adventures. But since the older poem’s other episodes were indispensable, these must have become synonymous with “the Kypria” to the public mind. The excision of the eastward wandering would trim the work, if that were an issue (compare the shorter length of the other Cyclic poems known to Proclus). This advantage might far outweigh the small incompatibility with the Iliad’s allusion to Sidon and the hodos. It is quite striking in fact that it is just this point to which Herodotus calls attention, and which the new Kypria, which he quotes, labored to correct.

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(“Finkelberg’s multiform Cypria is really multiform myth”). Yet given the variations of title and authorship, it is hard to see where to draw the line. 74 Cf. West 2003: 13: “The language of the fragments shows signs of lateness. The poem can hardly be earlier than the second half of the sixth century.” Yet our fragments may come from separate versions.



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Mariella De Simone

Aristophanes’ Phrynichos and the Orientalizing Musical Pattern Over the past sixty or so years, there has been an increasing awareness of archaic Athens’ receptivity to the Eastern lifestyle and culture. The insistence of scholars on reading the earlier evidence about orientalia through the lens of fifth-century anti-Persian obsessions has been overcome, to a great extent, by the recent investigation of the ἁβροσύνη — the luxurious style of life (and clothing) “consciously taken over from the East and embraced by a segment of the population to differentiate themselves and assert their pre-eminence” (Kurke 1992: 98). The elites of archaic Athens felt that they belonged to the vast Ionian world — the Solonian Ιαονία, which included East Ionia, Attica and Euboea (Mazzarino 1989: 72–78, 227) — and borrowed from the Ionians, who were heavily influenced by their Lydian neighbors, sumptuous garments and other attributes indicating status. As Thucydides notes: “The elder men of the nobility…only recently stopped wearing linen chitons and binding their hair up in a bun with the insertion of golden crickets” (1.6.3; trans. by Kurke 1992: 95). Linen chitons and golden crickets were part of a luxurious Eastern clothing adopted by noblemen to distinguish and define themselves; but after the Persian Wars the negative judgment of ἁβροσύνη became commonplace, and such luxurious items were identified as markers of effeminacy (Lombardo 1983; Kurke 1992). The dominant ideology of the Athenian polis evolved from aristocratic to democratic; the Orient, contrasted with the isonomic Spartan model, was connoted with stereotypes of cowardice and effeminacy (Miller 1997: 243–258), and the Athenian elite choose to discredit the Eastern luxuriance by connecting it with despotism and tyrannical ambition — a connection that, in turn, “influenced the modern scholarly association of ἁβροσύνη with political ὕβρις” (Kurke 1992: 103). Supporting evidence for this double phenomenon — the archaic emulation of Eastern culture and its systematic vilification from the mid-fifth century — can be found also in the musical sphere. Together with ways and dress, Athenian artists imported from the East musical styles and instruments (especially the βάρβιτος, a long-armed lyre, and the πηκτίς, a Lydian harp), also owing to Anacreon’s promotion of a Lydian-sympathizing musical fashion (Franklin 2008: 197–198). After the Persian conquest, the vilification of Eastern imports included also musical attributes: both harps and βάρβιτοι were closely associated with the world of women (McIntosh Snyder 1972; Franklin 2008: 195); Orientalizing ἁρμονίαι and rhythms were regarded languid, feminine and orgiastic (see esp. Pl. Resp. 398d–400c) and



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Eastern garments worn by archaic pipe-players were strictly limited to women (Miller 1997: 175–176). The vilification and marginalization of musical orientalia was contextual with the creation of a “timeless musical tradition” ideologically considered manly, simple and authentically Greek. The latter was precisely the opposite of the musical trend promoted by the supporters of the so-called New Music — that fifth-century “mass-phenomenon” chiefly dismissed for its effeminacy, indiscipline and barbarization, and for symbolizing, in the eyes of the elite, “the most threatening and unpleasant features of democracy itself” (Csapo 2004: 246; see also 230). This musical polarity, developed for enhancing the definition of a Greek aristocratic cultural identity based on the contrast between self and other, has influenced the scholarly definition of a Greek musical prehistory. The modern representation of a pristine music characterized by simplicity and order is generated by its late fifth-century reconstruction. After the democratic wind had swept through the Athenian polis and other parts of Greece, the upper class tried to maintain its leadership, no longer guaranteed by the public manifestation of individual wealth and luxury, by claiming its own ethical superiority and demonizing the vulgar tastes of the masses. ̔Αβροσύνη, now emulated by the lower classes (Miller 1997: 253–255), was replaced by σωφροσύνη (moderation and self-discipline), and a mythological musical history was invented, which represented the transition from a simple pattern to a more complex one. But the musical claims of Athenian elites “reflect more upon their own ideological makeup than upon musical realities. Scholars would do well to be more skeptical of what they say, not only about New Music, but about musical tradition. The elite critics invented a musical past in which all was simplicity and order” (Csapo 2004: 237). Not only should one be aware that the fifth-century depiction of a “sober” melodic archaism is ideologically biased, but it should also be borne in mind that such ideal depiction must not be generalized for all archaic lyric. A different pattern is offered, for example, in Critias’s portrayal of the lyric poet Anacreon (frag. 1 Diels-Kranz). Regardless of whether we interpret the poem as a sincere encomium (see, e.g., Rosenmeyer 1992: 16–17) or argue for an ironic form of psogos (Iannucci 2002: 141–151), the figure that emerges of a poet/musician is by no means consonant with the idealistic representation of a simple and manly Greek musical pattern (the poet is depicted as a composer of sweet feminine songs, an exciter of symposia and a lover of parties, women and the Asiatic βάρβιτος1). 1  This depiction somehow prefigures the later, much more negative representations of the poet, which focus on Anacreon’s fondness for erotic pleasures, wine and komastic revelry (evidence: Rosenmeyer 1992: 17–19; the exaggeration of such negative portraits motivates the eloquent defense of Athenaeus 10.429b; Rosenmeyer 1992: 19–20).

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In this paper I will analyze the Aristophanic portrayal of the tragic poet/ musician Phrynichos, which also appears distant from the usual late classical representations of traditional music and musicians. The aim is to demonstrate that not all early musical patterns could provide a good antithesis to New Music and all that it symbolized, as some of them were guilty of the same vices generally attributed to the new musical paradigms (Orientalization, elaboration, languidness). This, I suggest, is connected with the above-discussed promotion of an Oriental musical taste until the early fifth century, and might explain partly why the late classical elite critics needed to invent a musical tradition of their own, characterized by “orderliness” and “sobriety” and located in an idealized “old age.”

The “Question of the Multiple Phrynichoi” In Aristophanes’ works the name of Phrynichos is attested a dozen times, the half of which (Vesp. 220, 269; Av. 749; Thesm. 164; Ran. 910, 1299) securely refer to the most known among the fifth-century Athenian “Phrynichoi,” the tragic poet identified as the son of Polyphrasmon. Another Phrynichos, an actor and dancer active in Athens at the end of the fifth century, is believed by scholars to be mentioned three times in the Wasps (1302, 1490, 1524). The scholiasts report that this second Phrynichos was ridiculed in comedy because of the delicacy and variety of his dance figures — an assertion that receives support from the parodic character appearing in scenes in which his orchestic schemata are alluded to. Contrarily, the Aristophanic references to the “tragedian Phrynichos,” all in musical contexts, have usually been taken as genuinely complimentary: the comic poet would especially praise the sweetness and pleasantness of his choral songs (Rogers 1906: 102; Pickard-Cambridge 1962: 63; Lloyd-Jones 1990: 236–237). The identification of the Phrynichos cited at the end of the Wasps with a contemporary tragic χορευτής is not certain. Some scholars (e.g., Sommerstein 1983: 235) accept the view that line 1302 refers to Phrynichos son of Stratonides, a radical democratic politician and later a member of the Four Hundred. Even more controversial is the reference in line 1490 (and the following one in line 1524): the Phrynichos mentioned here has been identified with either the tragedian or the later dancer named by the scholiasts. Furthermore, it has even been supposed that no dancer by the name of Phrynichos existed, and that the scholiasts may have confused the various artists bearing this name (MacDowell 1971: 324; Ceccarelli 1994: esp. 76). The last hypothesis, which represents a turning point in what scholars have denoted the “problem of the multiple Phrynichoi,” contrasts, however, with the



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ambivalent attitude evidenced by Aristophanes’ text. In other words, if we accept that there was only one Phrynichos, who was a dancer, a playwright and a song composer, how could we motivate the coexistence of two opposing perspectives about the same figure of poet within the same text (the positive perspective presented in the Wasps opening scenes and the negative perspective of the exodos)? Moreover, given the favorable treatment accorded to the tragedian Phrynichos elsewhere in comedy, which one might expect for a composer of the “good old age,” how could we justify the parodic reference to him in the Wasps final scene? Our attempt to answer these questions satisfactorily is further hindered by the fact that the comic judgment of Phrynichos’s lyric style is in itself a controversial issue: the majority of scholars argue for genuine expressions of praise, but Barker doubts that Aristophanes’ allusions to Phrynichos’s musical sweetness amount “to a whole-hearted commendation such as is given to Aeschylus in the Frogs” (Barker 1984: 111 n. 49). It is clear, therefore, that the so-called question of the multiple Phrynichoi and the question of Aristophanes’ own opinion of Phrynichos’s songs are closely related: a precise understanding of the latter can shed light for clarifying problems of the former. Reexamining all the Aristophanic passages mentioning a poet/musician/ choreographer named Phrynichos may help, therefore, to advance a hypothesis about the reasons for his recurrence throughout the entire text of the Wasps (if all occurrences indeed refer to the same person), and might provide the groundwork for better comprehending the ideological implications of this late fifth-century musical portrayal.

The Poet Bee and the Sweet Muse (Birds 737–752) A secure mention of the tragic poet Phrynichos is that in the Birds’ parabasis ode,2 where the winged creatures celebrate their own mountaintop songs by addressing a specialized Muse, whose attributes are appropriate for such a chorus. As “Muse of the thickets” she inspires all thicket songsters, including the birds’ chorus; she is ποικίλη, “Muse of intricate song,” or — considering the generic sense of the term — a “variegated Muse” (Ar. Av. 739); she inspires the devoted birds as they sing “sacred melodies of song for Pan and holy choral strains for the Mountain Mother” (746–747; trans. by Sommerstein 1987: 99). From these birds’ lyrics the poet Phrynichos drew inspiration for his own divine melodies, “ever sucking the nectar of deathless music to produce his honeyed songs” (750). 2  See Schol. Ar. Av. 749a.

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The mention of Phrynichos has been interpreted as a clue that the present ode, in an unparalleled combination of dactyls and trochaic dimeters, was musically reminiscent of a lyric by that tragedian, and the presence of dactylo-epitrite metres in the scanty surviving fragments of Phrynichos’s songs (frags. 9 and 13 Snell) may support such a conjecture (Dunbar 1995: 462). The high poetic style is discordant with the comic context, and is enriched by the skilful use of traditional types of musical qualification: the idea of men borrowing songs from birds (Ar. Av. 748–749) is much loved by Alkman (frags. 39–40 Page), and the poet–bee comparison (748), used to hint at the sweetness of musical composition, is well attested in both epic and lyric (Ransome 2004: 104–116). The evocation of musical sweetness and complexity, then (the last quality being alluded to by the adjective ποικίλος; Ar. Av. 739), is as ancient as Pindar’s lyrics (Barker 2004: 188–189 and n. 6). However, if in the earlier tradition the expressions evoking musical delightfulness and intricacy carried unambiguous positive implications and were used to stress craftsmanship, for Aristophanes the situation seems to be more problematic: his allusions to images and expressions taken from ancient and serious contexts are rarely free from parody, and his only other example of the bee comparison is itself parodic (Ar. Eccl. 973, where a woman is defined μέλισσα Μούσης, “the bee of the Muse,” after she has sung a sweet erotic song). Moreover, from the second half of the fifth century, the ποικιλία of musical patterns and the softness of songs become elements regularly mocked as characteristic of the New Music (Zimmermann 1993: 40–43, 45; Barker 2004: 188–189 and n. 7). And throughout Birds, the image of honey sweetness, used in musical context, carries always ironical overtones: at the beginning of the second part, Aristophanes portrays the old-fashioned poet-composer, mocked by Peisiterus for his pompous self-presentation, coming in the Cloud-Cuckoo-Land μελιγλώσσων ἐπέων ἰεὶς ἀοιδάν “launching a song of honey-tongued verses” (Ar. Av. 908), and in associating the nightingale’s song with honey imagery (224), he pokes fun at the malleable softness and lasciviousness of the music-making bird, represented, as Barker has convincingly argued, as a “degraded figure of slavegirl, hired out to play the pipes and to double as a prostitute” (Barker 2004: 198). This last example becomes even more striking if we accept the assumption that the birds’ Muse is the nightingale herself (so Zanetto 1987: 242; Dunbar 1995: 462), already described in line 659 as “sweet-songed singer with the Muses,” and regularly praised in Greek literary tradition for her complex, varied and sweet voice.3 It is a plausible conjecture that this mute figure of a bird, whom the chorus 3  In particular, the shiftiness of the nightingale’s song is emphasized both in Homer (Od. 19.521) and in Euripides (whose πολυχορδοτάτη φωνή is reminiscent of the Odyssey’s πολυεχήα φωνή), and this makes the epithet ποικίλος highly appropriate for the song of that bird. The adjective



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leader has invited with a parodic invocation to accompany the forthcoming anapests with the sweet sound of her aulos (Ar. Av. 676–684), has remained in view accompanying the whole parabasis (685–800), or at least miming the pipe playing while the αὐλητής actually produces the pipe music.4 With the presence of such a figure on the scene, the invocation to a Muse with attributes appropriate to the birds’ chorus might well have been addressed to the nightingale herself, the perfect inspirer of sensuous and very complex songs. It could be assumed that the ode aims to reproduce the high poetic style of the tragic invocations, with which the nightingale, an improbable figure of lascivious Muse with pipes in her mouth, would contrast to excellent comic effect. In such a context the reference to Phrynichos, whose sweet lyrics are said to be borrowed from birds’ similar songs, could be viewed as a concrete template used to strengthen the impression of delicate and elaborate music. For a well-knowing audience, such a template would provide consciously intelligible associations between a human musical pattern (the tragic songs of Phrynichos) and a non-human one (the birds’ music): if the adjective γλυκεῖα ‘sweet’, used here to qualify Phrynichos’s melodic style, is highly appropriate for the sweet song of the music-making birds,5 the epithet ποικίλος, referring here to the birds’ Muse (= the nightingale Muse?) and usually evoking melodic or rhythmic complexity, is well suitable for characterizing a recognizable feature of Phrynichos’s lyrics, whose rhythmic and orchestic variety, strongly emphasized by the ancient sources (see below), might be reflected in the alternating meter of the passage, consisting of mixed dactyls and trochaic dimeters.6 Further, as we have already said, the honey λοχμαῖος, too, fits very well the Birds’ nightingale, who is said thrice to live in a λόχμη (Ar. Av. 202, 207, 224). It is also remarkable that the expression “my vibrant throat” (γένυος ξουθῆς, 743), referring here to the birds’ chorus, is used elsewhere in the Birds to refer only of the nightingale (214: γένυος ξουθῆς; 676: ξουθή), and that the mention of νόμοι ἱεροί (745) finds a significant parallel in the νόμοι ἱερῶν ὕμνων, which this mute figure of bird is invited to release in the parodos (210). 4  A significant argument in favor of such a view could be drawn by considering the previous lines: immediately before the parabatic ode, within a πνῖγος of 24 anapests, the chorus leader points out that the birds, if accepted as the new gods by men, will take over the function of “Muses,” “Favorable Breezes” and “Seasons” (Ar. Av. 723–726). It is thus quite plausible that in the following invocation, ironically addressing an odd figure of bird-Muse, he would allude to the concrete realization of such a subversive plan. 5  The warbling of birds is “soft” (μαλθακὴν ἱέντα γῆρυν, 233), and “sweet” is the song of the nightingale herself (ἠδύν φθόγγον ἐμοὶ φέπουσ ̓, 681; τὴν δ ̓ἠδυμελῆ ξύμφωνον ἁηδόνα Μούσαις, 659). 6  A good parallel could be a hyporchema by Pindar, where the allusion to the rhythmic variety of the song (καμπύλον μέλος), well reflected in the dance steps, is confirmed by the peculiar combination of dactyls and iambics (Pindar, frag. 107a Snell, with Kaimio 1977: 149–150).

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imagery alluding to the sweet songs of Phrynichos is used elsewhere in the play for the nightingale herself, whose languid auletic sound is ironically praised by Euelpides. Indeed, it cannot be ruled out that a similar ironic tone is here used to celebrate the honey songs of Phrynichos, even though the ironic emphasis of the ode is on the sounds of the bird singers, rather than on parallel human melodies. However, although set on a level of comic exploitation, what we can reasonably assume is that Aristophanes evokes here two specific qualities of a real (human) musical pattern (the melodic sweetness and the musical variety), which are both also elsewhere indicated by the playwright as typical Phrynichean features (cf. below). A third quality, that seemingly contrasts with melodic sweetness, but is also associated with Phrynichos, could perhaps be deduced from the mention of the sacred songs and dances for the Arcadian Pan and the Asiatic mother-goddess Cybele (Ar. Av. 745–646), linked to Phrynichos by the conjunctive adverb ἔνθεν (“from whence” — ἔνθεν, scil. from the sacred melodies and the holy strains — “… Phrynichus was ever sucking the nectar of deathless music”). Both the deities are addressed here as mountain-gods, the perfect protectors of the winged creatures that dwell in thickets, but according to some scholars, who emphasize especially the association between the tragedian and the “divine addresses,” Aristophanes also means that Phrynichos’s songs are reminiscent in rhythms and tunes of these old cult hymns and dances (Fraenkel 1962: 2107). It is possible, of course, that this is the playwright stressing the influence of real musical patterns on Phrynichos’s tragic songs, but, if so, the mention of melodies for Pan and the Asiatic Great Mother — both the gods being “worshipped with ecstatic rituals involving drums” (Dunbar 1995: 465) — could also be viewed as an allusion to a mystic/orgiastic atmosphere, closely associated with Dionysian rituals, which, I believe, Aristophanes points to also elsewhere as being typically Phrynichean (see below).

Agathon and Phrynichos (Thesmophoriazousae 159–172) Of the abovementioned musical features, some are also alluded to in a passage from the Thesmophoriazousae, where the reference to Phrynichos is part of Agathon’s own defense against the ironic comments of the Relative on the sexual “incongruity” of his costume (made up of male and female items). The defense 7  Contra Dunbar 1995: 466, who claims that “Ar.’s Chorus is unlikely to be making a scholarly point about the influence of earlier human music on Phr.”



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is based on the enunciation of an aesthetic theory about the process of composition: the dress and appearance of the poet must correspond with the works he is composing, in the aim of capturing women’s and men’s habits, so as to faithfully represent them in the theatre (Ar. Thesm. 148–156). The specifically female items of Agathon’s disguise are therefore a necessity of dramatic μίμησις ‘imitation’ (Cantarella 1970; Muecke 1982; Mureddu 1982–1283: 75–78; Saetta-Cottone 2003), and provide no evidence of the well-known effeminacy alluded to by the Relative.8





Fig. 1: Attic red-figure lekythos, ca. 470–60 BCE.

In lines 159–166, Agathon strengthens these theoretical principles by reference to a specific literary tradition: the poets Ibycus, Anacreon and Alcaeus wore similar refined dress, composed similar elaborate music and had in common a mannered 8 On the theoretical enunciation as an Aristophanic attempt to point out the arbitrary character of the whole system of representing gender on stage, as well as the contradictions inherent in the mimetic process between theatrical illusion and reality, see esp. Zeitlin 1981; Stehle 2002: 378–384; Compton-Engle 2003: 515–524.

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Ionian sensuousness. The same can be said of Phrynichos: his beautiful plays reflected the beauty of his figure and clothes. Similarly, the Relative ironically adds, the bitter aspect and frigid character of poets like Philocles, Xenocles and Theognis correspond with the bitterness and frigidity of their compositions. I have tried to show elsewhere (De Simone 2005) that the example of the “Ionian” poets is introduced to members of the audience not only to persuade them that Agathon’s theoretical underpinnings are true (Muecke 1982: 51); nor is it used to mock Agathon’s pretentiousness in associating himself with a tradition he is unworthy of (McIntosh Snyder 1974). It is likely, I think, that Aristophanes establishes here an authentic link between old and new styles of composition. This hypothesis cannot be supported without considering the “lost” levels of performance (music, costumes and accessories, to name a few) which on the Athenian stage invested the verbal language with additional dramatic meanings. Although we cannot reconstruct these levels, we can learn much about them from textual clues.9 Consider first the level of ὄψις ‘visual signs’: McIntosh Snyder, in a brief but fundamental article, has shown the strong correspondence between the specific elements of Agathon’s costume (Ar. Thesm. 136–140, 249–263)10 and the items of a dress worn by several individuals presented on a group of 46 Attic vase paintings depicting bearded men in scenes of komastic revelry. These were produced between 530 and 470 bce, and denoted “Anacreontic” because Anacreon’s labeled figure appears on three of them (McIntosh Snyder 1974, see Fig. 1). Moreover, on a well-known Attic krater attributed to the Brygos painter, Alcaeus wears similar clothes, and plays the Asiatic βάρβιτος (the same instrument that is part of Agathon’s costume; Ar. Thesm. 137)11 in a manner reminiscent of the Anacreon type. Such iconographic sources confirm the previous observations about ἁβροσύνη: the items of the bearded men’s attire (chiton, himation, sakkos/mitra, earrings and parasol) can find parallels in the East Greek and Lydian world (De Vries 9  A first systematic study of Aristophanes’ plays (esp. Clouds, Lysistrata and Wealth) from the perspective of stagecraft and performance is Revermann 2006, which charts very thoroughly the recent evolution of “performance studies.” Such methodology of analysis, which moves beyond textual cues as a guide to extra-textual performative elements, was first applied by Taplin 1977 to Aeschylean tragedy. 10  Elements of Agathon’s disguise that are in common with the Anacreon figure: κροκωτός ‘long saffron robe’, στρόφιον ‘girdle around waist’, κεκρύφαλος ‘turban-like headdress’, μίτρα ‘headband’, ἱμάτιον ‘cloak’, ὑποδήματα ‘shoes’ and βάρβιτος ‘long-armed lyre’. 11  Description of the instrument and references: McIntosh Snyder 1972, 1976; Paquette 1984: 173–186. What is remarkable for our purposes is the Asiatic origin, the use in connection with symposia and Dionysian revelry (confirmed by both archaeological and literary evidence) and the association with Anacreon and Alcaeus.



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1973); far from being the external signs of an effeminate identity, it is likely that they functioned as markers of Eastern luxury, in a period in which aristocratic ἁβρότης was praised in literary sources.12 Whether these lavishly dressed figures are Ionians (e.g., Anacreon and other refugees from Samos) or Athenians who have adopted Ionian ways and dress, the link with both komastic revelry and the East Greek world is self-evident, and the fifth-century negative rethinking of their sumptuous garments could have been motivated by the association with the feminine sphere (Kurke 1992: 97–99). It is doubtless that Aristophanes, in associating Agathon’s dress with that of Anacreon and Alcaeus (evidence about Ibycus is lacking), is referring to the tradition represented by the vase paintings: the New Musicians of the late fifth century probably turned to the Ionian East seeking models of extravagance in dress, but the increasing female use of such markers of luxury had entailed a loss of status to male users, justifying the ironic comments of the Relative on Agathon’s effeminacy. However, the association with the East Greek poets involves not only the Ionian fashion, but also the style of lyric composition: the interchangeability between the poet’s aspect and his work (Ar. Thesm. 148–156), of which the dress is only a visual representation, is theorized by Agathon himself. A clearer confirmation can be found by considering a further level of performance, that of μελοποιΐα ‘lyric composition’: the song performed by Agathon, an astrophic dialogue in which the tragedian takes the role of both the coryphaeus and the female chorus (101–113), is characterized by the parodic use of “free Ionian verses” (Rau 1967: 107–108; Dearden 1976: 103–104; Zimmermann 1993: 45), the perfect rhythmical correlates of the Ionian-female disguise. The reminiscence of archaic metrical sequences is self-evident: there are anacreontics in lines 104 and 124, variations of anacreontic in 117, 118 and 123 (which are found in Anacreon’s but also in Alcaeus’s songs), and perhaps aeolo-choriambics in lines 106, 110, 113, 119 and 125 (Parker 1997: 398–405). The interaction between two performative levels (ὄψις and μελοποιΐα) and Agathon’s verbal enunciations (λέξις) makes it possible, thus, to interpret the parodic allusions of the scene within a unitary framework of the exotic-anderotic innuendo. More precisely, Agathon’s assertion about the resemblance he bears to the refined “Ionian” poets (level of λέξις) finds a concrete confirmation in the Ionian and “Anacreontic” costume worn by the new tragedian (level of ὄψις), and is perfectly coherent with the parodic use of sweet Ionian verses (level of μελοποιΐα). As said above, for fifth-century Athenians Ionia was a byword for 12  For a different interpretation cf. Miller 1999, who believes the sumptuous garments to be involved in “the creation of…a sexless third gender,” which emphasizes “the external separation of the komasts from the rest of humanity and the mundane” (247).

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effeminacy and luxury, and the Ionian “markers” were all indicative of the lascivious and Orientalizing character of Agathon’s musical inspiration (a character confirmed by the Relative, who after hearing Agathon’s Orientalizing performance ironically reacts by defining the song as lascivious, effeminate and erotic; Ar. Thesm. 130–133). The association between the new musical style of Agathon and the lyric manner of the Ionian poets amounts to an ambivalent attitude toward the Orientalizing musical heritage, as being characterized by the same delicate, refined, even effeminate overtones that are typical of the New Music. Such an attitude fits very well the fifth- and fourth-century elites’ perspective about the Lesbian and Ionian poets: conservative Athenians used to speak of the Eastern lyrics in terms of licentiousness and vulgarity,13 and a similar association between a supporter of the new style and an Eastern composer is found in Epicrates (frag. 4 Kassel-Austin), who compares Sappho’s songs with the erotic verses of a new dithyrambist like Cleomenes. “By harmonizing these assertions with the evidence of Aristophanes, one may conclude that in the elite critics’ literature the popular erotic songs, the new musical compositions and the lyrics of the Orientalizing tradition were all tarred with the same brush for their similar lascivious overtones” (De Simone 2008):14 if classical Athenians could regard the luxurious garments of the earlier Ionian male elite as effeminate, they could also consider their lyric/symposiastic performances as chiefly marked by a mannered sensuousness. This perspective is not in contrast with the elites’ predilection for the music of the past:15 Athenian aristocrats invented a tradition of their own, whose ideal sobriety and manliness was very distant from the luxurious/languid/Lydian-sympathizing pattern of the ancient Eastern poets, and opposed to the elaborate new musical manner. It should not be surprising therefore if the Aristophanic Agathon explicitly associates his lyric style with the “Ionicizing” musical influence of poets like

13  In Clearch. 33 W., for example, the poems of Sappho and Anacreon are said to be not so different from popular erotic songs and trivial Locrian songs: Lasserre 1993; Csapo 2004: 232–235. 14  My paper is about a scene from the Frogs’ agon (1301–1328) about Euripides’ choral songs. Common to both episodes is the charge against the lascivious and exotic songs of a supporter of the New Music (Agathon in the Thesmophoriazusae and Euripides in the Frogs). Also similar are the devices of criticism: in the contest of the Frogs the parodic use of Lesbian lines (μελοποιΐα) is coherent with the allusion to a Lesbian and erotic Muse (λέξις), and probably confirmed by the appearance and behavior of the Muse herself (ὄψις: see infra n. 20). 15  See, e.g., Ar. Nub. 966–972, 1355–1372; ps.-Arist. Pr. 19.15; ps.-Plut. De mus. 6.1133b; Ath. Deipn. 14.631e.



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Anacreon and Alcaeus, nor if he refers to the lyric manner of Ibycus — well known for his homoerotic songs.16 What about Phrynichos? Why his presence in this discourse? Does it imply a definition of his musical pattern, or is it due to a generic association with a refined charm that he is mentioned? One could note that the tragedian is cited separately from the lyric poets, and for almost different motivations: it is not his sweet Ionian style that is referred to, but rather the beauty of his person, clothes and plays.17 Nevertheless, the similar focus on the congruence between the aspect of the poet and the process of composition, and the analogous association with Agathon’s poetic and aesthetic style, suggest an evaluation of his lyric manner similar to that of the Eastern composers, which can be further confirmed by considering once again all the levels of performance. Let us take, for example, the level of λέξις: that Phrynichos’s musical style is characterized by a refined sweetness and sensuousness, the same qualities which the Relative ironically attributes to Agathon’s musical performance (Ar. Thesm. 130–133), we have already seen in commenting on the Birds’ parabasis ode (but see also Vesp. 218–220, discussed below, and the possible reference to Phrynichos’s effeminacy in Schol. Ar. Nub. 1091). Yet, it is the level of μελοποιΐα (of which only the rhythm is an available feature for modern readers) that provides a strong connection between the musical models cited by Agathon: just like Anacreon and Alcaeus, Phrynichos has a special relationship with the Ionian meters. Hephaestion says of him that he habitually used Ionic tetrameters, and in support of this assertion quotes two catalectic verses (frag. 14 Snell-Kannicht). Moreover, and most significantly, a parody of Phrynichos’s Ionian lines is offered by Aristophanes himself (Vesp. 291–316: cf. below). The level of ὄψις, on the other hand, is no longer within the reach of the modern

16  Cf. Ath. Deipn. 13.601b (= frag. 5 Page), 603d (= frag. 28 Page). As a matter of fact, there is a tradition that groups the three poets together as authors of παιδικά: see Cic. Tusc. 4.33 (quae de iuvenum amore scribit Alcaeus! Nam Anacreontis quidem tota poesis est amatoria. Maxime vero omnium flagrasse amore Rhegium Ibycum apparet ex scriptis) and Schol. Pind. Isthm. 2.1b; but the perfect coincidence of names with the passage of the Thesmophoriazousae strengthens the suspicion that the common source is Aristophanes himself. 17  In commenting on the example of Phrynichos, Agathon introduces the concept of φύσις: the style of poetic composition inevitably reflects the poets’ nature. However, this explanation is incompatible with the assertion that a dramatist by physical imitation must conform his τρόποι to a character’s speech and behavior: “If he is imitating feminine qualities which he does not possess (155–6), it is not true that those qualities are in his own nature (167)” (MacDowell 1995: 256). Aristophanes, indeed, the comic stage not being the ideal setting for a scholarly discussion on poetics, wants only to make an implicit critique of Agathon’s poetic and aesthetic style, and to give a general impression of effeminacy and licentiousness.

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reader; however, it is again Aristophanes who supplies us with his hint at Phrynichos’s lovely aspect, corresponding to a lovely style of composition.18 The juxtaposition of different performative levels allows us, thereby, to define a set of stylistic qualities (namely, the lyric sensuousness and the Ionian overtones) which, together with an external beauty and elegance, can justify not only Agathon’s self-comparison with the Phrynichean pattern, but also the association between Phrynichos and the “Ionian” poets, included too in this discourse because of the combination of Asiatic and erotic elements. From this perspective, Agathon’s self-reference to the lyric models of the past amounts to a unitary and coherent presentation of an Orientalizing musical pattern, which fits very well the attitude of a conservative playwright like Aristophanes.

The Refusal of the Phrynichean Pattern (Frogs 908–910, 1298–1300) There are two passages referring to Phrynichos in the Frogs. The first is found in the opening speech of Euripides, at the beginning of the formal agon between the two tragedians. Euripides’ first argument is a reference to the organization of his own discourse: he will first show “what a charlatan and quack (Aeschylus) was, and by what devices he hoodwinked his audiences, whom he took over after they had been brought up to be stupid in the school of Phrynichus” (Ran. 908–910; trans. by Sommerstein 1996: 109). According to Sommerstein, the mention of Phrynichos is here used by Euripides to stress that the rival “merely exploited the (crude) tastes of the audience he inherited, whereas he himself has striven to refine their sensibility and understanding” (Sommerstein 1996: 236); the new tragedian is thus marking his distance from two older colleagues; however, a charge put by Aristophanes in Euripides’ mouth may just as well be an Aristophanic compliment. 18  The aesthetic resemblance with Agathon and Anacreon would receive surprising support, if we believe that the central figure of a dancer labeled “Phrynichos” on a red-figured krater of the second half of the fifth century (probably the leader of a dance group), dressed with the same luxurious/Eastern garments of the Anacreon type (the ἱμάτιον, a decorated κροκωτός and the μίτρα), is to be identified with the tragic poet (Ceccarelli 1994: 93). Harvey (2000) rejects the identification with the tragedian, asserting that “it is difficult to see why such an image should have been painted almost half a century after his death” (116 n. 7). Molitor (1984: 254) suggests that the Phrynichos represented on the vase is the “former dancer” mentioned by Andocides (De mysteriis 47: cf. infra n. 22). But Phrynichos the tragedian is also associated with dancing, and it is not improbable that he is the same person referred to by Andocides (see below).



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Nonetheless, a similar remark is put in the same play into Aeschylus’s mouth. In the second section of the choral songs contest (Ar. Ran. 1249–1328), after Dionysos has satirized the popular sources of Aeschylus’s lyric style (1296–1297), the tragedian claims the original and noble character of his own μέλη: he has not imitated the songs of his tragic predecessor Phrynichos (1299–1300); instead, he has transposed them εἰς τὸ καλὸν ἐκ τοῦ καλοῦ (1298).19 The image of Phrynichos gathering his poetic “nectar” from the divine meadow of the Muses (1300) belongs to the same metaphorical sphere as the bee imagery20 (twice associated with Phrynichos himself, in Birds 748 and Wasps 220: see below), and it could, with due caution, be taken as an allusion to the same musical feature (the melodic sweetness, perhaps together with a “sacred flavor” already evoked in the Birds’ parabasis ode).21 In claiming his own originality, Aeschylus does not explicitly depreciate Phrynichos’s musical inspiration; however, it is perhaps indicative that he would take special advantage by emphasizing a difference between his own songs and the lyrics of Phrynichos. What exactly implies the definition of such a difference? It could be inferred that the sensuous-and-Oriental character of Phrynichos’s songs was perceived as distant from the noble and sober overtones of Aeschylus’s lyric verses, explicitly associated with the Dorian kitharoedic nomoi (1282), and opposed to the Orientalizing meters of Euripides’ μέλη22 (the Aeschylean parody of Euripides’ choral songs is all made up of Aeolic verses; Ar. Ran.1309–1328).23 It would be unwise, however, to draw any sweeping conclusion from the evidence of a too-laconic reference, and, more broadly, to infer anything else from the text of the Frogs. We can only try to draw a more firm inference by verifying whether the Aristophanic definition of a sweet, varied and Orientalizing musical pattern, which seems to emerge from the above analyses, is corroborated by the Wasps’ much more significant evidence about Phrynichos. 19  On the Greeks’ predilection for the καλόν, see van der Valk 1982: 60 and n. 25. 20  All the items of the poet–bee imagery (bee, honey, meadow, Muses) are used in an epigram in praise of Erinna (AP 7.13) “The lyric maid Erinna, the poet bee that drew The honey from the rarest flowers the Muses’s garden grew, Hath Hades snatched to be his bride…” (trans. by Ransome 2004: 105). 21  If one assume that “Phrynichos himself may have used honey imagery” (Dunbar 1995: 467) the triple association of such a metaphor with the tragedian would support the hypothesis of a parody of high lyric. 22  I owe this last observation to Prof. Massimo Di Marco, whom I thank for a stimulating discussion and helpful remarks on an earlier version of this paper. 23  The allusion to a Lesbian Μοῦσ’ Εὐριπίδου (Ar. Ran. 1308), whose erotic activity (λεσβίζω/ λεσβιάζω is the vox propria for fellatio) is perfectly coherent with the lascivious and erotic character of Euripides’ lyric sources (listed by Aeschylus in lines 1301–1303), would confirm that the Aeolic inspiration is one of the main points of Aeschylus’s musical criticism (see De Simone 2008).

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Drunken Excess, Dancing Mania and Eastern Emotionality (Wasps 218–220, 268–315 and 1474–1537). Let us begin with the Wasps’ exodos, whose interpretation and exegetic usefulness mainly depends on the identification of the dancer/choreographer Phrynichos, who is mentioned twice. The scene (Ar. Vesp. 1474–1537), much discussed by scholars (Roos 1951; Borthwick 1968; Vaio 1971; MacCary 1979), is an authentic dance-agon, which takes place in the theatre. It begins with a report of the servant Xanthias, who announces that old Philokleon has been seized by a dancing mania (1476–1478), that he has been performing the old dances of Thespis (1479) and that he means to challenge the younger tragedians to a dancing competition (1480–1481). Philokleon appears, and together with Xanthias goes on to describe in anapestic dimeters (1482–1495) the set of his dance figures.24 In doing so, the old man mentions a certain Phrynichos and his proverbial high kick, which was named after him the “Phrynichean” (1490). A dialogue follows between Philokleon and Xanthias (1496–1515), at the end of which the sons of Carcinus enter one by one to contend with Philokleon; then, after the chorus has delivered a brief κατακελευσμός (1516–1517), the contest begins, and is concluded by the exit of the chorus (1518–1537). In the middle of this lyric agon, in line 1524, the Phrynichean kick is mentioned once more, but this time it refers to the performance of the “new composers” of dances. What is clear from these two references (in lines 1490 and 1524) is that the Phrynichos alluded to in the exodos is somehow associated with dance, and one might suppose that he is the same Phrynichos mentioned by the scholiasts as a dancer, an actor and a target of comic joke (Schol. Ar. Nub. 1091, for example, mentions a “Phrynichos tragic dancer” satirized for his effeminacy and for the great variety of his dance figures: Vaio 1971: 347 n. 54; Molitor 1984).25 Nevertheless, as we have already pointed out at the beginning of our investigation, it has been supposed that “‘the tragic actor’ or ‘the tragic dancer’ is not necessarily a 24  On the basis of the metrical structure, which suggests a mixture of song and παρακαταλογή, Rossi 1978, followed by MacCary 1979: 140–141, has claimed that such dance figures were only mimed, not actually danced as in a modern ballet. 25  See also Schol. Ar. Vesp. 1302 (which refers to Phrynichos the actor as one of the “sycophants” mocked by Xanthias) and Schol. Ar. Av. 750 (which distinguishes Phrynichos the actor, son of Chorocles, from Phrynichos the tragedian, son of Polyphrasmon), with Chantry 2001 (who takes the view that lines 1490 and 1524 refer to Phrynichos the dancer, son of Chorocles). Consider too the list of names quoted by Andocides in De mysteriis 47, which includes Φρύνιχος ὁ ὀρχησάμενος, “Phrynichos who used to be a dancer.”



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different person from the dramatist” (MacDowell 1971: 324): Phrynichos the tragedian is associated too with dancing, and in an epigram ascribed to him (but perhaps of Hellenistic date) is said that his dances “gave as many figures as at sea, when…the cruel night makes waves” (Plut. Quaest. symp. 732f.);26 that there was another poet of the same name famous for the ποικιλία of his dances sounds too good a coincidence to be true. Moreover, to deny that the Phrynichos of the Wasps exodus is the ancient tragic poet, and that Philokleon’s dance steps are somewhat reminiscent of old-fashioned orchestic movements, would contrast to what Xanthias says in lines 1478–1481 about Philokleon’s intention to perform the old tragic dances of Thespis in a contest with the modern tragic performers27 — an assertion that is confirmed by the tragic diction used by Philokleon in telling Xanthias to make way for him (1482–1484).28 More importantly, Philokleon’ s devotion to the songs of the tragic poet has already been a theme of this play (see below), and considering the old age of both the dicast and his companions in the chorus one may conclude that he is a favorite poet with the democratic Athenians of the old generation.29 26  See also Ath. Deipn. 1.22a; Eusth. ad Il. 13.637. 27  Roos 1951, who denies a reference to early Athenian tragedy, suggestively assumes that Philokleon’s dances are the same performed by ἑταῖραι; but cf. MacDowell 1971: 323: “No doubt some of the individual movements mentioned in 1484–1495 may sometimes have been performed by ἑταῖραι, but that does not prove that they were not performed in early tragedies too.” For full references to earlier proposals, see MacCary 1979: 142–144. 28  In support of this, further evidence has been added by scholars in the long exegetical history of the text: Starkie (1897: 384), for example, appeals to Schol. Ar. Vesp. 1490, where it is said that the expression πτήσσει Φρύνιχος ὣς τις ἀλέκτωρ (“Phrynichos cowers like a cock”), allusive of a line thrice quoted by Plutarch (ἔπτηξ ̓ ἀλέκτωρ δοῦλον ὣς κλίνας πτερόν = Amat. 762e = Alc. 4.3 = Pel. 29.11 = frag. 17 Snell-Kannicht) and assumed to be by the tragedian Phrynichos himself, is proverbial from the famous event of Phrynichos’s expulsion after the first representation of his Sack of Miletus (the Athenians, sorrowed by the horrors unsparingly depicted by the tragedian, punished him who was “cowering” himself for fear). Borthwick (1968: 44–47), who explains the “cowering” as a figure of Pyrrhic dance, appeals to the tradition that connects the tragedian Phrynichos with the composition of music for Pyrrhicists; Handley (1953), arguing against Roos’s view that Philokleon dances in the manner of ἑταῖραι and revelers, quotes Euphronius’s remark that “the Phrynichean” is a figure of tragic dance (see Schol. Ar. Vesp. 1524), and MacCary 1979: 143–147 associates the ithyphallic rhythm of the lyric agon with the violent and obscene rhythmand-dance of early Greek tragedy: see infra. 29  To these arguments I think that the following ones can be usefully added: Xenocles, the third of Carcinus’s sons who appears in answer to Philokleon’s challenge, is the same condemned as a bitter poet in the passage from the Thesmophoriazousae examined above, where his bad figure and poetry are similarly opposed to the beautiful style of Phrynichos the tragedian. Common to both episodes is the fact that Xenocles’ physical ugliness is a source of delight and ridicule to

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Such a straightforward view is indeed not without problems: what generally causes the association of the tragedian Phrynichos with the high kick to be considered implausible (Roos 1951: 122–132; Rau 1967: 156; Vaio 1979: 347 n. 54) is the question, first raised by Meineke, of Aristophanes’ strong admiration for the dramatist, which does not suit the parodic and paratragic overtones of the entire scene (Meineke 1839: 149). This objection, which relates to the larger question of Aristophanes’ appropriation and reinterpretation of the ancient musical patterns, might be first answered, I think, by harmonizing the exodos evidence with the double mention of Phrynichos’s songs contained in the first part of the play, and then, more generally, by interpreting all the Aristophanic allusions to the dramatist within a unitary framework. Let us begin by examining the two occurrences of the first part. In the prologue, the old Athenians who form the chorus of the wasp-dicasts are said with a long compound (219–220) to sing the “lovely old honeyed Sidonian Phrynichos’s songs” (μινυρίζοντες μέλη ἀρχαῖα μελισιδωνοφρυνιχήρατα, a compound of μέλι, Σιδών, Φρύνιχος and ἐρατός, with Σιδών being probably allusive of Phrynichos’s Phoenician Women; Starkie 1897: 156; Sommerstein 1983: 169).30 With such songs they used to call for their ex fellow dicast Philokleon, imprisoned by his son Bdelykleon, who was deeply worried about the father’s juridical mania and tried to persuade him not to go outdoors. Then, in the parodos, the chorus leader reminds his fellow old-dicasts of the old days when their colleague Philokleon, a man “devoted to music” (ἁνὴρ φιλῳδός; Vesp. 269–270), used to sing something out of Phrynichos, and invites them to sing a song from this repertory, hoping that he will hear the delightful melody and come outdoors (270–272). It can safely be assumed that the paratragic stanzas that follow are metrically and musically reminiscent of a Phrynichean model, with which the content and diction would contrast to afford a parodic effect (Sommerstein 1983: 169; Parker 1997: 218). The first song (273–290), where the chorus speculates on the reasons that may be keeping Philokleon indoors, is in an unparalleled combination of Ionic and dactylo-epitrite (both the meters are attested in the scanty surviving fragments of Phrynichos: Parker 1997: 218). The second song (291–316), a comic duet between the chorus leader and his son, is in Ionics.31

Aristophanes, who, in the Wasps, compares the dancer to a “vinegar-cruet or a spider” (1509, with Borthwick 1968: 47–51 for the proposal to read ὦτος ἢ σφάλαξ;). 30  It is perhaps noteworthy that in Aristophanes ad hoc compounds are usually created for parodic purposes. 31  “Aristophanes uses the Ionian a minore metre only in parodies” (Starkie 1897: 175). See also Zimmermann 1987.



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Thus, once again, the tragedian Phrynichos is mentioned for the sweetness and delightfulness of his lyrics (the keywords are μελι, 220, and ἡδονή, 272), and once again this sweetness is associated with the Ionian rhythm and the Eastern world (consider the allusion to the Phoenician Women).32 Both delightfulness and Orientalism have a special relationship with Dionysos, the god of wine, female abandon and orgiastic ritual who is represented as always arriving from the East. And it seems that the dance-agon of the exodos is also drawn within the Dionysian sphere: MacCary (1979: 140–141, 144–147) argues for a relationship between the ithyphallic element, which is recognizable in the metrical sequences of the final song (1518–1537, including recitative archilocheans), and the ithyphalloi who carried the phallus-pole in processions in honor of Dionysos, whose connection with an early stage of drama is well known (see Arist. Pol. 1449a).33 It is possible, of course, that Philokleon in his “conscientious attempt to evoke the dance of old tragedy” is “getting back to Dionysos” (ibid.: 144–145); but, if so, the association with the god of wine could involve musical features of a less technical kind, which might allow us to make a little step forward in establishing a link among all the Wasps passages where the repertoire of Phrynichos is alluded to. Philokleon, like the chorus of wasp-dicasts, has a particular fondness for the Eastern overtones of Phrynichos’s songs. The Eastern world is associated not only with luxury and effeminacy, but also with erotic pleasure and drunken excess, which both imply an uncontrolled and irrational behavior. In the final scene of the play, Philokleon is a drunken man (1476) who flirts with a debauched flute-girl (1341–1363), and cannot stop dancing in Phrynichos’s old-fashioned “Dionysian” style (1477–1479). His excessive and uncontrolled passion provides a linking motif between the symposiastic themes of the final scenes and the dicastic themes of the rest of the play: formerly expended in the law courts (the judicial mania of part 1), and far from vanishing under Bdelykleon’s cares, it dissolves later into the erotic energy, the drunkenness and the inhibited dancing-mania of part 2 (Vaio 1979: particularly 337–340 and 344–347).34 It is the same excessive passion 32  See already Lloyd-Jones (1990: 235), who argues for “an affinity” between Phrynichos and “the eastern half of the Greek world,” confirmed by both the Aristophanic evidence and the occurrence of Orientalizing meters in the scanty surviving fragments of Phrynichos’s songs (and I think this is hardly surprising, given the Orientalizing atmosphere of at least two of his plays, the Sack of Miletus and the Phoenician Women). 33  It is perhaps indicative that “there is what appears to be an archilochean among the fragments of the tragic poet Phrynichus (frag. 13 Snell-Kannicht)” (Parker 1997: 261). It is Hephaestion (Poem. 15.2.47) who refers to the last element of the archilochean as an ithyphallic. For discussion and references to earlier metrical analyses, see MacCary 1979: 138–140. 34  The once prevailing view that the final scenes connect only loosely with the rest of the play is no longer considered. Contrarily, scholarly attention has focused on “certain important motifs

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of the fellow old-dicasts who form the chorus of wasps: “They were the men who fought at Marathon, and whether it be sword or stylus, their sting is the badge of the heroic spirit” (Whitman 1964: 148). In Part 1, they are represented while carrying torches and twittering the Orientalizing songs of Phrynichos. In part 2 it is their ex-fellow Philokleon, drunken and sexually inhibited, who performs the old-fashioned dances of Thespis and Phrynichos. The fondness for Phrynichos is a leitmotif of the play, and his musical pattern seems to be chosen intentionally: both musical Orientalism and languidness, together with the orchestic versatility and complexity, stand in diametric opposition to a mythical past characterized by soberness and self-discipline, all implying a “non-Hellenic” lack of measure, which perfectly suits the uncontrolled behavior of a drunken Philokleon. That Phrynichos’s style was particularly related to unrestrained emotionality and lack of self-control might be evidenced, too, by the report about the famous episode of the first representation of his Sack of Miletus: the horrors of that dramatic event, depicted in a way as to be extremely pathetic and painful, caused the audiences to react with excessively emotional outpouring, and to show their sorrow by shedding tears. Consequently, a payment of a thousand drachmas was imposed on Phrynichos, and his tragedy was banned. From this episode, quoted by Herodotus (6.21) and perhaps alluded to in Wasps 1490 (see n. 28), it is clear that Phrynichos’s poetic style was regarded to produce uncontrolled emotional overtones, and to cause the audience members to loose their inhibitions.35 Such a tragic pattern is a perfect landmark for the Aristophanic Philokleon and his fellow old-dicasts, whose scenic (mis)behavior is characterized by frenzy and lack of inhibitions.

Conclusion These last observations remind us the initial question of Aristophanes’ attitude toward Phrynichos’s μουσική. The image of Phrynichos as a sweet, melodious that link the several parts of the play and give it an overall coherence of thematic structure” (Vaio 1971: 335 and n. 2 for earlier references; see also Slater 2002: 106–108). Among these motifs, Philokleon’s excessive passion has the advantage of combining both political and symposiastic themes. I think that the fondness for Phrynichos’s musical pattern could usefully be added to the list (a similar view is now supported by M. Wright, Comedy versus tragedy in Wasps, in Greek Comedy and the Discourse of Genres, ed. E. Bakola, L. Prauscello and M. Telò, Cambridge, England 2013, 205–225, not yet available at the time of the conference). 35  Setting aside the possible political implications of the episode summarized but brought into question, by Roisman 1988.



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and lovable poet is drawn largely by Aristophanes’ plays. But a complete analysis of the Aristophanic evidence allows us to define a more complex portrait, which squares with the different musical features to which the text alludes. The following table presents a restrictive list of musical/ethical qualities related to Phrynichos, and includes all lines involved to show the distribution of the “labels” throughout the entire Aristophanic text. Orientalizing overtones Birds 737–752

Sweetness/ sensuousness

ποικιλία

bee imagery

“variegated” reference to the Muse, “varied” Asiatic dances for meter the Great Mother as possible Phrynichean sources

Cultic/Dionysian atmosphere

Thesmophoriazousae association with association with 159–167 Ionian fashion effeminacy and and Ionian sensuality rhythm Frogs 1298–1300

possible opposition to the “Dorian” pattern (kitharoedic nomoi)

poetic “nectar” (= poet–bee comparison)

Wasps 218–220, 268–315 Wasps 1474–1537

Ionian rhythm

honey imagery, delightfulness

reference to the sacred meadow of the Muses

introduction ithyphallic rhythmof new dance and-dance, figures (the drunken excess orchestic variety of Phrynichos being confirmed by later sources)

In the time of Aristophanes, when the theatrical genres of dithyramb and drama were being influenced by the new style of musical performance, references to music’s variety, emotionalism, languidness and Dionysian Orientalism became elements in a vocabulary regularly used to point the finger at the excesses of the new composers (Csapo 1999–2000: 404–405). Aristophanes himself systematically employs them in parodic and polemic contexts. As the table shows, the

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same musical attributes serve also to define the Aristophanic portrait of Phrynichos μουσικός, which makes the general view that the comedian highly praises his lovable songs questionable at the least, and Rogers’ assertion that “no nobler panegyric was ever pronounced by one great poet to another” slightly exaggerated (Rogers 1906: 102). None of the characters who are said to have a special relationship with his lyric style (Agathon, Philokleon, the nightingale herself) is a figure whom the spectator was encouraged to treat favorably, and the Orientalizing attributes (mainly the Ionian rhythm) left no positive impression on the defendants of traditionalism. As we have argued in the above analysis of the Agathon scene, the association between the new musical trend and an early tragic pattern should not come as a surprise: “The New Musicians imagined their project as the (re-)creation of an authentically Dionysian music,” which “suited the professional virtuoso’s desire to unleash music’s unique potential for expressing emotion and sensuality” (Csapo 1999–2000: 425). This need not mean that Phrynichos is the target of the same criticism as the new composers of music, nor that his musical pattern is intended to be a favorite source of inspiration for musical innovators (although it is not at all improbable). Instead, an overall interpretation of his comic portrait makes it a little clearer that the late classical representation of a manly and remarkably Greek musical prehistory, as opposed to the Orientalizing new musical trend, cannot be assumed to be the rule. If the scanty surviving Phrynichean fragments do not allow us to reconstruct with absolute certainty the cultural and aesthetic orientation of the tragedian, nor the features of his lyric style, Aristophanes’ insistence on emphasizing a connection with both musical Orientalism and sensuousness makes it plausible that he was perceived by later generations of Athenians as being distant from the rigid cultural model of the “good old age,” and well located in the Lydian/Ionian-sympathizing climate of late archaic Athens. I actually agree with Barker when he asserts that “though beautiful and sweet, the compositions of Phrynichus did not have,” for Aristophanes, “the solemnity and weight of those of Aeschylus” (Barker 1984: 111 n. 49), and that the Aristophanic portrait is far from amounting to an enthusiastic praise of his lyric songs.



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1999 Reexamining Transvestism in Archaic and Classical Athens: The Zewadski Stamnos. American Journal of Archaeology 103(2): 223–253. Molitor, M. V. 1984 Phrynichos, a Note on Aristophanes, Vespae, 1490–1493. Hermes 112: 252–254. Muecke, F. 1982 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman. Classical Quarterly 32: 41–55. Mureddu, P. 1982–1983 Il poeta drammatico da didaskalos a mimetes: su alcuni aspetti della critica letteraria in Aristofane. Annali dell’Istituto Universitario Orientale di Napoli (sezione filologico-letteraria) 4–5: 75–98. Paquette, D. 1984 L’instrument de musique dans la céramique de la Grèce antique: études d’organologie. Paris. Parker, L. P. E. 1997 The Songs of Aristophanes. Oxford. Pickard-Cambridge, A. 1962 Dithyramb, Tragedy and Comedy, rev. ed. T. B. L. Webster. Oxford. Ransome, H. M. [1937] 2004 The Sacred Bee in Ancient Times and Folklore. London. Reprint, Mineola, N.Y. Rau, P. 1967 Paratragodia. Untersuchung einer komischen Form des Aristophanes. Munich. Revermann, M. 2006 Comic Business: Theatricality, Dramatic Technique, and Performance Contexts of Aristophanic Comedy. Oxford and New York. Rogers, B. B. ed. 1906 The Birds of Aristophanes. The Greek Text Revised with a Translation into Corresponding Metres, Introduction and Commentary. London. Roisman, J. 1988 On Phrynichos’ Sack of Miletos and Phoinissai. Eranos 86: 15–23. Roos, E. 1951 Die tragische Orchestik im Zerrbild der altattischen Komödie. Lund. Rosenmeyer, P. A. 1992 The Poetics of Imitation: Anacreon and the Anacreontic Tradition. Cambridge, England. Rossi, L. E. 1978 Mimica e danza sulla scena comica greca (a proposito del finale delle Vespe e di altri passi aristofanei). Rivista di Cultura Classica e Medioevale (Miscellanea di Studi in Memoria di Marino Barchiesi) 20(1)–3: 1149–1170. Saetta-Cottone, R. 2003 Agathon, Euripide et le thème de la mimesis dramatique dans les «Thesmophories» d’Aristophane. Revue des Études Grecques 116: 445–469. Slater, N. W. 2002 Spectator Politics: Metatheatre and Performance in Aristophanes. Philadelphia.

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Sommerstein, A. H. ed. 1983 The Comedies of Aristophanes, vol. 4: Wasps. Warminster. 1987 The Comedies of Aristophanes, vol. 6: Birds. Warminster. 1996 The Comedies of Aristophanes, vol. 9: Frogs. Warminster. Starkie, W. J. M. ed. 1897 The Wasps of Aristophanes. With Introduction, Metrical Analysis, Critical Notes and Commentary. London. Stehle, E. M. 2002 The Body and Its Representations in Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazousai: Where Does the Costume End? American Journal of Philology 123: 369–406. Taplin, O. 1977 The Stagecraft of Aeschylus: The Dramatic Use of Exits and Entrances in Greek Tragedy. Oxford. Vaio, J. 1971 Aristophanes’ Wasps. The Relevance of the Final Scenes. Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 12(3): 335–351. van der Valk, M. 1982 Aristophanes, Ranae 1249–1363. Antichthon 16: 54–76. Whitman, C. H. 1964 Aristophanes and the Comic Hero. Cambridge, Mass. Zanetto, G. ed. 1987 Aristofane. Gli Uccelli, introduzione e traduzione di Dario Del Corno. Milan. Zeitlin, F. I. 1981 Travesties of Gender and Genre in Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazousae. In: Reflections of Women in Antiquity, ed. H. P. Foley, 169–217. New York. Zimmermann, B. 1987 Ioniker in den Komödien des Aristophanes. Prolegomena zu einer interpretativen Metrik. Prometheus 13: 124–132. 1988 Critica ed imitazione. La nuova musica nelle commedie di Aristofane. In: La musica in Grecia, ed. B. Gentili and R. Pretagostini, 199–204. Rome and Bari. 1993 Comedy’s Criticism of Music. In: Intertextualität in Der Griechisch-römischen Komödie ed. N. W. Slater and B. Zimmermann, Drama 2, 39–54. Stuttgart.

Mira Waner

Aspects of Music Culture in the Land of Israel during the Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Periods: Sepphoris as a Case Study1 The Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine periods in the Land of Israel are defined, for the purpose of this study, from the last third of the fourth century bce to the first half of the seventh century ce. This period is noted by significant historical and cultural changes that brought to the region a thousand years of Hellenistic culture, manifested in language, art, music, cult and thought. Yet, despite and alongside the changes, a continuum is noted, especially pertaining to the earlier Eastern or local traditions. One of the basic assumptions of this study is that the Land of Israel during this time offers an opportunity to examine the development of music culture in a region that was inhabited by people of various ethnoi. Utilizing an innovative multidisciplinary field involving archaeology, ethnology and musicology, use is made of tools, theories and methodologies from these respective fields in an attempt to gain further information and a better understanding of the music culture in the Land of Israel. Based on the abundance of music-related artifacts found, this paper examines aspects of religious/ethnic identity of the multifaceted population, using Sepphoris — the capital city and cultural center in the Galilee during the Roman and Byzantine periods — as a case study. Examination of the issue of distinction versus syncretism among the inhabitants of this city, reveals that the music-related material finds and their context demonstrate the existence of some religious distinction, yet they also imply that despite this distinction, the various communities living in Sepphoris during this time, found the syncretic setting of the Hellenistic culture a fertile ground and a catalyst for constructive symbiosis. Since the basic and most essential aspect of ancient music, namely sound, did not survive, research in the field of music culture tends to concentrate on material finds related to musical instruments, their iconographic descriptions and their context. These are often complemented by historical research that is based on literary sources, and together with the archaeological objects provide a more comprehensive picture of the music culture that existed during the period. 1 This paper is based on a chapter in my Ph.D. dissertation, supervised by Prof. Amos Kloner and assisted by Prof. Joachim Braun. I thank them both for their dedicated assistance.

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Since music has always constituted an integral part of culture, an analysis of the finds casts light not only upon the daily use of music, but also on the religious life, norms and values that existed at the time, and hence, on culture as a whole. Therefore, an understanding of the music culture contributes to a more comprehensive reconstruction of the cultural history of the period. Research in ethnomusicology assumes that in order to examine the music culture of a region, it is necessary to consider the entire range of social groups who inhabit (or inhabited) it, and their interrelations. Material finds, being a primary source for the study of the ethnic affiliation of musical instruments and events, constitute an invaluable tool in this field. In theory, then, by mapping the regional (or ethnic) distribution of music-related finds, it may be possible to discern various aspects of musical styles, based on religious/ethnic variations. Combining methods of ethnomusicology and archaeology, we examine the issue of syncretism versus ethnic/religious distinction among the inhabitants of the Land of Israel during the periods under discussion. A corpus of some 820 music-related archaeological finds, catalogued according to criteria that best enable to draw information pertaining to music culture is the basis of this research. The finds were then examined for local and foreign elements and for the cultural ideas shaping their design. The assumption was that the polymorphous culture and multiethnic configuration of the local society were absorbed and etched into the musical life of the inhabitants of the land, leaving their mark on its material culture. All regions of the country are represented in the corpus of finds. It appears that while local elements are characteristic of areas known to have been populated by a specific ethnoi, namely Jewish, Samaritan, Idomean or Nabataean, this was not the case in Greek cities and coastal towns, with their dominant pagan component. Furthermore, it seems that artifacts depicting music ensembles present a varied combination of instruments ranging from foreign or imported to local/Eastern ones, and from instruments reflecting syncretic tendencies to those that are ethnically or religiously distinct. Roman and Byzantine Sepphoris was at this time a vibrant political, religious and cultural center, which flourished like many other cities of the Eastern Roman Empire (Nagy et al. 1996; Weiss and Netzer 1998; Meyers 1999; Talgam and Weiss 2004; Weiss 2005a). Sepphoris provides us with extensive literary sources, as well as many archaeological remains, including an abundance of music-related finds. Thus, it presents an opportunity to study how people of different religions and cultures coexisted in an urban environment. The challenge then is to offer a different perspective for examining the religion, ethnicity and identity of the city’s population. Can we gain insight into the issue of distinction versus syncre-



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tism among ethnic/religious groups living in this city by examining their music culture? At the outset, we must ask who the city’s inhabitants were at this time. During the Roman and Byzantine periods, the Galilee was home to Jews, Christians and elements of the Graeco-Roman pagan society of the East, as well as indigenous Near Eastern groups who frequently made their way into the Galilee either as itinerants or as residents (Gafni 1996: 51–57). Like most of the Galilean population, which was predominantly Jewish in the third to fifth century ce, Sepphoris witnessed the gradual growth of Christianity, particularly in the fifth century.2 Although Josephus [BJ 2.510–512, 3.2–934] emphasizes its pro-Roman sentiment, the city appears to have been a center of Jewish cultural activity (Safrai and Stern 1976: 410–412), which despite its Hellenistic appearance was regarded as a Jewish city with Jewish presence that prevailed even after the Gallus Revolt and the 363 ce earthquake (Miller 1996a: 21–24). An intriguing picture of the culture and population of Sepphoris was revealed in recent years. Inter alia, Jewish ritual baths (Eshel 2002; Meyers 2002; Chancey 2002: 69–83), seven branched candelabras engraved on vessels, various inscriptions and the impressive remains of a synagogue, attest to Sepphoris being a flourishing Jewish city. This is supported by both Jewish and non-Jewish literary sources, according to which the city served as an administrative, religious and cultural center for Jews of both Israel and the Diaspora throughout much of this period (Miller 1996b). At the same time, finds have also shown the Christian tradition to have been most firmly implanted here, while other material culture evidence conveys a picture of a Hellenistic-Roman culture, and seems to point to a city with decidedly pagan characteristics (Weiss and Netzer 1998: 10). Sepphoris in the Roman and Byzantine periods, aside from its Jewish ritual buildings, did not differ much architecturally from the pagan cities of the region. It does not seem to exhibit any clear division into respective neighborhoods or quarters based on economic and social status or even on religious affiliation (Weiss and Netzer 1998: 10). A varied wealth of mosaics was found here, many of which depict musical instruments and/or musical events. Their importance lies in the fact that they provide a glimpse of this multifaceted world, and present a clearer picture of the nature of Hellenism in one of the most prominent hubs of Jewish settlement at this time (Balty 1981: 347–429; Ovadiah and Ovadiah 1987). 2 Remains of the two churches found at the site, which date to this time, serve as evidence. Jews who lived in the two major cities, Sepphoris and Tiberias, were constantly in contact with the Hellenistic-Roman manifestations of pagan culture and later with Christian practices and beliefs. Hence, the cultural influences that shaped their lives differed from those affecting the population of smaller Galilean villages.

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It is reasonable to assume that the music culture of Sepphoris was determined by the lifestyles of its inhabitants. An examination of the archaeological remains pertaining to music may assist in sketching a portrait of the city’s music culture, and thereby add to our understanding of the city’s ethnicity (Table 1). The following artifacts were recovered in Sepphoris: 1. A small bronze bell (4.3 cm high and 3 cm in diameter) found without its iron clapper (Fig. 1). The shape resembles that of modern church bells, with a flaring and slightly thickened rim. Two groups of lines are incised on the bell, and its top is designed with two round protuberances at the joining point with the perforated handle. 2. A simple bell (4.9 cm high and 3.4 cm in diameter), conical in shape and widening toward the rim (Fig. 2). Its body and handle represent a single-cast unit. The clapper is missing. 3. A small semispherical/copula-shaped bell with a clapper (Fig. 3), in the synagogue mosaic, depicts one of the apotropaic bells that were sewn into the robe of the High Priest, representing one of the golden bells that ornamented Aaron’s tunic.3 4. Two pairs of forked cymbals decorating the tip of an oil lamp (Fig. 4). They are of the crotale/slap-type cymbals. 5. A large pair of cymbals (Heb. tsiltsalim) linked by a chain (Fig. 5) supports a wicker basket filled with fruit; depicted in the synagogue mosaic floor. 6–10. Five double auloi (Figs. 6–10), that are part of the depiction on the Dionysian mosaic floor of a triclinium. The five wind instruments are similar to one another, and are presented as straight double auloi/double tibia with long pipes. 11. A bronze figurine of Pan or of a satyr holding a syrinx (Fig. 11), of which three to five pipes are visible. The seated figure seems to be absorbed in his music. 12. A large syrinx (Fig. 12) depicted in a medallion on a mosaic floor; it has 11 pipes and represents the right-angled form of the syrinx.4

3 As described in Exodus 28:31–35: “And you shall make a robe…a golden bell and a pomegranate…upon the hem of the robe round about. Aaron shall wear it when he ministers, and its sound shall be heard, so that he may not die.” 4 Haas (1985) refers to this type of syrinx as the “trapezoidal bastard AB form.”



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Figs. 1–17: Photography by Mira Waner. All artifacts recovered in Sepphoris

Fig. 1: A small bronze bell.

Fig. 3: Synagogue floor mosaic depicting a small semispherical/copula-shaped bell.

Fig. 2: A simple bell.

Fig. 4: Oil lamp.

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Fig. 5: Synagogue floor mosaic depicting a large pair of cymbals.

Fig. 7: Triclinium floor mosaic depicting double auloi.

Fig. 9: Triclinium floor mosaic depicting double auloi.

Fig. 6: Triclinium floor mosaic depicting double auloi.

Fig. 8: Triclinium floor mosaic depicting double auloi.

Fig. 10: Triclinium floor mosaic depicting double auloi and tympanum.



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Fig 11: A bronze figurine of Pan or of a satyr holding a syrinx.

Fig 12: A large syrinx depicted in a medallion on a mosaic floor.

Fig 13: Synagogue floor mosaic depicting two slightly curved horns.

Fig 14: Panels depicting shofarot.

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Fig 15: Engraving on a copper seal depicting a shofar, menorah, mahta, lulav and an etrog.





Fig 16: A three-stringed lyre depicted on a mosaic.

Fig 17: A seven-stringed, square-shaped lyre depicted on a mosaic.

13. Two slightly curved horns (Fig. 13), accompanied by a Hebrew inscription reading “‫( ”חצוצרת‬hatsotsrot) in the synagogue mosaic floor. They widen gently toward the end and are depicted with rings. 14. Two shofarot (ram’s horns) (Fig. 14) appearing to the right of two menorot ‘seven-branched candelabra’; each decorated with three colored rings. In the left panel, the shofar’s mouthpiece faces the menorah, while in the right panel it faces away from it. 15. A shofar (Fig. 15) appearing as part of the engraving on a copper seal, in proximity to a menorah, a mahta ‘incense shovel’, a lulav ‘date palm frond’ and an etrog ‘citron’, henceforth referred to as the “symbolic grouping.” 16. A shofar depicted on a clay oil lamp near a menorah and a lulav.



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17. A tympanum (Fig. 10) appearing in the Dionysian floor, being played by a maenad. It is a single-headed frame, struck drum, hand-beaten with the fingers or knuckles. 18. A three-stringed symmetrical lyre (Fig. 16) with a rounded base. 19. A seven-stringed, square-shaped lyre (Fig. 17) held to the left of a seated player (Orpheus). It has no resonator and resembles a Roman cithara. Wavy lines above the crossbar and beneath the bottom frame indicate the loose ends of the strings. Many organological details are missing. Among these 19 music-related artifacts there are 11 aerophones (5 auloi, 2 syrinxes and 4 horns), 5 idiophones (3 bells and 2 cymbals), 2 chordophones, and a membranophone. Eight of these items are from the Roman period, nine from the Byzantine period, and one is of uncertain date. Of these artifacts only two (bells) are actual instruments; the rest are depictions — most are on mosaics, but there is also a cymbal inscribed on an oil lamp, a shofar on a copper seal and one on an oil lamp, and a syrinx that is part of a bronze figurine. Aerophones are clearly the most frequently represented instruments (comprising more than half [58%] of the finds), followed by idiophones (26.3%), while chordophones and membranophones are significantly less common. However, it is important to bear in mind that the five auloi, accounting for over a quarter of the finds, are all from a single mosaic. Eight musical instruments are depicted in Greek mythological scenes and seven are placed within a Jewish setting. For the two bells found in the city’s water system, and for the cymbals engraved on the oil lamp, we have no direct ethnic or religious association. We also lack information about the provenance of the oil lamp and the copper seal, both bearing Jewish symbols.5

Discussion A brief analysis of the cultural context of these instruments is necessary in order to understand the respective cults and religious beliefs of the inhabitants. As will become apparent, the music-related artifacts discovered in the city indi5 The discovery of an item found in the city’s decumanus during the excavations of The Hebrew University expedition in the summer of 2005, was reported by Weiss 2005b. A small box (incense burner?) carved in limestone bears decorations of various images, among which is a satyr playing a musical instrument and a dancing maenad. There is no description of the instrument, yet mention is made of a bull/ram depicted on another side of the box in a context indicative of the Christian rendering of the sacrifice of Isaac.

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cate first and foremost that they were familiar with both Greek mythology and Jewish ritual. We assume that the relatively large number of musical instruments depicted in the city’s mosaics, serves as evidence of their importance in the life and culture of the population. It is notable that instruments of all four basic types are represented in Sepphoris.6 The next step is an attempt to relate the instruments to the settings in which they appear:

Bells Hundreds of bells dating to the Roman and Byzantine periods were discovered in Israel (Waner 2007a: 35). Their large number in tombs demonstrates a cultic connotation and attests to their apotropaic and prophylactic purpose (Avenary 1956: 2, 21–31; Schatkin 1978; Waner 2007b: 436). They were also worn as amulets, and used in connection with the Dionysian cult (Plut. Quaest. conv. 4.2.273; Ovadiah et al, 1991). A decorative and communicative secular use is also attested. The bells found in Sepphoris do not enable us to draw any definite conclusions regarding the religious affiliation of the people who used them. They do not seem to be associated with dancing or with the Dionysian cult. On the other hand, an apotropaic bell — depicted on the hem of the High Priest’s robe — does have an ethnic connotation, as this tradition is attested in the Bible, and appears also during the Roman period (Seyrig 1939; Braun 2002: 201).7

Cymbals Bronze or copper cymbals appear frequently during the Roman period in Israel as instruments associated either with cult or with artistic musical performances of the established religions (Waner 2007a: 40–43). In the Graeco-Roman culture they were associated with orgiastic religious rites in the worship of Dionysos and of Cybele (Blades and Holland 2011), where they were often beaten to induce ecstasy together with the tympanum and the aulos. In addition to their use in religious and secular life, cymbals have been accredited with remarkable powers. Their appearance in Sepphoris, both as decorations engraved on a clay lamp and as “wheels” on the basket of first fruits, is of course not within their usual musical 6 This refers to von Hornbostel and Sachs’s (1961) classification system. 7 In a Jerusalem grave, small bells were found with scraps of material still attached to them, which could be remnants of a hem (IAA34.3137).



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context and thus limits our comments regarding the ethnic or religious affiliation of these particular instruments.

Double Aulos (Gk)/Tibia (Lt) The aulos occupied an important place in Greek civilization. Its use is documented over some ten centuries and its existence is attested in much earlier iconographic records (Bélis 2011: vol. 2: 178–184). Auloi of different quality and workmanship were found in a variety of settings, including private homes and graves (Waner 2007b: 437–439). The musicians who played them were as varied as the instruments — some were high ranking professional virtuosos, while others were semi-professional folk musicians (Braun 2002: 226–227). The aulos was a common instrument in ancient Israel, together with its derivative type, the Phrygian aulos. Female musicians (aulterides/tibicinae) — sometimes excellent players and commonly known as “women of easy virtue” — were hired to enliven banquets and all-male parties. Very popular in scenes from the life and cult of Dionysos, the auloi appear in Sepphoris precisely in this setting. They are depicted in a drinking contest, a triumphal procession (Πομπη), a presentation of gifts (Δωροφοροι), a procession following a symposium (Κώμος), known as a festivity in honor of Dionysos (Talgam and Weiss 2004: 69), accompanied by the Dionysian entourage, instrumental music, song and assorted dancing (DeMarini 1961: 382–384), and in a scene which is probably an offering procession, though with no identifiable mythological precedent. Dionysian mysteries are known to have been conducted or performed in the private residences of affluent people in big cities. It is difficult to determine the ethnic background of the initial owner of the house in which the mosaic was found (Weiss 2001: 15–26), but an important observation made by Braun, is that the Dionysian iconography in both the triumphal procession and the presumed sacrificial procession appears to have acquired discernible Judaeo-Christian elements such as the halo around the head of Dionysos, the ass and rider, and the cock offering (Braun 2002: 267). It was rather common for artists in the Syro-Palestinian borderland to mix pagan, Jewish and Christian elements in their iconography, as for example is seen in the Dura-Europus synagogue with its Davidas-Orpheus mural and Dionysian elements (Ovadiah 1968; Narkiss 1987). This supports Goodenough’s proposal that although the three main population groups in Roman Palestine all drew from a common inventory of symbols, they interpreted them differently (Goodenough 1964: vol. 10: 207–208). It seems that the city’s various population segments lived and worked here side by side. This plu-

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ralistic blend was complemented by the various groups of pagans who thrived in Sepphoris throughout late antiquity, though the remains of their material culture are probably the hardest to discern (Meyers 1996: 150). An interesting comparison can be drawn between this Dionysian mosaic and the one found in Sheikh Zouède probably dating a century and a half later.8 It is important to note that while the Sheikh Zouède scenes evoke an orgiastic pagan atmosphere (enhanced, for example, by the use of a rich variety of regional instruments including idiophones and a Phrygian aulos), those in Sepphoris are considerably calmer and more pastoral (using the classical double aulos and a very limited range of instruments). Although both mosaics emanate from the Dionysian cult, they present different social, intellectual, spiritual and perhaps even musical worlds. Braun has suggested that they may be used to indicate — or at least to symbolize — the splitting point of the Eastern and Western music, with the Sheikh Zouède mosaic representing the beginning of Eastern music and the Sepphoris mosaic representing the beginning of Western music in this region (Kondoleon 1995; Braun 1999: 186; Freyne 2004).

Syrinx Known also as a pan pipe, since it is an attribute of the pastoral Graeco-Roman deity Pan, this instrument has a Mediterranean or oriental origin and is attested some five centuries before its first known appearance in ancient Israel. It became an established symbol on city coins, in terracotta figurines and on mosaics. There is no evidence of this instrument here before the middle of the second century ce, when an altar to Dionysos with a syrinx as the deity’s symbol was erected in Scythopolis, a center of Dionysian worship in the region (Foerster and Tsafrir 1987–1988). The syrinx is another aerophone relating to the Dionysian cult, and supports a banqueting context in a private home in Sepphoris. Bronze statuettes depicting divinities or mythological figures were common domestic items throughout the Roman Empire. They represent either cultic objects from a household shrine

8 Although the Sheikh Zouède mosaic has been dated by Ovadiah et al. (1991) to the fourth or fifth century, organologically it is dated to the end of the third or beginning of the fourth century. The Dionysian musical features of this mosaic seem to have no known precursor, and the portrayal of the musical instruments should not be considered as archaic stylization, but rather as an accurate rendering of the musical praxis in Roman Palestine in the first to third century (see Braun 2002: 261–262).



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or decorative attachments, often from furniture, and thus devoid of explicit religious significance. In the Roman period, the individual deity Pan had become conflated with the satyrs constituting the retinue of the wine god Bacchus (the Greek Dionysos). Satyr figures therefore symbolized conviviality and were often featured in banqueting contexts as attachments to banqueting vessels or furniture. The syrinx depicted on the mosaic floor of a public building in the center of Sepphoris may be understood as being loosely associated with this pagan cult, and probably had the same cultural context as the bronze figurine.

Horns/Hatsotsrot (Hebrew) Referred to as an “elite” instrument, the trumpet descends from the animal horn and borrows its name for the horn’s shape (Braun 1997). It appears rarely, and in ancient Egypt shows clear cultic and/or military affiliation (Hickmann 1961: 74; Rashid 1984: 143). In Israel, despite its significance in the Bible and in the Dead Sea Scrolls [1QM II, 15 and VII, 9] the trumpet appears only in the third–second century bce on a wall painting in Maresha (Kloner and Braun 2000), possibly associated with hunting, and resembling the Roman tuba. In Sepphoris, two hatsotsrot are depicted in the fifth-century synagogue mosaic and hence, in a specifically Jewish context. Although the archaeologists who first described the mosaic referred to them as trumpets (Weiss and Netzer 1998: 20–21 n. 35),9 organologically they should not be interpreted as such (Sachs 1940: 120). They were described as “slightly curved tubes that widen gently at one end, decorated with two rings set at regular intervals.” Braun claims that trumpets of this period were always straight or — in the case of metal horns — remarkably curved, and that they were clearly wider at the bell, and were never decorated, although metal rings were sometimes used for reinforcement (Braun 2002: 208–209). Therefore, it does not seem plausible that the instruments depicted here are accurate rendering of those described in the Old Testament. A possible explanation is that the artist, who was unfamiliar with those trumpets, simply drew horns and took (or rather mistook) them to be the temple trumpets. Four points are worth mentioning in this regard: (1) the horns do, in fact, differ significantly from the shofarot depicted in band 2 of the mosaic, with regard to their curvature; (2) Braun’s argument that trumpets of this period were always either straight or remarkably curved overlooks the fact that the representation 9 In Weiss (2005a: 82) the description is of an elongated, slightly convex shaft, widening at one end, with rings set at fixed intervals.

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here was not intended to be true to the period in which the mosaic was made; (3) although we are unacquainted with an animal whose horns resemble those depicted here, it is noteworthy that the depiction is very similar to the one in the “Aaron panel” of the Dura-Europos synagogue (Yarden 1991: 117, Fig. III.31); and (4) it is well known that the term “trumpet” was often confused with a single horn or a single pipe, some ending with a very slightly flared bell (Bélis 2011, §2: Description: M. Sheq. 6: 5).10

Shofar/Ram’s Horn A sound tool associated with ritual, the shofar is a distinct symbol of Jewish faith and of ethnic identity. From the various artifacts found, it appears that the shofar did not symbolize simply the idea of atonement or immortality based on Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac, nor did it symbolize merely a certain messianic interpretation (Roth 1955: 151–164). Its eschatological significance has been attested (Goodenough 1954: vol. 4: 170). It was certainly not a mere “decorative convention” (Bayer 1963), but rather a holistic, ethnic and religious symbol that appeared in various artistic forms. Early evidence of the Jewish “symbolic grouping,” displayed on the Beth Nattif oil lamps, the Hammat Tiberias mosaic and the Beth Shean engravings appeared contemporaneously with the greatest masterpieces of Late Roman to Early Byzantine art. In Sepphoris, a shofar engraved on the copper seal and one on the oil lamp attest to the presence of Jews in the city. Impressed bullae were used to seal important documents and to mark valuable objects. The traditional Jewish motifs found on seals may bear witness to an official consignment of the Jewish authority in the city. It is commonly accepted that items engraved on small artifacts, such as seals and lamps, bear ethnic or religious connotations (Braun 2002: 316).

Tympanum/Frame Drum This type of drum was particularly common in the ancient Middle East (Blades et al. 2011: 600–607). Terracotta drum-carrying female figurines from Mesopotamia date to the third millennium bce and Egyptian frame drums are also well attested, the rectangular-shaped drums being popular at banquets and always 10 Also, M. Sheq. 6: 5 (trumpet shaped, but called horns). Yarden suggests that the confusion may have arisen owing to the increased use of all kinds of horns in Herod’s Temple; see Yarden 1991: 102, no. 7.



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played by women (DeMarini 1961: 382–384). Archaeological evidence and ethnographic parallels suggest that the tuppim (timbrels/tabrets) mentioned in Genesis 31:27 were probably frame drums with no jingles. The tympanum appearing in Sepphoris as part of the Dionysian scene is associated with Greek culture (McKinnon and Anderson 2011), and its appearance together with an aulos resembles portrayals of the same instruments found in other Graeco-Roman cities (Waner 2010).

Lyre The symmetric lyre was popular during the Roman period and used at joyful folk feasts such as Dionysian processions. The lyre with a rounded resonator was another popular folk instrument, often shown held by a centaur (as, for example, in the Sheikh Zouède mosaic). It seems reasonable to assume that in the partly preserved panel depicting a triumphal procession (and entitled Πομπη) the centaur depicted next to his aulos playing companion in front of Dionysos’s chariot may have held a lyre in his hands.11 Symbolic portrayal of musical instruments became established among the various ethnic, religious and social groups in ancient Israel between the second century bce and the second century ce. It occurred on Ptolemaic coins (125–110 bce), with the portrayal of two types of lyres — the symmetric and the asymmetric, and continued on the Bar Kokhba coins (132–135 ce), presumably as an anti-Roman symbol incorporating a desire for religious and political freedom (Meshorer 1997: 135). The use of lyres seems to have dwindled during this period, having been replaced by the smaller, portable lutes and harps, which were better suited for professional virtuosos, enabling more sophisticated performances. Lyre depictions subsequently became more abstract, idealized, symbolic representations of the instrument. It is notable that the lyres found in Sepphoris differ significantly from each other. One is held by Orpheus (and hence, in a Greek mythological setting) and the other is part of the zodiac depicted on the synagogue floor. The lyre held by Orpheus,12 is a rare depiction of the instrument. This type of lyre is generally associated with the upper strata of the population. The inaccurate rendering of 11 During the Roman period, centaurs became part of the Dionysian thiasos and were depicted playing the flute and cithara as contributors to the jubilation; see Smith 1991: 131–132. 12 Orpheus, a Thracian hero, was the son of Oiagros or Apollo and the Muse Kalliope. Known as a gifted singer and cithara player, this divine musician could charm animals, trees and rocks with his music.

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the instrument hints at a symbolic meaning rather than defines a time and place for this depiction (Waner 2007a: 84–89). Like the Dionysian mosaic, this floor decorated a private triclinium, and was found in a residential building situated west of the cardo (under the western church), surrounded by panels with scenes from everyday life. Orpheus is depicted sitting and playing (or rather, holding) a chordophone, calming the wild animals and birds with his music. The panels of this mosaic were made according to the emblem tradition: they are stylistically similar to those of the Dionysian floor, and have been tentatively dated to the late third to early fourth century ce — a time when lyres had largely been replaced by the smaller chordophones. Another remarkable music-related find recovered in Sepphoris is the abovementioned lyre appearing in the zodiac of the synagogue floor. A large threestringed symmetric lyre is depicted in the sign of Gemini, held by one of the twins. The lyre, considered the symbol of spiritual and physical harmony in both Jewish and Christian thought (Giesel 1978), was chosen to be placed here with the twins — a symbol of likeness.13 The zodiac was considered to be the representative par excellence of the cosmos, and the symbol of God, creator of order and the universe (Kühnel 2000). The lyre in such a representation of the cosmos recalls the concept of “cosmic music,” introduced by Boethius (ca. 480–524), that dominated the Western philosophy of music during the entire Middle Ages (Chadwick 1981); it is noteworthy that it became widespread around the time that the Sepphoris synagogue was built. The zodiac lyre may thus be seen as a symbol of this cosmic harmony and order, and the twins with their lyre may have symbolized the order of musica mundana ‘music of the spheres’ and musica humana ‘music of the human body or spiritual harmony’.14 As such, the depiction of the synagogue mosaic may be seen as a very significant contribution of Judaism to the understanding of the zodiac.15 The lyre depicted in the Sepphoris synagogue is the more popular, folk-type lyre. It is similar to the instrument held by David-as-Orpheus in the Dura-Europos synagogue mural (although the resonator of the former is rounded, whereas here 13 The Hebrew word for twins (te’omim) derives from the word te’um/to’em meaning similarity, coordination, equalization, synchronization and harmony. 14 In his De institutione musica, Boethius explains that the first term refers to the orderly mathematical relations observable in the behavior of the stars and planets, and the second, to the ways in which such harmonious relations are imprinted on and exemplified in the body and soul of humans; see Boethius, and also Grout 1996: 23. 15 Notably, the depiction of Gemini in Sepphoris is based on a Roman model, and is apparently not unique; it appears in a Tunisian mosaic from Bir Chana, and was probably used in Caesarea as well. On this subject see Alexander and Ben Abed-Ben Khader, 1994: 123–127, Pl. LXIX Fig. 430.A and Weiss 2005a: 114.



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the base is divided into two semicircles), but differs significantly from the stylized citharas — i.e., the large concert instruments that appear on the Orpheus mosaics of the fourth to sixth century ce in Jerusalem (Ovadiah and Mucznik 1981) and Gaza (Ovadiah 1969), and even from the one found in Sepphoris itself, a mere 400–500 meters away from the synagogue. Thus, the synagogue mosaic is of special interest for the understanding of the city’s cultural and ethnic setting. With the zodiac wheel depicted in its center, it comprises a part of a deeply rooted tradition in ancient synagogues, first attested at Hammat Tiberias in the fourth century ce. Frequently compared in significance to the Dura-Europos wall murals (Kraeling 1979: 60–70), the Sepphoris synagogue mosaic is probably the best evidence of the pagan-Judaeo-Christian syncretistic culture that blossomed in ancient Israel from the Hellenistic-Roman times to the end of the sixth century (Narkiss 1987; Kühnel 2000; Goodenough 1954: vol. 2: 190–205),16 and produced numerous works of visual arts, among them depictions of musical instruments. The zodiac wheel at the Sepphoris synagogue has several rare elements hitherto unknown in such settings (Weiss 2005a). A common motif in pagan art, the zodiac became a popular theme in synagogue floor mosaics. Depiction of the four seasons, the twelve signs and the sun-god Helios were common subjects in pagan and Christian art, but the combination of these three elements appears only in synagogues. This mosaic, which differs stylistically from previously known mosaics, demonstrates, on the one hand, the high degree of influence which Hellenistic culture had on the Jewish community, yet, at the same time, reveals significant variations made by the latter. It might also be seen as an artistic reflection of the Judaeo-Christian discourse regarding the identity of the chosen people, rebuilding of the Temple, and Messianic restoration (Weitzmann and Kessler 1990: 178–183; Weiss 2005a: 139–140, 249–256). To demonstrate the complications in trying to understand the ethnic setup of Sepphoris’ inhabitants, we can use the bronze figurine of Pan/satyr playing the syrinx. Ceramic and numismatic evidence suggests that the private dwelling under which this figurine was found was occupied by a high-ranking, wealthy family (Weiss 2001: 15–20). Although the inhabitants’ apparent concern for

16 Goodenough refers to the zodiac cycles in synagogues as expressions of Hellenistic mysticism made possible by the collapse of rabbinical control. Narkiss gives a cosmological interpretation. Kühnel concludes that the Zodiac’s central location in numerous early Byzantine synagogues must be considered as more than a mere manifestation of Hellenistic beliefs condemned by the sages. According to her, although taken from Roman art, this is one of the most authentic creations of Jewish art, consciously and consistently adapted to fit the beliefs and aspirations of Galilean Jews during the Byzantine period.

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matters of ritual purity could indicate that they were pious Jews, the domicile also yielded examples of Roman decorative art (Nagy et al. 1996: 171, 222; Chancey and Meyers 2000: 29). Thus, it may be assumed that the presence of such artifacts is indicative of aesthetic tastes rather than a pagan inclination. Although the find spot indicates a domestic context in a residential area that was probably mostly Jewish, the presence of the artifacts here more likely reflects the influence of pagan decorative culture rather than the adoption of any religious beliefs or practices. Bohlman maintains that the encounter with forces that challenged Jewish identity and culture by a “cultural and musical Other,” led to a creative response and a conscious mustering of musical symbols and styles to articulate Jewish identity (Bohlman 2002). Referring to Jewish music in nineteenth-century Europe, he talks of a new impetus and a linking of music to Jewish history in profound new ways. We may ask if this was also the case in Roman and Byzantine Sepphoris. So far, apparently, we have no signs of new music in the Jewish population of the town during this period. We could thus conclude that “Jewish” musical instruments, or rather sound tools such as horns, were used symbolically, in both a religious context (such as on the synagogue floor) and in an ethnic/social one (such as the copper seal). No other instruments or ensembles have survived to demonstrate otherwise, and based upon the literary sources, we can assume that the Jewish population, rather than stressing its own unique identity, chose the syncretic alternative. When Jews visited the local theatre — thus disregarding warnings and objections raised by the sages — they must have encountered mythological scenes (which included musical instruments) all around them, and might have participated in social events that took place in the town, which were not necessarily Jewish. Having religious autonomy, they were almost certainly powerful and independent enough to make decisions which governed their own lives. This explains, for example, their decision to depict the sun-god in the center of the zodiac mosaic as a mere representation and not in the usual manner.17 Perhaps because they were not threatened by “the Other,” the Jews of Sepphoris did not find it necessary to invent their own music culture but rather chose only to enhance it in its traditional, symbolic aspects. Bearing in mind that the nature and existence of ethnic groups is assumed to depend upon the ethnic boundaries held by the groups by means of manipulations and symbols, and that these symbols may be material or behavioral ones, 17 Compare the Sepphoris depiction with that of Beth Alpha or the Hammat Tiberias synagogue mosaics. The absence of Helios in the Sepphoris zodiac is a definite and unique statement, hitherto unknown in the synagogue zodiacs. The complete motif as depicted here has no parallels in the region in any other religious structure — pagan or Christian.



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it seems that the important factor to note is not the sum of all the characteristics revealed in the archaeological culture (these may be shared with various other groups), but rather those characteristics that the group has chosen as its symbolic identity, or phenomena that are elicited from its “ethnic behavior.” The tenacity of the Jews of Sepphoris in upholding their symbolic identity represents, to my mind, their desire to maintain their uniqueness and distinctiveness despite the syncretic tendencies found in other spheres of their daily lives. The musical instruments and sound tools depicted on the “Jewish” mosaic floor found in the town, demonstrate this insistence. The wealth and variety of mosaics found in Sepphoris place the town among the foremost cities of the Roman and Byzantine East (Balty 1981). Their importance lies not only in the quantity and richness of style and iconography, but also in the fact that they were found in a city that was mainly populated by Jews. The level of Hellenistic influence on this Jewish society is an issue that many scholars have pondered upon, especially considering that this was a period when paganism was declining and Christianity was on the rise. The musical instruments depicted in these mosaics further confirm this influence, allowing us to take a closer glimpse at the daily life of the city during the time when they were made.

Conclusions In the first centuries of the Common Era Sepphoris started to change its ethnic-religious image. Having been a predominantly Jewish city well into the third century, the town seems to have become more Hellenized (Chancey and Meyers 2000; Braun 2002: 269). Daily contact with a pagan and later a Christian society that was gaining power presented the Jews with many challenges (Weiss 2005a: 249–256). As a result, the city exhibits strong syncretic tendencies, also reflected in the music culture of the city. Along with the Dionysian mosaic and its numerous auloi and a tympanum, other music artifacts confirming the popularity of the Dionysian cult were discovered. Yet in the fifth century, a synagogue was built in the town, demonstrating the persistent presence of a strong Jewish community with religious aspirations and symbolically-used musical instruments and sound tools were decipted in its mosaic floor. The music-related items, along with other material finds recovered in Sepphoris, demonstrate the flourishing of Judaism in an urban environment during the Roman and Byzantine periods. When Christianity began to develop in new and important ways, both the Jewish and the Christian communities apparently

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found the syncretistic setting of the Hellenistic music culture a fertile ground and a vibrant catalyst for constructive symbiosis. It should therefore not astonish us to find Dionysian themes on the mosaic floor of a private dwelling, a syrinx — a well-known attribute of Pan — in a mosaic floor of a public building in the city center, another syrinx in the hands of a bronze figurine and a depiction of Orpheus playing his lyre in yet another private domicile in “downtown” Sepphoris. It seems that although Jews, Christians and pagans had their own particular religious beliefs and tenets, daily life linked all elements of Galilean society, rendering the various lifestyles therein far more similar to one another than the individual groups may have realized (Gafni 1996: 51–57). Under such circumstances, we may assume that music — being part of everyday life — would present a very similar picture. However, this study indicates that even amid the dynamic cultural syncretism of the period, there probably was a divergence rather than fusion in the music culture of Sepphoris. When the syncretistic inclinations of the local music culture ran counter to Jewish and Christian theocracy, or when these communities felt a growing threat from “the Other,” this conflict, perhaps for the first time, assumed an innovative means of expression to serve as a response to the prevalent claims made by “the Other.” The form of the lyre held by the twins in the sign of Gemini on the synagogue mosaic floor in Sepphoris and the Dionysian iconography, perhaps subtly insinuate Judaeo-Christian elements amidst a calm, pastoral Hellenistic setting. Finally, in the music-related finds of Sepphoris we note the development of an organized, controlled and carefully thought out music culture, despite — or maybe resulting from — ethnic conflicts and tension that must have existed in the city.

References Alexander, M. A. and A. Ben Abed-Ben Khader 1994 Corpus des mosaiques de Tunisie, vol. 2: Thuburbo Majus. Tunis. Avenary, H. 1956 Magic, Symbolism and Allegory of Old-Hebrew Sound–Instruments, Collectanea Historiae Musicae 2. Florence. Balty, J. 1981 La mosaïque antique au Proche-Orient. In: Aufstieg und Niedergang der roemischen Welt 2.12.2, ed. T. Hildegard, 347–429. Berlin. Bayer, B. 1963 The Material Relics of Music in Ancient Palestine and Its Environs. Tel Aviv.



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Bélis, A. 2011 Aulos. Oxford Music Online. Accessed 21 August 2011. Blades, J. and J. Holland. 2011 Cymbals, §2: Ancient History: Near East and Europe. Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Accessed 21 August 2011. Blades, J. et al. 2011 Drum. Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Accessed 21 August 2011. Boethius 1989. Fundamentals of music, trans. C. M. Bower, ed. C. V. Palisca. New Haven. Bohlman, P. V. 2002 Inventing Jewish Music. In: Yuval: Studies of the Jewish Music Research Centre, vol. 7: Studies in Honour of Israel Adler, ed. E. Schleifer and E. Seroussi, 33–74. Jerusalem. Braun, J. 1997 Musical Instruments. Oxford Encyclopedia of Archaeology in the Near East 4: 70–79. 1999 Die Musikkultur Altisrael/Palästinas, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 164. Freiburg. 2002 Music in Ancient Israel/Palestine: Archaeological, Written, and Comparative Sources, trans. D. W. Stott. Cambridge, England. Chadwick, H. 1981 Boethius: The Consolations of Music, Logic, Theology and Philosophy. Oxford. Chancey, M. A. 2002 The Myth of a Gentile Galilee: The Population of Galilee and New Testament Studies, The Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series 118. Cambridge, England. Chancey, M. and E. M. Meyers 2000 How Jewish Was Sepphoris in Jesus’ Time? Biblical Archaeology Review 28(4): 19–33. DeMarini, R. 1961 Komos. Enciclopedia dell’arte antica classica e orientale, vol. 4, ed. Istituto della enciclopedia italiana (Roma), 382–384. Rome. Eshel, H. 2002 The Pools of Sepphoris. Ritual Baths or Bathtubs? They’re Not Ritual Baths. Biblical Archaeology Review 26(4): 42–45. Foerster, G. and Y. Tsafrir 1987–1988 The Beth-Shan Excavation Project. Excavations and Surveys in Israel 6: 7–43. Freyne, S. 2004 Dionysos and Heracles in Galilee: The Sepphoris Mosaic in Context. In: Religion and Society in Roman Palestine: Old Questions, New Approaches, ed. D. R. Edwards, 56–69. London and New York. Gafni, I. 1996 Daily Life in Galilee and Sepphoris. In: Nagy et al. (eds.) 1996, 51–57.

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Giesel, H. 1978 Studien zur Symbolik der Musikinstrumente in Schrifttum der alten und mittelalterlichen Kirche: von den Anfängen bis zum 13. Jahrhundert, Kölner Beiträge zur Musikforschung 94. Regensburg. Goodenough, E. R. 1953–1968 Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, 13 vols. New York. Haas, G. 1985 Die Syrinx in der griechischen Bildkunst. Vienna. Hickmann, H. 1961 Ägypten. Musikgeschichte in Bildern 2(1): 74–81. von Hornbostel, E. M. and C. Sachs 1961 Classification of Musical Instruments. The Galpin Society 14: 3–29. Kloner, A. and J. Braun 2000 Hellenistic Painted Tombs at Marisa. Oriental Art 6: 47–52. Kondoleon, C. 1995 Domestic and Divine: Roman Mosaics in the House of Dionysos. Ithaca. Kraeling, C. H. 1979 The Excavations at Dura-Europos, Final Report, vol. 8, part 1: The Synagogue. New Haven. Kühnel, B. 2000 The Synagogue Floor Mosaic in Sepphoris: Between Paganism and Christianity. In: From Dura to Sepphoris: Studies in Jewish Art and Society in Late Antiquity, ed. L. I. Levin and Z. Weiss, Journal of Roman Archaeology Sup., 40. 37–43. Portsmouth. McKinnon J. W. and R. Anderson 2011 Tympanum. Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Accessed 21 August 2011. Meshorer, Y. 1997 A Treasury of Jewish Coins from the Persian Period to Bar-Kochba. Jerusalem (Hebrew). Meyers, E. M. 1996 Conclusions. In: Nagy et al. (eds.) 1996, 150. ed. 1999 Galilee through the Centuries: Confluence of Cultures. Winona Lake, Ind. 2002 The Pools of Sepphoris: Ritual Baths or Bathtubs? Yes They Are. Biblical Archaeology Review 26(4): 46–49. Miller, S. S. 1996a Hellenistic and Roman Sepphoris: The Historical Evidence. In: Nagy et al. (eds.) 1996, 21–24. 1996b Jewish Sepphoris. In: Nagy et al. (eds.) 1996, 59–65. Nagy, R. M., C. L. Meyers, E. M. Meyers and Z. Weiss eds. 1996 Sepphoris in Galilee: Crosscurrents of Culture. Winona Lake, Ind. Narkiss, B. 1987 Pagan, Christian and Jewish Elements in the Art of the Ancient Synagogue. In: The Synagogue in Late Antiquity, ed. L. I. Levine, 183–188. Philadelphia. Ovadiah, A. 1968 The Gaza Synagogue. Qadmoniyot 1(4): 124–127 (Hebrew).



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1969 Excavations in the Area of the ancient Synagogue at Gaza. Israel Exploration Journal 19(4): 193–198. Ovadiah, A. and S. Mucznik 1981 Orpheus from Jerusalem — Pagan or Christian Image? The Jerusalem Cathedra 1: 152–166. Ovadiah, R. and A. Ovadiah 1987 Hellenistic, Roman and Early Byzantine Mosaic Pavements in Israel, Biblioteca Archeologica 6. Rome. Ovadiah, A., C. Gomez de Silva, and S. Mucznik 1991 The Mosaic Pavements of Sheikh Zouède in Northern Sinai, Tesserae: Festschrift für Joseph Engemann, ed. E. Dassman and K. Thraede, Jarbuch für Antike und Christentum Sup. 18, 181–191. Münster. Rashid, S. A. 1984 Musikgeschichte in Bildern, vol. 2, part 2: Mesopotamien. Leipzig. Roth, C. 1955 Messianic Symbolism in Palestinian Archaeology. Palestine Exploration Quarterly 86: 151–164. Sachs, C. 1940 The History of Musical Instruments. New York. Safrai, S. and M. Stern eds. 1976 The Jewish People in the 1st Century: Historical Geography, Political History, Social, Cultural and Religious Life and Institutions, vol. 2, Compendia Rerum Iudaicarum Ad Novum Testamentum Section 1. Philadelphia. Schatkin, M. 1978 Idiophones of the Ancient World. Jahrbuch für Antike and Christentum 21: 147–172. Seyrig, H. 1939 Antiquité syriennes – La grande statue parthe de Shami et la sculpture palmyrénienne. Syria 20: 177–183. Smith, R. R. R. 1991 Hellenistic Sculpture: A Handbook. New York. Talgam, R. and Z. Weiss 2004 The Mosaics of the House of Dionysos at Sepphoris, Qedem 44. Jerusalem. Tsuk, Ts. 1996 Aqueducts of Sepphoris. In: Nagy et al. (eds.) 1996, 45–49. Waner, M. 2007a Music Culture in Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Palestine — Ethnic/Religious Distinction and/or Syncretism. Ramat-Gan (Hebrew). 2007b Music Culture in Roman-Byzantine Sepphoris. In: Religion, Ethnicity and Identity in Ancient Galilee — a Region in Transition, ed. J. Zangenberg, H. W. Attridge and D. B. Martin, 425–447. Tübingen. 2010 Ethnic/Religious Distinction versus Syncretism in the Musical Culture of Roman and Byzantine Sepphoris — a Case Study in The Musical Culture of Ancient Israel. In: Across Centuries and Cultures — Musicological Studies in Honor of Joachim Braun, eds. K. C. Karnes and L. Sheptovitsky, 29–49. Frankfurt am Main.

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Weiss, Z. 2001 Between Paganism and Judaism. Cathedra 99: 7–26 (Hebrew). 2005a The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering an Ancient Message through Its Archaeological and Socio-Historical Contexts. Jerusalem. 2005b Sepphoris (Sippori) 2005. Israel Exploration Journal 55: 226–227. Weiss, Z. and E. Netzer 1997 The Hebrew University Excavations at Sepphoris. Qadmoniot 113(1): 2–21 (Hebrew). 1998 Promise and Redemption: A Synagogue Mosaic from Sepphoris, 2nd ed. Jerusalem. Weitzmann, K. and H. Kessler 1990 The Frescoes of the Dura Synagogue and Christian Art. Washington. Yarden, L. 1991 The Spoils of Jerusalem on the Arch of Titus. Stockholm.



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Table 1: The corpus of musical instruments found in Sepphoris*:

* 1–2: Tsuk 1996 [IAA 96-426-7]; 4: IAA 99-2789, unpublished; 3, 5, 13, 14, 17: Weiss and Netzer 1998: 14 nos.2, 4; 6–10, 16: Talgam and Weiss 2004: Pls. Ib,Va,VIb,VIIa,Xa ; 15: On exhibition at the site; 12: in situ; 18: Weiss and Netzer 1997: 14 no.5; 11, 16: Nagy et al. 1996: 171, 222. ** Only 1 and 2 are actual musical instruments.

Antonietta Provenza

Soothing Lyres and epodai: Music Therapy and the Cases of Orpheus, Empedocles and David The Charms of Music: Harmonia, Music Therapy and Musical Ethos The psychagogic efficacy of music, namely its power to act on the soul in such a way as to influence characters and behaviors, and even health,1 is based in ancient Greek thought on a likeness between soul and musical harmony.2 This idea involves also a “harmonious” order distinguishing human physis as being a part of the world order (kosmos), as it is possible to notice at least since the time of the pre-Socratics. From many of the surviving fragments of their works3 we learn of the shift of the term harmonia4 (Bonaventura-Meyer 1932; Lippman 1963; Lambropoulou 1995–1996; Franklin 2002) from material aspects of human life 1 *I wish to express my heartfelt thanks to Dr. Joan Goodnick Westenholz and to Professors Yossi Maurey and Edwin Seroussi for the opportunity to present this paper and for their interest in my study of ancient Greek music. I would like also to thank Professors Salvatore Nicosia, Andrew D. Barker, John C. Franklin, Angelo Meriani, Eleonora Rocconi and the anonymous reviewer of this paper for their observations. See Anderson 1966; West 1992: 31–33 (quoting many references concerning the healing and soothing properties of music); West 2000: 51–68; Barker 2005. 2 This idea was discussed extensively in ancient Greece at least since the early Pythagoreans. Among the many evidence concerning the topic of soul and musical harmony, I mention here only the well-known passage in Plato’s Phaedo (85 e4–86 a3) where Simmias refers to the notion of soul as a harmonious blend of the elements composing the human body (verisimilarly recalling the physiological theories and the notion of isonomia of the Pythagorean physician Alcmaeon of Croton, see 24B4 DK = Aët. 5.30.1 and 24A3 DK = Arist. Metaph. A 5.986a22; cf. also Pl. Symp. 186d5–e3), and the passage from On Soul (4.407b30–32), where Aristotle says that, according to some philosophers “soul is a kind of harmonia. Indeed [they say] also that harmonia (ἁρμονία) is a blending and combination of opposites and the body is composed of opposites (καὶ γὰρ τὴν ἁρμονίαν κρᾶσιν καὶ σύνθεσιν ἐναντίων εἶναι, καὶ τὸ σῶμα συγκεῖσθαι ἐξ ἐναντίων)” (trans. by Huffman 1993). 3 See, for instance, Philolaus, 44B1 DK = Diog. Laert. Vit. Phil. 8.85 and Philolaus, 44B6 DK = Stob. Flor. 1.21.7d (1.188.14 Wachsmuth) with Huffman 1993: 123–145. Cf. also Heraclitus, 22A22 DK = Arist. Eth. Eud. 1235a25. 4 The verb ἁρμόζω, denominative of ἅρμα and referring particularly to carpentry (Chantraine 1999: s.v. ἅρμα), originally meant to join together or to fit different pieces together into a functional and coherent whole. In Mycenaean tablets, for instance, the form a-na-mo-to (ἁνάρμοστοι)



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to the kosmos. A strong bridge between the pre-Socratic harmonia and musical healing is built by Aristotle in his Politics (1340b7–19), where he states that “the modes and rhythms of music have an affinity (συγγένεια) [with the soul], as well as a natural sweetness. This explains why many thinkers connect the soul with harmony — some saying that it is a harmony, and others that it possesses the attribute of harmony” (trans. by Barker 1995). Beginning from such an affinity, Aristotle deals with the use of music in the education of young people, that is, with its role in the making of the Greek man5, and also with the therapeutic — and in no way ethic — effects of the aulos on people performing rites including enthusiastic music. These people, affected by ἔλεος ‘pity’ and φόβος ‘fear’ at an exceedingly high degree, seemed, after the rites were carried out, as if they underwent ἰατρεία ‘medical therapy’ and κάθαρσις ‘purification’, since the music performed with the aulos and the κίνησις ‘movement’ induced by it healed excessive emotions.6 Music therapy was widespread in ancient Greece, and much evidence on musical remedies concerns the early Pythagoreans.7 The notion of “musical catharsis,” in particular, has been generally associated with them, although, as far as we know, it first appears clearly only in the eighth book of Aristotle’s Politics.8 Evidence concerning music therapy, on the other hand, is scattered in Greek seems to refer to carts that have not yet been assembled (see KN Sf. (2) 4420 and Chadwick et al. 1971: 291), while the form a-ra-ro-mo-te-me-na (KN Sd 4403) refers to assembled ones. 5 On pp. 305–306, I deal with musical paideia and musical ethos. 6 See also on pp. 306–307. 7 See, for instance, Aristox. frag. 26 Wehrli (1967 = Anecdota Parisiensia 1.172, in Cramer 1967: οἱ Πυθαγορικοί, ὡς ἔφη Ἀριστόξενος, καθάρσει ἐχρῶντο τοῦ μὲν σώματος διὰ τῆς ἰατρικῆς, τῆς δὲ ψυχῆς διὰ τῆς μουσικῆς “the Pythagoreans, as Aristoxenus said, made use of medicine for purifying the body, and of music for the purification of the soul”); Iambl. VP 64.110–113; Porph. VP 32–33; Plut. De Is. et Os. 80.384a. 8 The problematic reliability of Iamblichus of Chalcis (ca. 245–325 ce) and Porphyry of Tyrus (ca. 234–305 ce) — our main sources concerning Pythagoreans and musical catharsis — should be noted, especially since they lived many centuries later, and their reconstruction of the early Pythagoreanism seems to have been heavily influenced by Aristotle himself and by Plato and the Neo-Platonism (see, e.g., Huffman 1999; Riedweg 2002: 10–16, 37–63). Both Iamblichus and Porphyry seem to depict Pythagoras as a predecessor of Plato and the Neo-Platonism in order to present Neo-Platonic notions as stemming from an authoritative source. Another factor that partially weakens the reliability of their writings is that some of many Pythagorean pseudepigrapha (Thesleff 1961, 1965; Centrone 2000) were available to them. Besides this, Iamblichus, in particular, seems to portray Pythagoras as a “pagan holy man” (Fowden 1982; Burkert 1982: 13, 17, n. 97). Consequently, although it is most likely that the early Pythagoreans used musical remedies, considering their strong interest in music, we cannot yet state the same for their real formulation of a notion of musical catharsis, since there is no evidence of this before the fourth century bce, namely before Aristotle and his theory of catharsis (see also Wallace 1995). On this matter see also Provenza 2012.

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literature since its origins: the first kind of musical remedy in Greece is the sung spell (epode), attested in the Odyssey (19.457–458).

The epode between Greece and the Near East The Odyssey mentions epode together with bandaging (Kotansky 1991: 108) as the remedy against a hemorrhaging wound, used by Odysseus’s maternal uncle after a boar had bitten his thigh (Renehan 1992). The word ἐπῳδή (Pfister 1924; Laìn Entralgo 1970; Furley 1993; Rocconi 2001) consists of ᾠδή, contracted from ἀοιδή ‘song’ and the preposition ἐπί ‘upon’, so that it can be understood as a song upon someone or upon a certain part of his body. Thus, epodai are spells for healing, which were probably sung when they were first formulated, although they cannot be considered as a proper part of real musical art. While some scholars assert that in an incantation just the words are important (e.g., West 1992: 32),9 and not the melody or rhythm,10 both the structure of the word ἐπῳδή and the “charming” effects that music in ancient Greece was credited with — resulting especially in the use of verbs such as θέλγω ‘to enchant’11 and κηλέω ‘to charm’12 — seem to stress the musical element of the epode, thus connecting the ‘magic’13 use of epodai with music therapy. This connection is clearly visible for some poets, that, according to tradition, were able to 9 The power of the words in incantations is attested, for instance, in a passage from Plato’s Euthydemus (289e5–290a4), where the τέχνη of the rhetoricians (λογοποιοί) is considered a part of the τέχνη of the charmers (ἐπῳδοί), which were believed to be able to affect a κήλησις ‘enchantment’ on dangerous beasts and diseases. For rhetoric and magic, see, for instance, De Romilly 1975. 10 At least since the Hellenistic period, the word epode refers to incantations as “magic formulas” in contexts where no reference to music is ever made. As for these magical texts, which are known to us from papyri (our most important source on Hellenistic magic), see Preisendanz 1973–1974; Betz 1991, 1992. 11 See, e.g., Ath. 14.618a (for the musical practice of synaulía); Luc. Ind. 12 (Orpheus’s lyre); Pherec. frag. 102a3 (cf. Scholia (Graeca in Homeri) in Iliadem 13.302: Amphion’s lyre enchants even stones); Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.72.5. The verb θέλγειν is associated with both the lyre and the aulos. 12 See, e.g., Soph. Trach. 1000–1003 (the charmer is called ἀοιδός; the musical element appears clearly in the name); Pl. Symp. 215b–216c and Phdr. 266d–267d. 13 It seems worth specifying that the notion of “magic” (for a general survey, see Collins 2008: 1–26; see also Bremmer 1999; Dickie 2001; Carastro 2006) in this essay is opposed neither to that of “science” nor to “religion,” since ancient magic involved also remedies against diseases (see Kotansky 1991; Scarborough 1991; Graf 1991; Gordon 1995), and was strictly associated with religion (Dickie 2001: especially 18–46). This appears clearly in the common belief in the demonic origins of diseases (Hippoc. Morb. sacr. 1; Edelstein 1967; Lanata 1967; Burkert 1992: 65–73; Lloyd



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cure people from disease and entire communities from epidemics. For instance, the citharode Terpander of Lesbos (seventh century bce) suppressed a stasis in Sparta using his music (Terp. test. 14a; 14b; 19; 22 Gostoli; cf. test. 14c, on the efficaciousness of his λόγοι ‘words’, rather than his music), and the Cretan musician Thaletas of Gortyna (Terp. test. 19 Gostoli; Thiemer 1979: 124–126), an author of paeans that cured the Spartans affected by a loimos, according to tradition. Their songs then seem to have been quite similar to the epodai, (Gostoli 1990: 87), since they healed every kind of disease. Additionally, the effects of the epode seem to be similar to those of music in a Lesbian local myth told by the historian Myrsilus of Methymna (FGrH 477 F 7a = Clem. Al. Protr. 2.31). In this story the Muses charm the king Machares and soothe his anger by singing with the accompaniment of the lyre (αἱ δὲ συνεχῶς κιθαρίζουσαι καὶ καλῶς κατεπᾴδουσαι τὸν Μάκαρα ἔθελγον καὶ κατέπαυον τῆς ὀργῆς). The two verbs κατεπᾴδω ‘to subdue by song’ and θέλγω seem to affirm that the therapeutic effects of the epode does not stem just from its words, but also from music. Furthermore, both music and epodai seem to have had an effect through a kind of hypnosis. This is attested by the use of the verb καταυλέω ‘to charm by flute-playing’ — referring to ritual contexts where the aulos was used for arousing mania in order to heal weaknesses and fears —, referred to the charming effect of music (see, for example, Pl. Leg. 790e). The frequent association of music therapy and epodai as remedies and the use of both by the same person lend further support to the importance of music within epodai.14 Pythagoras, for instance, used music therapy — excluding the auloi — and epodai (Iambl. VP 114, 164 = 244; Porph. VP 30 and 33), and we shall see that the same is true also for Empedocles. In this context, it is no coincidence that Pythagoras was said to have visited Egypt and the Near East, where he learned the basis of his doctrines (see Iambl. VP 11–19; Porph. VP 6–12; McEvilley 2002: 81–89):15 in fact, the use of sung spells for healing was common in those regions (Pinch 1995; David 2004: 131–136),16 where magic healers were also singers, attesting to the importance of music among such peoples.17 An interest-

2003: especially 1–27). Nevertheless, things seem to have been different at least since Plato and Hippocrates and their condemnation of magic. 14 Magicians are often said to “sing” their spells: see, e.g., Hdt. 7.191; Dio Chrys. Or. 36.39. 15 As for the circulation of knowledge between Mesopotamia, Egypt and ancient Greece, especially regarding medicine, see Thomas 2004. 16 Already the Odyssey (4.231–232) gives evidence of the skill of the Egyptians as magicians; in ancient Mesopotamia spells are the most attested therapeutic aide (Cunningham 1997: esp. 1–8, 162). 17 Among studies concerning music in the ancient Near East, I limit my references here to Farmer 1969a, 1969b; Burgh 2006.

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ing case may be represented by the Babylonian figures of the ašipu ‘exorcist’18 and the kalû ‘lamentation singer’, intended to avert evil by appeasing the wrath of the divinity (Beaulieu 2007: 10–15). In Mesopotamian culture, music was credited with magical powers, and a metaphysic energy was associated with both words and sounds. The activity of the Persian Magi, priests performing sacrifices and singing incantations (De Jong 1997: 362–367; Bremmer 2003 [= 2008a] — especially theogonies (see, e.g., Herod. 1.132) — for shunning evil, has a significant bearing on this metaphysical characterization of magic itself. On the other hand, the presence of music in spells proves that to ward off evil and disease was a most important aim of music; this can be seen even in the Veda (Sigerist 1971: 148–165; 1977: 267–296, 442–477). The strong relationship between magic and medicine is also attested in Hittite texts, where the physician worked in collaboration with the magician, and were sometimes often one and the same, since magic rituals and formulae were considered complementary to the physician’s skills (Bryce 2004: 166–167, 200). The ancient Greeks might have learned magic, as well as many other elements of their own culture, from the Near East,19 and especially through Anatolia and Thracia, a land they considered “far” and often associated with magic and magicians (Graf 1995; Bremmer 2003 (= 2008a). Some outstanding similarities exist between Greek and Near Eastern magic: for instance, performativity (Tambiah 1968) — the particular way in which symbolic words create the sense of reality and act upon the real world —20 and sympathetic magic were common in both (Faraone 1993). Nevertheless, an important difference between the use of magic in Greece and in the Near East concerns the social role of seers and practitioners of magic; in Greece, the “magicians” were not a specifically defined category, whereas in the Near East, magic was the province of priests and professional practitioners in general, such as the Iranian itinerant priests, which the Greeks became acquainted with particularly in the sixth century bce (see West 1971: 239–242; Burkert 1983, 1992: 41–46). An example for these is a kind of ancient Mesopota18 That the ašipu used “magic” remedies together with “medical” ones has been demonstrated by Maul 2004; cf. also Ritter 1965. 19 Some notable studies on this topic were written by Burkert (1992: esp. 41–87; 2003); Graf (1997 [1994]) and Bremmer (2008a). The Romans too were aware of the Oriental origins of many magical practices: see, e.g., Tac. Ann. 2.69. The origins of Greek music are connected with the Near East as well, Anatolia being a prominent source of such cultural imports (see West 1992: passim; West 1997: 31–33). 20 This feature of magic is clearly expressed in the Derveni Papyrus, an allegorical interpretation of one of the Orphic theogonies: as we read in column 6, the ἐπῳδή of the μάγοι and their sacrifices were able to drive demons away; on this issue, see Tsantsanoglou 1997: 99–100, 111.



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mian spells called eršemmas that were believed to appease an angry god; their use might be considered in some way similar to that of the paeans in Archaic Greece. In the Iliad (1.472–474) the Achaeans sing a paean in order to soothe Apollo’s anger, so that he will deliver them from the pestilence he himself had sent to them. However, the young Achaeans singing the paean to the god were not priests, while eršemmas were always performed in temples by gala ‘singer-priests’.21 Magic in the Near East had public uses as well as private ones, and it was considered necessary for the society and for the State as a whole: some kinds of maledictions, for instance, concerned lawbreakers, and were included in the official documents of state archives (MacMahon 2002: 129–131; MacMahon 2003: 278–279). Magic in Greece, on the other hand, focused on the private sphere, as demonstrated by the use of katadesmoi ‘binding spells’, maledictions engraved on small lead tablets (tabellae defixionum ‘curse tablets’) that were pierced through with a nail and buried in the ground, thus entrusting them to the spirits of the Underworld (Faraone 1991; Gager 1992; Ogden 1999; Collins 2008: 64–88). This type of magic is in a certain sense not entirely different from the epodai,22 since magicians that specialized in dealing with the dead (namely in necromantic rites) were credited with both the use of epodai, and of katadesmoi (Johnston 1999a: 93). Then we might say that music must have been involved, in some way, in necromancy rites too; this is clearest in the case of the goos, the song of the goês ‘sorcerer’ for evoking the dead (see further hereafter, on pp. 316–319). Although spells were widespread across the ancient world, a tendency to skepticism concerning their efficacy and ethic legitimacy is attested both in the Near East and in Greece: in the Bible and in the Apocrypha magic is often considered a foreign practice (e.g., Deut. 18:10–11; Ricks 2001) and is strongly disapproved of (Wisd. op Sol. 12: 4), while in Greece a clear condemnation of magic is expressed in the fifth century bce by Plato (see Resp. 364b–365a; Leg. 909b, 932e–933e; Motte 2000) and Hippocrates (see, e.g., Morb. sacr. 6.354 Littré, [magicians and purifiers] προσποιέονται […] πλέον τι εἰδέναι “pretend to have superior knowledge.”)23 Plato had in fact distinguished between magic and religion, considering them different as far as their aims and methods are concerned (Graf 1995;

21 Eršemmas have been published by Cohen (1981). 22 The use of both epôidai and katadesmoi is strongly related to orality. For this aspect ancient Greek magic differs significantly from Egyptian magic, which was essentially related to writing (D. Frankfurter [1994], quoted by Johnston 1999a: 93). 23 As Burkert asserts (1972: 164), the profession of a superior knowledge is a typical feature of “shamans,” while τεκμαίρεσθαι, that is putting knowledge to the test through practice, is the main concern of scientists.

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Nutton 2004: 115–118 on medicine in the Timaeus), and Hippocrates — as one can see especially in the treatises On the Sacred Disease and On Ancient Medicine — strongly criticized and rejected both the traditional magical-religious remedies (Lloyd 1979: 15–29, 47–49; Jouanna 1999: 181–193; Laskaris 2002: 97–124) considering them irrational for they assumed that there was a divine origin for every kind of disease,24 and their practitioners, impious for they pretended to subject the gods to their own will (Hippoc. Morb. sacr. 31). According to Hippocrates, each disease has instead a natural cause (see Hippoc. Aer. 22), rather than a divine one; he therefore proposes an inductive therapeutic method based on a careful inquiry of the symptoms of a disease and of its course (Lloyd 1979: 49–58, 146–169; Lloyd 1990: 47–62. For a general survey on Hippocratic medicine, see Jouanna 1999; Nutton 2004: 53–102), and not relying on the knowledge of specific remedies such as spells and purifications (Morb. Sacr. 18).25 Skepticism concerning the therapeutic use of spells — and of music as well — characterizes tragedy as well: in Sophocles’ Ajax (582), the skilled physician is said to use surgery when needed, instead of singing epodai, while in Euripides’ Medea (190–203) the nurse states that music cannot heal pain and sorrow. With regard to music, however, some philosophers and physicians present a positive attitude, since they were credited with ethic effects; thus, on the one hand it affected both character and behavior, and on the other hand, its effects on the soul could concern the body as well. Some remarks on this matter appear in Plato, especially in the Timaeus (71–72, 86–88 and Provenza 2006), and in medical treatises (see, for instance, Galen De san. tuen. 6.40 Kühn). Ethos seems then to be the difference between the therapeutic use of music and that of epodai: in this regard, it is noteworthy that the use of spells is only attested as far as physical and “tangible” diseases are concerned (for instance, hemorrhage, as in the case of Odysseus), and never for the therapy of the soul or character. David, using music rather than spells against Saul’s disease in the first Book of Samuel,26 brings evidence to a notion of the healing effect of music on the soul in contrast with the idea of spells, since these ones involve demonic magic and are thus opposed to Yahweh, the only God and the real origin of everything.27 24 Cf. Galenus Hippocratis Prognosticon et Galeni in eum Librum Commentarius 1, vol. 18/2, 17–18 Kühn and Plut. De superst. 170e. 25 It seems yet worth reminding at this point of the association of religion with medicine in the cult of Asclepius: the practice of medicine in sanctuaries, where the god was believed to act as a doctor (especially through dreams), gained great significance from the fifth century bce (Lloyd 2003: 40–61; Nutton 2004: 103–114). 26 See pp. 323–324. 27 This fundamental difference between magic in ancient Mesopotamia and the use of prayers and lamentations to Yahweh among the ancient Israelites is stressed especially by Walton 1990:



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Musical Ethos and the Exclusion of the Aulos from Paideia The theory of musical ethos28 is based on the observation of the psychagogic effects of music, since different musical instruments, rhythms and melodies were believed to affect the minds and behaviors of people listening to them in different ways. Aristotle’s Politics and Plato’s Republic and Laws are our main sources about musical ethos (Lippman 1964; Anderson 1966; Barker 2005; Rocconi 2007) and its importance within the education of the young people (paideia).29 The meaning of musical ethos seems to be efficaciously summarized in a passage from Plato’s Laws saying that rhythm and harmony make the soul become ordered, and enable it to praise the good and to blame what is ethically repugnant (Pl. Leg. 669b–670a). Ascribing certain musical modes to noble-mindedness and moderation and making the aristocratic boy to perform and listen to them was then an effective means of persuasion, aimed at bringing those young people to comply with the ideals of the social group they belonged to: receiving musical education and learning to appreciate the different musical modes were considered to provide the young people with moral excellence. The most famous distinction of the harmoniai from an ethical point of view can be found in Plato’s Republic (398–400),30 where “mournful” and “relaxed” harmoniai are banned from the polis, and only the Dorian and the Phrygian are accepted, because they alone suit a man who is capable of preserving his dignity and strength of mind both at times of trouble and war and in joy and peace. Melodies in the Dorian mode were considered the most suitable for the education of the young people (Pl. Resp. 398–400; Arist. Pol. 1342a–b; Ath. Deip. 14.624d),31 since this mode was believed to inspire virtue (ἀρετή) and moderation

138–151. 28 Both in Plato’s Republic (3.400b, 424c) and in Aristides Quintilianus’s treatise De musica (2.14.80–81 W.-I.) the origins of this theory are linked with Damon of Oa. Connected with the Sophists, Damon lived in the second half of the fifth century bce, and was a friend and political advisor of Pericles (Plut. Per. 4). He was well known mainly for his reflections about musical ethos. As for this complex figure, I limit my references here to Lord 1978 and Wallace 1991, 2004. 29 A “traditionalist” point of view on music education and musical ethos, reflecting both a longing for the ancient aristocratic education and a sad and strong disapproval of the ongoing “hedonistic” musical innovations represented in particular by Euripides and the “New Music” (on which, see, especially, Csapo 2004), is expressed by Aristophanes in Clouds (961–972, 1355–1376). 30 See also Ath. 14.624c–625f (ca. 200 ce), where a survey on musical modes is carried out according to their ethnic and formal characters. 31 For the definition of musical mode, see Aristox. Harmonica 2.37.

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(σωφροσύνη), which the aristocratic ethic was based on. The lyre was considered as the instrument most suitable to the Dorian mode. On the other hand, Plato had quite a different opinion as far as the aulos was concerned. He considered this instrument unsuited to education and banned it from the polis because of its πολυχορδία ‘being many-stringed’ and παναρμονία ‘embracing all modes’ (Resp. 399d4–5).32 The aulos33 could modulate very easily between different pitches and between one scale and another, and musicians experimented with it for the sake of pure hedone ‘pleasure’ — that is, in order to meet the taste of their audience without any concern for ethos — exploiting the full range of its mimetic qualities. Another non-ethic feature of the performance with the aulos was that its players — mainly professional performers — could not sing as they played it. These features are significant, since ethos, on the one hand, was mainly associated with words (Resp. 400d5–6) and not with music, that is, with sung musical performances (Resp. 398d5–10; cf. Pind. Ol. 1.2, ἀναξιφόρμιγγες ὕμνοι), and professionism, on the other hand, was considered unsuited for free men, that is, to the aristocrats (see, for instance, Arist. Pol. 1341a17–21, 1341b8–18). Despite these contradictions and ambiguities, the aulos played a major role in different religious and social contexts, both public — such as religious feasts with musical competitions, where dithyrambs were performed — and more restricted, even private ones, such as the Dionysiac and mysteric rites, symposia and funeral rites.34 The role of the aulos within these rituals, as far as the enthousiasmos — the characteristic frenzy of the Dionysiac rites — is concerned, is fully acknowledged by Aristotle; in the eighth book of Politics he maintains that this instrument has nothing to do either with ethos — which is why it must be excluded from the education of the young people — nor with action (πρᾶξις), but is instead both enthusiastic and therapeutic. Aristotle states that the Phrygian melodies performed with the aulos inspire the souls, as it happens, for instance, to people listening

32 The refusal of the aulos was more evident from the beginning of the fourth century bce; Plato must have had an important role in it. Political reasons could have been the origin of both its ethical rejection and the myths concerning its “foreign” nature. These aspects have been analyzed thoroughly — also with important references to iconography — by Martin (2003). See also Wilson 2003 (in the same collection as the former) on Critias and the relationship between music and politics in Athens at the end of the fifth century bce. 33 For its organological and historical aspects, see Schlesinger 1939; West 1992: 81–107; Mathiesen 1999: 177–222. 34 Interesting and stimulating comments on the features of the aulos, its religious and social role and what concerns its effects on people are made in Wilson 1999, that I refer the reader to for a complete and clear treatment of the problematic aspects of this complex musical instrument.



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to the tunes of Olympus35 (Pol. 1340a7–10), and that the sacred tunes performed with the aulos and subjecting the soul to frenzy (ἐξοργιάζοντα) bring about ἰατρεία and κάθαρσις (Pol. 1342a7–11) to different degrees of widespread passions. These passions are pity (ἔλεος), fear (φόβος) and frenzy (ἐνθουσιασμός) itself, and their purification occurs together with relief and pleasure (Pol. 1342a14–15, πᾶσι γίγνεσθαί τινα κάθαρσιν καὶ κουφίζεσθαι μεθ' ἡδονῆς)36. Together with the sound of percussions and dance (see, e.g., Aeschylus, Edonoi frag. 57 Radt; Pind. Dithyr. frag. 70b Lavecchia; Eur. Bacch. 120–134), the aulos was also then believed to accomplish a kind of “psychotherapy” within the Dionysiac rites (Arist. Pol. 1342a, see above, p. @; Pl. Leg. 790d–791b, as far as the Corybantic rites are concerned), and was associated as well with the recovery from some diseases of the body, such as sciatica (Theophr. frag. 726 Fortenbough). Three types of percussion instruments were associated exclusively with these rites and with the performance of enthusiastic music that put their participants in frenzy and aroused a discharge of emotions:37 κρόταλα ‘rattles’ — producing a clapping sound when shaken — τύμπανα ‘drums’ and κύμβαλα ‘cymbals’ — little round metallic plates.38 Music therapy and the different characterizations of musical instruments seem then to represent a rich field of research, within which we shall now focus on the therapeutic use of the lyre, for two reasons: the ancient Greeks realized very early in their history that the soothing effects of the lyre could be associated with ethos, and more generally with the idea that health was mainly dependent upon moral balance. Moreover, the lyre seems to be the first musical instrument ever to have been used for healing, as seen from evidence concerning people that made use of both the lyre and the oldest attested musical remedy, the epoidai. We shall examine this role of the lyre in the cases of Empedocles and Orpheus.

35 A semi-legendary aulete who was said to have lived in Phrygia in the eighth century bce. 36 Among the many studies dealing with the Aristotelian theory of catharsis I mention here only Ford (2004) most recent study on musical catharsis in Aristotle’s Politics. 37 It seems noteworthy that percussions too were used in necromancy, and are, in fact, the instruments more often associated with γοητεία ‘witchcraft’, even if lyres were sometimes used in such rituals as well. We will come back to this remark later on (see pp. 318–319). 38 On percussions, see West 1992: 122–128; Mathiesen 1999: 159–176.

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The Lyre: An Aristocratic and Divine Instrument The lyre,39 strum with a plectrum, is a model-instrument of ancient chordophones.40 From the harmony of the world order, to the ethos associated with human behaviors, it performs a prominent role within the cultural landscape of the ancient Mediterranean: the Near East was actually the cradle for many ancient Greek instruments (Thiemer 1979: 127–138; West 1992: 49; 1997: 31).41 The biblical instrument most similar to the lyre is the kinnor,42 and it was the most important musical instrument for the ancient Israelites, as it emerges from archaeological finds (Braun 1994: 1505–1506, 1516–1517; 2001: 525–527; 2002: 16–19). From the Near East, the lyre was adopted also by the Cretans and Mycenaeans (Maas and McIntosh Snyder 1989: 2–9, especially for archaeological references; Anderson 1994: 1–15), and the term seems to be first attested in Greece in a Linear B tablet from Thebes, where it appears in the dual form ru-ra-ta (Franklin 2006b: 56). 39 I follow M. L. West (1992: 51) in using the term lyre in a generic sense, with reference to the box lyre (the only kind of stringed instrument in the Homeric Poems). In Archaic Greek literature the word φόρμιγξ (verisimilarly Thracian in its origins, this is the oldest term referring to stringed instruments in ancient Greek; see Durante 1971: 152–153, 159) is the general term for designating instruments of the lyre class. It overlaps in usage with κίθαρις or κιθάρα and also with λύρα and χέλυς, since it probably was “a strictly poetic word for a considerable time” (West 1992: 50–51; on these terms, see also Maas and McIntosh Snyder 1989: 26–27 (φόρμιγξ), 30–31 (κίθαρις), 34–36 (λύρα, but, see also 79–81), 54–55 (κιθάρα)). Homer uses φόρμιγξ and κίθαρις with no distinction, though the latter occurs only five times. Φόρμιγξ is predominant also in Pindar (less frequent are λύρα and κίθαρις, while κιθάρα is never used, as well as in the Homeric Poems). Where iconography is concerned, the word φόρμιγξ may refer to the round-bottomed, straight-armed lyre depicted in paintings and statues since the days of the Mycenaeans, and played especially by Apollo and the Muses (when mortal men are depicted, this instrument usually appears hanging on the wall) (Mathiesen 1999: 253–258). 40 For a general survey of the chordophones of the family of the lyres, see Wegner 1949: 28–52; Maas and McIntosh Snyder 1989; West 1992: 48–70; Bélis 1995; Mathiesen 1999: 234–270. 41 The similitude proposed by West (1997: 1) that “culture, like all forms of gas, tends to spread out from where it is densest into adjacent areas where it is less dense,” proves highly representative and meaningful for what concerns the Near East as the birthplace of most fundamental aspects of Greek civilization. It seems noteworthy that the Greeks themselves were aware of the eastern origins of the musical instruments and “styles” they used (the myth of Marsyas is an important evidence for this) although they often tried to claim the origins of deep-rooted practices and customs by ascribing them to a mythical “inventor” (πρῶτος εὑρητής), thus justifying and founding the superiority of the Hellenic culture. 42 The word kinnor stems from the root *knr, which exists also in Canaanite, Phoenician, Cypriot (Kinyras) and Ugaritic (Franklin 2006a). It is first attested (in the form kinnarum) in a written document from Ebla, which may date to 2400 bce (Franklin 2007: 33). It is worth reminding that neither kinnor nor nebel — another stringed instrument most widespread in ancient Israel — is likely to have been a harp: see Braun 1994: 1505; 2001: 527–529; 2002: 16–19.



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The traditional tortoiseshell lyra (West 1992: 56–57; Mathiesen 1999: 237–248), reproducing the musical instrument that the Greeks traditionally believed was invented by Hermes,43 was rather small and, most probably, high pitched. The larger kithara (West 1992: 51–56; Mathiesen 1999: 258–270) was the corresponding instrument in formal and public performances, where it accompanied choral songs intended to define and strengthen the identity of the community. So while the small lyra plays an important role in the education of the young people, in regard to the whole community, the large kithara vouches for the ethical and educational aspect of melodies performed in religious rites and feasts in the polis:44 for instance, in Plato’s Republic (399d7–8) only the lyra and the kithara are considered useful for the sake of the polis,45 and in Laws (812b–e), some rules are laid down for the teachings of the κιθαριστής, ‘the teacher of kithara’ aimed at making the young people achieve ἀρετή ‘virtue’ by imitating (μιμήσεις)46 that which is ethically good. Moreover, a strict regulation concerning musical genres and their choral performances is put forward through an analogy between the νόμοι, considered as city laws, and the musical νόμοι (Pl. Leg. 799e10–800b1), namely songs performed with the accompaniment of the kithara (Leg. 700b5–6, 722d6–e1, 800e11–801b1, 801e1–802a5; Resp. 424c3–6; ps.-Arist. Pr. 19.28).47 The role of the lyre in musical education seems also to prefigure its therapeutic effects, on the grounds of an indissolubility of soul therapy and body therapy,48 that may be traced, for instance, in Plato’s thought (e.g., in Chrm. 156c). Already in the earliest Greek literary works that have come down to us, the use of the lyre is not restricted to the sphere of ethics and education, but extended also to some forms of music therapy, leading way to what we may call “psychotherapy.” In the Iliad (9.185–189; cf. Ath. 14.624a; Ael. VH 14.23), for instance, Achilles plays the phorminx for soothing his anger and turning his thoughts away from Agamemnon’s outrage of his honor (τιμή), and probably also for taking his mind

43 The word λύρα is first attested in Hymn. Hom. Merc. 423. 44 Aristotle (Pol. 1341a18–20) leaves “professional” musical instruments, viz. suitable for competition and used in public performances (among which is the kithara), out of the youth education curriculum of the young people. The technical developments of musical instruments, and thus of performances, at the beginnings of the fourth century bce could account for Aristotle’s point of view. These innovations brought about a tendency to “professionalism” in performances, namely to virtuosity. 45 For the role of “strings” in Athens, see the detailed and thorough analysis in Wilson 2004. 46 For Plato, as well as for Aristotle, music conveys ethos by means of imitation. 47 For the classification of νόμοι, see Poll. Onom. 4.78–80 and ps.-Plut. De mus. 1132c–1134e. 48 On the soul and the body in Greek thought, especially before Plato, see Vegetti 1985: 201–228.

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off the strains of battles.49 Achilles’ skill of playing the lyre might be understood as the outcome of an excellent aristocratic education (Scholia Vetera in Iliadem 9.188c3),50 that would have aroused in him such a preference for this instrument as to lead him to choose it for himself among the spoils of Thebe.51 The association of the lyre with an aristocratic environment seems to stem from its link with the gods, in particular — for what concerns the Greeks — with Apollo, the god of light: it is not by chance that Apollo sometimes plays the part of musician at a cosmological level, since he “tunes” the world order as if it were a lyre, using sunbeams as a plectrum (Plut. De Pyth or. 16. 402 a7–b1 = Cleanthes 1.502.2 von Arnim 1903–1905; Scythinus, frag. 1 West 1972) and arousing harmonious sounds from the universe. Moreover, in the aristocratic ethics, corroborated by myth, the lyre was often associated with the bow: in the Odyssey (21.404–411), when Odysseus takes the bow, ready to slaughter Penelope’s suitors, the poet describes the hero handling his bow and observing it as a singer with his lyre, and the plucked string utters a sound similar to the cry of a swallow (v. 411, ἡ δ᾿ὑπὸ καλὸν ἄεισε, χελιδόνι εἰκέλη αὐδήν).52 Similarities between bow and lyre stand out also in a much-studied fragment of Heraclitus (Heraclitus, 22B51 DK) — quoted by Plato in the Symposium (187a) — where harmony is said to spring from the reciprocal tension between opposites, as it happens with bow and lyre (Liddell-Scott 1293: s.v. παλίντονος, 3; Kirk et al. 1983; Serra 2003: 216–231); the verb ψάλλειν is, in fact, used often for

49 So the Iliad gives evidence also for musical performances in non-religious contexts: in the ekphrasis concerning the shield of Achilles (Hom. Il. 18.495, 569–570, 604–605) there is the first evidence ever in Greek literature for musical performances that are intended merely for amusement and not for worship; in that description, music seems to have an important function in everyday life. 50 For Achilles’ education, see Robbins 1993. According to tradition, Achilles learned music, medicine and the art of war from the centaur Cheiron (see, for instance, Hom. Il. 11.832 (medicine); ps.-Plut. De mus. 1146a; Philostr. Imag. 2.2.1–5; Her. 32; 45). This kind of education shares some similarities with eastern examples, as, for instance, the Indic gurukala (Sharan 1968; Vikrant 2005), namely the ancient educational training for Brahmins, including instruction in toxicology (snake-bites) and medicine, as well as music, archery and the study of the Vedas. 51 A city in the same region as Troy. It seems worth mentioning that the scholiast may have anachronistically interpreted the text, since we have not any further evidence for an application of the Archaic paideia for the age of the Trojan War. This issue is part of the problem of interpreting the chronological frame of Homer. 52 Odysseus’s skill in archery reminds of its association with royalty in the Near East and in Egypt. We can think, for instance, of the Bronze Age Egyptian royal archery test, which was introduced by the Hyksos (it was already widespread in Persia); as attested in an inscription on a stone from Giza, pharaoh Amenophis II (1438–1412 bce) had an extraordinary skill in bending the bow (West 1997: 431–435; Crowther 2007: 27–28).



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both, as attested by Plutarch’s mention of the performance of music using the bow as a lyre (Plut. Demetr. 19.10). Φόρμιγξ ἄχορδος ‘lyre without strings’ appears as an allusion to the bow in Arist. Rh. 1413a (= Fragmenta Adespota, 951 Page 1962). The association of bow and lyre seems to be confirmed also where the divine is concerned, and in particular in the characterization of Apollo, the closest among the gods to the world of aristocracy: while programmatically stating his own skills in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo (131–132), the god actually refers to playing the lyre, using the bow and prophesying, and in Pindar’s fifth Pythian Ode the lyre stands as his own musical instrument, through which he puts “peaceful good governance” (ἀπόλεμον […] εὐνομία, 65–67) into men’s minds. This association of bow and lyre reflects the aristocratic ethics and is widespread in the Greek world since the Homeric poems: in the first book of the Iliad (43–54), Apollo shoots arrows from his bow in order to spread a plague among the Achaeans, while a few verses later he sets himself as the god that brings harmony through the music of the lyre (1.603–604: Apollo plays the lyre for banqueting gods while the Muses accompany him with their songs). Besides this, Apollo himself is soothed by the music of paeans (1.472–474), and so, he frees the Achaeans from the plague he himself had sent them because of Agamemnon’s outrage against the priest Chryses. The strong link between Apollo and the lyre is also reflected in the relationship of the god with Orpheus, the mythical musician that shows the extraordinary power of the lyre and possesses, like Apollo, the traits of a lyre player and a prophet (mantis) (West 1983: 1–38); sometimes Apollo is actually named as Orpheus’s father (Pind. Pyth. 4.176–177, ἐξ Ἀπόλλωνος δὲ φορμιγκτὰς ἀοιδᾶν πατήρ / ἔμολεν, εὐαίνητος Ὀρφεύς, “From Apollo came the father of songs, the widely praised minstrel Orpheus” [trans. by Race 1997]; Scholia in Pindari Pythias 4.313a; it is undetermined whether the poet meant “the lyre player, Apollo’s son,” or “the lyre player by means of Apollo”; see Braswell 1988: 255–256). Orpheus was also considered a founder of initiation rites (τελεταί, Ar. Ran. 1032–1033; ps.-Eur. Rhes. 941–949) and the teacher of Musaeus (West 1983: 39–44), another mythical musician who was believed to be a predecessor of Homer and Hesiod and to have taught how to heal diseases (Ar. Ran. 1033). Both Orpheus and Musaeus were considered wonder makers by means of music, and Musaeus’s name refers clearly to the Muses, associated with Apollo in their turn. These mythical figures of wonder makers seem to show that the aspects of charm and “miracle” cannot be excluded from the general framework of the effects of music. Actually, the lyre itself has the power to “charm,” establishing through this power a new order coming from Apollo and the Muses. This is well illustrated in the opening sequence of the strophe and antistrophe of Pindar’s first Pythian Ode, where the poet shows in extremely fine verses the splendor

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of the lyre, Apollo’s (the god of the light) and the Muses’ (who preside over arts, τέχναι) favorite musical instrument. The gods play the lyre, and are also subdued by its sounds; they are subjected to the power of the music of this instrument, that acts on the mind as a charm (v. 12, θέλγει φρένας) and is able to soothe anger and stop violence. Neither dance nor feasts can do without the lyre, and Zeus’s thunderbolt itself, though made of a perennial fire, is put out by it. The father of the gods’ eagle falls asleep on his scepter, his back rising in tune with the sounds of the lyre,53 and even Ares, the war-god, “delights his heart in sleep” (v. 11: ἰαίνει καρδιάν κώματι) and enjoys music as much as to be distracted from his tasks. The lyre therefore can even make the gods unmindful of their prerogatives and subdue violence. If the lyre is so powerful when it comes to the gods, its effects can be no less when human beings are concerned. Pindar celebrates the victory of Ieron — the dedicatee of the ode — in the chariot race, while simultaneously taking the reactions of the gods to music as a model of its effects; it seems that through the music he aims at producing an atmosphere of beauty and pleasure for his audience, that may relieve them of their daily troubles and distress. The action of music is very close to that of a mighty persuasion (those performing music, the singers, “obey” that: Pind. Pyth. 3–4: πείθονται δ' ἀοιδοὶ σάμασιν / ἀγησιχόρων ὁπόταν προοιμίων / ἀμβολὰς τεύχῃς ἐλελιζομένα, “and the singers heed your signals, whenever with your vibrations you strike up the chorus-leading preludes” [trans. by Race 1997]), and the charms of music are like arrows (κῆλα):54 everybody surrenders to them,55 subdued by their might,56 forgetting all else. In what follows, I will deal with some literary testimonies concerning the therapeutic effects of the music of the lyre on passions and the excesses brought about by them,57 focusing especially on its efficacy in soothing anger and stop53 The soothing effect of the lyre is evident in the participle χαλάξαις ‘letting down’ (v. 6), having the wings of the bird as its object. 54 According to the scholium 21a–c, κῆλα would be in the place of κηλήματα (21b: κῆλα τὰ ὑπὸ μουσικῆς θέλγματα). The verb θέλγειν, in the following verse, reinforces the image of the music acting as a charm by subjecting the listeners’ senses. On these verses of Pindar’s first Pythian Ode, see, especially, Brillante 1992. 55 Contrarily, music frightens Zeus’s enemies (13: ὅσσα δὲ μὴ πεφίληκε Ζεύς, ἀτύζονται), so that at the end of the composition (97–98), the notes of the φόρμιγγες do not welcome Phalaris, the cruel tyrant of Agrigentum. 56 One can notice the participle κατασχόμενος ‘subdued’, referred to Zeus’s eagle (v. 10). 57 It is possible to notice in ancient popular etymologies that the lyre was often linked with the therapy of human affections: Eustathius of Thessalonica (Prooem. ad Pind. 34.5), for instance, says that the word λύρα comes probably either from λύειν ἀράς (‘to dissolve pains’; Etymologicum Gudianum, 375.6–9, s.v. λύρα), since in antiquity people believed it to be able to release from pains, or from λύτρον (‘ransom’: Etym. Magn. 572.1; Scholia in Dionysium Thracem 173.33e



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ping violence. These testimonies concern Empedocles, Orpheus and, from the biblical world, the young David. As we shall see, the two mythical figures, Achilles and Orpheus, may be considered very close to the historic ones, that is Empedocles and David, so that the myth proves useful once more for the reconstruction of historically attested practices and notions.

Therapeutic Use of the Lyre In some stories, the lyre acts as an appeaser of anger and violent outbursts, and is also used to banish sorrow, low spirits, distress and real mental disorders. Among the sources attesting the psychagogic effects of the lyre and its use as a remedy, I limit myself to remind the reader of a few anecdotes concerning the early Pythagoreans told by Iamblichus (VP 65–66, 110–111, 113) and Porphyry (P. 32–33).58 The “ethical” effects of the lyre are clearly visible in them:59 in Iambl. VP 65–66, for instance, Pythagoras uses the lyre for exerting self-control and encouraging decorous behavior in his disciples.60 Pythagoras himself surpasses all men in being the only one able to listen directly to the heavenly harmony (the music of the spheres), through which he puts back in order his mind according to the right proportions (Iambl. VP 66, τὸν τοῦ νοῦ λόγον εὐτακτούμενος), that is, according to the harmonious rationes on which the heavenly music is based. The lyre appears there as the musical instrument that imitates and reproduces the harmony of the world order, thus capable of restoring man’s well-being when he is upset. Moreover, the Neo-Platonist philosopher makes it clear that Pythagoras performed a kind of musical “self-therapy,” having enjoyed the privilege of

and 308.15, cf. Hilgard 1883–1901; Eust. Comm. in Il. 574.36 van der Valk 1971–1987), because of Hermes’s “compensation” to Apollo after he had stolen his brother’s herd of oxen. While the real etymology for λύρα remains unknown (Chantraine 1999: 651, s.v. λύρα), the popular ones seem interesting and useful for understanding the ancient perception of the effects of this musical instrument. 58 For the reliability of Iamblichus and Porphyry as sources for the early Pythagoreanism, see above n. 8. 59 For the Pythagorean “ethical” rejection of the aulos, see Iambl. VP 111; Aristides Quintilianus 2.18, p. 91, 28–31 Winnington-Ingram. 60 Cf. Plut. De Is. et Os. 80.384a1–5, where the exhalations of a compound named κῦφι, which was believed to purify the faculty of getting beneficial and revealing dreams, are compared with the sounds of the lyre, “which the Pythagoreans used before sleep, to charm and heal the emotive and irrational part of the soul” (οἷς ἐχρῶντο πρὸ τῶν ὕπνων οἱ Πυθαγόρειοι, τὸ ἐμπαθὲς καὶ ἄλογον τῆς ψυχῆς ἐξεπᾴδοντες οὕτω καὶ θεραπεύοντες, trans. by Griffiths 1970).

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listening directly to the highest music, the heavenly one, of which human music is just an imitation. The use of the lyre as an appeaser of anger seems, then, to be efficacious as far as both the one playing it and the one listening to the music are concerned. It can also be considered a kind of “group therapy”: this can be seen, for instance, in the treatment that Pythagoras’s disciples underwent in springtime, that included singing and listening to paeans performed with the accompaniment of the lyre (Iambl. VP 110). As far as the use of music therapy in case of mind and behavior disorders is concerned, I will refer to two sources in particular, both dealing with extraordinary men that show some remarkable similarities: the first of these sources is Iambl. VP 113 and 114, in which the pre-Socratic philosopher Empedocles of Agrigentum plays the part of the healing musician; the second — within a different cultural context, the biblical one — is an episode from 1 Reg. 16.1661, recounted in Greek many centuries later by the historian Flavius Josephus (AJ 6.166–169), in his account of the beginning of the relationship between King Saul and the young David.

Empedocles Musician and Magician: Therapy with Music and “Healing Words” In an anecdote concerning Empedocles, reported in Iamblichus’s Life of Pythagoras: the pre-Socratic philosopher,62 who was entertaining a guest at home, succeeded in calming the murderous rage of a young man whose father had been previously condemned to death by the guest himself. He did so by singing with the accompaniment of the lyre the verse of Odyssey “dispelling sorrow and anger, and making all evil be forgotten” (νηπενθές τ᾿ἄχολόν τε, κακῶν ἐπίληθον ἁπάντων. Hom. Od. 4.221). Empedocles succeeded both in saving his guest from being murdered and in restraining the young man from committing an act that would have had a dreadful outcome for himself as well. Empedocles’ young “patient” is described as seething with anger, and appears deeply upset (ὡς εἶχε 61 I refer in this paper to the Greek version of the Septuagint, where the books intended as Regnorum correspond to the Books of Samuel of the Masoretic text. 62 Considered a pupil of Parmenides and Pythagoras (see, for instance, Diog. Laert. 8.51–77), Empedocles was also believed to be a wonder-working physician (Hermippus, frag. 27 Wehrli 1974, and, in part,, Diog. Laert. 8.58–59, where it is said that Gorgias maintained that he himself had sometimes been present while Empedocles performed his wonders). As we shall see, the syntagm εὐηκέα βάξιν ‘healing utterance’ in Empedocles, 31B112.11 DK hints at the spells (epoidai) performed by him.



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συγχύσεως καὶ θυμοῦ). The source stresses that as the young man burst into Empedocles’ house the latter was already playing the lyre for his guest’s amusement, and needed only to change the tune and to perform a calming melody in order to achieve the soothing effects he desired. In Empedocles’ hands the lyre turns from a source of pleasure (τέρψις), aimed merely at entertaining, into a “therapeutic” instrument that proves effective against a psychophysical disorder manifested as a fierce fit of anger (θυμός). Therefore, Empedocles prevents the young man from committing a crime by “healing” his fury, described as a real disease (πάθος). Thus, while “it is very hard indeed for men, and resented, the flow of persuasion into their thought organ” (31B114 DK = Clem. Al. Strom. 5.9, trans. by Inwood 1992), as Empedocles himself states, it seems that music facilitates in this, being a most effective instrument of persuasion.63 Music, then, appears in this story as an instrument for deterring violence, through soothing and charming effects that free people’s minds of anger, coaxing them to abandon their craving for revenge. There is some relation between this story and some fragments of Empedocles. Moreover, some elements emerging from them further suggest that, before the Hippocratic treatises, “medicine” and “magic” were not considered as separate disciplines, and music itself — either in its “proper” form or in the form of the epode — played an important part in the set of remedies offered by them both. The traits of the man of science emerging from the fragments ascribed to the poem On Nature (Περὶ Φύσεως) and those of the seer (mantis) and the healer (iatros),64 seen in the fragments considered as a part of Purifications (Καθαρμοί),65 seem to accord with the complex character of Empedocles: these last two designations, used also as far as Orpheus is concerned,66 are often attributed to lyre players67 and are fully incorporated in the figure of the wise man (σοφός) “of exceptional knowledge” (περιώσια εἰδώς) and “master of all kinds of particularly 63 See Sext. Emp. Adversus Musicos 6.5, where the persuasion (πειθώ) of music is said to be θελγούση ‘charming’. 64 Seers were very often also healers, as in the case of Melampus, the healer of the Argive women’s madness (see, for instance, Hdt. 9.34). See Bremmer 2008b (= Bremmer 2008a: 133–151) on Melampus as a travelling seer and the analogies between this figure and eastern seers. For the characterization and the role of the seer in ancient Greece, see Flower 2008. 65 For the existence of only one poem by Empedocles, including these two parts, rather than of two distinct poems, see Inwood 1992: 8–19. Empedocles’ Purifications were part of the repertoire of rhapsodoi, as we read in Ath. 620d; see Franklin 2002: 19. 66 On the presence of Orphic features in Empedocles’ thought, see, especially, Riedweg 1995. 67 See Fragmenta Adespota, 405 Kannicht-Snell 1981: Death (Thanatos) states that Night has not given birth to her as mistress of the lyre (δεσπότην λύρας), as a seer (μάντιν), or as a healer (ἰατρόν). In several sources there is some evidence of a work on medicine ([ἰατρικὸς λόγος) that Empedocles himself wrote (Diog. Laert. 8.77 = Empedocles, 31A1 DK; Suidae Lexicon, s.v. Ἐμπεδοκλῆς = 31A2 DK; Arist. Poet. 1447b16–20; Plin. HN 36.69.202).

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wise deeds” (παντοίων τε μάλιστα σοφῶν ἐπιήρανος ἔργων: Empedocles, 31B129 DK, trans. by Inwood 1992; cf. Iambl. VP 65; Porph. VP 30 and 31). The superiority of this figure to the common man is emphasized in particular in Late Antiquity, but is already made prominent by the philosopher from Agrigentum (Empedocles, 31B146 DK = Clem. Al. Strom. 4.150). So, though strictly centered on the musical healing of passions and ethically orientated, Iamblichus’s evidence does not seem to contradict the therapeutic aspects of music reconstructed through the fragments of Empedocles moreover, this passage underlines the importance he ascribes to remedies (pharmaka) as an instrument through which the wise man demonstrates his indispensability for the community.68 This considered, the anecdote mentioned in On the Pythagorean Way of Life is noteworthy in my opinion, for its contribution to the characterization of the figure of the sophos and to the understanding of its perception; moreover, it is also coherent with information about the activities of Empedocles, known to us through the fragments themselves, and in particular through frs. B111 and 112 DK.69 In the former, placed by Diels at the end of the poem On Nature (Περὶ Φύσεως), Empedocles appears as a μάντις and initiator in rites, and announces to Pausanias, his disciple, that thanks to his teachings he will become master of weather phenomena, so gaining preeminence within the community. Pausanias will first learn the remedies for evil and old age (φάρμακα δ᾿ὅσσα γεγᾶσι κακῶν καὶ γήραος ἄλκαρ / πεύσῃ) and everything he shall need for ruling over the weather phenomena; he shall learn even how to bring the dead back to life (v. 12, ἄξεις δ᾿ἐξ Ἀίδαο καταφθιμένου μένος ἀνδρός, “you shall bring from Hades the strength of a man who has died” [trans. by Inwood 1992]).70 This aspect is deeply related to the tradition concerning the goes (Burkert 1962), which characterizes also Orpheus as he attempts to bring his wife, Eurydice, back to life using the persuasion of his

68 In Empedocles, 31A112 DK and Diog. Laert. 8.70, we read that Empedocles succeeded in healing a plague that affected the city of Selinous, close to Agrigentum, by deviating the flows of two rivers, so that the inhabitants of that city considered him to be on the level of a god. 69 Collins (2008: 108) is of different opinion, since he considers this story as “probably apocryphal,” and focuses on it mainly for the reference to the Homeric verse used as a charm, the only aspect that in his opinion would prevent us from considering it “merely amusing” (but see Provenza 2012, pp. 124–126). 70 Cf. Diog. Laert. 8.69, where Empedocles succeeds in healing a dying woman. A similarity can be noticed between Empedocles and Pythagoras; the latter — according to the oldest evidence concerning him, Xenophanes, DK 21 B 7 = Diog. Laert. 8.36 — professes the doctrine of the transmigration of souls (which, according to Herodotus [2.123], was brought to Greece from Egypt) and would have asserted that he was immortal.



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music.71 The word γόης refers to a practitioner of magic72 that, especially in the late Archaic and Classic periods, seems to be primarily a specialist in dealings with the dead (Johnston 1999a: 82–123);73 it is Thracian in its origin,74 and stems from the same root as γόος (Burkert 1962: 43) — the ritual lament sung to deliver the dead from the world of the living to the Underworld75 — and the verb γοάω, meaning “to sing a song of mourning.” In Aeschylus’s Persians, the goos is mentioned as a kind of “song” for conjuring the spirits of the dead up from the Hades (v. 687, ψυχαγωγοῖς […] γόοις;76 Graf 1995: 35). This seems to attest its older use as a magic song for the dead within rituals that can be characterized as necromantic (Graf 1995: 30–33; Johnston 1999a: 111–118; Ogden 2001: 110–112). Kingsley (1995: 226) maintains that, in this fragment, Empedocles appears as a kind of “shaman”77 opposing Orpheus; though, as a matter of fact, he is an 71 Our oldest source for this episode of the myth of Orpheus is Eur. Alc. 357–362 (this tragedy was performed in 438 bce), that mentions also Eurydice’s return from the Underworld. 72 Plato considers goeteia — as well as everything concerning magic — as an awful techne, as it is clear for instance in Leg. 909b, 933a (he refers the word goêtes also to the Sophists, represented as “charmers”: see, for instance, Soph. 234c, 235a). Notwithstanding, Plato refers the word goês to Eros in Symp. 202e in order to emphasize his skill in enabling the human to communicate with the divine. 73 See also Johnston 1999b: a condensed and modified version of the same. 74 Goeteia (Johnston 1999a: 102–118), the techne of the goes, has Near Eastern origins: the Greeks took over the idea of manipulating the dead through specialized techniques from Mesopotamian culture in the late Archaic period (see Johnston 1999a: 86–95). This would have happened in a time when communication with the dead was part of their own culture and was becoming increasingly isolated from everyday life (Johnston 1999a: 95–100). As for Orpheus as a Thracian singer, it should be noted that this feature might refer to the eastern origins of Greek music and of mystery rites (see Scholia in Euripidem Alcestis 968, concerning σανίδες ‘wooden tablets’ inscribed with Orpheus’s magical words and stored in a sanctuary of Dionysos on Mount Haemus, in Thracia), rather than to its “shamanistic” aspects (these can be considered inappropriate also for Zalmoxis, the Thracian δαίμων ‘semi-divine being’ who was believed by the Getae, a Thracian tribe, to assure life after death; see Hdt. 4.93–96; Pl. Chrm. 156d–e; Graf 1987: 91–92; cf. Guthrie 1962: 159 for the Greek adoption of the Thracian concept of immortality), since the story of his descent to the Underworld cannot be dated prior to the fifth century bce, and seems to be related to the power of his music. Graf (1987: esp. 80–85) points out that shamanism is not the appropriate notion in respect to Orpheus’s descent to the Underworld. 75 As for goos and its difference from threnos — a lament sung by professional performers (usually men) and exalting the virtues of the dead — see Alexiou 1974: 11–13, 102–103 and Johnston 1999a: 100–102. 76 We know that Aeschylus himself wrote a drama bearing the title Ψυχαγωγοί. Tragic passages where goos is mentioned — both as a ritual lament, and as a necromantic spell — are listed in Alexiou 1974: 225–226 n. 6. 77 Burkert (1962, 1972: 153–154) and Dodds (1951: 145–147) also understood the last verse of the fragment in a “shamanistic” sense.

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unsuccessful shaman failing to bring back to life his wife, Eurydice78 despite having been able to persuade the gods of the Underworld thanks to the power of his music. So these verses together with frag. B112 DK seem further to confirm the inappropriateness of the category of “shamanism” to ancient Greece79 and instead let the personality of Empedocles come out as that of a goes who is able to help his community both by means of evoking the souls of the dead, and by performing epodai for healing diseases: goetes were, in fact, also credited with the use of epodai (Dionysos, for instance, is said to be a γόης ἐπῳδός in Eur. Bacch. 234).80 Even the lyre appears as a further element contributing to characterize Empedocles as a goes, so that the anecdote told by Iamblichus can be rightly considered within the Empedoclean tradition: the lyre was used, in fact, by goetes for evoking the spirits of the dead, although percussions, especially drums, were typical of this kind of rituals (Graf 1987: 83). An important evidence of this is offered by the title of an Orphic poem, Λύρα, that was handed down only in a scholium to Verg. Aen. 6.119 discovered in codex Parisinus lat. 7930 in 1925 and therefore not included in Kern’s collection. The text of the scholium refers to Varro, who would have asserted that “librum Orphei de vocanda anima Liram 78 Pl. Symp. 179d is our oldest evidence about the tragic outcome of Orpheus’s attempt to lead his wife back from the Underworld. 79 Many scholars have considered Empedocles a “Greek shaman”: I limit my references here to Dodds 1951: especially 135–178 (about “shamanism” in ancient Greece, see also the oldest and most famous reference, Meuli 1935) and to Burkert (1962) who finds some outstanding features of shamanism in the figure of the goes. Their opinions have later been accepted by Kingsley (1995) and more recently by Collins (2008: 52–54). Inconsistencies in this point of view have been raised, yet much evidence — collected particularly over the last three decades by Jan Bremmer — suggests that “shamanism” properly considered is quite far from Greek thought and from its practice concerning the relationship between the living and the dead. For instance, the reviving of the dead could seem a “shamanistic” feature of Empedocles, yet he can in no way be considered a shaman, because he neither descends to the Underworld, nor performs ecstatic trances and his soul does not leave his body (Bremmer 1983: 33–34; cf. also Minar 1971). So figures previously considered as “Greek shamans” — especially Pythagoras, Epimenides, Empedocles, and Orpheus — lack of a fundamental feature of the Siberian and northern shamans, namely, ecstasies involving excursions of the soul. Bremmer (1983: 29–48; 2002: 27–40) has particularly stressed this point by demonstrating that evidence for shamans among the Scythians themselves is doubtful, and scholars considering the abovementioned early Greek figures as “shamans” are influenced by later interpretations, since contemporary reports contain no evidence of “shamanism” in relation with them. I find it therefore more appropriate to define such figures as those mentioned above as goetes, rather than “shamans,” keeping in mind that the Greek goes is quite far from the “shaman,” and is a special kind of magician who declares himself mainly able to connect the living with the dead using his epodai. 80 See Johnston 1999a: 111 n. 71 for further references.



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nominari,” and concludes: “et negantur animae sine cithara posse ascendere” (West 1983: 30). The scholium seems related to necromancy with the lyre (Nock 1927: 170) lurking behind the myth of Orpheus’s descent to Hades, but might also refer to the music of the spheres and to the ascent of the human soul through the cosmic circles “aided” by the music of the lyre, which is similar to the soul’s own music (West 1983: 30–32). The solution offered by West (1983: 32–33), in whose opinion the “cosmic” Alexandrinian interpretation is joined by the tradition concerning the Orphic Mysteries in southern Italy — where the lyre was involved as an instrument for the “release” of the souls from the horrors of death81 — links cosmology with necromancy, so offering an interesting point of view on the conceptual evolution of Archaic practices that enjoyed a substantial revival in the Hellenistic and Roman Ages. As far as this goetic aspect of the personality of the pre-Socratic philosopher is concerned, it is still possible to notice some perplexity in modern studies that seems after all to be unjustified; several decades ago, for instance, van Groningen (1956) resolutely rejected the attribution of the verses of this fragment to Empedocles.82 On the other hand, arguing for disparity between “science” and “magic” in Empedocles’ thought and rejecting the latter, Casertano (2000: 217–228), for instance, has proposed a “rational” and metaphorical interpretation of the figure of Empedocles as a magician.83 However, if we consider both the verses, namely what we are really able to read of Empedocles’ thought and the evidence given by his contemporaries, such as the sophist Gorgias, a disciples of Empedocles that clearly refers to Empedocles’ activity as that of a goes (Diog. Laert. 8.59; Battegazzore 1999), things seem to be quite different from the two abovementioned trends of interpretation. Some verses of Empedocles’ that have come down to us seem to have been most probably a part of his activity as a magician (Kingsley 1995: 232), especially since the tradition of Empedocles being a magician (Mauduit 1999) clearly stems from what Empedocles says about himself (Kingsley 1995:

81 Cf. also Burkert 1992: 65 on the use of setting pipes in graves to soothe the wrathful spirits of the dead, preventing them from bringing evil to the living. 82 He ascribes them to a comic poet who intended to make a caricature of the philosopher. 83 Casertano maintains that although on a formal level Empedocles’ poetry is characterized by magic and ritual elements, generally connected to Orphism, his thought was, in fact, detached from these practices. Therefore, the contents of Empedocles’ verses, that is, what he really wishes to convey through his verses, and the form in which he conveys them, would appear to be two very different matters. Regarding frag. B111 DK, Casertano (Casertano 2000: 224–225, n. 12) maintains that Empedocles most probably referred to his own ability to acquire the learning of the deceased, that enriched his own mind with knowledge, as it is attested also in Empedocles, 31B129 DK.

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221), that makes us consider him a iatromantis,84 a “divine” healer performing his tasks through prophecies, charms and purifications85 (Vegetti 1996; Kingsley 1999: 101–115; interesting and fascinating though odd). In this regard, frag. B112 DK, transmitted by Diogenes Laertius (8.62; according to the edition of Diels and Kranz, this fragment would be the first of Purifications) appears to be all-important and is worth quoting it in its entirety: ὦ φίλοι, οἳ μέγα ἄστυ κατὰ ξανθοῦ Ἀκράγαντος ναίετ’ ἀν’ ἄκρα πόλεος, ἀγαθῶν μελεδήμονες ἔργων, ξείνων αἰδοῖοι λιμένες, κακότητος ἄπειροι, χαίρετ’· ἐγὼ δ’ ὑμῖν θεὸς ἄμβροτος, οὐκέτι θνητός πωλεῦμαι μετὰ πᾶσι τετιμένος, ὥσπερ ἔοικα, ταινίαις τε περίστεπτος στέφεσίν τε θαλείοις. τοῖσιν † ἅμ’ † ἂν ἵκωμαι ἄστεα τηλεθάοντα, ἀνδράσιν ἠδὲ γυναιξί, σεβίζομαι· οἱ δ’ ἅμ’ ἕπονται μυρίοι ἐξερέοντες, ὅπῃ πρὸς κέρδος ἀταρπός, οἱ μὲν μαντοσυνέων κεχρημένοι, οἱ δ’ ἐπὶ νούσων παντοίων ἐπύθοντο κλυεῖν εὐηκέα βάξιν, δηρὸν δὴ χαλεπῇσι πεπαρμένοι . “O friends, who dwell in the great city of the yellow Acragas, up in the high parts of the city, concerned with good deeds, hail! I, in your eyes a deathless god, no longer mortal, go among all, honoured, just as I seem: wreathed with ribbons and festive garlands. As soon as I arrive in flourishing cities I am revered by all, men and women. And they follow at once, in their ten thousands, asking where is the path to gain, some in need of divinations, others in all sorts of diseases sought to hear a healing word,86 having been pierced for too long a time” (trans. by Inwood 1992).

Empedocles’ personality in this fragment towers above the community he is a part of and for whose sake he carries out an essential activity; we learn this from his assertion that he goes about his fellow-citizens “as a deathless god” (Trépanier 2004: 79–81), and that great honors and veneration are bestowed upon him (4–6). Moreover, the community is eager to take advantage of his powers, yearning for his predictions. Among these are also some people afflicted by disease and longing for a “healing word” (10–12).

84 The word is referred to Apollo in Aesch. Eum. 63 and to his son, the Egyptian medicine god Apis, in Aesch. Supp. 263 (cf. also Aesch. Ag. 1621–1623). 85 See for instance the case of Melampus “purifying” the Proitides from their madness in Apollod. Bibl. 2.2.2. 86 I prefer to translate βάξις into “word,” instead of using the term “oracle,” proposed by Inwood. The reasons will be clarified in what follows.



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The term βάξις, that can be translated in a broad sense as “word” but is also used to denote oracular responses (Soph. Trach. 87), seems to refer in this context to the practice of epodai. It is almost as though we can see these people, afflicted with every kind of pain, asking Empedocles at least for solace: according to Diocles of Carystus, a physician of the Sicilian Medical School87 — that referred to Empedocles as an ancestor — the epode would have the same effects as the παρηγορία ‘assuagement’, since it acts on the πνεῦμα ‘breath’, of a wounded person, connecting it to the breath of the therapist, and arousing a kind of sympathy between them (Scholia in Homeri Odysseam 19.457 [vol. 2, p. 681 Dindorf] = Diocles, frag. 150 van der Eijk 2000: Diocles refers to the specific action of sung spells as that of a hemostat). This fragment, then, corroborates the representation of Empedocles as a goes offered by frag. B111 DK. Thus, Empedocles performed his activity of physician making use of both “traditional” remedies, as for instance words forming a spell (epode), and of remedies (pharmaka), so that, applying Detienne’s (1977) effective definition, his portrayal as a wise man might be regarded as that of a “master of truth”88 (Lloyd 2003: 24–27). However, as is the case with frag. B111 DK, several scholars have been skeptical about hints to magic in frag. B112 DK, mainly about the meaning of the εὐηκὴς βάξις and about its use by Empedocles. According to Wright (1981: 10), for instance, the mention of both φάρμακα κακῶν ‘remedies to evils’, in frag. B111 DK and εὐηκὴς βάξις ‘healing word’, in frag. B112 DK, would place Empedocles within the extent of sorcery (goeteia) and spells, rather than in that of medicine, because magic is to be considered as opposite to medicine. Nevertheless, the notion of “scientific” medicine, as we understand it nowadays, also on the basis of the Hippocratic treatises (especially On Ancient Medicine and On the Sacred Disease), can be applied neither to Empedocles’ times, nor to his overall activity, since magic and medicine seem to overlap within his thought to the point that magic takes the form of a real medical remedy (Kingsley 1995). The use of the word (βάξις) as a spell for healing diseases would show this aspect of Empedocles’ personality. The use of music for soothing impulsive and violent moods has two aspects: on the one hand it shows Iamblichus’s interest in setting the philosopher within

87 This school would seem to be connected with the use of magic, so that, according to some scholars, the Hippocratic treatise On the Sacred Disease would really refer to this while carrying on a strong controversy against magic (Jones 1979: 10–11). Diocles practiced as a physician in the first half of the fourth century bce; his literary production is known only through summaries and quotations made by other authors, especially Galen (van der Eijk 2000). 88 Detienne’s essay focuses on the role of the word as a medium of truth (ἀλήθεια) and of deception, and as an instrument of persuasion (πειθώ) in the Archaic Greek poetry.

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an ethical background that seems deeply influenced by Plato’s thought, thus emphasizing his relationship with Pythagoreanism (revised by the Neo-Platonic thinkers in the light of Plato); on the other hand, beyond later interpretations, it seems to be connected with the complex set of the “traditional” practices. Wright’s “rationalization” of the εὐηκὴς βάξις goes as far as retrenching Empedocles’ activity within his community to the only aspect which we would consider acceptable from a “scientific” point of view: she maintains that this syntagm would not be used to refer to a spell, but rather to the diagnosis of a disease, and at the same time to orders of remedies, “which would be all that the conditions of a crowded street surgery would allow” (Wright 1981: 267). However, the precariousness of life, that would have distressed the Ancients at least as much as it does distress us, together with the charisma that Empedocles was certainly gifted with — as far as can be learned from the fragments — must have made him a leading figure and a steady point of reference within his community (Lloyd 2003: 24–26); these features do not seem to be in contrast to the practice of magic. Taking, then, frs. B111 and 112 DK into account, the anecdote about Empedocles being a healer by means of music in Iamblichus’s Life of Pythagoras appears to be quite consistent with the Sicilian philosopher’s personality89 as it emerges from his self-testimony: the effect of a Homeric verse working as a spell does not actually seem of less importance in soothing anger than the musical performance with the lyre, so that an agreement between the use of music therapy and that of spells seems to emerge from this anecdote and the abovementioned fragments, as well as from what concerns Orpheus, a lyre player who was also credited with the use of epodai.90 Besides this, Orpheus’s descent to the Underworld makes him a magician with the traits of a goes (this is true also for Empedocles, though the latter is never said to have descended to Hades); Orpheus’s decapitated head uttering oracles on Lesbos (Ogden 2001: 208 and n. 19) actually turns him — at least after death — into a mantis. In Iamblichus VP 113–114, Empedocles appears to be associated, on the one hand, with the Pythagorean tradition concerning music therapy (Laín Entralgo 1970: 74–82) and, on the other hand, with the ancient use of sung spells rooted in folklore: as far as this aspect is concerned, the passage seems to echo the εὐηκὴς βάξις, the ‘healing word’ of frag. B112 DK. Therefore, even if the recentness of Iamblichus’s anecdote is noteworthy, limiting the interpretation of such an event to musical ethos would nevertheless appear artificial. Actually, it does not seem 89 Kingsley (1995: 247–248) mentions the use of a Homeric verse as a spell against anger that can be found, about a millennium after Empedocles, in an Egyptian magic papyrus known as the Paris Papyrus (Heim 1892: 515). 90 See on p. 311.



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necessary to assume the existence of an ethos theory behind an event that may be explained by evidence itself, namely by the traditional use of music and old songs for soothing agitation and psychophysical upset (which, for instance, Plato refers to in Laws 790–791, in relation to a comparison between babies and people taking part in the Corybantic rites). Moreover, the remedy used by Empedocles for soothing anger places itself within the range of the Pythagorean use of music for healing, and we have no reason to believe that the early Pythagoreans, as well as Empedocles himself, had connected these practices with an ethos theory, rather than with “musical magic.”

David and the Kinnor An episode in the Bible, distant in time and in historical context from the aforementioned ones, shows that in different cultures (even if not unconnected one from the other) the same qualities were attributed to music and to its effects on human life, including also its capability to beneficially treat diseases. In 1 Reg., the events concerning the arrival of David at the court of King Saul have a strong connection with his musical skills, thanks to which he gains the king’s trust and begins his ascent to glory and power. Since the spirit of God had departed from him, Saul was assailed by evil spirits that wore him out. The king’s advisors then suggested resorting to music therapy, by looking for a skilled kinnor player (see above, n. 42) that would play this instrument every time Saul underwent the onslaught of the evil spirits afflicting him with madness. After Saul agreed to this proposal, he was told that a young man from Bethlehem, one of Jesse’s sons, was a skilled kinnor player, as well as being wise, handsome and an expert at handling weapons: these features evidence that the Lord is with him (1 Reg. 16.18). A messenger was then sent asking that David is released from guarding his father’s flocks and sent to the king. When David arrived at the court of Saul he immediately enjoyed his favor, since he proved able to free the king from his distress: “As the superhuman spirit seized Saul, David took the kinnor in his hands and played it (καὶ ἐλάμβανεν Δαυιδ τὴν κινύραν καὶ ἔψαλλεν ἐν τῇ χειρὶ αὐτοῦ). Saul calmed down and felt better (ἀνέψυχεν Σαουλ, καὶ ἀγαθὸν αὐτῷ), and the evil spirit drew back from him”91 (1 Reg. 16.23; my translation). Josephus (AJ 6.168–169) tells the same events pointing out that the young David was a real doctor for the king; actually he states that “as the king was troubled by those evil spirits, whenever this would happen, David was his only doctor, since he 91 Gregorius Nyssenus (In inscriptiones Psalmorum 5.33 Jaeger) represents the healing effect of the music of David through the verb κατεπᾴδω.

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was able to make Saul to come to his senses by means of songs and playing the kinnor” (my translation). The symptoms of Saul’s disease are referred to as “suffocations and strangulations” (πνιγμοὺς […] καὶ στραγγάλας, AJ 6.166) and may be connected with a disease of the soul, but represent real physical pains as well, and prove to be sensitive just to music therapy. Youth, beauty and skill both in playing the kinnor, and in handling weapons, emerge as basic features within the description of David. These are the same essential traits characterizing the well-educated young Greek aristocrat, and earlier, the hero, as in the case of Achilles playing the phorminx in the ninth book of the Iliad (see above, pp. 11–12). David’s own gracefulness and the results he gets remind us moreover of an assertion ascribed to Damon92, acknowledged in tradition as the founder of the theory of musical ethos: according to him, “in singing and playing the kithara, the boy has to show not just courage and wisdom, but also righteousness” (δ[ε]ῖν ἄδον[τα ἢ κιθ]αρίζοντα τὸν [παῖδα] μὴ μόνον ἀνδρε[ίαν ἐμφαίν]εσθαι καὶ σω[φροσύνη]ν ἀλλὰ καὶ δι[καιοσύνην], Philodemus De Musica 3.77.13–17, 55 Kemke 1884 = Damon, 37B4 DK). It is possible to notice in this interesting fragment that the virtues associated with somebody playing a musical instrument are also considered as a guarantee of the ethical efficacy of the music performed, that would prove to be beneficial for listeners. We could think then that the dignity and high-mindedness coexisting within young David corresponded to the Greek σωφροσύνη ‘temperance’ and δικαιοσύνη ‘fairness’, the virtues owned by people educated to a moderate and moderating music and able to help others by means of that.

Orpheus and David In Jewish tradition, David is considered the author of most of the Book of Psalms, which represents the foundations of Hebrew sung poetry. This outstanding aspect of David as the initiator of an extraordinarily important musical tradition seems to connect him — as far as Greek culture is concerned — with Orpheus, to whom the beginnings of the Greek musical and poetical traditions are ascribed. Like David, Orpheus sings with the accompaniment of the lyre,93 through which 92 See above, n. 28. 93 Moreover, he is sometimes considered to be the actual inventor of the lyre — the main instrument in the Greek musical system: in Timotheus’s Persians (fourth century bce), for instance, it is said that “first Orpheus yielding rich music (πρῶτος ποικιλόμουσος Ὀρφεύς), Calliopes’ son, was father of the lyre” (221–223; my translation). Although υν is a reconstructed lection, it appears trustworthy. As Geerlings (2005: 256–257) has maintained, in Early Christian iconogra-



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he is able to do great wonders: he makes trees and mountains move and draws wild beasts around him94 (for instance, in Eur. Bacch. 560–564; Ap. Rhod. Argon. 1.23–34; Conon, frag. 45 Jacoby = Test. 115 Kern; Ov. Met. 10.88–108, 143–144),95 while birds gather and fishes come to surface at the sound of his lyre. This aspect can be observed also in a fragment of the lyric poet Simonides of Ceus (frag. 567 Page 1962 = Tzetz. Chil. 1.309–310, p. 14 Kiessling) — most probably the oldest literary evidence (from the second half of the sixth century bce) of the powers of Orpheus’ music.96 So the musician succeeds in mastering nature, just as Empedocles pretends, in his turn, that he is able both to do so and to endow others with such a power by means of his wisdom (sophia). Moreover, although David is not said to perform music for animals, namely for the flocks he pastured, while Orpheus is said to charm even animals by means of his lyre, both these figures seem nonetheless to be connected with nature. However, the characters of Orpheus and David seem to contrast where struggles against powers that are either hostile to men’s wishes or prove harmful are involved. By many of his music, Orpheus succeeds in persuading the gods of the Underworld to return his wife, Eurydice, to him alive. Nonetheless, he fails to comply with their prohibition to turn back and look at her before they have both left Hades, and Eurydice disappears forever. David, on the other hand, succeeds in defeating the evil spirits upsetting Saul in his fits of madness, even if his musical performance must be repeated whenever a fit occurs. Nonetheless, within the saga of the Argonauts, Orpheus is considered the rescuer of his fellow travelers from the fatal danger of the Sirens, by outdoing them in singing (Eur. Hyps. frag. 752g Kannicht 2004; Ap. Rhod. Argon. 4.891–919; Scholia in Apollonii Rhodii Argonauticas 1.23 = Herodorus 31F42–43 Jacoby): in this respect, he seems once again close to David, for he prevails against evil. Moreover, Orpheus fights evil with his music to the end. He tries to defend himself against the Thracian phy the figure of Orpheus with the lyre is often associated with Christ, since through his music he emerges as a prefiguration of Christ's incarnation, according to the Fathers of the Church. 94 The motive of Orpheus surrounded by wild and domesticated animals, listening to his music, is widespread in Christian iconography of the second to fourth century ce, in which Orpheus is associated with King David playing the kinnor (Eisler 1925: 11). King David is shown playing his instrument for animals in an “Orphic” iconographic scheme, in a mosaic from a synagogue in Gaza, now exhibited at the Israel Museum in Jerusalem (508–509 ce; Garezou 1994: 97, catal. 170). 95 Lieberg (1984) discusses Orpheus’ powers over nature as they appear in Latin poetry of the Augustan Age. 96 Orpheus also plays the lyre in the oldest known iconographic testimonies of him, namely on a metope of the shrine of the Sicyons at Delphi (about 570 BC; Blatter 1984: 593, catal. n. 2; Kern 1922: 1), and on an Attic Black-Figure plate of the second half of the sixth century BC (it bears no inscription, but probably represents Orpheus playing the lyre and surrounded by animals; see Garezou 1994: 98 n. 191 and Callipolitis-Feytmans 1974: 194–195, 364, pl. 67 K 14).

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women who want to murder him by opposing their violence with his lyre,97 and his head continues to sing even after he is beheaded (Conon, frag. 45 Jacoby; Luc. Ind. 109 = T 1052 I, III Bernabé; Ov. Met. 11.50–55), thus showing that the beauty of the divine gift of song — as well as the harmony within the world order — shall never stop. The persuasive aspect of Orpheus’s music is sometimes explicitly placed within the sphere of the epode as it appears, for instance, in some Euripidean verses: in Alcestis (357) there is actually a reference to Orpheus’s skill in persuading by means of words (γλῶσσα) and music (μέλος), so that the effect of his songs is clearly assimilated to that of a spell (359: ὕμνοισι κηλήσαντα),98 while in Iphigenia in Aulis (1211–1215) the protagonist, about to be sacrificed, mentions persuasion by means of a spell (epode) as Orpheus’s skill par excellence, saying that she has nothing but tears to dissuade her father from his wicked resolution to sacrifice her. An epode of Orpheus is further mentioned in Euripides’ Cyclops, the only satyr play that has come down to us in full, where the chorus of satyrs says that this spell is so powerful that it can cause a firebrand to thrust itself in the Cyclops’s eye (Eur. Cyc. 646–648). Some verses of Alcestis (962–972) refer to Orpheus’s therapeutic activity: in fact, the chorus, referring to the ineluctable force of necessity (ἀνάγκη), claims that there is no remedy (φάρμακον) for this necessity — not “in the Thracian tablets of the poet Orpheus,” nor “in the cures which Phoebus Apollo gave to the Asclepiads, providing remedies for poor suffering mortals” (966–972; trans. by Conacher 1988).99 Orpheus’s epodai then seem to remind us of Empedocles’ ones, mentioned in frag. B112 DK, pointing out that song, even in the form of sung spells, generates persuasion in listeners and helps to overcome difficulties, besides restoring psychophysical health. Similarities between Orpheus, Empedocles and David seem then to emerge not only where the use of the lyre is involved: Orpheus is associated with epodai and mysteric practices, as well as Empedocles. On the other hand, traditionally, he is a young musician to whom the Greeks ascribe the origins of their musical heritage, just as the Jewish people ascribe theirs to David. Moreover, David’s use 97 It is a dominant idea in iconography relating to Orpheus’s death: see, for instance, Garezou 1994: 86, catal. n. 44. 98 Christopoulos (1991: 214–215) contrasts the practical purposes of Orpheus’s music, which are also linked with charms, to the “intellectualistic” purposes of Apollo’s music. 99 In these verses, the “irrational” magic medicine and the “scientific” Hippocratic medicine are juxtaposed in order to stress the helplessness of both against death, the ineluctable impending fate of all men — death. It is also notable that in the tablets mentioned in the text, the musical element does not play any role, but rather the spoken words do: these verses are therefore close to the notion of epôidê as “magic formula” that becomes predominant in Late Antiquity and is mainly attested in magic papyri.



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of music for healing Saul may be easily compared with Empedocles using the lyre in the Iamblichean passage. It is also noteworthy that music stands out in the first Book of Samuel (1 Reg. 16) and in the abovementioned passage of Josephus’s Antiquities of the Jews as a motif in David’s fortunes: he appears in the biblical story as a musician and a music therapist and gains the king’s trust thanks to these skills. Once the king’s trust has been gained a long series of troublous events starts, marked also by Saul’s envy and hatred, eventually leading David to assume to royal dignity. Besides this, in the episode of the conveyance of the Ark to Jerusalem (2 Reg. 6; Wright 2002), David shows that he himself fully actualizes the musical aspect of the worship of Yahweh, asserting that he does not feel any shame when performing music and dancing in the presence of his servants and female slaves, for he does so in order to praise God. These performances involve then a use of music and dance aimed to establish a close bond with God. Moreover, David is, of course, a great expert in musical art capable of using music for various purposes, including therapy. Therefore, contrary to Michal, Saul’s daughter and David’s first wife, who is not an expert in music and claimed that David behaved inappropriately in front of his servants and his people, crossing the limits of dignity in an indecent and careless agitation (Wright 2002: 215–225), David asserted that he did his best in performing music and dance to honor God (Wright 2002: 223, 225: four of the divinity’s five senses can be stimulated: namely, the senses of smell and taste by means of sacrifice and the senses of hearing and sight by means of music and dance). Further, he shows through his glee that he enjoys God’s favor. In the events of David’s life, the kinnor is not only a musical instrument in the service of worship, but also a worldly one, since it allows to do something for the sake of people afflicted with pains.100 The entire range of this instrument’s capa100 According to Rouget (1986: 213–218), David’s intervention in the case of Saul in 1 Reg. 16 does not concern music therapy. He maintains that David does not function as an exorcist of the evil spirit tormenting Saul, for the king himself is a prophet, and prophetic virtues in the Bible are inspired through music (as it is seen, for instance, in 2 Reg. 3.10–15): just the music performed by David allows Saul to recover the spirit of God, whose removal had caused the possession by the evil spirit. To Rouget’s mind, music therapy must also be excluded, since it implies a magic connotation of the virtues of music, which would be far from what can actually be read in the text. In my opinion, it is significant, nevertheless, that as soon as David enters with the kinnor, intending to make the evil spirit to withdraw, it indeed departs from Saul, whereas, when Saul makes attempts on David’s life (1 Reg. 18.10–12); this episode is mentioned by Rouget as well) because he is envious of the young man’s successes, he is not at all hindered by the music David is performing at that moment, but rather resigns to David because he successfully dodges his lance twice (a sign that he enjoys God’s favor). The reason could be that David used different melodies on different occasions; however, it cannot be dismissed that the good spirit could return to Saul only after David had driven away from him the evil spirits by means of a musical performance.

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bilities is thus used for positive purposes. These features, as it has been shown, are present also in the myth of Orpheus acting as a savior by means of playing his lyre whose effect on listeners is compared to that of a charm.

Conclusions In this essay I have examined some pieces of evidence concerning the healing powers of the lyre, finding that this instrument often appears in the same contexts in which the epodai are found, and in association with them. The Iamblichean anecdote concerning Empedocles in Life of Pythagoras 113–114 exemplifies this association, and its reliability, in its turn, is corroborated especially by Empedocles frs. B111 and 112 DK and by the evidence concerning goeteia. On this basis, some significant similarities between Empedocles and Orpheus and also between them and David have been observed. These are strengthened by the spread of the use of music for healing in the Near East and by the eastern origins of the Greek music itself. The biblical episode seems to attest to further similarities between Near Eastern and Greek healing musical practices. Psychic therapy by means of the lyre is thus evidence for the ancient people’s perception of the beneficial effects of music, attested in ancient Greece at least since Hesiod’s Theogony at the earliest. In that theological and cosmological poem (98–103) music immediately (ταχέως) diverts men’s mind from sorrow (πένθος) and causes them to forget worries (δυσφροσύναι) and grief (κήδη) thanks to the singer (ἀοιδός) whom the Muses love (96–97: ὅντινα Μοῦσαι φίλωνται). These verses, summarizing the main topics we have been dealing with, show how helpful musical instruments can be in several circumstances, beyond the “official” realms of religion and the education of the young people.

This considered, I think that the episode in 1 Reg. we have been dealing with shares similarities with many other cases of music therapy, including those mentioned in this essay, and can thus be understood as such. In the biblical context, on the other hand, the association of harmony within man, in the sense of the psycho-physical well-being of the individual and the presence of Yahweh in his life, cannot be disregarded, since everything in human life depends on the will of God. Besides this, in my opinion, the notion of music therapy regarding this episode does not contrast with the prophetic virtues that have been given to Saul: having prophetic virtues does not in itself guarantee that, the king, being human, is not subjected to weaknesses or to evil in general. These can be set right by the intervention of one who, like David, can play the kinnor and make use of musical therapy, thanks to God’s favor bestowed upon him and endowing him with such powers.



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Roberto Melini

Sounds from under the Ashes: The Music of Cults and Mysteries in the Ancient Vesuvian Land Haec iuga quam Nysae colles plus Bacchus amauit;hoc nuper Satyri monte dedere choros. (Mart. Ep. 4.44.4–5)

The Roman people living in the land dominated by the threatening Mount Vesuvius (Fig. 1) still regarded the Greek heritage as their own. It was in fact on the island of Pithekoussai (now Ischia, near Naples) that the first Greeks landed in the beginning of the eighth century bce. They had sailed across the Mediterranean Sea in quest for new lands to settle, bringing with them a cultural heritage that included a pantheon and music. The sonorous horizon of the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum, and the villas of Stabiae and Oplontis, built some centuries later, are the offsprings of a melting pot in which the Greek tradition was deeply intertwined with the themes and the customs of the Italic and Etruscan communities. In the year 79 ce the volcano erupted, sealing the Vesuvian area along with its rich culture under layers of ash and lava.





Fig. 1: The Vesuvius from the forum of Pompeii.

Excavations in Herculaneum began in 1738, and a decade later, in Pompeii; Spanish, Austrian, German, French and Italian archaeologists have been taking turns excavating the two sites in an ongoing international engagement. At first, the findings were kept in the Reggia of Portici (a royal palace near Herculaneum), but finally, fearing another eruption, they were transferred to the new Naples



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National Archaeological Museum.1 Among these unearthed treasures — astonishingly preserved for centuries by the lava’s seal — there is much valuable evidence concerning sounds and music. Among the findings from Pompeii and Herculaneum housed in various museums are specimens of several musical instruments whose Roman names are cornus, tuba, bucina, discus, crepitaculum, cymbalum and tintinnabulum. Above all, the recovery of numerous tibiae (the Roman version of the aulos) is particularly remarkable: numbering in many dozens, they include some exemplars that are almost intact as well as fragments in different states of preservation (Fig. 2). Nine tibiae unearthed at the rustic Villa of Fondo Prisco, in the Pompeii countryside, were bound together and set in the cella ostiaria (the room near the entrance) (Fig. 3).







Fig. 2: Some tibiae preserved in the Naples National Archaeological Museum.



Fig. 3: Nine tibiae recovered in the Villa of Fondo Prisco, near Pompeii.

The cymbalum is an extraordinary musical instrument for the scholars: rooted in ancient oriental origins, it had crossed centuries of history enriching different cultures in every corner of the globe. In the Vesuvian land this musical instrument was often represented in paintings and statues, rife with symbolic significance. Many ancient specimens have been preserved and are today in the Naples National Archaeological Museum. Cast in bronze, these finds come in various dimensions — their diameters ranging from 5 cm to 11 cm — depending on whether they were held by two fingers or hand-held by the whole palm (see 1 Inaugurated in 1801, this prestigious institution is today named Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli (MANN). Some findings are exhibited also in the Antiquarium of Boscoreale and in the Antiquarium of Castellammare di Stabia, and many others are displayed in museums around the world.

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Fig. 4). In some types the disks are linked by a chain. While this feature may have hindered the possibility of striking the two elements freely (the connecting chain is rather short), its existence may point to a ritual use of the instrument. Actually, the cymbala had a symbolic role also in the primitive creed of the arbores sacrae (holy trees), and for this reason it is not unusual to see them suspended from a branch. An exceptional occurrence was the discovery of an actual pair of cymbala in the Praedia of Julia Felix (a sort of residence in Pompeii II 4, 3),2 in the same room where this instrument was also depicted in a fresco, among the symbols of the god (see Fig. 5).





Fig. 4: Bronze cymbala from Pompeii.



Fig. 5: Cymbala and other objects related to the cult of Dionysus (wall painting from the Praedia of Julia Felix, Pompeii).

2 The buildings of Pompeii are referred to using archaeologist Giuseppe Fiorelli’s space organization system, proposed in the nineteenth century: regio, insula, domus (district, block, building).

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Fig. 6: Pan and Daphnis (marble statue in the Naples National Archaeological Museum, Farnese Collection — Sculptures and Baths of Caracalla).



The syrinx appears in reliefs on altars — on an arula (a small altar) from Pompeii, for example (D’Ambrosio and Borriello 2001: 32) — probably where the rites were related to less “orthodox” worships. According to myth, this instrument was invented by Pan, the god of the wild nature, multiform and universal. It is therefore easy to imagine the syrinx in the hands of supernatural beings who dwell in mountains and woods. Traditionally, it appears far away from the values of the city. Pan is represented in a famous statue — now exhibited in the Naples National Archaeological Museum — teaching the young Daphnis to play his instrument (see Fig. 6). Pan’s pupil learned well and, according to tradition, he continued to play the syrinx as he tended the herds and composed the first bucolic songs. Unfortunately, because of the perishable materials from which the syrinx is made, no ancient specimen survived in its entirety; some pipes excavated in the Vesuvian area are perhaps part of this instrument. At the Forum in Pompeii the consecration of a temple is taking place. It is the time of the suovetaurilia (purificatory immolation of pigs, sheep and bulls) — sacrifices offered to the god Mars on the occasion of lustratio, the purification rite. The priest performs the rites preceding the praefatio on the focus (altar), as the

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victimarii (attendants at a sacrifice) arrive with the bull intended for immolation; servants and other cult attendants crowd the scene. In the midst of these events, a musician is playing a tibia. During an earlier part of this rite, this performance set the rhythm for the pompa (the procession to the temple), then accompanied the circumambulatio (the parade of the sacrificial bulls already harnessed) and, as the ceremony progresses, the sound of the tibia drowns all negativity (the toga on the priest’s head has the same symbolic function). This scene is represented in the reliefs that adorn the marble altar in the temple of the Genius Augusti (the sanctuary for the cult of Augustus) in Pompeii (Fig 7). It demonstrates the essential role of music in this ritual. Other iconographic evidence from Rome and from the empire’s provinces also testifies to the centrality of the music players in different ceremonies. Most commonly portrayed is the tibicen (player of the tibia), but sometimes it is a cornicen (who played the cornu) and, more rarely, a fidicen (a cithara player, as seen in the famous Ara of Domitius Enobarbus), accompanied by a singer.



Fig. 7: Representation of a sacrifice (marble relief on the altar in the temple of the Genius Augusti, Pompeii; in situ).

Hundreds of iconographical representations (paintings, statues, stuccoes and cameos) instruct us about the different aspects of that sonorous horizon. Moreover, the details of musical instruments are sometimes so accurate that they enable the study of the technology used by artisans in those times. Some Erotes playing a cithara, for instance, are represented in a painting from Herculaneum, in a context that recalls Apollo (Fig. 8). We can clearly see how they handle the strings using their fingers and a plectrum, and we can also notice the details of the bridge, the tailpiece and the pegs. In the Vesuvian area graffiti are another important source for scholars. In some, it is possible to find references to musicians: we read about tibicenes, or about the player of a wind instrument who is mentioned with the Greek word au(l)eta.





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Fig. 8: Erotes playing a cithara (wall painting from Herculaneum).

Fig. 9: Representation of a sacrifice (wall painting in the lararium of a house in Pompeii Regio VIII 2; in situ).

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A tibia player is often seen also near the domestic Pompeian lararia (the family shrines dedicated to the protecting spirits or genii). A beautiful example is the famous wall painting from Pompeii Regio VIII. In the lower register, the agatodemoni (“good spirits” in the form of two snakes) appear. In the center of the upper register a sacrifice scene is depicted (Fig. 9) with a couple of dancing lares and other figures bearing offerings on both its sides. The officiating priest stands next to the altar holding a cornucopia (horn of plenty), as does a musician who accompanies the ceremony. This image is remarkable, for it allows us to infer that the tibicen is using a Phrygian-type instrument (tibia Berecynthia, made of bound pipes of varying lengths and terminating in a curved horn) while he establishes the rhythm working a scabellum with his left foot. According to Greco-Roman mythology, the genesis of music is associated with the gods; Hermes, Athena, Pan and Cybele — the euretai — are credited with the invention of musical instruments. Let us take Hermes, for instance, portrayed in the Villa San Marco, in Stabiae (Fig. 10). According to the Homeric Hymn to Hermes 24–51, he extracted the bowels from the sacrificed cows, stretched them between two horns and plucked them on a tortoise carapace, to create the lyra. Apollo, charmed by the sound of the new invention, bartered his herd in exchange to the musical instrument.





Fig. 10: Hermes with female figures, one holding a lyra (wall painting from Villa San Marco, Stabiae).

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Fig. 11: Apollo playing a cithara near an omphalos (wall painting in Casa dei Vetii, Pompeii; in situ).



Apollo appears frequently in the Vesuvian area, owing to the high esteem in which Greek-inspired classicism was held (harmony, elegance and culture), especially during the time of Augustus. Among the best-preserved images of Apollo are those appearing in the spectacular paintings — masterpieces of the “Fourth Style” — preserved in the peristyle of the Casa dei Vetti (Pompeii VI 15, 1/27). These iconographical representations clearly attest to their owner’s desire to illustrate his intellectual ambitions (see Fig. 11).





Fig. 12: Apollo Citharoedus (wall painting from Moregine, near Pompeii).

Although Augustus also presented himself as Apollo, the most celebrated emperor-citharist in history remains the emperor Nero. In what is arguably the most beautiful fresco rescued from Moregine, a suburb of Pompeii, the depiction of Apollo’s face seems to portray Nero (Mastroroberto 2003: 485–494). The figure’s pose is hieratic; it seems as if it is soaring amid the fantastic architectural images surrounding the triclinium (Fig. 12). The god is playing a big, “modern” cithara: he holds a plectrum in his right hand and with his left he plucks the strings from the other side of

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the instrument. In this depiction Apollo is surrounded by the Muses, as is common in representations of his divine entertainments. These celestial beings were not stingy with their joyful invention, and made music the gods’ gift to mankind: Such is the holy gift of the Muses to men. For it is through the Muses and far-shooting Apollo that there are singers and harpers upon the earth; but princes are of Zeus, and happy is he whom the Muses love: sweet speech flows from his mouth (Hes. Theog. 93–97; English trans. by the author)3

The idea of music was essential in those ancient times, in part because it was a privileged medium between heaven and earth: So was ancient music and this was the aim for which it was useful. Heracles, as it is told to us, used the music, as did Achilles and many others, according to tradition, [he] had the wise Chiro as an educator, who was a teacher of music and also of justice and medicine. (Plut. [De mus.] 1145f–1146a)

A painting from Herculaneum shows the centaur Chiron teaching music to the young Achilles — illustrating the words of Plutarch (Fig. 13). The figure of the hero as a student of music is exemplary in that it not only demonstrates the importance of learning the arts and the thaumaturgical power of music, but also emphasizes the teacher–pupil relationship in the transmission of this knowledge.





Fig. 13: Achilles and Chiron (wall painting from Herculaneum).

3 Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are the author’s.



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Orpheus, son of the Muse Calliope, was well versed in the power of music, and the Hieroi logoi (Sacred Discourses) were therefore attributed to him. Orphism may have evolved into a form of metempsychosis. The cult of Orpheus left its mark in the ancient Vesuvian land: in the Casa di Orfeo (Pompeii VI 14, 20), on a vast wall fresco bearing the same name, Orpheus is depicted in a typical scene, charming the beasts with his music and song (Fig. 14). In a relief found in Torre del Greco, near Herculaneum, he is portrayed with his beloved Eurydice, holding his musical attribute, the lyra, and watched by Hermes as the Lord of Heaven. The essential importance of music was evident both in public and in secret rites. In the Dionysian cult, official rites and arcane aspects are intertwined, and music possesses an essential power originating in the dawn of history: Close to Messenes, a nearby mountain is called Mount Eua; the name derives from “euoi,” the sacred cry let out here for the first time by Dionysus and by women of his retinue. (Paus. 4.31.4)





Fig. 14: Orpheus (wall painting on the façade of the Casa di Orfeo, Pompeii; in situ).

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Fig. 15: The triumph of Dionysos (wall painting in Casa di M. Lucretius Fronto, Pompeii; in situ).

When the god arrives, he is engulfed in a riot of sounds: “Around roar the taut drums and the concave cymbals: with raucous sound threaten the horns, and with Phrygian lilt the cave flute stirs the heart” (Lucr. De rerum natura 2.618–620). Close iconographical parallels to these words of Lucretius can be found in several Vesuvian wall paintings: for example, one from the Casa di M. Lucretius Fronto (Pompeii V, 4a), (Fig. 15), another from the Casa di Marcus Lucretius (Pompeii IX 3, 5/24) and a third wall painting recovered in the Villa di Carmiano, near Stabiae.



Fig. 16: Scene of cult for Dionysos (marble relief in the Naples National Archaeological Museum, Farnese Collection).

Myth and rite converge in different manifestations in the cult of Dionysos-Bacchus. In the myth, and also in the reality of those times, the woman that follows the god is overcome by rhythm and by sounds, becoming herself possessed as maenads and bacchantes: “Cymbala and tympana shaken by quivering hands played everywhere on the beach…There are maenads with loose hair and nimble satyrs, the crowd that precedes Bacchus the god…” (Ov. Ars am. 1.535–536, 539– 540). This crowd is the thiasus, the god’s mythical retinue (Fig. 16). Images of maenads and satyrs appear often in scenes in Pompeian paintings, although in some images the scene seems to soften into more poetic shades, as it happens



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in the beautiful flying maenads depicted on the dark background sides of the so-called Villa di Cicerone, in Pompeii (Fig. 17).



Fig. 17: Flying maenads (wall painting from the so-called Villa di Cicerone, Pompeii).

The religion of Dionysos was both exoteric and esoteric: On the one hand, the god sat in the pantheon; he was considered the patron deity of the theatre, the inventor of the dithyramb and the patron of wine. On the other hand, he often appears in relation to situations in which spiritual aspirations coexist with wild vital energy that emanates from nature. For Quintilian, there are also social reasons besides mystic aspirations: That is the aim of the Bacchic initiation, that the depressive anxiety of the less-educated people, caused by the conditions of their life or by some troubles, be removed through rite’s melodies and dances in a joyous and cheerful way. (Quint. De mus. 3.25)

The Bacchic cult generated a disruptive force overflowing like lava from a volcano and, in the Dionysian form, sometimes became mania ‘trance, orgy’. It was the spread of these particularly disquieting aspects that impelled the Roman Senate to issue a decree, intended to put an end to the frenzy: the Senatus consultum de Bacchanalibus from 186 bce banned the celebrations in honor of Bacchus (Livy Epon. 39.18.3). Nevertheless, it soon became evident that nothing could hold back

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the vehement emotions of the initiates. A topical case can be found in the Villa dei Misteri (House of Mysteries) in Pompeii, where the extraordinary megalographies staging a Dionysian ceremony were realized more than a hundred years after the decree. In the exegesis of these frescos we cannot disregard the music (Musella 1949): in a reference to an archaic world, the old Silenus plucks the strings of a lyra (Fig. 18) and a naked woman seems possessed as she dances shaking cymbala (Fig. 19).







Fig. 18: Silenus playing a lyra (wall painting in Villa dei Misteri, Pompeii; in situ).



Fig. 19: Possessed woman holding cymbala (wall painting in Villa dei Misteri, Pompeii; in situ).



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The Vesuvian land was also the cradle of another religion that was based on arcane theories and characterized by secret ceremonies: the cult of Sabazius. It would seem that in the Casa di Sestilius Pyrricus (also called the House of the magical rites; Pompeii II 1, 12), in the times preceding the eruption, the followers of Sabazius celebrated mysteries that involved mystic exaltation and wicked sexual practices (Turcan 1993). The sonorous component of those rites was not of secondary importance in this context, since cymbala, tympana and syrinx are among obscure symbols appearing on sacred objects, like a famous clay pot (see Fig. 20) or the strange Mano Pantea.









Fig. 20: Symbols of the cult of Sabatius (relieves on a fictile vase, from . Casa dei Riti magici, Pompeii).

Fig. 21: Memento mori (relief on a silver cup, from Villa di P. Fannius Synistor, Boscoreale).

Music, religion and mysteries — what brought to this intense interpenetration? For many people the vibration of sound could be one with that of the universe. Through a new creed they sought universal harmony, in which music and philosophy intertwined (theorems, treatises and proportions were as valid for a taut string as they were for the equilibrium of the world: just think of Pythagoras’s experiments). It seems that the men initiated into these secret rituals were able to

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free themselves from the negative aspects of earthly life — soma sema, the body is the grave, wrote Plato in Cratylus — and live a new, bright life after death. Furthermore, as suggested by Plutarch (Non posse 1105b), many “think that a sort of initiations and purifications will be helpful: once purified — they believe — they will carry on to playing and dancing in Hades in places full of splendor, pure air and light.” An iconographical parallel for this description may be found in a depiction of skeletons in an epicurean, low-relief memento mori, on a silver cup retrieved in the Villa di P. Fannius Synistor, in Boscoreale (Fig. 21). Another specimen on display in the Naples National Archaeological Museum is a golden lamina recovered in Thurii (Calabria) that contains an inscription with accurate guidelines to the afterlife (Pugliese Carratelli 2001: 98–99). Regarding the connections between music and philosophy, we must point out that a treasure was found among the scrolls astoundingly recovered from the Villa dei Pisoni (also called Villa dei Papiri, because of this find), in Herculaneum:4 a text of Philodemus of Gadara, a master among the Epicureans (Rispoli 1974: 57). In this philosophy of life, the importance of music was not overlooked; it had a magical role, and at times a subversive one as well. Before the fatal eruption, the men and women of Pompeii, Herculaneum and other territories in the Vesuvian region, broadened their cultural horizons, adding to their pantheon of atavistic gods new figures adopted from the East. Religions originating in Thrace, Anatolia and the southern coast of the Mediterranean Sea promised their followers extraordinary experiences in life and the comforting temptation of an afterlife. Among these newly imported Eastern gods was the Great Mother, Cybele, honored along with Attis both in public celebrations and in assemblies for initiates, radiating music herself. She inspired sacred songs — such as nomoi — whose obscure mythical origins lie in the dark days preceding Greek civilization. Besides the first mythical performers (such as Hyagnis and Olympus), historic authors too received from the goddess vital sap for their compositions: Euripides, for example, drew from a Cybelian nomos on Orestes to write the Song of the Chariot (Eur. Or. 1381). The cult of Cybele and Attis exalted the power of sound and music: “I ate from tympanon, I drank from kimbalon; I have become a mystes of Attis” (Firm. Mat. Err. prof. rel. 18.1). Since 204 bce, when the cult was imported to Rome, iconographical representations of the goddess, inseparable from her musical instrument, spread across Roman society. In Pompeii, she is depicted on the façade of 4 The papyrus PHerc. 1497, discovered in 1752, is the largest, most significant of ten papyri related to the importance of musical education. The Abbot Piaggio started to study this find, inventing a simple, yet ingenious, machine that enabled to unroll the carbonized scrolls and to read parts of these extraordinary writings; nowadays more sophisticated technology can be applied.



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a building on the Via dell’Abbondanza (the officina coactiliaria and the officina infectoria; Pompeii XI 7, 1/2) where she is a statue waiting to be carried in a procession (Fig. 22). The sacred entourage includes many musicians. In the myth they were the Corybantes, the nine descendants of the goddess: “…and Corybas gave the name of Corybantes to all who, in celebrating the rites of his mother, acted as men possessed” (Diod. Sic. 5.49.3). They roused an orgiastic dance, accompanied by the sound of wind instruments and tympana, that dazed its participants and had them thrown into ecstasy. We know that in reality the dances were performed by the galloi, the cult priests who, disguised as soldiers, in a paroxysm of violence, inflicted wounds and mutilation on each other (See Strabo Geogr. 10.3.7).

Fig. 22: Procession for Cybele (wall painting on the façade of the officina coactiliaria in Via dell’Abbondanza, Pompeii; in situ).

The characteristics of that music must have been vigorous and well pronounced, employing — according to Plutarch ([De mus.] 1141b) — the rhythm of choreis, extremely fit for frenetic dances. Catullus, too, composed the poem Attis (Carmen 63) using the galliambus, a Latin, excited lyric meter considered by the Alexandrian scholars as orgiastic and “barbaric.” In the Greek tradition, official performers were often integrated into the cultic system; there are instructions for “the musicians in charge of dances accompaniment”: The hieroi every year give notice of auletes and citharists that possess the necessary qualification and that will officiate during sacrifices and during mysteries: whoever was notified had to give his service in honor of the gods (LSCG 65.73–75)

Even so, situations did exist in which musical expression could be manifested in different manners. The metragyrti, for instance, were wandering musicians, begging in Cybele’s name: they are perpetuated in the ancient Vesuvian area, where they are portrayed in a theatrical setting. In this representation — the celebrated mosaic by Dioscurides (Fig. 23) — the musicians play an aulos, cymbala and a tympanum. The cymbala are part of the Cybele liturgy because they resemble the “two sky’s hemicycles that surrounded the earth, mother of the gods” (Serv. ad Virg. Georg.

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4.64), while the tympanum is the true attribute of the goddess. Being of perishable material, no tympanum survived, but its representations are numerous.

Fig. 23: Theatrical scene with street musicians (mosaic from the so-called Villa di Cicerone, Pompeii).



Fig. 24: The modern playing of tammorra.

With the tympanum and the sounds of initiation, mania and ecstasy echoing in our minds, we realize the significance of the above-mentioned evidence offered by the Vesuvian region, enabling us to tie together the musical strings that connect present-day culture with the civilizations of the past (see Fig. 24). In his discussion of aspects of the tradition remarkably preserved in this region, Roberto De Simone (a respected musician) writes the following:



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My particular experience as an ethnomusicologist, in these moments, runs to the peasant and pastoral world from which, in the 60s and 70s, I gathered many musical documents. The connection was spontaneous, due of the persistence in the ethnic tradition of the Campania of different musical instruments portrayed in the ancient Pompeian paintings (De Simone 1999: 229).

So even today, particularly in processions, ceremonies and sacred-pagan rites, the Cybelian and Dionysian spirit is perpetuated in songs and dances — the tammurriata, the tarantella and the fronne — that express yearning for the liberation and expression of life’s profound meaning (De Simone 1979). The arcane cult of Isis and Osiris originated in the southern Mediterranean coast and arrived in the Italian Peninsula. The god “traveled over the whole earth civilizing it without the slightest need of arms, but most of the peoples he won over to his way by the charm of his persuasive discourse combined with song and all manner of music. Hence the Greeks came to identify him with Dionysus” (Plut. De Is. et Os. 356b). After elaborate evolutions of the Roman pantheon, Serapis became syncretic with Osiris, and was venerated with the goddess Isis in many of the region’s temples.





Fig. 25: An Isiac ceremony (wall painting from Herculaneum).

The attribute of Isis was a particularly sonorous object: made of metal, sometimes precious, it was called at first iba and later on sehem. The Greek referred to it as the seistron — sistrum in the Latin world (see Fig. 26). As Plutarch explains:

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The sistrum also makes it clear that all things in existence need to be shaken, or rattled about, and never to cease from motion but, as it were, to be woken up and agitated when they grow drowsy and torpid. They say that they avert and repel Typhon by means of the sistrum…(Plut. De Is. et Os. 376d)

Sistra had always been associated with the concepts of life and death, and, accordingly, the following objects display symbols pertaining to them. On the handle, lotus flowers are depicted along with the love goddess, Hathor, and Bes, the god of music and happiness; the crossbars on the frame terminate in snakeheads and on the top, the goddess Bastet is shown, nursing her kittens. While the rites for Isis provided impressive moments — dances accompanied by tibiae and tympana seen in a famous painting from Herculaneum (Fig. 25) — the hieratic character of these ceremonies was dictated by priests who managed the magical sound of the sacred instrument: …but the men had their crownes shaven, which were the terrene stars of the goddesse, holding in their hand instruments of brasse, silver and gold, which rendered a pleasant sound. (Apul. Met. 11.47; Adlington 1639)



Fig. 26: Bronze sistrum from Pompeii.

In these ceremonies, priests and devotees are brought to life in the evocative images from Pompeii, Herculaneum, Stabiae and Boscoreale. It is remarkable that, in a climate of religious syncretism, the sistrum had great significance both as a confessional element and as an element of cultural identification. This is evident also in the portrayals in the peristyle of the Casa degli Amorini dorati (Pompeii VI 16, 17) and in other depictions characterized by deep allegoric mean-



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ings, such as the images of Io a Canopo seen in the Casa del Duca di Aumale (Pompeii VI 9, 1) with replicas in the Pompeii’s Iseum. Many sistra were found in the Vesuvian area (see, for example, Fig. 26); they are often well preserved, and can even be played. As more than one sistrum was found in the Domus Volusii Fausti (Pompeii I 2, 6/10), one may argue that the building housed a workshop. Moreover, the Domus Volusii Fausti is located not far from the city’s cult place for Isis — the Iseum (Pompeii VIII 7, 27/28). The Iseum was one of the first buildings to be rebuilt after the disastrous earthquake that hit Pompeii in 62 ce, and one of the first structures to be excavated in modern times (Fig. 27). The recovery of the

Fig. 27: The ruines of the temple of Isis,



Pompeii.





Fig. 28: Scenography of the first representation in the Teatro alla Scala (Milan, 1816) of Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte.

temple during 1764–1766, along with its decorations and artifacts, all found in an exceptional state of preservation, left a profound impression on the archaeological community and on the general public far and wide. This discovery contrib-

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uted greatly to the rise of Egyptomania5 that spread through Europe in the late eighteenth century. Pompeii became an important venue in the celebrated Grand Tour, and even Wolfgang Amadeus and Leopold Mozart were among the city’s numerous visitors. During their journey to Italy, on June 1770, Leopold wrote, “On Monday and Tuesday we will go and have a closer look at Vesuvius, Pompeii and Herculaneum, the two cities that they are excavating, we will admire the extraordinary things already found” (Scialò 1991: 39-40). The young genius, only fourteen at the time, was probably fascinated by the evocative power of the Iseum, and must have recalled these impressions when, years later, he composed Die Zauberflöte: Thanks be to Isis, Osiris always! Strength is the victor! In glory be crowned, In wisdom and beauty for ever abound! 6

References Adlington, W. trans. [1639] 2006 The Golden Asse, by Lucius Apuleius. Release date: 21 February 2006. D’Ambrosio, A. and M. Borriello 2001 Arule e bruciaprofumi fittili da Pompei. Naples. De Simone, R. 1979 Canti e tradizioni popolari in Campania. Rome. 1999 La musica nella Pompei romana. In: Homo Faber. Natura, scienza e tecnica nell’antica Pompei, ed. A. Ciarallo and E. De Carolis, 229. Milan. de Vos Raaijmakers, M. 1980 L’egittomania in pitture e mosaici romano-campani della prima età imperiale. Leiden. LSCG 1969 Lois sacrées des cités grecques, ed. F. Sokolowski . Paris. Mastroroberto, M. 2003 Una visita di Nerone a Pompei: le deversoriae tabernae di Moregine. In: Storie di un’eruzione. Pompei Ercolano Oplontis, ed. A. D’Ambrosio, P. G. Guzzo and M. Mastroroberto, 479–523. Milan. 5 The archaeologist Mariette de Vos Raaijmakers (1980) dubbed the Roman fascination with Egyptian style in the first years of the Empire ‘Egittomania’: “Everything of that land became fashionable after the events regarding Cleopatra and the conquest of the Kingdom of Egypt.” (trans. R. M.) 6 These words are taken from the final chorus from Die Zauberflöte. The libretto to this opera, which premiered in Vienna in 1791, was written by Emanuel Schikaneder; Fig. 28 shows the set of the first staging of this opera in Milan, in 1816, in the Teatro alla Scala.



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Musella, E. 1949 Concerti musicali e danze nella pittura pompeiana ed ercolanese. Atti della Accademia Pontaniana N.S. 2: 223–238. Pugliese Carratelli, G. ed. 2001 Le lamine d’oro orfiche. Milan. Rispoli, G. M. 1974 Filodemo sulla musica. Cronache ercolanesi 4: 57–74. Scialò, P. ed. 1991 Mozart a Napoli nelle lettere di Wolfgang e Leopoldo. Naples. Turcan, R. 1993 Sabazios à Pompèi. In: Ercolano 1738–1988. 250 anni di ricerca archeologica, ed. L. Franchi dell’Orto, 499–508. Rome.

 III Epilogue

Yossi Maurey

Ancient Music in the Modern Classroom1 The French musicologist Jacques Chailley devoted his professional career to the revival of medieval music and ancient theater and to the study of Greek music. Of his numerous publications, a book he originally penned in French in 1961 stands out for its powerful and sweeping title: 40,000 Years of Music. Yet, as is famously known, the book devotes only several paragraphs to the first 39,000 years of music, dedicating some 200 pages to music of the last millennium (Chailley 1975; Taruskin 2006: xxi).2 Chailley was neither the first nor the last musicologist to treat ancient music as part of a general music-history survey. Especially prominent in the 1950s and 1960s, the call to broaden the horizons of music history to include non-Western and ancient musics was met with eagerness by those who believed that until Western music was seen in the setting of universal history, its special position would not be understood properly (Wiora 1965: 9). To be fair, however, Chailley had good reasons to be as concise as he and others had been in treating ancient music. When Gustave Reese published his Music in the Middle Ages in 1940, the oldest example of musical notation available to scholars dated from 800 bce; it employed cuneiform characters and was judged to be “definitely undecipherable” (Reese 1940: 6). It was not until the mid 1970s that the curtain rose on yet another, earlier beginning of music history, when the notation of a cuneiform tablet dating from around 1400 bce and excavated in Ugarit/Ras Shamra (an ancient Mediterranean city in northern Syria) was analyzed, deciphered and transcribed by Professors Kilmer, Crocker and Brown from the University of California at Berkeley. Their reconstruction of a Hurrian hymn to the goddess Nikkal has turned an archaeological artifact into the earliest extant musical example that has been deciphered to date. If we accept that the tune is correctly transcribed and the words properly transliterated, then this discovery serves as an important precedent to what we consider to be quintessentially Western practices. The salient features of this reconstructed tune are striking: it has been suggested, for instance, that the hymn from Ugarit was performed by solo voice accompanied homorhythmically by a lyre or harp (Kilmer et al. 1976). If true, this evidence effectively extends the notated history of polyphonic music by some two millennia. What is more, the music that sets this hymn reportedly uses a diatonic pitch set, from which derive 1 I am most grateful to my colleagues Edwin Seroussi and Ruth HaCohen for their careful reading of this paper, and for the suggestions they have made to improve it. 2 Chailley’s book was originally published in French in 1961 as 40,000 ans de musique: l’homme à la découverte de sa musique (Paris, Librairie Plon).

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our major and minor scales, and, with its two-part harmony and predominance of thirds and sixths, it could serve as an important antecedent to polyphonic music, which would emerge in western Europe only some 2700 years later (I shall return to this reconstruction and its implications further below). There exists substantial information concerning the musical practices, instruments and tuning systems of the ancient world, including even some transcriptions of the music itself.3 Yet, the judgment made by Curt Sachs, back in 1943, that the music of the ancient world has faded away, remains as prevalent today as it was over half a century ago (Sachs 1943). Paradoxically, nowhere is this view more current and persistent as it is within the field of musicology; the courses offered in most music and musicology departments around the world; the way in which undergraduate and graduate students are trained and professional societies developed; and the subject matters of most articles, published in professional, peer-reviewed journals — all testify that ancient music, and more specifically, music predating classical Greece, is somewhat of a stepchild to musicology — perhaps altogether an orphan. In what follows, I offer several insights into this state of affairs, namely, why musicology has, on the whole, turned its back on ancient music. I suggest that methodological, historical, historiographical and institutional biases have developed into significant impediments to the inclusion of music of the ancient Near East and Mediterranean into musicology curricula far and wide. The Department of Musicology at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, where I teach, offers a five-semester sequence of music history, covering the time span from “the beginning” to present days. Students taking the first two semesters (devoted to music up to circa 1750 ce) are typically first-year undergraduates; in addition to my in-class lectures, the chief vehicle by which they study music history remains the textbook. An examination of textbooks published in the past half century or so reveals that despite the variety of approaches and methodologies, and notwithstanding the proliferation of competing and parallel narratives in other fields of musicological inquiry, textbooks are still surprisingly in general agreement on at least one aspect of music history — its undisputed origins in ancient Greece. A very small number of textbooks do mention Egyptian, Meso-

3 In addition to sources cited in this article and to the references found therein, see also the recently published Mousikè et Aretè: la musique et l’éthique de l’antiquité à l’âge moderne (Malhomme and Wersinger 2007). Moreover, in 2008 alone two conferences were devoted to various aspects of music in the ancient World: (1) Sounds from the Past: Music in the Ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean Worlds, held at the Bible Lands Museum in Jerusalem, 7–8 January 2008, and (2) Music in Sumer and After: International Conference of Near Eastern Archaeomusicology, held at the British Museum, 4–6 December 2008.



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potamian and Anatolian music by way of introduction, paying homage to a venerable and distant tradition. Having satisfied the desire to acknowledge some universal origins and commonalities, they quickly move on to a very particular narrative of origins, one that delineates a westerly trajectory, from Greece to the West. The most recent edition of Norton’s well known and widely used textbook, A History of Western Music (known by students far and wide simply as “Grout”) is the second of eight editions to acknowledge music that predates ancient Greece.4 The discussion of music in prehistory and in Mesopotamia (including references to tuning systems and to types of instruments), for instance, is very informative and relatively short; six pages later, the familiar narrative of music history, one which spans East to West, subsequently unfolds. From a musicological and pedagogical perspective, there are good reasons to accord Greek musical theory and philosophy such a prominent position in university curricula: after all, medieval and Renaissance philosophies and theories concerning music are heavily indebted to the Greek legacy. To give just a single well-known example, the early music dramas — or operas — were born out of the same desire to revive and emulate ancient Greek ideals that characterized humanism in general, and in the case of opera, Greek tragedy in particular. Yet from a purely musical perspective, there is little reason why the music (as opposed to musical theory) of ancient Greece should fare better in the classroom than the music of Mesopotamia. After all, many of the fifty-odd pieces that have come down to us from ancient Greece are fragmentary, and our understanding of the ways they sounded and should be performed today is at best limited. There can be little doubt that the relative weight we accord to music in ancient Greece reflects only a particular set of cultural values, historical partiality and an idiosyncratic way of understanding the forces of continuity and change that figure prominently in historical musicology. As a relatively young discipline, musicology has tended to adopt views and images received from other disciplines, and the tenacious hold that ancient Greece has over Western musical imagination is one of them. Beginning with Petrarch, Humanists built an arch of historical imagination leading from their time back to antiquity, leaving centuries of history hanging in a limbo they called “middle time.” Musicology has borrowed from the discipline of history the categories of antiquity, Middle Ages and Renaissance, and the structure of both disciplines is based on the historiographic pillars placed in the sand foundations of Eurocentrism (see Page 1993: introduction). Just as history in the West is usually narrated beginning with the bloody tale of the Torjan War, because it is reported 4 See Burkholder et al. 2009; the 7th edition, published in 2006, was the first to recognize music from before ancient Greece.

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in Homer’s epic Iliad (the oldest extant text that has come down to us from ancient Greece), so does the history of music start with the earliest extant musical texts from Greece — not from Akkad or from Sumer. One reason why musicology seems slow or reluctant to dispose of its supposed Greek foundations in favor of even earlier examples has therefore to do with historiographical biases imported from other disciplines and eras. Already in his 1768 Dictionnaire de musique, for instance, Jean-Jacques Rousseau acknowledged the key role that ancient Greece played in European music; for him and for other intellectuals of the Enlightenment and romantic eras, Greece became an indispensable tool for the building of a European identity (Rousseau [1768] 1969: 310–314; Bernal 1987; both sources are quoted in Treitler 1993: 31). The centrality given to ancient Greece in the grand narrative of European music history is also attested in the oeuvre of two important historians of music writing in the course of the following two decades, namely Charles Burney (1776–1789) and Johann Nikolaus Forkel (1788). Following their respective introductions (devoted mainly to music theory in Burney, and to periodization and chronology in Forkel), the proper historical portion of their Histories opens with Egyptian and Hebrew music, before moving to Greek music — by far the lengthiest chapter devoted to ancient music in both books (Burney [1776–1789] 1958; Forkel [1788] 1967). Nevertheless, the reason why this grip is particularly difficult to dismantle in relation to music has to do with the antiquity of this entrenched connection, which started even before the advent of Humanism. Almost every culture has its own creation myth: The Babylonian creation epos, Enûma Eliš, recounts the story of Marduk, ruler of the gods, whose war against other gods reportedly brought to the creation of the world and of mankind. According to Nordic mythology, on the other hand, the world was created by an iceberg-dwelling giant named Ymir. The discovery of music is frequently ascribed to a god or a semi-god who subsequently passes it on to mankind. The Hebrew Bible may well be a unique voice in that regard, for it posits a human, rather than a supernatural origin of music: Jubal, as the book of Genesis tells us (4:21), is “the father of all such as handle the harp and organ.”5 Theodor Reik has noted that “this tradition is interesting for several reasons: its deviation from other myths… [and] its brevity, which contrasts with the more elaborate stories of the origin of music…” (Reik 1962: 222). Yet, it is telling that even a devout Christian such as Jerome of Moravia, the thirteenth-century Dominican monk and music theorist, is reluctant to accept this ancestry: far from taking the word of Scripture as an article of faith, he writes that some state that the inventor of music was Linus, the son of Apollo, and that “Boethius with good reason credits Pythagoras with the 5 On Jubal in Muslim, Jewish and Christian traditions, see Shiloah 2002: 72–83, and Shiloah 2003: 25–32.



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honor” (Chailley1975: 5–6). For the history of music, then, the arch connecting the Middle Ages with ancient Greece may well be even more long-standing and entrenched than it is for other disciplines. Nevertheless, there exist other, more contemporary and immediate impediments to the full historical integration of music from the ancient Near East into musicology. The most obvious reason, perhaps, has to do with the extremely specialized nature of academic training required for studying the music of the ancient world: ancient Semitic languages, philology, archaeology and art history, as well as organology and ancient tuning systems, are just some of the rudimentary fields of inquiry indispensable for engaging with this repertory. Although historical musicology nowadays casts a wider net than ever over its subject matters — perceiving music through a great variety of critical lenses — rarely does the typical musicological toolbox include any of the abovementioned branches of learning and, furthermore, as they pertain to antiquity. Indeed, if the academic background of contributors to this and other volumes is indicative of a wider tendency, then it seems that the overwhelming majority of scholars writing on music in the ancient world have very little musicological training, if any at all. However, perhaps the most serious obstacle in the way of including ancient music in today’s classroom is one of classification: What kind of music is ancient music? If ethnomusicologists examine music from modern-day Syria, Turkey and Iraq, should they not also be concerned with music from the city of Ugarit, for instance? Without opening the Pandora’s box that is the debate on whether musicology constitutes a part of ethnomusicology or vice versa, ethnomusicology might provide the appropriate analytical toolbox to examine music of the ancient Near East, because its subject matter was perceived, at least initially, “as all the music outside the Western European art tradition…It concerned itself with the musics of non-literate peoples; the orally transmitted music of cultures then perceived to be ‘high’ such as the traditional court and urban musics of China, Japan, Korea, Indonesia, India, Iran and other Arabic-speaking countries; and ‘folk music’, which Nettl tentatively defined as the music in oral tradition found in those areas dominated by high cultures” (Pegg at al. 2011, §1). The scholarship of Curt Sachs, Walter Wiora, and Carl Engel is a case in point: equipped with their comparative anthropological approach, they were equally interested in the music of India, Asia, and Greece, and in that of western Europe. They saw music as a force embracing all human beings, rather than merely a phenomenon made manifest by distinct cultures or regions. Furthermore, Sachs understood the “primitive and Oriental branch of musicology…[to be] the opening section in the history of our own music” (Sachs 1943: 29). The music from second-millennium- bce Ugarit would have surely been of great interest to musicologists and ethnomusicologists working in the 1950s and 60s, if only owing to its potential to be regarded as a

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common denominator of sorts to musics of much later periods. Although music of the ancient Near East certainly qualifies as “non-Western,” a criterion that used to be a sine qua non for ethnomusicology, it now lies largely at the margins of the discipline’s methodological frames for two main reasons: At the beginning of the twenty-first century, ethnomusicology embraces not only the study of non-Western cultures or of illiterate peoples, but that of all musics in local and global contexts. Moreover, although most ethnomusicological studies do take into account the historical dimensions of their ethnographic pursuits in the present, they are still primarily concerned with living musical communities. This quality has to do with what Philip Bohlman has identified as one of “the most persistent dilemmas plaguing ethnomusicologists and historians of music: the juncture — or disjuncture — between time and place, between music as a temporal and historical phenomenon and music as a geographical and cultural phenomenon” (Bohlman 2002: 5–6). Notwithstanding the centrality to ethnomusicology of the concept of “fieldwork of the present” ever since Bartók traveled to central Europe, Turkey and North Africa in order to document and record various musical cultures, the last three decades or so have seen the gaining in importance of a “fieldwork of the past,” and it remains to be seen if ancient music will one day come under its critical attention (see, e.g., Kaufman Shelemay 1980; Nettl 1989; Seroussi 2002). Historical musicology, moreover, has a penchant for a particular brand of history writing; it espouses a view of history as a narrative consisting of change and development, so much so that it sometimes seems as the only kind of history worthy of telling. It is in such vain that musicological research may approach issues of forms and systemizations (sonata form, rhythmic modes), of periods and regions (baroque music, Music in seventeenth-century Spain) or of individual composers (Gesualdo, Beethoven). This methodology actually predates the founding of musicology as a modern science. The turn of the eighteenth century saw the first attempts in modern times to write a history of music: in 1690 Wolfgang Caspar Printz published his Historische Beschreibung (Historical Description) in Dresden, and in 1715, Jacques Bonnet published the first history of music in the French language. In hindsight, it is easy to dismiss the works of both authors as naïve and flawed, yet what they had to say about the music of their own times is certainly of some interest (Chailley 1975: 3; Printz [1690] 1964; Bonnet 1715; see also Vendrix 1993). Albeit their writings about earlier periods of music history are of questionable quality, they recognized nonetheless the singular importance of their respective projects. The words of Jacques Bonnet seem particularly telling in retrospect: “Although more than twelve hundred authors have dealt with this science [of music],” he wrote, “not one had ever ventured to write its history” (Fubini and Blackburn 1994: 165; emphasis mine). With these words, Bonnet articulated a historical approach that would henceforth character-



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ize the writing about music for subsequent generations, one which lays emphasis on identification and classification of historical trends and on the development of genres and styles, and one which marks a shift to a growing preoccupation with historical processes and with what would later become a Hegelian paradigm of progress. Musicology seeks to place its objects of study — whether the life and works of individual composers or music analysis — on a historical continuum understood as a developing variation.6 This chronological gamut is a product of multiple and dynamic discourses of change and progress taking place across centuries. The history of music in particular is rife with composers, theorists and philosophers arguing about the relative merit of music of their own generation compared with that of past ones, with well-known examples including Jacques de Lièges’s scathing statements on the music of the Ars Nova, or Wagner’s critique on the nature and course of opera in the nineteenth century. The primary impulse of historical musicology is to recount a history of transformation and development, and to view musical works not simply as “inert records of the conditions of their creation…but also as having been active participants in the dynamics of those conditions” (Treitler 2001: 366). The literature on ancient music abounds with descriptions and analyses of musical instruments, tuning systems, occasions for playing music and etymologies of individual musical instruments. The geographical and temporal spans between these diverse historical items are so broad that they preclude a significant association between them. Finally, very little is actually known about the music itself; as we shall see below, what we do in fact know is equivocal at best. Thus, while such studies are in themselves painstakingly accurate and detailed, their components remain static items of history of a now-lost heritage. Owing to the nature of evidence about ancient music itself, it cannot be appreciated, at least presently, for its historical development, and what is static does not typically warrant musicological attention. Part and parcel of the imperative of the concept of developing variation is the resolve to define musical periods by “great composers.” Similar to the music of non-Western cultures, what little information has come down to us from Mesopotamia and ancient Egypt belies analysis according to great composers or theorists and, thus, does not fall neatly into schemes of periodization. The traditional division of a composer’s life into three creative stages — the life and works of Beethoven come to mind as a prime example of this — satisfies the exigencies made by both the “great composer” determination of history and the imperative of progress and change (Bohlman 1987: 155). 6 Arnold Schoenberg formulated the concept of developing variation with regard to eighteenthand nineteenth-century music; see Frisch 1984: 1–18.

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Greek music, too, falls shorts of fulfilling any of the provisions outlined above; there are virtually no named composers, no known development of forms and no meaningful distinctions that can be made between the style of music heard in the Olympic Games and that of the music heard in a Symposium. Nonetheless, it enjoys relative prominence in musicological discourse and in the classroom. The historical narrative of European music is about sustained processes, various beginnings, influences, renaissances and so forth, and ancient Greek music and philosophy serve as a fine foundation not only because of their antiquity, but also because they illustrate that the interest in past music itself has a long history as well. In a historical perspective, the renewed attention given to Greek musical thought during the Renaissance is an isolated, if consequential, occurrence. Throughout history, and with few exceptions, musicians paid little attention to music composed just fifty years before their time, and it is only during the first half of the nineteenth century — with Mendelssohn’s famous 1829 revival of J. S. Bach’s St. Matthew Passion with the Singakademie in Berlin — that composers would again seek knowledge of past music. To put it plainly, had the musical thought of, say, Ugarit, exerted some extent of influence on Europe, it, too, would have probably been considered a deserving object of research. Finally, and perhaps most crucially, we need to come to terms with the extremely provisional nature of the reconstructed sound of ancient music. Returning to the Hurrian hymn reconstructed by a team of Berkeley scholars — it enjoys a very tentative reception among musicologists. Not four years had passed since its publication in 1976 when a new transcription made by Marcelle Duchesne-Guillemin suggested an utterly different interpretation of that very hymn, one that is melismatic and monophonic and that resembles traditional music sung by Babylonian Jews more so than it does Western polyphony (Duchesne-Guillemin 1980). With such complete disagreement between specialists on the absolute rudiments of the sound of that music, coupled with the highly specialized tools needed to interpret and examine it, there is little wonder that musicologists have generally shunned this small repertory altogether, especially given that the study of music has for such a long time “been grounded on the premise of the autonomous work” (Treitler 2001: 357). How will music of the ancient world fare in the future classroom? If precedent can serve as an indication to what is yet to come, then we may well anticipate a brighter future for ancient music en route to a more meaningful presence within musicology in general and the classroom in particular. First, although the inclination to sketch music history with a broad brush using the colors of development and progress (and occasionally, also of decline) is as strong as ever, it is no longer the only paradigm through which musicologists observe various musical items. Music is also examined as a product of ideology, gender and theol-



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ogy, for instance, making ancient music a likelier candidate for renewed scrutiny. Second, let us not forget that it is only in recent times that music of the Middle Ages came to be looked upon, examined and appreciated on its own terms and not only as a product of an “intermediate” period of transition, corruption and decay. The same can be said of non-Western music, which came to be integrated into the historiography of music only after some decades during which it was being “discovered.” After almost half a century of exciting discoveries, I hope we may now enter that second, promising phase of integration.

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